Sign of the Cross

by Glenn Cooper

  He hung on every word and when it was his turn to speak he didn’t hold back either. He spoke about the two visions he’d had of a Christ-like face, once when Giovanni embraced him, the second during his car accident in Croatia.

  And after watching her face melt in wonder, he said, ‘There’s more. Something happened to me on my flight last night.’

  She pointed to her slim right wrist. ‘Was it a pain, here?’

  ‘My God, it was,’ he said.

  ‘Mine was so bad, mama heard and came running. I told her I was having a nightmare.’

  ‘Yeah, it hurt like hell.’

  ‘And did you see something?’ she asked.

  He reached into his bag and took out his notebook to show her the drawing he’d made.

  ‘I saw this.’

  Without uttering a word she got up, left him alone and went across the hall. She returned from her room with a piece of paper and unfolded it.

  He placed the two drawings, hers in pencil, his in pen, side by side on her brother’s desk.

  ‘They’re identical,’ he whispered. ‘What in heaven’s name is going on?’

  ‘Don’t you see?’ she said. ‘Giovanni is calling out to us. He wants our help. We’re feeling what he feels, we’re seeing what he sees.’

  ‘I understand your connection, Irene. You’re his sister. But why me? I’m a stranger.’

  ‘He told me he felt a closeness to you, a kinship he said.’

  ‘There’s more I have to tell you,’ he said urgently. ‘Things I uncovered during my investigation.’

  ‘I thought it was confidential.’

  He finally made her smile. ‘Screw the confidentiality.’

  The doorbell rang and Domenica called for Irene. Cal left the bedroom with her. There were two men in the sitting room, one in civilian clothes, and the other in the black Valentino-designed uniform of a Carabinieri officer. The civilian, a tall man with broad shoulders and sympathetic eyes, was a lawyer, the mayor of Francavilla, who greeted Irene, her mother and sister with warm hugs, and patted young Federico on his head.

  Seeing Cal, he said, ‘I’m sorry, you have company. I should have called.’

  Irene introduced Cal as a friend of the family, a professor from America, and the mayor told him he wished they were meeting under better circumstances.

  Then, turning to the family the mayor said, ‘I told you I would try to pull some strings. I would like to introduce Lieutenant Colonel Tommaso Cecchi from the Carabinieri’s Raggruppamento Operativo Speciale.

  Cecchi, an athletic man in his fifties, removed his cap and shook hands all around.

  Cecchi said, ‘As the mayor says, he pulled his string and I was on the other end of it.’

  ‘He’s come all the way from Rome,’ the mayor said, ‘from the headquarters of the ROS. I went to law school with the brother of a Carabiniere and well, he did the rest.’

  ‘Not an ordinary Carabiniere,’ Cecchi said. ‘Very high up, a general.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you for coming in our hour of need,’ Domenica said.

  ‘Let’s hope we can help,’ Cecchi said.

  Carla dragged her son into the kitchen while she made coffee and Irene spoke for the family.

  ‘We haven’t really gotten any detailed information from the local police in Monte Sulla,’ she said.

  ‘I made some calls, of course,’ the lieutenant colonel said. ‘Due to the high profile nature of your brother’s case and the interest of the Vatican authorities, the Polizia Locale have already been largely pushed aside by the Polizia di Stato, who seem to be mounting a credible effort. The Carabinieri do not wish to get into a jurisdictional dispute, but my unit is happy to keep our fingers on the pulse of the investigation and intervene should our special capabilities become needed.’

  ‘What are those capabilities?’ Irene asked.

  ‘The ROS is, as its name implies, a special operations group with assets and capabilities to deal with terrorist threats and incidents, kidnappings, organized crime. Since we are a member of the armed forces we also have excellent cross-border relationships and capabilities.’

  ‘You mean he could be outside of Italy?’ Irene asked.

  ‘Today, I have no information about his case. Tomorrow I will know more, the day after, more still. I beg you to let me dig into the facts. The next time we talk I will be better prepared to answer your questions.’

  ‘Thank you from the bottom of my heart,’ Domenica said to the mayor and the colonel. ‘I just want my boy back.’

  Cecchi took his espresso standing up and asked Cal, ‘So, professor, what brings you to Italy?’

  ‘I came when I heard what happened to Giovanni. I’m here to help in any way I can.’

  ‘You’ve known the family long?’

  He knew his answer would raise eyebrows. ‘Only two weeks.’

  Cecchi’s curious expression seemed to demand an explanation.

  ‘I was asked by the Vatican to help in an inquiry into Giovanni’s stigmata.’

  ‘You are a medical professor?’

  He shook his head. ‘Professor of religion.’

  ‘And what did you conclude?’

  ‘As I told the family, I’m not authorized to divulge anything about the investigation.’

  Cecchi’s frown said it all. ‘Not even to the Carabinieri?’

  ‘If the Vatican gives me a waiver I’d be willing to talk with you about it.’

  ‘So, you’ve just met the Berardino family, you return to the United States and turn around and come back to help them. I find this admirable and unusual at the same time.’

  Cal and Irene traded glances. He knew what she was thinking. If they were ever going to describe their psychic experiences, this would be a time to pull the officer aside. But Cal knew how that story would end – with dismissiveness and ridicule.

  Irene must have come to the same conclusion because she said, ‘Professor Donovan is a sympathetic man, lieutenant colonel. Even though we have only known him a short while, he has demonstrated he is a friend of Giovanni’s and a friend of ours. Wouldn’t the world be a better place if there were more people like him?’

  A small smile flickered across Cecchi’s face. He handed his cup and saucer to Irene and said, ‘Indeed it would. So, professor, at this point, lacking significant information about the kidnapping, I have no opinion whether the priest’s stigmata might have played some role in the case. If, in the course of my investigation, I feel the necessity of requesting this waiver you spoke of, whom, may I ask, within the Vatican commissioned your work? I need to know whom to call.’

  Cecchi blinked in astonishment at Cal’s answer.

  ‘Pope Celestine. I believe his number is in the Holy See directory.’

  The man loitering across the street from the Berardino’s apartment block casually snapped some photos, while pretending to be reading the screen of his mobile phone. He attached them to a text message and sent them to the anonymous number he’d been given.

  In Berlin, Lambret Schneider’s second phone pinged. He found a string of photos of a man leaving an apartment building and walking to his own lodgings attached to a blank text.

  ‘Professor Donovan,’ Schneider said out loud. ‘What are you doing back in Italy?’

  NINETEEN

  Cal was back in his rental car retracing the route to Rome, only this time he wasn’t alone. Irene was beside him in the passenger seat.

  Her decision to come with him was sealed during a walk along the beach. Weaving their way through the crowd of beachgoers, lounge chairs and umbrellas, they had tried to figure out some kind of plan of action.

  ‘I see you thought that bringing up our collective visions was a bad idea,’ he had said.

  ‘A terrible idea. You read my mind?’

  ‘It was obvious.’

  ‘We would have no credibility if we told these things to the police. This guy, Cecchi, would have gone back to Rome and we would never hear from him again. He’d tell everyone tha
t the missing priest’s sister and this American must have escaped from the insane asylum.’

  ‘Perhaps we have,’ he had said.

  ‘What should we do?’ she had said. ‘Honestly, I can’t imagine what two civilians can accomplish in what is basically a police matter.’

  ‘We’ve got something the police don’t have. Somehow your brother is communicating with us. We just need to listen.’

  The crowd had thinned the further they walked away from the pier. With the tide coming in and the water lapping at their shoes, he had turned to her and made this proposal.

  ‘Let’s work together. Come with me to Rome. I know where I want to go first.’

  ‘I don’t know how I can be of help.’

  ‘Giovanni is calling out to us. I’ve got a feeling in my gut that if we’re together we’ll be able to hear him better.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound very scientific.’

  He had laughed. ‘Maybe that’s because I’m only a social scientist.’

  ‘I’m only a little better,’ she said. ‘I’m a science teacher.’

  ‘At what level?’

  ‘Liceo. Like your high school.’ She had paused. ‘Look, I have nowhere to stay in Rome.’

  ‘They have hotels there,’ he had said lightly.

  She hadn’t taken well to the remark. ‘Yes, thank you for this revelation, but a school teacher can’t afford to stay in hotels in Rome in the high season.’

  ‘I’ll pay. And I’m sorry I was flippant. I assure you, it’s my only flaw.’

  ‘Apology accepted,’ she had said. ‘Two rooms.’

  ‘Deal.’

  It was early evening, but they still had several hours of daylight and the traffic was light. Domenica had insisted on packing a bag of food and drink for the trip and Irene offered him a sandwich stuffed with leftover beef.

  He took a bite and said, ‘Your mother’s a good cook.’

  ‘Like all Italian mothers.’

  ‘Surely a myth.’

  ‘Maybe, but if I’m ever a mother the tradition ends.’ She turned serious. ‘I think you’ve got more to tell me. Maybe a lot more.’

  It was the invitation he needed. To hell with confidentiality. He had to … he wanted to tell her everything. It had been lonely and frustrating keeping his own counsel.

  It came out in a linear way, just as he’d experienced it, beginning with his interview with her brother and his sense that Giovanni hadn’t been forthcoming about his experience at St Athanasius. Then he talked about his meeting in Naples with Giovanni’s friend and fellow priest, Antonio, who gave a different version about the invitation from Brother Augustin to visit the crypt. But what really shocked Irene was what he told her about his time in Croatia.

  The revelation that there had been a lineage of stigmatics at St Athanasius stretching back into time unnerved her and she became visibly upset when Cal suggested that Brother Augustin’s subsequent death might not have been accidental.

  ‘What do you think was in the crypt?’ she asked.

  ‘The only person who knows is your brother.’

  But it was Cal’s description of almost being forced off the mountain by the monastery groundskeeper that sent her into a panic.

  ‘Do you really believe this man tried to kill you?’

  ‘I may be the only one who believes it, but yes, I do.’

  ‘But why would he do it?’

  ‘Maybe he thought I found out something I wasn’t supposed to know. Actually, I should have said, ‘they thought,’ because from everything the Croatian police told me, the guy was a simple local man, very unsophisticated, not into anything much more exotic than gardening and drinking.’

  She repeated the word, they, and said, ‘Then we have to imagine that there could be some kind of conspiracy. First they try to kill you for what you may know, then they take Giovanni.’ Her lower lip began to tremble. ‘Maybe they’ll torture him. Maybe they’ll kill him,’ she said dully.

  He didn’t try to give her false hope. He had come to the same conclusion.

  ‘There’s something else. I didn’t see a linkage at the time but it’s harder to think it’s a coincidence now that Giovanni’s been taken. I was mugged at the Naples train station by a couple of thugs who stole my briefcase.’

  ‘Were you hurt?’

  ‘I wasn’t. They were. I tend not to take these things lying down. Anyway, I got my bag back but I’ve been thinking that maybe they were trying another way to find out what I knew.’

  ‘Jesus,’ she whispered.

  ‘What I can’t figure out for the life of me is this: what could have been kept in that poor, old monastery that was worth committing kidnapping or murder.’

  ‘You still haven’t told me what we’re going to be doing in Rome?’

  ‘What I do best. We’re going to a library.’

  At the reception desk of the Grand Hotel de la Minerve, Cal was warmly welcomed back by the evening manager.

  ‘We weren’t expecting you back so soon, professor.’

  ‘The allure of your roof garden was too great.’

  ‘I have two beautiful rooms for you. Shall I make you and Signorina Berardino a reservation for dinner?’

  Irene was at his side, a bit star-struck at the elegance of the place.

  Cal told her he was dog-tired and would probably get some room service before crashing. ‘But you go. There’s a great view of the Pantheon up there. Or get room service. Order anything you like.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, holding up Domenica’s bag of food. ‘There’s enough here to feed half of Rome.’

  The next morning, Cal kept his car in the hotel garage and he and Irene got a taxi to the Vatican. On the way, both of them confided that their nights had been uneventful, with no ‘visitations’ by Giovanni. But Irene was troubled by their absence.

  She stared out the window at all the carefree tourists and said, ‘At least maybe it’s a sign he’s alive.’

  Even though it was early, it was a bright summer day and the tourists were already flocking to St Peter’s Square. Their first stop was a small Vatican office just inside the Porta Angelica. Cal had called ahead to arrange a new visitor’s pass for Irene and to renew his own long-standing credentials.

  Badges in hand, he led her up the Via di Porta Angelica to the Via Sant Anna.

  ‘When was the last time you visited the Vatican?’ he asked her.

  ‘I have to confess. It’s been a long time. A school trip probably. You must come all the time.’

  ‘Home away from home.’

  At the Belvedere Courtyard, they made their way to the dun-colored façade of the stone wing that connected the long arms that were the Vatican Palace.

  ‘Here we are,’ Cal said. ‘The Vatican Apostolic Library, or as we research nerds call it, the Vat.’

  Inside, they had to undergo a bag search. The guard went through the papers in Cal’s briefcase and then turned to Irene’s bag, holding up a painted, plastic statuette.

  ‘The Virgin Mary, Our Lady of Lourdes,’ she said sheepishly. ‘It was a gift from Giovanni. I took it with me from Francavilla for luck and maybe a little comfort.’

  The guard handed it back.

  ‘Bringing it to the Vatican is a bit like bringing coals to Newcastle,’ Cal said.

  At the reception desk, Cal presented their passes and asked if Monsignor Pandolfi was available.

  When Guido Pandolfi came down from his office he greeted Cal with a warm embrace.

  ‘Professor! Cal! It’s so good to see you. We weren’t expecting you until later in the summer.’

  ‘I apologize for the surprise visit. Guido, this is a friend of mine, Irene Berardino. Irene, the monsignor is the vice prefect of the library.’

  ‘Have you been here before, signorina?’ he asked.

  ‘First visit.’

  ‘Well it’s a very special and unique library, of course, and Professor Donovan is one of our most esteemed academic researchers. We have almost two mi
llion printed books, ten thousand parchment books, one hundred thousand manuscripts, many, many ancient coins and medals, and all manner of fine art. There are some fifty-two kilometers of book shelving, much of it subterranean. It is one of the great treasures of the world. Tell me, Cal, how may we assist you today?’

  Cal showed him the index card he had brought with him from Cambridge.

  ‘Ah, VAT. GR. 1001,’ Pandolfi said. ‘One of my favorites.’

  ‘Get many requests for it?’ Cal asked.

  ‘You’d be surprised. Please follow me through to the reading room and I’ll get it for you.’

  They found seats at one of the simple wooden tables in the barrel-vaulted, frescoed reading room. The long chamber was almost empty – it was on the early side for most academics that preferred to fortify themselves in the cafés first – so they didn’t have to whisper all that softly.

  ‘What is this book you requested?’ Irene asked.

  ‘It’s by a sixth-century Byzantine writer, Procopius of Caesarea, who’s been called the last major historian of the ancient western world. One of his books, The Secret History, is a fly-on-the-wall account of the Emperor Justinian, actually a really racy and scandalous account where Procopius dished the dirt on Justinian and his wife, Theodora. This is the earliest known edition of the book, probably copied out by a fourteenth-century scribe. It had been known since the sixth century that Procopius wrote the book but it was lost to time. Historians searched for a copy for centuries but it turns out that the Vatican Library had it all along, filed away under another name. A Vatican Librarian, an Italian named Alamanni, discovered it in the seventeenth century and had it published, removing the most scandalous bits.’

  She had been listening with evidently mounting impatience. ‘What does this have to do with Giovanni?’

  He held up his index card. ‘Maybe nothing, maybe this.’

  She read his notation: includes 17th cent. Nicolò Alamanni production marginalia and possibly a transcription of the author’s original marginalia regarding nail relic and wounds of Christ.