Sign of the Cross Read online

  He didn’t have time to finish. The attacker – and yes, he had to conclude this was no accident – was fixed to what was left of his rear bumper, pushing him toward the guardrail.

  In a panic, Cal depressed the clutch and rode his brakes for all they were worth but the other vehicle, probably a truck, had more mass and was edging him closer and closer to the abyss.

  His options flashed through his mind.

  He could jump out of the car – but that would leave him even more vulnerable to tons of metal bearing down on him.

  He could throw the Peugeot into reverse.

  Or he could—

  He chose the third option and popped the car into second gear and hit the accelerator hard.

  Free from the truck, he swerved away from the looming guardrail and began throttling down the unlit mountain road. The rain lashing his windshield and the narrow, winding road were aiding his attacker.

  I’m not going to get out of this, he thought, gripping the wheel so tightly it felt the tendons in his hands would snap.

  The pavement in front of him needed his full attention but he couldn’t help sneaking glances in the rearview mirror. He knew the truck was still there but without lights he couldn’t see it. He could be hit again any second and if it happened, he didn’t know if he’d be able to maintain control at his rate of speed.

  His tires squealed at a sharp bend in the road. He had to slow down or he’d wind up self-destructing and, when he did, he saw a point of orange in the mirror.

  The truck was closer than he thought and the driver was smoking a cigarette.

  He accelerated again and fought the G-forces as he rounded the curves.

  He struggled to gauge how far it was to the base of the mountain and the turnoff to the village.

  It was too far, too damned far.

  He was blinded again.

  Headlights coming fast.

  Another car coming up the mountain.

  The driver of that car should have hugged the mountain, but he lost control when he saw the speeding Peugeot and crossed the midline.

  A second from impact, Cal twisted his steering wheel wildly to the left.

  He saw a wall of black rock, then a mirage, the fleeting vision of the same delicate face he had seen when Giovanni had put his arms around him. It was there no longer than the interval between two heartbeats and then there was nothing.

  A gold crucifix.

  It seemed to be floating in front of his face, floating over a sea of black and red.

  Then, far away, he heard his name.

  First soft, then louder.

  ‘Professor Donovan. Professor Donovan!’

  He moved his neck up and down. His head hurt. He lifted an arm and found his wrist was stiff, fixed to a board.

  Another voice, a woman’s, told him not to move.

  The crucifix moved away and Cal saw that it was around the neck of a man with a black cassock and a priest’s collar.

  ‘Professor Donovan. I am Monsignor Ozren Atlan, the Bishop of Dubrovnik.’

  ‘Where am I?’

  The woman came into focus. ‘This is Dr Lukic. You had an accident. This is Makarska Hospital.’

  ‘My head.’

  ‘You had concussion. Nothing is broken, no organs are damaged. You are fortunate man.’

  Cal turned his head toward the bishop. ‘You’re not here to give me last rites?’

  ‘Hardly,’ the bishop said with a smile. ‘The police found your briefcase in your car. There were letters from the Vatican. They made inquiries. Cardinal Lauriat called me and I came. The pope himself is praying for your recovery.’

  In an instant he remembered what happened.

  ‘It wasn’t an accident.’

  ‘I spoke to the police investigator,’ the bishop said gently. ‘Unfortunately, two men died. One was driving up the mountain, one was driving down. The man driving down was Jan Jusic who was the workman at the monastery of St Athanasius where you visited. The monk, Brother Ivan was consulted. He too is praying for you. Jusic was driving behind you on the way to the village for drinking. He was a big drinker. His truck hit the other car then fell off the mountain. Police found a bottle of brandy, travarica, in his truck. They believe he caused the accident because he was drunk.’

  ‘It wasn’t an accident,’ Cal repeated. ‘He hit me deliberately and tried to push me off the road.’

  ‘Police will want to speak with you,’ the doctor said, ‘but we have blood alcohol test from lab. He was intoxicated.’

  ‘My papers!’ Cal suddenly said.

  The bishop bent over and held up his shoulder bag. ‘Your papers are safe, professor. Now you must rest.’

  It was his discharge day.

  Dr Lukic wanted him to stay a day or two longer but he insisted he was feeling fine. The police interviews had been frustrating. The officers had dutifully recorded his version of the accident, but they had made it abundantly clear that their conclusion would be that Jusic was driving drunk and recklessly on the rain-slicked mountain road. Perhaps, they suggested, Cal’s concussion had altered his perception of the events of that night.

  Once his head had stopped hurting, he used his imposed bedrest to work on his report. He was keen to complete his assignment and get back to Cambridge. When the time was right he’d have to update his stigmata book with the curious case of Padre Gio. But the time was far from right.

  Thinking about his book suddenly triggered a memory of a small, seemingly inconsequential item he’d come across years earlier doing research. It was something he’d seen, a footnote in a card-catalogue at the Vatican Library. What was it again? Wasn’t it something about a nail? He strained to remember but couldn’t. Perhaps his concussion was clouding his brain. He knew he’d have it written down somewhere in his files back in Cambridge and he made a mental note to check it out upon his return.

  A priest in Makarska had been tasked with driving him back to Dubrovnik, but before he left the hospital he decided to take the opportunity to fill in a few details for his report. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe the monastery handyman had been an out-of-control drunk after all. With the passage of these days he’d become less certain of his first impressions. But perhaps he’d been right. And if he was and his car crash hadn’t been an ‘accident’, then maybe the other ‘accident’ on that mountain, Brother Augustin’s, needed to be rethought. With the help of Bishop Atlan, he secured an interview with the chief pathologist at the hospital and while his priest-driver waited for him, he took the elevator to the basement morgue.

  The pathologist, an ill-tempered lady with two nicotine-stained fingers, pulled out the autopsy file and told Cal she could give him only a few minutes.

  ‘Brother Augustin was taken directly here from the monastery?’

  She scowled. ‘Where else would he go?’

  ‘What was the cause of his death?’

  ‘Head trauma, broken neck, drowning. The things that happen to a man who falls down a well.’

  ‘Did you examine his wrists?’

  ‘I examine all of him. This is my job.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘How did his wrists appear?’

  Irritated, she glanced at her notes. ‘Wrists were normal.’

  ‘No ulceration of the skin? No signs of healed wounds?’

  ‘Normal.’

  ‘All right. Were there any other injuries?’

  ‘He fell down deep well. There were other fractures of course. Left shoulder and clavicle, three ribs, two phalanges right hand.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he asked. ‘What are phalanges?’

  She pointed at her smoking hand. ‘Finger bones. Pinky and pointer.’

  ‘How do you break these two bones in a fall like that?’

  She got up, snatching a pack of cigarettes and lighter from her desk drawer. It looked like she had an appointment to keep with the designated smoking area behind the hospital.

  ‘These fractures were inconsisten
t. Looked like crush injury, kind you could get when someone squeezes hand too tight.’

  She was half out the door, telling him his time was up.

  In the hall, he had time for one last question before she bounded up the stairs.

  ‘How did that injury fit in with your view that this was an accident?’

  ‘Life is messy. So is death. Nothing is perfect. Monk slipped and fell down well.’

  FOURTEEN

  Since the first days of his pontificate, Pope Celestine had chosen to live and work in humble accommodations. Cardinal Lauriat had not.

  The offices of the Vatican secretary of state were in the Apostolic Palace and sumptuous with enormous draped windows, gleaming parquet floors, crystal chandeliers, gold-leaf tables with marble tops and priceless Renaissance paintings.

  An Italian monsignor, one of the cardinal secretary’s aides, ushered Cal in. Cardinal Pascal Lauriat rose from his elaborately carved desk to greet him. He was a compact man with a small, graying goatee and thin moustache, who had spent the last two decades within the Vatican. Although he was fluent in six languages and mostly spoke Italian these days, he spoke English with the strong accent of his home city of Strasbourg.

  ‘Professor Donovan, we were so concerned for your welfare,’ Lauriat said, begging Cal to sit in a plush armchair.

  Cal thanked him for the kind attention bestowed on him by Church officials in Croatia.

  ‘We feel personally responsible for your welfare,’ the cardinal said. ‘After all, you are on a mission for the pontiff. We can only thank the Lord that you were not more seriously injured. How are you recovering?’

  ‘Back to normal, I’ve got a thick skull.’

  ‘Of course you do. I think you are an amateur boxer, no?’

  A chuckle. ‘You’ve done your homework.’

  Cal agreed to a coffee and the monsignor went scurrying off to oblige him.

  Lauriat leaned in and lowered his voice, as if to create a certain aura of intimacy. ‘I wanted to have a word with you in private before I invite in Cardinal Gallegos and Dr Tellini. I have read your report to the Holy Father. He shared it with me. I admit it greatly surprised me.’

  ‘I’m sure it did. It surprised me too,’ Cal said. ‘I approached this assignment with a determination to be open-minded and unbiased and my conclusions are my attempt at objectivity.’

  The cardinal said ‘yes’ three times, tapping his armrest for emphasis with each utterance. ‘I understand completely. Yet despite this laudable attitude I am sure your internal compass told you that you would likely conclude that this young priest was a fraud. Perhaps not a malicious one, but a fraud nonetheless.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  Lauriat had a leather-bound folder bearing the seal of the Vatican City State. He opened it and Cal could see that his report now bore a bold personal note from the pope, presumably to Lauriat.

  ‘But your report took us by surprise,’ the cardinal said. ‘What are we to do with it?’ In a display of kinetic energy, he began to tap the toe of his polished black shoe on the fine, oriental rug.

  Cal had a few moments to decide how to respond, because the coffee had arrived on a silver platter. The monsignor poured two cups, gave a small bow and left them alone again.

  ‘I wouldn’t presume to advise you on what your official conclusions should be,’ Cal said. ‘I think of the Vatican as a highly complex clock. I don’t have insights into the internal mechanism. I’m only able to tell the time.’

  ‘Well said, professor. Yes, this is a complex matter and the Holy See is a complex organization with many competing interests. We agonize enough over the declaration of miracles for those who are dead. Imagine our contortions for those who are living.’

  ‘I expect there’s a certain reluctance about facilitating a cult of personality around Giovanni.’

  The cardinal opened his hands, as if to say: of course. ‘Look at the crowds that flock to his little church. If this report became known …’

  ‘You’re not going to see a leak coming from me,’ Cal said a little defensively.

  ‘Heavens!’ the cardinal exclaimed. ‘It was not my intent to admonish you. We have great faith in your discretion. I was making the point to explain to you why we were not sharing it with the Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith or the Consulta Medica. That is why I wanted these moments with you.’

  Cal shook his head and smiled. ‘I thought I was retained as a consultant to the CDF.’

  ‘You were but now you are not. Your work is for the Holy Father’s eyes only and for anyone else with whom he chooses to share it. He has chosen to share it with me alone.’

  ‘What do you intend to tell Cardinal Gallegos?’

  ‘That because of your unfortunate accident you must return to America to convalesce. Your report has not yet been written and for expediency I have instructed you to deliver an oral summary of your findings today.’

  As an historian well-versed in the byzantine world of the Vatican, nothing about the Holy See surprised him. But he was blind-sided by this.

  He said in measured tones, ‘And what would you like my oral opinion to include, or rather not to include?’

  Lauriat’s toe tapping accelerated and seemingly unable to channel his pent-up energy, he rose and began to pace around the conversation area, leaving Cal to follow him with his eyes.

  ‘Well, Tellini was present with you in Monte Sulla, so your conversations with the priest are well known. These may be summarized.’

  ‘He wasn’t there for all of it.’

  ‘Yes, the priest persuaded you to take confession. I do not see how this is relevant. You may omit it.’

  ‘He also established quite a strong psychological connection.’

  ‘The business of both of you losing your fathers at an early age. You may omit that too.’

  ‘What about my interviews with Giovanni’s mother and sister and with Father Forcisi?’

  ‘These may be included, with the exception of the inconsistency between the two accounts on why Forcisi did not accompany Giovanni into the crypt.’

  ‘I see. And I suppose you don’t want me to talk about my provocative findings at St Athanasius.’

  ‘It goes without saying. You may speak of the accident, however. They will surely ask.’

  ‘Except that I don’t think it was an accident. Nor am I convinced that Brother Augustin’s death was an accident.’

  ‘Surely this is speculation on your part, professor? You may omit that as well.’

  Cal could only shake his head. ‘We have a word in English for what you want me to do with my report: it’s whitewash. Do you know it?’

  Lauriat sat down. ‘In French it is à blanchir. I am afraid this is precisely what I am asking. However, you may know that the Holy Father has read your non-whitewashed report in full. So, you may be comforted in that respect.’

  The cardinal picked up the closest phone and instructed his aide to summon the others.

  ‘There was one thing I didn’t put into my report,’ Cal said.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  He described the visual hallucination he’d had when Giovanni put his arms around him. The face.

  The cardinal listened and told him he understood the omission. ‘It does seem somewhat subjective and prejudicial,’ he said. ‘You did an excellent job, professor. The Holy Father appreciates the effort. He told me to pass along his admiration and blessings. I do know that the original intention was for you to meet with him upon completion of your report. That will not be possible at this time but perhaps we can accommodate an audience when next you are in Italy. It is clear you believe there is more than meets the eye with our Giovanni. Miracles do happen, of this I am certain. Perhaps we are witnessing one with our own eyes.’

  ‘What do you think the Congregation’s official report will conclude?’ Cal said with a tinge of sharpness, polite but reproachful.

  ‘It is reasonable to imagine that it will be inconclusive.’

&nb
sp; ‘And Giovanni? What will happen to him?’

  ‘He might come to conclude that a cloistered life is best-suited to the expression of his faith.’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Please wait,’ the cardinal called out in Italian.

  ‘One last question. What do you think was in the crypt?’

  Cal shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’

  Dr Tellini seemed altogether warmer than Cal had remembered. Perhaps it was his bedside manner kicking into gear; perhaps it was because he was in the presence of the cardinal secretary. In any event, he was solicitous, expressing great concern over Cal’s concussion. Cardinal Gallegos, the head of the Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith, was more aloof, a dry-as-a-bone Spaniard and former archbishop of Madrid who betrayed not a lick of emotion.

  ‘I’m fine, really,’ Cal told Tellini. ‘It’s behind me.’

  Cardinal Lauriat laid out his expectations. ‘I am aware that an ad hoc committee of the Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith will meet soon to hear the report of the Consulta Medica, chaired by Dr Tellini and the report of Professor Donovan. Given the professor’s car accident I have decided to accept his verbal report so he can quickly return to his home and convalesce, free from the burdens of further assignment.’

  Tellini furrowed his brow but Gallegos’s face was immobile. Cal knew the one he’d rather play in poker.

  ‘So today,’ Lauriat said, ‘I would ask you to hear his impressions of Giovanni Berardino and accept his comments as his full and final assessment of the case. You may, of course, take notes, Ramon.’

  Gallegos nodded and opened his thin briefcase to remove a legal pad and pen.

  ‘Professor,’ Lauriat said, ‘you have the floor.’

  Cal was a skillful university lecturer and academic presenter who could master an audience by dint of preparation and oratorical skills. But he wasn’t an actor. His presentations were fact-based and to the best of his abilities, truthful and scholarly. What he had been told to do today was to perform an act of sorts, to dissemble, to omit, to outright lie. And he had to do it spontaneously.

  In what seemed to him like an overly long pause – but was really only a few seconds – he went through a mental decision tree. The terms of his assignment had been clear enough. His report was for Pope Celestine’s eyes; how it was used beyond that was none of Cal’s business. He had relinquished rights to publish the material without the prior written permission of the Vatican. If he were to disobey the secretary of state, he would not only betray the cardinal but also the pope, whom he presumed was calling the shots on the Padre Gio case. The nature of his academic research required regular access to the Vatican Secret Archives, the Vatican Library and other ecclesiastical libraries throughout Europe and if were cut off, his future work would suffer. Finally, he had to accept this: the world of Vatican politics was not his world. It was theirs. And who was he to say with hand on heart, with absolute conviction, that this man, this priest, Giovanni, was somehow truly touched by a miracle?