Sign of the Cross Read online

  ‘He didn’t have a bible?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Irene said. ‘We have a family bible. Maybe he read it, I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s just that it’s hard to see the seeds of a young man who felt a calling toward the priesthood.’

  She shrugged. ‘We didn’t see it coming either. Life is like that.’

  ‘Were the two of you close growing up?’

  ‘I’m only four years older but I was his protector. When he was bullied at school, they had to answer to me.’

  ‘It must be upsetting, all of this happening to him.’

  ‘You have no idea. I would like to help him escape but he’s trapped. I hope you will tell the Vatican to cut him off from the public, for his sake.’

  ‘I don’t think they want my recommendation, just my opinion.’

  ‘And what is your opinion now that you’ve spoken to me and my mother?’

  ‘I still don’t have one.’

  Her voice dripped with acid. ‘When you do,’ she said, ‘maybe the famous Harvard professor will find the time to tell the people who love Giovanni.’

  When Cal was gone, the two women took the coffee cups to the kitchen.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him you saw Giovanni walking in the town when he wasn’t there?’ Domenica asked.

  ‘For the same reason you didn’t tell him about what you saw, when he gave you a hug. He’s a stranger. A Vatican hired gun. They don’t care about Giovanni. Only we do. To be honest, I hope this man concludes he is a fraud. I hope the Vatican decides to move him from his parish and stop this freak show before it kills him.’

  His mother cried, ‘But we know he’s not a fraud.’

  ‘Yes, mama, we know.’

  Cal thanked the bartender for his second cocktail of the night and tasted it to see if the vodka was as cold as he liked it. As darkness settled over Rome, the view from the hotel roof garden became even more beguiling and he sought out a chair near the railing. The warm night air carried the scents from the nearby restaurant kitchens and the voices of tourists and street vendors. Cal smiled at a pair of businesswomen seated nearby. They were chatting away in English and largely ignored him, allowing him to retreat into his own thoughts. A few minutes later, one of the women asked to be excused. The one who remained, an attractive brunette roughly Cal’s age, finished her drink and stared over the railing for a while before speaking.

  ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’

  Since there was no one else within earshot, Cal answered, ‘It certainly is.’

  The view was breathtaking. The rooftop garden loomed over the dome of the Pantheon, so close it seemed one could almost reach out and touch it.

  She introduced herself. She was an advertising executive from London. She asked about him but, before he could answer, the waiter passed by and she asked for another glass of wine.

  ‘I’m buying,’ Cal said. ‘And get me another one of these, please.’

  The waiter nodded and the woman shifted her seat to be closer.

  ‘What are you drinking?’ she asked.

  ‘Grey Goose Martinis uncontaminated with vermouth.’

  ‘Why don’t you just call it vodka?’

  ‘Sounds way less appealing, don’t you think?’

  She asked what he did and he told her he was a professor.

  ‘I hate to sound like a snob,’ she said, ‘but I’m surprised that an academic is staying at a hotel like the Minerve.’

  She did come off as the snob he was sure she was. But the back-to-back vodkas had taken the edge off her personality and a fresh drink had just arrived.

  He sipped at it and said, ‘Harvard pays well.’

  It didn’t pay that well. Cal’s father came from serious money and Cal had been a trust fund baby. Without a family or a hankering for too many expensive toys, he enjoyed spending his money on good hotels, good restaurants and first-class travel. The Vatican had offered to reimburse him for his expenses – coach, airfare and modest accommodations – but he had declined, so he could travel in the manner to which he was accustomed.

  ‘Well, here’s to the Ivy League,’ she said, raising her glass. ‘What is it you teach?’

  ‘History of religion mostly.’

  She snorted, ‘Well that’s something I know very little about.’

  ‘I’m not a font of knowledge about advertising.’

  ‘Well, well,’ she said, ‘whatever shall we talk about?’

  He took another pull at his drink and felt the alcohol soak his brain. ‘I’m sure we’ll figure something out.’

  ‘Has anyone told you you’re a very attractive man?’ she asked.

  He laughed. ‘You mean today?’

  ‘Your room or mine?’ she asked, getting down to business.

  ‘Do you have a suite?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t,’ she pouted.

  He signed for the drinks and said, ‘I do.’

  The archbishop of Abruzzo, Donato Fasoli, was displaying a decidedly unpleasant attitude and Cal was trying his hardest to remain civil. At the bishop’s request, their audience had been arranged at the Vatican where Fasoli had business, rather than at his archdiocese in L’Aquila. The two of them were crammed into a small office, one of many reserved for visiting bishops at the Apostolic Palace. The space was small enough that Cal could smell Fasoli’s lunch on his breath.

  ‘I wasn’t consulted about this inquiry of yours and I don’t support it,’ the archbishop said.

  ‘You’ve made that quite clear,’ Cal said.

  ‘I don’t know whose idea it was to involve an outsider. This could have been handled internally.’

  ‘I believe it was Pope Celestine’s idea.’

  ‘That seems unlikely to me. I’d venture to say that it was Da Silva’s doing. He’s an ambitious one, always looking to enhance the stature of our American brethren.’

  Cal said, ‘I don’t know about that. Apparently the Holy Father liked my book on stigmata. Have you read it?’

  ‘Is it in Italian? I get a headache when I have to read in English.’

  ‘It’s being translated. I’ll send you a copy.’

  ‘Do that,’ he replied.

  Cardinal Da Silva had briefed Cal on this bishop. He’d been on excellent terms with the previous pope and had been anticipating that it was only a matter of time until he was elevated. But Celestine was a bird of a different feather, a real reformer who was trying to steer the Church hard towards a very public mission of serving the poor. He was choosing new cardinals largely from South America, Asia and Africa. So Fasoli, a hardline conservative, had to watch helplessly as the sands shifted under his feet and the cherished red hat slipped from his grasp.

  ‘So, I hear you’ve interviewed our bleeding priest,’ the archbishop said. ‘What can I add to this circus?’

  ‘I take it you don’t think his wounds are miraculous.’

  ‘I do not. I think Giovanni Berardino is an immature young man, who probably should not have gone into our line of work. It’s not easy being a priest, especially in this day and age.’

  ‘So you think he’s self-harming.’

  Fasoli shrugged.

  ‘Why do you think he’s doing it?’

  ‘Why? I’m not a psychologist but from a theological perspective, I’d say he has a fundamental weakness in his faith. He did something foolish to draw attention and he got caught up in a situation that spiraled out of control. Now he’s become the great Padre Gio and he’s trapped in a web of his own making. The Vatican didn’t have to bring in a Harvard professor to perform an investigation. They only had to ask me.’

  ‘Tell me, what is your opinion about Padre Pio?’

  The archbishop’s eyes lit up. ‘Now there’s a case of true mysticism. It was right and proper that Pope John Paul II canonized him. Pio was a true holy man, there’s no doubt about it. Giovanni is an overgrown boy who should be counseled out of the priesthood. I don’t find him to be sufficiently serious or weighty in his theolo
gy or certain of his faith. I’ve reviewed his records from his seminary training. He was a marginal student. There were always doubts about his abilities and his commitment. If we weren’t so desperate to get young Italians to become priests, I’m sure he wouldn’t have been passed through to ordination.’

  ‘If it were your decision alone to make, what would you do with him at this point?’ Cal asked.

  ‘I would remove him from the public eye and would stop him from taking confessions. In no time, his bleeding would cease and his wounds would heal and the hysteria would vanish. Put that in your report.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to correctly characterize your position.’

  Fasoli nodded and asked, ‘And what’s your opinion about him?’

  ‘I don’t have one yet. I’m still gathering facts.’

  ‘In this book of yours, what did you say about Padre Pio?’

  ‘I presented the facts as best I could and left it to the reader to make up his or her mind.’

  The archbishop looked thoroughly disgusted. ‘Wishy-washy. Just like this pope. I see a world of blacks and whites. Others see rainbows and unicorns.’

  Cal faked a smile and said, ‘Would you like me to put that in my report to the Holy Father too?’

  EIGHT

  Antarctica, 1973

  The McKinnon flying boat circled low over dark, choppy seas. In the cockpit, Werner Bruckner, an accomplished though aged former Luftwaffe airman, was in the co-pilot’s seat beside a younger German pilot they had met at the airport. Klaus Kempner, the expedition leader, sat behind them in the cramped cockpit working the radio, searching for a signal from an unseen, diesel motor ship.

  The other six men bumped around in the passenger and cargo section, nervously peering out the windows.

  ‘Are we really going to land in this weather?’ Oskar Hufnagel asked.

  ‘I certainly hope so,’ Lambret Schneider said. ‘The alternatives are not so good.’

  It had already been a long day. They had departed before dawn from a crushed-stone landing strip on Tierra del Fuego, the southernmost tip of South America, and had flown for six hours before landing on a calm Weddell Sea. There they were met by a fishing trawler that refueled the McKinnon for the second leg of its journey. Six hours later, they were a scant twenty miles from the coast of the frozen continent.

  Kempner called out through the open door of the cockpit, ‘We have radio contact!’ When the cheers faded he added, ‘We should see the Marta from the starboard side momentarily.’

  ‘There!’ Hufnagel cried. ‘There she is!’

  The ninety-feet long craft looked tiny at first, but became somewhat more impressive as they descended for a landing.

  ‘Brace yourselves,’ Bruckner shouted. ‘The waves are going to bite our ass.’

  The pontoons made contact with the water with a loud thud. Hufnagel gripped the armrests so hard his hands shook and he gave his companion a look as if to say: don’t tell the others I was afraid. Schneider felt the impact of successive waves transfer to his kidneys and he wondered if he was going to be spending the next day pissing blood.

  The pilot throttled back and turned the plane into the fierce wind to handle the chop lest a large wave land broadside and capsize her.

  ‘Lifejackets, gentlemen,’ Kempner shouted.

  As the plane heaved and groaned, no one had to be told twice.

  From his window, Schneider saw a small, rigid inflatable boat approach the plane through the heavy surf. The captain opened the hatch and got a face full of spray before a line was tossed and the tender was secured to a pontoon. Before the men disembarked, jerrycans of fresh fuel were passed inside the plane for the pilot’s return journey. When that was done, Kempner ordered his men onto the pontoon. One by one they held onto a strut and timed their jumps onto the rigid inflatable boat with the troughs of the waves. The last two men out of the flying boat passed the packs of gear forward until the deck of the RIB was filled.

  The tender was only a sixteen-footer with limited seating and, with ten on board, two men had to sit on the tubes. One member of the expedition had to join a crewman on the precarious perch. Kempner pointed to Mattias Beckman, a rugged fellow in his forties, to give up his seat. Beckman immediately complied without a grumble, the tender was untied and engine was thrown into gear. When they were midway between the bobbing McKinnon and the Marta, they saw the pontoon boat begin to taxi and lift off into the bright sky.

  None of them saw the six-feet high wave rising up, twice as tall as the others. It hit them portside, knocking Beckman into the air. When he came down again, the boat was no longer underneath him.

  ‘Man overboard! Hang on,’ the captain shouted, spinning the wheel.

  ‘Where is he? Do you see him?’ Hufnagel yelled.

  ‘I see him! There!’ Schneider shouted.

  The crewman tossed a life ring toward Beckman who swam frantically until he had it in his grasp.

  ‘Pull alongside,’ Kempner coolly ordered. ‘You men, there, get him in.’

  Beckman had swallowed some seawater and once in the tender, he threw up a few times and hunched over breathing hard.

  ‘All right?’ Bruckner asked him.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he replied. ‘Someone else can sit in the idiot seat.’

  Bruckner volunteered and they resumed their passage to the Marta.

  ‘I can’t swim, you know,’ Hufnagel whispered to Schneider.

  His friend looked ashen. All Schneider could do was to tell him to trust his lifejacket.

  Hufnagel nodded but after only a few moments of reflection he began whispering again.

  ‘There’s a girl in Munich,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She’s pregnant.’

  ‘Is that good news or bad?’ Schneider said.

  ‘She’s having the baby.’

  ‘Are you getting married?’

  ‘Hell no. She’s a looker but I don’t like her.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Here’s the thing. If something happens to me, I want you to promise you’ll keep an eye on the kid. It’ll need a father figure.’

  ‘It?’

  ‘I hope it’s a boy. For now it’s an it.’

  He reached for his billfold and pulled out a picture of a very pretty girl with her phone number written on the back.

  Schneider took it and said, ‘Oskar, if something happens to me, I want you to promise me something.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘I don’t want you anywhere near my wife.’

  The Marta’s officers were German but the crew were dark-skinned Argentinians. Schneider and his group were given a simple, hearty stew in the officer’s mess. The captain, a ruddy-cheeked man in a cable-stitched woolen jumper, said nothing about their mission. Schneider assumed he had some knowledge but Kempner only shared operational details with Bruckner. It was the evening now, but Schneider still had to squint at the powerful sunlight pouring through the windows. Kempner had planned the mission for February, to take advantage of the nearly perpetual daylight and the relatively mild temperatures, although it was still bitterly cold, especially on the high seas.

  Blotting up the last of his gravy with a piece of bread roll, Kempner asked his men, ‘Is everyone ready?’

  A resounding chorus of ‘yes’ rang out and Kempner pushed his chair back sharply.

  ‘Then, let’s go.’

  Schneider and the others donned their heavy Antarctica gear and carried their provisions to the aft. There an olive-green Aerospatiale helicopter was tethered to the deck, its engines being warmed by electric cables. They loaded up their supplies and climbed into the cramped cabin. Again, Bruckner joined the helicopter pilot in the cockpit, a laconic German they hadn’t seen at supper.

  The rotors were given full power and the helicopter lifted off.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Kempner said, ‘God willing, our next stop will be the Mühlig Hofmann Mountain Range.’

  There were no cheers because almost immediate
ly, strong crosswinds buffeted the helicopter. Schneider wished he hadn’t eaten so much and struggled to hold onto his stew. The chopper fought the convection currents for forty minutes, before one of the men told them to look out the left side at a gray, rubble-strewn beach, jam-packed with basking seals, penguins, cormorants and terns. The beach quickly gave way to a terrain of snow and ice.

  They flew low over this barren landscape for another half an hour, when suddenly the pilot lifted the helicopter skyward and they approached a looming mountain peak. Once clear of it, he descended just as rapidly towards a small valley and soon they were touching down on a plain of glistening ice. The men piled out and helped secure the treads with ropes and ice anchors, before the pilot shut the engine down to conserve precious fuel. Strapping on his combination traction snowshoes, Schneider breathed the icy air into his lungs. Through sunglasses he marveled at the pristine, empty expanse. Kempner took their bearings and consulted a chart he had spread out over his backpack. When the map was folded again, he pointed toward a cluster of low white peaks and, leaving the pilot behind to tend to the chopper, the eight men began trekking.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re almost here,’ Hufnagel said.

  Schneider felt his chest bursting with pride. ‘Me neither.’ He looked toward a sky almost as white as the valley and imagined his father looking down on him approvingly from a heavenly Valhalla.

  It took them almost ninety minutes to reach the foothills of the peaks. While they rested, Kempner and Bruckner consulted the map again and seemed satisfied they were near to where they needed to be. Turning slightly eastward, they went another hundred yards. Bruckner donned a headset and began sweeping the ice with a magnetometer. After a tense several minutes, the craggy man threw his ice axe down, pulled his earphones off and declared that he had found the spot.

  ‘Now, gentlemen,’ Kempner declared, ‘this is why I needed strong, young backs.’

  They began pickaxing and digging in teams of two along a span of several meters. Schneider paired up with Hufnagel, alternating between the two tools until they had shifted chunks of ice to a depth of a meter.

  ‘Halt!’ Kempner ordered and he, personally, jumped into the trench to clear the surface with a shovel. ‘Now you, Beckman. We’re glad you’re alive so you can do the next job. Sink bore holes into each corner.’