Book of James: a novel Page 4

  “I bet he has,” said Molino. “He’s a corporate lawyer. He represents oil companies in mergers and acquisitions. He single-handedly made his firm one of the richest in the U.S. He’s the youngest managing partner they ever had. This is a man very familiar with power – how to get it and how to use it.”

  “The knights, you know,” added Phillips, “are a sovereign country. They are not subject to any jurisdiction – Italian or otherwise. They mint their own coins. They have been granted permanent observer status at the United Nations. The Palazzo Malta has extraterritorial status. Your visit to there will be at Mr. Clark’s grace.”

  “And I shall use it to my utmost advantage,” said Molino, “but none of this answers the question: why is Clark interested in the Q source?”

  “Perhaps I can give you some context,” said Cullinane. “The order was founded in 1048, just before the East-West Schism. Their history, at least the history that appears in the books, is that the order was originally known as the Order of St. John. They were formed to build a church, a convent, and a hospital in Jerusalem to care for pilgrims of any creed or race. The knights were bound by monastic vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. They were, and I emphasize this, were and always have been, a military order. But their mission, true to their motto is Tuitio Fidei et Obsequium Pauperum.”

  “Defense of the faith and assistance to the poor,” explained Phillips. “Still, I can’t guess why he’d be interested in the Q source. I do know that the Knights of Malta have been increasingly active behind the scenes in the Vatican. There is a lot of new money in the order – mostly American money, and it has given them more access and increased influence.”

  “Maybe defense of the faith and assistance to the poor is the same thing in this instance,” said Cullinane. “With dwindling tithes and massive liabilities for the pedophilia scandals, the church’s finances aren’t what they used to be. Maybe the church is the poor that the order wants to assist now.”

  “I guess I’ll have to find out,” said Molino, thanking his guests for their assistance.

  Five

  The Palazzo Malta is on Via dei Condotti, a block from the Spanish Steps. The street is paved in granite setts, square cut cobblestones neatly patterned. It is the center of Rome’s haute couture district, lined with tony shops like Ferragamo, Armani, Valentino, and Prada. It has been the order’s headquarters since 1834.

  Chinese tourists and fasionistas milled along the sidewalks toting expensive shopping bags as Molino approached the front gate. He was greeted by a uniformed guard carrying a Kalashnikov rifle. Molino announced himself and entered the courtyard, which was paved in red and white bricks laid out in the form of the Maltese Cross. The cross has eight points, representing the eight Beatitudes. The order uses them to symbolize their eight obligations: to live in truth, to have faith, to repent one’s sins, to give proof of humility, to love justice, to be merciful, to be sincere, and to endure persecution. Molino was greeted by a young man in a well-tailored suit, who led him into an ornate lobby, through a wide metal door, and down an elegant passage. They rode an elevator to the top floor, and proceeded to a corner office, which was the scene of some tumult.

  “Tell him he can go fuck himself!” came an orotund voice, which had a tinge of a Virginia drawl. Molino entered the room, which was quite large, amply decorated, more living room than office. Couches were lined with attendants in suits, talking on cell phones and tapping on laptops. At the center of the room, surrounded by sycophants, was C. Bennett Clark. He was an oddly shaped man, with hips and thighs more female than male, but with a sunken chest and thin shoulders. His face looked slack, as if he had lost and gained much weight in his days. His teeth were discolored and misshapen, his hair blonde going grey at the temple, and his eyes were a penetrating shock blue. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and flip flops.

  “I don’t care if you have an order from the European Commission. We’re going forward with this deal. Go ahead, I’ll get Barroso on the telephone and in five minutes you won’t have most favored nation status, and you know I can do it. Now play nice and we all make some money... Yes, I know. Yes, of course. That too. Okay.” With that Clark hung up the telephone. “Fucking Venezuelans, they don’t know when to shut up.”

  Clark barely noticed Molino, a uniformed man terribly out of place in a room of bespoke suits, and the people in the room all seemed to ignore him too. Sycophants lined up, seeking an audience with Clark. No one could seem to get a word in edgewise as he went from telephone call to telephone call, issuing commands to his colleagues. The scene was one of utter chaos. Molino leaned back on a credenza, patiently waiting his turn.

  After about ten minutes, Clark got up from his desk and shuffled to a refrigerator. “You must be Molino,” he said, passing by. Molino stood and decided to follow Clark, as it was apparent that was the only way he could actually talk to the man. “You’re learning,” said Clark, bending over to retrieve a bottle of water from the refrigerator, buttocks stretching his cargo shorts to their natural limit. “So what can I do for you?”

  “Signore Clark, first let me thank you for...” started Molino, until Clark shot an impatient glance at him. Molino started again, “Tell me about Claudio Sciarpelletti.”

  “Never met him,” said Clark, bluntly.

  “How about Paolo Gabriele?”

  “Good man, his father is a true man of the order. Shame about what Paoloetto is going through. I’m sure he’ll be exonerated when all this is through.”

  “Sciarpelletti tells us that he delivered one of the boxes here.”

  “He did?” laughed Clark. “And you believe him?”

  “He has no reason to lie.”

  “Other than to save his ass.”

  “He says it was a banker’s box marked with the letter Q.”

  “Well that’s a strange thing. What do you think that means?”

  “I’m not sure. All I want is the box back and we can all go on with our day.”

  “You’re a very clever man, Officer Molino, but I can tell you I don’t have any box marked with a Q, at least that I know of.”

  Molino could recognize lawyerly word-twisting, and decided to be direct. “Would you mind if I took a look?”

  Clark laughed. “I’m sorry, that’s not gonna happen. Go back and tell Cardinal Herranz that he’s barking up the wrong tree.”

  Molino was stuck. He remembered how his father told him to be persistent. “So tell me, where do you think I might find this box?”

  Clark looked at him, first with contempt, and then is face relaxed. “If I was you, Officer Molino, I would check in on Metropolitan Theodosius.” Molino looked at Clark with incomprehension. Clark explained, “He’s Bartholomew I’s legate.”

  Bartholomew I was the head of the Eastern Orthodox Church, and like the pope, was “first among equals” among other bishops. Molino knew this because his sister’s husband was Eastern Orthodox. She once told Molino that the Eastern Orthodox mass was surprisingly similar to the Roman Catholic mass. “Why would the legate of the Patriarch of Constantinople know anything about this missing box?”

  “I hear he’s very interested in it.”

  Molino chuckled. “It seems everyone is interested in it, but it also seems no one knows where it is.”

  “Welcome to Rome,” said Clark, moving on to his next attendant. Without farewell, Molino left the Palazzo Malta.

  Six

  “Metropolitan is the title for a metropolitan bishop in the Eastern Orthodox Church,” said Father Phillips, briefing Molino on the drive to Fiumicino, what the locals call the Rome airport. “Metropolitan Theodosius is well placed in Istanbul. He’s considered a rising star among the liberals. He stood beside Bartholomew during Pope Benedict’s visit to Istanbul on the Feast of St. Andrew in 2006, which was a big deal because it was only the third time a pope had been to Istanbul.”

  “Well Marcherelli couldn’t find any connection between him and either Clark, Sciarpelletti, or Gabriele,”
said Molino, “so I’m willing to bet that Clark was lying. He’s sending me down a blind alley.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Cullinane, also along for the ride. “The Knights of Malta have been a driving force behind the ecumenical movement for centuries. As a liberal, Theodosius is a natural ally of anyone seeking reconciliation between the Eastern and Roman churches.”

  “Which will never happen,” added Phillips. “Both bureaucracies are too entrenched.”

  “But where does the Q source come in?” asked Molino.

  “If Cardinal Humbert’s letter in the Secret Archives means anything,” said Cullinane, “I’m willing to bet that both Rome and Istanbul have the Q source, and are suppressing it out of mutual self interest.”

  “That is ridiculous,” said Phillips.

  “We have our running bet,” said Cullinane, eyes gleaming. “If Q is made public before one of us dies, you owe me dinner at La Campana.”

  “I don’t recall making that bet,” said Phillips, “and there’s no way I can win.”

  “You win if I die first,” said Cullinane, “after all, you English are fond of burying the Irish.”

  Phillips scoffed. Molino chuckled.

  There was a man standing at the foreign arrival gate of Atatürk Airport in Istanbul, holding a sign “Molino, MP Roma.” This was his ride to the Ecumenical Patriarchate of Constantinople. The driver took the scenic route, along Kennedy Caddesi, named for the 35th U.S. president. It followed the seawall along the Sea of Marmara to the Strait of Bosporus. The sun shone on the water, lighting the trees on the seaside park most amiably. There were children playing in the park, reminding Molino of his boy and girl. He told himself to get them souvenirs of this trip to Turkey.

  The driver took him by the Cathedral of St. George, the church for the Patriarchate. It was a modest white stone structure, with a timber capped roof and three double doors opening up to a small courtyard. It was noble, to be sure, but there were weeds growing between the pavers. The doors needed paint, and the variegated coloring of the tiles showed where the roof had been patched. The first Christian church there was a cave, where the Apostle Andrew preached in the year 38, five years after the crucifixion. At the time, the city was known as Byzantium. Once Emperor Constantine consolidated the faith in the Council of Nicea, in the year 330, he moved the empire’s capital to Byzantium, renaming it New Rome. It would be popularly known by the name of the great conqueror – Constantinople. Being the bishopric of the new capital city of the empire, the church in Constantinople reasonably assumed that they were “first among equals,” but Rome resisted, claiming scriptural primacy, citing Matthew 16:18 (“And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it.”) It was the time that the Western Roman Empire went into decline, most scholars dating the end to the year 476. The Eastern Empire, known as the Byzantine Empire, remained somewhat coherent, but by 1054, the year of the East-West Schism, Rome and Constantinople were already effectively different churches. Then, in 1204, Crusaders sacked Constantinople, raiding the church of many treasures. Finally, in 1453, Constantinople fell to the Ottoman Turks, erasing the last trace of the Roman Empire, and ushering in Islam as the dominant faith in the city. The Ecumenical Patriarchate of Constantinople remained, but fell on hard times. They do not enjoy extraterritorial status like the Vatican. The Turkish government now requires that the Patriarch be a Turkish citizen by birth.

  The anonymous office building housing the administrative offices of the Ecumenical Patriarchate of Constantinople was on Halic Caddesi, a crowded city street perpendicular to the Golden Horn, the estuary that empties into the Bosphorus. The building was four stories high, with an aged and worn linear Bauhaus façade. The driver pulled over and murmured biz burada which Molino surmised meant that they had arrived. Molino tipped him and entered though the glass front door. There was a security guard at the front desk.

  “I’m here to see Metropolitan Theodosius,” said Molino.

  The guard motioned toward the elevator. “Third floor,” he said, cheerlessly. Molino rode the elevator and emerged into a graciously appointed lobby, with leather couches and hardwood paneling. Expansive Turkish rugs covered the marble floor. Molino announced himself to the receptionist and she led him to a conference room, offering him something to drink, which he accepted. After a minute, Metropolitan Theodosius entered the room. He was short and stooped, well into his sixties, overweight and fully bearded. He wore the inner and outer cassock, and on his head he wore the distinctive klobuk, the cylindrical cap with veil hanging down over the neck and shoulders worn by most Eastern Orthodox clergy. A gold cross hung on a chain around his neck.

  “You’ve come a long way for a short interview,” said Theodosius, dispensing with preliminaries.

  “I respect your time, Your Eminence. Its best that I’m here so we only have to do this once,” said Molino.

  “Somehow I think we’ll be seeing more of each other than that, my son.”

  Molino began by describing Gabriele’s break-in, Sciarpelletti’s complicity, the delivery to Clark, and the dead end he reached on Via dei Condotti. He confessed that he was convinced that his presence in Istanbul was a blind alley.

  “Yes, I can tell you definitively,” said Theodosius, eyeing Molino, “no one here has the Vatican’s missing documents.”

  “But why would Clark tell me you were interested in them?”

  Theodosius paused. He looked at Molino as if to judge his character. “Are you religious?”

  “Well, Your Eminence, I do go to church. Sometimes.”

  This was not good enough for Theodosius, who seemed to be struggling with something. “How well do you know this Clark?”

  “I only met him yesterday. He is a strange man.”

  “Do you work for him?” asked Theodosius bluntly.

  “Work for him?” blurted Molino. “Clark? No. I am an officer of the Polizia Municipal di Roma. I work for the people of Rome.”

  Theodosius seemed to becoming slowly convinced. “Tell me, why do you think Clark sent you here?”

  “I wish I knew,” said Molino. “He clearly was lying about the box, that much I know. Why he was lying is another question. He is a very smart man. He knows he could have made copies, returned the box to me, and that would be the end of it. But he insisted on playing this silly game.”

  “Oh, it’s not a game,” said Theodosius.

  “So you know this Clark?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “So why do you think he sent me?”

  Theodosius looked at Molino intently, studying him. After a moment, he said, “Clark is using the box as leverage.”

  “Leverage for what?”

  “He wants to force a secret council.”

  “A secret council?”

  Theodosius slid off his reading glasses and placed them on the conference table. “Captain, like it or not, you are an emissary for the Knights of Malta.” Molino sat back, confused. Theodosius continued. “Clark is sending you because both the Vatican and we know he has the box.”

  “What’s in the box?” asked Molino.

  “Correspondence,” said Theodosius, “ecumenical correspondence.”

  “Is that about the Q source?” asked Molino.

  “Tangentially, yes,” said Theodosius. “The box has correspondence between Rome and Istanbul going back over sixty years.” Molino straightened, alert with keen interest. “How do I explain this?” thought Theodosius out loud. He continued, “In 1946, some children in what is now northwestern Jordan, found a trove of ancient books, probably dating back to the first century. Among them was what we here are calling the Gospel of James...James the Just. We have them here and have kept them safe. The priest who owns them is here, studying them. Historically, they are priceless artifacts. Theologically, though, they are very dangerous indeed. Our brothers in Rome know about these books, and they have been the subject of some discussion between us, going back d
ecades.”

  “So this box has correspondence about the Gospel of James?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why are the Knights of Malta interested in this book?”

  “For decades, they have been the driving force behind ecumenicism.”

  “...trying to get the churches to merge?”

  “Precisely. Clark is an eminence grise intent on bringing together the world’s two great Christian churches, and he is using the Gospel of James as a threat to accomplish this goal.”

  “If word of this book gets out, it will undermine confidence in both churches,” said Molino.

  “Now you understand,” said Theodosius.

  “So he’s crazy,” said Molino.

  “Like a fox,” said Theodosius.

  Molino pondered a moment. His mission was to obtain the box. Clark had the box but it was impossible to get it from him. Molino didn’t like the idea of being Clark’s errand boy, but it didn’t seem like he had much of a choice. “So what do I tell Monsignor Gäenswein?”

  “Gäenswein is actually going to be your biggest problem,” said Theodosius. “Clark wants to convene this secret ecumenical council, and the conservatives in the Vatican are resisting, heavily. Monsignor Gäenswein is very close with Cardinal Herranz...”

  “...Opus Dei...”

  “...exactly. Cardinal Herranz has blocked Clark at every turn, Gäenswein is allied with Herranz, and Gäenswein has the pope’s ear.”

  “So Rome is trying to avoid this secret council and brush this Book of James under the rug.”

  “Precisely. Now you see their problem.”

  “And you? Would the Eastern Orthodox Church agree to this secret council?”

  “In theory, yes,” said Theodosius, “we are always interested in improving relations with our brothers in Rome.”

  “I guess then I should see if Gäenswein feels the same way.”

  “Go with God,” said Theodosius.

  Having what he needed, and at the same time at a complete loss for where he was taking it, Molino took his leave from Metropolitan Theodosius. He caught a late flight back and was home in time to give the children gifts and tuck them into bed. His mind was racing, but somehow he knew he couldn’t share what he knew with Verona. Political cases like this need to be handled discretely.