The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,112

did. But neither did they. They believed Jesus was a man who had been exalted into heaven, not a supreme being who had been sent to earth. All that came much later, after the Gospels had been written and the early Church settled on Christianity’s orthodoxy. That was when the great sibling rivalry began. The Church Fathers declared that the covenant between God and his chosen people had been broken, that the old law had been replaced by the new. God had sent his son to save the world, and the Jews had rejected him. Then, for good measure, they had cleverly maneuvered a gullible and blameless Roman prefect into nailing him to a cross. For such a people, the murderers of God himself, no punishment was too severe.”

“They were your people,” said Gabriel.

“Which is why I made it my life’s work to heal the wounds between Judaism and Christianity.”

“By finding the Gospel of Pilate?”

Father Jordan nodded.

“I assume your father’s letter contained a reference to it.”

“He wrote about it in considerable detail.”

“And that story you told Donati and me the other day? The one about you wandering the length and breadth of Italy searching for the last copy of the Gospel of Pilate?”

“It was just that. A story. I knew that Father Schiller gave the book to Pius the Twelfth, and that Pius buried it deep in the Archives.”

“How?”

“I confronted Father Schiller not long before he died. At first, he tried to deny the book’s existence. But when I showed him my father’s letter, he told me the truth.”

“Did you tell him—”

“That I was the grandson of the wealthy Roman Jew who had given the book to the Order?” Father Jordan shook his head. “Much to my everlasting shame, I did not.”

“Did you really try to find it? Or was that a story, too?”

“No,” said Father Jordan. “I searched the Archives for more than twenty years. Because there’s no reference to the gospel in the Index Rooms, it was a bit like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. About ten years ago, I forced myself to stop. That book was ruining my life.”

“And then?”

“Someone gave it to the Holy Father. And the Holy Father decided to give it to you.”

64

ABBEY OF ST. PETER, ASSISI

AT FIRST, HE THOUGHT IT was a practical joke. Yes, the voice on the phone sounded like the Holy Father’s, but surely it couldn’t really be him. He wanted Father Jordan to come to the papal apartments the following evening at half past nine. Father Jordan was to tell no one of the summons. Nor was he to arrive even a minute early.

“I assume it was a Thursday,” said Gabriel.

“How did you know?”

Gabriel smiled and with a movement of his hand invited Father Jordan to continue. He arrived at the papal apartment, he said, at the stroke of nine thirty. A household nun escorted him to the private chapel. The Holy Father greeted him warmly, refusing to allow him to kiss the Ring of the Fisherman, and then showed him a most remarkable book.

“Did Lucchesi know of your personal connection to the gospel?”

“No,” said Father Jordan. “And I never told him about it. It was my personal connection to Donati that was important. The Holy Father trusted me. It was just a stroke of dumb luck.”

“I assume he allowed you to read it.”

“Of course. That’s why I was there. He wanted my opinion as to its authenticity.”

“And?”

“The text was lucid, at times bureaucratic, and granular in its detail. It was not the work of a creative mind. It was an important historical document based on the written or spoken recollections of its nominal author.”

“What happened next?”

“He invited me back the following Thursday. Once again, Donati was absent. Dinner with a friend, apparently. Outside the walls. That was when the Holy Father told me that he planned to give the book to you.” He paused, then added, “Without informing the prefetto of the Vatican Secret Archives.”

“Did he know Albanese was a secret member of the Order of St. Helena?”

“He suspected as much.”

“Which is why Lucchesi asked you to make a copy of the book.”

Father Jordan smiled. “Rather ingenious, don’t you think?”

“Did you do the work yourself, or did you utilize the services of a professional?”

“A little of both. I was a rather talented illustrator and calligrapher when I was young. Not like you, of course. But I wasn’t bad. The professional, who shall remain nameless, handled the artificial aging of the paper and the binding. It