The Order (Gabriel Allon #20) - Daniel Silva Page 0,113
was an extraordinary piece of work. Cardinal Albanese would never have been able to tell the difference. Not unless he subjected the volume to sophisticated tests.”
“But which version of the gospel did he remove from the papal apartments the night of the Holy Father’s murder?”
“It was the copy,” answered Father Jordan. “I have the original. The Holy Father gave it to me for safekeeping in case something happened to him.”
“That book belongs to me now.”
“It belonged to my grandfather before it was taken from him by the Order. Therefore, I am the rightful owner, just as Isabel Feldman was the rightful owner of that painting that magically resurfaced last weekend.” Father Jordan scrutinized him for a moment. “I suppose you had something to do with that, too.”
Gabriel made no reply.
“It never goes away, does it?”
“What’s that?”
“The survivor’s guilt. It gets passed down from generation to generation. Like those green eyes of yours.”
“They were my mother’s eyes.”
“Was she in one of the camps?”
“Birkenau.”
“Then you are a miracle, too.” Father Jordan patted the back of Gabriel’s hand. “I’m afraid there is a straight line between the teachings of the early Church and the gas chambers and crematoria of Auschwitz. To maintain otherwise is to engage in what Thomas Aquinas called an ignorantia affectata. A willful ignorance.”
“Perhaps you should put it to rest once and for all.”
“And how would I do that?”
“By giving me that book.”
Father Jordan shook his head. “Making it public will accomplish nothing. In fact, given the current climate here in Europe and America, it might make matters worse.”
“Are you forgetting that your former student is now the pope?”
“His Holiness has enough problems to deal with. The last thing he needs is a challenge to the core beliefs of Christianity.”
“What does the book say?”
Father Jordan was silent.
“Please,” said Gabriel. “I must know.”
He contemplated his sunbaked hands. “One central element of the Passion narratives is undeniable. A Jew from the village of Nazareth named Jesus was put to death by the Roman prefect on or about the holiday of Passover, in perhaps the year 33 C.E. Much else of what was written in the four Gospels must be taken with a cartload of salt. The accounts are literary invention or, worse, a deliberate effort on the part of the evangelists and early Church to implicate the Jews in the death of Jesus while simultaneously exculpating the real culprits.”
“Pontius Pilate and the Romans.”
Father Jordan nodded.
“For example?”
“The trial before the Sanhedrin.”
“Did it happen?”
“In the middle of the night during Passover?” Father Jordan shook his head. “Such a gathering would have been forbidden by the Laws of Moses. Only a Christian living in Rome could have concocted something so outlandish.”
“Was Caiaphas involved in any way?”
“If he was, Pilate makes no mention of it.”
“What about the tribunal?”
“If that’s what you want to call it,” said Father Jordan. “It was very brief. Pilate barely looked at him. In fact, he claimed not to be able to recall Jesus’ physical appearance. He merely jotted a note for his files and waved his hand, and the soldiers got on with it. Many other good Jews were executed that day. As far as Pilate was concerned, it was business as usual.”
“Was there a crowd present?”
“Heavens, no.”
“What was the charge against Jesus?”
“The only crime punishable by crucifixion.”
“Insurrection.”
“Of course.”
“Where did the incident take place?”
“The Royal Portico of the Temple.”
“And the arrest?”
The bells of Assisi tolled two o’clock before Father Jordan could answer. “I’ve told you too much already. Besides, you and your family have a plane to catch.” He rose and extended his hand. “God bless you, Mr. Allon. And safe travels.”
There were footfalls outside in the corridor. A moment later Chiara and the children appeared in the doorway, accompanied by the Benedictine monk.
“Perfect timing,” said Father Jordan. “Don Simon will show you out.”
THE MONK SAW THEM INTO the street and then quickly closed the gate. Gabriel stood there for a moment afterward, his hand hovering over the intercom, until Irene finally tugged at his sleeve and looked up at him with the face of his mother.
“What’s wrong, Abba? Why are you crying?”
“I was thinking about something sad, that’s all.”
“What?”
You, thought Gabriel. I was thinking about you.
He lifted the child into his arms and carried her through the Porta San Pietro to the parking garage where he had left the car. After buckling Raphael’s seat belt, he searched the undercarriage more carefully than usual before finally climbing behind the wheel.
“Try starting the engine,” said Chiara. “It helps.”