“Did they happen to keep any copies?”
“Trust me, I asked.”
“And?”
Father Jordan laid his hand on the page. “In all likelihood, this is the last one. But at the time, I was convinced there had to be another copy out there somewhere, probably hidden away in the library or archives of a noble family. I wandered the lengthand breadth of Italy for years, knocking on the doors of crumbling old palazzi, sipping espresso and wine with faded counts and countesses, even the odd prince and principessa. And then, late one afternoon, in the leaky cellar of a once-grand palace in Trastevere, I found it.”
“The book?”
“A letter,” said Father Jordan. “It was written by a man called Tedeschi. He went into considerable detail about an interesting book he had just read, a book called the Gospel of Pilate. There were direct quotes, including a passage regarding the decision to execute a man named Jesus of Nazareth, a troublesome Galilean who had ignited a disturbance in the Royal Portico of the Temple during Passover.”
“Did the family let you keep it?”
“I didn’t bother to ask.”
“Robert...”
Father Jordan gave a mischievous smile.
“Where is it now?”
“The letter? Somewhere safe, I assure you.”
“I want it.”
“You can’t have it. Besides, I’ve told you everything you need to know. The Gospel of Pilate calls into question the New Testament’s account of the seminal event in Christianity. For that reason, it is a most dangerous book.”
The Benedictine appeared in the doorway.
“I’m afraid I have kitchen duty tonight,” said Father Jordan.
“What’s on the menu?”
“Stone soup, I believe.”
Donati smiled. “My favorite.”
“It’s the specialty of the house. You’re welcome to join us, if you like.”
“Perhaps another time.”
Father Jordan rose. “It was wonderful to see you again, Luigi. If you ever want to get away from it all, I’ll put in a good word with the abbot.”
“My world is out there, Robert.”
Father Jordan smiled. “Spoken like a true liberation theologian.”
Donati waited untilthey were outside the walls of the abbey before switching on his phone. Several unread text messages flowed onto the screen. All were from the same person: Alessandro Ricci, the Vatican correspondent forLa Repubblica.
“He’s the one who texted me while we were talking to Father Jordan.”
“About what?”
“He didn’t say, but apparently it’s urgent. We should probably hear what he has to say. Ricci knows more about the inner workings of the Church than any reporter in the world.”
“Have you forgotten that I’m the director-general of the Israeli secret intelligence service?” Donati didn’t answer. He was typing furiously on his phone. “He was lying, you know.”
“Alessandro Ricci?” asked Donati absently.
