The Apostolic Palace: 11:49 a.m.
Cardinal Rinaldo Trecchio emerged from the Pope’s private study feeling like a man transfigured. In all his life he had never felt like . . . like this.
The Holy Father had called the curia’s senior-most members into his study for the express purpose of finally meeting the man who’d been cloistered there since the previous day. Rinaldo had walked toward the great wooden doors of the room with intense trepidation. Whoever this man was, he was upsetting the normal order and drawing Pope Gregory into events that threatened the Holy Father’s very credibility. The closer Cardinal Rinaldo got to the study, the more forceful his emotions became. He was suspicious. He was angry. He was resentful that a perfect stranger should arrive in their midst and threaten so much damage to the Pope and the Church.
And then he had walked through the doors and everything had changed.
When he emerged ten minutes later, Cardinal Rinaldo Trecchio’s world had been transformed. All his anger was gone. There was no more resentment, no more suspicion. No more fear. Rinaldo was a man at peace, filled with the most profound intensity of love. And the man he’d met had said almost nothing. It had been enough just to be with him, to sit with him. To sense that the world was right, that God was in his heaven and that the sorrows of the world would be overcome.
As he had departed the study at the end of the brief meeting, Pope Gregory had placed a hand on his old friend’s shoulder and peered into Rinaldo’s eyes. The long glance shared between the two friends said everything that needed to be said. There was no longer anything to be afraid of. Things were as they ought to be.
But then Rinaldo had left the study. The door had closed behind him, he’d walked away through the corridors of the Apostolic Palace, and his fear had begun to return.
What they had on their hands was real, of that he no longer had any doubt. That meant those who were their enemies in times of peace would be more strongly their enemies now. And with that fact in hand, only one thought filled his mind.
He had to warn his nephew.
Central Rome: 11:58 a.m.
Alexander guided Gabriella through the main doors of La Repubblica’s offices, back toward the busy Piazza dell’Indipendenza and their parked car. They had barely spoken a word since learning of the return to life of Gianni Zola’s daughter. That event had, over the past hour, migrated out of the realm of blogs and tweets and was now the stuff of special television bulletins and interruptions to radio broadcasts. Italy was spellbound at the news.
“It’s not clear there’s any connection between the girl’s return and the Pope’s words,” Gabriella finally blurted out as they walked along the pavement. This time it was she who was the voice of doubt. Healing the sick was one thing, something to be praised and thankful for. Raising the dead, however, was territory so miraculous she found it almost off-putting. It might have been beautiful in ancient Galilee, but it was too much for the modern world.
“Just because Gregory talks about the dead coming back to life in a press statement,” she continued, “it doesn’t mean that . . . in his words . . . he spoke as if it were a metaphor.” She was fumbling.
“There’s nothing metaphorical about a nineteen-year-old girl sitting up in her casket,” Alexander answered.
Gabriella let her breath hiss out between pursed lips. She was at once repulsed—death, corpses, coffins, resurrection. And yet there was also a powerful impulse toward hope. Could it be true? She was deeply devoted to a religion built around the life of a man who had risen from the dead and promised that he would raise others. Was it possible this promise was being fulfilled?
“But,” Alexander continued, shaking his head, “I still don’t like it. Let’s set aside for the moment that raising the dead is impossible. We can’t overlook the fact that the other miracles the world has witnessed since yesterday morning now look deeply suspicious.”
“Suspicion is a cagey thing,” Gabriella cut in. The roles of skeptic and believer alternated between them, reflecting the state of confusion of both. “The links we’ve drawn are tenuous.”
“But one thing isn’t. Everything began with the arrival of the stranger at St. Peter’s. He’s at the heart of all of this, Gabriella. And though the whole world seems eager to call him an angel, or Christ returned, you and I seem to be among the very few who know the truth.”
“Do we?” Gabriella queried, genuinely surprised. She stopped their progress. “Just what do we really know, Alex?”
“That he sure as hell isn’t divine, for a start. I may have left the Church, but I’m still fairly certain that angelic beings don’t have dead twins floating in Italian rivers.”
The twin. Gabriella still didn’t know what to make of the photo of the body in the Tiber.
“It can only mean,” Alexander continued, “that the stranger is part of something far more dangerous than just a manipulation of funds or religious convictions.” He turned to face her more directly. “Somehow this man has planted himself at the heart of the Church. He’s caught the ear of the Pope, and through him the world. He calls himself ‘the one’ and he has all the right features for the role: the flowing hair, the right posture, the charismatic eyes. But he can’t allow anyone to find out he’s actually just an ordinary man, with a brother who looks all but identical. And then we happen to find this brother—dead!”
Gabriella stuttered for a response. “Alex, he healed the Pope in front of the world. You saw the video. That wasn’t a parlor trick.”
“I saw the Pope stand upright, I don’t deny that. And no, I can’t explain it. But there are reasons it could have happened.”
“He’s been crippled all his life!”
“Maybe he’s been receiving treatment. Maybe this was simply the first occasion the results of his treatment have been manifest.”
“You think the Holy Father is lying?”
Alexander shook his head emphatically. “No, Gregory’s an honest man. But Gabriella, the power of suggestion can be strong. Think about it: he undergoes therapy, maybe just daily exercises for God knows how long. Then on this morning a man with extraordinary charismatic gifts stands before him and commands him to stand upright. The Pope is filled with religious fervor. He’s standing at the high altar, there’s angelic music. The man has captivated the crowd and walked right up to him, and Gregory’s caught in the inspired moment. For the first time he really tries to stand, believes he can—and all that therapy has its effect. He stands, but not because the man has healed him. He’s only drawn out a healing with a quite earthly explanation.”
Gabriella was silent, but slowly started walking again toward their car.
“You have to admit,” Alexander persisted, “it’s not outside the realm of possibility. It’s surely more likely than the idea that this man is Christ, walking around central Rome healing the sick.”
“But the sick are being healed, Alex. And what about the girl? That’s more than a healing.”
They arrived at the ugly Opel. Alexander walked to the passenger side and opened the door for Gabriella. It was unlocked, which surprised her. She couldn’t think of the last time she’d left a car without instinctively locking the doors behind her. The day’s events were obviously distracting her focus.
“I don’t have any idea how to explain this morning’s resurrection,” Alexander admitted. Exasperation sounded in his voice. “But at this stage, with everything else we know, I’m sure it’s as fraudulent as the other miracles.”
Gabriella harrumphed her way into her seat as Alexander made his way round to the other side of the car. An unfamiliar creak came from his door as it opened, as if it were sitting improperly on its hinges. Gabriella shook her head. She’d have to make a note for her aunt. The old lady would want it fixed.
As for Alexander, he made a compelling case. But still, in the midst of it all, something hopeful lingered within her. She wanted to be suspicious, but she also wanted to believe. Not necessarily in the identity or powers of this man, but in the possibility that miracles did happen. That the sick were truly healed. That resurrection was more than just a dream.
Lord, I believe. Help my disbelief. The words of the gospel returned to her.
A telephone rang from the driver’s seat. Alexander reached into his pocket. The screen of his phone was lit up, his uncle’s number flashing on the display. He slid his finger across the screen eagerly.
“Alexander.” The cardinal spoke the instant the line connected. “We have to meet.”