continued, twisting the knife.
Rafael sat down again, let himself sweat, opened his collar and took a deep breath to regain control.
‘Have these bones been tested?’ Rafael asked.
‘Obviously. Science indicates that the bones belong to someone who lived in 1 A.D. or B.C. They were excavated from a tomb, no longer accessible today, carved into the rock of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. They were in an undecorated urn with only one inscription, Yeshua ben Joseph.’
Rafael closed his eyes. He didn’t want to hear this. Every word out of Robin’s mouth was like a knife stabbing him.
‘Of course, Yeshua and Joseph were common names in the first century,’ Robin continued. ‘Like Mary, Mag- dalene, Martha, Peter, James, and Andrew.’
‘Are you trying to give an excuse to the historians paid by the church to refute the idea?’ Rafael accused him.
‘But it’s true. That recent discovery was featured among all the international media on the Discovery Channel with that documentary directed by James Cameron. The tomb of Talpiot underscores the idea that they were common names.’
What was the probability of having two tombs with the same name in different places in Jerusalem? There was a Jesus, a Joseph, and another that could be Mary, Magdalene, or Mary and Magdalene in the same urn, or it could be neither the one nor the other, but Martha, another common name, which also could mean Mary or be Martha herself. The doubts were too many, and the answers too few. The only difference was a tomb no one had heard about, while the tomb of Talpiot…
‘Do you mean that the bones that Loyola found in Jerusalem might not be His?’ Rafael asked. He preferred doubt, mystery, to an irrefutable certainty.
‘In spite of being found in the exact place the Gospel of Mary Magdalene indicated, that’s exactly what I’m telling you. At that time secrecy was extremely important. The Jews were experts at hiding things and giving misleading directions. The Church of the Holy Sepulchre may mark the place where he was buried… or not,’ Robin said
distastefully. ‘And don’t forget we have the question of Ben Isaac, who guarded the Gospel of Jesus, supposedly written by Him in Rome in A.D. 45.’
Rafael snorted. This was too much.
‘That’s what Ben Isaac guarded for more than a half century. He had an agreement with the church, the Status Quo. They say he paid a lot for the church to let him keep possession of the documents.’ Robin sighed deeply. He was tired.
When the agreement was renewed in 1985, Peter, the superior general of the society, demanded that Wojtyla not sign an extension, but the Pole wouldn’t listen to him. He wanted to get rid of the hot potato as quickly as possible. Robin agreed with the superior general at the time. It was a mistake. Probably in exchange for millions of dollars.
‘Now you don’t want to run the risk of Pope Ratzinger doing the same,’ Rafael concluded.
‘We can’t, Santini!’ Robin shouted. ‘One of the reasons you’re hearing this story for the first time is because of us,’ he said, striking his chest with his hand. ‘If it were up to me, nothing would be known about it at all.’
‘Ben Isaac and the church have done a good job of hiding it, too.’
‘How much longer?’ Robin complained. ‘This proves that the pope doesn’t trust us, Rafael.’
Rafael sighed. The priests of the Society of Jesus were stubborn, and it wasn’t worth arguing about.
‘Do you think it’s worth killing people over this?’
‘Don’t you understand the seriousness of what I just told you?’ Robin answered.
‘You don’t even know if the bones are His. With respect to the Gospel of Jesus, anyone could have written it. You know perfectly well that the authorship of the gospels, apocryphal or canonical, has never been established definitively. The writing of the Pentateuch was attributed to Moses, in which he narrates his own death. Damn. Everything is uncertain. No one knows anything.’
Robin tapped his foot on the floor nervously.
‘However serious it might be, it’s not worth four deaths, Robin.’
‘I am not involved with these strategic decisions.’ The English Jesuit sounded defensive, as if washing his hands of it.
‘I understand, but nothing in all this justifies kidnapping Ben Isaac’s son. I really hope he’s not going to be victim number five.’
Robin looked at him, astonished. ‘We didn’t kidnap Ben Isaac’s son.’
‘Robin, don’t fuck with me,’ Rafael cursed. ‘You murdered four men and kidnapped Ben Isaac’s son. There’s no point in denying it, after all you’ve told me.’
‘Rafael, I give you my word we had nothing to do with the kidnapping. At least as far as I know, and I usually do.’
Robin seemed sincere. Whether he was or not, only he knew, since no one has found a way to discover if someone is lying; even the lie detectors can be fooled.
Rafael got up. He still felt hot, and his heart was racing. He looked at his watch and saw it was twelve thirty. ‘I think that’s enough for today.’
‘It’s always a pleasure to serve an envoy from the Supreme Pontiff, even one pointing a gun at my head,’ Robin said sarcastically.
‘How’s this all going to end?’ Rafael asked.
‘Do you want to know what I’ve discovered in all my years of experience?’ Robin paused to get Rafael’s attention. ‘The end makes everything clear.’
Rafael walked to the door. ‘I hope so.’
‘It’ll be easy for you to predict,’ Robin offered, going to the desk and picking up the phone. ‘After everything I told you, you don’t expect to leave here with your life, do you?’ Someone answered the phone. ‘We have an escape attempt. Code red,’ Robin said.
52
It wasn’t a pretty sight, and none of the three men would have been there to witness it if they could have helped it. It would not have been humane or pious to let Ursino leave such a sacred place without a moment of prayer and expiation for the services he so diligently performed for His Holiness, four of them, always taking into consideration the greater interest of the Holy Mother Church, submissive to the dogma and teachings of our Lord.
The paramedics had placed the body on a stretcher. A white sheet covered him to the chest and left his face visible. The fibula was still stuck in his eye, shocking the three men of God who observed him in silence. His face was black on the side with the wound, striped with dried blood. His mouth and chin were white as chalk. Ursino looked at peace, the kind of quiet that emanates only from the dead, who know a greater truth, their mission accomplished here on earth, problems resolved or left for others to deal with… What better reason to be at peace, with no debt collector to hassle them, the worries of borrowing a car, marriage disputes, loneliness, loss behind them. Death can be good.
‘Your Eminence,’ the doctor called, shutting a first-aid kit that had been of no use. He had cleaned the wound a little so that the dead priest would be at least slightly more presentable for the secretary of state. He would not remove the fatal bone for legal reasons.
Tarcisio didn’t hear him. He was absorbed in his prayer.
‘Your Eminence,’ he called again.
‘Yes, Lorenzo?’
‘Do you want me to inform the family?’ the doctor asked politely.
‘No, thank you. Father Ursino had no living relatives,’ the secretary informed him in a weak, sorrowful voice.
At that moment he noticed the trace of blood that had dripped from Ursino’s eye to the floor next to the desk.
