Father Morelli was late. He knew that his good friend, if his flight had arrived on time, had already been on the ground for twenty minutes, but even Moses could not part the sea of Italian traffic in Rome at this hour. For the past seven months, Morelli had been absorbed in a new project, and time had become abstract, as it sometimes does to scholars who think of little else but their research. The priest’s latest obsession was not something to be stored in a warehouse, waiting to be cataloged and placed in a museum.
Swerving to avoid one of the ever-present motor scooters, Father Morelli brought his car to an abrupt stop in front of the Alitalia Airlines baggage-claim area just in time to glimpse Leo emerging from the terminal. He knew his friend was not expecting him.
“Leo, over here.”
Leo turned to see Morelli jump from the car. “Anthony! What…?”
Morelli grinned as he grabbed Leo’s bag and threw it into the trunk. “I knew you were coming, so I decided to spare you a ride into town on the train.”
“Why am I so surprised? You always seem to know who’s coming and going at the Vatican.” Leo stopped to admire the bright red sports car with the top down. “Driving a new BMW now, eh, Anthony?”
“It’s a small luxury to make up for my years of celibacy, Leo. The way I look at it, this car is helping the Lord to keep me from breaking my vows. A man must have a little excitement in this mortal life.”
“I doubt the Lord needs any help from BMW to keep you from breaking any vows during your priestly midlife crisis. Not to mention the red color, Father, a color no doubt the cardinals would appreciate.”
“Can’t you let an old friend indulge himself just a little?” Morelli said, adopting a mock look of despair.
“Well, since I just flew first-class, I guess I can’t fault you for the car. I don’t see why the Vatican spent so much money on my ticket when I would have arrived at the same time flying coach. How did you know I was coming to Rome?”
“I’m the one who sent for you.”
Leo stopped on the sidewalk and faced his friend. The content of the file he had just read on the plane was still weighing heavily on his mind. “But I … I received an urgent papal summons ordering me to report immediately to the Vatican. The documents contained material written by you, but they were in a sealed communication from the pope.”
“And did the communique also specifically advise you not to open the folder until you were on the plane and in the air?”
“Yes, but how did you…?”
“As I said, dear friend, I sent it. I knew I had to utilize the power of the Holy Father himself to get you here. I was afraid that, if you read my paper before you boarded the plane, it would arouse your curiosity, to say the least. I couldn’t risk having you call the Vatican.”
“I guess that explains the first-class ticket. What in God’s name is going on, Anthony?”
“We’ll talk more this evening, Leo. You must have patience, my friend. This is a homecoming worthy of fine Italian food and wine.”
Looking beyond the terminal at the darkening clouds of the late-April sky, Father Morelli noticed the misty signature of a spring rainstorm in the distance and began raising the top on the car.
“Looks like a storm coming,” Leo said.
Morelli winked. “Yes, indeed, Father. There is a storm coming.”
They squeezed into the small car parked behind an idling tour bus spewing diesel fumes into the air. Safe for now from the approaching storm, Morelli threw the sports car into gear, and the two priests sped off into the late-afternoon Roman traffic.