The Third Revelation (31 page)

“You're being had,” Hannan said with infuriating calm.

“I am convinced this man has what he claims to have.” Hannan's skepticism fed his own sense of certainty.

“He doesn't.”

“How can you possibly say that?”

“Because I already have it.”

 

 

Jay drove down the interstate in a trance. When one has his eyes tested, he is asked to look directly into a beam of light. Doing so blinds the eye to everything else. Jay drove as if he were heading into such a light. Was it possible that he would soon hold in his hands the little school notebook in which Sister Lucia had written with her precise and careful hand the message meant for the Holy Father, a message of consummate importance for the Church and the world? Who could regard the revelation of 2000 as conveying such urgency? The whole point of that exercise had seemingly been to marginalize private revelations, to insist that nothing essentially new was in the message. The catechism was more informative of what the Christian needs to know than the document supposedly being made public. They might have been scolding the Blessed Mother for wasting their time. The only way to counter that was to compare what had been released with the message itself. The message Hannan calmly asserted was now in his possession.

At the gate, the guard would not let him through without calling the administration building. Security had been tightened as the result of recent events. Jay was asked to look into a camera.

“It's okay,” Laura Burke said, her voice seeming to come from out of thin air. “Welcome, Father Trepanier.”

He thanked the camera and proceeded up the drive to the administration building.

 

 

How painful to be only a spectator at such an historic moment. In the manner of gawkers, Jay wanted to press through and be among those closest to the table. Gabriel Faust stood behind it.

“We delayed this in order that you might witness it, Father Trepanier,” Hannan said.

Now Ray Sinclair stepped aside so Jay could get closer.

Faust began with a lecture! He reminded them of the provenance of the holdings of even the most prestigious museums. Conquerors had carted home works of art, the spoils of war; many items had come into the possession of museums in a manner that would not withstand close scrutiny. Faust cited the Ambrosiana in Milan.

“All this as preface to the fact that I do not intend to discuss how this document came into the possession of Refuge of Sinners. The important thing is that it is here, safe and secure.”

“There is no doubt of its authenticity?”

Faust nodded as if to show the relevance of Jay's question. “The leading expert in the field, a friend of mine, as it happens, Miki Inagaki, has subjected it to the most demanding tests.” Faust smiled at Jay. “It is authentic.”

“And may I examine it?”

Ignatius Hannan took over. “I understand your curiosity, Father.”

Curiosity!

“But given all the controversy that has been stirred up by this document, I don't think that any of us has the right to examine it. It is my plan to return it where it belongs, the Vatican Library.”

Jay could not believe his ears. Return the rescued lamb to the wolves? That would be insane. Here was the opportunity to settle once and for all the adequacy of the revelation made in 2000 by the then Cardinal Ratzinger, now Benedict XVI. Jay had fallen into the intonations of a television commentator as he spoke, someone on the History Channel, perhaps, stating information his listeners knew perhaps as well as he.

Ignatius Hannan was adamant. He had okayed the purchase of this document in order to return it to the Vatican. There was nothing to discuss.

“I know you understand, Father Trepanier.”

“You overestimate me.”

Jay watched Gabriel Faust bear the precious notebook away to its temporary resting place in Empedocles' safe. Drinks were served. They seemed to be celebrating the defeat of all his hopes. Sick at heart, he slipped away, but before he left the building, his name was called. He turned. It was Gabriel Faust.

“Could I have a word with you, Father?”

As he waited, he was thinking.

Anatoly did not make a second call to Jean-Jacques Trepanier. He had picked up the number of the priest's cell phone while sitting outside the entrance to Fatima Now! in the car he had acquired across the border. As they talked, he had been able to watch the priest and he knew he had his fish hooked. If nothing else, Anatoly meant to gain something from this infuriatingly frustrating series of events. He was not one to brood over the lives that had to be taken on the way to the goal. His whole training made that inevitable, neither good nor bad. But to have come this whole bloody way and find that the document he had was not the one he sought tested the slow, sullen patience with which he had practiced his craft over the years.

What he wanted was the documentation on the attempted assassination of John Paul II. He was certain that the investigations would have established that the plot had neither been executed nor drawn up in the Kremlin. It offended his professional sense that such a bungled job should be attributed to the KGB. Imagine an assassin who would become part of such a crowd as that gathered in Saint Peter's Square. Of course Agca had been apprehended immediately. Anatoly knew how he would have carried it off. From the spot where the assassination attempt had been made, Anatoly had often stood looking at the nearby building on the Janiculum hill. The house of the Augustinians was too close, one might as well be in the crowd in the square. No, the perfect position for the assassin would have been on the roof of a building Anatoly learned was the North American College. The concierge was a countryman who had gone over to Rome but welcomed the opportunity to speak Russian. He took Anatoly onto the roof. While they were up there, Lev began patting his pockets. Where were his keys?

Anatoly helped him search. When they gave up, Lev threw up his hands. No matter. There were other sets.

Anatoly left with the keys in his pocket.

It was as if he were demonstrating to himself how that assassination should have been conducted. If ever any accusation had been made publicly, it would have been child's play to show the amateurishness of the attempt.

When he had persuaded the terrified woman in Traeger's office that she would live only if she showed him the safe, he pulled up a patch of carpet behind Traeger's desk and studied the dial. He shot it away and pulled the door up. And there it was, at last. He must have been smiling when he turned. Above her taped mouth, the woman's eyes were wide with terror, looking at the still smoking gun he held. Anatoly had no wish to prolong her agony. He stepped up to her, put the gun to her head, and dispatched her.

And then to find that what he had gotten was the account of private revelations by one of the seers of Fatima!

His fury abated only when he reminded himself that there were some who wanted this document as much as he wanted the report of the investigation into the assassination attempt on John Paul II.

He imagined himself once more entering the Vatican and confronting whoever was sitting in for the late Brendan Crowe and proposing an exchange. He smiled at the brazenness of the idea. He let it go only reluctantly. That would be as stupid as Acga immersing himself in the crowd in Saint Peter's Square.

If not a quid pro quo, then money. A huge sum of money. Money was the answer to most problems, human greed being what it was. Over the past weeks, he had learned more about Ignatius Hannan than he had cared to know, but now that knowledge seemed relevant. But here, too, a direct approach seemed inadvisable. One did not willingly return to the scene of a crime. And so he had thought of Jean-Jacques Trepanier.

And Trepanier had taken the bait and gone to the man who had the kind of money Anatoly demanded. Anatoly followed him down the interstate, but did not, like Trepanier, enter the gate of Empedocles. He continued down the road, made a U-turn, and waited.

As he waited, he was thinking of how the exchange could be made. The exchange was always the neuralgic point in such operations. Which is why kidnappers usually came for their reward only after having killed their hostage. Four million dollars. He smiled at the sum that had come to him as he spoke with Trepanier. The very amount underwrote the value of what he had. It was not the money itself that interested him. Oh, a fantasy of affluence flitted through his mind. He was only human, after all. A Swiss account, a dacha just outside Yalta. He dismissed the thought. He would be as bored as Chekov there.

What he wanted was vindication, of the organization for which he had worked, for his country as it had been. He wanted to show Chekovsky how one went about such things. After that, the future became vague. It didn't matter. He had lost interest in the future.

An hour had gone by when Trepanier's car emerged from the gate of the Empedocles complex. As he followed him, Anatoly punched redial. Trepanier's was the last number he had called.

“Do you have it?” he asked.

“Do you expect to get your money?”

What did four million dollars look like? “How do you propose that we make the exchange?”

The priest laughed. “Look, I don't know who you are and what kind of stunt you're trying to pull.” Ahead of him, Trepanier's car did a slight zigzag in company with his furious tone.

“I have the third secret of Fatima.”

“Oh do you? Perhaps it is the fourth. Ignatius Hannan has come into possession of what you so generously offered to sell me.”

Anatoly shut off the righteous voice. He glared at the car ahead. He was tempted to stamp on the gas, ram the car, and push the priest with his taunting voice into the ditch. Instead he passed Trepanier, not looking at the man as he went by, but in the rearview mirror he watched the disappearance of one more hope.

Either Hannan had a fraudulent copy or he did. Anatoly was no judge of such matters. He must go to one who was. To Remi Pouvoir.

“That isn't what I meant, Laura.”

Heather seemed oddly reluctant to accept Laura's offer to take her to the plane when she set off for Rome, but finally she agreed.

“I hate to put you to any more bother, Laura.”

“More?”

“The plane.”

“Oh that. It's costing us money just sitting there, Heather.”

Heather would know better than she would the money side. In any case, she went by for Heather and was startled to find her waiting with a bearded man who turned out to be Vincent Traeger.

“Oh my God,” Laura cried.

“It's all right,” Heather said in her calmest voice. “He's coming with me.”

Laura looked at the man who was being sought for the murder of Father Crowe, who had recently been described by all the media as an ex-agent out of control, liable to do anything. Had Traeger somehow forced Heather to put him on the Empedocles plane? No wonder Heather had tried to refuse the offer of a ride to the airport. It occurred to Laura that now she herself was in danger.

Heather took her aside while Traeger was putting her luggage in the trunk. “He's none of the things they say, Laura.”

“Is he forcing you to do this, Heather?”

Heather actually laughed. “It was my idea.”

“And you're sure . . .”

“Laura, he's been staying with me here.”

Well, that was a conversation stopper if Laura had ever heard one. Heather with a man in the house? Whatever persuasion Traeger had exercised now took on a different complexion. Laura stepped back, displaying her palms.

“That isn't what I meant, Laura.”

And almost despite herself, Laura believed it. Heather still had an otherworldly look. She could probably have a platoon of men in the house and preserve her virtue.

And so she drove them to the airport, went to the private plane terminal, and introduced them to the copilot and pilot, Laurel and Hardy, as Ray referred to them. A special seat had been installed for the pilot, Hardy, who was now checking the flight plan. Laurel came with them into the cabin, to settle them in. It seemed a dirty trick to involve those two in a flight to get a fugitive out of the country.

She waited and watched the plane taxi out and get into line for takeoff. She waited another half hour until she saw it gathering speed as it went down the runway and then lift gracefully into the air. Not so long ago, she and Ray had been flying off to Rome in that very plane, combining business and illicit pleasure. On a mission from Nate. Only she and Nate knew of the mission Heather was being sent on. Laura doubted that Heather would confide in Vincent Traeger.

Driving back to Empedocles, she thought of all the things that had happened since their fateful trip to Rome. More than anything else, she marveled at the ease with which she had accepted Heather's explanation of the presence of Vincent Traeger in her doorway.

He's been staying with me here.
While the police and no doubt the FBI as well as Traeger's own agency were trying to track down a man described as an out-of-control killer whose skills, once in the service of his country, were now, et cetera, et cetera. Under the flood of coverage it was difficult to resist the thought that, however he had done it, Traeger must be responsible for the death of Brendan Crowe. It had become received opinion at Empedocles. Heather must have heard the talk, the indignation expressed by Nate, the increase in security as a result: heard it all and said nothing. And Laura had accepted Heather's assurance that Traeger was not the man so frantically described in the media.

But her lack of concern in all that increased in direct proportion to her distance from Logan, and by the time she drove through the gate of Empedocles, her mind was full of the problems of the day. Nate's impatient energy was now directed on the new site where Refuge of Sinners would be located. Much of the acreage of the Empedocles complex was still wooded, and the architect found a perfect location not a mile away, through the woods, at the far edge of the property. Nate went with Duncan Stroik, listened, thought about it, checked it with Laura, and then said go ahead.