the Third Secret (2005) (19 page)

THIRTY-FIVE

4:30 P.M.

Valendrea was overwhelmed by the volume of information the listening devices were uncovering. Ambrosi had worked every night over the past two weeks, sorting through the tapes, weeding out the trivia, preserving the nuggets. The abbreviated versions, provided to him on microcassette, had revealed much about the cardinals’ attitudes, and he was pleased to discover that he was becoming quite
papabile
in the eyes of many, even some he’d yet to fully confirm as supporters.

His restrained approach was working. This time, unlike at Clement XV’s conclave, he’d shown the reverence expected of a prince of the Catholic Church. And already commentators were including his name on a short list of possible candidates, along with that of Maurice Ngovi and four other cardinals.

An informal head count taken last evening showed there were forty-eight confirmed
yes
votes. He needed seventy-six to win on an early ballot, assuming all 113 eligible cardinals made it to Rome, which, barring serious illness, should happen. Thankfully, John Paul II’s reforms allowed for a change in procedure after three days of balloting. If no pope was selected by then, a series of successive votes would occur, followed by a day of prayer and discussion. After twelve full days of conclave, if there was still no pope, a simple majority of cardinals could then elect. Which meant time was on his side, as he clearly possessed a majority, along with more than enough votes to block anyone else’s early election. So he could filibuster if need be—provided, of course, he could keep his voting bloc intact over twelve days.

A few cardinals were becoming a problem. They’d apparently told him one thing then, when they’d thought locked doors afforded them privacy, proclaimed another. He’d checked and found that Ambrosi had amassed some interesting information on several of the traitors—more than enough to convince them of the error in their ways—and he planned to dispatch his aide to each of them before morning.

After tomorrow it would be difficult pressuring votes. He could reinforce attitudes but, within the conclave, quarters were simply too confined, privacy too scarce, and something about the Sistine affected cardinals. Some called it a pull from the Holy Spirit. Others ambition. So he knew that the votes would have to be ensured now, the coming assembly only a confirmation that each was willing to uphold his end of the bargain.

Of course, blackmail could muster only so many votes. The majority of his supporters were loyal to him simply because of his standing within the Church and his background, which stamped him the most
papabile
of the favorites. And he was proud of himself for not doing anything over the past few days to alienate those natural allies.

He was still stunned by Clement’s suicide. He’d never thought the German would do anything to endanger his soul. But something Clement said to him in the papal apartment nearly three weeks ago swept through his mind.
I actually hope you do inherit this job. You will find it far different than you might imagine. Maybe you should be the one.
And what the pope said that Friday night, after they left the Riserva.
I wanted you to know what awaits you.
And why hadn’t Clement stopped him from burning the translation?
You’ll see.

“Damn you, Jakob,” he muttered.

A knock came on his office door, then Ambrosi stepped inside and crossed to the desk. He held a pocket tape recorder. “Listen to this. I just dubbed it off the reel-to-reel. Michener and Ngovi about four hours ago in Ngovi’s office.”

The conversation lasted about ten minutes. Valendrea switched off the machine. “First Romania. Now Bosnia. They will not stop.”

“Apparently Clement left a suicide e-mail for Michener.”

Ambrosi knew about Clement’s suicide. He’d told him that and more in Romania, including what had happened with Clement in the Riserva. “I must read that e-mail.”

Ambrosi stood straight before the desk. “I don’t see how that’s possible.”

“We could reenlist Michener’s girlfriend.”

“That thought occurred to me. But why does it matter anymore? The conclave starts tomorrow. You will be pope by sundown. Surely, by the next day.”

Possible, but he could just as easily be locked in a tight election. “What troubles me is that our African friend apparently has his own information network. I didn’t realize I was such a high priority with him.” It also bothered him that Ngovi had so easily linked his Romanian trip with Tibor’s murder. That could become a problem. “I want you to find Katerina Lew.”

He’d purposely not talked with her after Romania. No need. Thanks to Clement, he knew everything he needed to know. Yet it galled him that Ngovi was dispatching envoys on private missions. Especially missions that involved him. Still, there was little he could do about it since he couldn’t risk involving the Sacred College. There’d be too many questions and he’d have too few answers. It could also provide Ngovi a way to force an inquiry into his own Romanian trip, and he was not about to present the African with that opportunity.

He was the only one left alive who knew what the Virgin had said. Three popes were gone. He’d already destroyed part of Tibor’s cursed reproduction, eliminated the priest himself, and flushed Sister Lucia’s original writing into the sewers. All that remained was the facsimile translation waiting in the Riserva. No one could be allowed to see those words. But to gain access to that box he needed to be pope.

He stared up at Ambrosi.

“Unfortunately, Paolo, you must stay here over the coming days. I will need you nearby. But we have to know what Michener does in Bosnia, and she is our best conduit. So find Katerina Lew and reenlist her help. “

“How do you know she’s in Rome?”

“Where else would she be?”

THIRTY-SIX

6:15 P.M.

Katerina was drawn to the CNN booth, just outside the south colonnade in St. Peter’s Square. She’d seen Tom Kealy from across the cobbled expanse, beneath bright lights and in front of three cameras. The piazza was dotted with many makeshift television sets. The thousands of chairs and barricades from Clement’s funeral were gone, replaced by souvenir hawkers, protestors, pilgrims, and the journalists who’d flocked to Rome, ready for the conclave that would begin tomorrow morning, camera lenses angled for the best view of a metal flue high above the Sistine Chapel where white smoke would signal success.

She drew close to a ring of gawkers huddled around the CNN dais where Kealy was talking to the cameras. He wore a black wool cassock and Roman collar, looking very much the priest. For someone with so little regard for his profession, he seemed entirely comfortable with its physical trappings.

“—that’s right, in the old days, ballots were simply burned after each scrutiny with either dry or wet straw to produce black or white smoke. Now a chemical is added to produce color. There’s been a lot of confusion in recent conclaves about the smoke. Apparently even the Catholic Church can, at times, let science make matters easier.”

“What have you been hearing about tomorrow?” asked the female correspondent sitting beside Kealy.

Kealy turned his attention toward the camera. “My guess is that there are two favorites. Cardinals Ngovi and Valendrea. Ngovi would be the first African pope since the first century and could do a lot for his home continent. Look what John Paul II did for Poland and Eastern Europe. Africa could likewise use a champion.”

“But are Catholics ready for a black pope?”

Kealy gave a shrug. “What does it matter anymore? Most of today’s Catholics are from Latin and South America and Asia. The European cardinals no longer dominate. All of the popes since John XXIII made sure of that by expanding the Sacred College and packing it with non-Italians. The Church would be better off, in my opinion, with Ngovi than Valendrea.”

She smiled. Kealy was apparently having his revenge on the righteous Alberto Valendrea. Interesting how the tide had turned. Nineteen days ago, Kealy was on the receiving end of a Valendrea barrage, on the way to excommunication. But during the interregnum, that tribunal, along with everything else, was suspended. Now here was the accused, on worldwide television, disparaging his chief accuser, a man about to make a serious run for the papacy.

“Why would you say the Church would be better off with Ngovi?” asked the correspondent.

“Valendrea is Italian. The Church has steadily moved away from Italian domination. His choice would be a retreat. He’s also too conservative for the twenty-first-century Catholic.”

“Some might say a return to traditional roots would be beneficial.”

Kealy shook his head. “You spend forty years since Vatican II trying to modernize—do a fairly good job in making your Church a worldwide institution—then toss all that out the door? The pope is no longer merely the bishop of Rome. He’s the head of a billion faithful, the vast majority of whom are not Italian, not European, not even Caucasian. It would be suicidal to elect Valendrea. Not when there’s somebody like Ngovi, equally as
papabile,
and far more attractive to the world.”

A hand on Katerina’s shoulder startled her. She whirled around to see the black eyes of Father Paolo Ambrosi. The annoying little priest was only a few inches from her face. A bolt of anger flashed through her, but she kept calm.

“He doesn’t seem to like Cardinal Valendrea,” the priest whispered.

“Get your hand off my shoulder.”

A smile frayed the edges of Ambrosi’s mouth and he withdrew his hand. “I thought you might be here.” He motioned to Kealy. “With your paramour.”

A sick feeling clutched her gut, but she willed herself to show no fear. “What do you want?”

“Surely you don’t want to talk here? If your associate were to turn his head, he might wonder why you were conversing with one so close to the cardinal he despises. He might even get jealous and fly into a rage.”

“I don’t think he’s got anything to worry about from you. I piss sitting down, so I doubt I’m your type.”

Ambrosi said nothing, but maybe he was right. Whatever he had to say should be said in private. So she led him through the colonnade, past rows of kiosks peddling stamps and coins.

“It’s disgusting,” Ambrosi said, motioning to the capitalists. “They think this a carnival. Nothing but an opportunity to make money.”

“And I’m sure the collection boxes in St. Peter’s have been closed since Clement died.”

“You have a smart mouth.”

“What’s wrong? The truth hurt?”

They were beyond the Vatican, on Roman streets, strolling down a
via
lined with a warren of trendy apartments. Her nerves throbbed, keeping her on edge. She stopped. “What do you want?”

“Colin Michener is going to Bosnia. His Eminence wants you to go with him and report what he does.”

“You didn’t even care about Romania. I haven’t heard a word from you till now.”

“That became unimportant. This is more so.”

“I’m not interested. Besides, Colin is going to Romania.”

“Not now. He’s going to Bosnia. To the shrine at Medjugorje.”

She was confused. Why would Michener feel the need to make such a pilgrimage, especially after his earlier comments?

“His Eminence urged me to make clear that a friend within the Vatican is still available to you. Not to mention the ten thousand euros already paid.”

“He said that money was mine. No questions.”

“Interesting. Apparently, you’re not a cheap whore.”

She slapped his face.

Ambrosi showed no surprise. He simply stared back at her through piercing eyes. “You shall not strike me again.” There was a bitter edge to his voice, one she did not like.

“I’ve lost interest in being your spy.”

“You are an impertinent bitch. My only hope is that His Eminence tires of you soon. Then, perhaps, I will pay you a return visit.”

She stepped back. “Why is Colin going to Bosnia?”

“To find one of the Medjugorje seers.”

“What is all this with seers and the Virgin Mary?”

“I assume, then, you are familiar with the Bosnian apparitions.”

“They’re nonsense. You don’t really believe the Virgin Mary appeared to those children every day for all those years, and is still appearing to one of them.”

“The Church has yet to validate any of the visions.”

“And that seal of approval is going to make it real?”

“Your sarcasm is tiresome.”

“So are you.”

But a stirring of interest was forming inside her. She didn’t want to do anything for Ambrosi or Valendrea, and she’d stayed in Rome only because of Michener. She’d learned that he moved from the Vatican—Kealy had reported that as part of an analysis on the aftermath of a papal death—but she hadn’t made any effort to track him down. Actually, after their encounter earlier, she’d toyed with the idea of following him to Romania. But now another possibility had opened. Bosnia.

“When does he leave?” she asked, hating herself for sounding interested.

Ambrosi’s eyes flickered in satisfaction. “I don’t know.” The priest slid a hand under his cassock and came out with a scrap of paper. “That’s the address for his apartment. It’s not far from here. You could . . . comfort him. His mentor is gone, his life in chaos. An enemy will soon be pope—”

“Valendrea is quite sure of himself.”

She ignored his question. “And the problem?”

“You think Colin’s vulnerable? That he’ll open up to me—even let me go with him?”

“That’s the idea.”

“He’s not that weak.”

Ambrosi smiled. “I’m betting that he is.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

ROME, 7:00 P.M.

Michener strolled down the Via Giotto toward the apartment. The quarter surrounding him had evolved into a gathering spot for the theater crowd, its streets lined with lively cafés that had long hosted intellectuals and political radicals. He knew that Mussolini’s rise to power had been organized nearby, and thankfully most of the buildings survived Il Duce’s architectural cleanup and continued to project a nineteenth-century feel.

He’d become a student of Mussolini, having read a couple of biographies after moving into the Apostolic Palace. Mussolini was an ambitious man who’d dreamed of Italians wearing uniforms and all of Rome’s ancient stone buildings, with their terra-cotta rooftops, replaced with gleaming marble façades and obelisks memorializing his great military victories. But Il Duce ended up with a bullet in his head, then was hung by his ankles for all to see. Nothing remained of his grandiose plan. And Michener was worried that the Church might suffer a similar fate with a Valendrea papacy.

Megalomania was a mental disease compounded by arrogance. Valendrea was a clear sufferer. The secretary of state’s opposition to Vatican II and all the later Church reforms was no secret. A swift Valendrea election could be spun into a mandate for radical reversal. The worst part was that the Tuscan could easily rule for twenty or more years. Which meant he would completely reshape the Sacred College of Cardinals, much as John Paul II had managed during his long reign. But John Paul II had been a benign ruler, a man of vision. Valendrea was a demon, and God help his enemies. Which seemed all the more reason for Michener to disappear into the Carpathian Mountains. God or no God, heaven or no heaven, those children needed him.

He found the apartment building and trudged up the stairs to the third floor. One of the bishops attached to the papal household had offered the two-bedroom, furnished apartment rent-free for a couple of weeks, and he appreciated the gesture. He’d disposed of Clement’s furniture a few days ago. The five boxes of personal belongings and Clement’s wooden chest were stacked in the apartment. Originally he’d planned on leaving Rome by the end of the week. Now he would fly to Bosnia tomorrow on a ticket Ngovi had provided. By next week he would be in Romania, starting a new life.

A part of him resented Clement for what he’d done. History was replete with popes selected simply because they would soon die, and many of them had fooled everyone by lasting a decade or more. Jakob Volkner could have been one of those pontiffs. He was truly making a difference. Yet he ended all hope with a self-induced sleep.

Michener, too, felt like he was asleep. The past couple of weeks, starting with that awful Monday morning, seemed a dream. His life, once resonant with order, now gyrated out of control.

He needed order.

But stopping on the third-floor landing he knew that only more chaos lay ahead. Sitting on the floor, outside his apartment door, was Katerina Lew.

“Why am I not surprised you found me again?” he said. “How did you do it this time?”

“More secrets everybody knows.”

She came to her feet and brushed grit from her pants. She was dressed the same as this morning and still looked lovely.

He opened the apartment door.

“Still going to Romania?” she asked.

He tossed the key on a table. “Plan on following?”

“I might.”

“I wouldn’t book a flight just yet.”

He told her about Medjugorje and what Ngovi had asked him to do, but omitted the details of Clement’s e-mail. He wasn’t looking forward to the trip and told Katerina so.

“The war’s over, Colin,” she said. “It’s been quiet there for years.”

“Thanks to American and NATO troops. It’s not what I would call a vacation destination.”

“Then why go?”

“I owe it to Clement and Ngovi,” he said.

“You don’t think your debts are paid?”

“I know what you’re going to say. But I was considering leaving the priesthood. It doesn’t really matter anymore.”

Her face registered shock. “Why?”

“I’ve had enough. It’s not about God, or a good life, or eternal happiness. It’s about politics, ambition, greed. Every time I think about where I was born, it makes me sick. How could anybody think they were doing something good there? There were better ways to help those mothers, yet nobody even tried. They just shipped us all off.” He shifted on his feet and found himself staring down at the floor. “And those kids in Romania? I think even heaven has forgotten them.”

“I’ve never seen you this way.”

He stepped toward the window. “Odds are Valendrea will soon be pope. There’s going to be a lot of changes. Maybe Tom Kealy had it right after all.”

“Don’t give that ass credit for anything.”

He sensed something in her tone. “All we’ve talked about is me. What have you been doing since Bucharest?”

“Like I said, writing some pieces on the funeral for a Polish magazine. I’ve also been doing background work on the conclave. The magazine hired me to do a feature.”

“Then how can you go to Romania?”

Her expression softened. “I can’t. Wishful thinking. But at least I’ll know where to find you.”

The thought was comforting. He knew that if he never saw this woman again he would be sad. He recalled the last time, all those years ago, when they’d been alone together. It was in Munich, not long before he was to graduate law school and return to Jakob Volkner’s service. She’d looked much the same, her hair a bit longer, her face a moment fresher, her smile equally appealing. Two years he’d spent loving her, knowing the day would come when he would have to choose. Now he realized the mistake he’d made. Something he’d said to her earlier in the square came to mind.
Just don’t make the same mistakes twice. That’s all any of us can hope for.

Damn right.

He stepped across the room and took her into his arms.

She did not resist.

Michener opened his eyes and focused on the clock next to the bed. Ten forty-three
P.M
. Katerina lay beside him. They’d been asleep nearly two hours. He did not feel guilty for what had happened. He loved her, and if God had a problem with that, then so be it. He didn’t really care anymore.

“What are you doing awake?” she said through the dark.

He’d thought her sleeping. “I’m not used to waking up with somebody in my bed.”

She nuzzled her head against his chest. “Could you get used to it?”

“I was just asking myself the same thing.”

“I don’t want to leave this time, Colin.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Who said you had to?”

“I want to go with you to Bosnia?”

“What about your magazine assignment?”

“I lied. I don’t have one. I’m here, in Rome, because of you.”

His answer was never in doubt. “Then maybe a Bosnian holiday would do us both some good.”

He’d gone from the public world of the Apostolic Palace to a realm where only he existed. Clement XV was ensconced within a triple coffin beneath St. Peter’s and he was naked in bed with a woman he loved.

Where it all was going, he could not say.

All he knew was that he finally felt content.