the Third Secret (2005) (23 page)

FORTY-SEVEN

VATICAN CITY, 7:00 A.M.

Breakfast was a somber affair in the dining room of the Domus Sanctae Marthae. Nearly half of the cardinals were enjoying eggs, ham, fruit, and bread in silence. Many opted only for coffee or juice, but Valendrea filled a plate from the buffet line. He wanted to show the assembled men that he was unaffected by what had happened yesterday, his legendary appetite still in place.

He sat with a group of cardinals at a window table. They were a diverse lot, from Australia, Venezuela, Slovakia, Lebanon, and Mexico. Two were strong supporters, but the other three, he believed, were among the eleven who’d yet to choose a side. His gaze caught Ngovi entering the dining room. The African was intent in a lively conversation with two cardinals. Perhaps he, too, was trying to project not the slightest hint of concern.

“Alberto,” one of the cardinals at the table was saying.

He glanced over at the Australian.

“Keep the faith today. I prayed all evening and feel something will occur this morning.”

He maintained a stoic look. “God’s will is what drives us forward. My only hope is that the Holy Spirit is with us today.”

“You are the logical choice,” the Lebanese cardinal said, his voice louder than necessary.

“Yes, he is,” a cardinal at another table said.

He looked up from his eggs and saw it was the Spaniard from last night. The stout little man was out of his chair.

“This Church has languished,” the Spaniard said. “It’s time something be done. I can recall when the pope commanded respect. When governments all the way to Moscow cared what Rome did. Now we are nothing. Our priests are forbidden from political involvement. Our bishops are discouraged from taking a stand. Complacent popes are destroying us.”

Another cardinal stood. He was a bearded man from Cameroon. Valendrea hardly knew him and assumed he was Ngovi’s. “I didn’t consider Clement XV complacent. He was loved throughout the world and did much in his short time.”

The Spaniard held up his hands. “I don’t mean disrespect. This is not personal. It’s about what is best for the Church. Luckily, we have a man among us who carries respect in the world. Cardinal Valendrea would be an exemplary pontiff. Why settle for less?”

Valendrea let his gaze settle on Ngovi. If the camerlengo was offended by the remark, he showed nothing.

This was one of those moments that pundits would later describe. How the Holy Spirit swept down and moved the conclave. Though the Apostolic Constitution banned campaigning prior to convening, there was no such prohibition once locked inside the Sistine. In fact, frank discussion was the entire purpose of the secret gathering. He was impressed with the Spaniard’s tactic. He’d not thought the fool capable of such grandstanding.

“I don’t consider Cardinal Ngovi a settlement for less,” the Cameroon cardinal finally said. “He’s a man of God. A man of this Church. Above reproach. He would be an excellent pontiff.”

“And Valendrea would not?” the French cardinal blurted out, coming to his feet.

Valendrea marveled at the sight, princes of the Church, adorned in robes, openly debating one another. Any other time they would go out of their way to avoid confrontation.

“Valendrea is young. He is what this Church needs. Ceremony and rhetoric do not make a leader. It’s the character of the man that leads the faithful. He’s proven his character. He’s served many popes—”

“My point exactly,” the Cameroon cardinal said. “He’s never served a diocese. How many confessions has he heard? How many funerals has he presided over? How many parishioners has he counseled? These pastoral experiences are what the throne of St. Peter demand.”

The boldness of the Cameroonian was impressive. Valendrea was unaware that such backbone could still be clothed in scarlet. Quite intuitively, this man had invoked the dreaded
pastoral
qualification. He made a note that this cardinal would be someone to watch in the years ahead.

“What does that matter?” the Frenchman asked. “The pope is no pastor. It’s a description scholars like to attach. An excuse we use to vote for one man over the other. It means nothing. The pope is an administrator. He must run this Church, and to do that he must understand the Curia, he must know its workings. Valendrea knows that better than any of us. We’ve had pastoral popes. Give me a leader.”

“Perhaps he knows our workings too well,” the cardinal-archivist said.

Valendrea almost winced. Here was the most senior member of the voting college. His opinion would carry much weight with the eleven stragglers.

“Explain yourself,” the Spaniard demanded.

The archivist stayed seated. “The Curia already controls too much. We all complain about the bureaucracy, yet we do nothing about it. Why? Because it satisfies our needs. It provides a wall between us and whatever it is we don’t want to occur. So easy to blame everything on the Curia. Why would a pope who is ingrained in that institution do anything to threaten it? Yes, there would be changes, all popes tinker, but no one has demolished and rebuilt.” The old man’s eyes locked on Valendrea. “Especially one who is a product of that system. We must ask ourselves, would Valendrea be so bold?” He paused. “I think not.”

Valendrea sipped his coffee. Finally, he tabled the cup and calmly said to the archivist, “Apparently, Eminence, your vote is clear.”

“I want my last vote to count.”

He tipped his head in a casual gesture. “That is your right, Eminence. And I would not presume to interfere.”

Ngovi stepped to the center of the room. “Perhaps there has been enough debate. Why don’t we finish our meal and retire to the chapel. There, we can take this up in more detail.”

No one disagreed.

Valendrea was thrilled with the whole display.

A little show-and-tell could only be a good thing.

FORTY-EIGHT

MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA
9:00 A.M.

Katerina was beginning to worry. An hour had passed since she’d woken to find Michener gone. The storm had passed, but the morning loomed warm and cloudy. She’d first thought he walked downstairs for coffee, but he was not in the dining room when she checked a few minutes ago. She asked the desk clerk, but the woman knew nothing. Thinking he might have wandered to St. James Church, she walked over. But he was nowhere to be found. It was unlike Colin to leave and not say where he was going, and his travel bag, wallet, and passport were still in the room.

She now stood in the busy square outside the church and debated whether to approach one of the soldiers and enlist their assistance. Buses were already arriving, depositing a new batch of pilgrims. The streets were beginning to clog with traffic as shopkeepers prepared storefronts.

Their evening had been delightful, the talk in the restaurant stimulating, what came afterward even more so. She’d already decided to tell Alberto Valendrea nothing. She’d come to Bosnia to be with Michener, not to act as spy. Let Ambrosi and Valendrea think what they might of her. She was simply glad to be here. She didn’t really care about a journalism career any longer. She’d go to Romania and work with the children. Make her parents proud. Make herself proud. For once, do some good.

She’d resented Michener for all those years, but she’d come to realize that fault lay with her, too. Only her shortcomings were worse. Michener loved his God and his Church. She loved only herself. But that was going to change. She’d see to it. During dinner Michener had complained about never once having saved a soul. Maybe he was wrong. Perhaps she was his first.

She crossed the street and checked inside the information office. No one there had seen anyone matching Michener’s description. She wandered down the sidewalk, spying into shops on the off chance he was doing a little investigating, trying to learn where the other seers lived. On impulse, she headed in the direction they’d taken yesterday, past the same parade of white-stuccoed dwellings with red-tiled roofs, back toward Jasna’s residence.

She found the house and knocked on the door.

No one answered.

She retreated to the street. The shutters were drawn. She waited a few moments for any sign from within, but there was nothing. She noticed that Jasna’s car was no longer parked to the side.

She started back toward the hotel.

A woman rushed from the house across the street shouting in Croatian, “It’s so awful. So awful. Jesus help us.”

Her anguish was alarming.

“What’s wrong?” she called out in the best Croatian she could muster.

The older woman stopped. Panic filled her eyes. “It’s Jasna. They found her on the mountain, the cross and her hurt by lightning.”

“Is she all right?”

“I don’t know. They’re going after her now.”

The woman was distraught to the point of hysteria. Tears flowed from her eyes. She kept crossing herself and clutched a rosary, mumbling a Hail Mary between sobs. “Mother of Jesus, save her. Do not let her die. She is blessed.”

“Is it that bad?”

“She was barely breathing when they found her.”

A thought occurred to her. “Was she alone?”

The woman seemed not to hear her question and kept muttering prayers, pleading with God to save Jasna.

“Was she alone?” she asked again.

The woman caught herself and seemed to register the question. “No. There was a man there. Bad off. Like her.”

FORTY-NINE

VATICAN CITY, 9:30 A.M.

Valendrea made his way up the staircase toward the Sistine Chapel believing that the papacy was within his grasp. All that stood in the way was a cardinal from Kenya who was trying to cling to the failed policies of a pope who’d killed himself. If it were up to him, and it just might be before the day was through, Clement’s body would be removed from St. Peter’s and shipped back to Germany. He might actually be able to accomplish that feat since Clement’s own will—the text of which had been published a week ago—had proclaimed a sincere desire to be buried in Bamberg. The gesture could be interpreted as a loving tribute from the Church to its dead pontiff, one that would surely garner a positive reaction, and one that would likewise rid hallowed ground of a weak soul.

He was still enjoying the display from breakfast. All of Ambrosi’s efforts over the past couple of years were beginning to return dividends. The listening devices had been Paolo’s idea. At first, he’d been nervous at the possibility of their discovery, but Ambrosi had been right. He would have to reward Paolo. He regretted not bringing him into the conclave, but Ambrosi had been left outside with express orders to remove the tape recorders and listening devices while the election was ongoing. It was the perfect time to accomplish that task since the Vatican was in hibernation, all eyes and ears on the Sistine.

He came to the top of a narrow marble staircase. Ngovi stood on the stoop, apparently waiting.

“Judgment day, Maurice,” he said, as he reached the last stair.

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

The nearest cardinal was fifty feet away and no one else was climbing the steps behind him. Most were already inside. He’d waited until the last moment to enter. “I won’t miss your riddles. Yours or Clement’s.”

“It is the answers to those riddles that interest me.”

“I wish you the best in Kenya. Enjoy the heat.”

He started to walk away.

“You won’t win,” Ngovi said.

He turned back. He didn’t like the smug look on the African’s face, but couldn’t help asking, “Why?”

Ngovi did not answer. He simply brushed past and entered the chapel.

The cardinals took their assigned places. Ngovi stood before the altar, appearing almost insignificant before the chaotic vision of color that was Michelangelo’s
Last Judgment.

“Before the voting begins, I have something to say.”

All 113 cardinals turned their heads toward Ngovi. Valendrea sucked a deep breath. He could do nothing. The camerlengo was still in charge.

“Some of you seem to think I am the one to succeed our most beloved and departed Holy Father. Though your confidence is flattering, I must decline. If I am chosen, I will not accept. Know that, and govern your vote accordingly.”

Ngovi stepped from the altar and took his place among the cardinals.

Valendrea realized that none of the forty-three men supporting Ngovi would stay with him now. They wanted to be part of a winning team. Since their horse had just bolted from the track, their allegiances would shift. With little chance for a third candidate to emerge at this late time, Valendrea quickly clicked off the math. He needed only to keep his present fifty-nine cardinals and add a fraction of Ngovi’s headless bloc.

And that could easily be done.

He wanted to ask Ngovi why. The gesture made no sense. Though he denied wanting the papacy, somebody had orchestrated the African’s forty-three votes, and he sure as hell didn’t believe the Holy Spirit had much to do with it. This was a battle between men, organized by men, and executed by men. One or more of the men surrounding him was clearly an enemy, albeit a covert one. A good candidate for the ringleader was the cardinal-archivist, who possessed both the stature and the knowledge. He hoped Ngovi’s strength was not a rejection of him. He would need loyalty and enthusiasm in the years ahead, with dissidents being taught a lesson. That would be Ambrosi’s first task. All must understand that there was a price to pay for choosing wrong. But he had to give the African sitting across from him credit.
You won’t win.
No. Ngovi was simply handing him the papacy. But who cared.

A win’s a win.

The voting took an hour. After Ngovi’s surprise announcement, everyone appeared anxious to end the conclave.

Valendrea did not write down the tally, he just mentally added up each repeat of his name. When the seventy-sixth time occurred, he quit listening. Only when the scrutineers pronounced his election with 102 votes did he focus on the altar.

He’d many times wondered what this moment would feel like. Now he alone dictated what a billion Catholics would or would not believe. No longer could any cardinal refuse his command. He would be called
Holy Father,
his every need catered to until the day he died. Cardinals had cried and cowered at this moment. A few had even fled the chapel, screaming their refusal. He realized every eye was about to focus upon him. He was no longer Alberto Cardinal Valendrea, bishop of Florence, secretary of state for the Holy See.

He was pope.

Ngovi approached the altar. Valendrea understood the African was about to perform his final duty as camerlengo. After a moment of prayer, Ngovi walked in silence down the center aisle and stood before him.

“Do you, most reverend Lord Cardinal, accept your election as supreme pontiff, which has been canonically carried out?”

They were words that had been spoken to victors for centuries.

He stared into Ngovi’s piercing eyes and tried to sense what the older man was thinking. Why had he refused to be a candidate, knowing a man he despised would almost certainly be selected pontiff? From everything he knew, this African was a devout Catholic. A man who would do whatever was necessary to protect the Church. He was no coward. Yet he’d walked away from a fight he might have won.

He purged those confusing thoughts from his mind and said in a clear voice, “I accept.” It was the first time in decades that Italian had been used in response to that question.

The cardinals stood and erupted in applause.

The grief for a dead pope was now replaced by the elation for a new pontiff. Outside the chapel doors Valendrea imagined the scene as observers heard the commotion, the first signal that something might have been decided. He watched as one of the scrutineers carried the ballots toward the stove. In a few moments white smoke would fill the morning sky and the piazza would erupt in cheers.

The ovation subsided. One more question was required.

“By what name will you be known?” Ngovi asked in Latin.

The chapel went silent.

The choosing of a name signaled much of what may be coming. John Paul I proclaimed his legacy by selecting the names of his two immediate predecessors, a message that he hoped to emulate the goodness of John and sternness of Paul. John Paul II conveyed a similar message when he chose his predecessor’s dual label. For many years Valendrea had considered what name he would select, debating among the more popular choices—Innocent, Benedict, Gregory, Julius, Sixtus. Jakob Volkner had gravitated to Clement because of his German ancestry. Valendrea, though, wanted his name to send an unambiguous message that the imperial papacy had returned.

“Peter II.”

Gasps pierced the chapel. Ngovi’s expression never broke. Of the 267 pontiffs, there’d been twenty-three Johns, six Pauls, thirteen Leos, twelve named Pius, eight Alexanders, and a variety of other labels.

But only one Peter.

The first pope.

Thou art Peter and on this rock I will build my Church.

His bones lay only meters away, beneath the largest house of worship in Christendom. He was the first saint of the Catholic Church and the most revered. Over two millennia, no man had chosen his name.

He stood from his chair.

The time for pretense was over. All of the rituals had been dutifully performed. His election was certified, he’d formally accepted, and he’d announced his name. He was now Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Prince of the Apostles,
Pontifex Maximus
charged with primacy of jurisdiction over the Universal Church, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Primate of Italy, Patriarch of the West.

Servant of the Servants of God.

He faced the cardinals and made sure no one misunderstood. “I choose to be known as Peter II,” he said in Italian.

No one said a word.

Then one of the three cardinals from last night started to clap. A few others slowly joined in. Soon the chapel reverberated with thunderous applause. Valendrea savored the absolute joy of victory that no man could take away. Yet his ecstacy was tempered by two things.

A smile that slowly crept onto Maurice Ngovi’s lips, and the camerlengo’s joining in the applause.