the Third Secret (2005) (3 page)

THREE

11:00 A.M.

Michener entered the tribunal chamber. The gathering hall was a lofty expanse of white and gray marble, enriched by a geometric pattern of colorful mosaics that had borne witness to four hundred years of Church history.

Two plain-clothed Swiss guards manned the bronze doors and bowed as they recognized the papal secretary. Michener had purposely waited an hour before walking over. He knew his presence would be cause for discussion—rarely did someone so close to the pope attend the proceedings.

At Clement’s insistence, Michener had read all three of Kealy’s books and privately briefed the pontiff on their provocative content. Clement himself had not read them since that act would have generated too much speculation. Yet the pope had been intently interested in what Father Kealy had written and, as Michener slipped into a seat at the back of the chamber, he saw, for the first time, Thomas Kealy.

The accused sat alone at a table. Kealy appeared to be in his midthirties, with bushy auburn hair and a pleasant, youthful face. The grin that flashed periodically seemed calculated—the look and manner almost intentionally whimsical. Michener had read all of the background reports the tribunal had generated, and each one painted Kealy as smug and nonconformist.
Clearly an opportunist,
one of the investigators had written. Nonetheless, he could not help but think that Kealy’s arguments were, in many ways, persuasive.

Kealy was being questioned by Alberto Cardinal Valendrea, the Vatican secretary of state, and Michener did not envy the man’s position. Kealy had drawn a tough panel. All of the cardinals and bishops were what Michener regarded as intensely conservative. None embraced the teachings of Vatican II, and not one was a supporter of Clement XV. Valendrea particularly was noted for a radical adherence to dogma. The tribunal members were each garbed in full vestments, the cardinals in scarlet silk, the bishops in black wool, perched behind a curved marble table beneath one of Raphael’s paintings.

“There is no one so far removed from God as a heretic,” Cardinal Valendrea said. His deep voice echoed without need of amplification.

“It seems to me, Eminence,” Kealy said, “the less open a heretic is, the more dangerous he would become. I don’t hide my disagreements. Instead, open debate is, I believe, healthy for the Church.”

Valendrea held up three books and Michener recognized the front covers of Kealy’s works. “These are heresy. There is no other way to view them.”

“Because I advocate priests should marry? That women could be priests? That a priest can love a wife, a child, and his God like others of faith? That perhaps the pope is not infallible? He’s human, capable of error. That’s heresy?”

“I don’t think one person on this tribunal would say otherwise.”

And none of them did.

Michener watched Valendrea as the Italian shifted in his chair. The cardinal was short and stumpy like a fire hydrant. A tangled fringe of white hair looped across his brow, drawing attention to itself simply by the contrast with his olive skin. At sixty, Valendrea enjoyed a luxury of relative youth within a Curia dominated by much older men. He also possessed none of the solemnity that outsiders associated with a prince of the Church. He smoked nearly two packs of cigarettes a day, owned a wine cellar that was the envy of many, and regularly moved within the right European social circles. His family was blessed with money, much of which was bestowed on him as the senior male in the paternal line.

The press had long labeled Valendrea
papabile,
a title that meant him eligible by age, rank, and influence for the papacy. Michener had heard rumors of how the secretary of state was positioning himself for the next conclave, bargaining with fence straddlers, strong-arming potential opposition. Clement had been forced to appoint him secretary of state, the most powerful office below pope, because a sizable bloc of cardinals had urged that Valendrea be given the job and Clement was astute enough to placate those who’d placed him in power. Plus, as the pope explained at the time,
let your friends stay near and your enemies nearer.

Valendrea rested his arms on the table. No papers were spread before him. He was known as a man who rarely needed reference material. “Father Kealy, there are many within the Church who feel the experiment of Vatican II cannot be judged a success, and you are a shining example of our failure. Clerics do not have freedom of expression. There are too many opinions in this world to allow discourse. This Church must speak with one voice, that being the Holy Father’s.”

“And there are many today who feel celibacy and papal infallibility are flawed doctrine. Something from a time when the world was illiterate and the Church corrupt.”

“I differ with your conclusions. But even if those prelates exist, they keep their opinions to themselves.”

“Fear has a way of silencing tongues, Eminence.”

“There is nothing to fear.”

“From this chair, I beg to differ.”

“The Church does not punish its clerics for thoughts, Father, only actions. Such as yours. Your organization is an insult to the Church you serve.”

“If I had no regard for the Church, Eminence, then I would have simply quit and said nothing. Instead, I love my Church enough to challenge its policies.”

“Did you think the Church would do nothing while you breached your vows, carried on with a woman openly, and absolved yourself of sin?” Valendrea held the books up again. “Then wrote about it? You literally invited this challenge.”

“Do you honestly believe that all priests are celibate?” Kealy asked.

The question caught Michener’s attention. He noticed the reporters perk up as well.

“It matters not what I believe,” Valendrea said. “That issue is with the individual cleric. Each one took an oath to his Lord and his Church. I expect that oath to be honored. Anyone who fails in this should leave or be forced out.”

“Have you kept your oath, Eminence?”

Michener was startled by Kealy’s boldness. Perhaps he already realized his fate, so what did it matter.

Valendrea shook his head. “Do you find a personal challenge to me beneficial to your defense?”

“It’s a simple question.”

“Yes, Father. I have kept my oath.”

Kealy seemed unfazed. “What other answer would you offer?”

“Are you saying that I am a liar?”

“No, Eminence. Only that no priest, cardinal, or bishop would dare admit what he feels in his heart. We are each bound to say what the Church requires us to say. I have no idea what you truly feel, and that is sad.”

“What I feel is irrelevant to your heresy.”

“It seems, Eminence, that you have already judged me.”

“No more so than your God. Who
is
infallible. Or perhaps you take issue with that doctrine as well?”

“When did God decree that priests cannot know the love of a companion?”

“Companion? Why not simply a woman?”

“Because love knows no bounds, Eminence.”

“So you are advocating homosexuality, too?”

“I advocate only that each individual must follow his heart.”

Valendrea shook his head. “Have you forgotten, Father, that your ordination was a union with Christ? The truth of your identity—which is the same for everyone on this tribunal—comes from a full participation in that union. You are to be a living, transparent image of Christ.”

“But how are we to know what that image is? None of us was around when Christ lived.”

“It is as the Church says.”

“But is that not merely man molding the divine to suit his need?”

Valendrea’s lifted his right eyebrow in apparent disbelief. “Your arrogance is amazing. Do you argue that Christ Himself was not celibate? That He did not place His Church above everything? That He was not in union with His Church?”

“I have no earthly idea what Christ’s sexual preference was, and neither do you.”

Valendrea hesitated a moment, then said, “Your celibacy, Father, is a gift of yourself. An expression of your devoted service. That is Church doctrine. One you seem unable, or unwilling, to understand.”

Kealy responded, quoting more dogma, and Michener let his attention drift from their debate. He’d avoided looking, telling himself that it was not the reason he’d come, but his gaze quickly raked the hundred or so present, finally settling on a woman seated two rows behind Kealy.

Her hair was the color of midnight and possessed a noticeable depth and shine. He recalled how the strands once formed a thick mane and smelled of fresh lemon. Now they were short, layered, and finger-combed. He could only glimpse an angled profile, but the dainty nose and thin lips were still there. The skin remained the tint of heavily creamed coffee, evidence of a Romanian Gypsy mother and a Hungarian German father. Her name, Katerina Lew, meant “pure lion,” a description he’d always thought appropriate given her volatile temper and fanatical convictions.

They’d met in Munich. He was thirty-three, finishing his law degree. She was twenty-five, deciding between journalism and a career writing novels. She’d known he was a priest, and they spent nearly two years together before the showdown came.
Your God or me,
she declared.

He chose God.

“Father Kealy,” Valendrea was saying, “the nature of our faith is that nothing can be added or taken away. You must embrace the teachings of the mother Church in their entirety, or reject them totally. There is no such thing as a partial Catholic. Our principles, as expounded by the Holy Father, are not impious and cannot be diluted. They are as pure as God.”

“I believe those are the words of Pope Benedict XV,” Kealy said.

“You are well versed. Which increases my sadness at your heresy. A man as intelligent as you appear to be should understand that this Church cannot, and will not tolerate open dissent. Especially of the degree you have offered.”

“What you’re saying is that the Church is afraid of debate.”

“I am saying that the Church sets rules. If you don’t like the rules, then muster enough votes to elect a pope who will change them. Short of that, you must do as told.”

“Oh, I forgot. The Holy Father is infallible. Whatever is said by him concerning the faith is, without question, correct. Am I now stating correct dogma?”

Michener noticed that none of the other men on the tribunal had even attempted to utter a word. Apparently the secretary of state was the inquisitor for the day. He knew that all of the panelists were Valendrea loyalists, and little chance existed that any of them would challenge their benefactor. But Thomas Kealy was making it easy, doing more damage to himself than any of their questions might ever inflict.

“That is correct,” Valendrea said. “Papal infallibility is essential to the Church.”

“Another doctrine created by man.”

“Another dogma
this
Church adheres to.”

“I’m a priest who loves his God and his Church,” Kealy said. “I don’t see why disagreeing with either would subject me to excommunication. Debate and discussion do nothing but foster wise policies. Why does the Church fear that?”

“Father, this hearing is not about freedom of speech. We have no American constitution that guarantees such a right. This hearing is about your brazen relationship with a woman, your public forgiveness of both your sins, and your open dissension. All of which is in direct contradiction to the rules of the Church you joined.”

Michener’s gaze drifted back to Kate. It was the name he’d given her as a way of imposing some of his Irish heritage on her Eastern European personality. She sat straight, a notebook in her lap, her full attention on the unfolding debate.

He thought of their final Bavarian summer together when he took three weeks off between semesters. They’d traveled to an Alpine village and stayed at an inn surrounded by snowcapped summits. He knew it was wrong, but by then she’d touched a part of him he thought did not exist. What Cardinal Valendrea had just said about Christ and a priest’s union with the Church was indeed the basis of clerical celibacy. A priest should devote himself solely to God and the Church. But ever since that summer he’d wondered why he couldn’t love a woman, his Church, and God simultaneously. What had Kealy said?
Like others of faith.

He sensed the stare of eyes. As his mind refocused, he realized Katerina had turned her head and was now looking directly at him.

The face still carried the toughness he’d found so attractive. The slight hint of Asian eyes remained, the mouth tugged down, the jaw gentle and feminine. There were simply no sharp edges anywhere. Those, he knew, hid in her personality. He examined her expression and tried to gauge its temperature. Not anger. Not resentment. Not affection. A look that seemed to say nothing. Not even hello. He found it uncomfortable to be this close to a memory. Perhaps she’d expected his appearance and didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking she cared. After all, their parting all those years ago had not been amicable.

She turned back to the tribunal and his anxiety subsided.

“Father Kealy,” Valendrea said, “I ask you simply. Do you renounce your heresy? Do you recognize that what you have done is against the laws of this Church and your God?”

The priest pulled himself close to the table. “I do not believe that loving a woman is contrary to the laws of God. So the forgiving of that sin was therefore inconsequential. I have a right to speak my mind, so I make no apologies for the movement that I head. I have done nothing wrong, Eminence.”

“You are a foolish man, Father. I have given you every opportunity to beg forgiveness. The Church can, and should, be forgiving. But contrition works in both directions. The penitent must be willing.”

“I do not seek your forgiveness.”

Valendrea shook his head. “My heart aches for you and your followers, Father. Clearly, all of you are with the devil.”

FOUR

1:05 P.M.

Alberto Cardinal Valendrea stood silent, hoping the euphoria from earlier at the tribunal would temper his rising irritation. Amazing how quickly a bad experience could utterly ruin a good one.

“What do you think, Alberto?” Clement XV said. “Is there time for me to view the crowd?” The pope motioned to the alcove and the open window.

It galled Valendrea that the pope would waste time standing before an open window and waving to people in St. Peter’s Square. Vatican Security had cautioned against the gesture, but the silly old man ignored the warnings. The press wrote about it all the time, comparing the German to John XXIII. And, in truth, there were similarities. Both ascended the papal throne near the age of eighty. Both were deemed caretaker popes. Both surprised everyone.

Valendrea hated the way Vatican observers also analogized the pope’s open window with
his animated spirit, his unassuming openness, his charismatic warmth.
The papacy was not about popularity. It was about consistency, and he resented how easily Clement had dispensed with so many time-honored customs. No longer did aides genuflect in the pope’s presence. Few kissed the papal ring. And rarely did Clement speak in the first person plural, as popes had done for centuries.
This is the twenty-first century,
Clement liked to say, while decreeing an end to another long-standing custom.

Valendrea remembered, not all that long ago, when popes would never stand in an open window. Security concerns aside, limited exposure bred an aura, it encouraged an air of mystery, and nothing promulgated faith and obedience more than a sense of wonder.

He’d served popes for nearly four decades, rising in the Curia quickly, earning his cardinal’s hat before fifty, one of the youngest in modern times. He now held the second most powerful position in the Catholic Church—the secretary of state—a job that interjected him into every aspect of the Holy See. But he wanted more. He wanted the most powerful position. The one where no one challenged his decisions. Where he spoke infallibly and without question.

He wanted to be pope.

“It is such a lovely day,” the pope was saying. “The rain seems gone. The air is like back home, in the German mountains. An Alpine freshness. Such a shame to be inside.”

Clement stepped into the alcove, but not far enough for him to be seen from outside. The pope wore a white linen cassock, caped across the shoulders, with the traditional white vest. Scarlet shoes encased his feet and a white skullcap topped his balding head. He was the only prelate among one billion Catholics allowed to dress in that manner.

“Perhaps His Holiness could engage in that rather delightful activity after we have completed the briefing. I have other appointments, and the tribunal took up the entire morning.”

“It would only take a few moments,” Clement said.

He knew the German enjoyed taunting him. From beyond the open window came the hum of Rome, that unique sound of three million souls and their machines moving across porous volcanic ash.

Clement seemed to notice the rumble, too. “It has a strange sound, this city.”

“It is
our
sound.”

“Ah, I almost forgot. You are Italian, and all of us are not.”

Valendrea was standing beside a poster bed fashioned of heavy oak, the knicks and scrapes so numerous they seemed a part of its craftsmanship. A worn crocheted blanket draped one end, two oversized pillows the other. The remaining furniture was also German—the armoire, dresser, and tables all painted gaily in a Bavarian style. There hadn’t been a German pope since the middle of the eleventh century. Clement II had been a source of inspiration for the current Clement XV—a fact that the pontiff made no secret about. But that earlier Clement was most likely poisoned to death. A lesson, Valendrea many times thought, this German should not forget.

“Perhaps you are right,” Clement said. “Visiting can wait. We do have business, now don’t we?”

A breeze eased past the sill and rustled papers on the desk. Valendrea reached down and halted their rise before they reached the computer terminal. Clement had not, as yet, switched on the machine. He was the first pope to be fully computer literate—another point the press loved—but Valendrea had not minded that change. Computer and fax lines were far easier to monitor than telephones.

“I am told you were quite spirited this morning,” Clement said. “What will be the outcome of the tribunal?”

He assumed Michener had reported back. He’d seen the papal secretary in the audience. “I was unaware that His Holiness was so interested in the subject matter of the tribunal.”

“Hard to not to be curious. The square below is littered with television vans. So, please, answer my question.”

“Father Kealy presented us with few options. He will be excommunicated.”

The pope clasped his hands behind his back. “He offered no apology?”

“He was arrogant to the point of insult, and dared us to challenge him.”

“Perhaps we should.”

The suggestion caught Valendrea off guard, but decades of diplomatic service had taught him how to conceal surprise with questions. “And the purpose of such an unorthodox action?”

“Why does everything need a purpose? Perhaps we should simply listen to an opposing point of view.”

He kept his body still. “There is no way you could openly debate the question of celibacy. That has been doctrine for five hundred years. What’s next? Women in the priesthood? Marriage for clerics? An approval of birth control? Will there be a complete reversal of all dogma?”

Clement stepped toward the bed and stared up at a medieval rendition of Clement II hanging on the wall. Valendrea knew that it had been brought from one of the cavernous cellars, where it had rested for centuries. “He was bishop of Bamberg. A simple man who possessed no desire to be pope.”

“He was the king’s confidant,” Valendrea said. “Politically connected. In the right place at the right time.”

Clement turned to face him. “Like myself, I presume?”

“Your election was by an overwhelming majority of cardinals, each one inspired by the Holy Spirit.”

Clement’s mouth formed an irritating smile. “Or perhaps it was affected by the fact that none of the other candidates, yourself included, could amass enough votes for election?”

They were apparently going to start feuding early today.

“You are an ambitious man, Alberto. You think wearing this white cassock will somehow make you happy. I can assure you, it won’t.”

They’d had similar conversations before, but the intensity of their exchanges had risen of late. Both knew how the other felt. They were not friends, and never would be. Valendrea found it amusing how people thought just because he was a cardinal and Clement pope, theirs would be a sacred relationship of two pious souls, placing the needs of the Church first. Instead, they were vastly different men, their union born purely of conflicting politics. To their credit, neither had ever openly feuded with the other. Valendrea was smarter than that—the pope was required to argue with no one—and Clement apparently realized that a great many cardinals supported his secretary of state. “I wish nothing, Holy Father, except for you to live a long and prosperous life.”

“You don’t lie well.”

He was tiring of the old man’s prodding. “Why does it matter? You won’t be here when the conclave occurs. Don’t concern yourself with the prospects.”

Clement shrugged. “It matters not. I’ll be enshrined beneath St. Peter’s, with the rest of the men who have occupied this chair. I couldn’t care less about my successor. But that man? Yes, that man should care greatly.”

What was it the old prelate knew? It seemed a habit lately to drop odd hints. “Is there something that displeases the Holy Father?”

Clement’s eyes flashed hot. “You are an opportunist, Alberto. A scheming politico. I might just disappoint you and live another ten years.”

He decided to drop the pretense. “I doubt it.”

“I actually hope you do inherit this job. You’ll find it far different than you might imagine. Maybe you should be the one.”

Now he wanted to know, “The one for what?”

For a few moments the pope went silent. Then he said, “The one to be pope, of course. What else?”

“What is it that bites your soul?”

“We are fools, Alberto. All of us, in our majesty, are nothing but fools. God is far wiser than any of us could even begin to imagine.”

“I don’t think any believer would question that.”

“We expound our dogma and, in the process, ruin the lives of men like Father Kealy. He’s just a priest trying to follow his conscience.”

“He seemed more like an opportunist—to use your description. A man who enjoys the spotlight. Surely, though, he understood Church policy when he took his oath to abide by our teachings.”

“But whose teachings? It is men like you and me pronouncing the so-called Word of God. It’s men like you and me, punishing other men for violating those teachings. I often wonder, is our precious dogma the thoughts of the Almighty or just those of ordinary clerics?”

Valendrea considered this inquiry just more of the strange behavior this pope had shown as of late. He debated whether to probe, but decided he was being tested, so he answered in the only way he could. “I consider the Word of God and the dogma of this Church one and the same.”

“Good answer. Textbook in its diction and syntax. Unfortunately, Alberto, that belief will eventually be your undoing.”

And the pope turned and stepped toward the window.