the Third Secret (2005) (33 page)

Katerina watched Michener enter St. Gangolf’s. What was he doing there? This was stupid. Ambrosi was still behind her, yet Colin had deliberately come straight to the church. He must know she was following, and that her assailant would, too.

She glanced at the buildings around her. Few lights burned in the windows and the street ahead was empty. She raced to the church doors, yanked them open, and bolted inside. Her breaths were coming fast.

“Colin.”

No answer.

She called his name again. Still no answer.

She trotted down the center aisle toward the altar, passing empty pews that sliced thin shadows in the blackness. Only a handful of lamps illuminated the nave. The church was apparently not a part of this year’s celebration.

“Colin.”

Desperation now laced her voice. Where was he? Why wouldn’t he answer? Had he left through another door? Was she trapped here alone?

The doors behind her opened.

She dove into a row of pews and clawed the floor, trying to slip across the gritty stone to the far side.

Footsteps stopped her advance.

Michener saw a man enter the church. A shaft of light revealed the face of Paolo Ambrosi. A few moments earlier, Katerina had entered and called out his name, but he’d intentionally not answered. She was now huddled on the floor between the pews.

“You move fast, Ambrosi,” he called out.

His voice bounced off the walls, the echo making it difficult to pinpoint his location. He watched as Ambrosi moved right, toward the confessionals, his head sweeping back and forth so his ears could judge the sound. He hoped Katerina did not betray her presence.

“Why make this hard, Michener?” Ambrosi said. “You know what I want.”

“You told me earlier things would be different if I read the words. For once you were right.”

“You never could obey.”

“How about Father Tibor? Did he obey?”

Ambrosi was approaching the altar. The priest moved with cautious steps, still searching the darkness for Michener’s location.

“I never spoke with Tibor,” Ambrosi said.

“Sure you did.”

Michener stared down from the raised pulpit, eight feet above Ambrosi.

“Just come on out, Michener. Let’s resolve this.”

As Ambrosi turned, his back momentarily to him, Michener leaped down. Together they pounded the floor and rolled.

Ambrosi pushed himself away and sprang to his feet.

Michener started to rise, too.

Movement to his right caught his attention. He saw Katerina rushing toward them, a gun in hand. Ambrosi pivoted off a row of pews and vaulted toward her, thrusting his feet into her chest, sending her to the floor. Michener heard a thud as skull found stone. Ambrosi disappeared over the pews and came back into view with the gun in his grip, yanking a limp Katerina to her feet and ramming the gun barrel into her neck. “Okay, Michener. Enough.”

He stood still.

“Give me Tibor’s translation.”

Michener took a few steps toward them and withdrew the envelope from his pocket. “This what you want?”

“Drop it on the floor and back away.” The hammer on the gun clicked into place. “Don’t push me, Michener. I possess the courage to do what needs to be done because the Lord gives me the strength.”

“Perhaps He’s testing to see what you will do?”

“Shut up. I don’t need a theology lesson.”

“I might be the best person on earth for that at the moment.”

“Is it the words?” The tone was quizzical, like a schoolboy inquiring of his teacher. “They give you courage?”

He sensed something. “What is it, Ambrosi? Valendrea didn’t tell you everything? Too bad. He held back the best part.”

Ambrosi tightened his grip on Katerina. “Just drop the envelope and back away.”

The desperate look in Ambrosi’s eyes signaled that he might well make good on the threat. So he tossed the envelope to the floor.

Ambrosi released his hold on Katerina and shoved her toward Michener. He caught her and saw she was dazed from the head blow.

“You okay?” he asked.

Her eyes were glassy, but she nodded.

Ambrosi was examining the envelope’s contents.

“How do you know that’s what Valendrea wants?” he asked.

“I don’t. But my instructions were clear. Get what I can and eliminate the witnesses.”

“What if I made a copy?”

Ambrosi shrugged. “A chance we take. But, fortunately for us, you will not be here to offer any testimony.” The gun came level, pointed straight at them. “This is the part I will truly enjoy.”

A form emerged from the shadows and slowly inched close to Ambrosi from behind. Not a sound came from the approaching steps. The man was clad in black trousers and a loose-fitting black jacket. The outline of a gun appeared in one hand, and it was slowly raised to Ambrosi’s right temple.

“I assure you, Father,” Cardinal Ngovi said. “I, too, will enjoy this part.”

“What are you doing here?” Ambrosi asked, surprise in his voice.

“I came to speak with you. So lower the weapon and answer some questions. Then you’re free to go.”

“You want Valendrea, don’t you?”

“Why else do you think you’re still breathing.”

Michener held his breath as Ambrosi weighed his options. When he’d telephoned Ngovi earlier, he was banking on Ambrosi’s survival instincts. He assumed that though Ambrosi might profess great loyalty, when it came to a choice between himself or his pope, there really was no choice at all. “It’s over, Ambrosi.” He pointed to the envelope. “I read it. Cardinal Ngovi read it. Too many know now. You can’t win this one.”

“And what was worth all this?” Ambrosi asked, the tone signaling that he was considering their proposal.

“Lower the gun and find out.”

Another long moment of silence passed. Finally, Ambrosi’s hand came down. Ngovi grabbed the weapon and stood back, his gun still trained on the priest.

Ambrosi faced Michener. “You were bait? The idea was to get me to follow?”

“Something like that.”

Ngovi stepped forward. “We have some questions. Cooperate and there will be no police, no arrest. Just disappear. A good deal, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“Father Tibor’s murder.”

Ambrosi chuckled. “That’s a bluff and you know it. This is about you two bringing down Peter II.”

Michener stood. “No. It’s about you bringing Valendrea down. Which shouldn’t matter at all. He’d do the same to you if the roles were reversed.”

Without question the man standing before him had been involved in Father Tibor’s death, most likely the actual murderer. But Ambrosi was surely smart enough to realize that the game had changed.

“Okay,” Ambrosi said. “Ask away.”

The cardinal reached into his jacket pocket.

A tape recorder came into view.

Michener helped Katerina into the Königshof. Irma Rahn met them at the front door.

“Did it go all right?” the older woman asked Michener. “I’ve been frantic for the last hour.”

“It went well.”

“Praise God. I was so worried.”

Katerina was still woozy, but feeling better.

“I’m going to take her upstairs,” he said.

He helped her to the second floor. Once inside the room she immediately asked, “What in God’s name was Ngovi doing there?”

“I called this afternoon and told him what I’d learned. He flew to Munich and arrived here right before I headed to the cathedral. It was my job to lure Ambrosi to St. Gangolf’s. We needed a place away from the festivities. Irma told me the church wasn’t displaying a crib scene this year. I had Ngovi talk with the parish priest. He doesn’t know anything, only that Vatican officials needed his church for a little while.” He knew what she was thinking. “Look, Kate, Ambrosi wouldn’t hurt anyone until he had Tibor’s translation. He could never be sure of anything until then. We had to play it out.”

“So I was bait?”

“You and me. Defying him was the only way to make sure he’d turn on Valendrea.”

“Ngovi’s a tough one.”

“He was raised a street kid in Nairobi. He knows how to handle himself.”

They’d spent the past half hour with Ambrosi, recording what would be needed tomorrow. She’d listened and now knew everything, except the entire third secret of Fatima. He removed an envelope from his pocket. “Here’s what Father Tibor sent to Clement. It’s the copy I offered Ambrosi. Ngovi has the original.”

She read the words, then commented, “That’s similar to what Jasna wrote. You were just going to give Ambrosi the Medjugorje message?”

He shook his head. “Those are not Jasna’s words. Those are the Virgin’s, from Fatima, written by Lucia dos Santos in 1944, and translated by Father Tibor in 1960.”

“You can’t be serious. Do you realize what that would mean if the two messages were essentially the same?”

“I’ve realized that since this afternoon.” His voice was low and calm and he waited while she considered the implications. They’d talked many times about her lack of her faith. But he’d never been one to judge, considering his own lapses.
After which in the seven hilled city the dreadful judge will judge all people.
Maybe Katerina was the first of many to judge themselves.

“The Lord seems to have made a comeback,” he said.

“It’s unbelievable. Yet what else could it be? How could those messages be the same?”

“It’s impossible, considering what you and I know. But doubters will say we fashioned Father Tibor’s translation to match Jasna’s message. They’ll say it’s all a fraud. The originals are gone and the drafters are all dead. We’re the only ones who know the truth.”

“So it’s still a matter of faith. You and I know what happened. But everybody else would have to simply take our word.” She shook her head. “Seems God is destined to always be a mystery.”

He’d already considered the possibilities. The Virgin told him in Bosnia that he was to be
a sign to the world. A beacon for repentance. The messenger to announce that God is very much alive.
But something else the Virgin said was equally important.
Do not forsake your faith, for in the end it will be all that remains.

“There is a consolation,” he said. “I berated myself badly years ago for violating Holy Orders. I loved you, but believed that what I felt, what I did, was a sin. I know now that it wasn’t. Not in God’s eyes.”

He heard John XXIII’s urging to the Vatican II council again in his mind. His pleading with traditionalists and progressives to work in unison so
the earthly city may be brought to the resemblance of that heavenly city where truth reigns.
Only now did he fully understand what that pope meant.

“Clement tried to do what he could,” she said. “I’m so sorry for the way I thought of him.”

“I think he understands.”

She threw him a smile. “What now?”

“Back to Rome. Ngovi and I have a meeting tomorrow.”

“Then what?”

He knew what she meant. “To Romania. Those kids are waiting on us.”

“I thought maybe you were having second thoughts.”

He pointed skyward. “I think we owe it to Him. Don’t you?”

SIXTY-NINE

VATICAN CITY
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 2
11:00 A.M.

Michener and Ngovi walked down the loggia toward the papal library. Bright sunshine swept in through towering windows on both sides of the wide corridor. They were dressed in clerical robes, Ngovi in scarlet, Michener in black.

The papal office had been contacted earlier, and Ambrosi’s assistant had been enlisted to speak directly with Valendrea. Ngovi wanted a papal audience. No subject matter was provided, but Michener was banking on the fact that Valendrea would understand the significance that he and Ngovi needed to talk with him, and Paolo Ambrosi was nowhere to be found. The tactic apparently worked. The pope himself granted permission for them to enter the palace, allocating fifteen minutes for the audience.

“Can you accomplish your business in that time?” Ambrosi’s assistant had asked.

“I believe so,” Ngovi answered.

Valendrea had kept them waiting nearly half an hour. Now they approached the library and entered, closing the doors behind them. Valendrea stood before leaded-glass windows, his stout form, dressed in white, flooded in sunshine.

“I have to say, my curiosity was piqued when you requested an audience. You two would be the last people I’d expect to be here on a Saturday morning. I thought you, Maurice, were in Africa. And you, Michener, in Germany.”

“Half right,” Ngovi said. “We were both in Germany.”

A curious expression came to Valendrea’s face.

Michener decided to get to the point. “You won’t be hearing from Ambrosi.”

“What do you mean?”

Ngovi removed the recorder from his cassock and flipped on the machine. Ambrosi’s voice filled the library as he explained about Father Tibor’s murder, the listening devices, the files on cardinals, and the blackmail used to secure conclave votes. Valendrea listened impassively as his sins were revealed. Ngovi switched off the machine. “Clear enough?”

The pope said nothing.

“We have the complete third secret of Fatima and the tenth secret of Medjugorje,” Michener said.

“I was under the impression I possessed the Medjugorje secret.”

“A copy. I know now why you reacted so strongly when you read Jasna’s message.”

Valendrea seemed jittery. For once, this obstinate man was not in control.

Michener stepped closer. “You needed to suppress those words.”

“Even your Clement tried,” Valendrea said in defiance.

Michener shook his head. “He knew what you’d do and had the foresight to get Tibor’s translation away from here. He did more than anybody. He gave his life. He’s better than any of us. He believed in the Lord . . . without proof.” His pulse pounded with excitement. “Did you know Bamberg was called
the seven hilled city
? Remember Malachy’s prediction?
After which in the seven hilled city the dreadful judge will judge all people.
” He pointed to the tape. “For you, truth is the dreadful judge.”

“That tape is merely the ramblings of a man caught,” Valendrea said. “It’s not proof of anything.”

Michener wasn’t impressed. “Ambrosi told us about your trip to Romania, and supplied more than enough details to mount a prosecution and obtain a conviction, especially in a former communist-bloc nation where the burden of proof is, shall we say, loose.”

“You’re bluffing.”

Ngovi removed another microcassette from his pocket. “We showed him the Fatima message and the one from Medjugorje. We did not have to explain their significance. Even an amoral man like Ambrosi saw the majesty of what awaits him. After that, his answers came freely. He begged me to hear his confession.” He motioned with the cassette. “But not before he spoke for the record.”

“He makes a good witness,” Michener said. “You see, there actually is an authority higher than you.”

Valendrea paced across the room, toward the bookshelves, looking like an animal examining his cage. “Popes have been ignoring God for a long time. The La Salette message has been missing from the archives for a century. I’d wager the Virgin told those seers the same thing.”

“Those men,” Ngovi said, “can be forgiven. They considered the messages the seer’s, not the Virgin’s. They rationalized their defiance with caution. They lacked the proof you possessed. You knew the words to be divine and still would have killed Michener and Katerina Lew to suppress them.”

Valendrea’s eyes flashed hot. “You sanctimonious ass. What was I to do? Let the Church crumble? Don’t you realize what this revelation will do? Two thousand years of dogma has been rendered false.”

“It is not for us to manipulate the Church’s fate,” Ngovi said. “God’s Word is His alone, and apparently His patience has run out.”

Valendrea shook his head. “It is for us to preserve the Church. What Catholic on this earth would listen to Rome if he knew we lied? And we’re not talking about minor points. Celibacy? Women priests? Abortion? Homosexuality? Even the essence of papal infallibility.”

Ngovi seemed unaffected by the plea. “I’m more concerned how I would explain to my Lord why I ignored His command.”

Michener faced Valendrea. “When you went back into the Riserva in 1978, there was no tenth Medjugorje secret. Yet you removed part of the message. How did you know Sister Lucia’s words were genuine?”

“I saw fear in Paul’s eyes when he read them. If
that
man was scared, then there was something to it. That Friday night, in the Riserva, when Clement told me of Tibor’s latest translation, then showed part of the original message to me, it was as if a devil had returned.”

“In a sense, that’s exactly what happened,” Michener said.

Valendrea stared at him.

“If God exists, then so does the devil.”

“So which one caused the death of Father Tibor?” Valendrea asked, defiance in his voice. “Was it the Lord, so that the truth would be revealed? Or the devil, so that the truth would be revealed? Both would have been motivated toward the same goal, would they not?”

“That’s why you killed Father Tibor? To prevent that?” Michener asked.

“In every religious movement there have been martyrs.” Not a speck of remorse laced the words.

Ngovi stepped forward. “That’s true. And we intend one more.”

“I already assumed what you had in mind. You’re going to have me prosecuted?”

“Not at all,” Ngovi said.

Michener offered Valendrea a small caramel-colored vial. “We expect you to join that list of martyrs.”

Valendrea’s brow creased in amazement.

Michener said, “This is the same sleeping medication Clement took. More than enough to kill. If in the morning your body is found, then you’ll have a papal funeral and be entombed in St. Peter’s with all ceremony. Your reign will be short, but you will be remembered in much the same way as John Paul I. On the other hand, if tomorrow you’re alive, the Sacred College will be informed of everything we know. Your memory then will be of the first pope in history to stand trial.”

Valendrea did not accept the vial. “You want me to kill myself?”

Michener never blinked. “You can die as a glorious pope, or be disgraced as a criminal. Personally, I prefer the latter, so I’m hoping you don’t have the guts to do what Clement did.”

“I can fight you.”

“You’ll lose. With what we know, I’d wager there are many in the Sacred College simply waiting for the opportunity to take you down. The evidence is irrefutable. Your co-conspirator will be your chief accuser. There’s no way you can win.”

Valendrea still would not take the vial. So Michener poured its contents out on the desk, then glared at him. “The choice is yours. If you love your Church as much as you profess, then sacrifice your life so it may live. You were quick to end Father Tibor’s life. Let’s see if you’re as liberal with your own. The dreadful judge has judged and the sentence is death.”

“You’re asking me to do the unthinkable,” Valendrea said.

“I’m asking you to save this institution the humiliation of forcibly removing you.”

“I am pope. No one can remove me.”

“Except the Lord. And in a manner of speaking, that’s exactly who’s doing this.”

Valendrea turned to Ngovi. “You’ll be the next pope, won’t you?”

“Almost certainly.”

“You could have won election in conclave, couldn’t you?”

“There was a reasonable chance.”

“So why drop out?”

“Because Clement told me to.”

Valendrea looked perplexed. “When?”

“A week before he died. He told me you and I would eventually be locked in that battle. But he said that you should win.”

“Why on earth would you have listened to him?”

Ngovi’s face hardened. “He was my pope.”

Valendrea shook his head in disbelief.

“And he was right.”

“Do you plan to do as the Virgin said too?”

“I will abolish all dogma contrary to Her message.”

“You’ll have revolt.”

Ngovi shrugged. “Those who disagree are free to leave and form their own religion. Such is their choice. They will receive no opposition from me. This Church, though, will do as told.”

Valendrea’s face became incredulous. “You think it’s going to be that easy? The cardinals will never allow it.”

Michener said, “This isn’t a democracy.”

“So no one will know the actual messages?”

Ngovi shook his head. “That isn’t necessary. Skeptics would claim Father Tibor’s translation was simply conformed to the Medjugorje message. The sheer magnitude of the message would do nothing but ignite criticism. Sister Lucia and Father Tibor are gone. Neither can verify anything. It is not necessary the world know what happened. The three of us know and that is what matters. I shall heed the words. This will be
my
act and
mine
alone. I will take the praise and the criticism.”

“The next pope will simply reverse you,” Valendrea muttered.

Ngovi shook his head. “You have so little faith.” The African turned and headed for the door. “We will await the news in the morning. Depending on what that is, we may or may not see you tomorrow.”

Michener hesitated before following. “The devil himself will find it difficult dealing with you.”

Not waiting for a response, he left.