the Third Secret (2005) (7 page)

NINE

11:50 P.M.

Katerina rolled off Father Tom Kealy and relaxed. He’d been waiting for her when she’d come upstairs and listened as she’d told him about her unexpected meeting with Cardinal Valendrea.

“That was nice, Katerina,” Kealy said. “As usual.”

She studied the outline of his face, illuminated by an amber glow spilling in through partially drawn drapes.

“I’m stripped of my collar in the morning, then laid that night. And by a most beautiful woman, no less.”

“Kind of takes the edge off.”

He chuckled. “You could say that.”

Kealy knew all about her relationship with Colin Michener. It had actually felt good to empty her soul to someone she thought might understand. She’d made the first contact, prancing into Kealy’s Virginia parish, wanting an interview. She was in the States working freelance for some periodicals interested in radical religious slants. She’d made a little money, enough to cover expenses, but she thought Kealy’s story might be the ticket to something big.

Here was a priest at war with Rome on an issue that tugged at the hearts of Western Catholics. The North American Church was trying desperately to cling to members. Scandals concerning pedophile priests and child molestation had devastated the Church’s reputation, and Rome’s lackadaisical response had done nothing but complicate an already difficult situation. The bans on celibacy, homosexuality, and contraception only added to the popular disillusionment.

Kealy had asked her to dinner the first day, and it wasn’t long before she was in his bed. He was a pleasure to spar with, both physically and mentally. His relationship with the woman that caused all the commotion had ended a year before. She’d tired of the attention and did not want to be the focus of a supposed religious revolution. Katerina had not taken her place, preferring to stay in the background, but she had recorded hours of interviews that, she hoped, would provide an excellent basis for a book.
The Case Against Priestly Celibacy
was her working title, and she envisioned a populist attack on a concept that Kealy said was as useful to the Church “as teats on a boar hog.” The Church’s final assault, Kealy’s excommunication, would form the basis of the promotional scheme.
A priest defrocked for disagreeing with Rome lays out a case for the modern clergy.
Clearly, the concept had played before, but Kealy offered a new, daring, folksy voice. CNN was even talking about hiring him as a commentator for the next conclave, an insider who could provide a counter to the usual conservative opinions traditionally heard at papal election time. All in all, their relationship had been mutually beneficial. But that was before the Vatican secretary of state approached her.

“What about Valendrea? What do you think of his offer?” she asked.

“He’s a pompous ass who could well be the next pope.”

She’d heard the same prediction from others, which made Valendrea’s offer all the more interesting. “He’s interested in whatever it is Colin is doing.”

Kealy rolled over and faced her. “I must admit I am, too. What could possibly concern the papal secretary in Romania?”

“As if nothing of interest lay there?”

“Touchy, aren’t we?”

Though she never really considered herself a patriot, she was nonetheless Romanian and proud of the fact. Her parents had fled the country when she was a teenager, but later she had returned to help overthrow the despot Ceau¸sescu. She was in Bucharest when the dictator made his final speech in front of the central committee building. It was supposed to be a staged event, one to demonstrate workers’ support for the communist government, but it turned into a riot. She could still hear the screams when pandemonium broke out and the police moved in with guns, as prerecorded applause and cheers boomed from loudspeakers.

“I know you may find this hard to believe,” she said, “but actual revolt isn’t donning makeup for a camera, or posting provocative words on the Internet, or even bedding a woman. Revolution means bloodshed.”

“Times have changed, Katerina.”

“You won’t change the Church so easily.”

“Did you see all that media there today? That hearing will be reported around the world. People will take issue with what happens to me.”

“What if no one cares?”

“We receive more than twenty thousand hits a day on the website. That’s a lot of attention. Words can have a powerful effect.”

“So can bullets. I was there, those few days before Christmas, when Romanians died so that a dictator and his bitch of a wife could be shot dead.”

“You would have pulled the trigger, if asked to, wouldn’t you?”

“In a heartbeat. They ruined my homeland. Passion, Tom. That’s what moves revolt. Deep, unabiding passion.”

“So what do you plan to do with Valendrea?”

She sighed. “I have no choice. I have to do it.”

He chuckled. “There are always choices. Let me guess, this opportunity might allow you another chance with Colin Michener?”

She’d come to realize that she’d told Tom Kealy far too much about herself. He’d assured her that he would never reveal anything, but she was concerned. Granted, Michener’s lapse occurred long ago, but any revelation, whether true or false, would cost him his career. She’d never publicly acknowledge anything, no matter how much she hated the choice Michener had made.

She sat still for a few moments and stared up at the ceiling. Valendrea had said that a problem was developing that could harm Michener’s career. So if she could help Michener, while at the same time helping herself, then why not?

“I’m going.”

“You’re entangling yourself with serpents,” Kealy said in his good-humored tone. “But I think you’re well qualified to wrestle with this devil. And Valendrea is that, let me tell you. He is one ambitious bastard.”

“Which you are well qualified to identify.” She couldn’t resist.

His hand eased over to her bare leg. “Perhaps. Along with my abilities for other things.”

His arrogance was amazing. Nothing seemed to faze him. Not the hearing this morning before solemn-faced prelates, and not the prospect of losing his collar. Perhaps it was his boldness that had initially attracted her? Regardless, Kealy was growing tiresome. She wondered if he’d ever cared about being a priest. One thing about Michener—his religious devotion was admirable. Tom Kealy’s loyalty was only to the moment. Yet who was she to judge? She’d latched onto him for selfish reasons, ones he surely recognized and exploited. But all that could now change. She’d just talked with the Holy See’s secretary of state. A man who’d sought her out for a task that could lead to so much more. And, yes, just as Valendrea said, it might just be enough to get her back to work with all those publishers who’d let her go.

A strange tingle surged through her.

The evening’s unexpected events were working on her like an aphrodisiac. Delicious possibilities about her future swirled through her mind. And those possibilities made the sex she’d just enjoyed seem far more satisfying than the act warranted—and the attention she wanted now that much more enticing.

TEN

TURIN, ITALY
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 9
10:30 A.M.

Michener peered down through the helicopter’s window at the city below. Turin lay wrapped in a wispy blanket as a bright morning sun fought to rid the air of fog. Beyond was the Piedmont, that region of Italy snuggled close to France and Switzerland, an abundant lowland plain walled in by Alpine summits, glaciers, and the sea.

Clement sat next to him, two security men opposite them. The pope had come north to bless the Holy Shroud of Turin before the relic was once again sealed away. This particular viewing had begun just after Easter and Clement should have been present for the unveiling. But a previously scheduled state visit to Spain had taken precedence. So it was decided he would come for the close of the exhibition, adding his veneration as popes had done for centuries.

The helicopter banked left and started a slow descent. Below, the Via Roma was packed with morning traffic, the Piazza San Carlo likewise congested. Turin was a manufacturing center, cars mainly, a company town in the European tradition, not unlike many Michener had known from childhood in the south of Georgia where the paper industry dominated.

The Duomo San Giovanni, its tall spires cloaked in mist, slipped into view. The cathedral, dedicated to St. John the Baptist, had stood since the fifteenth century. But it was not until the seventeenth century that the Holy Shroud was ensconced there for storage.

The helicopter’s skids gently touched the damp pavement.

Michener unbuckled his seat belt as the rotors whined down. Not until the blades were perfectly still did the two security men slide open the cabin door.

“Shall we?” Clement asked.

The pope had said little on the journey from Rome. Clement could be like that when he traveled, and Michener was sensitive to the older man’s quirks.

Michener stepped out into the piazza, followed by Clement. A huge crowd lined the perimeter. The air was brisk, but Clement had insisted on not wearing a jacket. He cast an impressive sight in his white simar, a pectoral cross dangling before his chest. And the papal photographer began snapping pictures that would be available to the press before the end of the day. The pope waved and the crowd returned his attention.

“We should not linger,” Michener whispered to Clement.

Vatican security had been emphatic that the piazza was not secure. This was to be an in-and-out affair, as the security teams tagged it, the cathedral and chapel the only locations swept for explosives and manned since yesterday. Because this particular visit had been highly publicized and arranged long in advance, the less time in the open, the better.

“In a moment,” Clement said, as he continued to acknowledge the people. “They’ve come to see their pontiff. Let them.”

Popes had always freely traveled throughout the peninsula. It was a perk Italians enjoyed in return for their two-thousand-year parentage of the mother Church, so Clement took a moment and acknowledged the crowd.

Finally the pope made his way into the cathedral’s alcove. Michener followed, intentionally dropping back to allow the local clergy an opportunity to be photographed with the Holy Father.

Gustavo Cardinal Bartolo waited inside. He wore a scarlet silk cassock with a matching sash that signified his senior status in the College of Cardinals. He was an impish man with white, lusterless hair and a heavy beard. Michener had often wondered if the appearance of a biblical prophet was intentional, since Bartolo’s reputation was not one of intellectual brilliance or spiritual enlightenment, but more of a loyal errand boy. He had been appointed bishop of Turin by Clement’s predecessor and elevated to the Sacred College, which made him prefect of the Holy Shroud.

Clement had allowed the appointment to stand even though Bartolo was also one of Alberto Valendrea’s closest associates. Bartolo’s vote in the next conclave was not in doubt, so Michener was amused when the pope walked straight to the cardinal and extended his right hand palm-down. Bartolo seemed to instantly realize what protocol entailed, and with priests and nuns watching, the cardinal had no choice but to accept the hand, kneel, and kiss the papal ring. Clement had, by and large, dispensed with the gesture. Usually in situations like this, inside closed doors and confined to Church officials, a handshake sufficed. The pope’s insistence on strict protocol was a message the cardinal apparently understood, as Michener read a momentary glare of annoyance that the elder cleric was trying hard to suppress.

Clement seemed unconcerned with Bartolo’s discomfort and immediately started to exchange pleasantries with the others present. After a few minutes of light conversation, Clement blessed the two dozen standing around, then led the entourage into the cathedral.

Michener lagged back and allowed the ceremony to proceed without him. His job was to be nearby, ready to assist, not to become part of the proceedings. He noticed that one of the local priests waited, too. He knew the short, balding cleric was Bartolo’s assistant.

“Will the Holy Father still be staying for lunch?” the priest asked in Italian.

He did not like the brisk tone. It was respectful but carried a hint of irritation. Clearly, this priest’s loyalties were not with an aging pope. Nor did the man feel the need to hide his animosity from an American monsignor who would surely be unemployed once the current Vicar of Christ died. This man carried visions of what
his
prelate could do for him, much like Michener two decades ago when a German bishop took a liking to a shy seminarian.

“The pope will be staying for lunch, assuming the schedule is maintained. We’re actually a little ahead of time. Did you receive the menu preference?”

A slight nod of the head. “It is as requested.”

Clement did not care for Italian cuisine, a fact the Vatican went to great lengths to keep quiet. The official line was that the pope’s eating habits were a private matter, unrelated to his duties.

“Shall we go inside?” Michener asked.

Lately he’d found himself less inclined to banter on Church politics since he realized that his influence was waning in direct proportion to Clement’s health.

He made his way into the cathedral and the irritating priest followed. Apparently this was his guardian angel for the day.

Clement stood at the intersection of the cathedral’s nave, where a rectangular glass case hung suspended from the ceiling. Inside, illuminated by indirect light, was a pale, biscuit-colored linen about fourteen feet long. Upon it was the faint image of a man, lying flat, his front and back halves joined at the head, as if a corpse had been laid on top then covered from above. He was bearded with shaggy hair past the shoulders, his hands crossed modestly across his loins. Wounds were evident to the head and wrist. The chest was slashed, the back littered with scourge marks.

Whether the image was that of Christ remained solely a matter of faith. Personally, Michener found it difficult to accept that a piece of herringbone cloth could stay intact for two thousand years, and he thought the relic akin to what he’d been reading with great intensity over the past couple of months concerning Marian apparitions. He’d studied the accounts of each supposed seer claiming a visit from heaven. Papal investigators found most to be a mistake, or a hallucination, or the manifestation of psychological problems. Some were simply hoaxes. But there were about two dozen incidents that, try as they might, investigators had been unable to discredit. In the end, no other rationalization was found except an earthly appearance by the Mother of God. Those were the apparitions deemed
worthy of assent.

Like Fatima.

But similar to the shroud hanging before him, that
assent
came down to a matter of faith.

Clement prayed a full ten minutes before the shroud. Michener noted that they were falling behind schedule, but no one dared interrupt. The assembly stood in silence until the pope rose, crossed himself, and followed Cardinal Bartolo into a black marble chapel. The cardinal-prefect seemed anxious to show off the impressive space.

The tour took nearly half an hour, prolonged by Clement’s questions and his insistence upon personally greeting all of the cathedral attendants. The timetable was now being strained, and Michener was relieved when Clement finally led the entourage into an adjacent building for lunch.

The pope stopped short of the dining room and turned to Bartolo. “Is there a place where I might have a moment with my secretary?”

The cardinal quickly located a windowless alcove that apparently served as a dressing chamber. After the door was closed, Clement reached into his cassock and withdrew a powder-blue envelope. Michener recognized the stationery the pope used for private communications. He’d bought the set in a Rome store and presented it to Clement last Christmas.

“This is the letter I wish you to take to Romania. If Father Tibor is incapable or unwilling to do as I have asked, destroy this and return to Rome.”

He accepted the envelope. “I understand, Holy Father.”

“The good Cardinal Bartolo is quite accommodating, isn’t he?” A smile accompanied the pope’s question.

“I doubt he accrued the three hundred indulgences granted for kissing the papal ring.”

It had long been tradition that all who
devoutly
kissed the pope’s ring would receive a gift of indulgences. Michener often wondered if the medieval popes who created the reward were concerned about forgiving sin or just making sure they were venerated with the appropriate zeal.

Clement chuckled. “I imagine the cardinal needs more than three hundred sins forgiven. He’s one of Valendrea’s closest allies. Bartolo might even replace Valendrea in the Secretariat of State, once the Tuscan secures the papacy. But the thought of that is frightening. Bartolo is barely qualified to be bishop of this cathedral.”

This was apparently going to be a frank conversation, so Michener felt at ease to say, “You’ll need all the friends you can get in the next conclave to ensure that doesn’t happen.”

Clement seemed to instantly understand. “You want that scarlet biretta, don’t you?”

“You know I do.”

The pope motioned to the envelope. “Handle this for me.”

He wondered if his errand to Romania was somehow tied to a cardinal appointment, but quickly dismissed the thought. That was not Jakob Volkner’s way. Nonetheless, the pope had been evasive, and it wasn’t the first time. “You still won’t tell me what troubles you?”

Clement moved toward the vestments. “Believe me, Colin, you don’t want to know.”

“Perhaps I can help.”

“You never did tell me about your conversation with Katerina Lew. How was she after all those years?”

Another change of subject. “We spoke little. And what we did say was strained.”

Clement’s brow curled in curiosity. “Why did you allow that to happen?”

“She’s headstrong. Her opinions of the Church are uncompromising.”

“But who could blame her, Colin. She probably loved you, yet could do nothing about it. Losing to another woman is one thing, but to God . . . that can be hard to accept. Restrained love is not a pleasant matter.”

He again wondered about Clement’s interest in his personal life. “It doesn’t make any difference anymore. She has her life and I have mine.”

“But that doesn’t mean you can’t be friends. Share your lives in words and feelings. Experience the closeness that someone who genuinely cares can provide. Surely the Church doesn’t forbid us that pleasure.”

Loneliness was an occupational hazard for any priest. Michener had been lucky—when he’d faltered with Katerina, he’d had Volkner, who’d listened and granted him absolution. Ironically, that was the same thing Tom Kealy had done, for which he was to be excommunicated. Perhaps that was what drew Clement to Kealy?

The pope stepped to one of the racks and fingered the colorful vestments. “As a child in Bamberg, I served as altar boy. I remember that time fondly. It was after the war and we were rebuilding. Luckily, the cathedral survived. No bombs. I always thought that an appropriate metaphor. Even in the face of all that man can work, our town church survived.”

Michener said nothing. Surely there was a point to all this. Why else would Clement delay everyone for this conversation, which could have waited?

“I loved that cathedral,” Clement said. “It was a part of my youth. I can still hear the choir singing. Truly inspiring. I wish I could be buried there. But that’s not possible, is it? Popes have to lie in St. Peter’s. I wonder who fashioned that rule?”

Clement’s voice was distant. Michener wondered who he was really talking to. He stepped close. “Jakob, tell me what’s wrong.”

Clement released his grip on the cloth and clenched his trembling hands before him. “You’re very naÏve, Colin. You simply do not understand. Nor can you.” He talked through his teeth, hardly moving his mouth. The voice stayed flat, stripped of emotion. “Do you think for one moment we enjoy any measure of privacy? Don’t you understand the depth of Valendrea’s ambition? The Tuscan knows everything we do, everything we say. You want to be a cardinal? To achieve that you must grasp the measure of that responsibility. How can you expect me to elevate you when you fail to see what is so clear?”

Rarely in their association had they spoken cross words, but the pope was chastising him. And for what?

“We are merely men, Colin. Nothing more. I’m no more infallible than you. Yet we proclaim ourselves princes of the Church. Devout clerics concerned only with pleasing God, while we simply please ourselves. That fool, Bartolo, waiting outside, is a good example. His only concern is when I am going to die. His fortunes will surely shift then. As will yours.”

“I hope you don’t speak like this with anyone else.”

Clement gently clasped the pectoral cross that hung before his chest. The gesture seemed to calm his tremors. “I worry about you, Colin. You’re like a dolphin confined to an aquarium. All your life keepers made sure the water was clean, the food plentiful. Now they’re about to return you to the ocean. Will you be able to survive?”