the Third Secret (2005) (11 page)

SEVENTEEN

VATICAN CITY, 5:30 P.M.

Valendrea’s last appointment came early for a Friday. Then a dinner scheduled at the French embassy was unexpectedly canceled—some crisis in Paris had detained the ambassador—so he found himself with a rare free night.

He’d spent a torturous hour with Clement just after lunch. The time was supposed to be a foreign affairs briefing, but all they’d done was bicker. Their relationship was rapidly deteriorating, and the risk of a public confrontation was growing by the day. His resignation had yet to be requested, Clement surely hoping he’d cite spiritual concerns and simply quit.

But that was never going to happen.

Part of the agenda for their earlier meeting had entailed a briefing on a visit by the American secretary of state, scheduled in two weeks. Washington was trying to enlist the Holy See’s assistance on political initiatives in Brazil and Argentina. The Church was a political force in South America, and Valendrea had signaled a willingness to use Vatican influence on Washington’s behalf. But Clement did not want the Church involved. In that respect he was nothing like John Paul II. The Pole had publicly preached the same philosophy, then privately done the opposite. A diversion, Valendrea had often thought, one that rocked Moscow and Warsaw to sleep and eventually brought communism to its knees. He’d seen firsthand what the moral and spiritual leader of a billion faithful could do to, and for, governments. Such a shame to waste that potential, but Clement had ordered that there would be no alliance between the United States and the Holy See. The Argentines and Brazilians would have to solve their own problems.

A knock came on the apartment door.

He was alone, having sent his chamberlain to fetch a carafe of coffee. He crossed his study into an adjacent anteroom and opened the double doors leading out to the hall. Two Swiss guards, their backs against the wall, flanked either side of the doorway. Between them stood Maurice Cardinal Ngovi.

“I was wondering, Eminence, if we might speak a moment. I tried at your office and was told you had retired for the evening.”

Ngovi’s voice was low and calm. And Valendrea noticed the formal label
Eminence,
surely for the guards’ benefit. With Colin Michener plodding his way through Romania, Clement had apparently delegated the task of errand boy to Ngovi.

He invited the cardinal inside and instructed the guards they were not to be disturbed. He then led Ngovi into his study and offered a seat in a gilded settee.

“I would pour coffee, but I sent the steward for some.”

Ngovi raised a hand. “No need. I came to talk.”

Valendrea sat. “So what does Clement want?”

“It is I who wants something. What was the purpose of your visit to the archives yesterday? Your intimidation of the cardinal-archivist? It was uncalled for.”

“I don’t recall the archives being under the jurisdiction of the Congregation for Catholic Education.”

“Answer the question.”

“So Clement does want something, after all.”

Ngovi said nothing, an irritating strategy he’d noticed the African often employed—one that sometimes made Valendrea say too much.

“You told the archivist that you were on a mission of the greatest importance to the Church. One that demanded extraordinary action. What were you referring to?”

He wondered how much the weak bastard in the archives had said. Surely he didn’t confess his sin in forgiving the abortion. The old fool wasn’t that reckless. Or was he? He decided an offensive tack best. “You and I both know Clement is obsessed with the Fatima secret. He’s been in the Riserva repeatedly.”

“Which is the prerogative of the pope. It is not for us to question.”

Valendrea leaned forward in the chair. “Why does our good German pontiff anguish so much over something the world already knows?”

“That is not for you or me to question. John Paul II satisfied my curiosity with his revelation of the third secret.”

“You served on the committee, didn’t you? The one that reviewed the secret and wrote the interpretation that accompanied its release.”

“It was my honor. I had long wondered about the Virgin’s final message.”

“But it was so anticlimatic. Didn’t really say much of anything, beyond the usual call for penance and faith.”

“It foretold a papal assassination.”

“Which explains why the Church suppressed it all those years. No point in giving some lunatic a divine motive to shoot the pope.”

“We believed that was the thinking when John XXIII read the message and ordered it sealed.”

“And what the Virgin predicted happened. Somebody tried to shoot Paul VI, then the Turk shot John Paul II. What I want to know, though, is why Clement feels the need to keep reading the original writing?”

“Again, that is not for you or me to question.”

“Except when either one of us is pope.” He waited to see if his adversary would take the bait.

“But you and I are not pope. What you attempted was a violation of canon law.” Ngovi’s voice stayed cool, and Valendrea wondered if this sedate man ever lost his temper.

“Plan to charge me?”

Ngovi did not flinch. “If there was any way possible to be successful, I would.”

“Then maybe I would have to resign and you could be secretary of state? You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Maurice?”

“I would only like to send you back to Florence where you and your Medici ancestors belong.”

He cautioned himself. The African was a master of provocation. This would be a good test for the conclave, where surely Ngovi would try every possible way to incite a reaction. “I am not Medici. I am Valendrea. We opposed the Medici.”

“Surely only after seeing that family’s decline. I imagine your ancestors were opportunists, too.”

He realized the confrontation for what it was—the two leading contenders for the papacy, face-to-face. He well knew that Ngovi would be his toughest competition. He’d already listened to taped conversations among cardinals when they thought themselves safe within locked Vatican offices. Ngovi was his most dangerous challenger, made even more formidable by the fact that the archbishop of Nairobi was not actively seeking the papacy. If asked, the wily bastard always stopped any speculation with a wave of his hand and a mention of his respect for Clement XV. None of which fooled Valendrea. An African had not sat on the throne of St. Peter since the first century. What a triumph that would be. Ngovi, if nothing else, was an ardent nationalist, open in his belief that Africa deserved better than it was presently receiving—and what better platform to push for social reform than as head of the Holy See?

“Give it up, Maurice,” he said. “Why don’t you join the winning team? You won’t leave the next conclave as pope. That much I guarantee.”

“What bothers me more is
you
becoming pope.”

“I know you have the African bloc held tight. But they’re only eight votes. Not enough to stop me.”

“But enough to become critical in a tight election.”

The first mention by Ngovi of the conclave. A message?

“Where is Father Ambrosi?” Ngovi asked.

Now he realized the purpose of the visit. Clement needed information. “Where’s Father Michener?”

“I am told he’s on holiday.”

“So is Paolo. Maybe they went together.” He let a chuckle accompany the sarcasm.

“I would hope Colin has better taste in friends.”

“As I would for Paolo.”

He wondered why the pope was so concerned about Ambrosi. What did it matter? Perhaps he’d underestimated the German. “You know, Maurice, I was being facetious earlier, but you would make an excellent secretary of state. Your support in the conclave could assure that.”

Ngovi sat with his hands folded beneath his cassock. “And to how many others have you dangled that cube of sugar?”

“Only those in a position to deliver.”

His guest rose from the settee. “I remind you of the Apostolic Constitution, which forbids campaigning for the papacy. We are both bound by that creed.”

Ngovi stepped toward the anteroom beyond.

Valendrea never moved from his chair, but called out to the retreating cardinal, “I wouldn’t stand on protocol too long, Maurice. We’ll all be in the Sistine soon, and your fortunes could drastically change. How, though, is solely up to you.”

EIGHTEEN

BUCHAREST, 5:50 P.M.

The rap on the door startled Michener. Nobody knew he was in Romania except Clement and Father Tibor. And absolutely nobody knew he was staying at this hotel.

He stood, crossed the room, and opened the door to see Katerina Lew. “How in the world did you find me?”

She smiled. “You were the one who said the only secrets in the Vatican are the ones a person doesn’t know.”

He didn’t like what he was hearing. The last thing Clement would want was a reporter knowing what he was doing. And who’d betrayed the information that he’d left Rome?

“I felt bad about the other day in the square,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

“So you came to Romania to apologize?”

“We need to talk, Colin.”

“This isn’t a good time.”

“I was told you went on holiday. I thought it the best time.”

He invited her inside and closed the door behind her, reminding himself that the globe had shrunk since the last time he was alone with Katerina Lew. Then a troubling thought occurred. If she knew this much about him, imagine how much Valendrea knew. He needed to call Clement and advise him of a leak in the papal household. But he recalled what Clement had said yesterday in Turin about Valendrea—
he knows everything we do, everything we say
—and realized the pope already knew.

“Colin, there’s no reason for us to be so hostile. I understand much better what happened all those years ago. I’m even willing to admit I handled things poorly.”

“That’s a first.”

She did not react to his rebuke. “I’ve missed you. That’s really why I came to Rome. To see you.”

“What about Tom Kealy?”

“I was involved with Tom.” She hesitated. “But he’s not you.” She stepped closer. “I’m not ashamed of my time with him. Tom’s situation is stimulating to a journalist. Lots of opportunities there.” Her eyes grabbed his in a way only hers could. “But I need to know. Why were you at the tribunal? Tom told me papal secretaries don’t usually bother with such things.”

“I knew you’d be there.”

“Were you glad to see me?”

He debated his response and settled on, “You didn’t look particularly glad to see me.”

“I was just trying to gauge your reaction.”

“As I recall, there was no reaction from you.”

She stepped away, toward the window. “We shared something special, Colin. There’s no point denying it.”

“No point rehashing it, either.”

“That’s the last thing I want. We’re both older. Hopefully smarter. Can’t we be friends?”

He’d come to Romania on a papal errand. Now he was embroiled in an emotional discussion with a woman he once loved. Was the Lord testing him again? He couldn’t deny what he felt just being close to her. Like she said, they’d once shared everything. She’d been wonderful as he struggled to learn about his heritage, wondering what happened to his birth mother, curious why his biological father had abandoned him. With her help, he’d arrested many of those demons. But new ones were rising. Perhaps a truce with his conscience might be in order. What could it hurt?

“I’d like that.”

She wore a pair of black trousers that clung to her thin legs. A matching herringbone jacket and black leather vest cast a look of the revolutionary he knew her to be. No dreamy lights in her eyes. She was firmly rooted. Perhaps too much so. But down deep there was true emotion, and he’d missed that.

An odd flutter swept across him.

He recalled years ago when he’d retreated to the Alps for time to think and, like today, she’d appeared at his door, confusing him even more.

“What were you doing in Zlatna?” she asked. “I’ve been told that orphanage is a difficult place, run by an old priest.”

“You were there?”

She nodded. “I followed you.”

Another disturbing reality, but he let it pass. “I went to talk with that priest.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

She sounded interested and he needed to talk about it. Perhaps she could help. But there was another matter to consider.

“Off the record?” he asked.

Her smile brought him comfort. “Of course, Colin. Off the record.”

NINETEEN

8:00 P.M.

Michener led Katerina into the Café Krom. They’d talked in his room for two hours. He’d told her an abridged version of what had happened with Clement XV over the past few months and the reason he’d come to Romania, omitting only that he’d read Clement’s note to Tibor. There was no one else, besides Cardinal Ngovi, to whom he would even consider speaking about his concerns. And even with Ngovi he knew discretion was the better tack. Vatican alliances shifted like the tide. A friend today could well be a foe tomorrow. Katerina was not allied to anyone inside the Church, and she was not ignorant of the third secret of Fatima. She told him about an article she’d written for a Danish magazine in 2000 when John Paul II released its text. It dealt with a fringe group who believed the third secret was an apocalyptic vision, the complex metaphors used by the Virgin a clear declaration that the end was in sight. She’d thought them all insane and her article addressed the lunacy such cults extolled. But after seeing Clement’s reaction in the Riserva, Michener wasn’t so sure about that lunacy anymore. He hoped Father Andrej Tibor could end the confusion.

The priest waited at a table near a plate-glass window. Outside, an amber glow illuminated people and traffic. A mist clouded the night air. The bistro sat in the heart of the city, near the Pia¸ta Revolu¸tiei, and was busy with a Friday-night crowd. Tibor had changed clothes, replacing his black clerical garb with a pair of denim jeans and a turtleneck sweater. He rose as Michener introduced him to Katerina.

“Ms. Lew is with my office. I brought her to take notes as to anything you might want to say.” He’d decided earlier that he wanted her to hear what Tibor said, and he thought a lie better than the truth.

“If the papal secretary so desires,” Tibor said, “who am I to question?”

The priest’s tone was light and Michener hoped the bitterness from earlier had dissipated. Tibor got the waitress’s attention and ordered two more beers. The old priest then slid an envelope across the table. “That is my response to Clement’s inquiry.”

He did not reach for the packet.

“I thought about it all afternoon,” Tibor said. “I wanted to be precise, so I wrote it down.”

The waitress deposited two steins of dark beer on the table. Michener gulped a short swallow of the frothy brew. So did Katerina. Tibor was already on his second stein, the empty one on the table.

“I haven’t thought of Fatima in a long time,” Tibor quietly said.

Katerina spoke up. “Did you work at the Vatican long?”

“Eight years, between John XXIII and Paul VI. Then I returned to missionary work.”

“Were you actually there when John XXIII read the third secret?” Michener asked, probing gently, trying not to reveal what he knew of Clement’s note.

Tibor stared out the window for a long moment. “I was there.”

He knew what Clement had asked of Tibor, so he pushed. “Father, the pope is greatly bothered by something. Can you help me understand?”

“I can appreciate his anguish.”

He tried to appear nonchalant. “Any insights?”

The old man shook his head. “After four decades I still don’t understand myself.” He glanced away while he spoke, as if unsure of what he was saying. “Sister Lucia was a saintly woman. The Church treated her badly.”

“How do you mean?” Katerina asked.

“Rome made sure she led a cloistered life. Remember, in 1959 only John XXIII and she knew the third secret. Then the Vatican ordered that only her immediate family could visit her, and she was not to discuss the apparitions with anyone.”

“But she was part of the revelation when John Paul made the secret public in 2000,” Michener said. “She was sitting on the dais when the text was read to the world at Fatima.”

“She was over ninety years old. I’m told her hearing and eyesight were failing. And, do not forget, she was forbidden to speak on the subject. There were no comments from her. None whatsoever.”

Michener sucked another swallow of beer. “What was the problem with what the Vatican did regarding Sister Lucia? Weren’t they just protecting her from every nut in the world who wanted to badger her with questions?”

Tibor crossed his arms before his chest. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You are a product of the Curia.”

He resented the accusation, since he was anything but that. “My pontiff is not the Curia’s friend.”

“The Vatican demands complete obedience. If not, the Apostolic Penitentiary sends one of their letters commanding you to Rome to account for yourself. We’re to do as we’re told. Sister Lucia was a loyal servant. She did as she was told. Believe me, the last thing Rome would have wanted was for her to be available to the world press. John ordered her silent because he had no choice, and every pope after continued that order because they had no choice.”

“As I recall, Paul VI and John Paul II both visited with her. John Paul even consulted her before the third secret was released. I have spoken to bishops and cardinals who were part of the revelation. She authenticated the writing as hers.”

“Which writing?” Tibor asked.

An odd question.

“Are you saying the Church lied about the message?” Katerina asked.

Tibor reached for his drink. “We will never know. The good nun, John XXIII, and John Paul II are no longer with us. All gone, except me.”

Michener decided to change the subject. “So tell us what you do know. What happened when John XXIII read the secret?”

Tibor sat back in the rickety oak chair and seemed to consider the question with interest. Finally, the old priest said, “All right. I’ll tell you exactly what happened.”

“Do you know Portuguese?” Monsignor Capovilla asked.

Tibor glanced up from his seat. Ten months working in the Vatican and this was the first time anyone from the fourth floor of the Apostolic Palace had spoken to him, much less John XXIII’s personal secretary.

“Yes, Father.”

“The Holy Father needs your assistance. Could you bring a pad and pen and come with me?”

He followed the priest to the elevator and rode in silence to the fourth floor, where he was ushered into the papal apartment. John XXIII sat perched behind a writing desk. A small wooden box with a broken wax seal lay on top. The pope held two pieces of notepaper.

“Father Tibor, can you read these?” John asked.

Tibor accepted the two sheets and scanned the words, not actually registering their meaning, only the fact that he understood. “Yes, Holy Father.”

A smile came to the rotund man’s face. It was the smile that had galvanized Catholics from around the world. The press had taken to calling him Papa John, a label the pope had embraced. For so long, while Pius XII lay ailing, the papal palace windows had been shrouded in darkness, the curtains drawn in symbolic mourning. Now the shutters were thrown open, the Italian sun pouring through, a signal to all who entered St. Peter’s Square that this Venetian cardinal was committed to a revival.

“If you would, sit there by the window and pen an Italian translation,” John said. “One page each, separately, as the originals appear.”

Tibor spent the better part of an hour making sure his two translations were precise. The original writing was in a distinctly feminine hand, and the Portuguese was of an old style, used more toward the turn of the last century. Languages, like people and cultures, tended to change with time, but his training was extensive and the task relatively simple.

John paid him little attention while he worked, chatting quietly with his secretary. When finished, he handed his effort to the pope. He watched for a reaction while John read the first sheet. Nothing. Then the pope read the second page. A moment of silence passed.

“This does not concern my papacy,” John softly said.

Given the words on the page, he thought the comment strange, but said nothing.

John folded each translation with its original, forming two separate packets. The pope sat silent for a few moments, and Tibor did not move. This pope, who’d sat on the throne of St. Peter a mere nine months, had already profoundly changed the Catholic world. One reason Tibor had come to Rome was to be a part of what was happening. The world was ready for something different and God, it seemed, had provided.

John tented his chubby fingers before his mouth and rocked silently in the chair. “Father Tibor, I want your word to your pope and your God that what you just read will never be revealed.”

Tibor understood the importance of that pledge. “You have my word, Holy Father.”

John stared at him through rheumy eyes with a gaze that pierced his soul. A cold shiver tickled his spine. He fought the urge to shift on his feet.

The pope seemed to read his mind.

“Be assured,” John said in barely a whisper, “I will do what I can to honor the Virgin’s wishes.”

“I never spoke to John XXIII again,” Tibor said.

“And no other pope contacted you?” Katerina asked.

Tibor shook his head. “Not until today. I gave my word to John and kept it. Until three months ago.”

“What did you send the pope?”

“You do not know?’

“Not the details.”

“Perhaps Clement doesn’t want you to know.”

“He wouldn’t have sent me if he didn’t.”

Tibor motioned to Katerina. “Would he want her to know, too?”

“I do,” Michener said.

Tibor appraised him with a stern look. “I’m afraid not, Father. What I sent is between Clement and myself.”

“You said John XXIII never spoke to you again. Did you try to make contact with him?” Michener asked.

Tibor shook his head. “It was only a few days later John called for the Vatican II council. I remember the announcement well. I thought that his response.”

“Care to explain?”

The old man shook his head. “Not really.”

Michener finished his beer and wanted another, but knew better. He studied some of the faces that surrounded him and wondered if any might be interested in what he was doing, but quickly dismissed the thought. “What about when John Paul II released the third secret?”

Tibor’s face tightened. “What of it?”

The man’s curtness was wearing on him. “The world now knows the Virgin’s words.”

“The Church has been known to refashion the truth.”

“Are you suggesting the Holy Father deceived the world?” Michener asked.

Tibor did not immediately answer. “I don’t know what I’m suggesting. The Virgin has appeared many times on this earth. You’d think we might finally get the message.”

“What message? I’ve spent the past few months studying every apparition back two thousand years. Each one seems a unique experience.”

“Then you haven’t been studying closely,” Tibor said. “I, too, spent years reading about them. In every one there is a declaration from heaven to do as the Lord says. The Virgin is heaven’s messenger. She provides guidance and wisdom, and we’ve foolishly ignored Her. In modern times, that mistake started at La Salette.”

Michener knew every detail about the apparition at La Salette, a village high in the French Alps. In 1846 two shepherd children, a boy, Maxim, and a girl, Mélanie, supposedly experienced a vision. The event was similar in many ways to Fatima—a pastoral scene, a light that wound down from the sky, an image of a woman who spoke to them.

“As I recall,” Michener said, “the two children were told secrets that were eventually written down, the texts presented to Pius IX. The seers then later published their own versions. Charges of embellishment were leveled. The entire apparition was tainted with scandal.”

“Are you saying there’s a connection between La Salette and Fatima?” Katerina asked.

A look of annoyance crept onto Tibor’s face. “I’m not saying anything. Father Michener here has access to the archives. Has he ascertained any connection?”

“I studied the La Salette visions,” Michener said. “Pius IX made no comment after reading each of the secrets, yet he never allowed them to be publicly revealed. And though the original texts are indexed among the papers of Pius IX, the secrets are no longer in the archives.”

“I looked in 1960 for the La Salette secrets and also found nothing. But there are clues to their content.”

He knew exactly what Tibor meant. “I read the witness accounts of people who watched as Mélanie wrote down the messages. She asked how to spell
infallibly, soiled,
and
anti-Christ,
if I remember correctly.”

Tibor nodded.

“Pius IX himself even offered a few clues. After reading Maxim’s message he said, ‘Here is the candor and simplicity of a child.’ But after reading Mélanie’s he cried and said, ‘I have less to fear from open impiety than from indifference. It is not without reason that the Church is called militant and you see here her captain.’ ”

“You have a good memory,” Tibor said. “Mélanie was not kind when told of the pope’s reaction. ‘This secret ought to give pleasure to the pope,’ she said, ‘a pope should love to suffer.’ ”