the Third Secret (2005) (14 page)

TWENTY-FIVE

BUCHAREST, ROMANIA
9:40 P.M.

Valendrea unfastened his seat belt as the Gulfstream dropped from a cloudy night sky and touched down at Otopeni Airport. The jet was owned by an Italian conglomerate deeply entrenched with the Valendreas of Tuscany, and Valendrea himself regularly made use of the aircraft for quick trips out of Rome.

Father Ambrosi waited on the tarmac dressed in civilian clothes, a charcoal overcoat draping his slim frame.

“Welcome, Eminence,” Ambrosi said.

The Romanian night was frigid and Valendrea was glad he’d worn a thick wool coat. Like Ambrosi, he’d dressed in street clothes. This was not an official visit and the last thing he needed was to be recognized. He was taking a risk coming, but he had to gauge the threat for himself.

“What about customs?” he asked.

“Handled. Vatican passports carry weight here.”

They climbed into an idling sedan. Ambrosi drove while Valendrea sat alone in the rear. They headed north, away from Bucharest, toward the mountains over a series of rutted roads. This was Valendrea’s first visit to Romania. He knew of Clement’s desire for an official pilgrimage, but any papal missions to this troubled place would have to wait until he was in command.

“He goes there each Saturday evening to pray,” Ambrosi was saying from the front seat. “In the cold or heat. Doesn’t matter. He’s done that for years.”

He nodded at the information. Ambrosi had been his usual thorough self.

They drove for nearly an hour in silence. The terrain rose progressively until they were winding up the side of a steep forested incline. Ambrosi slowed near the crest, eased onto a ragged shoulder, and killed the engine.

“It’s there, down that path,” Ambrosi said, pointing through fogged windows at a darkened lane between the trees.

In the headlights Valendrea noticed another car parked ahead. “Why does he come?”

“From what I was told, he considers the spot holy. In medieval times the old church was used by the local gentry. When Turks conquered the area, they burned all of the villagers alive inside. He seems to draw strength from their martyrdom.”

“There is something you must know,” he told Ambrosi. His assistant sat in the front seat, his gaze still out the windshield, unmoving. “We are about to cross a line, but it is imperative that we do. There is much at stake. I would not ask this of you if it were not of vital importance to the church.”

“There is no need to explain,” Ambrosi softly said. “It is enough that you say it is so.”

“Your faith is impressive. But you are God’s soldier, and a warrior should know what he is fighting for. So let me tell you what I know.”

They emerged from the car. Ambrosi led the way beneath a velvet sky bleached by a nearly full moon. Fifty meters into the woods, the darkened shadow of a church appeared. As they approached, Valendrea noticed the ancient rosettes and the belfry, the stones no longer individual but fused, seemingly without joints. No light shone from inside.

“Father Tibor,” Valendrea called out in English.

A black form appeared in the doorway. “Who’s there?”

“I am Alberto Cardinal Valendrea. I have come from Rome to speak with you.”

Tibor stepped from the church. “First the papal secretary. Now the secretary of state. Such wonders for a humble priest.”

He couldn’t decide if the tone leaned more toward sarcasm or respect. He extended his hand palm-down, and Tibor knelt before him and kissed the ring he’d worn since the day John Paul II invested him as a cardinal. He was appreciative at the priest’s submissiveness.

“Please, Father, stand. We must talk.”

Tibor came to his feet. “Has my message already made its way to Clement?”

“It has, and the pope is grateful. But I’ve been sent to learn more.”

“Eminence, I’m afraid that I can say no more than I have. It is bad enough that I have violated the oath of silence I made to John XXIII.”

He liked what he was hearing. “So you haven’t spoken of this to anyone before? Not even a confessor?”

“That is correct, Eminence. I’ve told no one what I knew, other than Clement.”

“Did not the papal secretary come here yesterday?”

“He did. But I merely hinted at the truth. He knows nothing. I assume you have seen my written response?”

“I have,” he lied.

“Then you know I said little there, too.”

“What motivated you to craft a reproduction of Sister Lucia’s message?”

“Hard to explain. When I returned from my duties to John that day, I noticed the imprints on the pad. I prayed on the matter and something told me to color the page and reveal the words.”

“Why keep them all those years?”

“I have asked myself the same question. I do not know why, only that I did.”

“And why did you finally decide to make contact with Clement?”

“What has happened with regard to the third secret is not right. The Church has not been honest with its people. Something inside commanded me to speak, an urge I could not ignore.”

Valendrea caught Ambrosi’s gaze momentarily and noticed a slight tip of his head off to the right.
That way.

“Let’s walk, Father,” he said, taking Tibor gently by the arm. “Tell me, why do you come to this spot?”

“I was actually wondering, Eminence, how you found me.”

“Your devotion to prayer is well known. My assistant merely asked around and was told of your weekly ritual.”

“This is a sacred place. Catholics have worshiped here for five hundred years. I find it comforting.” Tibor paused. “It’s also because of the Virgin that I come.”

They were walking down a narrow path with Ambrosi leading the way. “Explain, Father.”

“The Madonna told the children at Fatima that there should be a Communion of Reparation on the first Saturday of each month. I come here every week to offer my personal reparation.”

“For what do you pray?”

“That the world will enjoy the peace the Lady predicted.”

“I, too, pray for the same thing. As does the Holy Father.”

The path ended at the edge of a precipice. Before them spread a panorama of mountains and thick forest, all cast in a pale blue-gray glow. Few lights dotted the landscape, though a couple of fires burned in the distance. A halo sprang from the southern horizon, marking the glow of Bucharest forty miles away.

“Such magnificence,” Valendrea said. “A remarkable view.”

“I come here many times after praying,” Tibor said.

He kept his voice low. “Which must help deal with the agony of the orphanage.”

Tibor nodded. “I’ve received much peace here.”

“As you should.”

He gestured to Ambrosi, who produced a long blade. Ambrosi’s arm swung up from behind and slashed once across Tibor’s throat. The priest’s eyes bulged as he choked on the first gush of blood. Ambrosi dropped the knife, gripped Tibor from behind, and tossed the old man out over the edge.

The cleric’s body dissolved into the blackness.

A second later there was an impact, then another, then silence.

Valendrea stood still with Ambrosi beside him. His gaze remained on the gorge below. “There are rocks?” he calmly asked.

“Many, and a fast-moving stream. The body should take a few days to be found.”

“Was it hard to kill him?” He truly wanted to know.

“It had to be done.”

He stared at his dear friend through the dark, then reached up and outlined a cross on the forehead, lips, and heart. “I forgive you, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

Ambrosi bowed his head in thanks.

“Every religious movement must have martyrs. And we have just borne witness to the Church’s latest.” He knelt on the ground. “Come, join me while I pray for Father Tibor’s soul.”

TWENTY-SIX

CASTLE GANDOLFO
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 12
12:00 P.M.

Michener stood behind Clement inside the Popemobile as the vehicle motored out of the villa grounds toward town. The specially designed car was a modified Mercedes-Benz station wagon that allowed two people to stand, encased within a transparent cocoon of bulletproof shielding. The vehicle was always used when the pope traveled through large crowds.

Clement had agreed to a Sunday visit. Only about three thousand people lived in the village that abutted the papal compound, but they were extraordinarily devoted to the pontiff and such trips were the pope’s way of saying thanks.

After their discussion yesterday afternoon, Michener had not seen the pope until this morning. Though he innately loved people and enjoyed good conversation, Clement XV was still Jakob Volkner, a solitary man who treasured his privacy. So it was no surprise that Clement had spent last evening alone, praying and reading, then retiring early.

An hour ago Michener had drafted a papal letter instructing one of the Medjugorje seers to memorialize the so-called tenth secret, and Clement had signed the document. Michener still wasn’t looking forward to traveling around Bosnia, and he would just have to hope that the trip was short.

It took only a few minutes to make the drive into town. The village square was packed and the crowd cheered as the papal car inched forward. Clement seemed to come alive at the display and waved back, pointing to faces he recognized, mouthing special greetings.

“It’s good they love their pope,” Clement said quietly in German, his attention still on the crowd, fingers gripped tight around the stainless-steel hand bar.

“You give them no reason not to,” Michener said.

“That should be the goal of all who wear this robe.”

The car looped through the square.

“Ask the driver to stop,” the pope said.

Michener tapped twice on the window. The wagon halted and Clement unlatched the glass-paneled door. He stepped down to the cobblestones and the four security men who ringed the car instantly came alert.

“Do you think this wise?” Michener asked.

Clement looked up. “It is most wise.”

Procedure called for the pope never to leave the vehicle. Though this visit had been arranged only yesterday, with little advance word, enough time had passed for there to be reason for concern.

Clement approached the crowd with outstretched arms. Children accepted his withered hands and he brought them close with a hug. Michener knew one of the great disappointments in Clement’s life was not being a father. Children were precious to him.

The security team ringed the pope but the townspeople helped the situation, remaining reverent while Clement moved before them. Many shouted the traditional
Viva, Viva
popes had heard for centuries.

Michener simply watched. Clement XV was doing what popes had done for two millennia.
Thou art Peter and on this rock I will build my Church. And the gates of hell will not stand against it. I will give you the Keys of the Kingdom of Heaven: whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven; whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.
Two hundred and sixty-seven men had been chosen as links in an unbroken chain, starting with Peter and ending with Clement XV. Before him was a perfect example of the shepherd out among the flock.

Part of the third secret of Fatima flashed through his mind.

The Holy Father passed through a big city half in ruins and half trembling with halting step, afflicted with pain and sorrow. He prayed for the souls of the corpses he met on his way. Having reached the top of the mountain, on his knees at the foot of the big Cross he was killed by a group of soldiers who fired bullets and arrows at him.

Perhaps that declaration of danger explained why John XXIII and his successors chose to quell the message. But a Russian-sponsored assassin ultimately tried to kill John Paul II in 1981. Shortly thereafter, while he recuperated, John Paul first read the third Fatima secret. So why did he wait nineteen years before finally revealing the Virgin’s words to the world? A good question. One to be added to a growing list of unanswered inquiries. He decided not to think about any of that. Instead he concentrated on Clement as the pope enjoyed the crowd, and all his fears vanished.

Somehow he knew that no one, on this day, would cause his dear friend harm.

It was two
P.M.
when they returned to the villa. A light lunch was waiting in the solarium and Clement asked Michener to join him. They ate in silence, enjoying the flowers and a spectacular November afternoon. The compound’s swimming pool, just beyond the glass walls, sat empty. It was one of the few luxuries John Paul II had insisted upon, telling the Curia, when it complained about the cost, that it was far cheaper than getting a new pope.

Lunch was a hearty beef soup littered with vegetables, one of Clement’s favorites, along with black bread. Michener was partial to the bread. It reminded him of Katerina. They’d often shared some over coffee and dinner. He wondered where she was right now and why she’d felt the need to leave Bucharest without saying goodbye. He hoped that he’d see her again one day, maybe after his time at the Vatican ended, in a place where men like Alberto Valendrea did not exist, where no one cared who he was or what he did. Where maybe he could follow his heart.

“Tell me about her,” Clement said.

“How did you know I was thinking about her?”

“It wasn’t difficult.”

He actually wanted to talk about it. “She’s different. Familiar, but hard to define.”

Clement sipped wine from his goblet.

“I can’t help but think,” Michener said, “that I’d be a better priest, a better man, if I didn’t have to suppress my feelings.”

The pope tabled his glass. “Your confusion is understandable. Celibacy is wrong.”

He stopped eating. “I hope you haven’t voiced that conclusion to anyone else.”

“If I cannot be honest with you, then who?”

“When did you come to this conclusion?”

“The Council of Trent was a long time ago. Yet here we are, in the twenty-first century, clinging to a sixteenth-century doctrine.”

“It is the Catholic nature.”

“The Council of Trent was convened to deal with the Protestant Reformation. We lost that battle, Colin. The Protestants are here to stay.”

He understood what Clement was saying. The Trent Council had affirmed celibacy as necessary for the gospel’s sake, but conceded that it was not of divine origin. Which meant it could be changed if the Church desired. The only other councils since Trent, Vatican I and II, had declined to do anything. Now the supreme pontiff, the one man who could do something, was questioning the wisdom of that indifference.

“What are you saying, Jakob?”

“I’m not saying anything. I’m only talking with an old friend. Why must priests not marry? Why must they remain chaste? If that’s acceptable for others, why not the clergy?”

“Personally, I agree with you. But I think the Curia would take a different view.”

Clement shifted his weight forward as he pushed his empty soup bowl aside. “And that’s the problem. The Curia will always object to anything that threatens its survival. Do you know what one of them said to me a few weeks ago?”

Michener shook his head.

“He said that celibacy must be maintained because the cost of paying priests would skyrocket. We would have to channel tens of millions to payroll for increased salaries because priests would now have wives and children to support. Can you imagine? That is the logic this Church uses.”

He agreed, but felt compelled to say, “If you even hinted at a change, you’d be providing Valendrea a ready-made issue to use with the cardinals. You could have open revolt.”

“But that’s the benefit of being pope. I speak infallibly on matters of doctrine. My word is the last word. I don’t need permission, and I can’t be voted from office.”

“Infallibility was created by the Church, too,” he reminded. “It can be changed, along with whatever you do, by the next pope.”

The pope was pinching the fleshy part of his hand, a nervous habit Michener had seen before. “I’ve had a vision, Colin.”

The words, barely a whisper, took a moment to sink in. “A what?”

“The Virgin spoke to me.”

“When?”

“Many weeks ago, just after Father Tibor’s first communication. That is why I went to the Riserva. She told me to go.”

First the pope was talking about junking dogma that had stood for five centuries. Now he was proclaiming Marian apparitions. Michener realized this conversation must stay here, only the plants privy, but he heard again what Clement had said in Turin.
Do you think for one moment we enjoy any measure of privacy when at the Vatican?

“Is it wise to speak of this?” He hoped his tone conveyed a warning. But Clement seemed not to hear.

“Yesterday, She appeared in my chapel. I looked up and She was floating before me, surrounded by a blue and gold light, a halo encircling Her radiance.” The pope paused. “She told me that Her heart was encircled with thorns with which men pierce Her by their blasphemies and ingratitude.”

“Are you sure of those statements?” he asked.

Clement nodded. “She said them clearly.” Clement clinched his fingers together. “I’m not senile, Colin. It was a vision, of that I’m sure.” The pope paused. “John Paul II experienced the same.”

He knew that, but said nothing.

“We are foolish men,” Clement said.

He was becoming agitated with riddles.

“The Virgin said to go to Medjugorje.”

“And that’s why I’m being sent?”

Clement nodded. “All would be clear then, she said.”

A few moments of silence passed. He didn’t know what to say. It was hard to argue with heaven.

“I allowed Valendrea to read what is in the Fatima box,” Clement whispered.

He was confused. “What’s there?”

“Part of what Father Tibor sent me.”

“You going to tell me what that is?”

“I can’t.”

“Why did you allow Valendrea to read it?”

“To see his reaction. He’d even tried to browbeat the archivist to allow a look. Now he knows exactly what I know.”

He was about to ask once again what that might be when a light rap on the solarium’s door interrupted their conversation. One of the stewards entered, carrying a folded sheet of paper. “This came over the fax machine from Rome a few moments ago, Monsignor Michener. The cover said to give it to you immediately.”

He took the sheet and thanked the steward, who promptly left. He unfolded and read the message. He then looked at Clement and said, “A call was received a short while ago from the nuncio in Bucharest. Father Tibor is dead. His body was found this morning, washed ashore from a river north of town. His throat had been cut and he apparently was tossed from one of the cliffs. His car was found near an old church he frequented. The police suspect thieves. That area is riddled with them. I was notified, since one of the nuns at the orphanage told the nuncio about my visit. He’s wondering why I was there unannounced.”

Color drained from Clement’s face. The pope made the sign of the cross and folded his hands in prayer. Michener watched as Clement’s eyelids clinched tight and the old man mumbled to himself.

Then tears streaked down the German’s face.