the Third Secret (2005) (25 page)

FIFTY-THREE

VATICAN CITY, 1:00 P.M.

Valendrea stood in the audience chamber and accepted congratulations from the staff in the Secretariat of State. Ambrosi had already indicated a desire to move many of the priests and most of the secretaries to the papal office. He hadn’t argued. If he expected Ambrosi to cater to his every need, the least he could do was allow him to choose his own subordinates.

Ambrosi had left his side only sparingly since the morning, standing dutifully beyond the balcony as he’d addressed the throngs in St. Peter’s Square. Ambrosi had then monitored radio and television reports, which he reported were mainly positive, especially at Valendrea’s choice of label, the commentators agreeing that this could be a
significant pontificate.
Valendrea imagined even Tom Kealy stuttering a second or so as the words
Peter II
left his mouth. There’d be no more best-selling priests during his reign. Clerics would be doing as they were told. If not, they’d be fired—starting with Kealy. He’d already told Ambrosi to defrock the idiot by the end of the week.

And there would be more changes.

The papal tiara would be resurrected, a coronation scheduled. Trumpets would sound at his entrance. Fans and drawn sabers would once again accompany him during the liturgy. And the gestatorial chair would be restored. Paul VI had changed most of those—a few momentary lapses in good judgment, or perhaps a reaction to his own times—but Valendrea would rectify all that.

The last of the well-wishers streamed by and he motioned to Ambrosi, who drew close. “There is something I need to do,” he whispered. “End this.”

Ambrosi turned to the crowd. “Everyone, the Holy Father is hungry. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast. And we all know how our pontiff enjoys his meals.”

Laughter echoed through the hall.

“For those he has not spoken with, I will make time later in the day.”

“May the Lord bless each of you,” Valendrea said.

He followed Ambrosi from the hall to his office at the Secretariat of State. The papal apartments had been unsealed half an hour ago, and many of his belongings from his third-floor chambers were now being moved to the fourth floor. In the days ahead he would visit the museums and basement storage facilities. He’d already provided Ambrosi with a list of items he wanted as part of the apartment décor. He was proud of his planning. Most of the decisions made over the last few hours had been contemplated long ago and the effect was of a pope in charge, doing the appropriate thing in the appropriate manner.

In his office, with the door closed, he turned to Ambrosi. “Find the cardinal-archivist. Tell him to be standing before the Riserva in fifteen minutes.”

Ambrosi bowed and withdrew.

He stepped into the bathroom adjoining his office. He was still incensed by Ngovi’s arrogance. The African was right. There was little he could do to him besides reassignment to a post far from Rome. But that wouldn’t be wise. The soon-to-be-ex-camerlengo had amassed a surprising show of support. It would be foolish to pounce this soon. Patience was the call. But that didn’t mean he’d forgotten Maurice Ngovi.

He splashed water onto his face and dried off with a towel.

The door to the outer office opened and Ambrosi returned. “The archivist is waiting.”

He tossed the towel onto the marble counter. “Good. Let’s go.”

He stormed from the office and descended to the ground floor. The startled looks on the Swiss guards he passed showed that they were not accustomed to a pope appearing without warning.

He entered the archives.

The reading and collection rooms were empty. No one had been allowed use of the facility since Clement died. He stepped into the main hall and crossed the mosaic floor toward the iron grille. The cardinal-archivist stood outside. No one else was there except Ambrosi.

He approached the old man. “Needless to say, your services will no longer be needed. I would retire, if I were you. Be gone by the weekend.”

“My desk is already cleaned out.”

“I have not forgotten your comments this morning at breakfast.”

“Please don’t. When we both stand before the Lord, I want you to repeat them.”

He wanted to slap the mouthy Italian. Instead, he simply asked, “Is the safe open?”

The old man nodded.

He turned to Ambrosi. “Wait here.”

For so long, others had commanded the Riserva. Paul VI. John Paul II. Clement XV. Even the irritating archivist. No more.

He rushed inside, reached for the drawer, and slid it open. The wooden box came into view. He lifted it out and carried it to the same table Paul VI had sat at all those decades ago.

He hinged open the lid and saw two sheets of paper interfolded. One, clearly older, was the first part of the third secret of Fatima—in Sister Lucia’s hand—the back of the sheet still bearing a Vatican mark from when the message was made public in 2000. The other, newer, was Father Tibor’s 1960 Italian translation, it, too, marked.

But there should be another sheet.

Father Tibor’s recent facsimile, which Clement himself had placed in the box. Where was it? He’d come to finish the job. To protect the Church and preserve his sanity.

Yet the paper was gone.

He rushed from the Riserva and shot straight for the archivist. He grabbed the old man by his robes. A great surge of anger swept through him. The cardinal’s face filled with shock.

“Where is it?” he spat out.

“What . . . do . . . you mean?” the old man stammered.

“I’m in no mood. Where is it?”

“I have touched nothing. I swear to you before my God.”

He could see the man was being truthful. This was not the source of the problem. He released his grip and the cardinal stepped back, clearly frightened by the assault.

“Get out of here,” he told the archivist.

The old man hustled away.

A thought flooded his mind. Clement. That Friday night when the pope allowed him to destroy half of what Tibor had sent.

I wanted you to know what awaits you, Alberto.

Why didn’t you stop me from burning the paper?

You’ll see.

And when he demanded the remaining portion—Tibor’s translation.

No, Alberto. It stays in the box.

He should have shoved the bastard aside and done what had to be done, regardless of whether the night prefect was there.

Now he saw everything clearly.

The translation was never in the box. Did it even exist? Yes, it did. No question. And Clement had wanted him to know.

Now it had to be found.

He turned to Ambrosi. “Go to Bosnia. Bring Colin Michener back. No excuses, no exceptions. I want him here tomorrow. Tell him if he’s not, I’ll have a warrant issued for his arrest.”

“The charge, Holy Father?” Ambrosi asked, almost matter-of-factly. “So I may say, if he asks.”

He thought a moment, then said, “Complicity in the murder of Father Andrej Tibor.”

FIFTY-FOUR

MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA
6:00 P.M.

Katerina’s stomach knotted as she spotted Father Ambrosi entering the hospital. She immediately noticed the addition of scarlet piping and a red sash to his black wool cassock, signifying an elevation to monsignor. Apparently Peter II wasted no time handing out the spoils.

Michener was resting in his room. All the tests run on him had come back negative, and the doctor predicted he should be fine by tomorrow. They planned to leave for Bucharest at lunchtime. The presence of Ambrosi, though, here in Bosnia, meant nothing but trouble.

Ambrosi spotted her and approached. “I’m told Father Michener had a close call with death.”

She resented his feigned concern, which was clearly for public consumption. “Screw you, Ambrosi.” She kept her voice low. “This fountain is dry.”

He shook his head in a gesture to convey mock disgust. “Love truly does conquer all. No matter. We require nothing further from you.”

But she did of him. “I don’t want Colin to learn anything about you and me.”

“I’m sure you don’t.”

“I’ll tell him myself. Understand?”

He did not answer.

The tenth secret, written by Jasna, was in her pocket. She almost yanked the slip of paper out and forced the words onto Ambrosi, but what heaven might want was surely of no interest to this arrogant ass. Whether the message was from the mother of God or the lamentations of a woman convinced she was divinely chosen, nobody would ever know. But she wondered how the Church and Alberto Valendrea would explain away the tenth secret, particularly after accepting the previous nine from Medjugorje.

“Where is Michener?” Ambrosi asked, the tone expressionless.

“What do you want with him?”

“I want nothing, but his pope is another matter.”

“Leave him alone.”

“Oh, my. The lioness bares her claws.”

“Get out of here, Ambrosi.”

“I’m afraid you don’t tell me what to do. The word of the papal secretary, I imagine, would carry much weight here. Surely more than that of an unemployed journalist.” He moved around her.

She quickly stepped in his way. “I mean it, Ambrosi. Back off. Tell Valendrea that Colin’s through with Rome.”

“He’s still a priest in the Roman Catholic Church, subject to the authority of the pope. He will do as told, or face the consequences.”

“What does Valendrea want?”

“Why don’t we go to Michener,” Ambrosi said, “and I’ll explain. I assure you, it’s worth listening to.”

She entered the room with Ambrosi following. Michener was sitting up in bed and his face constricted at the site of his visitor.

“I bring you greetings from Peter II,” Ambrosi said. “We learned about what happened—”

“And just had to fly over to let me know your deep concern.”

Ambrosi kept a stone face. Katerina wondered if he’d been born with the ability or mastered the technique through years of deceit.

“We’re aware of why you are in Bosnia,” Ambrosi said. “I’ve been sent to ascertain if you have learned anything from the seers?”

“Not a thing.”

She was impressed with Michener’s ability to lie, too.

“Must I go and find out if you’re being truthful?”

“Do whatever you want.”

“The information being circulated around town is that the tenth secret was revealed to the seer, Jasna, last night, and the visions are now over. The priests here are quite upset over that prospect.”

“No more tourists? The money flow ended?” She couldn’t resist.

Ambrosi faced her. “Perhaps you should wait outside. This is Church business.”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Michener said. “With all you and Valendrea have surely been doing the past two days, you’re worried about what’s happening here in Bosnia? Why?”

Ambrosi folded both hands behind his back. “I’m the one asking questions.”

“Then by all means fire away.”

“The Holy Father commands you back to Rome.”

“You know what you can tell the Holy Father.”

“Such disrespect. At least we openly did not scorn Clement XV.”

Michener’s face hardened. “That’s supposed to impress me? You just did everything possible to thwart what he was trying to do.”

“I was hoping you’d be difficult.”

The tone of Ambrosi’s comment worried her. He seemed immensely pleased.

“I’m to inform you that if you do not come voluntarily, a warrant for your arrest will be issued through the Italian government.”

“What are you babbling about?” Michener asked.

“The papal nuncio in Bucharest has informed His Holiness of your meeting with Father Tibor. He’s upset he was not part of whatever you and Clement were doing. The Romanian authorities are now interested in talking with you. They, as we, are curious as to what the late pope wanted with that aging priest.”

Katerina’s throat tightened. This was drifting into dangerous waters. Michener, though, seemed unfazed. “Who said Clement was interested in Father Tibor?”

Ambrosi shrugged. “You? Clement? Who cares? All that matters is you went to see him and the Romanian police want to talk with you. The Holy See can either block that effort, or aid it. Which would you prefer?”

“Don’t care.”

Ambrosi turned around and faced Katerina. “What about you? Do you care?”

She realized the asshole was playing his trump card. Get Michener back to Rome or he’d learn, right now, how she’d so easily found him in Bucharest and Rome.

“What’s she got to do with this?” Michener quickly asked.

Ambrosi hesitated for an agonizing pause. She wanted to slap his face, as she had in Rome, but she did nothing.

Ambrosi turned back to Michener. “I was only wondering what she might think. I understand she’s a Romanian by birth, familiar with her country’s police. I imagine their interrogation techniques are something one might want to avoid.”

“Care to tell me how you know so much about her?”

“Father Tibor spoke with the papal nuncio in Bucharest. He told him about Ms. Lew being present when you talked with him. I simply learned of her background.”

She was impressed with Ambrosi’s explanation. If not for knowing the truth, she would have believed it herself.

“Leave her out of this,” Michener said.

“Will you return to Rome?”

“I’ll go back.”

The response surprised her.

Ambrosi nodded approval. “I have a plane available in Split. When will you leave this hospital?”

“In the morning.”

“Be ready at seven
A.M.
” Ambrosi headed for the door. “And I’ll pray this evening—” He paused a moment. “—for your speedy recovery.”

Then he left.

“If he’s praying for me, I’m in real trouble,” Michener said as the door closed.

“Why did you agree to go back? He was bluffing about Romania.”

Michener shifted in the bed and she helped him get situated. “I have to talk with Ngovi. He needs to know what Jasna said.”

“For what? You can’t believe any of what she wrote. That secret is ludicrous.”

“Maybe so. But it’s the tenth secret of Medjugorje, whether we believe it or not. I need to give it to Ngovi.”

She adjusted the pillow. “Ever heard of fax machines?”

“I don’t want to argue about this, Kate. Besides, I’m curious what’s important enough for Valendrea to send his errand boy. Apparently there’s something big involved, and I think I know what it is.”

“The third secret of Fatima?”

He nodded. “But it still makes no sense. That secret is known to the world.”

She recalled what Father Tibor had said in his messages to Clement.
Do as the Madonna said . . . How much intolerance will heaven allow?

“This whole thing is beyond logic,” Michener said.

She wanted to know, “Have you and Ambrosi always been enemies?”

He nodded. “I wonder how a man like that became a priest. If not for Valendrea, he never would have made it to Rome. They’re perfect for one another.” He hesitated, as if in thought. “I imagine there’s going to be a lot of changes.”

“That’s not your problem,” she said, hoping he wasn’t changing his mind about their future.

“Don’t worry, I’m not having second thoughts. But I wonder if the Romanian authorities are truly interested in me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Could be a smokescreen.”

She looked puzzled.

“Clement sent me an e-mail the night he died. In it he told me that Valendrea may have removed part of the original third secret long ago when he worked for Paul VI.”

She listened with interest.

“Clement and Valendrea went into the Riserva together the night before Clement died. Valendrea also took an unscheduled trip from Rome the next day.”

She instantly saw the significance. “The Saturday Father Tibor was murdered?”

“Connect the dots and a picture starts to form.”

The image of Ambrosi, his knee jammed into her chest, his hands wrapped around her throat, flashed through her mind. Had Valendrea and Ambrosi been involved with Tibor’s murder? She wanted to tell Michener what she knew, but realized that her explanation would generate far too many questions than she was presently willing to answer. Instead, she asked, “Could Valendrea have been involved with Father Tibor’s death?”

“Hard to say. But he’s certainly capable. As is Ambrosi. I still think Ambrosi is bluffing, though. The last thing the Vatican wants is attention. I’m betting our new pope will do whatever he can to keep the spotlight off him.”

“But Valendrea could direct that spotlight somewhere else.”

Michener seemed to understand. “Like onto me.”

She nodded. “Nothing better than an ex-employee to blame everything on.”

Valendrea donned one of the white cassocks the House of Gammarelli had crafted during the afternoon. He’d been right this morning—his measurements were on file, and it had been easy to fashion the appropriate garments in a short period of time. The seamstresses had done their job well. He admired good work and made a mental note to have Ambrosi forward an official thanks.

He hadn’t heard from Ambrosi since Paolo had left for Bosnia. But he had no doubt that his friend would tend to his mission. Ambrosi knew what was at stake. He’d made things clear to him that night in Romania. Colin Michener had to be brought to Rome. Clement XV had cleverly thought ahead—he’d give the German that—and had apparently concluded that Valendrea would succeed him, so he’d purposely removed Tibor’s latest translation, knowing there was no way he could start his papacy with that potential disaster looming.

But where was it?

Michener surely knew.

The telephone rang.

He was in his bedroom on the third floor of the palace. The papal apartments were still being prepared.

The phone rang again.

He wondered about the interruption. It was nearly eight
P.M
. He was trying to dress for his first formal dinner, this one a celebration of thanks with the cardinals, and had left word not to be disturbed.

Another ring.

He lifted the receiver.

“Holy Father, Father Ambrosi is calling and asked that I connect him. He said it was important.”

“Do it.”

A few clicks and Ambrosi said, “I have done as you asked.”

“And the reaction?”

“He will be there tomorrow.”

“His health?”

“Nothing severe.”

“His traveling companion?”

“Being her usual charming self.”

“Let’s keep that one happy, for the present.” Ambrosi had told him about her assault on him in Rome. At the time she was their best conduit to Michener, but the situation had changed.

“Nothing from me will affect that.”

“Till tomorrow then,” he said. “Have a safe trip.”