the Third Secret (2005) (26 page)

FIFTY-FIVE

VATICAN CITY
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 30
1:00 P.M.

Michener sat in the backseat of a Vatican car, Katerina beside him. Ambrosi was in the front, and on his command they were waved through the Arch of the Bells into the privacy of the St. Damascus courtyard. A warren of ancient buildings surrounded them, blocking the midday sun, casting the pavement in an indigo hue.

For the first time he felt uneasy about being inside the Vatican. The men in charge now were manipulators. Enemies. He needed to be careful, watch his words, and get whatever was about to happen over with as quickly as possible.

The car stopped and they climbed out.

Ambrosi led them into a drawing room encased on three sides with stained glass where popes, for centuries, had greeted guests beneath the impressive murals. They followed Ambrosi through a maze of loggias and galleries littered with candelabra and tapestries surrounded by walls bursting with images of popes receiving homage from emperors and kings.

Michener knew where they were headed, and Ambrosi stopped outside the bronze door leading into the papal library where Gorbachev, Mandela, Carter, Yeltsin, Reagan, Bush, Clinton, Rabin, and Arafat had all visited.

“Ms. Lew will be waiting in the forward loggia when you are through,” Ambrosi said. “In the meantime, you will not be disturbed.”

Surprisingly Katerina did not object to being excluded and walked off with Ambrosi.

He opened the door and entered.

Three leaded-glass windows bathed the five-hundred-year-old bookshelves with fractured waves of light. Valendrea sat behind a desk, the same one popes had used for half a millennium. A panel depicting the Madonna graced the wall behind him. An upholstered armchair was angled in front of the desk, but Michener knew only heads of state were privileged to sit before the pope.

Valendrea stepped around the desk. The pope held out his hand, palm-down, and Michener knew what was expected of him. He stared deep into the Tuscan’s eyes. This was the moment of submission. He debated what to do, but decided discretion was a better tack, at least until he learned what this demon wanted. He knelt and kissed the ring, noticing that the Vatican jewelers had already crafted a new one.

“I am told Clement took pleasure in extracting a similar gesture from His Eminence, Cardinal Bartolo, in Turin. I will pass on to the good cardinal your respect for church protocol.”

Michener stood. “What do you want?” He did not add
Holy Father.

“How are your injuries?”

“Surely you don’t care.”

“What would make you think otherwise?”

“The respect you’ve shown me the past three years.”

Valendrea stepped back toward the desk. “I assume you’re trying to provoke a response. I’ll ignore your tone.”

He asked again, “What do you want?”

“I want what Clement removed from the Riserva.”

“I was unaware anything was gone.”

“I am not in the mood. Clement told you everything.”

He recalled things Clement had told him.
I allowed Valendrea to read what is in the Fatima box . . . In 1978 he removed from the Riserva part of the Virgin’s third message.

“Seems to me you’re the thief.”

“Bold words to your pope. Can you back them up?”

He wasn’t taking that bait. Let the son of a bitch wonder what he knew.

Valendrea moved toward him. He seemed quite comfortable dressed in white, the skullcap nearly lost in his thick mane. “I’m not asking, Michener. I’m ordering you to tell me where that writing is.”

There was a tinge of desperation in the command that made him wonder if Clement’s e-mail ramblings were more than those of a depressed soul about to die. “I didn’t know anything was gone, until a moment ago.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?”

“Believe what you want.”

“I’ve had the papal apartments and Castle Gandolfo searched. You have Clement’s personal belongings. I want them checked.”

“What is it you’re looking for?”

Valendrea appraised him with a suspicious gaze. “I can’t decide if you are being truthful or not.”

He shrugged. “Trust me. I am.”

“All right. Father Tibor reproduced Sister Lucia’s third message of Fatima. He sent his facsimile of both the original the good nun penned and his translation to Clement. The reproduced translation is now gone from the Riserva.”

Michener was beginning to understand. “So you did take part of the third secret in 1978.”

“I simply want what that priest concocted. Where are Clement’s belongings?”

“I gave his furniture to charity. The rest I have.”

“Have you been through them?”

He lied. “Of course.”

“And you found nothing from Father Tibor?”

“Would you believe me if I answered?”

“Why should I?”

“Because I’m such a nice guy.”

Valendrea went silent for a moment. Michener stayed silent, too.

“What did you learn in Bosnia?”

He noticed the shift in subjects. “Not to climb a mountain in a rainstorm.”

“I see why Clement treasured you. A quick wit, matched by a sharp intellect.” He paused. “Now answer my question.”

He reached into his pocket, withdrew Jasna’s note, and handed the slip of paper to the pope. “That’s the tenth secret of Medjugorje.”

Valendrea accepted the offering and read. The Tuscan drew a deep breath and his gaze shifted pointedly from the sheet to Michener’s face. A low moan seeped from the pope’s mouth and, without warning, Valendrea lunged forward and grabbed two handfuls of Michener’s black cassock, the paper still in his hand. Fury filled the eyes that stared upon him. “Where is Tibor’s reproduced translation?”

He was shocked by the attack, but kept his composure. “I considered Jasna’s words meaningless. Why do they bother you?”

“Her ramblings mean nothing. What I want is Father Tibor’s facsimile—”

“If the words are meaningless, why am I being assaulted?”

Valendrea seemed to realize the situation and released his grip. “Tibor’s translation is Church property. I want it returned.”

“Then you need to dispatch the Swiss guard to locate it.”

“You have forty-eight hours to produce it or I’ll have a warrant issued for your arrest.”

“On what charge?”

“Theft of Vatican property. I’ll also turn you over to the Romanian police. They want to know about your visit with Father Tibor.” The words crackled with authority.

“I’m sure they’ll want to know about your visit with him, too.”

“What visit?”

He needed Valendrea to think he knew far more than he did. “You left the Vatican the day Tibor was killed.”

“Since you seem to have all the answers, tell me where I went.”

“I know enough.”

“Do you really believe you can carry that bluff through? You plan to implicate the pope in a murder investigation? That effort would not get far.”

He tried another bluff. “You weren’t alone.”

“Really now? Tell me more.”

“I’ll wait until my police interrogation. The Romanians will be fascinated. That much I guarantee.”

A flushed look invaded Valendrea’s face. “You have no idea what’s at stake here. This is more important than you could ever realize.”

“You sound like Clement.”

“On this he was right.” Valendrea looked away for a moment, then turned back. “Did Clement tell you that he watched while I burned part of what Tibor sent him? He stood right there in the Riserva and let me destroy it. He also wanted me to know that the rest of what Tibor sent, a facsimile translation of Sister Lucia’s complete message, was there, too, in the box. But it is now gone. Clement didn’t want anything to happen to it. That much I know. So he gave it to you.”

“Why is this translation so important?”

“I don’t plan to explain myself. I simply want the document returned.”

“How do you know it was even there?”

“I don’t. But no one returned to the archives after that Friday night, and Clement was dead two days later.”

“Along with Father Tibor.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Whatever you want it to mean.”

“I’ll do whatever I have to do to get that document.”

A bitter edge laced to the words. “I believe you would.” He needed to leave. “Am I dismissed?”

“Get out. But I’d better hear from you in two days time or you won’t like my next messenger.”

He wondered what that meant. The police? Somebody else? Hard to say.

“Ever wonder how Ms. Lew found you in Romania?” Valendrea casually asked as he reached the door.

Did he hear right? How did he know anything about Katerina? He stopped and looked back.

“She was there because I paid her to learn what you were doing.”

He was stunned, but said nothing.

“Bosnia, too. She went to keep an eye on you. I told her to use her talents to gain your trust, as she apparently did.”

He rushed forward, but Valendrea produced a small black controller. “One press and Swiss guards charge into this room. Assaulting the pope is a serious crime.”

He halted his advance and repressed a shudder.

“You aren’t the first man to be duped by a woman. She’s clever. But I’m telling you this as a warning. Careful whom you trust, Michener. There’s much at stake. You may not realize it, but I may be the only friend you’ve got when all this is over.”

FIFTY-SIX

Michener left the library. Ambrosi was waiting outside but did not accompany him to the forward loggia, saying only that the car and driver would take him wherever he wanted to go.

Katerina sat alone on a gilded settee. He was trying to understand what had motivated her to deceive him. He’d wondered about her finding him in Bucharest, then showing up at the apartment in Rome. He wanted to believe everything that had passed between them had been sincere, but he could not help thinking that it was all an act, designed to sway his emotions and lower his defenses. He’d been worried about the household staff or listening devices. Instead the one person he trusted had become his enemy’s perfect emissary.

At Turin, Clement had warned him.
You have no idea the depth of a person like Alberto Valendrea. You think you can do battle with Valendrea? No, Colin. You’re no match for him. You’re too decent. Too trusting.

His throat tightened as he came close to Katerina. Perhaps his strained expression betrayed his thoughts.

“He told you about me, didn’t he?” Her voice was sad.

“You expected that?”

“Ambrosi almost did yesterday. I figured Valendrea certainly would. I’m of no use to them anymore.”

Emotions ricocheted through him.

“I told them nothing, Colin. Absolutely nothing. I took Valendrea’s money and I went to Romania and Bosnia. That’s true. But because I wanted to go, not because
they
wanted me to. I used them, like they used me.”

The words sounded good, but were not enough to ease his pain. He calmly asked, “Does the truth mean anything to you?”

She bit her lip and he noticed her right arm trembling. Anger, which was her usual response to a confrontation, had not surfaced. When she did not answer him, he said, “I trusted you, Kate. I told you things I would never tell anyone else.”

“And I didn’t violate that trust.”

“How am I to believe you?” Though he wanted to.

“What did Valendrea say?”

“Enough for us to be having this conversation.”

He was rapidly numbing. His parents were gone, as was Jakob Volkner. Now Katerina had betrayed him. For the first time in his life he was alone, and suddenly the weight of being an unwanted baby, born in an institution and stripped from his mother, settled upon him. He was in many ways lost, with nowhere to turn. He’d thought with Clement gone the woman standing before him held the answer to his future. He was even willing to discard a quarter century of his life for the chance to love her and be loved back.

But how could that possibly be now?

A moment of strained silence passed between them. Awkward and embarrassing.

“Okay, Colin,” she finally said. “I get the message. I’ll go.”

She turned to leave.

The heels of her shoes tapped off the marble as she walked away. He wanted to tell her it was okay.
Don’t leave. Stop.
But he couldn’t bring himself to speak the words.

He headed in the opposite direction, down to ground level. He wasn’t about to use the car Ambrosi had offered. He wanted nothing more from this place except to be left alone.

He was inside the Vatican without credentials or an escort, but his face was so well known that none of the guards questioned his presence. He came to the end of a long loggia filled with planispheres and globes. Ahead, Maurice Ngovi stood in the opposite doorway.

“I heard you were here,” Ngovi said as he approached. “I also know what happened in Bosnia. You okay?”

He nodded. “I was going to call you later.”

“We need to talk.”

“Where?”

Ngovi seemed to understand and motioned for him to follow. They walked in silence to the archives. The reading rooms were once again full of scholars, historians, and journalists. Ngovi found the cardinal-archivist and the three men headed for one of the reading rooms. Once inside with the door closed, Ngovi said, “I think this place is reasonably private.”

Michener turned to the archivist. “I thought you’d be unemployed by now.”

“I’ve been ordered out by the weekend. My replacement arrives the day after tomorrow.”

He knew what the job meant to the old man. “I’m sorry. But I think you’re better off.”

“What did our pontiff want with you?” Ngovi asked.

Michener plopped down in one of the chairs. “He thinks I have a document that was supposedly in the Riserva. Something Father Tibor sent to Clement that concerns the third secret of Fatima. Some facsimile of a translation. I have no idea what he’s talking about.”

Ngovi gave the archivist a strange look.

“What is it?” Michener asked.

Ngovi told him about Valendrea’s visit yesterday to the Riserva.

“He was like a madman,” the archivist said. “He kept saying something was gone from the box. I was truly frightened of him. God help this Church.”

“Did Valendrea explain anything?” Ngovi asked him.

He told them both what the pope had said.

“That Friday night,” the cardinal-archivist said, “when Clement and Valendrea were in the Riserva together, something was burned. We found ashes on the floor.”

“Clement said nothing to you about that?” Michener asked.

The archivist shook his head. “Not a word.”

A lot of the pieces were coming together, but there was still a problem. He said, “This whole thing is bizarre. Sister Lucia herself verified in 2000 the authenticity of the third secret before it was released by John Paul.”

Ngovi nodded. “I was present. The original writing was taken, in the box, from the Riserva to Portugal, and she confirmed that the document was the same one she penned in 1944. But, Colin, the box contained only two sheets of paper. I myself was there when it was opened. There was an original writing and an Italian translation. Nothing more.”

“If the message was incomplete, would she not have said something?” Michener asked.

“She was so old and frail,” Ngovi said. “I recall how she merely glanced at the page and nodded. I was told her eyesight was poor, her hearing gone.”

“Maurice asked me to check,” the archivist said. “Valendrea and Paul VI entered the Riserva on May 18, 1978. Valendrea returned an hour later, on Paul’s express order, and stayed there, alone, for fifteen minutes.”

Ngovi nodded. “It seems whatever Father Tibor sent to Clement opened a door Valendrea thought long closed.”

“And it may have cost Tibor his life.” He considered the situation. “Valendrea called whatever is gone a
facsimile translation.
Translation of what?”

“Colin,” Ngovi said. “There is apparently more to the third secret of Fatima than we know.”

“And Valendrea thinks I have it.”

“Do you?” Ngovi asked.

He shook his head. “If I did, I’d give him the damn thing. I’m sick of this and just want out.”

“Any thoughts as to what Clement might have done with Tibor’s reproduction?”

He hadn’t really considered the point. “No idea. Stealing was not like Clement.” Neither was committing suicide, but he knew better than to say anything. The archivist had no knowledge of that. But he sensed from Ngovi’s expression the Kenyan was thinking the same thing.

“And what of Bosnia?” Ngovi asked.

“Stranger than Romania.”

He showed them Jasna’s message. He’d given Valendrea a copy, keeping the original.

“We can’t put too much credence in this,” Ngovi said, motioning with Jasna’s words. “Medjugorje seems more a sideshow than a religious experience. This tenth secret could simply be the seer’s imagination and, quite frankly, considering its scope, I have to seriously question if that isn’t so.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Michener said. “Jasna has convinced herself it’s real and seems caught up in the experience. Yet Valendrea reacted strongly when he read the message.” He told them what had just happened.

“That’s the way he was in the Riserva,” the archivist said. “A madman.”

Michener stared hard at Ngovi. “What’s going on here, Maurice?”

“I am at a loss. Years back, as a bishop, I and others spent three months studying the third secret at John Paul’s request. That message was so different from the first two. They were precise, detailed, but the third secret was more a parable. His Holiness thought guidance from the Church, in its interpretation, was called for. And I agreed. But never did we consider the message incomplete.”

Ngovi motioned to a thick, oversized volume lying on the table. The huge manuscript was ancient, its pages so aged they appeared charred. The cover was scrawled in Latin, surrounded by colorful drawings depicting what appeared to be popes and cardinals. The words
LIGNUM VITAE
were barely visible in faded crimson ink.

Ngovi sat in one of the chairs and asked Michener, “What do you know of St. Malachy?”

“Enough to question whether the man was genuine.”

“I assure you, his prophecies are real. This volume here was published in Venice in 1595 by a Dominican historian, Arnold Wion, as the definitive account of what St. Malachy himself wrote of his visions.”

“Maurice, those visions occurred in the middle of the twelfth century. Four hundred years passed before Wion began writing everything down. I’ve heard all the tales. Who knows what Malachy said, if anything.
His
words have not survived.”

“But Malachy’s writings were here in 1595,” the archivist said. “Our indexes show that. So Wion would have had access to them.”

“If Wion’s book survived, why didn’t Malachy’s text?”

Ngovi motioned to the book. “Even if Wion’s writing is a forgery,
his
prophecies instead of Malachy’s, they, too, are remarkable in their accuracy. Made even more so with what’s happened over the past couple of days.”

Ngovi offered him three typed sheets. Michener scanned the pages and saw that it was a narrative summary.

Malachy was an Irishman, born in 1094. He became a priest at age twenty-five, a bishop at thirty. In 1139 he left Ireland for Rome, where he delivered an account of his diocese to Pope Innocent II. While there he experienced a strange vision of the future, a long list of men who would one day rule the Church. He committed his vision to parchment and presented Innocent with the manuscript. The pope read the offering, then sealed it in the archives where it remained until 1595, when Arnold Wion again recorded the list of pontiffs Malachy had seen, along with Malachy’s prophetical mottoes, starting with Celestine II, in 1143, and ending 111 popes later with the supposed last pontiff.

“There’s no evidence that Malachy even experienced visions,” Michener said. “As I recall, that was all added to the story in the late nineteenth century from secondhand sources.”

“Read some of the mottoes,” Ngovi calmly said.

He stared again at the pages in his hand. The eighty-first pope was prophesied to be
The Lily and the Rose.
Urban VIII, who served at that time, came from Florence, which used the red lily as its symbol. He was also bishop of Spoletto, which took the rose for its symbol. The ninety-fourth pope was said to be
A Rose of Umbria.
Clement XIII, before becoming pope, was governor of Umbria.
Apostolic Wanderer
was the predicted motto for the ninety-sixth pope. Pius VI would end his days a wandering prisoner of the French revolutionists. Leo XIII was the 102nd pope.
A Light in the Sky
was his attributed motto. The papal arms of Leo showed a comet. John XXIII was said to be
Shepherd and Sailor.
Apt since he defined his pontificate as that of a shepherd and the badge of Vatican II, which he called into session, displayed a cross and a ship. Also, prior to his election, John was patriarch of Venice, an ancient maritime capital.

Michener looked up. “Interesting, but what does this have to do with anything?”

“Clement was the one hundred and eleventh pope. Malachy labeled him
From the Glory of the Olive.
Do you recall the gospel of Matthew, chapter 24, the signs of the end of the age?”

He did. Jesus left the Temple and was walking away when his disciples complimented the beauty of the building.
I tell you the truth,
He said.
Not one stone here will be left on another; every one will be thrown down.
Then later, on the Mount of Olives, the disciples beseeched Him to say when that would happen and what will be the sign of the end of the age.

“Christ foretold the second coming in that passage. But, Maurice, you can’t seriously believe that the end of the age is at hand?”

“Perhaps not something that cataclysmic, but nonetheless a clear ending and a new beginning. Clement was predicted to be the precursor to that event. And there’s more. Of Malachy’s described popes, starting in 1143, the last of his one hundred and twelve is the current pope. Malachy predicted in 1138 that he would be named
Petrus Romanus.
”

Peter the Roman.

“But that’s a fallacy,” Michener said. “Some say Malachy never predicted a Peter. Instead, that was added in a nineteenth-century publication of his prophecies.”

“I wish that were true,” Ngovi said as he slipped on a pair of cotton gloves and gently opened the bulky manuscript. The ancient parchment crackled from the effort. “Read this.”