the Third Secret (2005) (13 page)

TWENTY-TWO

BUCHAREST
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 11
6:00 A.M.

Katerina had slept poorly. Her neck was sore from Ambrosi’s attack, and she was mad as hell with Valendrea. Her first thought was to tell the secretary of state to screw himself and then tell Michener the truth. But she knew that whatever peace they might have forged last evening would be shattered. Michener would never believe that her main reason for allying herself with Valendrea was the chance to again be close to him. All he would see was her betrayal.

Tom Kealy had been right about Valendrea.
That is one ambitious bastard.
More than Kealy ever knew, she thought, staring again at the ceiling of the darkened room and massaging her bruised muscles. Kealy was also right about something else. He once told her there were two kinds of cardinals—those who want to be pope and those who
really
want to be pope. She now added a third kind—those who coveted to be pope.

Like Alberto Valendrea.

She hated herself. There was an innocence about Michener that she’d violated. He couldn’t help who he was or what he believed. Maybe that was what actually attracted her to him. Too bad the Church wouldn’t allow its clerics to be happy. Too bad the way things had always been controlled what would always be. Damn the Roman Catholic Church. And damn Alberto Valendrea.

She’d slept in her clothes, and for the past two hours she’d patiently waited. Now squeaks in the floorboards above alerted her. Her eyes followed the sound as Colin Michener stepped around his room. She heard water running in the basin and waited for the inevitable. A few moments later footsteps led toward the hall and she heard the door above open and close.

She stood, left the room, and made her way to the stairwell just as the bathroom door in the hall above closed. She crept up the stairs and hesitated at the top, waiting to hear water flowing in the shower. She then hustled down a threadbare runner, over uneven hardwood planks, to Michener’s room, hoping he still did not lock anything.

The door opened.

She stepped inside, and her eyes found his travel bag. His clothes from last night and jacket were there, too. She searched the pockets and found the envelope Father Tibor had provided. She recalled Michener’s habit of short showers and tore open the envelope:

Holy Father:

I kept the oath that John XXIII imposed upon me because of my love for our Lord. But several months ago an incident caused me to rethink my duty. One of the children at the orphanage died. In the final moments of his life, while he screamed in pain, he asked me about heaven and wanted to know if God would forgive him. I could not imagine what this innocent would need forgiven, but I told him the Lord will forgive anything. He wanted me to explain, but death was impatient and he passed before I could. It was then I realized that I, too, must seek forgiveness. Holy Father, my oath to my pope meant something to me. I kept it for more than forty years, but heaven should not be challenged. It is certainly not for me to tell you, the Vicar of Christ, what needs to be done. That can come only from your own blessed conscience and the guidance of our Lord and Savior. But I must ask, how much intolerance will heaven allow? I mean no disrespect, but it is you who have sought my opinion. So I offer it humbly.

Katerina read the message again. Father Tibor was as cryptic on paper as he had been in person the night before, offering only more riddles.

She refolded the note and slipped the sheet back into a white envelope she’d found among her things. It was a bit larger than the original, but hopefully not different enough to arouse suspicion.

She stuffed the envelope back into the jacket and left the room.

As she passed the bathroom door, the water in the shower stopped. She imagined Michener drying himself, oblivious to her latest betrayal. She hesitated a moment, then descended the stairs, never looking back and feeling even worse about herself.

TWENTY-THREE

VATICAN CITY, 7:15 A.M.

Valendrea pushed aside his breakfast. He had no appetite. He’d slept sparingly, the dream so real he still could not rid it from his mind.

He saw himself at his own coronation, being carried into St. Peter’s Basilica on the regal
sedia gestatoria.
Eight monsignors held aloft a silk canopy that sheltered the ancient golden chair. The papal court surrounded him, everyone dressed in sartorial majesty. Ostrich fans flanked him on three sides and accented his exalted position as Christ’s divine representative on earth. A choir sang as a million people cheered and millions more watched on television.

The strange part was that he was naked.

No robes. No crown. Totally naked and no one seemed to notice, though he was painfully aware. A strange uncomfortableness passed through him as he kept waving to the crowd. Why did no one see? He wanted to cover himself, but fear kept him rooted to the chair. If he stood people might really notice. Would they laugh? Ridicule him? Then, one face among the millions that engulfed him stood out.

Jakob Volkner’s.

The German was dressed in full papal regalia. He wore the robes, the miter, the pallium—everything Valendrea should be wearing. Above the cheers, the music, and the choir, he heard Volkner’s every word, as clear as if they were standing side by side.

I’m glad it’s you, Alberto.

What do you mean?

You’ll see.

He’d awakened in a clammy sweat and eventually drifted back to sleep, but the dream reoccurred. Finally, he relieved his tension with a scalding shower. He’d nicked himself twice while shaving and nearly slipped on the bathroom floor. Being unnerved was unsettling. He was not accustomed to anxiety.

I wanted you know what awaits you, Alberto.

The damn German had been so smug last night.

And now he understood.

Jakob Volkner knew exactly what happened in 1978.

Valendrea reentered the Riserva. Paul had commanded that he return, so the archivist had been specifically instructed to open the safe and provide him with privacy.

He reached for the drawer and removed the wooden box. He’d brought with him wax, a lighter, and the seal of Paul VI. Just as John XXIII’s seal once was stamped on the outside, now Paul’s would signify that the box should not be opened, except by papal command.

He hinged open the top and made sure that two packets, four folded sheets of paper, remained inside. He could still see Paul’s face as he’d read the top packet. There’d been shock, which was an emotion rarely seen on the face of Paul VI. But there’d been something else, too, only for an instant, but Valendrea had seen it clearly.

Fear.

He stared into the box. The two packets containing the third secret of Fatima were still there. He knew he shouldn’t, but no one would ever know. So he lifted out the top packet, the one that had brought such a reaction.

He unfolded and set aside the original Portuguese page, then scanned its Italian translation.

Comprehension took only an instant. He knew what had to be done. Perhaps that was why Paul had sent him? Maybe the old man realized that he would read the words and then do what a pope could not.

He slipped the translation into his cassock, joined a second later by Sister Lucia’s original writing. He then unfolded the remaining packet and read.

Nothing of any consequence.

So he reassembled those two pages, dropped them back inside, and sealed the box.

Valendrea stood from the table and locked the doors that led out of his apartment. He then strode into his bedroom and removed a small bronze casket from a cabinet. His father had presented the box to him for his seventeenth birthday. Ever since, he’d kept all his precious things inside, among them photos of his parents, deeds to properties, stock certificates, his first missal, and a rosary from John Paul II.

He reached beneath his vestments and found the key that hung from his neck. He hinged opened the box and shuffled through its contents to the bottom. The two sheets of folded paper, taken from the Riserva that night in 1978, were still there. One penned in Portuguese, the other Italian. Half of the entire third secret of Fatima.

He lifted both pages out.

He could not bring himself to read the words again. Once was more than enough. So he walked into the bathroom, ripped both sheets into tiny pieces, then allowed them to rain into the toilet.

He flushed the basin.

Gone.

Finally.

He needed to return to the Riserva and destroy Tibor’s latest facsimile. But any return visit would have to be after Clement’s death. He also needed to talk with Father Ambrosi. He’d tried the satellite phone an hour ago without success. Now he grabbed the handset from the bathroom counter and dialed the number again.

Ambrosi answered.

“What happened?” he asked his assistant.

“I spoke with our angel last evening. Little has been learned. She’s to do better today.”

“Forget that. What we originally planned is immaterial. I need something else.”

He had to be careful with his words as there was nothing private about a satellite phone.

“Listen to me,” he said.

TWENTY-FOUR

BUCHAREST, 6:45 A.M.

Michener finished dressing, then tossed his toiletries and dirty clothes into his travel bag. A part of him wanted to drive back to Zlatna and spend more time with those children. Winter was not far away, and Father Tibor had told them last night what a battle it was simply to keep the boilers running. Last year they’d gone two months with frozen pipes, using makeshift stoves to burn whatever wood could be scrounged from the forest. This winter Tibor believed they should be all right, thanks to relief workers who’d spent all summer repairing an aging boiler.

Tibor had said that his fondest wish was that another three months might pass without losing any more children. Three had died last year, buried in a cemetery just outside the wall. Michener wondered what purpose such suffering could serve. He’d been fortunate. The object of the Irish birthing centers had been to find children homes. But the flip side was that mothers were forever separated from their children. He’d imagined many times the Vatican bureaucrat who’d approved such a preposterous plan, never once considering the pain. Such a maddening political machine, the Roman Catholic Church. Its gears had churned undaunted for two thousand years, unfazed by the Protestant Reformation, infidels, a schism that tore it apart, or the plunder of Napoleon. Why then, he mused, would the Church fear what a peasant girl from Fatima might have to say? What would it matter?

Yet apparently it did.

He shouldered his travel bag and walked downstairs to Katerina’s room. They’d agreed to have breakfast together before he left for the airport. A note was wedged into the doorframe. He plucked it out.

Colin:

I thought it best we not see each other this morning. I wanted us to part with the feeling we shared last night. Two old friends who enjoyed each other’s company. I wish you the best in Rome. You deserve success.

Always, Kate

A part of him was relieved. He’d really not known what to say to her. There was no way they could continue a friendship in Rome. The slightest appearance of impropriety would be enough to ruin his career. He was glad, though, that they were parting on good terms. Perhaps they’d finally made peace. At least he hoped so.

He tore the paper to pieces and stepped down the hall, where he flushed every one of them away. So strange that was necessary. But no remnant of her message could remain. Nothing could exist that might link him and her together. Everything must be sanitized.

Why?

That was clear. Protocol and image.

What wasn’t so clear was his growing resentment of both reasons.

Michener opened the door to his apartment on the fourth floor of the Apostolic Palace. His rooms were near the pope’s, where papal secretaries had long lived. When he’d first moved in three years ago, he’d foolishly thought the spirits of its former residents might somehow guide him. But he’d since learned that none of those souls was to be found, and any guidance he might need would have to be discovered within himself.

He’d taken a taxi from the Rome airport instead of calling his office for a car, still adhering to Clement’s orders that his trip go unnoticed. He’d entered the Vatican through St. Peter’s Square, dressed casually, like one of the many thousands of tourists.

Saturday was not a busy day for the Curia. Most employees left and all the offices, save for a few in the Secretariat of State, were closed. He’d stopped by his office and learned that Clement had flown to Castle Gandolfo earlier and was not due back until Monday. The villa lay eighteen miles south of Rome and had served as a papal retreat for four hundred years. Modern pontiffs used its casual atmosphere as a place to avoid Rome’s oppressive summers and as a weekend escape, helicopters providing transport back and forth.

Michener knew Clement loved the villa, but what concerned him was that the trip was not on the pope’s itinerary. One of his assistants offered no explanation except that the pope had said he’d like a couple of days in the country, so everything was rescheduled. There’d been a few inquiries to the press office on the pontiff’s health, not unusual when the schedule was varied, but the standard statement—
the Holy Father enjoys a robust constitution and we wish him a long life
—was promptly issued.

Yet Michener was concerned, so he raised the assistant who had accompanied Clement on the phone.

“What’s he doing there?” Michener asked.

“He just wanted to see the lake and walk in the gardens.”

“Has he asked about me?”

“Not a word.”

“Tell him I’m back.”

An hour later the phone rang in Michener’s apartment.

“The Holy Father wants to see you. He said a drive south through the countryside would be lovely. Do you understand what he means?”

He smiled and checked his watch. Three twenty
P.M.
“Tell him I’ll be there by nightfall.”

Clement apparently did not want him using the helicopter, even though the Swiss guards preferred air transport. So he rang the car pool and requested that an unmarked vehicle be readied.

The drive to the southeast, through olive orchards, skirted the Alban Hills. The papal complex at Castle Gandolfo consisted of the Villa Barberini, the Cybo Villa, and an exquisite garden, all nestled beside Lake Albano. The sanctuary was devoid of Rome’s incessant hum—a spot of solitude in the otherwise endless bustle of Church business.

He found Clement in the solarium. Michener once again looked the role of a papal secretary, wearing his Roman collar and black cassock with purple sash. The pope was perched in a wooden chair engulfed by horticulture. The towering glass panels for the outer walls faced an afternoon sun and the warm air reeked of nectar.

“Colin, pull one of those chairs over here.” A smile accompanied the greeting.

He did as he was told. “You look good.”

Clement grinned. “I didn’t know I ever looked bad.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Actually, I feel good. And you’ll be proud to know I ate breakfast and lunch today. Now, tell me about Romania. Every detail.”

He explained what had happened, omitting only his time with Katerina. He then handed Clement the envelope and the pope read Father Tibor’s response.

“What precisely did Father Tibor say to you?” Clement asked.

He told him, then said, “He spoke in riddles. Never really saying much, though he was not complimentary to the Church.”

“That I understand,” Clement muttered.

“He was upset over the Holy See’s handling of the third secret. He implied that the Virgin’s message was being intentionally ignored. He told me repeatedly for you to do as She said. No argument, no delay, just do it.”

The old man’s gaze lingered on him. “He told you about John XXIII, didn’t he?”

He nodded.

“Tell me.”

He did, and Clement seemed fascinated. “Father Tibor is the only person left alive who was there that day,” the pope said when he finished. “What did you think of the priest?”

Thoughts of the orphanage flashed through his mind. “He appears sincere. But he was also obstinate.” He didn’t add what he was thinking—
like you, Holy Father.
“Jakob, can’t you now tell me what this is about?”

“There is another trip I need you to take.”

“Another?”

Clement nodded. “This time to Medjugorje.”

“Bosnia?” he asked in disbelief.

“You must speak with one of the seers.”

He was familiar with Medjugorje. On June 24, 1981, two children had reportedly seen a beautiful woman holding a baby atop a mountain in southwestern Yugoslavia. The next evening the children returned with four friends and all six saw a similar vision. Thereafter, the apparitions continued daily for the six children, each one receiving messages. Local communist officials claimed it was some sort of revolutionary plot and tried to stop the spectacle, but people flocked to the area. Within months there were reports of miraculous healing and rosaries turning to gold. Even during the Bosnian civil war the visions continued, and so did the pilgrimages. The children were now grown, the area renamed Bosnia-Herzegovina, and all but one of the six had stopped having visions. As with Fatima, there were secrets. Five of the seers had been entrusted by the Virgin with ten messages. The sixth knew only nine. Of the nine secrets, all had been made public, but the tenth remained a mystery.

“Holy Father, is such a trip necessary?”

He didn’t particularly want to traipse across war-torn Bosnia. American and NATO peacekeeping forces were still there maintaining order.

“I need to know the tenth secret of Medjugorje,” Clement said, and his tone signaled that the matter was not open for discussion. “Draft a papal instruction for the seers. He or she is to tell you the message. No one else. Only you.”

He wanted to argue, but was too tired from the flight and yesterday’s hectic schedule to engage in something he knew would be futile. So he simply asked, “When, Holy Father?”

His old friend seemed to sense his fatigue. “In a few days. That will draw less attention. And again, keep this between us.”