the Third Secret Page 13

“What have you learned?”

  She took a moment and told him an abbreviated account of the orphanage and of what Michener had told her about Clement, but she held back a few key facts. She finished by telling him about Father Tibor, again an abridged version, and recounted the old priest’s warning concerning the Madonna.

  “You must learn what’s in Tibor’s response,” Ambrosi said.

  “Colin wouldn’t open it.”

  “Find a way.”

  “How do you expect me to do that?”

  “Go upstairs. Seduce him. Read it while he sleeps afterward.”

  “Why don’t you? I’m sure priests interest you more than they do me.”

  Ambrosi lunged, wrapping his long thin fingers around her neck and collapsing her down onto the bed. The grip was cold and waxy. He brought his knee onto her chest and pressed her firmly into the mattress folds. He was stronger than she would have thought.

  “Unlike Cardinal Valendrea, I have little patience for your smart mouth. I remind you that we are in Romania, not Rome, and people disappear here all the time. I want to know what Father Tibor wrote. Find out, or I might not restrain myself the next time we meet.” Ambrosi’s knee pressed deeper into her chest. “I’ll find you tomorrow, just as I found you this evening.”

  She wanted to spit in his face, but the ever-tightening fingers around her neck cautioned otherwise.

  Ambrosi released his grip and headed for the door.

  She clutched her neck and sucked a few breaths, then leaped from the bed.

  Ambrosi spun back to face her, a gun in his hand.

  She halted her advance. “You . . . fucking . . . mobster.”

  He shrugged. “History teaches that there truly is an imperceptible line between good and evil. Sleep well.”

  He opened the door and left.

  TWENTY-ONE

  VATICAN CITY, 11:40 P.M.

  Valendrea crushed out his cigarette in an ashtray as a knock came on his bedchamber door. He’d been engrossed in a novel for nearly an hour. He so enjoyed American suspense thrillers. They were a welcome escape from his life of careful words and strict protocol. His retreat each night into a world of mystery and intrigue was something he looked forward to, and Ambrosi made sure he always had a new adventure to read.

  “Enter,” he called out.

  The face of his chamberlain appeared. “I received a call a few moments ago, Eminence. The Holy Father is in the Riserva. You wished to be informed if that occurred.”

  He slipped off his reading glasses and closed the book. “That will be all.”

  The chamberlain retreated.

  He quickly dressed in a knit shirt and trousers, slipped on a pair of running shoes, and left his apartment, heading for the private elevator. At ground level he traversed the empty corridors of the Apostolic Palace. The silence was disturbed only by a soft whine from closed-circuit televison cameras revolving on their lofty perches and the squeak of his rubber soles on the terrazzo. No danger existed of anyone seeing him—the palace was sealed for the night.

  He entered the archives and ignored the night prefect, walking through the maze of shelves straight to the iron gate for the Riserva. Clement XV stood inside the lighted space, his back to him, dressed in a white linen cassock.

  The doors of the ancient safe hung open. He made no effort to mask his approach. It was time for a confrontation.

  “Come in, Alberto,” the pope said, the German’s back still to him.

  “How did you know it was me?”

  Clement turned. “Who else would it be?”

  He stepped into the light, the first time he’d been inside the Riserva since 1978. Then, only a few incandescent bulbs lit the windowless alcove. Now fluorescent fixtures cast everything in a pearly glow. The same wooden box lay in the same drawer, its lid open. Remnants of the wax seal he’d shattered and replaced adorned the outside.

  “I was told about your visit here with Paul,” Clement said. The pope gestured to the box. “You were present when he opened that. Tell me, Alberto, was he shocked? Did the old fool wince when he read the Virgin’s words?”

  He wasn’t going to give Clement the satisfaction of knowing the truth. “Paul was more of a pope than you ever could be.”

  “He was an obstinate, unbending man. He had a chance to do something, but he let his pride and arrogance control him.” Clement lifted an unfolded sheet of paper that lay beside the box. “He read this, yet put himself before God.”

  “He died only three months later. What could he have done?”

  “He could have done everything the Virgin asked.”

  “Do what, Jakob? What is so important? The third secret of Fatima commands nothing beyond faith and penance. What should Paul have done?”

  Clement maintained his rigid pose. “You lie so well.”

  A blind fury built inside him that he quickly repressed. “Are you mad?”

  The pope took a step toward him. “I know about your second visit to this room.”

  He said nothing.

  “The archivists keep quite detailed records. They have noted for centuries every soul who has ever entered this chamber. On the night of May 19, 1978, you visited with Paul. An hour later, you returned. Alone.”

  “I was on a mission for the Holy Father. He commanded that I return.”

  “I’m sure he did, considering what was in the box at that time.”

  “I was sent to reseal the box and the drawer.”

  “But before you resealed the box, you read what was inside. And who could blame you? You were a young priest, assigned to the papal household. Your pope, whom you worshiped, had just read the words of a Marian seer and they surely upset him.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “If not, then he was more of a fool than I think him to be.” Clement’s gaze sharpened. “You read the words, then you removed part of them. You see, there once were four sheets of paper in this box. Two written by Sister Lucia when she memorialized the third secret in 1944. Two composed by Father Tibor when he translated in 1960. But after Paul opened the box and you resealed it, no one again opened the box until 1981, when John Paul II read the third secret for the first time. That was done in the presence of several cardinals. Their testimony confirms that Paul’s seal was unbroken. All present that day also attested that only two sheets of paper lay inside the box, one written by Sister Lucia, the other Father Tibor’s translation. Nineteen years later, in 2000, when John Paul finally released the text of the third secret to the world, there remained only the same two sheets of paper in the box. How do you account for that, Alberto? Where are the other two pages that were there in 1978?”

  “You know nothing.”

  “Unfortunately for both me and you, I do. There was something you never knew. The translator for John XXIII, Father Andrej Tibor, copied the entire two-page third secret onto a pad, then produced a two-page translation. He gave the pope his original work, but later he noticed that upon his pad was left the impression of what he’d written. He, like myself, had the annoying habit of bearing down too hard. He took a pencil, shaded out the words, then traced them onto two sheets. One, the original words of Sister Lucia. The other, his translation.” Clement held up the paper in his hand. “One of those facsimiles is this, which Father Tibor recently sent it to me.”

  Valendrea kept his face frozen. “May I see it?”

  Clement smiled. “If you like.”

  He accepted the page. Waves of apprehension clutched his stomach. The words were the same feminine script he remembered, about ten lines, in Portuguese, which he still could not read.

  “Portuguese was Sister Lucia’s native tongue,” Clement said. “I have compared the style, format, and lettering from Father Tibor’s facsimile to the first part of the third secret you so graciously left in the box. They are identical in every way.”

  “Is there a translation?” he asked, masking all emotion.

  “There is, and the good father sent his facsimile along.”
Clement motioned. “But it is in the box. Where it belongs.”

  “Photographs of Sister Lucia’s original writing were released to the world in 2000. This Father Tibor could have simply copied her style.” He gestured with the sheet. “This could be a forgery.”

  “Why did I know you would say that? It could be, but it’s not. And we both know that.”

  “This is why you have been coming here?” he asked.

  “What would you have me do?”

  “Ignore these words.”

  Clement shook his head. “That is the one thing I cannot do. Along with his reproduction, Father Tibor sent me a simple query. Why does the church lie? You know the answer. No one lied. Because when John Paul II released the text of the third secret to the world, no one knew, besides Father Tibor and yourself, that there was more to the message.”

  Valendrea stepped back, stuffed a hand into his pocket, and removed a lighter he’d noticed on the walk down. He ignited the paper and dropped the flaming sheet to the floor.

  Clement did nothing to stop him.

  Valendrea stamped on the blackened ashes as if he’d just done battle with the devil. Then his gaze locked on Clement. “Give me that damn priest’s translation.”

  “No, Alberto. It stays in the box.”

  His instinct was to shove the old man aside and do what had to be done. But the night prefect appeared at the Riserva’s doorway.

  “Lock this safe,” Clement said to the attendant, and the man rushed forward to do as he was told.

  The pope took Valendrea by the arm and led him from the Riserva. He wanted to pull away, but the prefect’s presence demanded he show respect. Outside, among the shelves, away from the prefect, he dislodged himself from Clement’s grip.

  The pope said, “I wanted you to know what awaits you.”

  But something was bothering him. “Why didn’t you stop me from burning that paper?”

  “It was perfect, wasn’t it, Alberto? Removing those two pages from the Riserva? No one would know. Paul was in his final days, soon to be in the crypt. Sister Lucia was forbidden to speak with anyone, and she eventually died. No one else knew what was in that box, except perhaps an obscure Bulgarian translator. But by 1978 so many years had passed that that translator wasn’t a worry in your mind. Only you would know those two pages had ever existed. And even if anyone noticed, things have a tendency to disappear from our archives. If the translator surfaced, without the pages themselves, there was no proof. Only talk. Hearsay.”

  He was not going to respond to any of what he’d just heard. Instead, he still wanted to know, “Why didn’t you stop me from burning that paper?”

  The pope hesitated a moment before saying, “You’ll see, Alberto.”

  Then Clement shuffled away as the prefect slammed shut the Riserva’s gate.

  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.