the Third Secret Read online

  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 an
d 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.”

  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 th
ird 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.