the Third Secret Page 16

  “But why conceal it?”

  He sipped the burgundy, then fingered the stem of his glass. “Since when has the Vatican ever been sensible? These guys think they’re still in the fifteenth century, when whatever they said was accepted without question. If anybody argued back then, the pope excommunicated them. But it’s a new day and that pile just doesn’t stink anymore.” Kealy caught the waiter’s attention and motioned for more bread. “Remember, the pope speaks infallibly when discussing matters of faith and morals. Vatican I pronounced that little jewel in 1870. What if, for one delicious moment, what the Virgin said was contrary to dogma? Now, wouldn’t that be something?” Kealy seemed immensely pleased with the thought. “Maybe that’s the book we should write? All about the third secret of Fatima. We can expose the hypocrisy, take a close look at the popes and some of the cardinals. Maybe even Valendrea himself.”

  “What about your situation? Not important anymore?”

  “You don’t honestly think there’s any chance I’ll win that tribunal.”

  “They might be content with a warning. That way they keep you within the fold, under their control, and you can save your collar.”

  He laughed. “You seem awfully concerned about my collar. Strange coming from an atheist.”

  “Screw you, Tom.” She’d definitely told this man too much about herself.

  “So full of spunk. I like that about you, Katerina.” He enjoyed another swallow of wine. “CNN called yesterday. They want me for the next conclave.”

  “I’m glad for you. That’s great.” She wondered where that left her.

  “Don’t worry, I still want to do that book. My agent is talking to publishers about that one and a novel. You and I will make a great team.”

  The conclusion formed in her mind with a suddenness that surprised her. One of those decisions that was instantly clear. There’d be no team. What started out as promising had become tawdry. Luckily, she still had several thousand of Valendrea’s euros, enough cash to get her back to France or Germany where she could hire on with a newspaper or magazine. And this time she’d behave herself—play by the rules.

  “Katerina, are you there?” Kealy was asking.

  Her attention returned to him.

  “You looked a million miles away.”

  “I was. I don’t think there’s going to be a book, Tom. I’m leaving Rome tomorrow. You’ll have to find another ghostwriter.”

  The waiter deposited a basket of steaming bread on the table.

  “It won’t be hard,” he made clear.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  He reached for a piece of the bread. “I’d leave your horse hitched to me, if I were you. This wagon’s going places.”

  She stood from the table. “I can tell you one place it’s not going.”

  “You still have it for him, don’t you?”

  “I don’t have it for anybody. I’m just sick of you. My father once told me that the higher a circus monkey climbed a pole, the more his ass showed. I’d remember that.”

  And she walked away, feeling her best in weeks.

  TWENTY-NINE

  CASTLE GANDOLFO

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 13

  6:00 A.M.

  Michener came awake. He’d never needed an alarm clock, his body seemingly blessed with an internal chronometer that always woke him at the precise time he selected before falling asleep. Jakob Volkner, when an archbishop and later a cardinal, had traveled the globe and served on committee after committee, relying always on Michener’s ability never to be late, since punctuality was not one of Clement XV’s noted traits.

  As in Rome, Michener occupied a bedroom on the same floor as Clement’s, just down the hall, a direct phone line linking their rooms. They were scheduled to return to the Vatican in two hours by helicopter. That would give the pope enough time for his morning prayers, breakfast, and a quick review of anything that required immediate attention, given there’d been two days with no work. Several memoranda had been faxed last evening, and Michener had them ready for a postbreakfast discussion. He knew the rest of the day would be hectic, as there was a steady stream of papal audiences scheduled for the afternoon and into the evening. Even Cardinal Valendrea had requested a full hour for a foreign affairs briefing later in the morning.

  He was still bothered by the funeral Mass. Clement had cried for half an hour before leaving the chapel. They hadn’t talked. Whatever was troubling his old friend was not open for discussion. Perhaps later there’d be time. Hopefully, a return to the Vatican and the rigors of work might take the pope’s mind off the problem. But it had been disconcerting to watch such an onslaught of emotion.

  He took his time showering, then dressed in a fresh black cassock and left his room. He strode down the corridor toward the pope’s quarters. A chamberlain was standing outside the door, along with one of the nuns assigned to the household. Michener glanced at his watch. Six forty-five A.M. He pointed to the door. “Not up yet?”

  The chamberlain shook his head. “There’s been no movement.”

  He knew the staff waited outside each morning until they heard Clement stirring, usually between six and six thirty. The sound of the pope waking would be followed by a gentle tap on the door and the start of a morning routine that included a shower, shave, and dressing. Clement did not like anyone assisting him with bathing. That was done in private while the chamberlain made the bed and laid out his clothes. The nun’s task was to straighten the room and bring breakfast.

  “Perhaps he’s just sleeping in,” Michener said. “Even popes can get a little lazy every once in a while.”

  His two listeners smiled.

  “I’ll go back to my room. Come get me when you hear him.”

  It was thirty minutes later that a knock came to his door. The chamberlain was outside.

  “There is still no sound, Monsignor,” the man said. Worry clouded his face.

  He knew no one, save himself, would enter the papal bedroom without Clement’s permission. The area was regarded as the one place where popes could be assured of privacy. But it was approaching seven thirty, and he knew what the chamberlain wanted.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll go in and see.”

  He followed the man back to where the nun stood guard. She indicated that there was still silence from inside. He lightly tapped on the door and waited. He tapped again, a little louder. Still nothing. He grasped the knob and turned. It opened. He swung the door inward and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

  The bedchamber was spacious, with towering French doors at one end that opened to a balcony overlooking the gardens. The furnishings were ancient. Unlike the apartments in the Apostolic Palace, which were decorated by each successive pope in a style that made him comfortable, these rooms remained constant, oozing an Old World feel reminiscent of a time when popes were warrior-kings.

  No lights were on, but the morning sun poured in through drawn sheers and bathed the room in a muted haze.

  Clement lay under the sheets on his side. Michener stepped over and quietly said, “Holy Father.”

  Clement did not respond.

  “Jakob.”

  Still nothing.

  The pope’s head faced away, the sheets and blanket pulled halfway over his frail body. He reached down and lightly shook the pope. Immediately he noticed a coldness. He stepped around to the other side of the bed and stared into Clement’s face. The skin was loose and ashen, the mouth open, a pool of spittle dried on the sheet beneath. He rolled the pope onto his back and yanked the covers down. Both arms draped lifelessly at Clement’s sides, the chest still.

  He checked for a pulse.

  None.

  He thought about calling for help or administering CPR. He’d been trained, as had all the household staff, but he knew it would be useless.

  Clement XV was dead.

  He closed his eyes and said a prayer, a wave of grief sweeping through him. It was like losing his mother and father all over again.
He prayed for his dear friend’s soul, then gathered his emotions. There were things to do. Protocol that must be adhered to. Procedures of long standing, and it was his duty to ensure that they were strictly maintained.

  But something caught his attention.

  Resting on the nightstand was a small caramel-colored bottle. Several months back, the papal physician had prescribed medication to help Clement rest. Michener himself had ensured that the prescription was filled, and he’d personally placed the bottle in the pope’s bathroom. There were thirty of the tablets and, at last count, which Michener had taken only a few days ago, thirty remained. Clement despised drugs. It was a battle to simply get him to take an aspirin, so the vial, here, beside the bed, was surprising.

  He peered inside the container.

  Empty.

  A glass of water resting beside the vial contained only a few drops.

  The implications were so profound that he felt a need to cross himself.

  He stared at Jakob Volkner and wondered about his dear friend’s soul. If there was a place called heaven, with all his fiber he hoped the old German had found his way there. The priest inside him wanted to forgive what had apparently been done, but now only God, if He did exist, could do that.

  Popes had been clubbed to death, strangled, poisoned, suffocated, starved, and murdered by outraged husbands.

  But never had one taken his own life.

  Until now.

  THIRTY

  9:00 A.M.

  Michener watched from the bedroom window as the Vatican helicopter touched down. He hadn’t left Clement since his discovery, using the phone beside the bed to telephone Cardinal Ngovi in Rome.

  The African was the camerlengo, chamberlain of the Holy Roman Church, the first person to be informed of a papal death. Under canon law Ngovi was charged with administering the Church during the sede vacante, the Vacant See, which was now the official designation for the Vatican government. There was no supreme pontiff. Instead Ngovi, in conjunction with the Sacred College of Cardinals, would administer a government by committee that would last for the next two weeks, during which time funeral preparations would be made and the coming conclave organized. As camerlengo, Ngovi would not be acting pope, just a caretaker, but his authority was nonetheless clear. Which was fine by Michener. Somebody was going to have to control Alberto Valendrea.

  The chopper blades whirled down and the cabin door slid open. Ngovi exited first, followed by Valendrea, both dressed in scarlet regalia. As secretary of state, Valendrea’s presence was required. Two more bishops followed Valendrea, along with the papal physician, whom Michener had specifically requested. He’d told Ngovi nothing of the details surrounding the death. Nor had he told the villa staff, merely informing the nun and chamberlain to make sure no one entered the bedroom.

  Three minutes passed before the bedchamber door swung open and the two cardinals and physician entered. Ngovi closed the door and secured the latch. The doctor moved toward the bed and examined Clement. Michener had left everything exactly as he found it, including Clement’s laptop computer, still on, connected to a phone line, its monitor bright with a screen saver programmed specially for Clement—a tiara crossed by two keys.

  “Tell me what happened,” Ngovi said, laying a small black satchel on the bed.

  Michener explained what he’d found, then motioned to the table. Neither of the cardinals had noticed the pill vial. “It’s empty.”

  “Are you saying the supreme pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church killed himself?” Valendrea asked.

  He wasn’t in the mood. “I’m not saying anything. Only that there were thirty pills in that container.”

  Valendrea turned toward the doctor. “What’s your assessment, Doctor?”

  “He’s been dead for some time. Five or six hours, maybe longer. There’s no evidence of trauma, nothing to outwardly indicate cardiac arrest. No blood loss or bruising. From a first look, it appears he died in his sleep.”

  “Could it have been from the pills?” Ngovi asked.

  “There’s no way to tell, except through an autopsy.”

  “That’s out of the question,” Valendrea immediately said.

  Michener faced the secretary of state. “We need to know.”

  “We don’t need to know anything.” Valendrea’s voice rose. “In fact, it’s better we know nothing. Destroy that pill vial. Can you imagine the impact on the Church if it became known that the pope took his own life? The mere suggestion could cause irrevocable harm.”

  Michener had already considered the same thing, but he was determined to handle the situation better than when John Paul I had died suddenly in 1978, only thirty-three days into his pontificate. The subsequent rumors and misleading information—designed simply to shield the fact that a nun had discovered the body instead of a priest—only fueled conspiratorialists with visions of a papal murder.

  “I agree,” Michener conceded. “A suicide cannot be publicly known. But we should know the truth.”

  “So that we can lie?” Valendrea asked. “This way we know nothing.”

  Interesting Valendrea was concerned about lying, but Michener kept silent.

  Ngovi faced the doctor. “Would a blood sample suffice?”

  The physician nodded.

  “Take it.”

  “You have no authority,” Valendrea boomed. “That would need a consultation with the Sacred College. You are not pope.”

  Ngovi’s features remained expressionless. “I for one want to know how this man died. His immortal soul is of concern to me.” Ngovi faced the doctor. “Run the test yourself, then destroy the sample. Tell the results only to me. Clear?”

  The man nodded.

  “You’re overstepping, Ngovi,” Valendrea said.

  “Take it up with the Sacred College.”

  Valendrea’s dilemma was amusing. He couldn’t overrule Ngovi nor, for obvious reasons, could he take the matter to the cardinals. So the Tuscan wisely kept his mouth shut. Maybe, Michener feared, he was simply giving Ngovi enough rope to hang himself.

  Ngovi opened the black case he’d brought with him and removed a silver hammer, then stepped to the head of the bed. Michener realized the ritual about to be performed was required of the camerlengo, no matter how useless the task may be.

  Ngovi lightly tapped Clement’s forehead with the hammer and asked the question that had been posed to the corpses of popes for centuries. “Jakob Volkner. Are you dead?”

  A full minute of silence passed, then Ngovi asked the question again. After another minute of silence, he asked a third time.

  Ngovi then made the required declaration. “The pope is dead.”

  Ngovi reached down and lifted Clement’s right hand. The Fisherman’s Ring wrapped the fourth finger.

  “Strange,” Ngovi said. “Clement did not usually wear this.”

  Michener knew that to be true. The cumbersome gold ring was more a signet than a piece of jewelry. It depicted St. Peter the fisherman, encircled by Clement’s name and date of investiture. It had been placed on Clement’s finger after the last conclave by the then-camerlengo and was used to seal papal briefs. Rarely was it worn, and Clement particularly shunned it.

  “Maybe he knew we would be looking for it,” Valendrea said.

  He was right, Michener thought. Apparently, some planning had occurred. Which was so like Jakob Volkner.

  Ngovi removed the ring and dropped it into a black velvet bag. Later, before the assembled cardinals, he would use the hammer to shatter both the ring and the pope’s lead seal. That way, no one could stamp any document until a new pope was chosen.

  “It is done,” Ngovi said.

  Michener realized the transfer of power was now complete. The thirty-four-month reign of Clement XV, the 267th successor of St. Peter, the first German to hold the throne in nine hundred years, was over. From this moment on he was no longer the papal secretary. He was merely a monsignor in the temporary service of the camerlengo of the Holy Roman Church.r />
  Katerina rushed through Leonardo da Vinci Airport toward the Lufthansa ticket counter. She was booked on a one o’clock flight to Frankfurt. From there she was unsure of her next destination, but she’d worry about that tomorrow or the day after. The main thing was that Tom Kealy and Colin Michener were in the past, and it was time to make something of herself. She felt awful about deceiving Michener, but since she’d never made contact with Valendrea and had told Ambrosi precious little, perhaps the violation could be forgiven.

  She was glad to be done with Tom Kealy, though she doubted if he would even give her a second thought. He was on the rise and didn’t need a clinging vine, and that was exactly the way she felt. True, he’d need somebody to actually do all the work that he’d eventually take credit for, but she was sure some other woman would come along and take her place.

  The terminal was busy, but she began to notice crowds huddled around the televisions that dotted the concourse. She also spotted women crying. Her gaze finally settled on one of the elevated video screens. St. Peter’s Square spanned out from an aerial view. Drifting close to the monitor, she heard, “There is a profound sadness here. Clement XV’s death is being felt by all who loved this pontiff. He will be missed.”

  “The pope is dead?” she asked out loud.

  A man in a wool overcoat said to her, “He died in his sleep last night at Castle Gandolfo. May God take his soul.”

  She was taken aback. A man she’d hated for years was gone. She’d never actually met him—Michener had tried once to introduce them, but she’d refused. At the time, Jakob Volkner was the archbishop of Cologne, in whom she saw everything she despised about organized religion—not to mention the other side of a tug-of-war that had yanked at Colin Michener’s conscience. She’d lost that battle and had resented Volkner ever since. Not for what he may or may not have done, but for what he symbolized.