the Third Secret Read online

  Now he was dead. Colin must be devastated.

  A part of her said to head for the ticket counter and fly to Germany. Michener would survive. He always did. But there would soon be a new pope. New appointments. A fresh wave of priests, bishops, and cardinals would flood to Rome. She knew enough about Vatican politics to realize that Clement’s allies were through. Their careers were over.

  None of that was her problem. Yet a part of her said that it was. Maybe old habits truly were hard to break.

  She turned, luggage in hand, and headed out of the terminal.

  THIRTY-ONE

  CASTLE GANDOLFO, 2:30 P.M.

  Valendrea stared at the assembled cardinals. The mood was tense, many of the men pacing the room in an uncharacteristic show of anxiety. There were fourteen in the villa’s salon, mainly cardinals assigned to the Curia or to posts near Rome who’d heeded the call made three hours ago to all 160 members of the Sacred College: CLEMENT XV IS DEAD. COME TO ROME IMMEDIATELY. To those within a hundred-mile radius of the Vatican, an additional message urged that they meet at Castle Gandolfo at two P.M.

  The interregnum had begun, that period of time between the death of one pope and the election of another, a lapse of uncertainty when the reins of papal power hung loose. In centuries past this was when cardinals seized control, buying conclave votes with either promises or violence. Valendrea missed those times. The victor should be the strongest. The weak had no place at the apex. But modern papal elections were much more benign. The battles now were fought with television cameras and public opinion polls. Picking a popular pope was deemed far more critical than selecting a competent one. Which, Valendrea had often thought, explained more than anything else the rise of Jakob Volkner.

  He was pleased with the turnout. Nearly all of the men who’d come were in his column. By his latest count he was still shy of the two-thirds-plus-one needed for an early ballot victory, but among himself, Ambrosi, and the tape recorders, over the coming two weeks he should secure the needed support.

  He was unsure as to what Ngovi was going to say. The two of them had not spoken since earlier in Clement’s bedroom. He could only hope the African would use good judgment. Ngovi was standing toward the end of the long room before an elegant white marble fireplace. All the other princes were standing, too.

  “Eminences,” Ngovi said, “I will have assignments later in the day to enlist your assistance in planning the funeral and conclave. I think it important Clement be given the finest farewell. The people loved him, and they should be given an opportunity to say a proper goodbye. In that regard, we will all accompany the body back to Rome later this evening. There will be a Mass in St. Peter’s.”

  Many of the cardinals nodded.

  “Is it clear how the Holy Father died?” one of the cardinals asked.

  Ngovi faced the questioner. “That is being ascertained now.”

  “Is there any problem?” another asked.

  Ngovi stood rigid. “He appears to have died peacefully in his sleep. But I am no doctor. His physician will ascertain the cause of death. All of us realized the Holy Father was in declining health, so this is not altogether unexpected.”

  Valendrea was pleased with Ngovi’s comments. Yet another part of him was concerned. Ngovi was in a dominant position and seemed to be enjoying his status. Already, over the past few hours, the African had commanded the papal master of ceremonies and the Apostolic Camera to begin their administration of the Holy See. Traditionally those two departments directed the Curia during the interregnum. He’d also taken possession of Castle Gandolfo by instructing the guards to admit no one, including cardinals, without his express approval, and directed the papal apartments in the Apostolic Palace to be sealed.

  He’d further communicated with the Vatican press office, arranged for the release of a prepared statement on Clement’s death, and delegated to three cardinals the task of personally communicating with the media. Everyone else had been ordered to decline interviews. The diplomatic corps around the world was similarly warned against press contact, but encouraged to communicate with their respective heads of state. Already tributes had come in from the United States, Britain, France, and Spain.

  None of the actions taken so far was outside the camerlengo’s duties, so Valendrea could say nothing. But the last thing he needed was for the cardinals to draw strength from Ngovi’s fortitude. Only two camerlengos in modern times had been elected pope, so the position was not a stepping-stone to the papacy. Unfortunately, though, neither was secretary of state.

  “Will the conclave begin on time?” the cardinal from Venice asked.

  “In fifteen days,” Ngovi said. “We will be ready.”

  Valendrea knew, under rules promulgated in John Paul II’s Apostolic Constitution, that was the soonest any conclave could begin. The preparation time had been eased by the construction of the Domus Sanctae Marthae, a spacious hotel-like facility normally used by seminarians. No longer was every available alcove converted into makeshift quarters, and Valendrea was glad things had changed. The new facility was at least comfortable. It had been used for the first time during Clement’s conclave, and Ngovi had already ordered the building readied for the 113 cardinals below the age of eighty who would be staying there during the voting.

  “Cardinal Ngovi,” Valendrea said, catching the African’s attention, “when will the death certificate be issued?” He hoped only Ngovi understood the true message.

  “I have requested the master of papal liturgical celebrations, the cleric prelates, secretary, and chancellor of the Apostolic Camera to be at the Vatican tonight. I’ve been told the cause of death will be ascertained by then.”

  “Is an autopsy being performed?” one of the cardinals asked.

  Valendrea knew that was a sensitive subject. Only one pope had ever been subjected to an autopsy, and then only to ascertain if Napoleon had poisoned him. There had been talk of a postmortem on John Paul I when he died so unexpectedly, but the cardinals squelched that effort. But this situation was different. One of those pontiffs died suspiciously, the other suddenly. Clement’s death was not unexpected. He’d been seventy-four when chosen and, after all, most of the cardinals had elected him simply because he would not live long.

  “No autopsy will be performed,” Ngovi said flatly.

  His tone conveyed that the issue was not open for discussion. Ordinarily, Valendrea would have resented that overstepping, but not this time. He heaved a sigh of relief. Apparently his adversary had decided to play along, and thankfully none of the cardinals challenged the decision. A few glanced in his direction, as if waiting for a response. But his silence served as a signal that the secretary of state was satisfied with the camerlengo’s decision.

  Beyond the theological implications of a papal suicide, Valendrea could ill afford a wave of sympathy aimed toward Clement. It was little secret that he and the pope did not get along. An inquisitive press might raise questions, and he did not want to be labeled as the man who may have driven a pope to his death. Cardinals terrified for their own careers might elect another man, like Ngovi, who would surely strip Valendrea of all power—tapes or no tapes. He’d learned at the last conclave to never underestimate the power of a coalition. Thankfully, Ngovi had apparently decided the good of the church outweighed this golden opportunity to unseat his chief rival, and Valendrea was glad for the man’s weakness. He would not have shown the same deference if the roles were reversed.

  “I do have one word of warning,” Ngovi said.

  Valendrea again could say nothing. And he noticed that the bishop of Nairobi seemed to be enjoying his self-imposed restraint.

  “I remind each of you of your oath not to discuss the coming conclave prior to our being locked in the Sistine. There is to be no campaigning, no press interviews, no opinions expressed. Possible selections should not be discussed at all.”

  “I don’t need a lecture,” one cardinal made clear.

  “Perhaps you don’t. But there are some
who do.”

  And with that, Ngovi left the room.

  THIRTY-TWO

  3:00 P.M.

  Michener sat in a chair beside the desk and watched as two nuns washed Clement’s body. The physician had finished his examination hours ago and returned to Rome with his blood sample. Cardinal Ngovi had already ordered that there would be no autopsy, and since Castle Gandolfo was part of the Vatican state, sovereign territory of an independent nation, no one would question that decision. With precious few exceptions, canon law—not Italian law—governed here.

  It was strange staring at the naked corpse of a man he’d known for more than a quarter century. He remembered back to all of the times they’d shared. Clement was the one who’d helped him come to the realization that his natural father simply thought more of himself than of his child, explaining Irish society and the pressures his birth mother surely would have faced as an unmarried mother. How can you blame her? Volkner had asked. And he’d agreed. He couldn’t. Resentment would only cloud the sacrifices his adoptive parents had made. So he’d finally let go of his anger and forgiven the mother and father he never knew.

  Now he was staring at the lifeless body of the man who’d helped make that forgiveness possible. He was here because protocol required a priest be in attendance. Normally the papal master of ceremonies performed the task, but that monsignor was not available. So Ngovi had directed that he substitute.

  He stood from the chair and paced before the French doors as the nuns finished their bathing and the funeral technicians entered. They were part of Rome’s largest mortuary and had been embalming popes since Paul VI. They carried five bottles of pink solution and gently settled each container on the floor.

  One of the technicians walked over. “Perhaps, Father, you’d like to wait outside. This is not a pleasant sight for those unaccustomed to it.”

  He headed for the hall, where he found Cardinal Ngovi walking toward the bedroom.

  “They’re here?” Ngovi asked.

  “Italian law requires a twenty-four-hour period before embalming. You know that. This may be Vatican territory, but we’ve been through this argument before. The Italians would require us to wait.”

  Ngovi nodded. “I understand, but the doctor called from Rome. Jakob’s bloodstream was saturated with medication. He killed himself, Colin. No doubt. I can’t allow evidence of that to remain. The doctor has destroyed his sample. He cannot, and will not, reveal anything.”

  “And the cardinals?”

  “They’ll be told he died from cardiac arrest. That’s what will appear on the death certificate.”

  He could see the strain on Ngovi’s face. Lying did not come easy to this man.

  “We have no choice, Colin. He has to be embalmed. I can’t worry about Italian law.”

  Michener ran a hand through his hair. This had been a long day, and it wasn’t over yet. “I knew he was bothered by something, but there was nothing that pointed to him being this troubled. How was he while I was gone?”

  “He went back into the Riserva. I’m told Valendrea was there with him.”

  “I know.” He told Ngovi what Clement had said. “He showed him what Father Tibor sent. What it was, he wouldn’t say.” He then told Ngovi more about Tibor and how the pope had reacted on learning of the Bulgarian’s death.

  Ngovi shook his head. “This is not the way I thought his papacy would end.”

  “We must ensure his memory is preserved.”

  “It will be. Even Valendrea will be our ally on that.” Ngovi motioned to the door. “I don’t think anyone will question our actions in embalming this soon. Only four people know the truth, and shortly no proof will remain if any one of us chooses to speak. But there’s little worry that will happen. The doctor is bound by laws of confidentiality, you and I loved the man, and Valendrea has self-interests. This secret is safe.”

  The door to the bedroom opened and one of the technicians stepped out. “We are nearly finished.”

  “You will burn the pontiff’s fluids?” Ngovi asked.

  “That has always been our practice. Our company is proud to be of service to the Holy See. You can depend on us.”

  Ngovi thanked the man, who returned to the bedroom.

  “What now?” Michener asked.

  “His pontifical vestments have been brought from Rome. You and I shall dress him for burial.”

  He saw the significance in that gesture and said, “I think he would have liked that.”

  The motorcade slowly wound its way through the rain toward the Vatican. It had taken nearly an hour to drive the eighteen miles from Castle Gandolfo, the route lined with thousands of mourners. Michener rode in the third vehicle with Ngovi, the remaining cardinals in an assortment of cars hastily ferried from the Vatican. A hearse led the procession, with Clement’s body lying in the rear dressed in robes and miter, illuminated so the faithful could see. Now, inside the city, nearing six P.M., it seemed as if all of Rome filled the sidewalks, the police keeping the way clear so the cars could proceed.

  St. Peter’s Square was packed, but an alley had been cordoned off among a sea of umbrellas that twisted a path between the colonnades to the basilica. Wails and weeping followed the cars. Many of the mourners tossed flowers on the hoods, so many it was becoming difficult to see out the windshield. One of the security men finally swiped the piles away, but another simply started in its place.

  The cars passed through the Arch of the Bells and left the crowds behind. Into the Piazza of the Protomartyrs the procession rounded the sacristy of St. Peter’s and headed for a rear entrance into the basilica. Here, safe behind the walls, the airspace above restricted, Clement’s body could be readied for three days of public viewing.

  A light rain sheathed the gardens in a frothy mist. Walkway lights burned in blurred images like the sun through thick clouds.

  Michener tried to imagine what was happening in the buildings around him. In the workshops of the sampietrini a triple coffin was being constructed—the inner of bronze, the second of cedar, the outer of cypress. A catafalque had already been assembled and positioned inside St. Peter’s, a solitary candle burning nearby, awaiting the corpse it was to support in the days ahead.

  Michener had noticed, as they’d inched through the piazza, television crews installing cameras on the balustrades, the choicest spots among the 162 statues surely being claimed fast. The Vatican press office was by now under siege. He’d assisted during the last papal funeral and could envision the thousands of calls that would come in the days ahead. Statesmen from around the world would soon be arriving, and legates would have to be assigned to assist them. The Holy See prided itself on strict adherence to protocol, even in the face of indescribable grief, the task of ensuring success resting with the soft-spoken cardinal sitting beside him.

  The cars stopped and cardinals began to congregate near the hearse. Priests shielded each of the princes with an umbrella. The cardinals wore their black cassocks adorned with a red sash, as required. A Swiss honor guard in ceremonial dress stood at the entrance to the basilica. Clement would not be without them in the days ahead. Four of the guards cradled a bier on their shoulders and paraded toward the hearse. The papal master of ceremonies stood nearby. He was a Dutch priest with a bearded face and a rotund body. He stepped forward and said, “The catafalque is ready.”

  Ngovi nodded.

  The master of ceremonies moved toward the hearse and assisted the technicians with the removal of Clement’s body. Once the corpse was centered on the bier and the miter positioned, the Dutchman motioned the technicians away. He then carefully arranged the vestments, slowly creasing each fold. Two priests held umbrellas over the body. Another young priest stepped forward, holding the pallium. The narrow band of white wool marked with six purple crosses signified the plenitude of the pontifical office. The master of ceremonies draped the two-inch band around Clement’s neck, then arranged the crosses above the chest, shoulders, and abdomen. He made a few adjustments to the shou
lder blocks and finally straightened the head. He then knelt, signaling that he was finished.

  A slight nod of Ngovi’s head caused the Swiss guard to raise the bier. The priests with umbrellas withdrew. The cardinals fell into line behind.

  Michener did not join the procession. He was not a prince of the Church, and what lay ahead was only for them. He would be expected to empty his apartment in the palace by tomorrow. It, too, would be sealed awaiting the conclave. His office must likewise be cleared. His patronage ended with Clement’s last breath. Those once in favor departed to make room for those soon-to-be-in-favor.

  Ngovi waited until the end to join the line into the basilica. Before he marched off, the cardinal turned and whispered, “I want you to inventory the papal apartment and remove his belongings. Clement would have wanted no other to tend to his possessions. I have left word with the guards that you are to be allowed entrance. Do it now.”

  The guard opened the papal apartment for Michener. The door closed behind him and he was left alone with an odd feeling. Where once he’d relished his time here, he now felt like an intruder.

  The rooms were exactly as Clement had left them Saturday morning. The bed was made, the curtains parted, the pope’s spare reading glasses still lying on the nightstand. The leather-bound Bible that usually lay there, too, was at Castle Gandolfo, on the desk beside Clement’s laptop, both to be returned to Rome shortly.

  A few papers remained on the desk beside the silent desktop computer. He thought it best to start there, so he booted the machine and checked the folders. He knew Clement e-mailed a few distant family members and some cardinals on a regular basis, but he apparently hadn’t saved any of those transmissions—there were no files recorded. The address book contained about two dozen names. He scanned all of the folders on the hard drive. Most were reports from curial departments, the written word now replaced by ones and zeros on a video screen. He deleted all the folders, using a special program that removed all traces of the files from the hard drive, then switched off the machine. The terminal would stay and be used by the next pope.