the Third Secret Read online

  He glanced around. He would have to find boxes for Clement’s possessions, but for now he stacked everything in the center of the room. There wasn’t much. Clement had led a simple life. A bit of furniture, a few books, and some assorted family items were all that he owned.

  The scrape of a key in the lock caught his attention.

  The door opened and Paolo Ambrosi entered.

  “Wait outside,” Ambrosi said to the guard as he came in and closed the door.

  Michener faced him. “What are you doing here?”

  The thin priest stepped forward. “The same as you, clearing out the apartment.”

  “Cardinal Ngovi delegated the task to me.”

  “Cardinal Valendrea said you might need help.”

  Apparently the secretary of state thought a babysitter in order, but he was not in the mood. “Get out of here.”

  The priest did not move. Michener was a head taller and fifty pounds heavier, but Ambrosi seemed unintimidated. “Your time has passed, Michener.”

  “Maybe so. But where I come from there’s a saying. A hen doesn’t cackle before she lays the egg.”

  Ambrosi chuckled. “I will miss your American humor.”

  He noticed Ambrosi’s reptilian eyes take in the scene.

  “I told you to get out. I may be nothing, but Ngovi is camerlengo. Valendrea can’t override him.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Leave, or I’ll interrupt the Mass for further instructions from Ngovi.”

  He realized the last thing Valendrea would want was an embarrassing scene before the cardinals. Supporters might wonder why he’d ordered an associate to the papal apartments when that duty clearly fell on the papal secretary.

  But Ambrosi did not move.

  So he stepped around his visitor and headed for the door. “As you say, Ambrosi, my time’s passed. I’ve got nothing to lose.”

  He grasped the door handles.

  “Stop,” Ambrosi said. “I’ll leave you to your task.” The voice was barely a whisper, the look on Ambrosi’s face devoid of feeling. He wondered how such a man could ever have become a priest.

  Michener opened the door. The guards were just on the other side and he knew his visitor would say nothing to stimulate their interest. He let a smile form and said, “Have a nice evening, Father.”

  Ambrosi brushed past and Michener slammed the door, but only after ordering the guards not to admit another soul.

  He returned to the desk. He needed to finish what he’d started. His sadness in leaving the Vatican was tempered by a relief in knowing that he would no longer have to deal with the likes of Paolo Ambrosi.

  He searched through the desk drawers. Most contained stationery, pens, some books, and a few computer disks. Nothing important until the bottom right drawer, where he found Clement’s will. The pope traditionally drafted his will himself, expressing in his own hand his final requests and hopes for the future. Michener unfolded the single sheet and noticed immediately the date, October 10, a little more than thirty days ago:

  I, Jakob Volkner, presently possessed of all my faculties and desirous of expressing my last will and testament, do hereby bequeath all that I may possess at the time of my death to Colin Michener. My parents died long ago and my siblings followed in the years after. Colin served me long and well. He is the closest I have left in this world to family. I ask that he do with my belongings as he deems appropriate, using the wisdom and judgment I came to trust during my life. I would request that my funeral be simple and if possible that I be buried in Bamberg, in the cathedral of my youth, though I understand if the church deems otherwise. When I accepted the mantle of St. Peter I likewise accepted the responsibilities, including a duty to rest beneath the basilica with my brethren. I further ask forgiveness from all those I may have offended in words or deeds, and I especially ask forgiveness of our Lord and Savior for the shortcomings I have shown. May He have mercy on my soul.

  Tears welled in Michener’s eyes. He, too, hoped God would have mercy on his dear friend’s soul. Catholic teachings were clear. Human beings were obliged to preserve the honor of life as stewards, not owners, of what the Almighty had entrusted. Suicide was contrary to the love of oneself, and to the love of a living God. It broke the ties of solidarity with family and nation. In short, it was a sin. But the eternal salvation of those who took their own lives was not lost completely. The Church taught that, by ways known only to God, an opportunity for repentance would be provided.

  And he hoped that was the case.

  If indeed heaven existed, Jakob Volkner deserved admission. Whatever had compelled him to do the unspeakable should not consign his soul to eternal damnation.

  He laid the will down and tried not to think about eternity.

  He’d found himself of late contemplating his own mortality. He was nearing fifty, not all that old, but life no longer seemed infinite. He could envision a time when his body or mind might not allow him the opportunity to enjoy what he’d come to expect. How much longer would he live? Twenty years? Thirty? Forty? Clement had still been vibrant approaching eighty, working sixteen-hour days with regularity. He could only hope he retained half that stamina. Still, his life would eventually end. And he wondered if the deprivations and sacrifices demanded by his Church, and his God, were worth it. Would there be a reward in the afterlife? Or simply nothing?

  Dust to dust.

  His mind snapped back to his duty.

  The will lying before him would have to be given to the Vatican press office. It was traditional to release the text, but first the camerlengo would have to approve, so he slid the page into his cassock.

  He decided to anonymously donate the furniture to a local charity. The books and few personal belongings he’d keep as a remembrance of a man he’d loved. Against the far wall rested the wooden chest Clement had carried with him for years. Michener knew that it had been carved in Oberammergau, a Bavarian town at the base of the Alps famous for its wood craftsmen. It possessed the look and feel of a Riemenschneider, the exterior unstained and adorned with bold portrayals of the apostles, saints, and the Virgin.

  In all their years together, he’d never known what Clement kept inside. Now the chest was his. He walked over and tried the lid. Locked. A brass receptacle allowed for a key. He hadn’t seen one anywhere in the apartment, and he certainly did not want to inflict any damage prying the box open. So he decided to store the chest and worry about what was inside later.

  He stepped back to the desk and finished cleaning out the remaining drawers. In the last one he found a single sheet of trifolded papal stationery. On it was a handwritten note.

  I, Clement XV, on this day have elevated to the status of Cardinal Eminence the Reverend Father Colin Michener.

  He could hardly believe what he read. Clement had exercised his ability to a appoint a cardinal in petto—in secret. Usually cardinals were informed of their elevation through a certificate from the reigning pontiff, openly published, then invested by the pope in an elaborate consistory. But secret appointments became common for cardinals in communist countries, or in places where oppressive regimes might endanger the nominee. The rules for in petto appointments made clear that seniority dated from the time of the appointment, not from the time the selection was made public, but there was one other rule that sank his heart. If the pope died before an in petto selection was made public, the appointment died, too.

  He held the sheet in his hand. It was dated sixty days before.

  He’d come so close to a scarlet biretta.

  Alberto Valendrea could well be the next occupant of the apartments surrounding him. Little chance existed that an in petto appointment of Clement XV’s would be affirmed. But a part of him didn’t mind. With all that had happened over the past eighteen hours, he hadn’t even thought of Father Tibor, but now he considered the old priest. Maybe he’d return to Zlatna and the orphanage and finish what the Bulgarian had started. Something told him that was the thing for him to do. If the Church
didn’t approve, he’d tell them all to go to hell, beginning with Alberto Valendrea.

  You want to be a cardinal? To achieve that, you must grasp the measure of that responsibility. How can you expect me to elevate you when you fail to see what is so clear?

  Clement’s words from Turin last Thursday. He’d wondered about their harshness. Now knowing that his mentor had already chosen him, he wondered even more. How can you expect me to elevate you when you fail to see what is so clear?

  See what?

  He stuffed the paper into his pocket with the will.

  No one would ever know what Clement had done. It didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was that his friend had thought him worthy, and that was enough for him.

  THIRTY-THREE

  8:30 P.M.

  Michener finished packing everything in the five boxes provided by the Swiss guards. The armoire, dresser, and nightstands were now empty. The furniture was being carted out by workmen to be stored in a basement warehouse until he could make arrangements for its donation.

  He stood in the corridor as the doors were closed a final time and a lead seal stamped in place. In all likelihood he would never enter the papal apartments again. Few ever made it that far within the Church, and even fewer made a return trip. Ambrosi was right. His time was over. The rooms themselves would not be opened until a new pope stood before the doors and the seals were broken. He shuddered at the thought of Alberto Valendrea being that new occupant.

  The cardinals were still assembled in St. Peter’s and a requiem funeral Mass was being said before the body of Clement XV, one of many to be offered over the next nine days. While that was happening, there was one task left for him to perform before his official duties ended.

  He descended to the third floor.

  As with Clement’s apartment, there was little in Michener’s office that would not stay. All of the furnishings were Vatican requisition. The paintings on the wall, including a portrait of Clement, belonged to the Holy See. Everything he owned would fit into one box, and consisted of a few desk accessories, a Bavarian anniversary clock, and three pictures of his parents. All his postings with Clement had provided whatever tangible things he’d ever needed. Beyond some clothes and a laptop, he owned nothing. He’d managed through the years to save a large portion of his salary and, after taking advantage of some savvy investment tips, a few hundred thousand dollars was on deposit in Geneva—his retirement money—since the Church provided miserably for priests. Reforming the pension fund had been discussed at length, and Clement had been in favor of doing something, but that endeavor would now have to await the next pontificate.

  He sat at the desk and switched on his computer for a final time. He needed to check any e-mail messages and prepare instructions for his successor. Over the past week his deputies had handled everything, and he saw that most of his messages could wait until after the conclave. Depending on who was elected pope, he might be needed for a week or so after the conclave to ease the transition. But if Valendrea secured the throne, Paolo Ambrosi would almost certainly be the next papal secretary and Michener’s Vatican credentials would be immediately revoked, his services no longer required. Which would be fine by him. He would do nothing to help Ambrosi.

  He continued to scroll down the list of e-mails, checking each one, then deleting. A few he saved, tagging a short note for the staff. Three were condolences from bishops who were friends, and he sent back a short reply. Maybe one of them could use an aide? But he dismissed the thought. He wasn’t going to do that again. What had Katerina said in Bucharest? Is your life to be in the service of others? Perhaps if he devoted himself to something like the cause Father Tibor had deemed important, Clement XV’s soul might be granted salvation. His sacrifice could be penance for his friend’s shortcoming.

  And that thought made him feel better.

  The pope’s upcoming Christmas schedule appeared on the screen. The itinerary had been transmitted to Castle Gandolfo for review and bore Clement’s initials, signifying approval. It called for the pope to celebrate the traditional Christmas Eve Mass in St. Peter’s, then deliver his yuletide message the following day from the balcony. Michener noted the time of the return e-mail from Castle Gandolfo. Ten fifteen A.M., Saturday. That was about when he’d arrived back in Rome from Bucharest, long before he and Clement first talked. And even longer before Clement learned of Father Tibor’s murder. Strange that a suicidal pontiff had taken the time to review a schedule he had no intention of keeping.

  Michener scrolled down to the last e-mail message and noticed no identification tag. Occasionally he received anonymous messages from people who somehow managed to learn his Web address. Most were harmless devotions from folks who wanted their pope to know they cared.

  He double-clicked on the entry and saw that the transmission emanated from Castle Gandolfo, dated last evening. Time received, eleven fifty-six P.M.

  By now, Colin, you’re aware of what I have done. I don’t expect you to understand. Just know that the Virgin returned and told me my time had come. Father Tibor was with Her. I waited for Her to take me, but She said I must end my life through my own hand. Father Tibor said it was my duty, the penance for disobedience, and that all would be clear later. I wondered about my soul, but was told the Lord was waiting. I have for too long ignored heaven. I will not this time. You have asked me repeatedly what is wrong. I will tell you. In 1978 Valendrea removed from the Riserva part of the Virgin’s third message from Fatima. Only five people know what was originally in that box. Four of them—Sister Lucia, John XXIII, Paul VI, and Father Tibor—are gone. Only Valendrea remains. Of course, he will deny everything and the words you are reading will be deemed the ramblings of a man who took his own life. But know that when John Paul read the third secret and released it to the world, he was not privy to the entire message. It is for you to set things right. Go to Medjugorje. It is vital. Not only for me, but for the Church. Consider it a last request from a friend.

  I am sure the Church is preparing for my funeral. Ngovi will do his duty well. Please, do with my body as you please. Pomp and ceremony do not make the pious. For me, though, I would prefer the sanctity of Bamberg, that lovely city by the river, and the cathedral I so loved. My only regret is that I did not see its beauty one last time. Perhaps, though, my legacy could still be there. But I shall leave that conclusion to others. God stay with you, Colin, and know that I loved you dearly, as a father loves his son.

  A suicide note, plain and simple, written by a troubled man who was apparently delusional. The supreme pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church was saying that the Virgin Mary told him to kill himself. But the part about Valendrea and the third secret was interesting. Could he give the information credence? He wondered if Ngovi should be apprised, but concluded that the fewer who knew about this message, the better. Clement’s body was now embalmed, his fluids consigned to flames, and the cause of death would never be known. The words glaring back at him from the screen were nothing but confirmation that perhaps the late pontiff had been mentally ill.

  Not to mention obsessed.

  Clement again had urged him to go to Bosnia. He’d not planned on following through with that request. What was the point? He still carried the letter signed by Clement addressed to a seer, but the authority sanctioning that order now emanated from the camerlengo and the Sacred College. There was no way Alberto Valendrea was going to allow him a jaunt through Bosnia looking for Marian secrets. That would be an appeasement to a pope he openly despised. Not to mention official permission for any trip would require the cardinals being collectively informed about Father Tibor, papal apparitions, and Clement’s obsession with the third secret of Fatima. The number of questions generated by those revelations would be staggering. Clement’s reputation was too precious to risk. Bad enough four men knew of a papal suicide. He certainly wasn’t going to be the one who actually impugned the memory of a great man. Yet Ngovi might still need to read Clement’s last words. He recalled what Cl
ement had urged at Turin. Maurice Ngovi is the closest thing to me you will ever have. Remember that in the days ahead.

  He printed a hard copy.

  Then erased the file and switched off the machine.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 27

  11:00 A.M.

  Michener entered the Vatican through St. Peter’s Square, following a throng of visitors who’d just streamed off buses. He’d vacated his apartment in the Apostolic Palace ten days ago, just before Clement XV’s funeral. He was still credentialed with a security pass but, after tending to this last administrative matter, his duties to the Holy See would officially end.

  Cardinal Ngovi had asked him to stay in Rome until the conclave convened. He’d even suggested that he join his staff at the Congregation for Catholic Education, but could not promise a position past the conclave. Ngovi’s Vatican assignment ended with Clement’s death as well, and the camerlengo had already said that if Valendrea achieved the papacy he would return to Africa.

  Clement’s funeral had been a simple affair, held outdoors in front of the restored exterior of St. Peter’s Basilica. A million people had crowded the piazza, the flame of a single candle beside the coffin battered by a steady breeze. Michener had not sat with the princes of the Church, where he might have been if things had developed differently. Instead he took his place among the staff who had served their pope faithfully for thirty-four months. More than a hundred heads of state had attended, the entire ceremony transmitted live by television and radio around the world.

  Ngovi did not preside. Instead, he delegated the speaking assignments to other cardinals. A shrewd move, actually, one that would surely endear the chosen men to the camerlengo. Maybe not enough to guarantee a conclave vote, but certainly enough to cultivate a willing listener.