the Third Secret Page 19

  Not surprisingly, none of the assignments went to Valendrea, and justifying that omission was easy. The secretary of state focused on the Holy See’s foreign relations during the interregnum. All his attention was on external matters, the task of praising Clement and bidding the pontiff farewell traditionally left to others. Valendrea had taken his duty to heart and been a fixture in the press over the past two weeks, interviewed by every major news organization in the world, the Tuscan’s words sparse and carefully chosen.

  When the ceremony ended, twelve pallbearers bore the coffin through the Door of Death and down into the grotto. The sarcophagus, hastily readied by stonemasons, bore an image of Clement II, the eleventh-century German pope Jakob Volkner had so admired, along with Clement XV’s papal emblem. The grave site was near John XXIII’s, something else Clement would have liked. There he was entombed with 148 of his brethren.

  “Colin.”

  His name being called out caught his attention and he stopped. Katerina was making her way across the piazza. He’d not seen her since Bucharest, nearly three weeks ago.

  “You’re back in Rome?” he asked.

  She was dressed in a different style. Chinos, chocolate-brown lamb-suede shirt, and houndstooth jacket. A bit more trendy than he recalled her tastes, but attractive.

  “I never left.”

  “You came here from Bucharest?”

  She nodded. Her ebony hair was worked by the wind and she brushed the strands from her face. “I was on my way to leave when I learned about Clement. So I stayed on.”

  “What have you been doing?”

  “Grabbed a couple of freelance jobs to cover the funeral.”

  “I saw Kealy on CNN.” The priest had been a regular the past week, offering slanted insights into the coming conclave.

  “I did, too. But I haven’t seen Tom since the day after Clement died. You were right. I can do better.”

  “You did the right thing. I’ve been listening to that fool on television. He’s got an opinion on everything, and most of them are wrong.”

  “Maybe CNN should have hired you?”

  He chuckled. “Just what I need.”

  “What are you going to do, Colin?”

  “I’m here to tell Cardinal Ngovi that I’m headed back to Romania.”

  “To see Father Tibor again?”

  “You don’t know?”

  A puzzled look came to her face. He told her about Tibor’s murder.

  “That poor man. He didn’t deserve that. And those children. He was all they had.”

  “Exactly why I’m going. You were right. It’s time I do something.”

  “You seem happy about the decision.”

  He glanced around the square at a place he’d once strolled with the impunity of the papal secretary. Now he felt like a stranger. “It’s time to move on.”

  “No more ivory towers?”

  “Not in my future. That orphanage in Zlatna is going to be home for a while.”

  She shifted on her feet. “We’ve come a long way. No arguments. No anger. Finally, friends.”

  “Just don’t make the same mistakes twice. That’s all any of us can hope for.” And he saw that she agreed. He was glad they’d run into each other again. But Ngovi was waiting. “Take care, Kate.”

  “You, too, Colin.”

  And he walked away, fighting hard the urge to glance back one last time.

  He found Ngovi in his office at the Congregation for Catholic Education. The outer warren of rooms bustled with activity. With the conclave starting tomorrow, there seemed a push to get everything finished.

  “I actually believe we’re ready,” Ngovi told him.

  The door was closed and the staff had been instructed not to disturb them. Michener was expecting another job pitch, since Ngovi was the one who’d called for the meeting.

  “I waited until now to speak with you, Colin. Tomorrow I’ll be locked away in the Sistine.” Ngovi straightened in the chair. “I want you to go to Bosnia.”

  The request surprised him. “For what? You and I both agreed the whole thing was ridiculous.”

  “The matter disturbs me. Clement was intent on something, and I want to carry out his wishes. That’s the duty of any camerlengo. He wanted to learn the tenth secret. So do I.”

  He hadn’t mentioned to Ngovi Clement’s final e-mail message. So he reached into his pocket and found the copy. “You need to read this.”

  The cardinal slipped on a pair of spectacles and studied the message.

  “He sent that just before midnight on that Sunday. Maurice, he was delusional. If I go traipsing around Bosnia, we’re going to do nothing but draw attention. Why don’t we let it lie?”

  Ngovi removed his glasses. “I want you to go now more than ever.”

  “You sound like Jakob. What’s gotten into you?”

  “I don’t know. I just know that this was important to him, and we should finish what he wanted. This new information about Valendrea removing part of the third secret makes it vital that we investigate.”

  He remained unconvinced. “So far, Maurice, there’s been no issue raised over Clement’s death. You want to take that chance?”

  “I’ve considered that. But I doubt the press will be interested in what you’re doing. The conclave will consume their attention. So I want you to go. You still have his letter to the seer?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll give you one with my signature. That should be enough.”

  He told Ngovi what he intended to do in Romania. “Can’t somebody else handle this?”

  Ngovi shook his head. “You know the answer to that.”

  He could tell that Ngovi was more apprehensive than usual.

  “There’s something else you need to know, Colin.” Ngovi motioned to the e-mail. “It bears on this. You told me that Valendrea went into the Riserva with the pope. I checked. The records confirm their visit on the Friday night before Clement died. What you don’t know is that Valendrea left the Vatican Saturday evening. The trip was unscheduled. In fact, he canceled all appointments to make the time. He was gone till early Sunday morning.”

  He was impressed with Ngovi’s information network. “I didn’t know you watched so closely.”

  “The Tuscan is not the only one with spies.”

  “Any idea where he went?”

  “Only that he left the Rome airport in a private jet before dark and returned on the same aircraft early the next morning.”

  He recalled the uncomfortable feeling in the café while he and Katerina had talked with Tibor. Did Valendrea know about Father Tibor? Had he been followed? “Tibor died Saturday night. What are you saying, Maurice?”

  Ngovi held up his hands in a halting gesture. “I’m only reporting facts. In the Riserva, on Friday, Clement showed Valendrea whatever Father Tibor had sent him. Then the priest was killed the next night. Whether Valendrea’s sudden trip on Saturday was related to Father Tibor’s murder, I do not know. But the priest left this world at quite an odd time, wouldn’t you say?”

  “And you think there’s an answer to all this in Bosnia?”

  “Clement believed so.”

  He now appreciated Ngovi’s true motives. But he wanted to know, “What about the cardinals? Would they not have to be informed what I’m doing?”

  “You’re not on an official mission. This is between you and me. A gesture to our departed friend. Besides, we’ll be in conclave by morning. Locked away. Nobody could be informed.”

  He understood now why Ngovi had waited to speak with him. But he also recalled Clement’s warning about Alberto Valendrea and the lack of privacy. He glanced around at walls that had been erected when the American Revolution was being fought. Could someone be listening? He decided it really didn’t matter. “All right, Maurice. I’ll do it. But only because you asked and Jakob wanted it. After that, I’m out.”

  And he hoped Valendrea heard.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  4:30 P.M.

  Vale
ndrea was overwhelmed by the volume of information the listening devices were uncovering. Ambrosi had worked every night over the past two weeks, sorting through the tapes, weeding out the trivia, preserving the nuggets. The abbreviated versions, provided to him on microcassette, had revealed much about the cardinals’ attitudes, and he was pleased to discover that he was becoming quite papabile in the eyes of many, even some he’d yet to fully confirm as supporters.

  His restrained approach was working. This time, unlike at Clement XV’s conclave, he’d shown the reverence expected of a prince of the Catholic Church. And already commentators were including his name on a short list of possible candidates, along with that of Maurice Ngovi and four other cardinals.

  An informal head count taken last evening showed there were forty-eight confirmed yes votes. He needed seventy-six to win on an early ballot, assuming all 113 eligible cardinals made it to Rome, which, barring serious illness, should happen. Thankfully, John Paul II’s reforms allowed for a change in procedure after three days of balloting. If no pope was selected by then, a series of successive votes would occur, followed by a day of prayer and discussion. After twelve full days of conclave, if there was still no pope, a simple majority of cardinals could then elect. Which meant time was on his side, as he clearly possessed a majority, along with more than enough votes to block anyone else’s early election. So he could filibuster if need be—provided, of course, he could keep his voting bloc intact over twelve days.

  A few cardinals were becoming a problem. They’d apparently told him one thing then, when they’d thought locked doors afforded them privacy, proclaimed another. He’d checked and found that Ambrosi had amassed some interesting information on several of the traitors—more than enough to convince them of the error in their ways—and he planned to dispatch his aide to each of them before morning.

  After tomorrow it would be difficult pressuring votes. He could reinforce attitudes but, within the conclave, quarters were simply too confined, privacy too scarce, and something about the Sistine affected cardinals. Some called it a pull from the Holy Spirit. Others ambition. So he knew that the votes would have to be ensured now, the coming assembly only a confirmation that each was willing to uphold his end of the bargain.

  Of course, blackmail could muster only so many votes. The majority of his supporters were loyal to him simply because of his standing within the Church and his background, which stamped him the most papabile of the favorites. And he was proud of himself for not doing anything over the past few days to alienate those natural allies.

  He was still stunned by Clement’s suicide. He’d never thought the German would do anything to endanger his soul. But something Clement said to him in the papal apartment nearly three weeks ago swept through his mind. I actually hope you do inherit this job. You will find it far different than you might imagine. Maybe you should be the one. And what the pope said that Friday night, after they left the Riserva. I wanted you to know what awaits you. And why hadn’t Clement stopped him from burning the translation? You’ll see.

  “Damn you, Jakob,” he muttered.

  A knock came on his office door, then Ambrosi stepped inside and crossed to the desk. He held a pocket tape recorder. “Listen to this. I just dubbed it off the reel-to-reel. Michener and Ngovi about four hours ago in Ngovi’s office.”

  The conversation lasted about ten minutes. Valendrea switched off the machine. “First Romania. Now Bosnia. They will not stop.”

  “Apparently Clement left a suicide e-mail for Michener.”

  Ambrosi knew about Clement’s suicide. He’d told him that and more in Romania, including what had happened with Clement in the Riserva. “I must read that e-mail.”

  Ambrosi stood straight before the desk. “I don’t see how that’s possible.”

  “We could reenlist Michener’s girlfriend.”

  “That thought occurred to me. But why does it matter anymore? The conclave starts tomorrow. You will be pope by sundown. Surely, by the next day.”

  Possible, but he could just as easily be locked in a tight election. “What troubles me is that our African friend apparently has his own information network. I didn’t realize I was such a high priority with him.” It also bothered him that Ngovi had so easily linked his Romanian trip with Tibor’s murder. That could become a problem. “I want you to find Katerina Lew.”

  He’d purposely not talked with her after Romania. No need. Thanks to Clement, he knew everything he needed to know. Yet it galled him that Ngovi was dispatching envoys on private missions. Especially missions that involved him. Still, there was little he could do about it since he couldn’t risk involving the Sacred College. There’d be too many questions and he’d have too few answers. It could also provide Ngovi a way to force an inquiry into his own Romanian trip, and he was not about to present the African with that opportunity.

  He was the only one left alive who knew what the Virgin had said. Three popes were gone. He’d already destroyed part of Tibor’s cursed reproduction, eliminated the priest himself, and flushed Sister Lucia’s original writing into the sewers. All that remained was the facsimile translation waiting in the Riserva. No one could be allowed to see those words. But to gain access to that box he needed to be pope.

  He stared up at Ambrosi.

  “Unfortunately, Paolo, you must stay here over the coming days. I will need you nearby. But we have to know what Michener does in Bosnia, and she is our best conduit. So find Katerina Lew and reenlist her help. “

  “How do you know she’s in Rome?”

  “Where else would she be?”

  THIRTY-SIX

  6:15 P.M.

  Katerina was drawn to the CNN booth, just outside the south colonnade in St. Peter’s Square. She’d seen Tom Kealy from across the cobbled expanse, beneath bright lights and in front of three cameras. The piazza was dotted with many makeshift television sets. The thousands of chairs and barricades from Clement’s funeral were gone, replaced by souvenir hawkers, protestors, pilgrims, and the journalists who’d flocked to Rome, ready for the conclave that would begin tomorrow morning, camera lenses angled for the best view of a metal flue high above the Sistine Chapel where white smoke would signal success.

  She drew close to a ring of gawkers huddled around the CNN dais where Kealy was talking to the cameras. He wore a black wool cassock and Roman collar, looking very much the priest. For someone with so little regard for his profession, he seemed entirely comfortable with its physical trappings.

  “—that’s right, in the old days, ballots were simply burned after each scrutiny with either dry or wet straw to produce black or white smoke. Now a chemical is added to produce color. There’s been a lot of confusion in recent conclaves about the smoke. Apparently even the Catholic Church can, at times, let science make matters easier.”

  “What have you been hearing about tomorrow?” asked the female correspondent sitting beside Kealy.

  Kealy turned his attention toward the camera. “My guess is that there are two favorites. Cardinals Ngovi and Valendrea. Ngovi would be the first African pope since the first century and could do a lot for his home continent. Look what John Paul II did for Poland and Eastern Europe. Africa could likewise use a champion.”

  “But are Catholics ready for a black pope?”

  Kealy gave a shrug. “What does it matter anymore? Most of today’s Catholics are from Latin and South America and Asia. The European cardinals no longer dominate. All of the popes since John XXIII made sure of that by expanding the Sacred College and packing it with non-Italians. The Church would be better off, in my opinion, with Ngovi than Valendrea.”

  She smiled. Kealy was apparently having his revenge on the righteous Alberto Valendrea. Interesting how the tide had turned. Nineteen days ago, Kealy was on the receiving end of a Valendrea barrage, on the way to excommunication. But during the interregnum, that tribunal, along with everything else, was suspended. Now here was the accused, on worldwide television, disparaging his chief accuser, a man
about to make a serious run for the papacy.

  “Why would you say the Church would be better off with Ngovi?” asked the correspondent.

  “Valendrea is Italian. The Church has steadily moved away from Italian domination. His choice would be a retreat. He’s also too conservative for the twenty-first-century Catholic.”

  “Some might say a return to traditional roots would be beneficial.”

  Kealy shook his head. “You spend forty years since Vatican II trying to modernize—do a fairly good job in making your Church a worldwide institution—then toss all that out the door? The pope is no longer merely the bishop of Rome. He’s the head of a billion faithful, the vast majority of whom are not Italian, not European, not even Caucasian. It would be suicidal to elect Valendrea. Not when there’s somebody like Ngovi, equally as papabile, and far more attractive to the world.”

  A hand on Katerina’s shoulder startled her. She whirled around to see the black eyes of Father Paolo Ambrosi. The annoying little priest was only a few inches from her face. A bolt of anger flashed through her, but she kept calm.

  “He doesn’t seem to like Cardinal Valendrea,” the priest whispered.

  “Get your hand off my shoulder.”

  A smile frayed the edges of Ambrosi’s mouth and he withdrew his hand. “I thought you might be here.” He motioned to Kealy. “With your paramour.”

  A sick feeling clutched her gut, but she willed herself to show no fear. “What do you want?”

  “Surely you don’t want to talk here? If your associate were to turn his head, he might wonder why you were conversing with one so close to the cardinal he despises. He might even get jealous and fly into a rage.”

  “I don’t think he’s got anything to worry about from you. I piss sitting down, so I doubt I’m your type.”

  Ambrosi said nothing, but maybe he was right. Whatever he had to say should be said in private. So she led him through the colonnade, past rows of kiosks peddling stamps and coins.

  “It’s disgusting,” Ambrosi said, motioning to the capitalists. “They think this a carnival. Nothing but an opportunity to make money.”