the Third Secret Read online

  He resented Clement’s talking down to him. “I know more than you might think.”

  “You have no idea the depth of a person like Alberto Valendrea. He is no man of God. There have been many popes like him—greedy and conceited, foolish men who think power is the answer to everything. I thought them part of our past. But I was wrong. You think you can do battle with Valendrea?” Clement shook his head. “No, Colin. You’re no match for him. You’re too decent. Too trusting.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “It needs to be said.” Clement stepped close. They were now only inches apart, toe-to-toe. “Alberto Valendrea will be the ruin of this Church—if I and my predecessors have not already been. You ask me constantly what is wrong. You should not be as concerned with what troubles me as with doing what I ask. Is that clear?”

  He was taken aback by Clement’s bluntness. He was a forty-seven-year-old monsignor. The papal secretary. A devoted servant. Why was his old friend questioning both his loyalty and his ability? But he decided to argue no further. “It is perfectly clear, Holy Father.”

  “Maurice Ngovi is the closest thing to me you will ever have. Remember that in the days ahead.” Clement stepped back and his mood seemed to shift. “When do you leave for Romania?”

  “In the morning.”

  Clement nodded, then reached back into his cassock and withdrew another powder-blue envelope. “Excellent. Now, would you mail this for me, please?”

  He accepted the packet and noticed it was addressed to Irma Rahn. She and Clement were childhood friends. She still lived in Bamberg, and they’d maintained a steady correspondence for years. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “From here.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Mail the letter from here. In Turin. You personally, please. No delegation to others.”

  He always mailed the pope’s letters personally, and had never needed a reminder before. But again he decided not to question.

  “Of course, Holy Father. I’ll mail it from here. Personally.”

  ELEVEN

  VATICAN CITY, 1:15 P.M.

  Valendrea stepped directly toward the office of the archivist for the Holy Roman Church. The cardinal in charge of L’Archivio Segreto Vaticano was not one of his allies, but he hoped the man was perceptive enough not to cross someone who might soon be pope. All appointments ended at a papal death. Continued service was dependent solely on what the next Vicar of Christ decided, and Valendrea well knew that the present archivist wanted to keep his position.

  He found the man behind his desk, busy at work. He calmly entered the sprawling office and closed a set of bronze doors behind him.

  The cardinal glanced up, but said nothing. The man was nearing seventy and possessed brooding cheeks and a high, sloping forehead. A Spaniard by birth, he’d worked in Rome all his clerical life.

  The Sacred College was divided into three categories. Cardinal-bishops who headed the sees of Rome, cardinal-priests who were heads of dioceses outside Rome, and cardinal-deacons who were full-time Curia officials. The archivist was the senior of the cardinal-deacons and, as such, was granted the honor of announcing from the balcony of St. Peter’s the name of any newly elected pope. Valendrea was not concerned with that hollow privilege. Instead, what made this old man important was his influence over a handful of cardinal-deacons still wavering in their preconclave support.

  He stepped toward the desk and noticed his host did not rise and greet him. “It isn’t that bad,” he said in response to a look he was receiving.

  “I’m not so sure. I assume the pontiff is still in Turin?”

  “Why else would I be here?”

  The archivist let out an audible sigh.

  “I want you to open the Riserva, along with the safe,” Valendrea said.

  The old man finally stood. “I must refuse.”

  “That would be unwise.” He hoped the man understood the message.

  “Your threats cannot countermand a direct papal order. Only the pope can enter the Riserva. No one else. Not even you.”

  “No one needs to know. I won’t be long.”

  “My oath to this office and the Church means more to me than you seem to assume.”

  “Listen to me, old man. I’m on a mission of greatest importance to the Church. One that demands extraordinary action.” It was a lie, but it sounded good.

  “Then you wouldn’t mind if the Holy Father granted permission to allow access. I could place a call to Turin.”

  Time for the moment of truth. “I have a sworn statement from your niece. She was more than happy to provide it. She swears before the Almighty that you forgave her daughter’s sin in aborting her baby. How is that possible, Eminence? That’s heresy.”

  “I’m aware of the sworn statements. Your Father Ambrosi was quite persuasive with my sister’s family. I absolved the woman because she was dying and fearful of spending an eternity in hell. I comforted her with the grace of God, as a priest should.”

  “My God—your God—does not condone abortion. That’s murder. You had no right to forgive her. A point I’m sure the Holy Father would have no choice but to agree with.”

  He could see that the old man was fortified in the face of his dilemma, but he also noticed a tremor that shook the left eye—perhaps the precise spot where fear was making its escape.

  The cardinal-archivist’s bravado did not impress Valendrea. The man’s entire life had been spent shoving paper from one file to another, enforcing meaningless rules, throwing roadblocks before anyone bold enough to challenge the Holy See. He followed a long line of scrittori who’d made it their life’s labor to ensure that the papal archives remained secure. Once they perched themselves on a black throne, their physical presence in the archives served as a warning that permission to enter was not a license to browse. As with an archaeological dig, any revelations from those shelves came only after a meticulous plunge into their depths. And that took time—a commodity the Church had only in the past few decades been willing to grant. The sole task, Valendrea realized, of men like the cardinal-archivist was to protect the mother Church, even from its princes.

  “Do as you wish, Alberto. Tell the world what I did. But I’m not allowing you into the Riserva. To get there you will have to be pope. And that is not a given.”

  Perhaps he’d underestimated this paper pusher. There was more brick to his foundation than the veneer showed. He decided to let the matter rest. At least for now. He might need this man in the coming months.

  He turned and stepped toward the double doors. “I’ll wait until I’m pope to speak with you again.” He stopped and glanced back. “Then we’ll see if you’re as loyal to me as you are to others.”

  TWELVE

  ROME, 4:00 P.M.

  Katerina had been waiting in her hotel room since a little past lunch. Cardinal Valendrea said he would call at two P.M., but he hadn’t kept his word. Perhaps he thought ten thousand euros was enough to ensure that she would wait by the phone. Maybe he believed her former relationship with Colin Michener enough incentive to guarantee that she’d do as he asked. Regardless, she didn’t like the fact that the cardinal had apparently concluded himself clever in reading her.

  True, she was almost out of the money accumulated from freelancing in the United States and tired of sponging off Tom Kealy, who seemed to enjoy that she was dependent on him. He’d done well with his three books, and soon he was going to be doing even better. He liked that he was America’s newest religious personality. He was addicted to the attention, which was understandable to a point, but she knew sides of Tom Kealy that his followers never saw. Emotions could not be posted on a website or slipped into a publicity memo. The truly skilled could convey them in words, but Kealy was not a good writer. All three of his books were ghostwritten—one of those things only she and his publisher knew, and not something Kealy would want revealed. The man was simply not real. Just an illusion that a few million people—himself among them—had accepted.<
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  So different from Michener.

  She hated being bitter yesterday. She’d told herself before arriving in Rome that if their paths crossed, she should watch what she said. After all, a lot of time had passed—they’d both moved on. But when she saw him in the tribunal she realized that he’d left an indelible mark on her emotions, one she was afraid to admit existed, one that churned resentment with the speed of a nuclear reaction.

  Last night, while Kealy slept beside her, she’d wondered if her own tortuous path over the past dozen years was nothing but a prelude to this moment. Her career was anything but a success, her personal life dismal, yet here she was waiting for the second most powerful man in the Catholic Church to call and give her a chance to deceive someone she still cared a great deal about.

  Earlier, she’d made a few inquiries to contacts in the Italian press and learned that Valendrea was a complex man. He was born to money in one of Italy’s oldest patrician families. At least two popes and five cardinals were in his bloodline, and uncles and brothers were involved in either Italian politics or international business. The Valendrea clan was also heavily entrenched in the European arts, and owned palaces and grand estates. They’d been careful with Mussolini and even more so with the revolving-door Italian regimes that followed. Their industry and money had been, and still were, courted, and they were choosy about who and what they supported.

  The Vatican’s Annuario Pontifico noted that Valendrea was sixty years old and held degrees from the University of Florence, the Catholic University of the Sacred Heart, and the Hague Academy of International Law. He was the author of fourteen treatises. His lifestyle required well more than the three thousand euros a month the Church paid its princes. And though the Vatican frowned on cardinals being involved in secular activities, Valendrea was noted as a stockholder in several Italian conglomerates and served on many boards of directors. His relative youth was deemed an asset, as were his innate political abilities and dominating personality. He’d used his post as secretary of state wisely, becoming well known in the Western media. He was a man who recognized the propensities of modern communication and the need to convey a consistent public image. He was also a theological hard-liner who openly opposed Vatican II, a fact made clear during Kealy’s tribunal, and was one of the strict traditionalists who felt the Church was best served as it was once served.

  Nearly all of the people she’d spoken with concurred that Valendrea was the front-runner to succeed Clement. Not necessarily because he was ideal for the job, but because there was no one strong enough to challenge him. By all accounts he was poised and ready for the next conclave.

  But he’d also been a front-runner three years ago and lost.

  The phone jarred her from her thoughts.

  Her gaze darted to the receiver and she fought the urge to answer, preferring to let Valendrea, if indeed the caller was him, sweat a little.

  After the sixth ring she lifted the handset.

  “Making me wait?” Valendrea said.

  “No more than I’ve been.”

  A chuckle came through the earpiece. “I like you, Ms. Lew. You have personality. So tell me, what is your decision?”

  “As if you have to ask.”

  “I thought I’d be courteous.”

  “You don’t impress me as someone who cares about such details.”

  “You don’t have much respect for a cardinal of the Catholic Church.”

  “You put your clothes on every morning like everybody else.”

  “I sense you’re not a religious woman.”

  It was her time to laugh. “Don’t tell me you actually convert souls in between politicking.”

  “I really did choose wisely in you. You and I will get along well.”

  “What makes you think I’m not taping all this?”

  “And miss the opportunity of a lifetime? I seriously doubt that. Not to mention a chance to be with the good Father Michener. All at my expense, no less. Who could ask for more?”

  His irritating attitude wasn’t much different from Tom Kealy’s. She wondered what it was about her that attracted such cocksure personalities. “When do I leave?”

  “The papal secretary flies out tomorrow morning, arriving in Bucharest by lunch. I thought you might leave this evening and stay ahead of him.”

  “And where am I to go?”

  “Father Michener is going to see a priest named Andrej Tibor. He’s retired and works at an orphanage about forty miles to the north of Bucharest, in the village of Zlatna. Perhaps you know the place?”

  “I know of it.”

  “Then you’ll have no trouble learning what Michener does and says while there. Also, Michener is carrying some sort of papal letter. Getting a look at its contents would further increase your stock in my eyes.”

  “You don’t want much, do you?”

  “You are a resourceful woman. I suggest using those same charms Tom Kealy apparently enjoys. Surely then your mission will be a complete success.”

  And the line went dead.

  THIRTEEN

  VATICAN CITY, 5:30 P.M.

  Valendrea stood at the window in his third-floor office. Outside, the tall cedars, stone pines, and cypresses in the Vatican gardens stubbornly clung to summer. Since the thirteenth century popes had strolled the brick paths lined with laurel and myrtle, finding comfort in the classical sculptures, busts, and bronze reliefs.

  He recalled a time when he’d enjoyed the gardens. Fresh from the seminary, posted to the only place in the world where he wanted to serve. Then, the walkways were filled with young priests wondering about their future. He came from an era when Italians dominated the papacy. But Vatican II changed all that, and Clement XV was retreating even farther. Every day another list of orders shuffling priests, bishops, and cardinals filtered down from the fourth floor. More Westerners, Africans, and Asians were being summoned to Rome. He’d tried to delay any implementation, hoping Clement would finally die, but eventually he’d had no choice but comply with every instruction.

  The Italians were already outnumbered in the College of Cardinals, Paul VI perhaps the last of their breed. Valendrea had known the cardinal of Milan, fortunate to be in Rome for the last few years of Paul’s pontificate. By 1983 Valendrea was an archbishop. John Paul II finally bestowed him his red biretta, surely a way for the Pole to endear himself with the locals.

  But maybe it was something more?

  Valendrea’s conservative lean was legendary, as was his reputation as a diligent worker. John Paul appointed him prefect over the Congregation for the Evangelization of Peoples. There, he’d coordinated worldwide missionary activities, supervised the building of churches, delineated diocese boundaries, and educated catechists and clergy. The job had involved him in every aspect of the Church and allowed him to quietly build a power base among men who might one day be cardinals. He never forgot what his father had taught him. A favor offered is a favor returned.

  How true.

  Like real soon.

  He turned from the window.

  Ambrosi had already left for Romania. He missed Paolo when he was gone. He was the only person whom Valendrea felt entirely comfortable with. Ambrosi seemed to understand his nature. And his drive. There was so much to do at just the right time, in just the right proportions, and the chances of failure were far greater than those of success.

  There were simply not many opportunities to become pope. He’d participated in one conclave and a second was perhaps not far away. If he failed to achieve election this time, unless a sudden papal death occurred, the next pope could well reign beyond his time. His ability to be a part of the process officially ended at age eighty, a point he still wished Paul hadn’t conceded, and no amount of tapes loaded with secrets would change that reality.

  He stared across his office at a portrait of Clement XV. Protocol demanded the irritating thing be there, but his choice would have been a photograph of Paul VI. Italian by birth, Roman by nature, Latin in character.
Paul had been brilliant, bending only on small points, compromising just enough to satisfy the pundits. That was how he, too, would run the Church. Give a little, keep more. Ever since yesterday, he’d been thinking about Paul. What had Ambrosi said about Father Tibor? He’s the only person left alive, besides Clement, who has actually seen what is contained within the Riserva regarding the Fatima secrets.

  Not true.

  His mind drifted back to 1978.

  “Come, Alberto. Follow me.”

  Paul VI rose and tested the pressure on his right knee. The aging pontiff had suffered much over the past few years. He’d endured bronchitis, influenza, bladder problems, kidney failure, and had his prostate removed. Massive doses of antibiotics had warded off infections, but the drugs were weakening his immune system, sapping strength. His arthritis seemed particularly painful and Valendrea felt for the old man. The end was coming, but with an agonizing slowness.

  The pope shuffled out of the apartment toward the fourth floor’s private elevator. It was late evening, a stormy May night, and the Apostolic Palace was quiet. Paul waved off the security men, saying he and his first assistant secretary would return shortly. His two papal secretaries need not be called.

  Sister Giacomina appeared from her room. She was in charge of the domestic retinue and served as Paul’s nurse. The Church had long decreed that women who worked in clerical households must be of canonical age. Valendrea thought the rule amusing. In other words, they must be old and ugly.

  “Where are you going, Holy Father?” the nun asked, as if he were a child leaving his room without permission.

  “Do not worry, Sister. I have business to handle.”

  “You should be resting. You know that.”

  “I will return shortly. But I feel fine and need to attend to this matter. Father Valendrea will take good care of me.”

  “No more than half an hour. Clear?”

  Paul smiled. “I promise. Half an hour and I’ll be off my feet.”