the Third Secret Read online

  The nun retreated to her room and they headed onto the elevator. On the ground floor, Paul inched ahead through a series of corridors to the entrance for the archives.

  “I have delayed something for many years, Alberto. I think tonight is the time to remedy that.”

  Paul continued along with the help of his cane and Valendrea shortened his stride to keep pace. He was saddened by the sight of this once great man. Giovanni Battista Montini was the son of a successful Italian lawyer. He’d worked his way up through the Curia, ultimately serving in the Secretariat of State. After, he became the archbishop of Milan and governed that diocese with an efficient hand, catching the eye of the Italian-dominated Sacred College as the natural choice to succeed the beloved John XXIII. He’d been an excellent pope, serving at a difficult time after Vatican II. The Church would sorely miss him, and so would Valendrea. Of late, he’d been fortunate to spend time with Paul. The old warrior seemed to enjoy his company. There was even talk of a possible elevation to bishop, something he hoped Paul saw the grace to extend before God summoned him.

  They entered the archives and the prefect knelt at Paul’s appearance. “What brings you, Holy Father?”

  “Please open the Riserva.”

  He liked the way Paul answered a question with a command. The prefect scurried for a set of oversized keys, then led the way into the darkened archives. Paul slowly followed, and they arrived as the prefect completed opening an iron grille and switching on a series of dull incandescent lights. Valendrea knew of the Riserva and of the rule that required papal authority for entry. It was the sacred reserve of the Vicars of Christ. Only Napoleon had violated its sanctity, paying for that insult in the end.

  Paul entered the windowless room and pointed to a black safe. “Open that.”

  The prefect complied, spinning the dials and releasing tumblers. The double doors swung open. Not one sound leaked from the brass hinges.

  The pope sat in one of three chairs.

  “That will be all,” Paul said, and the prefect left.

  “My predecessor was the first to read the third secret of Fatima. I am told that afterward he ordered it sealed in this safe. I have resisted the urge to come here for fifteen years.”

  Valendrea was a little confused. “Did not the Vatican in ’67 issue a statement that the secret would remain sealed? That was done without you reading it?”

  “There are many things the Curia does in my name of which I have little knowledge. I was told, though, about that one. After.”

  Valendrea wondered if he might have stumbled with his question. He cautioned himself to watch his words.

  “The whole affair amazes me,” Paul said. “The mother of God appears to three peasant children—not to a priest, or a bishop, or the pope. She chooses three illiterate children. She seems to always choose the meek. Perhaps heaven is trying to tell us something?”

  Valendrea knew all about how Sister Lucia’s message from the Virgin had made its way from Portugal to the Vatican.

  “I never thought the good sister’s words something that commanded my attention,” Paul said. “I met Lucia in Fatima, when I went in ’67. I was criticized for going. The progressives said I was setting back the progress of Vatican II. Putting too much emphasis on the supernatural. Venerating Mary above Christ and the Lord. But I knew better.”

  He noticed a fiery light in Paul’s eyes. There might still be some fight left in this old warrior.

  “I knew young people loved Mary. They felt a pull from the sanctuaries. My going there was important to them. It showed that their pope cared. And I was right, Alberto. Mary is more popular today than ever.”

  He knew Paul loved the Madonna, making a point throughout his pontificate to venerate her with titles and attention. Perhaps too many, some said.

  Paul motioned to the safe. “The fourth drawer on the left, Alberto. Open it and bring me what is inside.”

  He did as Paul instructed, sliding out a heavy iron drawer. A small wooden box rested inside, a wax seal affixed to the outside bearing the papal crest of John XXIII. On top was a label that read secretum sancti officio, Secret of the Holy Office. He carried the box to Paul, who studied the outside with trembling hands.

  “It is said Pius XII placed the label on top and John himself ordered that seal. Now it is my turn to look inside. Could you crack the wax please, Alberto.”

  He glanced around for a tool. Finding nothing, he wedged one of the corners of the safe’s doors into the wax and cracked it away. He handed the box back to Paul.

  “Clever,” the pope said.

  He accepted the compliment with a nod.

  Paul balanced the box in his lap and found a set of reading glasses in his cassock. He slipped the stems over his ears, hinged open the lid, and lifted out two packets of paper. He set one aside and unfolded the other. Valendrea saw a newer white sheet encased by a clearly older piece of paper. Both contained writing.

  The pontiff studied the older page.

  “This is the original note Sister Lucia wrote in Portuguese,” Paul said. “Unfortunately, I cannot read that language.”

  “Neither can I, Holy Father.”

  Paul handed him the sheet. He saw that the text spanned about twenty or so lines written in black ink that had faded to gray. It was exciting to think that only Sister Lucia, a recognized seer of the Virgin Mary, and Pope John XXIII had touched that paper before him.

  Paul motioned with the newer white page. “This is the translation.”

  “Translation, Holy Father?”

  “John could not read Portuguese, either. He had the message translated to Italian.”

  Valendrea had not known that. So add a third set of fingerprints—some curial official called in to translate, surely sworn to secrecy afterward, probably dead by now.

  Paul unfolded the second sheet and started to read. A curious look came to the pope’s face. “I was never good at riddles.”

  The pope reassembled the packet, then reached for the second set. “It appears the message carried to another page.” Paul unfolded the sheets. Again, one page newer, the other clearly older. “Portuguese, again.” Paul glanced at the newer sheet. “Ah, Italian. Another translation.”

  He watched as Paul read the words with an expression that shifted from confusion to a look of deep concern. The pope’s breaths came shallow, his eyebrows creased together, and the brow furrowed as he again scanned the translation.

  The pope said nothing. Neither did Valendrea. He dared not ask to read the words.

  The pope read the message a third time.

  Paul’s tongue wet his cracked lips and he shifted in the chair. A look of astonishment flooded the old man’s features. For an instant, Valendrea was frightened. Here was the first pope to travel around the globe. A man who’d stared down an army of Church progressives and tempered their revolution with moderation. He’d stood before the United Nations and pronounced, “Never again war.” He’d denounced birth control as a sin and held fast even in a firestorm of protest that shook the Church’s very foundation. He’d reaffirmed the tradition of priestly celibacy and excommunicated dissenters. He’d dodged an assassin in the Philippines, then defied terrorists and presided at the funeral of his friend, the prime minister of Italy. This was a determined vicar, not easily shaken. Yet something in the lines he’d just read affected him.

  Paul reassembled the packet, then dropped both bundles into the wooden box and slammed the lid.

  “Put it back,” the pope muttered, eyes down at his lap. Bits of the crimson wax dotted the white cassock. Paul brushed them away, as if they were a disease. “This was a mistake. I should not have come.” Then the pope seemed to steel himself. Composure returned. “When we return upstairs, compile an order. I want you to personally reseal that box. Then there is to be no further entry on pain of excommunication. No exceptions.”

  But that order would not apply to the pope, Valendrea thought. Clement XV could come and go in the Riserva as he pleased.


  And the German had done just that.

  Valendrea had long known of the Italian translation of Sister Lucia’s writing, but not until yesterday had he known the name of the translator.

  Father Andrej Tibor.

  Three questions racked his brain.

  What kept summoning Clement XV into the Riserva? Why did the pope want to communicate with Tibor? And, most importantly, what did that translator know?

  Right now, he possessed not a single response.

  Perhaps, though, over the next few days, among Colin Michener, Katerina Lew, and Ambrosi, he would learn the answers to all three inquiries.

  FOURTEEN

  BUCHAREST, ROMANIA

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 10

  11:15 A.M.

  Michener descended a set of metal steps to an oily tarmac at Otopeni Airport. The British Airways shuttle he’d arrived on from Rome had been half full, and was one of only four airliners utilizing the terminal.

  He’d visited Romania once before, while working in the Secretariat of State under then-Cardinal Volkner, assigned to the section for Relations with States, that portion of the International directorate charged with diplomatic activities.

  The Vatican and Romanian churches had clashed for decades over a post–World War II transfer of Catholic property to the Orthodox Church, which included monasteries possessed of an ancient Latin tradition. Religious freedom returned with the fall of the communists, but the ownership debate lingered and several times Catholics and Orthodox had violently clashed. John Paul II started a dialogue with the Romanian government after Ceau¸sescu was toppled, and even made an official visit. Progress was slow. Michener himself was involved in some later negotiations. Recently there’d been some movement from the centralist government. Close to two million Catholics compared with twenty-two million Orthodox filled the country, and their voices were beginning to be heard. Clement had made clear that he wanted to visit, but the ownership dispute marred any talk of a papal trip.

  The whole affair was just more of the complicated politics that seemed to consume Michener’s days. He really wasn’t a priest anymore. He was a government minister, diplomat, and personal confidant—all of which would end with Clement’s last breath. Maybe then he could go back to being a priest. He’d never really served a congregation. Some missionary work might be a challenge. Cardinal Ngovi had spoken to him about Kenya. Africa could be an excellent refuge for an ex–papal secretary, especially if Clement died before making him a cardinal.

  He flushed the uncertainties about his life away as he stepped toward the terminal. He could tell that he’d risen in altitude. The sullen air was cold—in the upper forties, the pilot had explained just before they’d touched down. The sky was smeared with a thick swirl of low-level clouds that denied sunlight any opportunity of finding earth.

  He entered the building and headed for passport control. He’d packed light, only a shoulder bag, expecting to be gone no more than a day or two, and had dressed casually in jeans, a sweater, and jacket, honoring Clement’s request for discretion.

  His Vatican passport gained entrance into the country without the customary visa fee. He then rented a battered Ford Fiesta from the Eurodollar counter just outside customs and learned directions to Zlatna from an attendant. His grasp of the language was good enough that he understood most of what the red-haired man told him.

  He wasn’t particularly thrilled with the prospect of driving around one of the poorest countries in Europe alone. Research last evening had revealed several official advisories that warned of thieves and urged caution, especially at night and in the countryside. He would have preferred enlisting the help of the papal nuncio in Bucharest. One of the staff could serve as driver and guide, but Clement had nixed that idea. So he climbed into the rental car and made his way out of the airport, eventually finding the highway and speeding northwest toward Zlatna.

  Katerina stood on the west side of the town square, the cobbles grossly misshapen, many missing, even more crumbling to gravel. People scampered back and forth, their concerns surely more vital—food, heat, water. Dilapidated pavement the least of their everyday worries.

  She’d arrived in Zlatna two hours ago and spent an hour gathering what information she could about Father Andrej Tibor. She was careful with her inquiries, since Romanians were intensely curious if nothing else. According to the information Valendrea had provided, Michener’s flight touched down a little after eleven A.M. It would take him a good two hours to drive the ninety miles north from Bucharest. Her watch read one twenty P.M. So assuming his flight was on time, he should be arriving shortly.

  It felt both strange and comforting to be back home. She was born and raised in Bucharest, but spent a lot of her childhood beyond the Carpathian Mountains, deep in Transylvania. She knew the region not as some novelized haunt of vampires and werewolves, but as Erdély, a place of rich forests, citadel castles, and hearty people. The culture was a mixture of Hungary and Germany, spiced with Gypsy. Her father had been a descendant of the Saxon colonists brought there in the twelfth century to guard the mountain passes from invading Tartars. The descendants of that European stock had withstood a parade of Hungarian despots and Romanian monarchs, only to be slaughtered by the communists after World War II.

  Her mother’s parents were ¸Tigani, Gypsy, and the communists were anything but kind to them, orchestrating a collective hatred as Hitler had done with Jews. Seeing Zlatna, with its wooden houses, carved verandas, and Mughal-style train station, she was reminded of her grandparents’ village. Where Zlatna had escaped the region’s earthquakes and survived Ceau¸sescu’s systemization, her grandparent’s home had not. Like two-thirds of the country’s villages, theirs was ritualistically destroyed, the residents consigned to drab communal apartment buildings. Her mother’s parents had even faced the shameful disgrace of having to demolish their own home. A way to combine peasant experience with Marxist efficiency, the plan was billed. And, sadly, few Romanians mourned the passing of Gypsy villages. She recalled visiting her grandparents afterward in their soulless apartment, the dingy gray rooms devoid of their ancestors’ warming spirits, the essential life drained from their souls. Which was the whole idea. It was later called ethnic cleansing in Bosnia. Ceau¸sescu like to say it was a move toward progressive living. She called it madness. And the sights and sounds of Zlatna resurrected all those ugly memories.

  From a shopkeeper, she learned that three state orphanages were located nearby. The one where Father Tibor worked was regarded as the worst. The compound sat west of town and harbored terminally ill children—another of Ceau¸sescu’s insanities.

  Boldly, the dictator outlawed contraception and proclaimed that women under the age of forty-five must birth at least five offspring. The result was a nation with more children than their parents could ever feed. The abandoning of infants on the street became commonplace. AIDS, tuberculosis, hepatitis, and syphilis exacted severe tolls. Eventually orphanages sprang up everywhere, all of them little more than dumping spots, the task of caring for the unwanted left to strangers.

  She’d also learned that Tibor was a Bulgarian who was nearing eighty—or maybe older, no one really knew for sure—and he was known as a pious man who’d given up retirement to work with children who would soon meet their God. She wondered about the courage it took to comfort a dying infant, or tell a ten-year-old he would soon go to a place far better than here. She didn’t believe any of that. She was an atheist and always had been. Religion was created by man—as was God himself. Politics, not faith, explained everything for her. How better to regulate the masses than by terrifying them with the wrath of an omnipotent being. Better to trust yourself, believe in your own abilities, make your own luck in the world. Prayer was for the weak and the lazy. Not something she’d ever needed.

  She glanced at her watch. A little past one thirty.

  Time to make her way to the orphanage.

  So she headed off across the plaza. What to do once Michener arrived s
he’d yet to determine.

  But she’d think of something.

  Michener slowed the car as he approached the orphanage. Part of the drive from Bucharest had been on the autostrada, the four-laned roadway surprisingly well maintained, but the secondary road he’d taken earlier was vastly different, the shoulder ragged, its surface potholed like a moonscape and dotted with confusing signposts that had twice taken him out of his way. He’d crossed the River Olt a few miles back, traversing a scenic gorge between two forested ranges. As he’d driven north the topography had changed from farmland to foothills to mountains. Along the way, he’d seen black snakes of factory smoke curling up on the horizon.

  He’d learned about Father Tibor from a butcher in Zlatna, who told him where the priest could be found. The orphanage occupied a red-tiled, two-story building. The pits and scars in its terra-cotta roof bore witness to the bitter sulfur air that stung Michener’s throat. The windows were iron-barred, most of the panes taped their length. Many were whitewashed, and he wondered if it was to prevent people from looking in or looking out.

  He motored inside the walled compound and parked.

  The hard ground was carpeted with thick weeds. A rusty slide and swing sat to one side. A stream of something black and sludgy bordered the far wall and may have been the source of the foul odor that greeted his nostrils as he stepped from the car. From the building’s front door, a nun dressed in a brown ankle-length dress appeared.

  “Good day, Sister, I’m Father Colin Michener. I’m here to speak with Father Tibor.” He spoke in English, hoping she understood, and added a smile.

  The older woman tented her fingers and lightly bowed in a gesture of greeting. “Welcome, Father. I did not realize you were a priest.”

  “I’m on holiday and decided to leave the cassock at home.”

  “Are you a friend of Father Tibor’s?” Her English was excellent and unaccented.

  “Not exactly. Tell him I’m a colleague.”

  “He’s inside. Follow me please.” She hesitated. “And, Father, have you ever visited one of these places before?”