The Third Secret

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgments

  Map

  Prologue

  Part One

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Part Two

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Part Three

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-one

  Fifty-two

  Fifty-three

  Part Four

  Fifty-four

  Fifty-five

  Fifty-six

  Fifty-seven

  Fifty-eight

  Fifty-nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-one

  Sixty-two

  Sixty-three

  Sixty-four

  Sixty-five

  Sixty-six

  Sixty-seven

  Sixty-eight

  Sixty-nine

  Seventy

  Seventy-one

  Writer's Note

  Excerpt from The Emperor's Tomb

  About the Author

  Other Books by Steve Berry

  Copyright Page

  For Dolores Murad Parrish

  Who left this world far too soon

  1930-1992

  The Church needs nothing but the truth.

  --POPE LEO XIII (1881)

  There is nothing greater than this fascinating and sweet mystery of Fatima, which accompanies the Church and all of humanity throughout this long century of apostasy, and without a doubt will accompany them up to their final fall and to their rising up again.

  --ABBE GEORGES DE NANTES (1982),

  on the occasion of Pope John Paul II's first pilgrimage to Fatima

  Faith is a precious ally in the search for truth.

  --POPE JOHN PAUL II (1998)

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, lots of thanks. First, Pam Ahearn, my agent, for her ever wise counsel. Next, to all the folks at Random House: Gina Centrello, a terrific publisher who went an extra mile for this one; Mark Tavani, whose editorial advice transformed my rough manuscript into a book; Cindy Murray, who patiently endures my idiosyncracies and handles publicity; Kim Hovey, who markets with expert precision; Beck Stvan, the artist responsible for the gorgeous cover image; Laura Jorstad, an eagle-eyed copyeditor who keeps us all straight; Carole Lowenstein, who once again made the pages shine; and finally to those in Promotions and Sales--nothing could be achieved without their superior efforts. Also, I cannot forget Fran Downing, Nancy Pridgen, and Daiva Woodworth. This was the last manuscript we did together as a writers group, and I truly miss those times.

  As always my wife, Amy, and daughter, Elizabeth, were there every step of the way providing needed doses of loving encouragement.

  This book is dedicated to my aunt, a wonderful woman who did not live to see this day. I know she would have been proud. But she's watching and, I'm sure, smiling.

  PROLOGUE

  FATIMA, PORTUGAL

  JULY 13, 1917

  Lucia stared toward heaven and watched the Lady descend. The apparition came from the east, as it had twice before, emerging as a sparkling dot from deep within the cloudy sky. Her glide never wavered as She quickly approached, Her form brightening as it settled above the holm oak, eight feet off the ground.

  The Lady stood upright, Her crystallized image clothed in a glow that seemed more brilliant than the sun. Lucia lowered her eyes in response to the dazzling beauty.

  A crowd surrounded Lucia, unlike the first time the Lady appeared, two months before. Then it had been only Lucia, Jacinta, and Francisco in the fields, tending the family sheep. Her cousins were seven and nine. She was the oldest, and felt it, at ten. On her right, Francisco knelt in his long trousers and stocking cap. To her left Jacinta was on her knees in a black skirt, a kerchief over her dark hair.

  Lucia looked up and noticed the crowd again. The people had started amassing yesterday, many coming from neighboring villages, some accompanied by crippled children they hoped the Lady would cure. The prior of Fatima had proclaimed the apparition a fraud and urged all to stay away. The devil at work, he'd said. But the people had not listened, one parishioner even labeling the prior a fool since the devil would never incite people to pray.

  A woman in the throng was shouting, calling Lucia and her cousins impostors, swearing God would avenge their sacrilege. Manuel Marto, Lucia's uncle, Jacinta and Francisco's father, stood behind them and Lucia heard him admonish the woman to be silent. He commanded respect in the valley as a man who'd seen more of the world than the surrounding Serra da Aire. Lucia derived comfort from his keen brown eyes and quiet manner. It was good he was nearby, there among the strangers.

  She tried not to concentrate on any of the words being screamed her way, and blocked from her mind the scent of mint, the aroma of pine, and the pungent fragrance of wild rosemary. Her thoughts, and now her eyes, were on the Lady floating before her.

  Only she, Jacinta, and Francisco could see the Lady, but only she and Jacinta could hear the words. Lucia thought that strange--why Francisco should be denied--but, during Her first visit, the Lady had made it clear that Francisco would go to heaven only after saying many rosaries.

  A breeze drifted across the checkered landscape of the great hollow basin known as Cova da Iria. The land belonged to Lucia's parents and was littered with olive trees and patches of evergreens. The grass grew tall and made excellent hay, and the soil yielded potatoes, cabbage, and corn.

  Rows of simple stone walls delineated the fields. Most had crumbled, for which Lucia was grateful, as it allowed the sheep to graze at will. Her task was to tend the family flock. Jacinta and Francisco were likewise charged by their parents, and they'd spent many days over the past few years in the fields, sometimes playing, sometimes praying, sometimes listening to Francisco work his fife.

  But all that had changed two months ago, when the apparition first appeared.

  Ever since, they'd been pounded with unceasing questions and scoffed at by nonbelievers. Lucia's mother had even taken her to the parish priest, commanding her to say it was all a lie. The priest had listened to what she'd said and stated it was not possible that Our Lady had descended from heaven simply to say that the rosary should be recited every day. Lucia's only solace came when she was alone, able then to weep freely for both herself and the world.

  The sky dimmed, and umbrellas used by the crowd for shade started to close. Lucia stood and yelled, "Take off your hats, for I see Our Lady."

  The men immediately obeyed, some crossing themselves as if to be forgiven for their rude behavior.

  She tur
ned back to the vision and knelt. "Vocemece que me quere?" she asked. What do you want of me?

  "Do not offend the Lord our God anymore because He is already much offended. I want you to come here on the thirteenth day of the coming month, and to continue to say five decades of the rosary every day in honor of Our Lady of the rosary to obtain the peace of the world and the end of the war. For She alone will be able to help."

  Lucia stared hard at the Lady. The form was transparent, in varied hues of yellow, white, and blue. The face was beautiful, but strangely shaded in sorrow. A dress fell to Her ankles. A veil covered Her head. A rosary resembling pearls intertwined folded hands. The voice was gentle and pleasant, never rising or lowering, a soothing constant, like the breeze that continued to sweep over the crowd.

  Lucia mustered her courage and said, "I wish to ask you to tell us who you are, and to perform a miracle so that everyone will believe that you have appeared to us."

  "Continue to come here every month on this day. In October I will tell you who I am and what I wish, and I will perform a miracle that everyone will have to believe."

  Over the past month, Lucia had thought about what to say. Many had petitioned her with requests concerning loved ones and those too sick to speak for themselves. One in particular came to mind. "Can you cure Maria Carreira's crippled son?"

  "I will not cure him. But I shall provide him a means of livelihood, provided he says the rosary every day."

  She thought it strange that a lady of heaven would attach conditions to mercy, but she understood the need for devotion. The parish priest always proclaimed such worship as the only means to gain God's grace.

  "Sacrifice yourselves for sinners," the Lady said, "and say many times, especially when you make some sacrifice: 'O Jesus, it is for your love, for the conversion of sinners and in reparation for the sins committed against the Immaculate Heart of Mary.' "

  The Lady opened Her clasped hands and spread Her arms. A penetrating radiance poured forth and bathed Lucia in a warmth much like that of a winter sun on a cool day. She embraced the feeling, then saw that the radiance did not stop at her and her two cousins. Instead, it passed through the earth and the ground opened.

  This was new and different, and it frightened her.

  A sea of fire spread before her in a magnificent vision. Within the flames blackened forms appeared, like chunks of beef swirling in a boiling soup. They were human in shape, though no features or faces were distinguishable. They popped from the fire then quickly descended, their bobbing accompanied by shrieks and groans so sorrowful that a shudder of fear crept down Lucia's spine. The poor souls seemed to possess no weight or equilibrium, and were utterly at the mercy of the conflagration that consumed them. Animal forms appeared, some she recognized, but all were frightful and she knew them for what they were. Demons. Tenders of the flames. She was terrified and saw that Jacinta and Francisco were equally scared. Tears were welling in their eyes and she wanted to comfort them. If not for the Lady floating before them, she too would have lost control.

  "Look at Her," she whispered to her cousins.

  They obeyed, and all three turned away from the horrible vision, their hands folded before them, fingers pointing skyward.

  "You see Hell, where the souls of poor sinners go," the Lady said. "To save them, God wishes to establish in the world the devotion to my Immaculate Heart. If they do what I will tell you, many souls will be saved, and there will be peace. The war is going to end. But if they do not stop offending God, another and worse one will begin in the reign of Pius XI."

  The vision of hell disappeared and the warm light retreated back into the Lady's folded hands.

  "When you shall see a night illuminated by an unknown light, know that it is the great sign that God gives you that He is going to punish the world for its crimes by means of war, hunger, and persecution of the Church and the Holy Father."

  Lucia was disturbed by the Lady's words. She knew that a war had raged across Europe for the past several years. Men from villages had gone off to fight, many never returning. She'd heard the sorrow of the families in church. Now she was being told a way to end that suffering.

  "To prevent this," the Lady said, "I come to ask the consecration of Russia to my Immaculate Heart and the Communion of Reparation on the first Saturdays. If they listen to my requests, Russia will be converted and there will be peace. If not, she will scatter her errors through the world, provoking wars and persecutions of the church. The good will be martyred, the Holy Father will have much to suffer, various nations will be annihilated. In the end my Immaculate Heart will triumph. The Holy Father will consecrate Russia to me, and it will be converted, and a certain period of peace will be granted to the world."

  Lucia wondered what Russia was. Perhaps a person? A wicked woman in need of salvation? Maybe a place? Outside of the Galicians and Spain, she did not know the name of any other nation. Her world was the village of Fatima where her family lived, the nearby hamlet of Aljustrel where Francisco and Jacinta lived, the Cova da Iria where the sheep grazed and vegetables grew, and the Cabeco grotto where the angel had come last year and the year before, announcing the Lady's arrival. This Russia was apparently quite important to capture the Lady's attention. But Lucia wanted to know, "What of Portugal?"

  "In Portugal, the dogma of the faith will always be kept."

  She smiled. It was comforting to know that her homeland was well considered in heaven.

  "When you say the rosary," the Lady said, "say after each mystery, 'O my Jesus, pardon us and deliver us from the fires of hell. Draw all souls to salvation, especially those in need.' "

  She nodded.

  "I have more to tell you." When the third message was completed, the Lady said, "Tell this to no one, as yet."

  "Not even Francisco?" Lucia asked.

  "You may tell him."

  A long moment of silence followed. No sound leaked from the crowd. All of the men, women, and children were standing or kneeling, in rapture, enthralled by what the three seers--as Lucia had heard them labeled--were doing. Many clutched at rosaries and muttered prayers. She knew no one could see or hear the Lady--their experience would be one of faith.

  She took a moment to savor the silence. The entire Cova was locked in a deep solemnity. Even the wind had gone silent. Her flesh grew cold, and for the first time the weight of responsibility settled onto her. She sucked in a deep breath and asked, "Do you want nothing more of me?"

  "Today I want nothing more of you."

  The Lady began to rise into the eastern sky. Something that sounded like thunder rumbled past overhead. Lucia stood. She was shaking. "There She goes," she cried, pointing to the sky.

  The crowd sensed that the vision was over and started to press inward.

  "What did she look like?"

  "What did she say?"

  "Why do you look so sad?"

  "Will she come again?"

  The push of people toward the holm oak became intense and a sudden fear swept through Lucia. She blurted out, "It's a secret. It's a secret."

  "Good or bad?" a woman screamed.

  "Good for some. For others, bad."

  "And you won't tell us?"

  "It's a secret and the Lady told us not to tell."

  Manuel Marto picked Jacinta up and started to elbow his way through the crowd. Lucia followed with Francisco in hand. The stragglers pursued, pelting them with more questions. She could only think of one answer to their pleas.

  "It's a secret. It's a secret."

  ONE

  VATICAN CITY

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 8, THE PRESENT

  6:15 A.M.

  Monsignor Colin Michener heard the sound again and closed the book. Somebody was there. He knew it.

  Like before.

  He stood from the reading desk and stared around at the array of baroque shelves. The ancient bookcases towered above him and more stood at attention down narrow halls that spanned in both directions. The cavernous room carried an aura,
a mystique bred in part by its label. L'Archivio Segreto Vaticano. The Secret Archives of the Vatican.

  He'd always thought that name strange since little contained within the volumes was secret. Most were merely the meticulous record of two millennia of church organization, the accounts from a time when popes were kings, warriors, politicians, and lovers. All told there were twenty-five miles of shelves, which offered much if a searcher knew where to look.

  And Michener certainly did.

  Refocusing on the sound, his gaze drifted across the room, past frescoes of Constantine, Pepin, and Frederick II, before settling on an iron grille at the far side. The space beyond the grille was dark and quiet. The Riserva was accessed only by direct papal authority, the key to the grille held by the church's archivist. Michener had never entered that chamber, though he'd stood dutifully outside while his boss, Pope Clement XV, ventured inside. Even so, he was aware of some of the precious documents that the windowless space contained. The last letter of Mary, Queen of Scots, before she was beheaded by Elizabeth I. The petitions of seventy-five English lords asking the pope to annul Henry VIII's first marriage. Galileo's signed confession. Napoleon's Treaty of Tolentino.

  He studied the cresting and buttresses of the iron grille, and the gilded frieze of foliage and animals hammered into the metal above. The gate itself had stood since the fourteenth century. Nothing in Vatican City was ordinary. Everything carried the distinctive mark of a renowned artist or a legendary craftsman, someone who'd labored for years trying to please both his God and his pope.

  He strode across the room, his footfalls echoing through the tepid air, and stopped at the iron gate. A warm breeze swept past him from beyond the grille. The right side of the portal was dominated by a huge hasp. He tested the bolt. Locked and secure.

  He turned back, wondering if one of the staff had entered the archives. The duty scriptor had departed when he'd arrived earlier and no one else would be allowed inside while he was there, since the papal secretary needed no babysitter. But there were a multitude of doors that led in and out, and he wondered if the noise he'd heard moments ago was that of ancient hinges being worked open, then gently closed. It was hard to tell. Sound within the great expanse was as confused as the writings.