The Third Secret Read online

  Somehow he knew that no one, on this day, would cause his dear friend harm.

  It was two P.M. when they returned to the villa. A light lunch was waiting in the solarium and Clement asked Michener to join him. They ate in silence, enjoying the flowers and a spectacular November afternoon. The compound's swimming pool, just beyond the glass walls, sat empty. It was one of the few luxuries John Paul II had insisted upon, telling the Curia, when it complained about the cost, that it was far cheaper than getting a new pope.

  Lunch was a hearty beef soup littered with vegetables, one of Clement's favorites, along with black bread. Michener was partial to the bread. It reminded him of Katerina. They'd often shared some over coffee and dinner. He wondered where she was right now and why she'd felt the need to leave Bucharest without saying goodbye. He hoped that he'd see her again one day, maybe after his time at the Vatican ended, in a place where men like Alberto Valendrea did not exist, where no one cared who he was or what he did. Where maybe he could follow his heart.

  "Tell me about her," Clement said.

  "How did you know I was thinking about her?"

  "It wasn't difficult."

  He actually wanted to talk about it. "She's different. Familiar, but hard to define."

  Clement sipped wine from his goblet.

  "I can't help but think," Michener said, "that I'd be a better priest, a better man, if I didn't have to suppress my feelings."

  The pope tabled his glass. "Your confusion is understandable. Celibacy is wrong."

  He stopped eating. "I hope you haven't voiced that conclusion to anyone else."

  "If I cannot be honest with you, then who?"

  "When did you come to this conclusion?"

  "The Council of Trent was a long time ago. Yet here we are, in the twenty-first century, clinging to a sixteenth-century doctrine."

  "It is the Catholic nature."

  "The Council of Trent was convened to deal with the Protestant Reformation. We lost that battle, Colin. The Protestants are here to stay."

  He understood what Clement was saying. The Trent Council had affirmed celibacy as necessary for the gospel's sake, but conceded that it was not of divine origin. Which meant it could be changed if the Church desired. The only other councils since Trent, Vatican I and II, had declined to do anything. Now the supreme pontiff, the one man who could do something, was questioning the wisdom of that indifference.

  "What are you saying, Jakob?"

  "I'm not saying anything. I'm only talking with an old friend. Why must priests not marry? Why must they remain chaste? If that's acceptable for others, why not the clergy?"

  "Personally, I agree with you. But I think the Curia would take a different view."

  Clement shifted his weight forward as he pushed his empty soup bowl aside. "And that's the problem. The Curia will always object to anything that threatens its survival. Do you know what one of them said to me a few weeks ago?"

  Michener shook his head.

  "He said that celibacy must be maintained because the cost of paying priests would skyrocket. We would have to channel tens of millions to payroll for increased salaries because priests would now have wives and children to support. Can you imagine? That is the logic this Church uses."

  He agreed, but felt compelled to say, "If you even hinted at a change, you'd be providing Valendrea a ready-made issue to use with the cardinals. You could have open revolt."

  "But that's the benefit of being pope. I speak infallibly on matters of doctrine. My word is the last word. I don't need permission, and I can't be voted from office."

  "Infallibility was created by the Church, too," he reminded. "It can be changed, along with whatever you do, by the next pope."

  The pope was pinching the fleshy part of his hand, a nervous habit Michener had seen before. "I've had a vision, Colin."

  The words, barely a whisper, took a moment to sink in. "A what?"

  "The Virgin spoke to me."

  "When?"

  "Many weeks ago, just after Father Tibor's first communication. That is why I went to the Riserva. She told me to go."

  First the pope was talking about junking dogma that had stood for five centuries. Now he was proclaiming Marian apparitions. Michener realized this conversation must stay here, only the plants privy, but he heard again what Clement had said in Turin. Do you think for one moment we enjoy any measure of privacy when at the Vatican?

  "Is it wise to speak of this?" He hoped his tone conveyed a warning. But Clement seemed not to hear.

  "Yesterday, She appeared in my chapel. I looked up and She was floating before me, surrounded by a blue and gold light, a halo encircling Her radiance." The pope paused. "She told me that Her heart was encircled with thorns with which men pierce Her by their blasphemies and ingratitude."

  "Are you sure of those statements?" he asked.

  Clement nodded. "She said them clearly." Clement clinched his fingers together. "I'm not senile, Colin. It was a vision, of that I'm sure." The pope paused. "John Paul II experienced the same."

  He knew that, but said nothing.

  "We are foolish men," Clement said.

  He was becoming agitated with riddles.

  "The Virgin said to go to Medjugorje."

  "And that's why I'm being sent?"

  Clement nodded. "All would be clear then, she said."

  A few moments of silence passed. He didn't know what to say. It was hard to argue with heaven.

  "I allowed Valendrea to read what is in the Fatima box," Clement whispered.

  He was confused. "What's there?"

  "Part of what Father Tibor sent me."

  "You going to tell me what that is?"

  "I can't."

  "Why did you allow Valendrea to read it?"

  "To see his reaction. He'd even tried to browbeat the archivist to allow a look. Now he knows exactly what I know."

  He was about to ask once again what that might be when a light rap on the solarium's door interrupted their conversation. One of the stewards entered, carrying a folded sheet of paper. "This came over the fax machine from Rome a few moments ago, Monsignor Michener. The cover said to give it to you immediately."

  He took the sheet and thanked the steward, who promptly left. He unfolded and read the message. He then looked at Clement and said, "A call was received a short while ago from the nuncio in Bucharest. Father Tibor is dead. His body was found this morning, washed ashore from a river north of town. His throat had been cut and he apparently was tossed from one of the cliffs. His car was found near an old church he frequented. The police suspect thieves. That area is riddled with them. I was notified, since one of the nuns at the orphanage told the nuncio about my visit. He's wondering why I was there unannounced."

  Color drained from Clement's face. The pope made the sign of the cross and folded his hands in prayer. Michener watched as Clement's eyelids clinched tight and the old man mumbled to himself.

  Then tears streaked down the German's face.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  4:00 P.M.

  Michener had thought about Father Tibor all afternoon. He'd walked the villa's gardens and tried to rid from his mind an image of the old Bulgarian's bloodied body being fished from a river. Finally he made his way to the chapel where popes and cardinals had for centuries stood before the altar. It had been more than a decade since he'd last said Mass. He'd been far too busy serving the secular needs of others, but now he felt the urge to celebrate a funeral Mass in honor of the old priest.

  In silence, he donned vestments. He then chose a black stole, draped it around his neck, and walked to the altar. Usually the deceased would be laid before the altar, the pews filled with friends and relatives. The point was to stress a union with Christ, a communion with the saints that the departed was now enjoying. Eventually, on Judgment Day, everyone would be reunited and they would all dwell forever in the house of the Lord.

  Or so the Church proclaimed.

  But as he mouthed the required prayers he
couldn't help wondering if it was all for naught. Was there really some supreme being waiting to offer eternal salvation? And could that reward be earned simply by doing what the Church said? Was a lifetime of misdeeds forgiven by a few moments of repentance? Would not God want more? Would He not want a lifetime of sacrifice? No one was perfect, there'd always be lapses, but the measure of salvation must surely be greater than a few repentant acts.

  He wasn't sure when he'd started doubting. Maybe it was all those years ago with Katerina. Perhaps being surrounded by ambitious prelates, who openly proclaimed a love for God but were privately consumed by greed and ambition, had affected him. What was the point of falling to your knees and kissing a papal ring? Christ never sanctioned such displays. So why were His children allowed the privilege?

  Could his doubts be simply a sign of the times?

  The world was different from a hundred years ago. Everyone seemed linked. Communications were instant. Information had reached a gluttony stage. God just didn't seem to fit. Maybe you were simply born, then you lived, and then you died, your body decomposing back into the earth. Dust to dust, as the Bible proclaimed. Nothing more. But if that were true, then what you made of your life could well be all the reward ever received--the memory of your existence your salvation.

  He'd studied the Roman Catholic Church enough to understand that the majority of its teachings were directly related to its own interests, rather than those of its members. Time had certainly blurred all lines between practicality and divinity. What were once the creations of man had evolved into the laws of heaven. Priests were celibate because God ordained it. Priests were men because Christ was male. Adam and Eve were a man and woman, so love could only exist between the sexes. Where did these dogmas come from? Why did they persist?

  Why was he questioning them?

  He tried to switch off his brain and concentrate, but it was impossible. Maybe it was being with Katerina that had started him doubting again. Perhaps it was the senseless death of an old man in Romania that brought into focus that he was forty-seven years old and had done little with his life beyond riding the coattails of a German bishop to the Apostolic Palace.

  He needed to do more. Something productive. Something that helped someone besides himself.

  A movement at the door caught his attention. He stared up to see Clement amble into the chapel and kneel in one of the pews.

  "Please, finish. I, too, have a need," the pope said as he bowed his head in prayer.

  Michener went back to the Mass and prepared the sacrament. He'd only brought one wafer, so he broke the slice of unleavened bread in half.

  He stepped to Clement.

  The old man looked up from his prayers, his eyes crimson from crying, the features marred by a patina of sadness. He wondered what sorrow had overtaken Jakob Volkner. Father Tibor's death had profoundly affected him. He offered the wafer and the pope opened his mouth.

  "The body of Christ," he whispered, and laid communion on Clement's tongue.

  Clement crossed himself, then bowed his head in prayer. Michener withdrew to the altar and went about the task of completing the Mass.

  But it was hard to finish.

  The sobs of Clement XV that echoed through the chapel bit his heart.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ROME, 8:30 P.M.

  Katerina hated herself for returning to Tom Kealy, but since her arrival in Rome yesterday, Cardinal Valendrea had yet to make contact. She'd been told not to call, which was fine since she had little to report beyond what Ambrosi already knew.

  She'd read that the pope had traveled to Castle Gandolfo for the weekend, so she assumed Michener was there, too. Yesterday Kealy had taken a perverse pleasure in taunting her Romanian foray, implying that perhaps a lot more had occurred than she was willing to admit. She'd purposely not told him everything Father Tibor had said. Michener was right about Kealy. He was not to be trusted. So she'd given him an abridged version, enough for her to learn from him what Michener might be involved with.

  She and Kealy were sitting in a cozy osteria. Kealy was dressed in a light-colored suit and tie, perhaps becoming accustomed to not wearing a collar in public.

  "I don't understand all the hype," she said. "Catholics have made Marian secrets an institution. What makes the third secret of Fatima so important?"

  Kealy was pouring wine from an expensive bottle. "It was fascinating, even for the Church. Here was a message supposedly direct from heaven, yet a steady stream of popes suppressed it until John Paul II finally told the world in 2000."

  She stirred her soup and waited for him to explain.

  "The Church officially sanctioned the Fatima apparitions as worthy of assent in the 1930s. That meant it was okay for Catholics to believe in what happened, if they chose to." He flashed a smile. "Typical hypocritical stance. Rome says one thing, does another. They didn't mind people flocking to Fatima and offering millions in donations, but they couldn't bring themselves to say the event actually occurred, and they certainly did not want the faithful to know what the Virgin may have said."

  "But why conceal it?"

  He sipped the burgundy, then fingered the stem of his glass. "Since when has the Vatican ever been sensible? These guys think they're still in the fifteenth century, when whatever they said was accepted without question. If anybody argued back then, the pope excommunicated them. But it's a new day and that pile just doesn't stink anymore." Kealy caught the waiter's attention and motioned for more bread. "Remember, the pope speaks infallibly when discussing matters of faith and morals. Vatican I pronounced that little jewel in 1870. What if, for one delicious moment, what the Virgin said was contrary to dogma? Now, wouldn't that be something?" Kealy seemed immensely pleased with the thought. "Maybe that's the book we should write? All about the third secret of Fatima. We can expose the hypocrisy, take a close look at the popes and some of the cardinals. Maybe even Valendrea himself."

  "What about your situation? Not important anymore?"

  "You don't honestly think there's any chance I'll win that tribunal."

  "They might be content with a warning. That way they keep you within the fold, under their control, and you can save your collar."

  He laughed. "You seem awfully concerned about my collar. Strange coming from an atheist."

  "Screw you, Tom." She'd definitely told this man too much about herself.

  "So full of spunk. I like that about you, Katerina." He enjoyed another swallow of wine. "CNN called yesterday. They want me for the next conclave."

  "I'm glad for you. That's great." She wondered where that left her.

  "Don't worry, I still want to do that book. My agent is talking to publishers about that one and a novel. You and I will make a great team."

  The conclusion formed in her mind with a suddenness that surprised her. One of those decisions that was instantly clear. There'd be no team. What started out as promising had become tawdry. Luckily, she still had several thousand of Valendrea's euros, enough cash to get her back to France or Germany where she could hire on with a newspaper or magazine. And this time she'd behave herself--play by the rules.

  "Katerina, are you there?" Kealy was asking.

  Her attention returned to him.

  "You looked a million miles away."

  "I was. I don't think there's going to be a book, Tom. I'm leaving Rome tomorrow. You'll have to find another ghostwriter."

  The waiter deposited a basket of steaming bread on the table.

  "It won't be hard," he made clear.

  "I didn't think so."

  He reached for a piece of the bread. "I'd leave your horse hitched to me, if I were you. This wagon's going places."

  She stood from the table. "I can tell you one place it's not going."

  "You still have it for him, don't you?"

  "I don't have it for anybody. I'm just sick of you. My father once told me that the higher a circus monkey climbed a pole, the more his ass showed. I'd remember that."

  And she walke
d away, feeling her best in weeks.

  TWENTY-NINE

  CASTLE GANDOLFO

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 13

  6:00 A.M.

  Michener came awake. He'd never needed an alarm clock, his body seemingly blessed with an internal chronometer that always woke him at the precise time he selected before falling asleep. Jakob Volkner, when an archbishop and later a cardinal, had traveled the globe and served on committee after committee, relying always on Michener's ability never to be late, since punctuality was not one of Clement XV's noted traits.

  As in Rome, Michener occupied a bedroom on the same floor as Clement's, just down the hall, a direct phone line linking their rooms. They were scheduled to return to the Vatican in two hours by helicopter. That would give the pope enough time for his morning prayers, breakfast, and a quick review of anything that required immediate attention, given there'd been two days with no work. Several memoranda had been faxed last evening, and Michener had them ready for a postbreakfast discussion. He knew the rest of the day would be hectic, as there was a steady stream of papal audiences scheduled for the afternoon and into the evening. Even Cardinal Valendrea had requested a full hour for a foreign affairs briefing later in the morning.

  He was still bothered by the funeral Mass. Clement had cried for half an hour before leaving the chapel. They hadn't talked. Whatever was troubling his old friend was not open for discussion. Perhaps later there'd be time. Hopefully, a return to the Vatican and the rigors of work might take the pope's mind off the problem. But it had been disconcerting to watch such an onslaught of emotion.

  He took his time showering, then dressed in a fresh black cassock and left his room. He strode down the corridor toward the pope's quarters. A chamberlain was standing outside the door, along with one of the nuns assigned to the household. Michener glanced at his watch. Six forty-five A.M. He pointed to the door. "Not up yet?"