by Berry, Steve
“I only know of God. Religion is man’s creation. It can be changed, altered, or discarded entirely. Our Lord is another matter.”
“But men invoke the power of God to justify their religions.”
“It means nothing. Men like you must change that.”
“How would I possibly do that?”
“By believing, having faith, loving our Lord, and doing as He asks. Your pope tried to change things. Carry on his efforts.”
“I’m no longer in a position to do anything.”
“You are in the same position in which Christ found Himself, and He changed everything.”
“Why are we here?”
“Tonight will be the final vision of our Lady. She said for me to come, at this hour, and to bring you. She will leave a visible sign of Her presence. She promised that when She first came, and now She will keep that promise. Have faith in this moment—not later, when all will be clear.”
“I’m a priest, Jasna. I don’t need to be converted.”
“You doubt, but do nothing to relieve that doubt. You, more than anyone, need to convert. This is the time of grace. A time for a deepening faith. A time for conversion. That’s what the Virgin told me today.”
“What did you mean by Bamberg?”
“You know what I meant.”
“That’s not an answer. Tell me what you meant.”
The rain quickened and a fresh burst of wind whipped drops like pinpricks across his face. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, Jasna was on her knees, hands clasped in prayer, the same faraway look from this afternoon in her eyes as she stared up to the black sky.
He knelt beside her.
She seemed so vulnerable, no longer the defiant seer seemingly better than everyone else. He looked skyward and saw nothing but the blackened outline of the cross. A flash of lightning momentarily gave life to the image. Then darkness reenveloped the cross.
“I can remember. I know I can,” she said to the night.
Thunder again rolled across the sky.
They needed to leave, but he was hesitant to interrupt. It might not be real to him, but it was to her.
“Dear Lady, I had no idea,” she said to the wind.
A bright flash of light found earth and the cross exploded in a burst of heat that engulfed them.
His body rose off the ground and flew backward.
A strange tingling surged through his limbs. His head slammed into something hard. A wave of dizziness swept through him, then sickening nausea claimed his gut. His vision swirled. He tried to concentrate, to force himself to stay awake, but couldn’t.
Finally, everything went silent.
FORTY-FIVE
VATICAN CITY
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 29
12:30 A.M.
Valendrea buttoned his cassock and left his room in the Domus Sanctae Marthae. As secretary of state he’d been provided one of the larger spaces, normally used by the prelate who managed the dormitory for seminarians. A similar privilege had been extended to the camerlengo and the head of the Sacred College. The accommodations were not what he was accustomed to, but a big improvement from the days when a conclave meant sleeping on a cot and peeing into a bucket.
The route from the dormitory to the Sistine was through a series of secured passages. This was a change from the last conclave when cardinals were bused and escorted when traveling between the dormitory and the chapel. Many had resented having a chaperone, so a sealable route had been created through the Vatican corridors, available only to conclave participants.
He’d quietly made clear during dinner that he wanted to meet with three of the cardinals later, and the three now waited inside the Sistine, at the opposite end from the altar, near the marble gate. Beyond, past the sealed entrance, in the hallway outside, he knew Swiss guards stood ready to throw open the bronze doors once white smoke seeped skyward. No one really expected that to occur after midnight, so the chapel would provide a safe place for a discreet discussion.
He approached the three cardinals and did not give them a chance to speak. “I only have a few things to say.” He kept his voice low. “I’m aware of what the three of you have said in previous days. You assured me of support, then privately betrayed me. Why, only you know. What I want is for the fourth ballot to be the last. If not, none of you will be a member of this college by this time next year.”
One of the cardinals started to speak and he raised his right hand to silence him.
“I don’t want to hear that you voted for me. All three of you have supported Ngovi. But that will change in the morning. In addition, before the first session I want others swayed. I expect a fourth-ballot victory and it’s up to you three to make that happen.”
“That’s unrealistic,” one of the cardinals said.
“What’s unrealistic is how you escaped Spanish justice for embezzling Church funds. They clearly believed you a thief, they just lacked proof. I have that proof, gladly provided by a young señorita you’re quite familiar with. And you other two shouldn’t be so smug. I have similar files on each of you, none of the information flattering. You know what I want. Start a movement. Invoke the Holy Spirit. I don’t care how it’s done, just make it happen. Success will ensure that you stay in Rome.”
“What if we don’t want to be in Rome?” one of the three asked.
“Would you prefer prison?”
Vatican observers loved to speculate about what happened within a conclave. The archives were replete with journals depicting pious men wrestling with their consciences. He’d watched during the last conclave as cardinals argued that his youth was a disadvantage, since the Church did not fare well with a prolonged papacy. Five to ten years was good. Anything more created problems. And there was truth to that conclusion. Autocracy and infallibility could be a volatile mixture. But they could also be the ingredients of change. The throne of St. Peter was the ultimate pulpit and a strong pope could not be ignored. He intended on being that kind of pope, and he wasn’t about to let three petty fools ruin those plans.
“All I want to hear is my name read seventy-six times in the morning. If I have to wait, there will be consequences. My patience was tried today. I would not recommend a repeat. If my smiling face does not appear on the balcony of St. Peter’s by tomorrow afternoon, before you make it back to your rooms in the Domus Sanctae Marthae to retrieve your things, your reputations will be gone.”
He turned and left, not giving them the chance to utter a word.
FORTY-SIX
MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA
Michener watched as the world spun in a blurry haze. His head pounded and his stomach flip-flopped. He tried to stand but couldn’t. Bile pooled in his throat and his vision winked in and out.
He was still outside, now only a gentle rain soaking his already saturated clothes. Thunder overhead confirmed that the nocturnal storm was still raging. He brought his watch close to his eyes, but multiple images swirled before him and he could not read the luminous dial. He massaged his forehead and felt a knot on the back of his head.
He wondered about Jasna and was just about to call her name when a bright light appeared in the sky. He thought at first it might be another bolt of lightning, like what surely had happened earlier, but this ball was smaller, more controlled. He thought it a helicopter, but no sound preceded the blue-white splotch as it drew closer.
The image floated before him, a few feet above the ground. His head and stomach still would not allow him to stand, so he lay back on the rocky earth and stared up.
The glow intensified.
Warmth radiated outward and comforted him. He raised an arm to shield his eyes and through slits between his fingers saw an image form.
A woman.
She wore a gray dress trimmed in light blue. A white veil draped her face and highlighted long locks of auburn hair. Her eyes were expressive, and the hues of her form fluctuated from white to blue to the palest yellow.
He recognized the face and dre
ss. The statue he’d seen earlier in Jasna’s house. Our Lady of Fatima.
The intensity of the glow subsided, and though he still could not focus on anything else beyond a few inches, he could see the woman clearly.
“Stand, Father Michener,” she said in a mellow voice.
“I . . . tried . . . I can’t,” he stammered out.
“Stand.”
He pushed himself up to his feet. His head no longer swirled. His stomach was calm. He faced the light. “Who are you?”
“You do not know?”
“The Virgin Mary?”
“You speak the words as if they are a lie.”
“I don’t mean them to be.”
“Your defiance is strong. I see why you were chosen.”
“Chosen for what?”
“I told the children long ago that I would leave a sign for all who do not believe.”
“So Jasna now knows the tenth secret?” He was angry with himself for even asking the question. Bad enough he was hallucinating, now he was conversing with his own imagination.
“She is a blessed woman. She has done as heaven asked. Other men, who claim to be pious, cannot make that claim.”
“Clement XV?”
“Yes, Colin. I am one of those.”
The voice had deepened and the image metamorphosized into Jakob Volkner. He stood in full papal regalia—amice, cincture, stole, miter, and pallium—just as he’d appeared at his burial, a shepherd’s staff held in his right hand. The sight startled him. What was happening here?
“Jakob?”
“Do not ignore heaven any longer. Do as I asked. Remember, there is much to be said for a loyal servant.”
Exactly what Jasna had told him earlier. But why wouldn’t his own hallucination include information he already knew? “What is my destiny, Jakob?”
The vision became Father Tibor. The priest appeared exactly as when they’d first met at the orphanage. “To be a sign to the world. A beacon for repentance. The messenger to announce that God is very much alive.”
Before he could say anything, the Virgin’s image returned.
“Do as your heart commands. There is nothing wrong in that. But do not forsake your faith, for in the end it will be all that remains.”
The vision started to rise, becoming a brilliant ball of light that dissolved into the night above. The farther away it receded, the more his head ached. As the light finally vanished, the world around him started to spin and his stomach erupted.
FORTY-SEVEN
VATICAN CITY, 7:00 A.M.
Breakfast was a somber affair in the dining room of the Domus Sanctae Marthae. Nearly half of the cardinals were enjoying eggs, ham, fruit, and bread in silence. Many opted only for coffee or juice, but Valendrea filled a plate from the buffet line. He wanted to show the assembled men that he was unaffected by what had happened yesterday, his legendary appetite still in place.
He sat with a group of cardinals at a window table. They were a diverse lot, from Australia, Venezuela, Slovakia, Lebanon, and Mexico. Two were strong supporters, but the other three, he believed, were among the eleven who’d yet to choose a side. His gaze caught Ngovi entering the dining room. The African was intent in a lively conversation with two cardinals. Perhaps he, too, was trying to project not the slightest hint of concern.
“Alberto,” one of the cardinals at the table was saying.
He glanced over at the Australian.
“Keep the faith today. I prayed all evening and feel something will occur this morning.”
He maintained a stoic look. “God’s will is what drives us forward. My only hope is that the Holy Spirit is with us today.”
“You are the logical choice,” the Lebanese cardinal said, his voice louder than necessary.
“Yes, he is,” a cardinal at another table said.
He looked up from his eggs and saw it was the Spaniard from last night. The stout little man was out of his chair.
“This Church has languished,” the Spaniard said. “It’s time something be done. I can recall when the pope commanded respect. When governments all the way to Moscow cared what Rome did. Now we are nothing. Our priests are forbidden from political involvement. Our bishops are discouraged from taking a stand. Complacent popes are destroying us.”
Another cardinal stood. He was a bearded man from Cameroon. Valendrea hardly knew him and assumed he was Ngovi’s. “I didn’t consider Clement XV complacent. He was loved throughout the world and did much in his short time.”
The Spaniard held up his hands. “I don’t mean disrespect. This is not personal. It’s about what is best for the Church. Luckily, we have a man among us who carries respect in the world. Cardinal Valendrea would be an exemplary pontiff. Why settle for less?”
Valendrea let his gaze settle on Ngovi. If the camerlengo was offended by the remark, he showed nothing.
This was one of those moments that pundits would later describe. How the Holy Spirit swept down and moved the conclave. Though the Apostolic Constitution banned campaigning prior to convening, there was no such prohibition once locked inside the Sistine. In fact, frank discussion was the entire purpose of the secret gathering. He was impressed with the Spaniard’s tactic. He’d not thought the fool capable of such grandstanding.
“I don’t consider Cardinal Ngovi a settlement for less,” the Cameroon cardinal finally said. “He’s a man of God. A man of this Church. Above reproach. He would be an excellent pontiff.”
“And Valendrea would not?” the French cardinal blurted out, coming to his feet.
Valendrea marveled at the sight, princes of the Church, adorned in robes, openly debating one another. Any other time they would go out of their way to avoid confrontation.
“Valendrea is young. He is what this Church needs. Ceremony and rhetoric do not make a leader. It’s the character of the man that leads the faithful. He’s proven his character. He’s served many popes—”
“My point exactly,” the Cameroon cardinal said. “He’s never served a diocese. How many confessions has he heard? How many funerals has he presided over? How many parishioners has he counseled? These pastoral experiences are what the throne of St. Peter demand.”
The boldness of the Cameroonian was impressive. Valendrea was unaware that such backbone could still be clothed in scarlet. Quite intuitively, this man had invoked the dreaded pastoral qualification. He made a note that this cardinal would be someone to watch in the years ahead.
“What does that matter?” the Frenchman asked. “The pope is no pastor. It’s a description scholars like to attach. An excuse we use to vote for one man over the other. It means nothing. The pope is an administrator. He must run this Church, and to do that he must understand the Curia, he must know its workings. Valendrea knows that better than any of us. We’ve had pastoral popes. Give me a leader.”
“Perhaps he knows our workings too well,” the cardinal-archivist said.
Valendrea almost winced. Here was the most senior member of the voting college. His opinion would carry much weight with the eleven stragglers.
“Explain yourself,” the Spaniard demanded.
The archivist stayed seated. “The Curia already controls too much. We all complain about the bureaucracy, yet we do nothing about it. Why? Because it satisfies our needs. It provides a wall between us and whatever it is we don’t want to occur. So easy to blame everything on the Curia. Why would a pope who is ingrained in that institution do anything to threaten it? Yes, there would be changes, all popes tinker, but no one has demolished and rebuilt.” The old man’s eyes locked on Valendrea. “Especially one who is a product of that system. We must ask ourselves, would Valendrea be so bold?” He paused. “I think not.”
Valendrea sipped his coffee. Finally, he tabled the cup and calmly said to the archivist, “Apparently, Eminence, your vote is clear.”
“I want my last vote to count.”
He tipped his head in a casual gesture. “That is your right, Eminence. And I would not presu
me to interfere.”
Ngovi stepped to the center of the room. “Perhaps there has been enough debate. Why don’t we finish our meal and retire to the chapel. There, we can take this up in more detail.”
No one disagreed.
Valendrea was thrilled with the whole display.
A little show-and-tell could only be a good thing.
FORTY-EIGHT
MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA
9:00 A.M.
Katerina was beginning to worry. An hour had passed since she’d woken to find Michener gone. The storm had passed, but the morning loomed warm and cloudy. She’d first thought he walked downstairs for coffee, but he was not in the dining room when she checked a few minutes ago. She asked the desk clerk, but the woman knew nothing. Thinking he might have wandered to St. James Church, she walked over. But he was nowhere to be found. It was unlike Colin to leave and not say where he was going, and his travel bag, wallet, and passport were still in the room.
She now stood in the busy square outside the church and debated whether to approach one of the soldiers and enlist their assistance. Buses were already arriving, depositing a new batch of pilgrims. The streets were beginning to clog with traffic as shopkeepers prepared storefronts.
Their evening had been delightful, the talk in the restaurant stimulating, what came afterward even more so. She’d already decided to tell Alberto Valendrea nothing. She’d come to Bosnia to be with Michener, not to act as spy. Let Ambrosi and Valendrea think what they might of her. She was simply glad to be here. She didn’t really care about a journalism career any longer. She’d go to Romania and work with the children. Make her parents proud. Make herself proud. For once, do some good.
She’d resented Michener for all those years, but she’d come to realize that fault lay with her, too. Only her shortcomings were worse. Michener loved his God and his Church. She loved only herself. But that was going to change. She’d see to it. During dinner Michener had complained about never once having saved a soul. Maybe he was wrong. Perhaps she was his first.