the Third Secret

by Berry, Steve

  She crossed the street and checked inside the information office. No one there had seen anyone matching Michener’s description. She wandered down the sidewalk, spying into shops on the off chance he was doing a little investigating, trying to learn where the other seers lived. On impulse, she headed in the direction they’d taken yesterday, past the same parade of white-stuccoed dwellings with red-tiled roofs, back toward Jasna’s residence.

  She found the house and knocked on the door.

  No one answered.

  She retreated to the street. The shutters were drawn. She waited a few moments for any sign from within, but there was nothing. She noticed that Jasna’s car was no longer parked to the side.

  She started back toward the hotel.

  A woman rushed from the house across the street shouting in Croatian, “It’s so awful. So awful. Jesus help us.”

  Her anguish was alarming.

  “What’s wrong?” she called out in the best Croatian she could muster.

  The older woman stopped. Panic filled her eyes. “It’s Jasna. They found her on the mountain, the cross and her hurt by lightning.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “I don’t know. They’re going after her now.”

  The woman was distraught to the point of hysteria. Tears flowed from her eyes. She kept crossing herself and clutched a rosary, mumbling a Hail Mary between sobs. “Mother of Jesus, save her. Do not let her die. She is blessed.”

  “Is it that bad?”

  “She was barely breathing when they found her.”

  A thought occurred to her. “Was she alone?”

  The woman seemed not to hear her question and kept muttering prayers, pleading with God to save Jasna.

  “Was she alone?” she asked again.

  The woman caught herself and seemed to register the question. “No. There was a man there. Bad off. Like her.”

  FORTY-NINE

  VATICAN CITY, 9:30 A.M.

  Valendrea made his way up the staircase toward the Sistine Chapel believing that the papacy was within his grasp. All that stood in the way was a cardinal from Kenya who was trying to cling to the failed policies of a pope who’d killed himself. If it were up to him, and it just might be before the day was through, Clement’s body would be removed from St. Peter’s and shipped back to Germany. He might actually be able to accomplish that feat since Clement’s own will—the text of which had been published a week ago—had proclaimed a sincere desire to be buried in Bamberg. The gesture could be interpreted as a loving tribute from the Church to its dead pontiff, one that would surely garner a positive reaction, and one that would likewise rid hallowed ground of a weak soul.

  He was still enjoying the display from breakfast. All of Ambrosi’s efforts over the past couple of years were beginning to return dividends. The listening devices had been Paolo’s idea. At first, he’d been nervous at the possibility of their discovery, but Ambrosi had been right. He would have to reward Paolo. He regretted not bringing him into the conclave, but Ambrosi had been left outside with express orders to remove the tape recorders and listening devices while the election was ongoing. It was the perfect time to accomplish that task since the Vatican was in hibernation, all eyes and ears on the Sistine.

  He came to the top of a narrow marble staircase. Ngovi stood on the stoop, apparently waiting.

  “Judgment day, Maurice,” he said, as he reached the last stair.

  “That’s one way of looking at it.”

  The nearest cardinal was fifty feet away and no one else was climbing the steps behind him. Most were already inside. He’d waited until the last moment to enter. “I won’t miss your riddles. Yours or Clement’s.”

  “It is the answers to those riddles that interest me.”

  “I wish you the best in Kenya. Enjoy the heat.”

  He started to walk away.

  “You won’t win,” Ngovi said.

  He turned back. He didn’t like the smug look on the African’s face, but couldn’t help asking, “Why?”

  Ngovi did not answer. He simply brushed past and entered the chapel.

  The cardinals took their assigned places. Ngovi stood before the altar, appearing almost insignificant before the chaotic vision of color that was Michelangelo’s Last Judgment.

  “Before the voting begins, I have something to say.”

  All 113 cardinals turned their heads toward Ngovi. Valendrea sucked a deep breath. He could do nothing. The camerlengo was still in charge.

  “Some of you seem to think I am the one to succeed our most beloved and departed Holy Father. Though your confidence is flattering, I must decline. If I am chosen, I will not accept. Know that, and govern your vote accordingly.”

  Ngovi stepped from the altar and took his place among the cardinals.

  Valendrea realized that none of the forty-three men supporting Ngovi would stay with him now. They wanted to be part of a winning team. Since their horse had just bolted from the track, their allegiances would shift. With little chance for a third candidate to emerge at this late time, Valendrea quickly clicked off the math. He needed only to keep his present fifty-nine cardinals and add a fraction of Ngovi’s headless bloc.

  And that could easily be done.

  He wanted to ask Ngovi why. The gesture made no sense. Though he denied wanting the papacy, somebody had orchestrated the African’s forty-three votes, and he sure as hell didn’t believe the Holy Spirit had much to do with it. This was a battle between men, organized by men, and executed by men. One or more of the men surrounding him was clearly an enemy, albeit a covert one. A good candidate for the ringleader was the cardinal-archivist, who possessed both the stature and the knowledge. He hoped Ngovi’s strength was not a rejection of him. He would need loyalty and enthusiasm in the years ahead, with dissidents being taught a lesson. That would be Ambrosi’s first task. All must understand that there was a price to pay for choosing wrong. But he had to give the African sitting across from him credit. You won’t win. No. Ngovi was simply handing him the papacy. But who cared.

  A win’s a win.

  The voting took an hour. After Ngovi’s surprise announcement, everyone appeared anxious to end the conclave.

  Valendrea did not write down the tally, he just mentally added up each repeat of his name. When the seventy-sixth time occurred, he quit listening. Only when the scrutineers pronounced his election with 102 votes did he focus on the altar.

  He’d many times wondered what this moment would feel like. Now he alone dictated what a billion Catholics would or would not believe. No longer could any cardinal refuse his command. He would be called Holy Father, his every need catered to until the day he died. Cardinals had cried and cowered at this moment. A few had even fled the chapel, screaming their refusal. He realized every eye was about to focus upon him. He was no longer Alberto Cardinal Valendrea, bishop of Florence, secretary of state for the Holy See.

  He was pope.

  Ngovi approached the altar. Valendrea understood the African was about to perform his final duty as camerlengo. After a moment of prayer, Ngovi walked in silence down the center aisle and stood before him.

  “Do you, most reverend Lord Cardinal, accept your election as supreme pontiff, which has been canonically carried out?”

  They were words that had been spoken to victors for centuries.

  He stared into Ngovi’s piercing eyes and tried to sense what the older man was thinking. Why had he refused to be a candidate, knowing a man he despised would almost certainly be selected pontiff? From everything he knew, this African was a devout Catholic. A man who would do whatever was necessary to protect the Church. He was no coward. Yet he’d walked away from a fight he might have won.

  He purged those confusing thoughts from his mind and said in a clear voice, “I accept.” It was the first time in decades that Italian had been used in response to that question.

  The cardinals stood and erupted in applause.

  The grief for a dead pope was now replaced by
the elation for a new pontiff. Outside the chapel doors Valendrea imagined the scene as observers heard the commotion, the first signal that something might have been decided. He watched as one of the scrutineers carried the ballots toward the stove. In a few moments white smoke would fill the morning sky and the piazza would erupt in cheers.

  The ovation subsided. One more question was required.

  “By what name will you be known?” Ngovi asked in Latin.

  The chapel went silent.

  The choosing of a name signaled much of what may be coming. John Paul I proclaimed his legacy by selecting the names of his two immediate predecessors, a message that he hoped to emulate the goodness of John and sternness of Paul. John Paul II conveyed a similar message when he chose his predecessor’s dual label. For many years Valendrea had considered what name he would select, debating among the more popular choices—Innocent, Benedict, Gregory, Julius, Sixtus. Jakob Volkner had gravitated to Clement because of his German ancestry. Valendrea, though, wanted his name to send an unambiguous message that the imperial papacy had returned.

  “Peter II.”

  Gasps pierced the chapel. Ngovi’s expression never broke. Of the 267 pontiffs, there’d been twenty-three Johns, six Pauls, thirteen Leos, twelve named Pius, eight Alexanders, and a variety of other labels.

  But only one Peter.

  The first pope.

  Thou art Peter and on this rock I will build my Church.

  His bones lay only meters away, beneath the largest house of worship in Christendom. He was the first saint of the Catholic Church and the most revered. Over two millennia, no man had chosen his name.

  He stood from his chair.

  The time for pretense was over. All of the rituals had been dutifully performed. His election was certified, he’d formally accepted, and he’d announced his name. He was now Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Prince of the Apostles, Pontifex Maximus charged with primacy of jurisdiction over the Universal Church, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Primate of Italy, Patriarch of the West.

  Servant of the Servants of God.

  He faced the cardinals and made sure no one misunderstood. “I choose to be known as Peter II,” he said in Italian.

  No one said a word.

  Then one of the three cardinals from last night started to clap. A few others slowly joined in. Soon the chapel reverberated with thunderous applause. Valendrea savored the absolute joy of victory that no man could take away. Yet his ecstacy was tempered by two things.

  A smile that slowly crept onto Maurice Ngovi’s lips, and the camerlengo’s joining in the applause.

  FIFTY

  MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA

  11:00 A.M.

  Katerina sat beside the bed and kept watch over Michener. The vision of him being carried into the hospital unconscious was still fresh in her mind, and she now knew what the loss of this man would mean.

  She hated herself even more for deceiving him. She was going to tell Michener the truth. Hopefully, he’d forgive her. She hated herself for agreeing to Valendrea’s requests. But maybe she’d needed prodding since her pride and anger could have otherwise prevented her from ever rediscovering Michener. Their first encounter in the piazza three weeks ago had been a disaster. Valendrea’s overtures had clearly made things easier, but it didn’t make it right.

  Michener’s eyes blinked open.

  “Colin.”

  “Kate?” He was trying to focus.

  “I’m here.”

  “I hear you, but I can’t see you. It’s like looking underwater. What happened?”

  “Lightning. It struck the cross on the mountain. You and Jasna were too close.”

  He reached up and rubbed his brow. His fingers gently probed the scrapes and cuts. “She okay?”

  “Seems to be. She was out, like you. What were you doing there?”

  “Later.”

  “Sure. Here, take some water. The doctor said you need to drink.” She brought a cup to his lips and he sucked a few sips.

  “Where am I?”

  “A local infirmary the government operates for the pilgrims.”

  “They say what’s wrong with me?”

  “No concussion. Just too close to a lot of voltage. Any closer and you’d both be dead. Nothing’s broken, but you’ve got a nasty lump and a gash on the back of your head.”

  The door opened and a middle-aged, bearded man entered. “How’s the patient doing?” he asked in English. “I’m the doctor who treated you, Father. How do you feel?”

  “Like an avalanche rolled over me,” Michener said.

  “Understandable. But you’ll be okay. A small cut, but no skull cracks. I’d recommend a complete exam when you get back home. Actually, considering what happened, you were pretty lucky.”

  After a quick look and a little more advice the doctor left.

  “How’d he know I was a priest?”

  “I had to identify you. You scared the hell out of me.”

  “What about the conclave?” he asked. “Have you heard anything?”

  “Why am I not surprised that’s the first thing on your mind.”

  “You’re not interested?”

  Actually she was curious. “There was no news an hour ago.”

  She reached out and clasped his hand. He turned his head toward her and said, “I wish I could see you.”

  “I love you, Colin.” She felt better having said it.

  “And I love you, Kate. I should have told you that years ago.”

  “Yes, you should.”

  “I should have done a lot of things differently. I only know that I want my future to include you.”

  “And what of Rome?”

  “I’ve done all that I said I would. I’m through with that. I want to go to Romania, with you.”

  Her eyes watered. She was glad he couldn’t see her crying. She swiped away the tears. “We’ll do good there,” she said, trying to keep her voice from quivering.

  He tightened his grip on her hand.

  And she cherished the feeling.

  FIFTY-ONE

  VATICAN CITY, 11:45 P.M.

  Valendrea accepted congratulations from the cardinals, then made his way out of the Sistine to a whitewashed space known as the Room of Tears. There, the vestments from the House of Gammarelli hung in neat rows. Gammarelli himself stood at ready.

  “Where is Father Ambrosi?” he asked one of the priests in attendance.

  “Here, Holy Father,” Ambrosi said, entering the room. He liked the sound of those words from his acolyte’s lips.

  The secrecy of the conclave had ended as he left the chapel. The main doors had been flung open while white smoke spewed from the rooftop. By now, the name Peter II was being repeated throughout the palace. People would be marveling at his choice, and the pundits would be startled by his audacity. Maybe for once they’d be speechless.

  “You are now my papal secretary,” he said, as he lifted his scarlet robe up over his head. “My first command.” A smile came to his lips as the private promise between them was fulfilled.

  Ambrosi bowed his head in acceptance.

  He motioned to the vestments he’d spied yesterday. “That set should do fine.”

  The tailor grabbed the selected garments and presented them saying, “Santissimo Padre.”

  He accepted the greeting reserved only for a pope and watched as his cardinal robes were folded. He knew they would be cleaned and boxed, custom requiring that they be provided at his death to the then-senior member of the Valendrea clan.

  He donned a white linen cassock and fastened the buttons. Gammarelli knelt and began nipping the seam with a threaded needle. The stitching would not be perfect, but adequate enough for the next couple of hours. By then a precise set of vestments, tailored to his measurements, would be ready.

  He tested the fit. “A bit tight. Get it right.”

  Gammarelli ripped the seam and tried again.

  “Make sure the thread is se
cure.” The last thing he wanted was for something to fall apart.

  When the tailor finished, he sat in a chair. One of the priests knelt before him and began removing his shoes and socks. He already liked the fact that little would ever be done by him anymore. A pair of white stockings and red leather shoes were brought forward. He checked the size. Perfect. He motioned that they should be slipped on his feet.

  He stood.

  A white zucchetto was handed to him. Back during the days when prelates shaved their scalps, the caps protected the bare skin during winter. Now they were an essential part of any high cleric’s attire. Ever since the eighteenth century the pope’s had been formed from eight triangular-shaped pieces of white silk, joined together. He clasped his hands at the edges and, like an emperor accepting his crown, nestled the cap on his head.

  Ambrosi smiled in approval.

  Time for the world to meet him.

  But first, one last duty.

  He left the dressing room and reentered the Sistine Chapel. The cardinals were standing at their assigned stations. A throne had been placed before the altar. He paraded straight to it and sat, waiting a full ten seconds before saying, “Be seated.”

  The ritual about to occur was a necessary element of the canonical election process. Each cardinal was expected to come forward, genuflect, and embrace the new pontiff.

  He motioned to the senior cardinal-bishop, a supporter, who rose and started the process. John Paul II had broken a long-standing practice of popes sitting before the princes by greeting the college standing, but this was a new day and everyone might as well start adjusting. Actually, they should be glad—in centuries past, kissing the papal shoe had been a part of the ritual.

  He stayed seated and offered his ring for a dutiful kiss.

  Ngovi approached about halfway through the procession. The African knelt and reached for the offered ring. Valendrea noticed that lips did not actually touch gold. Ngovi then stood and walked away.

  “No congratulations?” Valendrea asked.