the Third Secret

by Berry, Steve

  Ngovi stopped and turned back. “May your reign be all that you deserve.”

  He wanted to teach the smug son of a bitch a lesson, but this was not the time or place. Maybe that was Ngovi’s intent, a provocation to spark an early show of arrogance. So he calmed his emotions and simply said, “I take that to mean good wishes.”

  “Nothing but.”

  When the last cardinal departed the altar, he stood. “I thank you all. I will do my best for the mother Church. Now I believe it’s time to face the world.”

  He stomped down the center aisle, through the marble gate, and out the chapel’s main entrance. He strode into the basilica and crossed the Regal and Ducal Halls. He liked the chosen route, the massive paintings on the walls making clear the superiority of the papacy over temporal power clear.

  He entered the central loggia.

  About an hour had passed since his election and the rumors were, by now, at an epidemic stage. Enough conflicting information had surely seeped from the Sistine that no one could, as yet, know anything for sure. And that was the way he was going to keep it. Confusion could be an effective weapon, provided the source of that confusion was him. His choice of name alone should be generating a fair amount of speculation. Not even the great warrior-popes, or the sanctified diplomats who’d managed election over the past hundred years, had dared that move.

  He reached the alcove that led out to the balcony. But he would not exit just yet. Instead, the cardinal-archivist, as senior cardinal-deacon, would appear, then the pope, followed by the president of the Sacred College and the camerlengo.

  He stepped close to the cardinal-archivist, just inside the doorway, and whispered, “I told you, Eminence, that I would be patient. Now do your last duty.”

  The old man’s eyes betrayed nothing. Surely he already knew his fate.

  Without saying a word, the archivist stepped onto the balcony.

  Five hundred thousand people roared.

  A microphone stood before the balustrade and the archivist stepped to it and said, “Annuntio vobis gauduium magnum.” Latin was required for this announcement, but Valendrea knew the translation well.

  We have a pope.

  The crowd exploded in raucous joy. He could not see the people, but their presence could be felt. The cardinal-archivist spoke again into the microphone, “Cardinalem Sanctae Romanae Ecclesiae . . . Valendrea.”

  The cheers were deafening. An Italian had regained the throne of St. Peter. Shouts of “Viva, Viva” grew in intensity.

  The archivist paused to glance back and Valendrea caught the wintry expression. The old man clearly did not approve of what he was about to say. The cardinal-archivist turned back to the microphone, “Qui Sibi Imposuit Nomen—”

  The words came back in an echo. The name that has been chosen is—

  “Petrus II.”

  The echo bounced across the massive piazza, as if the statues topping the colonnade were talking to one another, each asking the other in wonderment if they’d heard correctly. The people, for an instant, considered the name, then understood.

  The cheers amplified.

  Valendrea started for the doorway, but noticed only one cardinal following. He turned. Ngovi had not moved.

  “Are you coming?”

  “I am not.”

  “It is your duty as camerlengo.”

  “It is my shame.”

  Valendrea took a step back into the alcove. “I let your insolence go in the chapel. Don’t try me again.”

  “What would you do? Have me imprisoned? My possessions seized? My titles stripped? This is not the Middle Ages.”

  The other cardinal standing nearby seemed clearly embarrassed. The man was a staunch supporter, so some show of power was needed. “I will deal with you later, Ngovi.”

  “And the Lord will deal with you.”

  The African turned and walked away.

  He wasn’t going to let this moment be ruined. He faced the remaining cardinal. “Shall we, Eminence?”

  And he stepped out into the sun, his arms extended in a warm embrace to the multitudes who shouted back their approval.

  FIFTY-TWO

  MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA

  12:30 P.M.

  Michener was feeling better. His vision had cleared and his head and stomach had finally settled down. He could now see that the infirmary room was a cubicle, the cinder-block walls a pale yellow. A window with lace curtains allowed light but no view, the panes coated with a thick layer of paint.

  Katerina had gone to check on Jasna. There’d been no word from the doctor and he hoped she was all right.

  The door opened.

  “She’s okay,” Katerina said. “Apparently you both were just far enough away. Only a couple of nasty bumps to the head.” She stood beside the bed. “And there’s more news.”

  He looked at her, glad to once again see her lovely face.

  “Valendrea is pope. I saw it on television. He just finished addressing the crowd in St. Peter’s. Made a plea for a return to the Church’s roots. And get this, he chose Peter II as his name.”

  “Romania is looking better and better.”

  She offered a half grin. “So tell me, was the climb to the top worth it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Whatever you and she were doing on that mountain last night.”

  “Jealous?”

  “More curious.”

  He realized some explanation was owed. “She was supposed to tell me the tenth secret.”

  “In the middle of a storm?”

  “Don’t ask me to rationalize it. I woke up and she was outside in the street, waiting for me. It was spooky. But I felt the need to go.”

  He decided to say nothing about his hallucination, but his memory of the vision remained clear, like a dream that wouldn’t let go. The doctor had said he’d been unconscious for several hours. So whatever he saw or heard was only a manifestation of all that he’d learned over the past few months, the messengers two men who weighed heavily on his mind. But what of the Lady? Probably nothing more than the image of what he’d seen at Jasna’s house yesterday.

  Or was it?

  “Look, I don’t know what Jasna had in mind. She told me that to learn the secret I needed to come with her. So I went.”

  “You didn’t find the situation a bit strange?”

  “This whole thing is strange.”

  “She’s coming here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jasna said she’s coming here to see you. They were readying her when I left.”

  The door opened and a wheelchair guided by an older woman rolled into the cramped room. Jasna looked tired, her forehead and right arm bandaged.

  “I wanted to see if you were all right,” she said in weak voice.

  “I was wondering the same about you.”

  “I only took you there because the Lady told me to. I meant no harm.”

  For the first time she sounded human. “I don’t blame you for anything. I chose to go.”

  “I’m told the cross is permanently scarred. A blackened slash down its white length.”

  “Is that your sign to the atheists?” Katerina asked, a touch of scorn in her inquiry.

  “I have no idea,” Jasna said.

  “Perhaps today’s message to the faithful might clear up everything.” Katerina apparently wasn’t going to cut her any slack.

  He wanted to tell her to back off, but he knew she was upset, venting her frustration on the easiest target.

  “The Lady has come for the final time.”

  He studied the features of the woman sitting before him. Her face was sad, the eyes drawn tight, the expression different than yesterday. For twenty-plus years she’d supposedly talked with the mother of God. Real or not, the experience was significant to her. Now all of that was over, and the pain of her loss was evident. He imagined it being akin to the death of a loved one—a voice never to be heard again, counsel and comfort gone forever.
As with his parents. And Jakob Volkner.

  Her sadness suddenly became his.

  “The Virgin revealed to me last night, on the mountaintop, the tenth secret.”

  He recalled what little he’d heard her say through the storm. I can remember. I know I can. Dear Lady, I had no idea.

  “I wrote down what she said.” She handed him a folded sheet of paper. “The Lady said for me to give it to you.”

  “Did she say anything else?”

  “It was then she vanished.” Jasna motioned to the older woman behind the chair. “I’m going back to my room. Get well, Father Michener. I will pray for you.”

  “And I for you, Jasna,” he said, meaning it.

  She left.

  “Colin, that woman is a fraud. Can’t you see it?” Katerina’s voice was rising.

  “I don’t know what she is, Kate. If she’s a fraud, she’s a good one. She believes what she’s saying. And even if she’s a fake, that scam just ended. The visions are over.”

  She motioned to the paper. “Are you going to read it? There’s no papal order this time forbidding it.”

  That was true. He unfolded the sheet, but focusing on the page made his head ache. He handed the writing to her.

  “I can’t. Read it to me.”

  FIFTY-THREE

  VATICAN CITY, 1:00 P.M.

  Valendrea stood in the audience chamber and accepted congratulations from the staff in the Secretariat of State. Ambrosi had already indicated a desire to move many of the priests and most of the secretaries to the papal office. He hadn’t argued. If he expected Ambrosi to cater to his every need, the least he could do was allow him to choose his own subordinates.

  Ambrosi had left his side only sparingly since the morning, standing dutifully beyond the balcony as he’d addressed the throngs in St. Peter’s Square. Ambrosi had then monitored radio and television reports, which he reported were mainly positive, especially at Valendrea’s choice of label, the commentators agreeing that this could be a significant pontificate. Valendrea imagined even Tom Kealy stuttering a second or so as the words Peter II left his mouth. There’d be no more best-selling priests during his reign. Clerics would be doing as they were told. If not, they’d be fired—starting with Kealy. He’d already told Ambrosi to defrock the idiot by the end of the week.

  And there would be more changes.

  The papal tiara would be resurrected, a coronation scheduled. Trumpets would sound at his entrance. Fans and drawn sabers would once again accompany him during the liturgy. And the gestatorial chair would be restored. Paul VI had changed most of those—a few momentary lapses in good judgment, or perhaps a reaction to his own times—but Valendrea would rectify all that.

  The last of the well-wishers streamed by and he motioned to Ambrosi, who drew close. “There is something I need to do,” he whispered. “End this.”

  Ambrosi turned to the crowd. “Everyone, the Holy Father is hungry. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast. And we all know how our pontiff enjoys his meals.”

  Laughter echoed through the hall.

  “For those he has not spoken with, I will make time later in the day.”

  “May the Lord bless each of you,” Valendrea said.

  He followed Ambrosi from the hall to his office at the Secretariat of State. The papal apartments had been unsealed half an hour ago, and many of his belongings from his third-floor chambers were now being moved to the fourth floor. In the days ahead he would visit the museums and basement storage facilities. He’d already provided Ambrosi with a list of items he wanted as part of the apartment décor. He was proud of his planning. Most of the decisions made over the last few hours had been contemplated long ago and the effect was of a pope in charge, doing the appropriate thing in the appropriate manner.

  In his office, with the door closed, he turned to Ambrosi. “Find the cardinal-archivist. Tell him to be standing before the Riserva in fifteen minutes.”

  Ambrosi bowed and withdrew.

  He stepped into the bathroom adjoining his office. He was still incensed by Ngovi’s arrogance. The African was right. There was little he could do to him besides reassignment to a post far from Rome. But that wouldn’t be wise. The soon-to-be-ex-camerlengo had amassed a surprising show of support. It would be foolish to pounce this soon. Patience was the call. But that didn’t mean he’d forgotten Maurice Ngovi.

  He splashed water onto his face and dried off with a towel.

  The door to the outer office opened and Ambrosi returned. “The archivist is waiting.”

  He tossed the towel onto the marble counter. “Good. Let’s go.”

  He stormed from the office and descended to the ground floor. The startled looks on the Swiss guards he passed showed that they were not accustomed to a pope appearing without warning.

  He entered the archives.

  The reading and collection rooms were empty. No one had been allowed use of the facility since Clement died. He stepped into the main hall and crossed the mosaic floor toward the iron grille. The cardinal-archivist stood outside. No one else was there except Ambrosi.

  He approached the old man. “Needless to say, your services will no longer be needed. I would retire, if I were you. Be gone by the weekend.”

  “My desk is already cleaned out.”

  “I have not forgotten your comments this morning at breakfast.”

  “Please don’t. When we both stand before the Lord, I want you to repeat them.”

  He wanted to slap the mouthy Italian. Instead, he simply asked, “Is the safe open?”

  The old man nodded.

  He turned to Ambrosi. “Wait here.”

  For so long, others had commanded the Riserva. Paul VI. John Paul II. Clement XV. Even the irritating archivist. No more.

  He rushed inside, reached for the drawer, and slid it open. The wooden box came into view. He lifted it out and carried it to the same table Paul VI had sat at all those decades ago.

  He hinged open the lid and saw two sheets of paper interfolded. One, clearly older, was the first part of the third secret of Fatima—in Sister Lucia’s hand—the back of the sheet still bearing a Vatican mark from when the message was made public in 2000. The other, newer, was Father Tibor’s 1960 Italian translation, it, too, marked.

  But there should be another sheet.

  Father Tibor’s recent facsimile, which Clement himself had placed in the box. Where was it? He’d come to finish the job. To protect the Church and preserve his sanity.

  Yet the paper was gone.

  He rushed from the Riserva and shot straight for the archivist. He grabbed the old man by his robes. A great surge of anger swept through him. The cardinal’s face filled with shock.

  “Where is it?” he spat out.

  “What . . . do . . . you mean?” the old man stammered.

  “I’m in no mood. Where is it?”

  “I have touched nothing. I swear to you before my God.”

  He could see the man was being truthful. This was not the source of the problem. He released his grip and the cardinal stepped back, clearly frightened by the assault.

  “Get out of here,” he told the archivist.

  The old man hustled away.

  A thought flooded his mind. Clement. That Friday night when the pope allowed him to destroy half of what Tibor had sent.

  I wanted you to know what awaits you, Alberto.

  Why didn’t you stop me from burning the paper?

  You’ll see.

  And when he demanded the remaining portion—Tibor’s translation.

  No, Alberto. It stays in the box.

  He should have shoved the bastard aside and done what had to be done, regardless of whether the night prefect was there.

  Now he saw everything clearly.

  The translation was never in the box. Did it even exist? Yes, it did. No question. And Clement had wanted him to know.

  Now it had to be found.

  He turned to Ambrosi. “Go to Bosnia. Bring Colin Michener back. No ex
cuses, no exceptions. I want him here tomorrow. Tell him if he’s not, I’ll have a warrant issued for his arrest.”

  “The charge, Holy Father?” Ambrosi asked, almost matter-of-factly. “So I may say, if he asks.”

  He thought a moment, then said, “Complicity in the murder of Father Andrej Tibor.”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA

  6:00 P.M.

  Katerina’s stomach knotted as she spotted Father Ambrosi entering the hospital. She immediately noticed the addition of scarlet piping and a red sash to his black wool cassock, signifying an elevation to monsignor. Apparently Peter II wasted no time handing out the spoils.

  Michener was resting in his room. All the tests run on him had come back negative, and the doctor predicted he should be fine by tomorrow. They planned to leave for Bucharest at lunchtime. The presence of Ambrosi, though, here in Bosnia, meant nothing but trouble.

  Ambrosi spotted her and approached. “I’m told Father Michener had a close call with death.”

  She resented his feigned concern, which was clearly for public consumption. “Screw you, Ambrosi.” She kept her voice low. “This fountain is dry.”

  He shook his head in a gesture to convey mock disgust. “Love truly does conquer all. No matter. We require nothing further from you.”

  But she did of him. “I don’t want Colin to learn anything about you and me.”

  “I’m sure you don’t.”

  “I’ll tell him myself. Understand?”

  He did not answer.

  The tenth secret, written by Jasna, was in her pocket. She almost yanked the slip of paper out and forced the words onto Ambrosi, but what heaven might want was surely of no interest to this arrogant ass. Whether the message was from the mother of God or the lamentations of a woman convinced she was divinely chosen, nobody would ever know. But she wondered how the Church and Alberto Valendrea would explain away the tenth secret, particularly after accepting the previous nine from Medjugorje.

  “Where is Michener?” Ambrosi asked, the tone expressionless.

  “What do you want with him?”

  “I want nothing, but his pope is another matter.”