by Berry, Steve
“Leave him alone.”
“Oh, my. The lioness bares her claws.”
“Get out of here, Ambrosi.”
“I’m afraid you don’t tell me what to do. The word of the papal secretary, I imagine, would carry much weight here. Surely more than that of an unemployed journalist.” He moved around her.
She quickly stepped in his way. “I mean it, Ambrosi. Back off. Tell Valendrea that Colin’s through with Rome.”
“He’s still a priest in the Roman Catholic Church, subject to the authority of the pope. He will do as told, or face the consequences.”
“What does Valendrea want?”
“Why don’t we go to Michener,” Ambrosi said, “and I’ll explain. I assure you, it’s worth listening to.”
She entered the room with Ambrosi following. Michener was sitting up in bed and his face constricted at the site of his visitor.
“I bring you greetings from Peter II,” Ambrosi said. “We learned about what happened—”
“And just had to fly over to let me know your deep concern.”
Ambrosi kept a stone face. Katerina wondered if he’d been born with the ability or mastered the technique through years of deceit.
“We’re aware of why you are in Bosnia,” Ambrosi said. “I’ve been sent to ascertain if you have learned anything from the seers?”
“Not a thing.”
She was impressed with Michener’s ability to lie, too.
“Must I go and find out if you’re being truthful?”
“Do whatever you want.”
“The information being circulated around town is that the tenth secret was revealed to the seer, Jasna, last night, and the visions are now over. The priests here are quite upset over that prospect.”
“No more tourists? The money flow ended?” She couldn’t resist.
Ambrosi faced her. “Perhaps you should wait outside. This is Church business.”
“She’s not going anywhere,” Michener said. “With all you and Valendrea have surely been doing the past two days, you’re worried about what’s happening here in Bosnia? Why?”
Ambrosi folded both hands behind his back. “I’m the one asking questions.”
“Then by all means fire away.”
“The Holy Father commands you back to Rome.”
“You know what you can tell the Holy Father.”
“Such disrespect. At least we openly did not scorn Clement XV.”
Michener’s face hardened. “That’s supposed to impress me? You just did everything possible to thwart what he was trying to do.”
“I was hoping you’d be difficult.”
The tone of Ambrosi’s comment worried her. He seemed immensely pleased.
“I’m to inform you that if you do not come voluntarily, a warrant for your arrest will be issued through the Italian government.”
“What are you babbling about?” Michener asked.
“The papal nuncio in Bucharest has informed His Holiness of your meeting with Father Tibor. He’s upset he was not part of whatever you and Clement were doing. The Romanian authorities are now interested in talking with you. They, as we, are curious as to what the late pope wanted with that aging priest.”
Katerina’s throat tightened. This was drifting into dangerous waters. Michener, though, seemed unfazed. “Who said Clement was interested in Father Tibor?”
Ambrosi shrugged. “You? Clement? Who cares? All that matters is you went to see him and the Romanian police want to talk with you. The Holy See can either block that effort, or aid it. Which would you prefer?”
“Don’t care.”
Ambrosi turned around and faced Katerina. “What about you? Do you care?”
She realized the asshole was playing his trump card. Get Michener back to Rome or he’d learn, right now, how she’d so easily found him in Bucharest and Rome.
“What’s she got to do with this?” Michener quickly asked.
Ambrosi hesitated for an agonizing pause. She wanted to slap his face, as she had in Rome, but she did nothing.
Ambrosi turned back to Michener. “I was only wondering what she might think. I understand she’s a Romanian by birth, familiar with her country’s police. I imagine their interrogation techniques are something one might want to avoid.”
“Care to tell me how you know so much about her?”
“Father Tibor spoke with the papal nuncio in Bucharest. He told him about Ms. Lew being present when you talked with him. I simply learned of her background.”
She was impressed with Ambrosi’s explanation. If not for knowing the truth, she would have believed it herself.
“Leave her out of this,” Michener said.
“Will you return to Rome?”
“I’ll go back.”
The response surprised her.
Ambrosi nodded approval. “I have a plane available in Split. When will you leave this hospital?”
“In the morning.”
“Be ready at seven A.M.” Ambrosi headed for the door. “And I’ll pray this evening—” He paused a moment. “—for your speedy recovery.”
Then he left.
“If he’s praying for me, I’m in real trouble,” Michener said as the door closed.
“Why did you agree to go back? He was bluffing about Romania.”
Michener shifted in the bed and she helped him get situated. “I have to talk with Ngovi. He needs to know what Jasna said.”
“For what? You can’t believe any of what she wrote. That secret is ludicrous.”
“Maybe so. But it’s the tenth secret of Medjugorje, whether we believe it or not. I need to give it to Ngovi.”
She adjusted the pillow. “Ever heard of fax machines?”
“I don’t want to argue about this, Kate. Besides, I’m curious what’s important enough for Valendrea to send his errand boy. Apparently there’s something big involved, and I think I know what it is.”
“The third secret of Fatima?”
He nodded. “But it still makes no sense. That secret is known to the world.”
She recalled what Father Tibor had said in his messages to Clement. Do as the Madonna said . . . How much intolerance will heaven allow?
“This whole thing is beyond logic,” Michener said.
She wanted to know, “Have you and Ambrosi always been enemies?”
He nodded. “I wonder how a man like that became a priest. If not for Valendrea, he never would have made it to Rome. They’re perfect for one another.” He hesitated, as if in thought. “I imagine there’s going to be a lot of changes.”
“That’s not your problem,” she said, hoping he wasn’t changing his mind about their future.
“Don’t worry, I’m not having second thoughts. But I wonder if the Romanian authorities are truly interested in me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Could be a smokescreen.”
She looked puzzled.
“Clement sent me an e-mail the night he died. In it he told me that Valendrea may have removed part of the original third secret long ago when he worked for Paul VI.”
She listened with interest.
“Clement and Valendrea went into the Riserva together the night before Clement died. Valendrea also took an unscheduled trip from Rome the next day.”
She instantly saw the significance. “The Saturday Father Tibor was murdered?”
“Connect the dots and a picture starts to form.”
The image of Ambrosi, his knee jammed into her chest, his hands wrapped around her throat, flashed through her mind. Had Valendrea and Ambrosi been involved with Tibor’s murder? She wanted to tell Michener what she knew, but realized that her explanation would generate far too many questions than she was presently willing to answer. Instead, she asked, “Could Valendrea have been involved with Father Tibor’s death?”
“Hard to say. But he’s certainly capable. As is Ambrosi. I still think Ambrosi is bluffing, though. The last thing the Vatican wants is attention. I’m betting
our new pope will do whatever he can to keep the spotlight off him.”
“But Valendrea could direct that spotlight somewhere else.”
Michener seemed to understand. “Like onto me.”
She nodded. “Nothing better than an ex-employee to blame everything on.”
Valendrea donned one of the white cassocks the House of Gammarelli had crafted during the afternoon. He’d been right this morning—his measurements were on file, and it had been easy to fashion the appropriate garments in a short period of time. The seamstresses had done their job well. He admired good work and made a mental note to have Ambrosi forward an official thanks.
He hadn’t heard from Ambrosi since Paolo had left for Bosnia. But he had no doubt that his friend would tend to his mission. Ambrosi knew what was at stake. He’d made things clear to him that night in Romania. Colin Michener had to be brought to Rome. Clement XV had cleverly thought ahead—he’d give the German that—and had apparently concluded that Valendrea would succeed him, so he’d purposely removed Tibor’s latest translation, knowing there was no way he could start his papacy with that potential disaster looming.
But where was it?
Michener surely knew.
The telephone rang.
He was in his bedroom on the third floor of the palace. The papal apartments were still being prepared.
The phone rang again.
He wondered about the interruption. It was nearly eight P.M. He was trying to dress for his first formal dinner, this one a celebration of thanks with the cardinals, and had left word not to be disturbed.
Another ring.
He lifted the receiver.
“Holy Father, Father Ambrosi is calling and asked that I connect him. He said it was important.”
“Do it.”
A few clicks and Ambrosi said, “I have done as you asked.”
“And the reaction?”
“He will be there tomorrow.”
“His health?”
“Nothing severe.”
“His traveling companion?”
“Being her usual charming self.”
“Let’s keep that one happy, for the present.” Ambrosi had told him about her assault on him in Rome. At the time she was their best conduit to Michener, but the situation had changed.
“Nothing from me will affect that.”
“Till tomorrow then,” he said. “Have a safe trip.”
FIFTY-FIVE
VATICAN CITY
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 30
1:00 P.M.
Michener sat in the backseat of a Vatican car, Katerina beside him. Ambrosi was in the front, and on his command they were waved through the Arch of the Bells into the privacy of the St. Damascus courtyard. A warren of ancient buildings surrounded them, blocking the midday sun, casting the pavement in an indigo hue.
For the first time he felt uneasy about being inside the Vatican. The men in charge now were manipulators. Enemies. He needed to be careful, watch his words, and get whatever was about to happen over with as quickly as possible.
The car stopped and they climbed out.
Ambrosi led them into a drawing room encased on three sides with stained glass where popes, for centuries, had greeted guests beneath the impressive murals. They followed Ambrosi through a maze of loggias and galleries littered with candelabra and tapestries surrounded by walls bursting with images of popes receiving homage from emperors and kings.
Michener knew where they were headed, and Ambrosi stopped outside the bronze door leading into the papal library where Gorbachev, Mandela, Carter, Yeltsin, Reagan, Bush, Clinton, Rabin, and Arafat had all visited.
“Ms. Lew will be waiting in the forward loggia when you are through,” Ambrosi said. “In the meantime, you will not be disturbed.”
Surprisingly Katerina did not object to being excluded and walked off with Ambrosi.
He opened the door and entered.
Three leaded-glass windows bathed the five-hundred-year-old bookshelves with fractured waves of light. Valendrea sat behind a desk, the same one popes had used for half a millennium. A panel depicting the Madonna graced the wall behind him. An upholstered armchair was angled in front of the desk, but Michener knew only heads of state were privileged to sit before the pope.
Valendrea stepped around the desk. The pope held out his hand, palm-down, and Michener knew what was expected of him. He stared deep into the Tuscan’s eyes. This was the moment of submission. He debated what to do, but decided discretion was a better tack, at least until he learned what this demon wanted. He knelt and kissed the ring, noticing that the Vatican jewelers had already crafted a new one.
“I am told Clement took pleasure in extracting a similar gesture from His Eminence, Cardinal Bartolo, in Turin. I will pass on to the good cardinal your respect for church protocol.”
Michener stood. “What do you want?” He did not add Holy Father.
“How are your injuries?”
“Surely you don’t care.”
“What would make you think otherwise?”
“The respect you’ve shown me the past three years.”
Valendrea stepped back toward the desk. “I assume you’re trying to provoke a response. I’ll ignore your tone.”
He asked again, “What do you want?”
“I want what Clement removed from the Riserva.”
“I was unaware anything was gone.”
“I am not in the mood. Clement told you everything.”
He recalled things Clement had told him. I allowed Valendrea to read what is in the Fatima box . . . In 1978 he removed from the Riserva part of the Virgin’s third message.
“Seems to me you’re the thief.”
“Bold words to your pope. Can you back them up?”
He wasn’t taking that bait. Let the son of a bitch wonder what he knew.
Valendrea moved toward him. He seemed quite comfortable dressed in white, the skullcap nearly lost in his thick mane. “I’m not asking, Michener. I’m ordering you to tell me where that writing is.”
There was a tinge of desperation in the command that made him wonder if Clement’s e-mail ramblings were more than those of a depressed soul about to die. “I didn’t know anything was gone, until a moment ago.”
“And I’m supposed to believe that?”
“Believe what you want.”
“I’ve had the papal apartments and Castle Gandolfo searched. You have Clement’s personal belongings. I want them checked.”
“What is it you’re looking for?”
Valendrea appraised him with a suspicious gaze. “I can’t decide if you are being truthful or not.”
He shrugged. “Trust me. I am.”
“All right. Father Tibor reproduced Sister Lucia’s third message of Fatima. He sent his facsimile of both the original the good nun penned and his translation to Clement. The reproduced translation is now gone from the Riserva.”
Michener was beginning to understand. “So you did take part of the third secret in 1978.”
“I simply want what that priest concocted. Where are Clement’s belongings?”
“I gave his furniture to charity. The rest I have.”
“Have you been through them?”
He lied. “Of course.”
“And you found nothing from Father Tibor?”
“Would you believe me if I answered?”
“Why should I?”
“Because I’m such a nice guy.”
Valendrea went silent for a moment. Michener stayed silent, too.
“What did you learn in Bosnia?”
He noticed the shift in subjects. “Not to climb a mountain in a rainstorm.”
“I see why Clement treasured you. A quick wit, matched by a sharp intellect.” He paused. “Now answer my question.”
He reached into his pocket, withdrew Jasna’s note, and handed the slip of paper to the pope. “That’s the tenth secret of Medjugorje.”
Valendrea accepted the offering and read. The Tuscan
drew a deep breath and his gaze shifted pointedly from the sheet to Michener’s face. A low moan seeped from the pope’s mouth and, without warning, Valendrea lunged forward and grabbed two handfuls of Michener’s black cassock, the paper still in his hand. Fury filled the eyes that stared upon him. “Where is Tibor’s reproduced translation?”
He was shocked by the attack, but kept his composure. “I considered Jasna’s words meaningless. Why do they bother you?”
“Her ramblings mean nothing. What I want is Father Tibor’s facsimile—”
“If the words are meaningless, why am I being assaulted?”
Valendrea seemed to realize the situation and released his grip. “Tibor’s translation is Church property. I want it returned.”
“Then you need to dispatch the Swiss guard to locate it.”
“You have forty-eight hours to produce it or I’ll have a warrant issued for your arrest.”
“On what charge?”
“Theft of Vatican property. I’ll also turn you over to the Romanian police. They want to know about your visit with Father Tibor.” The words crackled with authority.
“I’m sure they’ll want to know about your visit with him, too.”
“What visit?”
He needed Valendrea to think he knew far more than he did. “You left the Vatican the day Tibor was killed.”
“Since you seem to have all the answers, tell me where I went.”
“I know enough.”
“Do you really believe you can carry that bluff through? You plan to implicate the pope in a murder investigation? That effort would not get far.”
He tried another bluff. “You weren’t alone.”
“Really now? Tell me more.”
“I’ll wait until my police interrogation. The Romanians will be fascinated. That much I guarantee.”
A flushed look invaded Valendrea’s face. “You have no idea what’s at stake here. This is more important than you could ever realize.”
“You sound like Clement.”
“On this he was right.” Valendrea looked away for a moment, then turned back. “Did Clement tell you that he watched while I burned part of what Tibor sent him? He stood right there in the Riserva and let me destroy it. He also wanted me to know that the rest of what Tibor sent, a facsimile translation of Sister Lucia’s complete message, was there, too, in the box. But it is now gone. Clement didn’t want anything to happen to it. That much I know. So he gave it to you.”