the Third Secret

by Berry, Steve

  “Which one?”

  “Lignum Vitae.”

  “Malachy’s prophecies? You’ve got to be kidding. That’s nonsense. Still, it’s a shame we don’t know what was said.”

  “I’m in the process of reinstalling the listening devices. But it will take time.”

  “When is Ngovi scheduled to leave?”

  “His office is already cleared. I’ve been told he departs for Africa in a few days. For now, he’s still in his apartment.”

  And still camerlengo. Valendrea had yet to decide on a replacement, debating among three cardinals who hadn’t wavered in their conclave support.

  “I’ve been thinking about Clement’s personal effects. Tibor’s facsimile has to be among them. Clement could expect no one but Michener to go through his things.”

  “What are you saying, Holy Father?”

  “I don’t think Michener will bring us anything. He despises us. No, he’ll give it to Ngovi. And I can’t let that happen.”

  He watched Ambrosi for a reaction and his old friend did not disappoint him. “You want to act first?” his secretary asked.

  “We need to demonstrate to Michener how serious we are. But not you this time, Paolo. Call our friends and enlist their aid.”

  Michener entered the apartment he’d been using since Clement’s death. He’d walked the streets of Rome the past couple of hours. His head started hurting half an hour ago, one of the headaches the Bosnian doctor warned would reoccur, so he went straight to the bathroom and downed two aspirin. The doctor had also told him to have a complete physical once back in Rome, but there was no time for that right now.

  He unbuttoned his cassock and tossed it onto the bed. The clock on the nightstand read six thirty P.M. He could still feel Valendrea’s hands on him. God help the Catholic Church. A man possessed of no fear was a dangerous thing. Valendrea seemed to dart, unconcerned, from moment to moment, and absolute power vested him with unfettered choices. Then there was what St. Malachy supposedly said. He knew he should ignore the ridiculous, but a dread swelled inside him. Trouble lay ahead. Of that he was sure.

  He dressed in a pair of jeans and a buttondown shirt, then trudged into the front room and settled on the sofa. He purposely left all the lights off.

  Had Valendrea actually purged something from the Riserva decades ago? Did Clement recently do the same thing? What was happening? It was as if reality had turned itself upside down. Everything and everybody around him seemed tainted. And to cap the whole mess off, an Irish bishop who lived nine hundred years ago may have predicted the end of the world with the coming of a pope named Peter.

  He rubbed his temples and tried to dull the pain. Through the windows, scattered rays of weak light found their way inside from the street below. In the shadows beneath the sill lay Jakob Volkner’s oak chest. He recalled it being locked the day he moved everything from the Vatican. It certainly seemed like a place where Clement might have secreted something important. No one would have dared to look inside.

  He crawled across the rug to the chest.

  He reached up, switched on one of the lamps, and studied the lock. He didn’t want to damage the chest by breaking it open, so he sat back and thought about the best course.

  The cardboard box he’d brought from the papal apartments the day after Clement’s death sat a few feet away. Everything of Clement’s lay inside. He slid the box toward him and rummaged through the assorted items that had once graced the papal apartments. Most invoked fond memories—a Black Forest clock, some special pens, a framed photograph of Clement’s parents.

  A gray paper bag contained Clement’s personal Bible. It had been sent from Castle Gandolfo the day of the funeral. He hadn’t opened the book, merely brought it back to the apartment and placed it in the box.

  He now admired the white leather exterior, its gilt edging marred by time. Reverently, he opened the front cover. In German was written, ON THE OCCASION OF YOUR PRIESTHOOD. FROM YOUR PARENTS, WHO LOVE YOU VERY MUCH.

  Clement had spoken many times of his parents. The Volkners had been Bavarian aristocracy in the time of Ludwig I, and the family had been anti-Nazi, never supporting Hitler, even in the glory days before the war. They hadn’t been foolish, though, and kept their dissension to themselves, doing quietly what they could to help Bamberg’s Jews. Volkner’s father had harbored the life savings of two local families, safeguarding the funds until after the war. Unfortunately, no one returned to claim the money. Instead, every mark was given to Israel. A gift from the past in the hope of the future.

  The vision from last night flashed through his mind.

  Jakob Volkner’s face.

  Do not ignore heaven any longer. Do as I asked. Remember, there is much to be said for a loyal servant.

  What is my destiny, Jakob?

  But it was Father Tibor’s image that answered.

  To be a sign to the world. A beacon for repentance. The messenger to announce that God is very much alive.

  What did it all mean? Was it real? Or just the delusion of a brain racked by lightning?

  He slowly thumbed through the Bible. The pages were like cloth. Some bore underlining. A few had notes scribbled in the margin. He began to notice the marked passages.

  Acts 5:29. Obedience to God carries more authority than obedience to men.

  James 1:27. Pure unspoiled religion in the eyes of God our Father is this: coming to the help of orphans and widows when they need it and keeping oneself uncontaminated by the world.

  Matthew 15:3–6. Why do you transgress the commandment of God for the sake of your tradition? In this way you have made God’s word null and void by means of tradition.

  Matthew 5:19. The man who relaxes even one of the least of these commandments and teaches others to act likewise will be considered the very least in the Kingdom of Heaven.

  Daniel 4:23. Your Kingdom will be preserved for you, but only after you have learned that Heaven rules all.

  John 8:28. I do nothing on my own authority, but preach only as the father has taught me.

  Interesting choices. More messages from a troubled pope? Or just random selections?

  Four strands of colored silk poked from the book’s bottom edge, bunched together three-quarters of the way through. He grabbed the strands and folded back to the denoted pages.

  Wedged into the binding was a thin silver key.

  Had Clement done that on purpose? The Bible had been at Castle Gandolfo on the nightstand beside Clement’s bed. The pope could have assumed that no one but Michener would examine the book.

  He freed the key and knew what it opened.

  He inserted it into the chest’s lock. The tumblers gave way and the lid released.

  Inside were envelopes. A hundred or more, each addressed to Clement in a feminine hand. The addresses varied. Munich, Cologne, Dublin, Cairo, Cape Town, Warsaw, Rome. All places where Clement had been posted. The return address on every envelope was the same. He knew the sender from a quarter century of handling Volkner’s mail. Her name was Irma Rahn, a childhood friend. He’d never asked much about her, Clement only volunteering that they grew up together in Bamberg.

  Clement regularly corresponded with a few longtime friends. Yet all of the envelopes in the chest were from Rahn. Why had Clement left such a legacy? Why not simply destroy them? Their implications could easily be misconstrued, especially by enemies like Valendrea. Apparently, though, Clement had decided the risk was worth taking.

  Since they were now his property, he opened one of the envelopes, slid out the letter, and started reading.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Jakob:

  My heart ached at the news from Warsaw. I saw your name mentioned as being there in the crowds when riots broke out. The communists would like nothing better than for you and the other bishops to fall victim. I was relieved to receive your letter and glad to know you were unharmed. I wish His Holiness would allow a posting to Rome where I know you’ll be safe. I know you would never make such a request, b
ut I pray to our Lord that it will happen. I’m hoping you are able to come home for the Christmas season. It would be good to spend a holiday near you. If such is possible, do let me know. As always I await your next letter and know, my dear Jakob, that I love you so.

  Jakob:

  I visited your parents’ grave today. I trimmed the grass and cleaned the stones. I left a bundle of lilies with your name on them. Such a shame they did not live to see what you have become. An archbishop of the church, perhaps even a cardinal one day. It’s a testament to them what you have done. My parents and yours endured so much, too much really. I pray each day for the deliverance of Germany. Perhaps through good men like you our legacy could become something good. I hope your health is good. Mine is fine. I seem blessed with a strong constitution. I might be in Munich over the next three weeks. I will call if I come. My heart longs to see you again. Your precious words in your last letter have warmed me ever since. Take care, dear Jakob. My love, always and forever.

  Jakob:

  Cardinal Eminence. A title you so deserve. God bless John Paul for finally elevating you. Thank you again for letting me attend the consistory. Surely no one knew who I was. I sat off to the side and kept my thoughts to myself. Your Colin Michener was there and seemed so proud. He is as you described, a handsome young man. Make him the son we always wanted. Vest in him, as your father vested in you. Leave a legacy, Jakob, through him. There is nothing wrong with that, nothing in your vows to your church or your God forbids that. I still find my eyes watering at the memory of the pope crowning you with a scarlet hat. It was the proudest moment of my life. I love you, Jakob, and only hope that our bond is a source of strength. Take care, my darling, and do write soon.

  Jakob:

  Karl Haigl died a few days back. At the funeral I was remembering when the three of us were children, playing in the river on a warm summer day. He was such a gentle man and if not for you I may well have loved him. I suspect you know that, though. His wife passed several years ago and he lived alone. His children are an ungrateful and selfish lot. What has happened to our youth? Do they not appreciate from where they came? Many times I would take supper to him and we would sit and talk. He admired you so. Little scrawny Jakob, risen to a cardinal in the Catholic Church. Now it’s secretary of state. One step from the papacy. He would have liked to see you again and it’s a shame that wasn’t possible. Bamberg has not forgotten its bishop and I know its bishop has not forgotten the place of his youth. I have prayed diligently the past few days for you, Jakob. The pope is not well. Soon a new pope will be chosen. I have asked the Lord to watch over you. Maybe he will heed the plea of an old woman who loves both her God and her cardinal deeply. Take care.

  Jakob:

  I watched on television as you appeared on the balcony of St. Peter’s. The pride and love that swelled inside me was too much to describe. My Jakob is now Clement. Such a wise choice in names. At the mention, I recalled the times you and I went to the cathedral and visited the tomb. I remembered how you imagined Clement II. A German risen to pope. Even then there was vision in your eyes. Somehow he was a part of you. Now, as Clement XV, you are pope. Be wise dear Jakob, but be brave. The church is yours to mold or break. Let them remember Clement XV with pride. A pilgrimage back to Bamberg would be so wonderful. Try and arrange that one day. I have not seen you for so long. Just a few moments, even in public, would suffice. In the meantime let what we have warm your heart and mellow your soul. Shepherd the flock with strength and dignity and always know that my heart is with you.

  FIFTY-NINE

  9:00 P.M.

  Katerina approached the building where Michener lived. The darkened street was devoid of people and lined with empty cars. From open windows she heard idle conversation, the squeals of children, and a snatch of music. Traffic rumbled from a boulevard fifty yards behind her.

  A light burned in Michener’s apartment, and she took refuge in a doorway across the street, safe within the shadows, and stared up three floors.

  They needed to talk. He had to understand. She hadn’t betrayed him. She’d told Valendrea nothing. Still, she’d violated his confidence. He hadn’t been as angry as she expected, more hurt, and that made her feel worse. When would she ever learn? Why did she keep making the same mistakes? Could she not for once do the right thing, for the right reason? She was capable of better, but something seemed perpetually to restrain her.

  She stood in the darkness, comforted by her solitude, resolute in knowing what needed to be done. There was no sign of movement in the third-floor window and she wondered if Michener was even there.

  She was mustering the courage to cross the street when a car slowly turned off the boulevard and inched its way toward the building. Headlights swept a path ahead and she hugged the wall, sinking into darkness.

  The headlights extinguished and the vehicle stopped.

  A dark Mercedes coupe.

  The rear door opened and a man stepped out. In the glow from the car’s cabin light she saw that he was tall, with a thin face split by a long, sharp nose. He wore a loose-fitting gray suit, and she did not like the gleam in his dark eyes. Men like this she’d seen before. Two other men sat in the car, one driving, another in the backseat. Her brain screamed trouble. Ambrosi had surely dispatched them.

  The tall man entered Michener’s building.

  The Mercedes rumbled ahead, farther down the street. The light in Michener’s apartment was still on.

  No time to call the police.

  She emerged from the doorway and hurried across the street.

  Michener finished the last letter and stared at the envelopes scattered around him. Over the past two hours he’d read every word Irma Rahn had written. Certainly the chest did not contain a lifetime of their correspondence. Perhaps Volkner saved only the letters that meant something. The most recent one was dated two months earlier—another touching composition wherein Irma lamented about Clement’s health, concerned about what she was seeing on television, urging him to take care of himself.

  He thought back through the years and now understood some of the comments Volkner had made, especially when they discussed Katerina.

  You think you’re the only priest to succumb? And was it that wrong, anyway? Did it feel wrong, Colin? Did your heart say it was wrong?

  And just before he died. The curious statement when Clement inquired about Katerina and the tribunal. It’s all right to care, Colin. She’s a part of your past. A part you should not forget.

  He’d thought his friend was only offering comfort. Now he realized there was more.

  But that doesn’t mean you can’t be friends. Share your lives in words and feelings. Experience the closeness that someone who genuinely cares can provide. Surely the Church doesn’t forbid us that pleasure.

  He recalled the questions Clement had posed at Castle Gandolfo, only hours before he died. Why must priests not marry? Why must they remain chaste? If that’s acceptable for others, why not the clergy?

  He couldn’t help wondering how far the relationship had progressed. Had the pope violated his own vow of celibacy? Had he done the same thing Thomas Kealy was accused of doing? Nothing from the letters indicated that, which in and of itself meant nothing. After all, who would write such a thing down?

  He propped back against the sofa and rubbed his eyes.

  Father Tibor’s translation was nowhere in the chest. He’d searched every envelope, read every letter, on the chance Clement had secreted the paper inside one of them. In fact, there was no mention of anything even remotely related to Fatima. His effort seemed another dead end. He was right back where he started, except he now knew about Irma Rahn.

  Don’t forget Bamberg.

  That’s what Jasna had said to him. And what had Clement written to him in his final message? I would prefer the sanctity of Bamberg, that lovely city by the river, and the cathedral I so loved. My only regret is that I did not see its beauty one last time. Perhaps, though, my legacy could still be there.
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  Then the afternoon in the solarium at Castle Gandolfo, and what Clement whispered.

  I allowed Valendrea to read what is in the Fatima box.

  What’s there?

  Part of what Father Tibor sent me.

  Part? He hadn’t caught the hint until this moment.

  The trip to Turin again flashed through his mind, along with Clement’s heated remarks about his loyalty and abilities. And the envelope. Would you mail this for me, please? It had been addressed to Irma Rahn. He’d thought nothing of it. He’d mailed many letters to her over the years. But the strange request to mail the letter from there, and to do it personally.

  Clement had been in the Riserva only the night before. He and Ngovi had waited outside while the pope studied the contents of the box. That would have been a perfect opportunity for any removal. Which meant when Clement and Valendrea were in the Riserva days later, the reproduced translation was already gone. What had he asked Valendrea earlier?

  How do you know it was even there?

  I don’t. But no one returned to the archives after that Friday night, and Clement was dead two days later.

  The apartment door burst open.

  The room was illuminated only by a single lamp and, within the shadows, a tall, thin man lunged toward him. He was yanked from the floor and a fist rammed into his abdomen.

  The breath left his lungs.

  His assailant planted another blow into his chest that sent him staggering back toward the bedroom. The shock of the moment paralyzed him. He’d never been in a fight before. Instinct told him to raise his arms for protection, but the man swung again into his stomach, the blow collapsing him onto the bed.

  He panted hard and stared up at the blackened form, wondering what was next. Something came from the man’s pocket. A black rectangle, about six inches long, with shiny metal prongs protruding from one end like pincers. A flash of light suddenly sparked between the prongs.