the Third Secret

by Berry, Steve

  A stun gun.

  The Swiss guard carried them as a means to protect the pope without bullets. He and Clement had been shown the weapons and told how a nine-volt battery charge could be transformed into two hundred thousand volts that could quickly immobilize. He watched as blue-white current leaped from one electrode to another, cracking the air in between.

  A smile came to the thin man’s lips. “We have some fun now,” he said in Italian.

  Michener summoned his strength and pivoted upward, swinging his leg and kicking the man’s outstretched arm. The stun gun flew away, toward the open doorway.

  The act seemed to genuinely surprise his attacker, but the man recovered and backhanded Michener’s face, propelling him flat onto the bed.

  The man’s hand plunged into another pocket. A click and a knife appeared. With the blade clenched tight in his raised hand, the man lunged forward. Michener braced himself, wondering what it was going to feel like to be stabbed.

  But he never felt a thing.

  Instead there was a pop of electricity and the man winced. His eyes rolled skyward, his arms went limp, and the body started to convulse in deep spasms. The knife fell away as muscles went limp and he collapsed to the floor.

  Michener sat up.

  Standing behind his assailant was Katerina. She tossed the stun gun aside and rushed to him. “Are you all right?”

  He was holding his stomach, fighting for air.

  “Colin, are you okay?”

  “Who the hell was . . . that?”

  “No time. There’s two more downstairs.”

  “What do you . . . know that I don’t?”

  “I’ll explain later. We need to go.”

  His mind started working again. “Grab my travel bag. Over . . . there. I haven’t emptied it from Bosnia.”

  “You going somewhere?”

  He didn’t want to answer her, and she seemed to understand his silence.

  “You’re not going to tell me,” she said.

  “Why are you . . . here?”

  “I came to talk to you. To try to explain. But this man and two more drove up.”

  He tried to rise from the bed, but a sharp pain forced him down.

  “You’re hurt,” she said.

  He coughed up the air in his lungs. “Did you know that guy was coming here?”

  “I can’t believe you’re asking me that.”

  “Answer me.”

  “I came to talk to you and heard the stun gun. I saw you kick it away and then I saw the knife. So I grabbed the thing off the floor and did what I could. I’d think you’d be grateful.”

  “I am. Tell me what you know.”

  “Ambrosi attacked me the night we met with Father Tibor in Bucharest. He made it clear that if I didn’t cooperate, there’d be hell to pay.” She motioned to the form on the floor. “I assume this man is connected to him in some way. But I don’t know why he came after you.”

  “I assume Valendrea was unhappy with our discussion today and decided to force the issue. He told me I wouldn’t like the next messenger.”

  “We need to leave,” she said again.

  He moved toward the travel bag and slipped on a pair of running shoes. The pain in his gut brought tears to his eyes.

  “I love you, Colin. What I did was wrong, but I did it for the right reason.” The words came fast. She needed to say them.

  He stared at her. “Hard to argue with somebody who just saved my life.”

  “I don’t want to argue.”

  Neither did he. Maybe he shouldn’t be so righteous. He hadn’t been totally honest with her, either. He bent down and checked the pulse on his attacker. “Probably going to be pretty ticked off when he wakes up. I don’t want to be around.”

  He headed toward the apartment door and spied the letters and envelopes scattered on the floor. They needed to be destroyed. He moved toward the scattered mess.

  “Colin, we have to get out here before the other two decide to come up.”

  “I need to take these—” He heard feet pounding the stairs three floors below.

  “Colin, we’re out of time.”

  He grabbed a few handfuls of letters and stuffed what he could into the travel bag, but managed to retrieve only about half of what was there. He pulled himself to his feet and they slipped out the door. He pointed up, and they tiptoed toward the next floor as footsteps from below grew louder. The pain in his side made the going difficult, but adrenaline forced him ahead.

  “How are we going to get out of here?” she whispered.

  “There’s another staircase in the rear of the building. It leads to a courtyard. Follow me.”

  They carefully made their way down the corridor, past closed apartment doors, away from the street side of the building. He found the rear staircase just as two men appeared fifty feet behind them.

  He took three steps at a time, electric pain searing his abdomen. The travel bag banging against his rib cage, full of letters, only added to his agony. They turned at the landing, found the ground floor, then darted out of the building.

  The courtyard beyond was filled with cars and they zigzagged a path around them. He led the way through an arched entrance to the busy boulevard. Cars whizzed past and people filled the sidewalks. Thank God Romans were late eaters.

  He spotted a taxi hugging the curb fifty feet ahead.

  He grabbed Katerina and hustled straight for the sooty vehicle. A glance back over his shoulder and he saw two men emerge from the courtyard.

  They spotted him and bolted his way.

  He made it to the taxi and yanked open the rear door. They jumped inside. “Go, now,” he screamed in Italian.

  The car lurched forward. Through the rear window he watched the men halt their pursuit.

  “Where are we going?” Katerina asked.

  “Do you have your passport?”

  “In my purse.”

  “To the airport,” he told the driver.

  SIXTY

  11:40 P.M.

  Valendrea knelt before the altar in a chapel that his beloved Paul VI had personally commissioned. Clement had shied away from its use, preferring a smaller room down the hall, but he intended to utilize the richly decorated space for a daily morning Mass, a time when forty or so special guests could share a celebration with their pontiff. Afterward, a few minutes of his time and a photograph would cement their loyalty. Clement had never used the trappings of office—another of his many fallacies—but Valendrea meant to make the most of what popes had slaved for centuries to achieve.

  The staff had gone for the night and Ambrosi was tending to Colin Michener. He was grateful for the time alone since he needed to pray to a God he knew was listening.

  He wondered if he should offer the traditional Our Father or some other sanctioned plea, but finally decided a frank conversation would be more appropriate. Besides, he was the supreme pontiff of God’s apostolic church. If he didn’t possess the right to talk openly with the Lord, who did?

  He perceived what happened earlier with Michener—his ability to read the tenth secret of Medjugorje—to be a sign from heaven. He’d been allowed to know both the Medjugorje and Fatima messages for a reason. Clearly, Father Tibor’s murder had been justified. Though one of the commandments forbade killing, popes had for centuries slaughtered millions in the name of the Lord. And now was no exception. The threat to the Roman Catholic Church was real. Though Clement XV was gone, his protégé lived and Clement’s legacy was out there. He could not allow the risks to escalate beyond their already dangerous proportions. The matter required a definitive resolution. Just as with Father Tibor, Colin Michener would have to be dealt with, too.

  He clasped his hands and stared up at the tortured face of Christ on the crucifix. He reverently beseeched the son of God for guidance. He’d obviously been chosen pope for a reason. He’d also been motivated to choose the name Peter. Before this afternoon he’d thought both just the product of his own ambition. Now he knew better. H
e was the conduit. Peter II. To him, there was only one course of action, and he thanked the Almighty that he possessed the strength to do what had to be done.

  “Holy Father.”

  He crossed himself and stood from the prie-dieu. Ambrosi filled the doorway at the back of the dimly lit chapel. Concern filled his assistant’s face. “What about Michener?”

  “Gone. With Ms. Lew. But we found something.”

  Valendrea scanned the cache of letters and marveled at this latest surprise. Clement XV had possessed a lover. Though nothing admitted to any mortal sin—and for a priest, a violation of Holy Orders would be a grave mortal sin—the meaning was indisputable.

  “I continue to be amazed,” he said to Ambrosi, glancing up.

  They sat in the library. The same room where he’d confronted Michener earlier. He thought back to something Clement had said to him a month ago when the pope learned that Father Kealy had presented the tribunal with few options. Perhaps we should simply listen to an opposing point of view. Now he understood why Volkner had been so willing. Celibacy, apparently, was not a concept the German had taken seriously. He stared over at Ambrosi. “This is as far reaching as the suicide. I never realized how complex Clement was.”

  “And apparently resourceful,” Ambrosi said. “He removed Father Tibor’s writing from the Riserva, confident in what you would subsequently do.”

  He didn’t particularly care for Ambrosi’s reminder of his predictability, but he said nothing. Instead he commanded, “Destroy these letters.”

  “Should we not hold on to them?”

  “We can never use them, as much as I’d like to. Clement’s memory must be preserved. Discrediting him would only discredit this office, and that I cannot afford. We’d hurt ourselves, while tarnishing a dead man. Shred them.” He asked what he really wanted to know. “Where did Michener and Ms. Lew go?”

  “Our friends are checking with the taxi company. We should know soon.”

  He’d thought earlier that Clement’s personal chest may have been his hiding place. But given what he now knew about his former enemy’s personality, the German had apparently been far more clever. He lifted one of the envelopes and read the return address. IRMA RAHN, HINTERHOLZ 19, BAMBERG, DEUTSCHLAND.

  He heard a soft chime and Ambrosi removed a cellular phone from his cassock. A short conversation and Ambrosi beeped off the receiver.

  He continued to stare at the envelope. “Let me guess. They were taken to the airport.”

  Ambrosi nodded.

  He handed the envelope across to his friend. “Find this woman, Paolo, and you’ll find what we seek. Michener and Ms. Lew will be there, as well. They’re on their way to her now.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “You can never be sure of anything, but it’s a safe assumption. Tend to this task yourself.”

  “Is that not risky?”

  “It is a risk we will have to take. I’m sure you can conceal your presence carefully.”

  “Of course, Holy Father.”

  “I want Tibor’s translation destroyed the moment you locate it. I don’t care how, just do it. Paolo, I’m counting on you to handle this. If anyone, and I mean anyone—this woman of Clement’s, Michener, Lew, I don’t care who—reads those words or knows of them, kill them. Don’t hesitate, just eliminate them.”

  The muscles in his secretary’s face never quivered. The eyes, like those of a bird of prey, stared back with an intense glare. Valendrea knew all about Ambrosi and Michener’s dissension—he’d even encouraged it, since nothing ensured loyalty more than a common hatred. So the hours ahead might prove immensely satisfying for his old friend.

  “I will not disappoint you, Holy Father,” Ambrosi softly said.

  “It is not I whom you should worry about disappointing. We are on a mission for the Lord, and there is much at stake. So very much.”

  SIXTY-ONE

  BAMBERG, GERMANY

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 1

  10:00 A.M.

  Michener strolled the cobbled streets and quickly came to understand Jakob Volkner’s love of Bamberg. He’d never visited the town. Volkner’s few trips back home had all been taken alone. They’d planned a papal mission next year as part of a multicity German pilgrimage. Volkner had told him how he wanted to visit his parents’ grave, say Mass in the cathedral, and see old friends. Which made his suicide even more puzzling, since the planning for that joyous journey had been well under way when Clement died.

  Bamberg sat where the swift Regnitz and meandering Main River merged. The ecclesiastical half of the city crowned the hills and showcased a royal residence, monastery, and cathedral, the forested crests once the home of prince-bishops. Clinging to the lower slopes, against the banks of the Regnitz, stood the secular portion, where business and commerce had always dominated. The symbolic meeting of the two halves was the river, where clever politicians centuries ago erected a city hall of half-timbered walls tattooed with bright frescoes. The rathaus sat on an island, at the center of the two classes, a stone bridge spanning the river, bisecting the building and connecting both worlds.

  He and Katerina had flown from Rome to Munich and spent the night near the airport. This morning they’d rented a car and driven north into central Bavaria, through the Franconian hills, for nearly two hours. They now stood in the Maxplatz, where a lively market filled the square. Other entrepreneurs were busy preparing for the start of the Christmas market, which would begin later in the day. The cold air chapped his lips, the sun flashed intermittently, and snow whisked across the pavement. He and Katerina, unprepared for the change in temperature, had stopped in one of the stores and purchased coats, gloves, and leather boots.

  To his left, the Church of St. Martin cast a long shadow across the crowded plaza. Michener had thought a talk with the church’s priest might prove helpful. Surely he would know of Irma Rahn, and the priest had indeed been accommodating, suggesting she might be at St. Gangolf’s, the parish church a few blocks north across a canal.

  They found her tending one of the side chapels, beneath a crucified Christ that gazed down in a mournful glare. The air reeked of incense mellowed by the scent of beeswax. She was a tiny woman, her pale skin and crenellated features still suggesting a beauty that had faded little from her youth. If he hadn’t known she was nearing eighty, he would have sworn her to be in her sixties.

  They watched as she reverently genuflected each time she passed before the crucifix. Michener stepped forward and passed through an open iron gate. A strange feeling swept over him. Was he intruding on something that was none of his business? But he dismissed the thought. After all, Clement himself had led the way.

  “Are you Irma Rahn?” he asked in German.

  She faced him. Her silver hair fell to her shoulders. The bones in her cheeks and her sallow skin were untouched by makeup. Her wrinkled chin was round and dainty, the eyes soulful and compassionate.

  She stepped close and said, “I was wondering how long it would be before you came.”

  “How do you know who I am? We’ve never met.”

  “But I know you.”

  “You expected me to come?”

  “Oh, yes. Jakob said you would. And he was always right . . . especially about you.”

  Then he realized. “In his letter. The one that came from Turin. He made mention in there?”

  She nodded.

  “You have what I want, don’t you?”

  “That depends. Do you come for yourself or someone else?”

  A strange question, and he considered his response. “I come for my Church.”

  She smiled again. “Jakob said you would answer that way. He knew you well.”

  He motioned for Katerina and introduced them. The old woman flashed a warm smile and the two women shook hands. “It’s so nice to meet you. Jakob said you might come, too.”

  SIXTY-TWO

  VATICAN CITY, 10:30 A.M.

  Valendrea leafed through Lignum Vitae. The archivist stood befor
e him. He’d ordered the elderly cardinal to present himself on the fourth floor and bring the volume with him. He wanted to see for himself what had held so much interest for Ngovi and Michener.

  He found the section of Malachy’s prophecy that dealt with Peter the Roman at the end of Arnold Wion’s eighteen-hundred-page account:

  In the final persecution of the Holy Roman Church there will reign Peter the Roman who will feed his flock among many tribulations, after which in the seven hilled city the dreadful judge will judge all people.

  “You actually believe this rubbish?” he asked the archivist.

  “You are the one hundred and twelfth pope on Malachy’s list. The last one mentioned, and he said you would choose that name.”

  “So the Church is facing the apocalypse? From the seven hilled city the dreadful judge will judge all people. You believe that? You can’t be that ignorant.”

  “Rome is the seven hilled city. That has been its label since ancient times. And I resent your tone.”

  “I don’t care what you resent. I only want to know what you, Ngovi, and Michener discussed.”

  “I’m not telling you anything.”

  He motioned to the manuscript. “Then tell me why you believe in this prophecy.”

  “As if it matters what I think.”

  He stood from the desk. “It matters a great deal, Eminence. Consider it a final act for the Church. This is your last day, I believe.”

  The old man’s face betrayed nothing of the regret he was surely feeling. This cardinal had served Rome for nearly five decades and had certainly seen his share of joy and pain. But he was the man who’d orchestrated the conclave support for Ngovi—that had become clear yesterday when the cardinals finally began talking—and he’d done a masterful job of collating votes. A shame he hadn’t chosen the winning side.

  Equally disturbing, though, was a discussion of Malachy prophecies that had arisen in the press over the past two days. He suspected the man standing before him was the source of those stories, though no reporter quoted anyone, only the usual unnamed Vatican official. The Malachy predictions were nothing new—conspiratorialists had long warned of them—but journalists were now beginning to make a connection. The 112th pope had indeed taken the name Peter II. How could a monk in the eleventh century, or a chronicler in the sixteenth century, possibly have known that was going to happen? Coincidence? Maybe, but it strained the concept to its breaking point.