the Third Secret

by Berry, Steve

  For an instant in the church she’d thought her life was over. Apparently she was deemed more valuable alive—surely the bargaining chip Ambrosi would use to coerce what he wanted from Michener.

  Tom Kealy had been right about Valendrea, but he was wrong about her being able to hold her own. The passions of these men were way beyond anything she’d ever known. Valendrea had told Kealy at the tribunal that he was clearly with the devil. If that were true, then Kealy and Valendrea kept the same company.

  She heard a door open, then close. Footsteps approached. The door to the room opened and Ambrosi stepped inside, yanking off a pair of gloves. “Comfortable?” he asked.

  Her eyes followed his movements. Ambrosi tossed his coat across a chair, then sat on the bed. “I would imagine you thought yourself dead in the church. Life is such a great gift, is it not? Of course you can’t answer, but that’s okay. I like answering my own questions.”

  He seemed pleased with himself.

  “Life is indeed a gift, and I bestowed that gift on you. I could have killed you and been done with the problem you pose.”

  She lay perfectly still. His gaze raked her body.

  “Michener has enjoyed you, hasn’t he? Such a pleasure, I’m sure. What was it you told me in Rome. You pee sitting down, so I would not be interested. You think I don’t lust for a woman? You think I wouldn’t know what to do? Because I’m a priest? Or because I am queer?”

  She wondered if this show was for her benefit or his.

  “Your lover said he couldn’t care less what happens to you.” Amusement laced his words. “He called you my spy. Said you were my problem, not his. Perhaps he’s right. After all, I recruited you.”

  She tried to keep her eyes calm.

  “You think His Holiness enlisted your aid? No, I’m the one who learned about you and Michener. I’m the one who considered the possibility. Peter would know nothing, but for me.”

  He suddenly wrenched her up and yanked the tape from her mouth. Before she could utter a sound he pulled her toward him and locked his lips on hers. The thrust of his tongue was revolting and she tried to recoil, but he maintained the embrace. He bent her head sideways and gripped her hair, sucking the breath from her lungs. His mouth tasted of beer. Finally, she clamped her teeth on his tongue. He pulled back and she lunged forward, snapping at his lower lip and drawing blood.

  “You fucking bitch,” he cried as he slammed her to the bed.

  She spat his saliva from her mouth, as if exorcising evil. He leaped forward and swiped the back of his hand across her face. The blow stung and she tasted blood. He lashed out one more time, the force driving her head into the wall at the edge of the bed.

  The room started to spin.

  “I should kill you,” he muttered.

  “Fuck you,” she managed to say as she rolled onto her back, but the dizziness was still there.

  He dabbed his bleeding lip with his shirtsleeve.

  A trickle of blood seeped from the side of her mouth. She bobbed her face on the quilt. Red splotches stained the cloth. “You better kill me. Because if you don’t, given the chance I will kill you.”

  “You’ll never have the chance.”

  She realized she was safe until he got what he wanted. Colin had done the right thing making the idiot think she was unimportant.

  He came back close to the bed and dabbed his lip. “I only hope your lover ignores what I told him. I’m going to enjoy watching you both die.”

  “Big words, little man.”

  He lunged forward, rolled her flat, and straddled her. She knew he would not kill her. Not yet, anyway.

  “What’s the matter, Ambrosi, don’t know what to do next?”

  He quivered with anger. She was pushing him, but what the hell.

  “I told Peter, after Romania, to leave you alone.”

  “So that’s why I’m being beaten by his lapdog.”

  “You’re lucky that’s all I’m doing to you.”

  “Maybe Valendrea would be jealous. Perhaps we ought to keep this between us?”

  The taunt brought pressure to her throat. Not enough to block her breathing, but enough to let her know to shut up.

  “You’re a tough man to a woman with her hands and feet bound. Untie me and let’s see how brave you are.”

  Ambrosi rolled off her. “You’re not worth the effort. We only have a couple of hours left. I’m going to get some dinner before I finish this.” His gaze bore into her. “For good.”

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  VATICAN CITY, 6:30 P.M.

  Valendrea strolled through the gardens and enjoyed an unusually mild December evening. This first Saturday of his papacy had been busy. He’d celebrated Mass in the morning, then met with a procession of people who’d traveled to Rome to offer him their best wishes. The afternoon had started with a gathering of cardinals. About eighty were lingering in town, and he’d met with them for three hours to outline some of what he intended. There’d been the usual questions, only this time he’d taken the opportunity to announce that all appointments of Clement XV would remain in place until the following week. The only exception was the cardinal-archivist, who, he’d said, had tendered his resignation for health reasons. The new archivist would be a Belgian cardinal who’d already returned home, but was on his way back to Rome. Beyond that, he’d made no decisions and would not until after the weekend. He’d noticed the look on many in the chamber, waiting for him to make good on preconclave assurances, but no one questioned his declarations. And he liked that.

  Ahead of him stood Cardinal Bartolo, waiting where they’d arranged earlier after the cardinals’ gathering. The prefect from Turin had been insistent they talk today. He knew Bartolo had been promised the position as secretary of state and now, apparently, the cardinal wanted that promise kept. Ambrosi was the one who’d made the promise, but Paolo also had advised him to delay that particular selection for as long as possible. After all, Bartolo had not been the only man assured the job. For the losers, excuses would have to be found to eliminate them as contenders—sufficient reasons to quell bitterness and prevent retaliation. Certainly alternative posts could be offered to some, but he well knew that secretary of state was something more than one senior cardinal coveted.

  Bartolo stood near the Pasetto di Borgo. The medieval passageway extended through the Vatican wall into the nearby Castel Sant’Angelo, a fortification that had once protected popes from invaders.

  “Eminence,” Valendrea greeted as he approached.

  Bartolo bowed his bearded face. “Holy Father.” The older man smiled. “You like the sound of that, don’t you, Alberto?”

  “It does have a resonance.”

  “You’ve been avoiding me.”

  He waved off the observation. “Never.”

  “I know you too well. I’m not the only one the secretary of state position has been offered to.”

  “Votes are hard to come by. We must do what we must.” He was trying to keep the tone light, but realized Bartolo was not naÏve.

  “I was directly responsible for at least a dozen of your votes.”

  “Which turned out not to be needed.”

  The muscles in Bartolo’s face tightened. “Only because Ngovi withdrew. I imagine those twelve votes would have been critical if the fight had continued.”

  The rising pitch of the old man’s voice seemed to sap the strength from the words, gestating them into a plea. Valendrea decided to get to the point. “Gustavo, you are too old to be secretary. It is a demanding post. Much travel is required.”

  Bartolo glared at him. This man was going to be a difficult ally to placate. The cardinal had indeed delivered a number of votes, confirmed by the listening devices, and had been his champion from the beginning. But Bartolo’s reputation was one of a slacker with a mediocre education and no diplomatic experience. His selection for any post would not be popular, especially one as critical as secretary of state. There were three other cardinals who’d worked equally hard, wit
h exemplary backgrounds and greater standing within the Sacred College. Still, Bartolo offered one thing they did not. Unremitting obedience. And there was something to be said for that.

  “Gustavo, if I considered appointing you, there would be conditions.” He was testing the waters, seeing how inviting they might be.

  “I’m listening.”

  “I intend to personally direct foreign policy. Any decisions will be mine, not yours. You would have to do exactly as I say.”

  “You are pope.”

  The response came quick, signaling desire.

  “I would not tolerate dissension or maverick actions.”

  “Alberto, I have been a priest nearly fifty years and have always done as popes said. I even knelt and kissed the ring of Jakob Volkner, a man I despised. I cannot see how you would question my loyalty.”

  He allowed his face to melt into a grin. “I’m not questioning anything. I just want you to know the rules.”

  He eased a bit down the path and Bartolo followed. He motioned upward and said, “Popes once fled the Vatican through that passageway. Hiding like children, afraid of the dark. The thought makes me sick.”

  “Armies no longer invade the Vatican.”

  “Not troops, but armies do still invade. Today’s infidels come in the form of reporters and writers. They bring their cameras and notebooks and try to destroy the Church’s foundation, aided by liberals and dissidents. Sometimes, Gustavo, even the pope himself is their ally, as with Clement.”

  “It was a blessing he died.”

  He liked what he was hearing, and he knew it wasn’t platitudes. “I intend to restore glory to the papacy. The pope commands a million or more when he appears anywhere in the world. Governments should fear that potential. I intend to be the most traveled pope in history.”

  “And you would need the constant assistance of the secretary of state to achieve all that.”

  They walked a bit farther. “My thoughts exactly, Gustavo.”

  Valendrea glanced again at the brick passageway and imagined the last pope who’d fled the Vatican as German mercenaries stormed through Rome. He knew the exact date—May 6, 1527. One hundred and forty-seven Swiss guards died that day defending their pontiff. The pope barely escaped through the brick-enclosed corridor rising above him, tossing off his white garments so no one would recognize him.

  “I will never flee the Vatican,” he made clear to not only Bartolo, but also the walls themselves. He was suddenly overcome with the moment and decided to disregard what Ambrosi had counseled. “All right, Gustavo, I’ll make the announcement Monday. You will be my secretary of state. Serve me well.”

  The old man’s face beamed. “In me you will have total dedication.”

  Which made him think of his most loyal ally.

  Ambrosi had phoned two hours ago and told him that Father Tibor’s reproduced translation should be his at seven P.M. So far, there was no indication that anyone had read it, and that report pleased him.

  He glanced at his watch. Six fifty P.M.

  “Must you be somewhere, Holy Father?”

  “No, Eminence, I was only considering another matter that is, at this moment, being resolved.”

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  BAMBERG, 6:50 P.M.

  Michener climbed a steep path toward the Cathedral of St. Peter and St. George and entered a sloping, oblong piazza. Below, a landscape of terra-cotta roofs and stone towers rose from the town proper, illuminated by pools of light that dotted the city. The dark sky yielded a steady fall of spiraling snow, but did not deter the crowds already making their way toward the church, its four spires splashed in a blue-white glow.

  The churches and squares of Bamberg had celebrated Advent for more than four hundred years by displaying decorative nativity scenes. He’d learned from Irma Rahn that the circuit always started in the cathedral and, after the bishop’s blessing, everyone would fan out through the city to view the year’s offerings. Many came from all over Bavaria to take part, and Irma had warned that the streets would be crowded and noisy.

  He glanced at his watch. Not quite seven.

  He glanced around him and studied the families parading toward the cathedral’s entrance, many of the children chatting incessantly about snow, Christmas, and St. Nicholas. Off to the right, a group was huddled around a woman wrapped in a heavy wool coat. She was perched on a knee-high wall, talking about the cathedral and Bamberg. Some kind of tour.

  He wondered what people would think if they knew what he now knew. That man had not created God. Instead, just as theologians and holy men had counseled since the beginning of time, God was there, watching, many times surely pleased, other times frustrated, sometimes angry. The best advice seemed the oldest advice. Serve Him well and faithfully.

  He was still fearful of the atonement that would be required for his own sins. Maybe this task was part of his penance. But he was relieved to know that his love for Katerina had never, at least in heaven’s view, been a sin. How many priests had left the Church after similar failures? How many good men died thinking they’d fallen?

  He was about to edge past the tour group when something the woman said caught his attention.

  “—the seven hilled city.”

  He froze.

  “That’s what the ancients called Bamberg. It refers to the seven mounds that surround the river. Hard to see now, but there are seven distinct hills, each one in centuries past occupied by a prince or a bishop or a church. In the time of Henry II, when this was the capital of the Holy Roman Empire, the analogy brought this political center closer to the religious center of Rome, which was another city referred to as seven hilled.”

  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. That’s what St. Malachy had supposedly predicted in the eleventh century. Michener had thought the seven hilled city was a reference to Rome. He’d never known of a similar label for Bamberg.

  He closed his eyes and prayed again. Was this another insight? Something vital to what was about to happen?

  He glanced up at the funnel-shaped entrance to the cathedral. The tympanum, bathed in light, depicted Christ at the Last Judgment. Mary and John, at his feet, were pleading for souls arising from their coffins, the blessed pushing forward behind Mary toward heaven, the damned being dragged to hell by a grinning devil. Had two thousand years of Christian arrogance come down to this night—to a place where nearly a thousand years ago a sainted Irish priest had predicted humanity would come?

  He sucked in a breath of frigid air, steeled himself, then elbowed his way into the nave. Inside, the sandstone walls were bathed in a soft hue. He took in the details of the heavily ribbed vaulting, stout piers, statuary, and tall windows. A choir perch soared on one end. The altar filled the other. Beyond the altar was the tomb of Clement II, the only pope ever buried in German soil, and Jakob Volkner’s namesake.

  He stopped at a marble font and dabbed his finger into the holy water. He crossed himself and said another prayer for what he was about to do. An organ poured out a soft melody.

  He glanced around at the crowd filling the long pews. Robed acolytes busily prepared the sanctuary. High to his left, standing before a thick stone balustrade, was Katerina. Beside her stood Ambrosi, wearing the same dark coat and scarf from earlier. Twin staircases rose on the left and right of the railing, the steps filled with people. Between the staircases sat the imperial tomb. Clement had also spoken of it—a Riemenschneider, rich in elaborate carvings depicting Henry II and his queen, in which their bodies had rested for half a millennium.

  He realized a gun was near Katerina, but he didn’t believe Ambrosi would risk anything here. He wondered if reinforcements might be concealed among the crowd. He stood rigid as people filed past him.

  Ambrosi gestured for him to ascend the left staircase.

  He did not move.

  Ambro
si gestured again.

  He shook his head.

  Ambrosi’s gaze tightened.

  He withdrew the envelope from his pocket and displayed it for his nemesis to see. The look on the papal secretary’s face showed recognition of the same envelope from earlier in the restaurant, lying innocently on the table.

  He shook his head again.

  Then he remembered what Katerina had told him of how Ambrosi had read her lips when she cursed him in St. Peter’s Square.

  Screw you, Ambrosi, he mouthed.

  He saw the priest understood.

  He pocketed the envelope and headed for the exit, hoping he would not regret what was going to happen next.

  Katerina watched Michener mouth something then turn to leave. She’d offered no resistence on the walk to the cathedral because Ambrosi had told her he was not alone, and if they did not appear there at seven Michener would be killed. She was doubtful there were others, but her best bet was to get to the church and wait for an opportunity. So in the instant Ambrosi took to register Michener’s betrayal, she ignored the gun barrel boring into her back and ground her left heel onto Ambrosi’s foot. She then shoved the priest away and yanked the gun from his grip, the weapon clattering across the tile floor.

  She sprang for the gun as a woman beside her screamed. She used the confusion to grab the pistol and bolt for the staircase, catching a glimpse of Ambrosi rising to his feet.

  The steps were crowded, and she plowed her way down before deciding to vault over the railing onto the imperial crypt. She landed on the stone effigy of a woman lying next to a robed man, then leaped to the floor. The gun was still in her hand. Voices rose. A panic swept the church. She pushed her way through a knot of people at the door and emerged into the frigid night.