the Third Secret

by Berry, Steve

  Pocketing the gun, her eyes searched for Michener, and she saw him at the path that led down to the town center. A commotion behind her warned that Ambrosi was trying to make an exit, too.

  So she ran.

  Michener thought he saw Katerina as he started down the winding path. But he couldn’t stop. He had to keep going. If it was Kate she’d follow and Ambrosi would pursue, so he loped down the narrow stone path, brushing past more people on their way up.

  He made it to the bottom and hurried toward the town hall bridge. He crossed the river through a gateway that bisected the rickety timbered building and entered the busy Maxplatz.

  He slowed and risked a quick glance behind.

  Katerina was fifty yards back, heading his way.

  Katerina wanted to cry out and tell Michener to wait, but he was moving at a determined gait, heading into Bamberg toward the bustling Christmas market. The gun was still in her pocket, and behind her Ambrosi was rapidly advancing. She’d been on the lookout for a policeman, anyone in authority, but this night of merriment seemed a government holiday. No uniforms were in sight.

  She had to trust Michener knew what he was doing. He’d deliberately flaunted Ambrosi, apparently gambling that her assailant would not harm her in public. Whatever was contained in Father Tibor’s translation must be important enough that Michener did not want Ambrosi, or Valendrea, to have it. But she wondered if it was important enough to risk what he’d apparently decided to ante in this seemingly high-stakes game.

  Up ahead, Michener dissolved into the crowds surveying booths filled with Christmas wares. Bright lights illuminated the outdoor market in a daylight glow. The air reeked of grilled sausages and beer.

  She slowed, too, as people enveloped her.

  Michener hustled through the revelers, but not fast enough to draw attention. The market spanned about a hundred yards down the winding cobblestoned path. Half-timbered buildings lined its perimeter, wedging people and booths into a congested column.

  He came to the last of the booths and the crowd thinned.

  He regained a running pace, rubber soles slapping the cobbles as he left the noisy market and headed for the canal, crossing a stone bridge and entering a quiet part of town.

  Behind him, more soles to stone could be heard. Up ahead, he spotted St. Gangolf’s. All of the revelry was centralized back in the Maxplaz, or across the river in the cathedral district, and he was counting on some privacy for at least the next few minutes.

  He only hoped he wasn’t tempting fate.

  Katerina watched Michener enter St. Gangolf’s. What was he doing there? This was stupid. Ambrosi was still behind her, yet Colin had deliberately come straight to the church. He must know she was following, and that her assailant would, too.

  She glanced at the buildings around her. Few lights burned in the windows and the street ahead was empty. She raced to the church doors, yanked them open, and bolted inside. Her breaths were coming fast.

  “Colin.”

  No answer.

  She called his name again. Still no answer.

  She trotted down the center aisle toward the altar, passing empty pews that sliced thin shadows in the blackness. Only a handful of lamps illuminated the nave. The church was apparently not a part of this year’s celebration.

  “Colin.”

  Desperation now laced her voice. Where was he? Why wouldn’t he answer? Had he left through another door? Was she trapped here alone?

  The doors behind her opened.

  She dove into a row of pews and clawed the floor, trying to slip across the gritty stone to the far side.

  Footsteps stopped her advance.

  Michener saw a man enter the church. A shaft of light revealed the face of Paolo Ambrosi. A few moments earlier, Katerina had entered and called out his name, but he’d intentionally not answered. She was now huddled on the floor between the pews.

  “You move fast, Ambrosi,” he called out.

  His voice bounced off the walls, the echo making it difficult to pinpoint his location. He watched as Ambrosi moved right, toward the confessionals, his head sweeping back and forth so his ears could judge the sound. He hoped Katerina did not betray her presence.

  “Why make this hard, Michener?” Ambrosi said. “You know what I want.”

  “You told me earlier things would be different if I read the words. For once you were right.”

  “You never could obey.”

  “How about Father Tibor? Did he obey?”

  Ambrosi was approaching the altar. The priest moved with cautious steps, still searching the darkness for Michener’s location.

  “I never spoke with Tibor,” Ambrosi said.

  “Sure you did.”

  Michener stared down from the raised pulpit, eight feet above Ambrosi.

  “Just come on out, Michener. Let’s resolve this.”

  As Ambrosi turned, his back momentarily to him, Michener leaped down. Together they pounded the floor and rolled.

  Ambrosi pushed himself away and sprang to his feet.

  Michener started to rise, too.

  Movement to his right caught his attention. He saw Katerina rushing toward them, a gun in hand. Ambrosi pivoted off a row of pews and vaulted toward her, thrusting his feet into her chest, sending her to the floor. Michener heard a thud as skull found stone. Ambrosi disappeared over the pews and came back into view with the gun in his grip, yanking a limp Katerina to her feet and ramming the gun barrel into her neck. “Okay, Michener. Enough.”

  He stood still.

  “Give me Tibor’s translation.”

  Michener took a few steps toward them and withdrew the envelope from his pocket. “This what you want?”

  “Drop it on the floor and back away.” The hammer on the gun clicked into place. “Don’t push me, Michener. I possess the courage to do what needs to be done because the Lord gives me the strength.”

  “Perhaps He’s testing to see what you will do?”

  “Shut up. I don’t need a theology lesson.”

  “I might be the best person on earth for that at the moment.”

  “Is it the words?” The tone was quizzical, like a schoolboy inquiring of his teacher. “They give you courage?”

  He sensed something. “What is it, Ambrosi? Valendrea didn’t tell you everything? Too bad. He held back the best part.”

  Ambrosi tightened his grip on Katerina. “Just drop the envelope and back away.”

  The desperate look in Ambrosi’s eyes signaled that he might well make good on the threat. So he tossed the envelope to the floor.

  Ambrosi released his hold on Katerina and shoved her toward Michener. He caught her and saw she was dazed from the head blow.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Her eyes were glassy, but she nodded.

  Ambrosi was examining the envelope’s contents.

  “How do you know that’s what Valendrea wants?” he asked.

  “I don’t. But my instructions were clear. Get what I can and eliminate the witnesses.”

  “What if I made a copy?”

  Ambrosi shrugged. “A chance we take. But, fortunately for us, you will not be here to offer any testimony.” The gun came level, pointed straight at them. “This is the part I will truly enjoy.”

  A form emerged from the shadows and slowly inched close to Ambrosi from behind. Not a sound came from the approaching steps. The man was clad in black trousers and a loose-fitting black jacket. The outline of a gun appeared in one hand, and it was slowly raised to Ambrosi’s right temple.

  “I assure you, Father,” Cardinal Ngovi said. “I, too, will enjoy this part.”

  “What are you doing here?” Ambrosi asked, surprise in his voice.

  “I came to speak with you. So lower the weapon and answer some questions. Then you’re free to go.”

  “You want Valendrea, don’t you?”

  “Why else do you think you’re still breathing.”

  Michener held his breath as Ambrosi weighed his
options. When he’d telephoned Ngovi earlier, he was banking on Ambrosi’s survival instincts. He assumed that though Ambrosi might profess great loyalty, when it came to a choice between himself or his pope, there really was no choice at all. “It’s over, Ambrosi.” He pointed to the envelope. “I read it. Cardinal Ngovi read it. Too many know now. You can’t win this one.”

  “And what was worth all this?” Ambrosi asked, the tone signaling that he was considering their proposal.

  “Lower the gun and find out.”

  Another long moment of silence passed. Finally, Ambrosi’s hand came down. Ngovi grabbed the weapon and stood back, his gun still trained on the priest.

  Ambrosi faced Michener. “You were bait? The idea was to get me to follow?”

  “Something like that.”

  Ngovi stepped forward. “We have some questions. Cooperate and there will be no police, no arrest. Just disappear. A good deal, considering.”

  “Considering what?”

  “Father Tibor’s murder.”

  Ambrosi chuckled. “That’s a bluff and you know it. This is about you two bringing down Peter II.”

  Michener stood. “No. It’s about you bringing Valendrea down. Which shouldn’t matter at all. He’d do the same to you if the roles were reversed.”

  Without question the man standing before him had been involved in Father Tibor’s death, most likely the actual murderer. But Ambrosi was surely smart enough to realize that the game had changed.

  “Okay,” Ambrosi said. “Ask away.”

  The cardinal reached into his jacket pocket.

  A tape recorder came into view.

  Michener helped Katerina into the Königshof. Irma Rahn met them at the front door.

  “Did it go all right?” the older woman asked Michener. “I’ve been frantic for the last hour.”

  “It went well.”

  “Praise God. I was so worried.”

  Katerina was still woozy, but feeling better.

  “I’m going to take her upstairs,” he said.

  He helped her to the second floor. Once inside the room she immediately asked, “What in God’s name was Ngovi doing there?”

  “I called this afternoon and told him what I’d learned. He flew to Munich and arrived here right before I headed to the cathedral. It was my job to lure Ambrosi to St. Gangolf’s. We needed a place away from the festivities. Irma told me the church wasn’t displaying a crib scene this year. I had Ngovi talk with the parish priest. He doesn’t know anything, only that Vatican officials needed his church for a little while.” He knew what she was thinking. “Look, Kate, Ambrosi wouldn’t hurt anyone until he had Tibor’s translation. He could never be sure of anything until then. We had to play it out.”

  “So I was bait?”

  “You and me. Defying him was the only way to make sure he’d turn on Valendrea.”

  “Ngovi’s a tough one.”

  “He was raised a street kid in Nairobi. He knows how to handle himself.”

  They’d spent the past half hour with Ambrosi, recording what would be needed tomorrow. She’d listened and now knew everything, except the entire third secret of Fatima. He removed an envelope from his pocket. “Here’s what Father Tibor sent to Clement. It’s the copy I offered Ambrosi. Ngovi has the original.”

  She read the words, then commented, “That’s similar to what Jasna wrote. You were just going to give Ambrosi the Medjugorje message?”

  He shook his head. “Those are not Jasna’s words. Those are the Virgin’s, from Fatima, written by Lucia dos Santos in 1944, and translated by Father Tibor in 1960.”

  “You can’t be serious. Do you realize what that would mean if the two messages were essentially the same?”

  “I’ve realized that since this afternoon.” His voice was low and calm and he waited while she considered the implications. They’d talked many times about her lack of her faith. But he’d never been one to judge, considering his own lapses. After which in the seven hilled city the dreadful judge will judge all people. Maybe Katerina was the first of many to judge themselves.

  “The Lord seems to have made a comeback,” he said.

  “It’s unbelievable. Yet what else could it be? How could those messages be the same?”

  “It’s impossible, considering what you and I know. But doubters will say we fashioned Father Tibor’s translation to match Jasna’s message. They’ll say it’s all a fraud. The originals are gone and the drafters are all dead. We’re the only ones who know the truth.”

  “So it’s still a matter of faith. You and I know what happened. But everybody else would have to simply take our word.” She shook her head. “Seems God is destined to always be a mystery.”

  He’d already considered the possibilities. The Virgin told him in Bosnia that he was to be a sign to the world. A beacon for repentance. The messenger to announce that God is very much alive. But something else the Virgin said was equally important. Do not forsake your faith, for in the end it will be all that remains.

  “There is a consolation,” he said. “I berated myself badly years ago for violating Holy Orders. I loved you, but believed that what I felt, what I did, was a sin. I know now that it wasn’t. Not in God’s eyes.”

  He heard John XXIII’s urging to the Vatican II council again in his mind. His pleading with traditionalists and progressives to work in unison so the earthly city may be brought to the resemblance of that heavenly city where truth reigns. Only now did he fully understand what that pope meant.

  “Clement tried to do what he could,” she said. “I’m so sorry for the way I thought of him.”

  “I think he understands.”

  She threw him a smile. “What now?”

  “Back to Rome. Ngovi and I have a meeting tomorrow.”

  “Then what?”

  He knew what she meant. “To Romania. Those kids are waiting on us.”

  “I thought maybe you were having second thoughts.”

  He pointed skyward. “I think we owe it to Him. Don’t you?”

  SIXTY-NINE

  VATICAN CITY

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 2

  11:00 A.M.

  Michener and Ngovi walked down the loggia toward the papal library. Bright sunshine swept in through towering windows on both sides of the wide corridor. They were dressed in clerical robes, Ngovi in scarlet, Michener in black.

  The papal office had been contacted earlier, and Ambrosi’s assistant had been enlisted to speak directly with Valendrea. Ngovi wanted a papal audience. No subject matter was provided, but Michener was banking on the fact that Valendrea would understand the significance that he and Ngovi needed to talk with him, and Paolo Ambrosi was nowhere to be found. The tactic apparently worked. The pope himself granted permission for them to enter the palace, allocating fifteen minutes for the audience.

  “Can you accomplish your business in that time?” Ambrosi’s assistant had asked.

  “I believe so,” Ngovi answered.

  Valendrea had kept them waiting nearly half an hour. Now they approached the library and entered, closing the doors behind them. Valendrea stood before leaded-glass windows, his stout form, dressed in white, flooded in sunshine.

  “I have to say, my curiosity was piqued when you requested an audience. You two would be the last people I’d expect to be here on a Saturday morning. I thought you, Maurice, were in Africa. And you, Michener, in Germany.”

  “Half right,” Ngovi said. “We were both in Germany.”

  A curious expression came to Valendrea’s face.

  Michener decided to get to the point. “You won’t be hearing from Ambrosi.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ngovi removed the recorder from his cassock and flipped on the machine. Ambrosi’s voice filled the library as he explained about Father Tibor’s murder, the listening devices, the files on cardinals, and the blackmail used to secure conclave votes. Valendrea listened impassively as his sins were revealed. Ngovi switched off the machine. “Clear enough?�
��

  The pope said nothing.

  “We have the complete third secret of Fatima and the tenth secret of Medjugorje,” Michener said.

  “I was under the impression I possessed the Medjugorje secret.”

  “A copy. I know now why you reacted so strongly when you read Jasna’s message.”

  Valendrea seemed jittery. For once, this obstinate man was not in control.

  Michener stepped closer. “You needed to suppress those words.”

  “Even your Clement tried,” Valendrea said in defiance.

  Michener shook his head. “He knew what you’d do and had the foresight to get Tibor’s translation away from here. He did more than anybody. He gave his life. He’s better than any of us. He believed in the Lord . . . without proof.” His pulse pounded with excitement. “Did you know Bamberg was called the seven hilled city? Remember Malachy’s prediction? After which in the seven hilled city the dreadful judge will judge all people.” He pointed to the tape. “For you, truth is the dreadful judge.”

  “That tape is merely the ramblings of a man caught,” Valendrea said. “It’s not proof of anything.”

  Michener wasn’t impressed. “Ambrosi told us about your trip to Romania, and supplied more than enough details to mount a prosecution and obtain a conviction, especially in a former communist-bloc nation where the burden of proof is, shall we say, loose.”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  Ngovi removed another microcassette from his pocket. “We showed him the Fatima message and the one from Medjugorje. We did not have to explain their significance. Even an amoral man like Ambrosi saw the majesty of what awaits him. After that, his answers came freely. He begged me to hear his confession.” He motioned with the cassette. “But not before he spoke for the record.”

  “He makes a good witness,” Michener said. “You see, there actually is an authority higher than you.”

  Valendrea paced across the room, toward the bookshelves, looking like an animal examining his cage. “Popes have been ignoring God for a long time. The La Salette message has been missing from the archives for a century. I’d wager the Virgin told those seers the same thing.”