the Third Secret

by Berry, Steve

  “Those men,” Ngovi said, “can be forgiven. They considered the messages the seer’s, not the Virgin’s. They rationalized their defiance with caution. They lacked the proof you possessed. You knew the words to be divine and still would have killed Michener and Katerina Lew to suppress them.”

  Valendrea’s eyes flashed hot. “You sanctimonious ass. What was I to do? Let the Church crumble? Don’t you realize what this revelation will do? Two thousand years of dogma has been rendered false.”

  “It is not for us to manipulate the Church’s fate,” Ngovi said. “God’s Word is His alone, and apparently His patience has run out.”

  Valendrea shook his head. “It is for us to preserve the Church. What Catholic on this earth would listen to Rome if he knew we lied? And we’re not talking about minor points. Celibacy? Women priests? Abortion? Homosexuality? Even the essence of papal infallibility.”

  Ngovi seemed unaffected by the plea. “I’m more concerned how I would explain to my Lord why I ignored His command.”

  Michener faced Valendrea. “When you went back into the Riserva in 1978, there was no tenth Medjugorje secret. Yet you removed part of the message. How did you know Sister Lucia’s words were genuine?”

  “I saw fear in Paul’s eyes when he read them. If that man was scared, then there was something to it. That Friday night, in the Riserva, when Clement told me of Tibor’s latest translation, then showed part of the original message to me, it was as if a devil had returned.”

  “In a sense, that’s exactly what happened,” Michener said.

  Valendrea stared at him.

  “If God exists, then so does the devil.”

  “So which one caused the death of Father Tibor?” Valendrea asked, defiance in his voice. “Was it the Lord, so that the truth would be revealed? Or the devil, so that the truth would be revealed? Both would have been motivated toward the same goal, would they not?”

  “That’s why you killed Father Tibor? To prevent that?” Michener asked.

  “In every religious movement there have been martyrs.” Not a speck of remorse laced the words.

  Ngovi stepped forward. “That’s true. And we intend one more.”

  “I already assumed what you had in mind. You’re going to have me prosecuted?”

  “Not at all,” Ngovi said.

  Michener offered Valendrea a small caramel-colored vial. “We expect you to join that list of martyrs.”

  Valendrea’s brow creased in amazement.

  Michener said, “This is the same sleeping medication Clement took. More than enough to kill. If in the morning your body is found, then you’ll have a papal funeral and be entombed in St. Peter’s with all ceremony. Your reign will be short, but you will be remembered in much the same way as John Paul I. On the other hand, if tomorrow you’re alive, the Sacred College will be informed of everything we know. Your memory then will be of the first pope in history to stand trial.”

  Valendrea did not accept the vial. “You want me to kill myself?”

  Michener never blinked. “You can die as a glorious pope, or be disgraced as a criminal. Personally, I prefer the latter, so I’m hoping you don’t have the guts to do what Clement did.”

  “I can fight you.”

  “You’ll lose. With what we know, I’d wager there are many in the Sacred College simply waiting for the opportunity to take you down. The evidence is irrefutable. Your co-conspirator will be your chief accuser. There’s no way you can win.”

  Valendrea still would not take the vial. So Michener poured its contents out on the desk, then glared at him. “The choice is yours. If you love your Church as much as you profess, then sacrifice your life so it may live. You were quick to end Father Tibor’s life. Let’s see if you’re as liberal with your own. The dreadful judge has judged and the sentence is death.”

  “You’re asking me to do the unthinkable,” Valendrea said.

  “I’m asking you to save this institution the humiliation of forcibly removing you.”

  “I am pope. No one can remove me.”

  “Except the Lord. And in a manner of speaking, that’s exactly who’s doing this.”

  Valendrea turned to Ngovi. “You’ll be the next pope, won’t you?”

  “Almost certainly.”

  “You could have won election in conclave, couldn’t you?”

  “There was a reasonable chance.”

  “So why drop out?”

  “Because Clement told me to.”

  Valendrea looked perplexed. “When?”

  “A week before he died. He told me you and I would eventually be locked in that battle. But he said that you should win.”

  “Why on earth would you have listened to him?”

  Ngovi’s face hardened. “He was my pope.”

  Valendrea shook his head in disbelief.

  “And he was right.”

  “Do you plan to do as the Virgin said too?”

  “I will abolish all dogma contrary to Her message.”

  “You’ll have revolt.”

  Ngovi shrugged. “Those who disagree are free to leave and form their own religion. Such is their choice. They will receive no opposition from me. This Church, though, will do as told.”

  Valendrea’s face became incredulous. “You think it’s going to be that easy? The cardinals will never allow it.”

  Michener said, “This isn’t a democracy.”

  “So no one will know the actual messages?”

  Ngovi shook his head. “That isn’t necessary. Skeptics would claim Father Tibor’s translation was simply conformed to the Medjugorje message. The sheer magnitude of the message would do nothing but ignite criticism. Sister Lucia and Father Tibor are gone. Neither can verify anything. It is not necessary the world know what happened. The three of us know and that is what matters. I shall heed the words. This will be my act and mine alone. I will take the praise and the criticism.”

  “The next pope will simply reverse you,” Valendrea muttered.

  Ngovi shook his head. “You have so little faith.” The African turned and headed for the door. “We will await the news in the morning. Depending on what that is, we may or may not see you tomorrow.”

  Michener hesitated before following. “The devil himself will find it difficult dealing with you.”

  Not waiting for a response, he left.

  SEVENTY

  11:30 P.M.

  Valendrea stared at the pills lying on the desk. For decades he’d dreamed of the papacy, and he’d devoted his entire adult life to achieving that goal. Now he was pope. He should have reigned twenty or more years, becoming the hope of the future by reclaiming the past. Only yesterday he’d spent an hour going over the details of his coronation, the ceremony a scant two weeks away. He’d toured the Vatican museum, personally inspected adornments his predecessors had relegated to exhibits, and ordered their preparation for the event. He wanted the moment the spiritual leader of a billion people assumed the reins of power to be a spectacle every Catholic could watch with pride.

  He’d already thought about his homily. It would have been a call for tradition. A rejection of innovation—a retreat to a sacred past. The Church could and would be a weapon for change. No more impotent denunciations that world leaders ignored. Instead religious fervor would have been used to forge a new international policy. One emanating from him as the Vicar of Christ. The pope.

  He slowly counted the capsules on the desk.

  Twenty-eight.

  If he swallowed them, he’d be remembered as the pope who reigned for four days. He’d be regarded as a fallen leader, taken by the Lord far too quickly. There was something to be said for dying suddenly. John Paul I had been an insignificant cardinal. Now he was venerated simply because he died thirty-three days after the conclave. A handful had reigned shorter, many more longer, but none had ever been forced into the position in which he now found himself.

  He thought about Ambrosi’s betrayal. He wouldn’t have thought Paolo so disloyal. They�
��d been together many years. Maybe Ngovi and Michener had underestimated his old friend. Perhaps Ambrosi would be his legacy, the man who would ensure that the world never forgot Peter II. He hoped he was right in believing Ngovi might one day regret letting Paolo Ambrosi roam free.

  He eyes returned to the pills. At least there’d be no pain. And Ngovi would make sure there was no autopsy. The African was still camerlengo. He could envision the bastard standing over him, gently tapping his forehead with a silver hammer and asking three times if he was dead.

  He believed that if he was alive tomorrow, Ngovi would bring charges. Though there was no precedent for removing a pope, once he was implicated in murder he would never be allowed to remain in office.

  Which raised his greatest concern.

  Doing what Ngovi and Michener asked would mean he’d be soon answering for his sins. What would he say?

  Proof that God existed meant there was also an immeasurable force of evil that misled the human spirit. Life seemed a perpetual tug between those two extremes. How would he explain his sins? Would there be forgiveness or only punishment? He still believed, even in the face of all he knew, that priests should be men. God’s Church was started by men and, over two millennia, male blood had been spilled to preserve that institution. The interjection of women into something so decidedly male seemed sacrilegious. Spouses and children were nothing but distractions. And to slaughter an unborn child seemed unthinkable. A woman’s duty was to bring forth life, no matter how it was conceived, whether wanted or unwanted. How could God have gotten everything so wrong?

  He shifted the pills on the desk.

  The Church was going to change. Nothing would ever be the same. Ngovi would make sure extremism prevailed. And that thought turned his stomach.

  He knew what awaited him. There’d be an accounting, but he was not going to shrink from the challenge. He’d face the Lord and tell Him that he’d done what he believed was right. If he be damned to hell, then there would be some pretty austere company. He was not the first pope to defy heaven.

  He reached out and arranged the capsules in groups of seven. He scooped up one set and balanced them in the palm of his hand.

  A certain perspective truly did come in the final moments of life.

  His legacy among men was safe. He was Peter II, pope of the Roman Catholic Church, and no one could ever take that from him. Even Ngovi and Michener would have to publicly venerate his memory.

  And that prospect gave him solace.

  Along with a burst of courage.

  He tossed the pills into his mouth and reached for the tumbler of water. He grabbed up another seven and swallowed them. While his fortitude was there, he gathered the remaining pills and let the remaining water send them to his stomach.

  I’m hoping you don’t have the guts to do what Clement did.

  Screw you, Michener.

  He stepped across the room to a gilded prie-dieu facing a portrait of Christ. He knelt, crossed himself, and asked the Lord to forgive him. He stayed on his knees for ten minutes, until his head started spinning. It should add to his legacy that he was called to God during prayer.

  The drowsiness became seductive and for a while he fought the urge to surrender. A part of him was relieved he would not be associated with a Church that was contrary to everything he believed. Perhaps it was better to rest beneath the basilica as the last pope of the way things used to be. He imagined Romans flooding into the piazza tomorrow, distraught over the loss of the their beloved Santissimo Padre. Millions would watch his funeral and the world press would write about him with respect. Eventually books about him would appear. He hoped traditionalists used him as a rallying point for their opposition to Ngovi. And there was always Ambrosi. Dear, sweet Paolo. He was still out there. And that thought pleased him.

  His muscles craved sleep and he could no longer fight the urge, so he surrendered to the inevitable and collapsed to the floor.

  He stared at the ceiling and finally let the pills take hold. The room winked in and out. He no longer fought the descent.

  Instead he allowed his mind to drift away, hoping that God was indeed merciful.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 3

  1:00 P.M.

  Michener and katerina followed the crowd into St. Peter’s Square. Around them, men and women openly wept. Many clutched rosaries. The basilica’s bells tolled solemnly.

  The announcement had come two hours ago, a curt statement in the usual Vatican rhetoric that the Holy Father had passed during the night. The camerlengo, Maurice Cardinal Ngovi, had been summoned and the papal physician had confirmed that a massive coronary claimed the life of Alberto Valendrea. The appropriate ceremony with the silver hammer occurred, and the Holy See was declared vacant. Cardinals were once again being summoned to Rome.

  Michener had not told Katerina about yesterday. It was better that way. In a sense he was a murderer, though he did not feel like one. Instead he felt a great sense of retribution. Especially for Father Tibor. One wrong had been righted by another in a perverted sense of balance that only the odd circumstances of the past few weeks could have created.

  In fifteen days another conclave would convene and another pope would be elected. The 269th since Peter and one beyond the list of St. Malachy. The dreadful judge had judged. The sinners had been punished. Now it would be up to Maurice Ngovi to see heaven’s will be done. Little doubt existed he would be the next pope. Yesterday, as they left the palace, Ngovi had asked him to stay on in Rome and be a part of what was coming. But he’d declined. He was going to Romania with Katerina. He wanted to share his life with her and Ngovi understood, wishing him well and telling him Vatican doors would always be open.

  People continued to surge forward, filling the piazza between Bernini’s colonnades. He wasn’t sure why he’d come, but something seemed to summon him, and he sensed a peace within himself that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

  “These people have no idea about Valendrea,” Katerina whispered.

  “To them, he was their pope. An Italian. And we could never convince them otherwise. His memory will have to stand as it is.”

  “You’re never going to tell me what happened yesterday, are you?”

  He’d caught her studying him last evening. She realized something significant had occurred with Valendrea, but he hadn’t allowed the subject to be explored and she did not press.

  Before he could answer her, an older woman, near one of the fountains, collapsed in a fit of grief. Several people came to her aid as she lamented that God had taken so good a pope. Michener watched as the woman sobbed uncontrollably and two men helped her toward the shade.

  News crews were fanning across the square interviewing people. Soon the world press would return to ponder what the Sacred College might do within the Sistine Chapel.

  “I guess Tom Kealy will be back,” he said.

  “I was thinking the same thing. The man with all the answers.” She threw him a smile he understood.

  They approached the basilica and stopped with the rest of the mourners before the barricades. The church was closed, its interior, he knew, being readied for another funeral. The balcony was draped in black. Michener glanced to his right. The shutters of the papal bedroom were closed. Behind them, a few hours ago, the body of Alberto Valendrea had been found. According to the press he’d been praying when his heart gave out, the corpse discovered on the floor beneath a portrait of Christ. He smiled at Valendrea’s last audacity.

  Somebody grabbed his arm.

  He turned.

  The man standing before him was bearded with a crooked nose and bushy reddish hair. “Tell me, Padre, what are we to do? Why has the Lord taken our Holy Father? What is the meaning of this?”

  Michener assumed his black cassock had drawn the inquiry and the answer formed quickly in his mind. “Why must there always be meaning? Can you not accept what the Lord has done without question?”

  “Peter was to be a great pope. An Ita
lian finally back on the throne. We had such hopes.”

  “There are many in the Church who can be great popes. And they need not be Italian.” His listener gave him a strange look. “What matters is their devotion to the Lord.”

  He knew that of the thousands gathered around him, only he and Katerina truly understood. God was alive. He was there. Listening.

  His gaze drifted from the man standing before him to the basilica’s magnificent façade. For all its majesty, it was still nothing more than mortar and stone. Time and weather would eventually destroy it. But what it symbolized, what it meant, would last forever. Thou art Peter and on this rock I will build my Church. And the gates of hell will not stand against it. I will give you the Keys of the Kingdom of Heaven: whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven; whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.

  He turned back to the man, who was saying something.

  “It’s finished, Father. The pope is dead. Everything is finished before it even started.”

  He wasn’t going to accept that and he wasn’t going to let this stranger accept defeatism, either. “You’re wrong. It’s not over.” He threw the man a reassuring smile. “In fact, it’s only just beginning.”

  WRITER’S NOTE

  In researching this novel, I traveled to Italy and Germany. But this book grew out of my early Catholic education and a lifelong fascination with Fatima. Over the past two thousand years, the phenomena of Marian visions have occurred with surprising regularity. In modern times, the visions at La Salette, Lourdes, Fatima, and Medjugorje are most notable, though there are countless other lesser-known experiences. As with my first two novels, I wanted the information included in the story to both educate and entertain. Even more so than with the first two books, this one contains a wealth of reality.

  The scene at Fatima, depicted in the prologue, is based on eyewitness accounts, most notably Lucia herself, who published her version of what happened in the early part of the twentieth century. The Virgin’s words are Hers, as are most of Lucia’s. The three secrets, as quoted in chapter 7, are verbatim from the actual text. Only my modification detailed in chapter 65 is fictional.