by Steve Berry
They were apparently going to start feuding early today.
"You are an ambitious man, Alberto. You think wearing this white cassock will somehow make you happy. I can assure you, it won't."
They'd had similar conversations before, but the intensity of their exchanges had risen of late. Both knew how the other felt. They were not friends, and never would be. Valendrea found it amusing how people thought just because he was a cardinal and Clement pope, theirs would be a sacred relationship of two pious souls, placing the needs of the Church first. Instead, they were vastly different men, their union born purely of conflicting politics. To their credit, neither had ever openly feuded with the other. Valendrea was smarter than that--the pope was required to argue with no one--and Clement apparently realized that a great many cardinals supported his secretary of state. "I wish nothing, Holy Father, except for you to live a long and prosperous life."
"You don't lie well."
He was tiring of the old man's prodding. "Why does it matter? You won't be here when the conclave occurs. Don't concern yourself with the prospects."
Clement shrugged. "It matters not. I'll be enshrined beneath St. Peter's, with the rest of the men who have occupied this chair. I couldn't care less about my successor. But that man? Yes, that man should care greatly."
What was it the old prelate knew? It seemed a habit lately to drop odd hints. "Is there something that displeases the Holy Father?"
Clement's eyes flashed hot. "You are an opportunist, Alberto. A scheming politico. I might just disappoint you and live another ten years."
He decided to drop the pretense. "I doubt it."
"I actually hope you do inherit this job. You'll find it far different than you might imagine. Maybe you should be the one."
Now he wanted to know, "The one for what?"
For a few moments the pope went silent. Then he said, "The one to be pope, of course. What else?"
"What is it that bites your soul?"
"We are fools, Alberto. All of us, in our majesty, are nothing but fools. God is far wiser than any of us could even begin to imagine."
"I don't think any believer would question that."
"We expound our dogma and, in the process, ruin the lives of men like Father Kealy. He's just a priest trying to follow his conscience."
"He seemed more like an opportunist--to use your description. A man who enjoys the spotlight. Surely, though, he understood Church policy when he took his oath to abide by our teachings."
"But whose teachings? It is men like you and me pronouncing the so-called Word of God. It's men like you and me, punishing other men for violating those teachings. I often wonder, is our precious dogma the thoughts of the Almighty or just those of ordinary clerics?"
Valendrea considered this inquiry just more of the strange behavior this pope had shown as of late. He debated whether to probe, but decided he was being tested, so he answered in the only way he could. "I consider the Word of God and the dogma of this Church one and the same."
"Good answer. Textbook in its diction and syntax. Unfortunately, Alberto, that belief will eventually be your undoing."
And the pope turned and stepped toward the window.
FIVE
Michener strolled into the midday sun. The morning rain had dissipated, the sky now littered with mottled clouds, the patches of blue striped by the contrail of an airplane on its way east. Before him, the cobbles of St. Peter's Square bore the remnants of the earlier storm, puddles littered about like a multitude of lakes strewn across a vast landscape. The television crews were still there, many now broadcasting reports back home.
He'd left the tribunal before it adjourned. One of his aides later informed him that the confrontation between Father Kealy and Cardinal Valendrea had continued for the better part of two hours. He wondered about the point of the hearing. The decision to excommunicate Kealy had surely been made long before the priest had been commanded to Rome. Few accused clerics ever attended a tribunal, so Kealy had most likely come to draw more attention to his movement. Within a matter of weeks Kealy would be declared not in communion with the Holy See, just another expatriate proclaiming the Church a dinosaur heading toward extinction.
And sometimes Michener believed critics, like Kealy, might be right.
Nearly half of the world's Catholics now lived in Latin America. Add Africa and Asia and the fraction rose to three-quarters. Placating this emerging international majority, while not alienating the Europeans and Italians, was a daily challenge. No head of state dealt with something so intricate. But the Roman Catholic Church had done just that for two thousand years--a claim no other of man's institutions could make--and spread out before him was one of the Church's grandest manifestations.
The key-shaped square, enclosed within Bernini's two magnificent semicircular colonnades, was breathtaking. Michener had always been impressed with Vatican City. He'd first come a dozen years ago as the adjunct priest to the archbishop of Cologne--his virtue having been tested by Katerina Lew, but his resolve solidified. He recalled exploring all 108 acres of the walled enclave, marveling at the majesty that two millennia of constant building could achieve.
The tiny nation did not occupy one of the hills upon which Rome was first built, but instead crowned Mons Vaticanus, the only one of the seven ancient designations people still remembered. Fewer than two hundred were actual citizens, and even fewer held a passport. Not one soul had ever been born there, few besides popes died there, and even fewer were buried there. Its government was one of the world's last remaining absolute monarchies and, in a twist Michener had always thought ironic, the Holy See's United Nations representative could not sign the worldwide declaration of human rights because, inside the Vatican, there was no religious freedom.
He gazed out into the sunny square, past the television trucks with their array of antennas, and noticed people looking off to the right and up. A few were crying "Santissimo Padre." Holy Father. He followed their upturned heads to the fourth floor of the Apostolic Palace. Between the wooden shutters of a corner window the face of Clement XV appeared.
Many started waving. Clement waved back.
"Still fascinates you, doesn't it?" a female voice said.
He turned. Katerina Lew stood a few feet away. Somehow he'd known she would find him. She came close to where he stood, just inside the shadow of one of Bernini's pillars. "You haven't changed a bit. Still in love with your God. I could see it in your eyes in the tribunal."
He tried to smile, but cautioned himself to focus on the challenge before him. "How have you been, Kate?" The features on her face softened. "Life everything you thought it would be?"
"I can't complain. No, I won't complain. Unproductive. That's how you once described complaining."
"That's good to hear."
"How did you know I'd be there this morning?"
"I saw your credentials application a few weeks back. May I ask what's your interest in Father Kealy?"
"We haven't spoken in fifteen years and that's what you want to talk about?"
"The last time we spoke you told me never to speak of us again. You said there was no us. Only me and God. So I didn't think that was a good subject."
"But I said that only after you told me you were returning to the archbishop and devoting yourself to the service of others. A priest in the Catholic Church."
They were standing a bit close, so he took a few steps back, deeper into the shadow of the colonnade. He caught a glimpse of Michelangelo's dome atop St. Peter's Basilica being dried by a brightening midautumn sun.
"I see you still have a talent for evading questions," he pointed out.
"I'm here because Tom Kealy asked me to come. He's no fool. He knows what that tribunal is going to do."
"Who are you writing for?"
"Freelance. A book he and I are putting together."
She was a good writer, especially of poetry. He'd always envied her ability, and he actually wanted to know more about what happen
ed to her after Munich. He was aware of bits and pieces. Her stints at a few European newspapers, never long, even a job in America. He occasionally saw her byline--nothing heavy or weighty, mainly religious essays. Several times he'd almost tracked her down, longing to share a coffee, but he knew that was impossible. He'd made his choice and there was no going back.
"I wasn't surprised when I read of your papal appointment," she said. "I figured when Volkner was elected pope, he wouldn't let you go."
He caught the look in her emerald eyes and saw she was struggling with her emotions, just as she had fifteen years ago. Then, he was a priest working on a law degree, anxious and ambitious, tied to the fortunes of a German bishop whom many were saying could one day be a cardinal. Now there was talk of his own elevation to the Sacred College. It was not unheard of that papal secretaries moved directly from the Apostolic Palace into a scarlet hat. He wanted to be a prince of the Church, to be part of the next conclave in the Sistine Chapel, beneath the frescoes of Michelangelo and Botticelli, with a voice and a vote.
"Clement is a good man," he said.
"He's a fool," she quietly stated. "Just somebody the good cardinals put on the throne until one of them can muster enough support."
"What makes you such an authority?"
"Am I wrong?"
He turned from her, allowing his temper to cool, and watched a group of souvenir peddlers at the square's perimeter. Her surly attitude was still there, her words as biting and bitter as he remembered. She was pushing forty, but maturity had done little to abate her consuming passions. It was one of the things he'd never liked about her, and one of the things he missed. In his world, frankness was unknown. He was surrounded by people who could say with conviction what they never meant, so there was something to be said for truth. At least you knew exactly where you stood. Solid ground. Not the perpetual quicksand he'd grown accustomed to dealing with.
"Clement is a good man charged with a nearly impossible task," he said.
"Of course if the dear mother Church would bend a little, things might not be so difficult. Pretty hard to govern a billion when everyone has to accept that the pope is the only man on earth who can't make a mistake."
He didn't want to debate dogma with her, especially in the middle of St. Peter's Square. Two Swiss guards, plumed and helmeted, their halberds held high, marched past a few feet away. He watched them advance toward the basilica's main entrance. The six massive bells high in the dome were silent, but he realized the time was not that far off when they would toll at Clement XV's death. Which made Katerina's insolence all the more infuriating. Going to the tribunal earlier and talking with her now were mistakes. He knew what he had to do. "It's been nice seeing you again, Kate." He turned to leave.
"Bastard."
She spit out the insult just loud enough for him to hear.
He turned back, wondering if she truly meant it. Conflict clouded her face. He stepped close and kept his voice down. "We haven't spoken in years and all you want to do is tell me how evil the Church is. If you despise it so much, why waste your time writing about it? Go write that novel you always said you would. I thought maybe, just maybe, you might have mellowed. But I see that hasn't occurred."
"How wonderful to know you might actually care. You never considered my feelings when you told me it was over."
"Do we have to go through all that again?"
"No, Colin. There's no need." She retreated. "No need at all. Like you said, it's been good seeing you again."
For an instant he registered hurt, but she seemed to quickly conquer whatever weakness may have swelled inside her.
He stared back toward the palace. Many more were now calling out and waving. Clement was still waving back. Several of the television crews were filming the moment.
"It's him, Colin," Katerina said. "He's your problem. You just don't know it."
And before he could reply, she was gone.
SIX
3:00 P.M.
Valendrea clamped the headphones over his ears, pushed PLAY on the reel-to-reel recorder, and listened to the conversation between Colin Michener and Clement XV. The eavesdropping devices installed in the papal apartments had again performed flawlessly. There were many such receivers throughout the Apostolic Palace. He'd seen to that just after Clement's election, which had been easy since, as secretary of state, he was charged with ensuring the security of the Vatican.
Clement had been right earlier. Valendrea wanted the current pontificate to run a little longer, time enough for him to secure the few remaining stragglers he'd need in the conclave. The current Sacred College was holding at 160, only 47 members over the age of eighty and ineligible to vote if a conclave happened within the next thirty days. At last count he felt reasonably confident of forty-five votes. A good start, but a long way from election. Last time he'd ignored the adage, He who goes into the conclave as pope comes out a cardinal. No chances would be taken this time. The listening devices were just one aspect of his strategy to assure that the Italian cardinals did not repeat their prior defection. Amazing the indiscretions princes of the Church engaged in on a daily basis. Sin was no stranger to them, their souls in need of cleansing like everyone else. But Valendrea well knew that, sometimes, penance had to be forced upon the penitent.
It's all right to care, Colin. She's a part of your past. A part you should not forget.
Valendrea removed the earphones and glanced up at the man sitting beside him. Father Paolo Ambrosi had stood at his side for over a decade. He was a short, slender man with straw-thin gray hair. The crook of his nose and the cut of his jaw reminded Valendrea of a hawk, an analogy that also amply described the priest's personality. A smile was rare, a laugh even more so. A grave air constantly sheathed him, but that never bothered Valendrea because this priest was a man possessed of passion and ambition, two traits Valendrea greatly admired.
"It's amusing, Paolo, how they speak German as if they're the only ones who might understand." Valendrea switched off the recorder. "Our pope seems concerned about this woman Father Michener is apparently familiar with. Tell me about her."
They were sitting in a windowless salon on the third floor of the Apostolic Palace, part of the enormous square footage allocated to the Secretariat of State. The tape recorders and radio receiver were stored there inside a locked cabinet. Valendrea was not concerned about anyone finding the hardware. With more than ten thousand chambers, audience halls, and passages, most of which were secured behind locked doors, little danger existed of this hundred or so square feet being disturbed.
"Her name is Katerina Lew. Born to Romanian parents who fled the country when she was a teenager. Her father was a professor of law. She's highly educated with a degree from the University of Munich, and another from the Belgian National College. She returned to Romania in the late 1980s and was there when Ceau sescu was deposed. She's a proud revolutionary." He caught the touch of amusement that laced Ambrosi's voice. "She met Michener in Munich when they were both students. They had a love affair that lasted a couple of years."
"How do you know all this?"
"Michener and the pope have had other conversations."
Valendrea knew that while he perused only the most important tapes, Ambrosi savored everything. "You've never mentioned this before?"
"It seemed unimportant until the Holy Father showed interest in the tribunal."
"I might have underestimated Father Michener. He appears human, after all. A man with a past. Faults, too. I actually like this side of him. Tell me more."
"Katerina Lew has worked for a variety of European publications. She calls herself a journalist, but she's more of a freelance writer. She's had stints with Der Spiegel, Herald Tribune, and London Times. Doesn't stay long. Her slant is leftist politics and radical religion. Her articles are not flattering to organized worship. She's co-authored three books, two on the German Green party, one on the Catholic Church in France. None was a big seller. She's highly intelligent, but undiscipli
ned."
Valendrea sensed what he really wanted to know. "Ambitious, too, I'd guess."
"She was married twice, after she and Michener split. Both brief. Her connection to Father Kealy was more her idea than his. She's been in America the past couple of years working. She appeared at his office one day and they've been together ever since."
Valendrea's interest was piqued. "Are they lovers?"
Ambrosi shrugged. "Hard to say. But she seems to like priests, so I would assume so."
Valendrea snapped the headphones back over his ears and switched on the recorder. Clement XV's voice filled his ears. I'll have my letter to Father Tibor ready shortly. It will call for a written response, but if he desires to speak, listen to him, ask what you will, and tell me. He slipped off the earphones. "What is that old fool up to? Sending Michener to find an eighty-year-old priest. What could possibly be served by that?"
"He's the only other person left alive, besides Clement, who has actually seen what is contained within the Riserva regarding the Fatima secrets. Father Tibor was given Sister Lucia's original text by John XXIII himself."
His stomach went hollow at the mention of Fatima. "Have you located Tibor?"
"I have an address in Romania."
"This requires close monitoring."
"I can see that. I'm wondering why."
He wasn't about to explain. Not until there was no choice. "I think some assistance in monitoring Michener could prove valuable."
Ambrosi grinned. "You believe Katerina Lew will help?"
He rolled the question over again in his mind, gauging his response to what he knew about Colin Michener, and what he now suspected about Katerina Lew. "We shall see, Paolo."
SEVEN
8:30 P.M.
Michener stood before the high altar in St. Peter's Basilica. The church was closed for the day, the silence disturbed only by maintenance crews polishing the acres of mosaic floor. He leaned against a thick balustrade and watched while workmen ran mops up and down marble stairs, whisking away the day's debris. The theological and artistic focal point of all Christendom lay just beneath him in St. Peter's grave. He turned and cocked his head upward toward Bernini's curlicued baldacchino, then stared skyward into Michelangelo's dome, which sheltered the altar, as one observer had noted, like the cupped hands of God.