Berry, Steve - the Third Secret

She’d come to realize that she’d told Tom Kealy far too much about herself. He’d assured her that he would never reveal anything, but she was concerned. Granted, Michener’s lapse occurred long ago, but any revelation, whether true or false, would cost him his career. She’d never publicly acknowledge anything, no matter how much she hated the choice Michener had made.

She sat still for a few moments and stared up at the ceiling. Valendrea had said that a problem was developing that could harm Michener’s career. So if she could help Michener, while at the same time helping herself, then why not?

“I’m going.”

“You’re entangling yourself with serpents,” Kealy said in his good-humored tone. “But I think you’re well qualified to wrestle with this devil. And Valendrea is that, let me tell you. He is one ambitious bastard.”

“Which you are well qualified to identify.” She couldn’t resist.

His hand eased over to her bare leg. “Perhaps. Along with my abilities for other things.”

His arrogance was amazing. Nothing seemed to faze him. Not the hearing this morning before solemn-faced prelates, and not the prospect of losing his collar. Perhaps it was his boldness that had initially attracted her? Regardless, Kealy was growing tiresome. She wondered if he’d ever cared about being a priest. One thing about Michener—his religious devotion was admirable. Tom Kealy’s loyalty was only to the moment. Yet who was she to judge? She’d latched onto him for selfish reasons, ones he surely recognized and exploited. But all that could now change. She’d just talked with the Holy See’s secretary of state. A man who’d sought her out for a task that could lead to so much more. And, yes, just as Valendrea said, it might just be enough to get her back to work with all those publishers who’d let her go.

A strange tingle surged through her.

The evening’s unexpected events were working on her like an aphrodisiac. Delicious possibilities about her future swirled through her mind. And those possibilities made the sex she’d just enjoyed seem far more satisfying than the act warranted—and the attention she wanted now that much more enticing.

TEN

TURIN, ITALY

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 9

10:30 A.M.

Michener peered down through the helicopter’s window at the city below. Turin lay wrapped in a wispy blanket as a bright morning sun fought to rid the air of fog. Beyond was the Piedmont, that region of Italy snuggled close to France and Switzerland, an abundant lowland plain walled in by Alpine summits, glaciers, and the sea.

Clement sat next to him, two security men opposite them. The pope had come north to bless the Holy Shroud of Turin before the relic was once again sealed away. This particular viewing had begun just after Easter and Clement should have been present for the unveiling. But a previously scheduled state visit to Spain had taken precedence. So it was decided he would come for the close of the exhibition, adding his veneration as popes had done for centuries.

The helicopter banked left and started a slow descent. Below, the Via Roma was packed with morning traffic, the Piazza San Carlo likewise congested. Turin was a manufacturing center, cars mainly, a company town in the European tradition, not unlike many Michener had known from childhood in the south of Georgia where the paper industry dominated.

The Duomo San Giovanni, its tall spires cloaked in mist, slipped into view. The cathedral, dedicated to St. John the Baptist, had stood since the fifteenth century. But it was not until the seventeenth century that the Holy Shroud was ensconced there for storage.

The helicopter’s skids gently touched the damp pavement.

Michener unbuckled his seat belt as the rotors whined down. Not until the blades were perfectly still did the two security men slide open the cabin door.

“Shall we?” Clement asked.

The pope had said little on the journey from Rome. Clement could be like that when he traveled, and Michener was sensitive to the older man’s quirks.

Michener stepped out into the piazza, followed by Clement. A huge crowd lined the perimeter. The air was brisk, but Clement had insisted on not wearing a jacket. He cast an impressive sight in his white simar, a pectoral cross dangling before his chest. And the papal photographer began snapping pictures that would be available to the press before the end of the day. The pope waved and the crowd returned his attention.

“We should not linger,” Michener whispered to Clement.

Vatican security had been emphatic that the piazza was not secure. This was to be an in-and-out affair, as the security teams tagged it, the cathedral and chapel the only locations swept for explosives and manned since yesterday. Because this particular visit had been highly publicized and arranged long in advance, the less time in the open, the better.

“In a moment,” Clement said, as he continued to acknowledge the people. “They’ve come to see their pontiff. Let them.”

Popes had always freely traveled throughout the peninsula. It was a perk Italians enjoyed in return for their two-thousand-year parentage of the mother Church, so Clement took a moment and acknowledged the crowd.

Finally the pope made his way into the cathedral’s alcove. Michener followed, intentionally dropping back to allow the local clergy an opportunity to be photographed with the Holy Father.

Gustavo Cardinal Bartolo waited inside. He wore a scarlet silk cassock with a matching sash that signified his senior status in the College of Cardinals. He was an impish man with white, lusterless hair and a heavy beard. Michener had often wondered if the appearance of a biblical prophet was intentional, since Bartolo’s reputation was not one of intellectual brilliance or spiritual enlightenment, but more of a loyal errand boy. He had been appointed bishop of Turin by Clement’s predecessor and elevated to the Sacred College, which made him prefect of the Holy Shroud.

Clement had allowed the appointment to stand even though Bartolo was also one of Alberto Valendrea’s closest associates. Bartolo’s vote in the next conclave was not in doubt, so Michener was amused when the pope walked straight to the cardinal and extended his right hand palm-down. Bartolo seemed to instantly realize what protocol entailed, and with priests and nuns watching, the cardinal had no choice but to accept the hand, kneel, and kiss the papal ring. Clement had, by and large, dispensed with the gesture. Usually in situations like this, inside closed doors and confined to Church officials, a handshake sufficed. The pope’s insistence on strict protocol was a message the cardinal apparently understood, as Michener read a momentary glare of annoyance that the elder cleric was trying hard to suppress.

Clement seemed unconcerned with Bartolo’s discomfort and immediately started to exchange pleasantries with the others present. After a few minutes of light conversation, Clement blessed the two dozen standing around, then led the entourage into the cathedral.

Michener lagged back and allowed the ceremony to proceed without him. His job was to be nearby, ready to assist, not to become part of the proceedings. He noticed that one of the local priests waited, too. He knew the short, balding cleric was Bartolo’s assistant.

“Will the Holy Father still be staying for lunch?” the priest asked in Italian.

He did not like the brisk tone. It was respectful but carried a hint of irritation. Clearly, this priest’s loyalties were not with an aging pope. Nor did the man feel the need to hide his animosity from an American monsignor who would surely be unemployed once the current Vicar of Christ died. This man carried visions of what his prelate could do for him, much like Michener two decades ago when a German bishop took a liking to a shy seminarian.