Berry, Steve - the Third Secret

Her smile brought him comfort. “Of course, Colin. Off the record.”

NINETEEN

8:00 P.M.

Michener led Katerina into the Café Krom. They’d talked in his room for two hours. He’d told her an abridged version of what had happened with Clement XV over the past few months and the reason he’d come to Romania, omitting only that he’d read Clement’s note to Tibor. There was no one else, besides Cardinal Ngovi, to whom he would even consider speaking about his concerns. And even with Ngovi he knew discretion was the better tack. Vatican alliances shifted like the tide. A friend today could well be a foe tomorrow. Katerina was not allied to anyone inside the Church, and she was not ignorant of the third secret of Fatima. She told him about an article she’d written for a Danish magazine in 2000 when John Paul II released its text. It dealt with a fringe group who believed the third secret was an apocalyptic vision, the complex metaphors used by the Virgin a clear declaration that the end was in sight. She’d thought them all insane and her article addressed the lunacy such cults extolled. But after seeing Clement’s reaction in the Riserva, Michener wasn’t so sure about that lunacy anymore. He hoped Father Andrej Tibor could end the confusion.

The priest waited at a table near a plate-glass window. Outside, an amber glow illuminated people and traffic. A mist clouded the night air. The bistro sat in the heart of the city, near the Pia¸ta Revolu¸tiei, and was busy with a Friday-night crowd. Tibor had changed clothes, replacing his black clerical garb with a pair of denim jeans and a turtleneck sweater. He rose as Michener introduced him to Katerina.

“Ms. Lew is with my office. I brought her to take notes as to anything you might want to say.” He’d decided earlier that he wanted her to hear what Tibor said, and he thought a lie better than the truth.

“If the papal secretary so desires,” Tibor said, “who am I to question?”

The priest’s tone was light and Michener hoped the bitterness from earlier had dissipated. Tibor got the waitress’s attention and ordered two more beers. The old priest then slid an envelope across the table. “That is my response to Clement’s inquiry.”

He did not reach for the packet.

“I thought about it all afternoon,” Tibor said. “I wanted to be precise, so I wrote it down.”

The waitress deposited two steins of dark beer on the table. Michener gulped a short swallow of the frothy brew. So did Katerina. Tibor was already on his second stein, the empty one on the table.

“I haven’t thought of Fatima in a long time,” Tibor quietly said.

Katerina spoke up. “Did you work at the Vatican long?”

“Eight years, between John XXIII and Paul VI. Then I returned to missionary work.”

“Were you actually there when John XXIII read the third secret?” Michener asked, probing gently, trying not to reveal what he knew of Clement’s note.

Tibor stared out the window for a long moment. “I was there.”

He knew what Clement had asked of Tibor, so he pushed. “Father, the pope is greatly bothered by something. Can you help me understand?”

“I can appreciate his anguish.”

He tried to appear nonchalant. “Any insights?”

The old man shook his head. “After four decades I still don’t understand myself.” He glanced away while he spoke, as if unsure of what he was saying. “Sister Lucia was a saintly woman. The Church treated her badly.”

“How do you mean?” Katerina asked.

“Rome made sure she led a cloistered life. Remember, in 1959 only John XXIII and she knew the third secret. Then the Vatican ordered that only her immediate family could visit her, and she was not to discuss the apparitions with anyone.”

“But she was part of the revelation when John Paul made the secret public in 2000,” Michener said. “She was sitting on the dais when the text was read to the world at Fatima.”

“She was over ninety years old. I’m told her hearing and eyesight were failing. And, do not forget, she was forbidden to speak on the subject. There were no comments from her. None whatsoever.”

Michener sucked another swallow of beer. “What was the problem with what the Vatican did regarding Sister Lucia? Weren’t they just protecting her from every nut in the world who wanted to badger her with questions?”

Tibor crossed his arms before his chest. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You are a product of the Curia.”

He resented the accusation, since he was anything but that. “My pontiff is not the Curia’s friend.”

“The Vatican demands complete obedience. If not, the Apostolic Penitentiary sends one of their letters commanding you to Rome to account for yourself. We’re to do as we’re told. Sister Lucia was a loyal servant. She did as she was told. Believe me, the last thing Rome would have wanted was for her to be available to the world press. John ordered her silent because he had no choice, and every pope after continued that order because they had no choice.”

“As I recall, Paul VI and John Paul II both visited with her. John Paul even consulted her before the third secret was released. I have spoken to bishops and cardinals who were part of the revelation. She authenticated the writing as hers.”

“Which writing?” Tibor asked.

An odd question.

“Are you saying the Church lied about the message?” Katerina asked.

Tibor reached for his drink. “We will never know. The good nun, John XXIII, and John Paul II are no longer with us. All gone, except me.”

Michener decided to change the subject. “So tell us what you do know. What happened when John XXIII read the secret?”

Tibor sat back in the rickety oak chair and seemed to consider the question with interest. Finally, the old priest said, “All right. I’ll tell you exactly what happened.”

“Do you know Portuguese?” Monsignor Capovilla asked.

Tibor glanced up from his seat. Ten months working in the Vatican and this was the first time anyone from the fourth floor of the Apostolic Palace had spoken to him, much less John XXIII’s personal secretary.

“Yes, Father.”

“The Holy Father needs your assistance. Could you bring a pad and pen and come with me?”

He followed the priest to the elevator and rode in silence to the fourth floor, where he was ushered into the papal apartment. John XXIII sat perched behind a writing desk. A small wooden box with a broken wax seal lay on top. The pope held two pieces of notepaper.

“Father Tibor, can you read these?” John asked.

Tibor accepted the two sheets and scanned the words, not actually registering their meaning, only the fact that he understood. “Yes, Holy Father.”

A smile came to the rotund man’s face. It was the smile that had galvanized Catholics from around the world. The press had taken to calling him Papa John, a label the pope had embraced. For so long, while Pius XII lay ailing, the papal palace windows had been shrouded in darkness, the curtains drawn in symbolic mourning. Now the shutters were thrown open, the Italian sun pouring through, a signal to all who entered St. Peter’s Square that this Venetian cardinal was committed to a revival.

“If you would, sit there by the window and pen an Italian translation,” John said. “One page each, separately, as the originals appear.”

Tibor spent the better part of an hour making sure his two translations were precise. The original writing was in a distinctly feminine hand, and the Portuguese was of an old style, used more toward the turn of the last century. Languages, like people and cultures, tended to change with time, but his training was extensive and the task relatively simple.