Berry, Steve - the Third Secret

“But that’s only prudent,” Michener said.

“How so? The Church acknowledges that the Virgin appeared, encourages the faithful to believe in the event, then discredits whatever the seers say? You don’t see a contradiction?”

Michener did not answer.

“Reason it out,” Tibor said. “Since 1870 and the Vatican I council, the pope has been deemed infallible when he speaks of doctrine. What do you believe would happen to that concept if the words of a simple peasant child were made more important?”

Michener had never viewed the issue that way before.

“The teaching authority of the Church would end,” Tibor said. “The faithful would turn somewhere else for guidance. Rome would cease to be the center. And that could never be allowed to happen. The Curia survives, no matter what. That’s always been the case.”

“But, Father Tibor,” Katerina said, “the secrets from Fatima are precise on places, dates, and times. They talk about Russia and popes by name. They speak of papal assassinations. Isn’t the Church just being cautious? These so-called secrets are so different from the gospels that each could be deemed suspicious.”

“A good point. We humans have a tendency to ignore that which we do not agree with. But maybe heaven thought more specific instruction was needed. Those details you speak about.”

Michener could see the agitation on Tibor’s face and the nervousness in the hands that wrapped the empty beer stein. A few moments of strained silence passed, then the old man slouched forward and motioned to the envelope.

“Tell the Holy Father to do as the Madonna said. Not to argue or ignore it, just do as she said.” The voice was flat and emotionless. “If not, tell him that he and I will soon be in heaven, and I expect him to take all the blame.”

TWENTY

10:00 P.M.

Michener and Katerina stepped off the metro train and made their way out of the subway station into a frosty night. The former Romanian royal palace, its battered stone façade awash in a sodium vapor glow, stood before them. The Pia¸ta Revolu¸tiei fanned out in all directions, the damp cobbles dotted with people bundled in heavy wool coats. Traffic crawled by on the streets beyond. The cold air stained his throat with a taste of carbon.

He watched Katerina as she studied the plaza. Her eyes settled on the old communist headquarters, a Stalinist monolith, and he saw her focus on the building’s balcony.

“That was where Ceau¸sescu made his speech that night.” She pointed off toward the north. “I stood over there. It was something. That pompous ass just stood there in the lights and proclaimed himself loved by all.” The building loomed dark, apparently no longer important enough to be illuminated. “Television cameras sent the speech all over the country. He was so proud of himself until we all started chanting, ‘Timi¸soara, Timi¸soara.’ ”

He knew about Timi¸soara, a town in western Romania where a lone priest had finally spoke out against Ceau¸sescu. When the government-controlled Reformed Orthodox Church removed him, riots broke out across the country. Six days later the square before him erupted in violence.

“You should have seen Ceau¸sescu’s face, Colin. It was his indecision, that moment of shock, that we took as a call to act. We broke through the police lines and . . . there was no turning back.” Her voice lowered. “The tanks eventually came, then the fire hoses, then bullets. I lost many friends that night.”

He stood with his hands stuffed in his coat pockets and watched his breath evaporate before his eyes, letting her remember, knowing she was proud of what she’d done. He was, too.

“It’s good to have you back,” he said.

She turned toward him. A few other couples strolled the square arm in arm. “I’ve missed you, Colin.”

He’d read once that in everyone’s life there was somebody who touched a spot so deep, so precious, that the mind always retreated, in time of need, to that cherished place, seeking comfort within memories that never seemed to disappoint. Katerina was that for him. And why the Church, or his God, couldn’t provide the same satisfaction was troubling.

She inched close. “What Father Tibor said, about doing as the Madonna said. What did he mean?”

“I wish I knew.”

“You could learn.”

He knew what she meant and withdrew from his pocket the envelope that contained Father Tibor’s response. “I can’t open it. You know that.”

“Why not? We can find another envelope. Clement would never know.”

He’d succumbed to enough dishonesty for one day by reading Clement’s first note. “I would know.” He knew how hollow that denial sounded, but he slipped the envelope back in his pocket.

“Clement created a loyal servant,” Katerina said. “I’ll give the old bird that.”

“He’s my pope. I owe him respect.”

Her lips and cheeks twisted into a look he’d seen before. “Is your life to be in the service of popes? What of you, Colin Michener?”

He’d wondered the same thing many times over the past few years. What of him? Was a cardinal’s hat to be the extent of his life? Doing little more than basking in the prestige of a scarlet robe? Men like Father Tibor were doing what priests were meant to do. He felt again the caress of the children from earlier, and smelled the stench of their despair.

A surge of guilt swept through him.

“I want you to know, Colin, I won’t mention a word of this to anyone.”

“Including Tom Kealy?” He regretted how the question came out.

“Jealous?”

“Should I be?”

“I seem to have a weakness for priests.”

“Careful with Tom Kealy. I get the impression he’s the kind who ran from this square when the shooting started.” He could see her jaw tighten. “Not like you.”

She smiled. “I stood in front of a tank with a hundred others.”

“That thought is upsetting. I wouldn’t want to see you hurt.”

She threw him a curious look. “Any more than I already am?”

Katerina left Michener at his room and walked down the squeaky steps. She told him they would talk in the morning, over breakfast, before he flew back to Rome. He hadn’t been surprised to learn she was staying one floor below, and she didn’t mention that she, too, would be heading back to Rome, on a later flight, instead telling him that her next destination was up in the air.

She was beginning to regret her involvement with Cardinal Alberto Valendrea. What had started off as a career move had deteriorated into the deception of a man she still loved. It troubled her lying to Michener. Her father, if he knew what she was doing, would be ashamed. And that thought, too, was bothersome, since she’d disappointed her parents enough over the past few years.

At her room, she opened the door and stepped inside.

The first thing she saw was the smiling face of Father Paolo Ambrosi. The sight momentarily startled her, but she quickly caught hold of her emotions, sensing that showing fear to this man would be a mistake. She’d actually been expecting a visit, since Valendrea had said Ambrosi would find her. She closed the door, peeled off her coat, and stepped toward the lamp beside the bed.

“Why don’t we let the light remain off,” Ambrosi said.

She noticed that Ambrosi was dressed in black trousers and a dark turtleneck. A dark overcoat hung open. None of the garb was religious. She shrugged and tossed her coat on the bed.

“What have you learned?”

She took a moment and told him an abbreviated account of the orphanage and of what Michener had told her about Clement, but she held back a few key facts. She finished by telling him about Father Tibor, again an abridged version, and recounted the old priest’s warning concerning the Madonna.