Berry, Steve - the Third Secret

Michener knew Clement loved the villa, but what concerned him was that the trip was not on the pope’s itinerary. One of his assistants offered no explanation except that the pope had said he’d like a couple of days in the country, so everything was rescheduled. There’d been a few inquiries to the press office on the pontiff’s health, not unusual when the schedule was varied, but the standard statement— the Holy Father enjoys a robust constitution and we wish him a long life —was promptly issued.

Yet Michener was concerned, so he raised the assistant who had accompanied Clement on the phone.

“What’s he doing there?” Michener asked.

“He just wanted to see the lake and walk in the gardens.”

“Has he asked about me?”

“Not a word.”

“Tell him I’m back.”

An hour later the phone rang in Michener’s apartment.

“The Holy Father wants to see you. He said a drive south through the countryside would be lovely. Do you understand what he means?”

He smiled and checked his watch. Three twenty P.M. “Tell him I’ll be there by nightfall.”

Clement apparently did not want him using the helicopter, even though the Swiss guards preferred air transport. So he rang the car pool and requested that an unmarked vehicle be readied.

The drive to the southeast, through olive orchards, skirted the Alban Hills. The papal complex at Castle Gandolfo consisted of the Villa Barberini, the Cybo Villa, and an exquisite garden, all nestled beside Lake Albano. The sanctuary was devoid of Rome’s incessant hum—a spot of solitude in the otherwise endless bustle of Church business.

He found Clement in the solarium. Michener once again looked the role of a papal secretary, wearing his Roman collar and black cassock with purple sash. The pope was perched in a wooden chair engulfed by horticulture. The towering glass panels for the outer walls faced an afternoon sun and the warm air reeked of nectar.

“Colin, pull one of those chairs over here.” A smile accompanied the greeting.

He did as he was told. “You look good.”

Clement grinned. “I didn’t know I ever looked bad.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Actually, I feel good. And you’ll be proud to know I ate breakfast and lunch today. Now, tell me about Romania. Every detail.”

He explained what had happened, omitting only his time with Katerina. He then handed Clement the envelope and the pope read Father Tibor’s response.

“What precisely did Father Tibor say to you?” Clement asked.

He told him, then said, “He spoke in riddles. Never really saying much, though he was not complimentary to the Church.”

“That I understand,” Clement muttered.

“He was upset over the Holy See’s handling of the third secret. He implied that the Virgin’s message was being intentionally ignored. He told me repeatedly for you to do as She said. No argument, no delay, just do it.”

The old man’s gaze lingered on him. “He told you about John XXIII, didn’t he?”

He nodded.

“Tell me.”

He did, and Clement seemed fascinated. “Father Tibor is the only person left alive who was there that day,” the pope said when he finished. “What did you think of the priest?”

Thoughts of the orphanage flashed through his mind. “He appears sincere. But he was also obstinate.” He didn’t add what he was thinking— like you, Holy Father. “Jakob, can’t you now tell me what this is about?”

“There is another trip I need you to take.”

“Another?”

Clement nodded. “This time to Medjugorje.”

“Bosnia?” he asked in disbelief.

“You must speak with one of the seers.”

He was familiar with Medjugorje. On June 24, 1981, two children had reportedly seen a beautiful woman holding a baby atop a mountain in southwestern Yugoslavia. The next evening the children returned with four friends and all six saw a similar vision. Thereafter, the apparitions continued daily for the six children, each one receiving messages. Local communist officials claimed it was some sort of revolutionary plot and tried to stop the spectacle, but people flocked to the area. Within months there were reports of miraculous healing and rosaries turning to gold. Even during the Bosnian civil war the visions continued, and so did the pilgrimages. The children were now grown, the area renamed Bosnia-Herzegovina, and all but one of the six had stopped having visions. As with Fatima, there were secrets. Five of the seers had been entrusted by the Virgin with ten messages. The sixth knew only nine. Of the nine secrets, all had been made public, but the tenth remained a mystery.

“Holy Father, is such a trip necessary?”

He didn’t particularly want to traipse across war-torn Bosnia. American and NATO peacekeeping forces were still there maintaining order.

“I need to know the tenth secret of Medjugorje,” Clement said, and his tone signaled that the matter was not open for discussion. “Draft a papal instruction for the seers. He or she is to tell you the message. No one else. Only you.”

He wanted to argue, but was too tired from the flight and yesterday’s hectic schedule to engage in something he knew would be futile. So he simply asked, “When, Holy Father?”

His old friend seemed to sense his fatigue. “In a few days. That will draw less attention. And again, keep this between us.”

TWENTY-FIVE

BUCHAREST, ROMANIA

9:40 P.M.

Valendrea unfastened his seat belt as the Gulfstream dropped from a cloudy night sky and touched down at Otopeni Airport. The jet was owned by an Italian conglomerate deeply entrenched with the Valendreas of Tuscany, and Valendrea himself regularly made use of the aircraft for quick trips out of Rome.

Father Ambrosi waited on the tarmac dressed in civilian clothes, a charcoal overcoat draping his slim frame.

“Welcome, Eminence,” Ambrosi said.

The Romanian night was frigid and Valendrea was glad he’d worn a thick wool coat. Like Ambrosi, he’d dressed in street clothes. This was not an official visit and the last thing he needed was to be recognized. He was taking a risk coming, but he had to gauge the threat for himself.

“What about customs?” he asked.

“Handled. Vatican passports carry weight here.”

They climbed into an idling sedan. Ambrosi drove while Valendrea sat alone in the rear. They headed north, away from Bucharest, toward the mountains over a series of rutted roads. This was Valendrea’s first visit to Romania. He knew of Clement’s desire for an official pilgrimage, but any papal missions to this troubled place would have to wait until he was in command.

“He goes there each Saturday evening to pray,” Ambrosi was saying from the front seat. “In the cold or heat. Doesn’t matter. He’s done that for years.”

He nodded at the information. Ambrosi had been his usual thorough self.

They drove for nearly an hour in silence. The terrain rose progressively until they were winding up the side of a steep forested incline. Ambrosi slowed near the crest, eased onto a ragged shoulder, and killed the engine.

“It’s there, down that path,” Ambrosi said, pointing through fogged windows at a darkened lane between the trees.

In the headlights Valendrea noticed another car parked ahead. “Why does he come?”

“From what I was told, he considers the spot holy. In medieval times the old church was used by the local gentry. When Turks conquered the area, they burned all of the villagers alive inside. He seems to draw strength from their martyrdom.”

“There is something you must know,” he told Ambrosi. His assistant sat in the front seat, his gaze still out the windshield, unmoving. “We are about to cross a line, but it is imperative that we do. There is much at stake. I would not ask this of you if it were not of vital importance to the church.”