Berry, Steve - the Third Secret

“You going to tell me what that is?”

“I can’t.”

“Why did you allow Valendrea to read it?”

“To see his reaction. He’d even tried to browbeat the archivist to allow a look. Now he knows exactly what I know.”

He was about to ask once again what that might be when a light rap on the solarium’s door interrupted their conversation. One of the stewards entered, carrying a folded sheet of paper. “This came over the fax machine from Rome a few moments ago, Monsignor Michener. The cover said to give it to you immediately.”

He took the sheet and thanked the steward, who promptly left. He unfolded and read the message. He then looked at Clement and said, “A call was received a short while ago from the nuncio in Bucharest. Father Tibor is dead. His body was found this morning, washed ashore from a river north of town. His throat had been cut and he apparently was tossed from one of the cliffs. His car was found near an old church he frequented. The police suspect thieves. That area is riddled with them. I was notified, since one of the nuns at the orphanage told the nuncio about my visit. He’s wondering why I was there unannounced.”

Color drained from Clement’s face. The pope made the sign of the cross and folded his hands in prayer. Michener watched as Clement’s eyelids clinched tight and the old man mumbled to himself.

Then tears streaked down the German’s face.

TWENTY-SEVEN

4:00 P.M.

Michener had thought about Father Tibor all afternoon. He’d walked the villa’s gardens and tried to rid from his mind an image of the old Bulgarian’s bloodied body being fished from a river. Finally he made his way to the chapel where popes and cardinals had for centuries stood before the altar. It had been more than a decade since he’d last said Mass. He’d been far too busy serving the secular needs of others, but now he felt the urge to celebrate a funeral Mass in honor of the old priest.

In silence, he donned vestments. He then chose a black stole, draped it around his neck, and walked to the altar. Usually the deceased would be laid before the altar, the pews filled with friends and relatives. The point was to stress a union with Christ, a communion with the saints that the departed was now enjoying. Eventually, on Judgment Day, everyone would be reunited and they would all dwell forever in the house of the Lord.

Or so the Church proclaimed.

But as he mouthed the required prayers he couldn’t help wondering if it was all for naught. Was there really some supreme being waiting to offer eternal salvation? And could that reward be earned simply by doing what the Church said? Was a lifetime of misdeeds forgiven by a few moments of repentance? Would not God want more? Would He not want a lifetime of sacrifice? No one was perfect, there’d always be lapses, but the measure of salvation must surely be greater than a few repentant acts.

He wasn’t sure when he’d started doubting. Maybe it was all those years ago with Katerina. Perhaps being surrounded by ambitious prelates, who openly proclaimed a love for God but were privately consumed by greed and ambition, had affected him. What was the point of falling to your knees and kissing a papal ring? Christ never sanctioned such displays. So why were His children allowed the privilege?

Could his doubts be simply a sign of the times?

The world was different from a hundred years ago. Everyone seemed linked. Communications were instant. Information had reached a gluttony stage. God just didn’t seem to fit. Maybe you were simply born, then you lived, and then you died, your body decomposing back into the earth. Dust to dust, as the Bible proclaimed. Nothing more. But if that were true, then what you made of your life could well be all the reward ever received—the memory of your existence your salvation.

He’d studied the Roman Catholic Church enough to understand that the majority of its teachings were directly related to its own interests, rather than those of its members. Time had certainly blurred all lines between practicality and divinity. What were once the creations of man had evolved into the laws of heaven. Priests were celibate because God ordained it. Priests were men because Christ was male. Adam and Eve were a man and woman, so love could only exist between the sexes. Where did these dogmas come from? Why did they persist?

Why was he questioning them?

He tried to switch off his brain and concentrate, but it was impossible. Maybe it was being with Katerina that had started him doubting again. Perhaps it was the senseless death of an old man in Romania that brought into focus that he was forty-seven years old and had done little with his life beyond riding the coattails of a German bishop to the Apostolic Palace.

He needed to do more. Something productive. Something that helped someone besides himself.

A movement at the door caught his attention. He stared up to see Clement amble into the chapel and kneel in one of the pews.

“Please, finish. I, too, have a need,” the pope said as he bowed his head in prayer.

Michener went back to the Mass and prepared the sacrament. He’d only brought one wafer, so he broke the slice of unleavened bread in half.

He stepped to Clement.

The old man looked up from his prayers, his eyes crimson from crying, the features marred by a patina of sadness. He wondered what sorrow had overtaken Jakob Volkner. Father Tibor’s death had profoundly affected him. He offered the wafer and the pope opened his mouth.

“The body of Christ,” he whispered, and laid communion on Clement’s tongue.

Clement crossed himself, then bowed his head in prayer. Michener withdrew to the altar and went about the task of completing the Mass.

But it was hard to finish.

The sobs of Clement XV that echoed through the chapel bit his heart.

TWENTY-EIGHT

ROME, 8:30 P.M.

Katerina hated herself for returning to Tom Kealy, but since her arrival in Rome yesterday, Cardinal Valendrea had yet to make contact. She’d been told not to call, which was fine since she had little to report beyond what Ambrosi already knew.

She’d read that the pope had traveled to Castle Gandolfo for the weekend, so she assumed Michener was there, too. Yesterday Kealy had taken a perverse pleasure in taunting her Romanian foray, implying that perhaps a lot more had occurred than she was willing to admit. She’d purposely not told him everything Father Tibor had said. Michener was right about Kealy. He was not to be trusted. So she’d given him an abridged version, enough for her to learn from him what Michener might be involved with.

She and Kealy were sitting in a cozy osteria. Kealy was dressed in a light-colored suit and tie, perhaps becoming accustomed to not wearing a collar in public.

“I don’t understand all the hype,” she said. “Catholics have made Marian secrets an institution. What makes the third secret of Fatima so important?”

Kealy was pouring wine from an expensive bottle. “It was fascinating, even for the Church. Here was a message supposedly direct from heaven, yet a steady stream of popes suppressed it until John Paul II finally told the world in 2000.”

She stirred her soup and waited for him to explain.

“The Church officially sanctioned the Fatima apparitions as worthy of assent in the 1930s. That meant it was okay for Catholics to believe in what happened, if they chose to.” He flashed a smile. “Typical hypocritical stance. Rome says one thing, does another. They didn’t mind people flocking to Fatima and offering millions in donations, but they couldn’t bring themselves to say the event actually occurred, and they certainly did not want the faithful to know what the Virgin may have said.”