Berry, Steve - the Third Secret

“But why conceal it?”

He sipped the burgundy, then fingered the stem of his glass. “Since when has the Vatican ever been sensible? These guys think they’re still in the fifteenth century, when whatever they said was accepted without question. If anybody argued back then, the pope excommunicated them. But it’s a new day and that pile just doesn’t stink anymore.” Kealy caught the waiter’s attention and motioned for more bread. “Remember, the pope speaks infallibly when discussing matters of faith and morals. Vatican I pronounced that little jewel in 1870. What if, for one delicious moment, what the Virgin said was contrary to dogma? Now, wouldn’t that be something?” Kealy seemed immensely pleased with the thought. “Maybe that’s the book we should write? All about the third secret of Fatima. We can expose the hypocrisy, take a close look at the popes and some of the cardinals. Maybe even Valendrea himself.”

“What about your situation? Not important anymore?”

“You don’t honestly think there’s any chance I’ll win that tribunal.”

“They might be content with a warning. That way they keep you within the fold, under their control, and you can save your collar.”

He laughed. “You seem awfully concerned about my collar. Strange coming from an atheist.”

“Screw you, Tom.” She’d definitely told this man too much about herself.

“So full of spunk. I like that about you, Katerina.” He enjoyed another swallow of wine. “CNN called yesterday. They want me for the next conclave.”

“I’m glad for you. That’s great.” She wondered where that left her.

“Don’t worry, I still want to do that book. My agent is talking to publishers about that one and a novel. You and I will make a great team.”

The conclusion formed in her mind with a suddenness that surprised her. One of those decisions that was instantly clear. There’d be no team. What started out as promising had become tawdry. Luckily, she still had several thousand of Valendrea’s euros, enough cash to get her back to France or Germany where she could hire on with a newspaper or magazine. And this time she’d behave herself—play by the rules.

“Katerina, are you there?” Kealy was asking.

Her attention returned to him.

“You looked a million miles away.”

“I was. I don’t think there’s going to be a book, Tom. I’m leaving Rome tomorrow. You’ll have to find another ghostwriter.”

The waiter deposited a basket of steaming bread on the table.

“It won’t be hard,” he made clear.

“I didn’t think so.”

He reached for a piece of the bread. “I’d leave your horse hitched to me, if I were you. This wagon’s going places.”

She stood from the table. “I can tell you one place it’s not going.”

“You still have it for him, don’t you?”

“I don’t have it for anybody. I’m just sick of you. My father once told me that the higher a circus monkey climbed a pole, the more his ass showed. I’d remember that.”

And she walked away, feeling her best in weeks.

TWENTY-NINE

CASTLE GANDOLFO

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 13

6:00 A.M.

Michener came awake. He’d never needed an alarm clock, his body seemingly blessed with an internal chronometer that always woke him at the precise time he selected before falling asleep. Jakob Volkner, when an archbishop and later a cardinal, had traveled the globe and served on committee after committee, relying always on Michener’s ability never to be late, since punctuality was not one of Clement XV’s noted traits.

As in Rome, Michener occupied a bedroom on the same floor as Clement’s, just down the hall, a direct phone line linking their rooms. They were scheduled to return to the Vatican in two hours by helicopter. That would give the pope enough time for his morning prayers, breakfast, and a quick review of anything that required immediate attention, given there’d been two days with no work. Several memoranda had been faxed last evening, and Michener had them ready for a postbreakfast discussion. He knew the rest of the day would be hectic, as there was a steady stream of papal audiences scheduled for the afternoon and into the evening. Even Cardinal Valendrea had requested a full hour for a foreign affairs briefing later in the morning.

He was still bothered by the funeral Mass. Clement had cried for half an hour before leaving the chapel. They hadn’t talked. Whatever was troubling his old friend was not open for discussion. Perhaps later there’d be time. Hopefully, a return to the Vatican and the rigors of work might take the pope’s mind off the problem. But it had been disconcerting to watch such an onslaught of emotion.

He took his time showering, then dressed in a fresh black cassock and left his room. He strode down the corridor toward the pope’s quarters. A chamberlain was standing outside the door, along with one of the nuns assigned to the household. Michener glanced at his watch. Six forty-five A.M. He pointed to the door. “Not up yet?”

The chamberlain shook his head. “There’s been no movement.”

He knew the staff waited outside each morning until they heard Clement stirring, usually between six and six thirty. The sound of the pope waking would be followed by a gentle tap on the door and the start of a morning routine that included a shower, shave, and dressing. Clement did not like anyone assisting him with bathing. That was done in private while the chamberlain made the bed and laid out his clothes. The nun’s task was to straighten the room and bring breakfast.

“Perhaps he’s just sleeping in,” Michener said. “Even popes can get a little lazy every once in a while.”

His two listeners smiled.

“I’ll go back to my room. Come get me when you hear him.”

It was thirty minutes later that a knock came to his door. The chamberlain was outside.

“There is still no sound, Monsignor,” the man said. Worry clouded his face.

He knew no one, save himself, would enter the papal bedroom without Clement’s permission. The area was regarded as the one place where popes could be assured of privacy. But it was approaching seven thirty, and he knew what the chamberlain wanted.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll go in and see.”

He followed the man back to where the nun stood guard. She indicated that there was still silence from inside. He lightly tapped on the door and waited. He tapped again, a little louder. Still nothing. He grasped the knob and turned. It opened. He swung the door inward and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

The bedchamber was spacious, with towering French doors at one end that opened to a balcony overlooking the gardens. The furnishings were ancient. Unlike the apartments in the Apostolic Palace, which were decorated by each successive pope in a style that made him comfortable, these rooms remained constant, oozing an Old World feel reminiscent of a time when popes were warrior-kings.

No lights were on, but the morning sun poured in through drawn sheers and bathed the room in a muted haze.

Clement lay under the sheets on his side. Michener stepped over and quietly said, “Holy Father.”

Clement did not respond.

“Jakob.”

Still nothing.

The pope’s head faced away, the sheets and blanket pulled halfway over his frail body. He reached down and lightly shook the pope. Immediately he noticed a coldness. He stepped around to the other side of the bed and stared into Clement’s face. The skin was loose and ashen, the mouth open, a pool of spittle dried on the sheet beneath. He rolled the pope onto his back and yanked the covers down. Both arms draped lifelessly at Clement’s sides, the chest still.

He checked for a pulse.

None.