Berry, Steve - the Third Secret

“Cardinal Ngovi,” Valendrea said, catching the African’s attention, “when will the death certificate be issued?” He hoped only Ngovi understood the true message.

“I have requested the master of papal liturgical celebrations, the cleric prelates, secretary, and chancellor of the Apostolic Camera to be at the Vatican tonight. I’ve been told the cause of death will be ascertained by then.”

“Is an autopsy being performed?” one of the cardinals asked.

Valendrea knew that was a sensitive subject. Only one pope had ever been subjected to an autopsy, and then only to ascertain if Napoleon had poisoned him. There had been talk of a postmortem on John Paul I when he died so unexpectedly, but the cardinals squelched that effort. But this situation was different. One of those pontiffs died suspiciously, the other suddenly. Clement’s death was not unexpected. He’d been seventy-four when chosen and, after all, most of the cardinals had elected him simply because he would not live long.

“No autopsy will be performed,” Ngovi said flatly.

His tone conveyed that the issue was not open for discussion. Ordinarily, Valendrea would have resented that overstepping, but not this time. He heaved a sigh of relief. Apparently his adversary had decided to play along, and thankfully none of the cardinals challenged the decision. A few glanced in his direction, as if waiting for a response. But his silence served as a signal that the secretary of state was satisfied with the camerlengo’s decision.

Beyond the theological implications of a papal suicide, Valendrea could ill afford a wave of sympathy aimed toward Clement. It was little secret that he and the pope did not get along. An inquisitive press might raise questions, and he did not want to be labeled as the man who may have driven a pope to his death. Cardinals terrified for their own careers might elect another man, like Ngovi, who would surely strip Valendrea of all power—tapes or no tapes. He’d learned at the last conclave to never underestimate the power of a coalition. Thankfully, Ngovi had apparently decided the good of the church outweighed this golden opportunity to unseat his chief rival, and Valendrea was glad for the man’s weakness. He would not have shown the same deference if the roles were reversed.

“I do have one word of warning,” Ngovi said.

Valendrea again could say nothing. And he noticed that the bishop of Nairobi seemed to be enjoying his self-imposed restraint.

“I remind each of you of your oath not to discuss the coming conclave prior to our being locked in the Sistine. There is to be no campaigning, no press interviews, no opinions expressed. Possible selections should not be discussed at all.”

“I don’t need a lecture,” one cardinal made clear.

“Perhaps you don’t. But there are some who do.”

And with that, Ngovi left the room.

THIRTY-TWO

3:00 P.M.

Michener sat in a chair beside the desk and watched as two nuns washed Clement’s body. The physician had finished his examination hours ago and returned to Rome with his blood sample. Cardinal Ngovi had already ordered that there would be no autopsy, and since Castle Gandolfo was part of the Vatican state, sovereign territory of an independent nation, no one would question that decision. With precious few exceptions, canon law—not Italian law—governed here.

It was strange staring at the naked corpse of a man he’d known for more than a quarter century. He remembered back to all of the times they’d shared. Clement was the one who’d helped him come to the realization that his natural father simply thought more of himself than of his child, explaining Irish society and the pressures his birth mother surely would have faced as an unmarried mother. How can you blame her? Volkner had asked. And he’d agreed. He couldn’t. Resentment would only cloud the sacrifices his adoptive parents had made. So he’d finally let go of his anger and forgiven the mother and father he never knew.

Now he was staring at the lifeless body of the man who’d helped make that forgiveness possible. He was here because protocol required a priest be in attendance. Normally the papal master of ceremonies performed the task, but that monsignor was not available. So Ngovi had directed that he substitute.

He stood from the chair and paced before the French doors as the nuns finished their bathing and the funeral technicians entered. They were part of Rome’s largest mortuary and had been embalming popes since Paul VI. They carried five bottles of pink solution and gently settled each container on the floor.

One of the technicians walked over. “Perhaps, Father, you’d like to wait outside. This is not a pleasant sight for those unaccustomed to it.”

He headed for the hall, where he found Cardinal Ngovi walking toward the bedroom.

“They’re here?” Ngovi asked.

“Italian law requires a twenty-four-hour period before embalming. You know that. This may be Vatican territory, but we’ve been through this argument before. The Italians would require us to wait.”

Ngovi nodded. “I understand, but the doctor called from Rome. Jakob’s bloodstream was saturated with medication. He killed himself, Colin. No doubt. I can’t allow evidence of that to remain. The doctor has destroyed his sample. He cannot, and will not, reveal anything.”

“And the cardinals?”

“They’ll be told he died from cardiac arrest. That’s what will appear on the death certificate.”

He could see the strain on Ngovi’s face. Lying did not come easy to this man.

“We have no choice, Colin. He has to be embalmed. I can’t worry about Italian law.”

Michener ran a hand through his hair. This had been a long day, and it wasn’t over yet. “I knew he was bothered by something, but there was nothing that pointed to him being this troubled. How was he while I was gone?”

“He went back into the Riserva. I’m told Valendrea was there with him.”

“I know.” He told Ngovi what Clement had said. “He showed him what Father Tibor sent. What it was, he wouldn’t say.” He then told Ngovi more about Tibor and how the pope had reacted on learning of the Bulgarian’s death.

Ngovi shook his head. “This is not the way I thought his papacy would end.”

“We must ensure his memory is preserved.”

“It will be. Even Valendrea will be our ally on that.” Ngovi motioned to the door. “I don’t think anyone will question our actions in embalming this soon. Only four people know the truth, and shortly no proof will remain if any one of us chooses to speak. But there’s little worry that will happen. The doctor is bound by laws of confidentiality, you and I loved the man, and Valendrea has self-interests. This secret is safe.”

The door to the bedroom opened and one of the technicians stepped out. “We are nearly finished.”

“You will burn the pontiff’s fluids?” Ngovi asked.

“That has always been our practice. Our company is proud to be of service to the Holy See. You can depend on us.”

Ngovi thanked the man, who returned to the bedroom.

“What now?” Michener asked.

“His pontifical vestments have been brought from Rome. You and I shall dress him for burial.”

He saw the significance in that gesture and said, “I think he would have liked that.”

The motorcade slowly wound its way through the rain toward the Vatican. It had taken nearly an hour to drive the eighteen miles from Castle Gandolfo, the route lined with thousands of mourners. Michener rode in the third vehicle with Ngovi, the remaining cardinals in an assortment of cars hastily ferried from the Vatican. A hearse led the procession, with Clement’s body lying in the rear dressed in robes and miter, illuminated so the faithful could see. Now, inside the city, nearing six P.M., it seemed as if all of Rome filled the sidewalks, the police keeping the way clear so the cars could proceed.