Berry, Steve - the Third Secret

St. Peter’s Square was packed, but an alley had been cordoned off among a sea of umbrellas that twisted a path between the colonnades to the basilica. Wails and weeping followed the cars. Many of the mourners tossed flowers on the hoods, so many it was becoming difficult to see out the windshield. One of the security men finally swiped the piles away, but another simply started in its place.

The cars passed through the Arch of the Bells and left the crowds behind. Into the Piazza of the Protomartyrs the procession rounded the sacristy of St. Peter’s and headed for a rear entrance into the basilica. Here, safe behind the walls, the airspace above restricted, Clement’s body could be readied for three days of public viewing.

A light rain sheathed the gardens in a frothy mist. Walkway lights burned in blurred images like the sun through thick clouds.

Michener tried to imagine what was happening in the buildings around him. In the workshops of the sampietrini a triple coffin was being constructed—the inner of bronze, the second of cedar, the outer of cypress. A catafalque had already been assembled and positioned inside St. Peter’s, a solitary candle burning nearby, awaiting the corpse it was to support in the days ahead.

Michener had noticed, as they’d inched through the piazza, television crews installing cameras on the balustrades, the choicest spots among the 162 statues surely being claimed fast. The Vatican press office was by now under siege. He’d assisted during the last papal funeral and could envision the thousands of calls that would come in the days ahead. Statesmen from around the world would soon be arriving, and legates would have to be assigned to assist them. The Holy See prided itself on strict adherence to protocol, even in the face of indescribable grief, the task of ensuring success resting with the soft-spoken cardinal sitting beside him.

The cars stopped and cardinals began to congregate near the hearse. Priests shielded each of the princes with an umbrella. The cardinals wore their black cassocks adorned with a red sash, as required. A Swiss honor guard in ceremonial dress stood at the entrance to the basilica. Clement would not be without them in the days ahead. Four of the guards cradled a bier on their shoulders and paraded toward the hearse. The papal master of ceremonies stood nearby. He was a Dutch priest with a bearded face and a rotund body. He stepped forward and said, “The catafalque is ready.”

Ngovi nodded.

The master of ceremonies moved toward the hearse and assisted the technicians with the removal of Clement’s body. Once the corpse was centered on the bier and the miter positioned, the Dutchman motioned the technicians away. He then carefully arranged the vestments, slowly creasing each fold. Two priests held umbrellas over the body. Another young priest stepped forward, holding the pallium. The narrow band of white wool marked with six purple crosses signified the plenitude of the pontifical office. The master of ceremonies draped the two-inch band around Clement’s neck, then arranged the crosses above the chest, shoulders, and abdomen. He made a few adjustments to the shoulder blocks and finally straightened the head. He then knelt, signaling that he was finished.

A slight nod of Ngovi’s head caused the Swiss guard to raise the bier. The priests with umbrellas withdrew. The cardinals fell into line behind.

Michener did not join the procession. He was not a prince of the Church, and what lay ahead was only for them. He would be expected to empty his apartment in the palace by tomorrow. It, too, would be sealed awaiting the conclave. His office must likewise be cleared. His patronage ended with Clement’s last breath. Those once in favor departed to make room for those soon-to-be-in-favor.

Ngovi waited until the end to join the line into the basilica. Before he marched off, the cardinal turned and whispered, “I want you to inventory the papal apartment and remove his belongings. Clement would have wanted no other to tend to his possessions. I have left word with the guards that you are to be allowed entrance. Do it now.”

The guard opened the papal apartment for Michener. The door closed behind him and he was left alone with an odd feeling. Where once he’d relished his time here, he now felt like an intruder.

The rooms were exactly as Clement had left them Saturday morning. The bed was made, the curtains parted, the pope’s spare reading glasses still lying on the nightstand. The leather-bound Bible that usually lay there, too, was at Castle Gandolfo, on the desk beside Clement’s laptop, both to be returned to Rome shortly.

A few papers remained on the desk beside the silent desktop computer. He thought it best to start there, so he booted the machine and checked the folders. He knew Clement e-mailed a few distant family members and some cardinals on a regular basis, but he apparently hadn’t saved any of those transmissions—there were no files recorded. The address book contained about two dozen names. He scanned all of the folders on the hard drive. Most were reports from curial departments, the written word now replaced by ones and zeros on a video screen. He deleted all the folders, using a special program that removed all traces of the files from the hard drive, then switched off the machine. The terminal would stay and be used by the next pope.

He glanced around. He would have to find boxes for Clement’s possessions, but for now he stacked everything in the center of the room. There wasn’t much. Clement had led a simple life. A bit of furniture, a few books, and some assorted family items were all that he owned.

The scrape of a key in the lock caught his attention.

The door opened and Paolo Ambrosi entered.

“Wait outside,” Ambrosi said to the guard as he came in and closed the door.

Michener faced him. “What are you doing here?”

The thin priest stepped forward. “The same as you, clearing out the apartment.”

“Cardinal Ngovi delegated the task to me.”

“Cardinal Valendrea said you might need help.”

Apparently the secretary of state thought a babysitter in order, but he was not in the mood. “Get out of here.”

The priest did not move. Michener was a head taller and fifty pounds heavier, but Ambrosi seemed unintimidated. “Your time has passed, Michener.”

“Maybe so. But where I come from there’s a saying. A hen doesn’t cackle before she lays the egg. ”

Ambrosi chuckled. “I will miss your American humor.”

He noticed Ambrosi’s reptilian eyes take in the scene.

“I told you to get out. I may be nothing, but Ngovi is camerlengo. Valendrea can’t override him.”

“Not yet.”

“Leave, or I’ll interrupt the Mass for further instructions from Ngovi.”

He realized the last thing Valendrea would want was an embarrassing scene before the cardinals. Supporters might wonder why he’d ordered an associate to the papal apartments when that duty clearly fell on the papal secretary.

But Ambrosi did not move.

So he stepped around his visitor and headed for the door. “As you say, Ambrosi, my time’s passed. I’ve got nothing to lose.”

He grasped the door handles.

“Stop,” Ambrosi said. “I’ll leave you to your task.” The voice was barely a whisper, the look on Ambrosi’s face devoid of feeling. He wondered how such a man could ever have become a priest.

Michener opened the door. The guards were just on the other side and he knew his visitor would say nothing to stimulate their interest. He let a smile form and said, “Have a nice evening, Father.”

Ambrosi brushed past and Michener slammed the door, but only after ordering the guards not to admit another soul.

He returned to the desk. He needed to finish what he’d started. His sadness in leaving the Vatican was tempered by a relief in knowing that he would no longer have to deal with the likes of Paolo Ambrosi.