Berry, Steve - the Third Secret

“Why would you say the Church would be better off with Ngovi?” asked the correspondent.

“Valendrea is Italian. The Church has steadily moved away from Italian domination. His choice would be a retreat. He’s also too conservative for the twenty-first-century Catholic.”

“Some might say a return to traditional roots would be beneficial.”

Kealy shook his head. “You spend forty years since Vatican II trying to modernize—do a fairly good job in making your Church a worldwide institution—then toss all that out the door? The pope is no longer merely the bishop of Rome. He’s the head of a billion faithful, the vast majority of whom are not Italian, not European, not even Caucasian. It would be suicidal to elect Valendrea. Not when there’s somebody like Ngovi, equally as papabile, and far more attractive to the world.”

A hand on Katerina’s shoulder startled her. She whirled around to see the black eyes of Father Paolo Ambrosi. The annoying little priest was only a few inches from her face. A bolt of anger flashed through her, but she kept calm.

“He doesn’t seem to like Cardinal Valendrea,” the priest whispered.

“Get your hand off my shoulder.”

A smile frayed the edges of Ambrosi’s mouth and he withdrew his hand. “I thought you might be here.” He motioned to Kealy. “With your paramour.”

A sick feeling clutched her gut, but she willed herself to show no fear. “What do you want?”

“Surely you don’t want to talk here? If your associate were to turn his head, he might wonder why you were conversing with one so close to the cardinal he despises. He might even get jealous and fly into a rage.”

“I don’t think he’s got anything to worry about from you. I piss sitting down, so I doubt I’m your type.”

Ambrosi said nothing, but maybe he was right. Whatever he had to say should be said in private. So she led him through the colonnade, past rows of kiosks peddling stamps and coins.

“It’s disgusting,” Ambrosi said, motioning to the capitalists. “They think this a carnival. Nothing but an opportunity to make money.”

“And I’m sure the collection boxes in St. Peter’s have been closed since Clement died.”

“You have a smart mouth.”

“What’s wrong? The truth hurt?”

They were beyond the Vatican, on Roman streets, strolling down a via lined with a warren of trendy apartments. Her nerves throbbed, keeping her on edge. She stopped. “What do you want?”

“Colin Michener is going to Bosnia. His Eminence wants you to go with him and report what he does.”

“You didn’t even care about Romania. I haven’t heard a word from you till now.”

“That became unimportant. This is more so.”

“I’m not interested. Besides, Colin is going to Romania.”

“Not now. He’s going to Bosnia. To the shrine at Medjugorje.”

She was confused. Why would Michener feel the need to make such a pilgrimage, especially after his earlier comments?

“His Eminence urged me to make clear that a friend within the Vatican is still available to you. Not to mention the ten thousand euros already paid.”

“He said that money was mine. No questions.”

“Interesting. Apparently, you’re not a cheap whore.”

She slapped his face.

Ambrosi showed no surprise. He simply stared back at her through piercing eyes. “You shall not strike me again.” There was a bitter edge to his voice, one she did not like.

“I’ve lost interest in being your spy.”

“You are an impertinent bitch. My only hope is that His Eminence tires of you soon. Then, perhaps, I will pay you a return visit.”

She stepped back. “Why is Colin going to Bosnia?”

“To find one of the Medjugorje seers.”

“What is all this with seers and the Virgin Mary?”

“I assume, then, you are familiar with the Bosnian apparitions.”

“They’re nonsense. You don’t really believe the Virgin Mary appeared to those children every day for all those years, and is still appearing to one of them.”

“The Church has yet to validate any of the visions.”

“And that seal of approval is going to make it real?”

“Your sarcasm is tiresome.”

“So are you.”

But a stirring of interest was forming inside her. She didn’t want to do anything for Ambrosi or Valendrea, and she’d stayed in Rome only because of Michener. She’d learned that he moved from the Vatican—Kealy had reported that as part of an analysis on the aftermath of a papal death—but she hadn’t made any effort to track him down. Actually, after their encounter earlier, she’d toyed with the idea of following him to Romania. But now another possibility had opened. Bosnia.

“When does he leave?” she asked, hating herself for sounding interested.

Ambrosi’s eyes flickered in satisfaction. “I don’t know.” The priest slid a hand under his cassock and came out with a scrap of paper. “That’s the address for his apartment. It’s not far from here. You could . . . comfort him. His mentor is gone, his life in chaos. An enemy will soon be pope—”

“Valendrea is quite sure of himself.”

She ignored his question. “And the problem?”

“You think Colin’s vulnerable? That he’ll open up to me—even let me go with him?”

“That’s the idea.”

“He’s not that weak.”

Ambrosi smiled. “I’m betting that he is.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

ROME, 7:00 P.M.

Michener strolled down the Via Giotto toward the apartment. The quarter surrounding him had evolved into a gathering spot for the theater crowd, its streets lined with lively cafés that had long hosted intellectuals and political radicals. He knew that Mussolini’s rise to power had been organized nearby, and thankfully most of the buildings survived Il Duce’s architectural cleanup and continued to project a nineteenth-century feel.

He’d become a student of Mussolini, having read a couple of biographies after moving into the Apostolic Palace. Mussolini was an ambitious man who’d dreamed of Italians wearing uniforms and all of Rome’s ancient stone buildings, with their terra-cotta rooftops, replaced with gleaming marble façades and obelisks memorializing his great military victories. But Il Duce ended up with a bullet in his head, then was hung by his ankles for all to see. Nothing remained of his grandiose plan. And Michener was worried that the Church might suffer a similar fate with a Valendrea papacy.

Megalomania was a mental disease compounded by arrogance. Valendrea was a clear sufferer. The secretary of state’s opposition to Vatican II and all the later Church reforms was no secret. A swift Valendrea election could be spun into a mandate for radical reversal. The worst part was that the Tuscan could easily rule for twenty or more years. Which meant he would completely reshape the Sacred College of Cardinals, much as John Paul II had managed during his long reign. But John Paul II had been a benign ruler, a man of vision. Valendrea was a demon, and God help his enemies. Which seemed all the more reason for Michener to disappear into the Carpathian Mountains. God or no God, heaven or no heaven, those children needed him.

He found the apartment building and trudged up the stairs to the third floor. One of the bishops attached to the papal household had offered the two-bedroom, furnished apartment rent-free for a couple of weeks, and he appreciated the gesture. He’d disposed of Clement’s furniture a few days ago. The five boxes of personal belongings and Clement’s wooden chest were stacked in the apartment. Originally he’d planned on leaving Rome by the end of the week. Now he would fly to Bosnia tomorrow on a ticket Ngovi had provided. By next week he would be in Romania, starting a new life.