Berry, Steve - the Third Secret

“I know where I plan to go.”

“What would you do in Romania?”

“Help those kids. I could journal the effort. Write about it for the world. Draw attention.”

“Pretty tough life.”

“It’s my home. You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”

“Ex-priests don’t make much.”

“It doesn’t take much to live there.”

He nodded and wanted to reach over and take her hand. But that wouldn’t be smart. Not here.

She seemed to sense his wish and smiled. “Save it, until we get back to the hotel.”

FORTY-THREE

VATICAN CITY, 7:00 P.M.

“I call for a third ballot,” the cardinal from the Netherlands said. He was the archbishop of Utrecht and one of Valendrea’s staunchest supporters. Valendrea had arranged with him yesterday that if no success came on the first two ballots, he was to immediately call for a third.

Valendrea was not happy. Ngovi’s twenty-four votes on the first scrutiny had been a surprise. He’d expected him to garner a dozen or so, no more. His own thirty-two were okay, but a long way from the seventy-six needed for election.

The second scrutiny, though, shocked him, and it had taken all his diplomatic reserve to keep his temper in check. Ngovi’s support increased to thirty, while his own nudged up to a weak forty-one. The remaining forty-two votes were scattered among three other candidates. Conclave wisdom proclaimed that a front-runner must gain a respectable amount of support with each succeeding scrutiny. A failure to do so was perceived as weakness, and cardinals were notorious for abandoning weak candidates. Dark horses had many times emerged after the second ballot to claim the papacy. John Paul I and II were both elected that way, as was Clement XV. Valendrea did not want a repeat.

He imagined the pundits in the piazza musing over two billows of black smoke. Irritating asses like Tom Kealy would be telling the world the cardinals must surely be divided, no one candidate emerging as front-runner. There’d be more Valendrea-bashing. Kealy had surely taken a perverse pleasure in slandering him for the past two weeks, and quite cleverly he had to admit. Never had Kealy made any personal comments. No reference to his pending excommunication. Instead, the heretic had offered the Italians-versus-the-world argument, which apparently played well. He should have pushed the tribunal to defrock Kealy weeks ago. At least then he’d be an ex-priest with suspect credibility. As it stood, the fool was perceived as a maverick challenging the established guard, a David versus Goliath, and no ever rooted for the giant.

He watched as the cardinal-archivist passed out more ballots. The old man made his way down the row in silence and threw Valendrea a quick glare of defiance as he handed him a blank card. Another problem that should have been dealt with long ago.

Pencils once again scraped across paper and the ritual of depositing ballots into the silver chalice was repeated. The scrutineers shuffled the cards and started counting. He heard his name called fifty-nine times. Ngovi’s was repeated forty-three. The remaining eleven votes remained scattered.

Those would be critical.

He needed seventeen more to achieve election. Even if he garnered every one of the eleven stragglers, he would still need six of Ngovi’s supporters, and the African was gaining strength at an alarming rate. The most frightening prospect was that each one of the eleven scattered votes he failed to sway would have to come from Ngovi’s total, and that could begin to prove impossible. Cardinals tended to dig in after the third vote.

He’d had enough. He stood. “I think, Eminences, we have challenged ourselves enough for today. I suggest we eat dinner and rest and resume in the morning.”

It wasn’t a request. Any participant possessed the right to stop the voting. His gaze strafed the chapel, settling from time to time on men he suspected to be traitors.

He hoped the message was clear.

The black smoke that would soon seep from the Sistine matched his mood.

FORTY-FOUR

MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA

11:30 P.M.

Michener awoke from a sound sleep. Katerina lay beside him. An uneasiness flowed through him that seemed unrelated to their lovemaking. He felt no guilt about once more breaching his vow of Holy Orders, but it frightened him that what he’d worked a lifetime to achieve meant so little. Maybe it was simply that the woman lying next to him meant more. He’d spent two decades serving the Church and Jakob Volkner. But his dear friend was dead and a new day was being forged in the Sistine Chapel, one that would not include him. The 268th successor to St. Peter would shortly be elected. And though he’d come close to a red hat, that was simply not to be. His destiny apparently lay elsewhere.

Another strange feeling surged through him—an odd combination of anxiety and stress. Earlier, in his dreams, he kept hearing Jasna. Don’t forget Bamberg . . . I have prayed for the pope. His soul needs our prayers. Was she trying to tell him something? Or simply convince him.

He climbed from the bed.

Katerina did not stir. She’d enjoyed several beers at dinner and alcohol had always made her sleepy. Outside, the storm was still raging, rain pecking the glass, lightning strobing the room.

He crept to the window and looked out. Water pelted the terra-cotta roofs of the buildings across the street and streamed in rivers from drainpipes. Parked cars lined both sides of the quiet lane.

A lone figure stood in the center of the soaked pavement.

He focused on the face.

Jasna.

Her head was angled up, toward his window. The sight of her startled him and made him want to cover his nakedness, though he quickly realized she could not possibly see him. The curtains were partially drawn, a set of lace sheers between him and the sash, the outer pane smeared with rain. He was standing back, the room dark, outside even darker. But in the wash of the streetlights four stories down, he could see Jasna watching.

Something urged him to reveal his presence.

He parted the sheers.

Her right arm motioned for him to come. He didn’t know what to do. She gestured again with a simple wave of her hand. She wore the same clothes and tennis shoes from earlier, the dress pasted to her thin frame. Her long hair was soaked, but she seemed unfazed by the storm.

She beckoned again.

He looked over at Katerina. Should he wake her? Then he stared back out the window. Jasna was shaking her head no, and motioning once more.

Damn. Did she know what he was thinking?

He decided there was no choice and quietly dressed.

He stepped from the hotel’s entrance.

Jasna still stood in the street.

Lightning crackled overhead, and a renewed burst of rain poured from the blackened sky. He carried no umbrella.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“If you want to know the tenth secret, come with me.”

“Where?”

“Must you question everything? Is nothing accepted on faith?”

“We’re standing in the middle of a downpour.”

“It’s a cleanse for the body and soul.”

This woman frightened him. Why? He was unsure. Maybe it was his compulsion to do as she asked.

“My car is over there,” she said.

A tattered Ford Fiesta coupe was parked down the street. He followed her to it and she drove out of town, stopping at the base of a darkened mound in a parking lot devoid of vehicles. A sign revealed by the headlights read CROSS MOUNTAIN.

“Why here?” he asked.

“I have no idea.”

He wanted to ask her who did, but let it go. This was obviously her show, and she intended to play it out her way.