Berry, Steve - the Third Secret

“My point exactly,” the Cameroon cardinal said. “He’s never served a diocese. How many confessions has he heard? How many funerals has he presided over? How many parishioners has he counseled? These pastoral experiences are what the throne of St. Peter demand.”

The boldness of the Cameroonian was impressive. Valendrea was unaware that such backbone could still be clothed in scarlet. Quite intuitively, this man had invoked the dreaded pastoral qualification. He made a note that this cardinal would be someone to watch in the years ahead.

“What does that matter?” the Frenchman asked. “The pope is no pastor. It’s a description scholars like to attach. An excuse we use to vote for one man over the other. It means nothing. The pope is an administrator. He must run this Church, and to do that he must understand the Curia, he must know its workings. Valendrea knows that better than any of us. We’ve had pastoral popes. Give me a leader.”

“Perhaps he knows our workings too well,” the cardinal-archivist said.

Valendrea almost winced. Here was the most senior member of the voting college. His opinion would carry much weight with the eleven stragglers.

“Explain yourself,” the Spaniard demanded.

The archivist stayed seated. “The Curia already controls too much. We all complain about the bureaucracy, yet we do nothing about it. Why? Because it satisfies our needs. It provides a wall between us and whatever it is we don’t want to occur. So easy to blame everything on the Curia. Why would a pope who is ingrained in that institution do anything to threaten it? Yes, there would be changes, all popes tinker, but no one has demolished and rebuilt.” The old man’s eyes locked on Valendrea. “Especially one who is a product of that system. We must ask ourselves, would Valendrea be so bold?” He paused. “I think not.”

Valendrea sipped his coffee. Finally, he tabled the cup and calmly said to the archivist, “Apparently, Eminence, your vote is clear.”

“I want my last vote to count.”

He tipped his head in a casual gesture. “That is your right, Eminence. And I would not presume to interfere.”

Ngovi stepped to the center of the room. “Perhaps there has been enough debate. Why don’t we finish our meal and retire to the chapel. There, we can take this up in more detail.”

No one disagreed.

Valendrea was thrilled with the whole display.

A little show-and-tell could only be a good thing.

FORTY-EIGHT

MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA

9:00 A.M.

Katerina was beginning to worry. An hour had passed since she’d woken to find Michener gone. The storm had passed, but the morning loomed warm and cloudy. She’d first thought he walked downstairs for coffee, but he was not in the dining room when she checked a few minutes ago. She asked the desk clerk, but the woman knew nothing. Thinking he might have wandered to St. James Church, she walked over. But he was nowhere to be found. It was unlike Colin to leave and not say where he was going, and his travel bag, wallet, and passport were still in the room.

She now stood in the busy square outside the church and debated whether to approach one of the soldiers and enlist their assistance. Buses were already arriving, depositing a new batch of pilgrims. The streets were beginning to clog with traffic as shopkeepers prepared storefronts.

Their evening had been delightful, the talk in the restaurant stimulating, what came afterward even more so. She’d already decided to tell Alberto Valendrea nothing. She’d come to Bosnia to be with Michener, not to act as spy. Let Ambrosi and Valendrea think what they might of her. She was simply glad to be here. She didn’t really care about a journalism career any longer. She’d go to Romania and work with the children. Make her parents proud. Make herself proud. For once, do some good.

She’d resented Michener for all those years, but she’d come to realize that fault lay with her, too. Only her shortcomings were worse. Michener loved his God and his Church. She loved only herself. But that was going to change. She’d see to it. During dinner Michener had complained about never once having saved a soul. Maybe he was wrong. Perhaps she was his first.

She crossed the street and checked inside the information office. No one there had seen anyone matching Michener’s description. She wandered down the sidewalk, spying into shops on the off chance he was doing a little investigating, trying to learn where the other seers lived. On impulse, she headed in the direction they’d taken yesterday, past the same parade of white-stuccoed dwellings with red-tiled roofs, back toward Jasna’s residence.

She found the house and knocked on the door.

No one answered.

She retreated to the street. The shutters were drawn. She waited a few moments for any sign from within, but there was nothing. She noticed that Jasna’s car was no longer parked to the side.

She started back toward the hotel.

A woman rushed from the house across the street shouting in Croatian, “It’s so awful. So awful. Jesus help us.”

Her anguish was alarming.

“What’s wrong?” she called out in the best Croatian she could muster.

The older woman stopped. Panic filled her eyes. “It’s Jasna. They found her on the mountain, the cross and her hurt by lightning.”

“Is she all right?”

“I don’t know. They’re going after her now.”

The woman was distraught to the point of hysteria. Tears flowed from her eyes. She kept crossing herself and clutched a rosary, mumbling a Hail Mary between sobs. “Mother of Jesus, save her. Do not let her die. She is blessed.”

“Is it that bad?”

“She was barely breathing when they found her.”

A thought occurred to her. “Was she alone?”

The woman seemed not to hear her question and kept muttering prayers, pleading with God to save Jasna.

“Was she alone?” she asked again.

The woman caught herself and seemed to register the question. “No. There was a man there. Bad off. Like her.”

FORTY-NINE

VATICAN CITY, 9:30 A.M.

Valendrea made his way up the staircase toward the Sistine Chapel believing that the papacy was within his grasp. All that stood in the way was a cardinal from Kenya who was trying to cling to the failed policies of a pope who’d killed himself. If it were up to him, and it just might be before the day was through, Clement’s body would be removed from St. Peter’s and shipped back to Germany. He might actually be able to accomplish that feat since Clement’s own will—the text of which had been published a week ago—had proclaimed a sincere desire to be buried in Bamberg. The gesture could be interpreted as a loving tribute from the Church to its dead pontiff, one that would surely garner a positive reaction, and one that would likewise rid hallowed ground of a weak soul.

He was still enjoying the display from breakfast. All of Ambrosi’s efforts over the past couple of years were beginning to return dividends. The listening devices had been Paolo’s idea. At first, he’d been nervous at the possibility of their discovery, but Ambrosi had been right. He would have to reward Paolo. He regretted not bringing him into the conclave, but Ambrosi had been left outside with express orders to remove the tape recorders and listening devices while the election was ongoing. It was the perfect time to accomplish that task since the Vatican was in hibernation, all eyes and ears on the Sistine.

He came to the top of a narrow marble staircase. Ngovi stood on the stoop, apparently waiting.

“Judgment day, Maurice,” he said, as he reached the last stair.

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

The nearest cardinal was fifty feet away and no one else was climbing the steps behind him. Most were already inside. He’d waited until the last moment to enter. “I won’t miss your riddles. Yours or Clement’s.”