Berry, Steve - the Third Secret

Michener’s eyes blinked open.

“Colin.”

“Kate?” He was trying to focus.

“I’m here.”

“I hear you, but I can’t see you. It’s like looking underwater. What happened?”

“Lightning. It struck the cross on the mountain. You and Jasna were too close.”

He reached up and rubbed his brow. His fingers gently probed the scrapes and cuts. “She okay?”

“Seems to be. She was out, like you. What were you doing there?”

“Later.”

“Sure. Here, take some water. The doctor said you need to drink.” She brought a cup to his lips and he sucked a few sips.

“Where am I?”

“A local infirmary the government operates for the pilgrims.”

“They say what’s wrong with me?”

“No concussion. Just too close to a lot of voltage. Any closer and you’d both be dead. Nothing’s broken, but you’ve got a nasty lump and a gash on the back of your head.”

The door opened and a middle-aged, bearded man entered. “How’s the patient doing?” he asked in English. “I’m the doctor who treated you, Father. How do you feel?”

“Like an avalanche rolled over me,” Michener said.

“Understandable. But you’ll be okay. A small cut, but no skull cracks. I’d recommend a complete exam when you get back home. Actually, considering what happened, you were pretty lucky.”

After a quick look and a little more advice the doctor left.

“How’d he know I was a priest?”

“I had to identify you. You scared the hell out of me.”

“What about the conclave?” he asked. “Have you heard anything?”

“Why am I not surprised that’s the first thing on your mind.”

“You’re not interested?”

Actually she was curious. “There was no news an hour ago.”

She reached out and clasped his hand. He turned his head toward her and said, “I wish I could see you.”

“I love you, Colin.” She felt better having said it.

“And I love you, Kate. I should have told you that years ago.”

“Yes, you should.”

“I should have done a lot of things differently. I only know that I want my future to include you.”

“And what of Rome?”

“I’ve done all that I said I would. I’m through with that. I want to go to Romania, with you.”

Her eyes watered. She was glad he couldn’t see her crying. She swiped away the tears. “We’ll do good there,” she said, trying to keep her voice from quivering.

He tightened his grip on her hand.

And she cherished the feeling.

FIFTY-ONE

VATICAN CITY, 11:45 P.M.

Valendrea accepted congratulations from the cardinals, then made his way out of the Sistine to a whitewashed space known as the Room of Tears. There, the vestments from the House of Gammarelli hung in neat rows. Gammarelli himself stood at ready.

“Where is Father Ambrosi?” he asked one of the priests in attendance.

“Here, Holy Father,” Ambrosi said, entering the room. He liked the sound of those words from his acolyte’s lips.

The secrecy of the conclave had ended as he left the chapel. The main doors had been flung open while white smoke spewed from the rooftop. By now, the name Peter II was being repeated throughout the palace. People would be marveling at his choice, and the pundits would be startled by his audacity. Maybe for once they’d be speechless.

“You are now my papal secretary,” he said, as he lifted his scarlet robe up over his head. “My first command.” A smile came to his lips as the private promise between them was fulfilled.

Ambrosi bowed his head in acceptance.

He motioned to the vestments he’d spied yesterday. “That set should do fine.”

The tailor grabbed the selected garments and presented them saying, “Santissimo Padre.”

He accepted the greeting reserved only for a pope and watched as his cardinal robes were folded. He knew they would be cleaned and boxed, custom requiring that they be provided at his death to the then-senior member of the Valendrea clan.

He donned a white linen cassock and fastened the buttons. Gammarelli knelt and began nipping the seam with a threaded needle. The stitching would not be perfect, but adequate enough for the next couple of hours. By then a precise set of vestments, tailored to his measurements, would be ready.

He tested the fit. “A bit tight. Get it right.”

Gammarelli ripped the seam and tried again.

“Make sure the thread is secure.” The last thing he wanted was for something to fall apart.

When the tailor finished, he sat in a chair. One of the priests knelt before him and began removing his shoes and socks. He already liked the fact that little would ever be done by him anymore. A pair of white stockings and red leather shoes were brought forward. He checked the size. Perfect. He motioned that they should be slipped on his feet.

He stood.

A white zucchetto was handed to him. Back during the days when prelates shaved their scalps, the caps protected the bare skin during winter. Now they were an essential part of any high cleric’s attire. Ever since the eighteenth century the pope’s had been formed from eight triangular-shaped pieces of white silk, joined together. He clasped his hands at the edges and, like an emperor accepting his crown, nestled the cap on his head.

Ambrosi smiled in approval.

Time for the world to meet him.

But first, one last duty.

He left the dressing room and reentered the Sistine Chapel. The cardinals were standing at their assigned stations. A throne had been placed before the altar. He paraded straight to it and sat, waiting a full ten seconds before saying, “Be seated.”

The ritual about to occur was a necessary element of the canonical election process. Each cardinal was expected to come forward, genuflect, and embrace the new pontiff.

He motioned to the senior cardinal-bishop, a supporter, who rose and started the process. John Paul II had broken a long-standing practice of popes sitting before the princes by greeting the college standing, but this was a new day and everyone might as well start adjusting. Actually, they should be glad—in centuries past, kissing the papal shoe had been a part of the ritual.

He stayed seated and offered his ring for a dutiful kiss.

Ngovi approached about halfway through the procession. The African knelt and reached for the offered ring. Valendrea noticed that lips did not actually touch gold. Ngovi then stood and walked away.

“No congratulations?” Valendrea asked.

Ngovi stopped and turned back. “May your reign be all that you deserve.”

He wanted to teach the smug son of a bitch a lesson, but this was not the time or place. Maybe that was Ngovi’s intent, a provocation to spark an early show of arrogance. So he calmed his emotions and simply said, “I take that to mean good wishes.”

“Nothing but.”

When the last cardinal departed the altar, he stood. “I thank you all. I will do my best for the mother Church. Now I believe it’s time to face the world.”

He stomped down the center aisle, through the marble gate, and out the chapel’s main entrance. He strode into the basilica and crossed the Regal and Ducal Halls. He liked the chosen route, the massive paintings on the walls making clear the superiority of the papacy over temporal power clear.

He entered the central loggia.

About an hour had passed since his election and the rumors were, by now, at an epidemic stage. Enough conflicting information had surely seeped from the Sistine that no one could, as yet, know anything for sure. And that was the way he was going to keep it. Confusion could be an effective weapon, provided the source of that confusion was him. His choice of name alone should be generating a fair amount of speculation. Not even the great warrior-popes, or the sanctified diplomats who’d managed election over the past hundred years, had dared that move.