Berry, Steve - the Third Secret

VATICAN CITY, 1:00 P.M.

Valendrea stood in the audience chamber and accepted congratulations from the staff in the Secretariat of State. Ambrosi had already indicated a desire to move many of the priests and most of the secretaries to the papal office. He hadn’t argued. If he expected Ambrosi to cater to his every need, the least he could do was allow him to choose his own subordinates.

Ambrosi had left his side only sparingly since the morning, standing dutifully beyond the balcony as he’d addressed the throngs in St. Peter’s Square. Ambrosi had then monitored radio and television reports, which he reported were mainly positive, especially at Valendrea’s choice of label, the commentators agreeing that this could be a significant pontificate. Valendrea imagined even Tom Kealy stuttering a second or so as the words Peter II left his mouth. There’d be no more best-selling priests during his reign. Clerics would be doing as they were told. If not, they’d be fired—starting with Kealy. He’d already told Ambrosi to defrock the idiot by the end of the week.

And there would be more changes.

The papal tiara would be resurrected, a coronation scheduled. Trumpets would sound at his entrance. Fans and drawn sabers would once again accompany him during the liturgy. And the gestatorial chair would be restored. Paul VI had changed most of those—a few momentary lapses in good judgment, or perhaps a reaction to his own times—but Valendrea would rectify all that.

The last of the well-wishers streamed by and he motioned to Ambrosi, who drew close. “There is something I need to do,” he whispered. “End this.”

Ambrosi turned to the crowd. “Everyone, the Holy Father is hungry. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast. And we all know how our pontiff enjoys his meals.”

Laughter echoed through the hall.

“For those he has not spoken with, I will make time later in the day.”

“May the Lord bless each of you,” Valendrea said.

He followed Ambrosi from the hall to his office at the Secretariat of State. The papal apartments had been unsealed half an hour ago, and many of his belongings from his third-floor chambers were now being moved to the fourth floor. In the days ahead he would visit the museums and basement storage facilities. He’d already provided Ambrosi with a list of items he wanted as part of the apartment décor. He was proud of his planning. Most of the decisions made over the last few hours had been contemplated long ago and the effect was of a pope in charge, doing the appropriate thing in the appropriate manner.

In his office, with the door closed, he turned to Ambrosi. “Find the cardinal-archivist. Tell him to be standing before the Riserva in fifteen minutes.”

Ambrosi bowed and withdrew.

He stepped into the bathroom adjoining his office. He was still incensed by Ngovi’s arrogance. The African was right. There was little he could do to him besides reassignment to a post far from Rome. But that wouldn’t be wise. The soon-to-be-ex-camerlengo had amassed a surprising show of support. It would be foolish to pounce this soon. Patience was the call. But that didn’t mean he’d forgotten Maurice Ngovi.

He splashed water onto his face and dried off with a towel.

The door to the outer office opened and Ambrosi returned. “The archivist is waiting.”

He tossed the towel onto the marble counter. “Good. Let’s go.”

He stormed from the office and descended to the ground floor. The startled looks on the Swiss guards he passed showed that they were not accustomed to a pope appearing without warning.

He entered the archives.

The reading and collection rooms were empty. No one had been allowed use of the facility since Clement died. He stepped into the main hall and crossed the mosaic floor toward the iron grille. The cardinal-archivist stood outside. No one else was there except Ambrosi.

He approached the old man. “Needless to say, your services will no longer be needed. I would retire, if I were you. Be gone by the weekend.”

“My desk is already cleaned out.”

“I have not forgotten your comments this morning at breakfast.”

“Please don’t. When we both stand before the Lord, I want you to repeat them.”

He wanted to slap the mouthy Italian. Instead, he simply asked, “Is the safe open?”

The old man nodded.

He turned to Ambrosi. “Wait here.”

For so long, others had commanded the Riserva. Paul VI. John Paul II. Clement XV. Even the irritating archivist. No more.

He rushed inside, reached for the drawer, and slid it open. The wooden box came into view. He lifted it out and carried it to the same table Paul VI had sat at all those decades ago.

He hinged open the lid and saw two sheets of paper interfolded. One, clearly older, was the first part of the third secret of Fatima—in Sister Lucia’s hand—the back of the sheet still bearing a Vatican mark from when the message was made public in 2000. The other, newer, was Father Tibor’s 1960 Italian translation, it, too, marked.

But there should be another sheet.

Father Tibor’s recent facsimile, which Clement himself had placed in the box. Where was it? He’d come to finish the job. To protect the Church and preserve his sanity.

Yet the paper was gone.

He rushed from the Riserva and shot straight for the archivist. He grabbed the old man by his robes. A great surge of anger swept through him. The cardinal’s face filled with shock.

“Where is it?” he spat out.

“What . . . do . . . you mean?” the old man stammered.

“I’m in no mood. Where is it?”

“I have touched nothing. I swear to you before my God.”

He could see the man was being truthful. This was not the source of the problem. He released his grip and the cardinal stepped back, clearly frightened by the assault.

“Get out of here,” he told the archivist.

The old man hustled away.

A thought flooded his mind. Clement. That Friday night when the pope allowed him to destroy half of what Tibor had sent.

I wanted you to know what awaits you, Alberto.

Why didn’t you stop me from burning the paper?

You’ll see.

And when he demanded the remaining portion—Tibor’s translation.

No, Alberto. It stays in the box.

He should have shoved the bastard aside and done what had to be done, regardless of whether the night prefect was there.

Now he saw everything clearly.

The translation was never in the box. Did it even exist? Yes, it did. No question. And Clement had wanted him to know.

Now it had to be found.

He turned to Ambrosi. “Go to Bosnia. Bring Colin Michener back. No excuses, no exceptions. I want him here tomorrow. Tell him if he’s not, I’ll have a warrant issued for his arrest.”

“The charge, Holy Father?” Ambrosi asked, almost matter-of-factly. “So I may say, if he asks.”

He thought a moment, then said, “Complicity in the murder of Father Andrej Tibor.”

FIFTY-FOUR

MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA

6:00 P.M.

Katerina’s stomach knotted as she spotted Father Ambrosi entering the hospital. She immediately noticed the addition of scarlet piping and a red sash to his black wool cassock, signifying an elevation to monsignor. Apparently Peter II wasted no time handing out the spoils.

Michener was resting in his room. All the tests run on him had come back negative, and the doctor predicted he should be fine by tomorrow. They planned to leave for Bucharest at lunchtime. The presence of Ambrosi, though, here in Bosnia, meant nothing but trouble.