Berry, Steve - the Third Secret

“What do you mean?”

“Could be a smokescreen.”

She looked puzzled.

“Clement sent me an e-mail the night he died. In it he told me that Valendrea may have removed part of the original third secret long ago when he worked for Paul VI.”

She listened with interest.

“Clement and Valendrea went into the Riserva together the night before Clement died. Valendrea also took an unscheduled trip from Rome the next day.”

She instantly saw the significance. “The Saturday Father Tibor was murdered?”

“Connect the dots and a picture starts to form.”

The image of Ambrosi, his knee jammed into her chest, his hands wrapped around her throat, flashed through her mind. Had Valendrea and Ambrosi been involved with Tibor’s murder? She wanted to tell Michener what she knew, but realized that her explanation would generate far too many questions than she was presently willing to answer. Instead, she asked, “Could Valendrea have been involved with Father Tibor’s death?”

“Hard to say. But he’s certainly capable. As is Ambrosi. I still think Ambrosi is bluffing, though. The last thing the Vatican wants is attention. I’m betting our new pope will do whatever he can to keep the spotlight off him.”

“But Valendrea could direct that spotlight somewhere else.”

Michener seemed to understand. “Like onto me.”

She nodded. “Nothing better than an ex-employee to blame everything on.”

Valendrea donned one of the white cassocks the House of Gammarelli had crafted during the afternoon. He’d been right this morning—his measurements were on file, and it had been easy to fashion the appropriate garments in a short period of time. The seamstresses had done their job well. He admired good work and made a mental note to have Ambrosi forward an official thanks.

He hadn’t heard from Ambrosi since Paolo had left for Bosnia. But he had no doubt that his friend would tend to his mission. Ambrosi knew what was at stake. He’d made things clear to him that night in Romania. Colin Michener had to be brought to Rome. Clement XV had cleverly thought ahead—he’d give the German that—and had apparently concluded that Valendrea would succeed him, so he’d purposely removed Tibor’s latest translation, knowing there was no way he could start his papacy with that potential disaster looming.

But where was it?

Michener surely knew.

The telephone rang.

He was in his bedroom on the third floor of the palace. The papal apartments were still being prepared.

The phone rang again.

He wondered about the interruption. It was nearly eight P.M. He was trying to dress for his first formal dinner, this one a celebration of thanks with the cardinals, and had left word not to be disturbed.

Another ring.

He lifted the receiver.

“Holy Father, Father Ambrosi is calling and asked that I connect him. He said it was important.”

“Do it.”

A few clicks and Ambrosi said, “I have done as you asked.”

“And the reaction?”

“He will be there tomorrow.”

“His health?”

“Nothing severe.”

“His traveling companion?”

“Being her usual charming self.”

“Let’s keep that one happy, for the present.” Ambrosi had told him about her assault on him in Rome. At the time she was their best conduit to Michener, but the situation had changed.

“Nothing from me will affect that.”

“Till tomorrow then,” he said. “Have a safe trip.”

FIFTY-FIVE

VATICAN CITY

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 30

1:00 P.M.

Michener sat in the backseat of a Vatican car, Katerina beside him. Ambrosi was in the front, and on his command they were waved through the Arch of the Bells into the privacy of the St. Damascus courtyard. A warren of ancient buildings surrounded them, blocking the midday sun, casting the pavement in an indigo hue.

For the first time he felt uneasy about being inside the Vatican. The men in charge now were manipulators. Enemies. He needed to be careful, watch his words, and get whatever was about to happen over with as quickly as possible.

The car stopped and they climbed out.

Ambrosi led them into a drawing room encased on three sides with stained glass where popes, for centuries, had greeted guests beneath the impressive murals. They followed Ambrosi through a maze of loggias and galleries littered with candelabra and tapestries surrounded by walls bursting with images of popes receiving homage from emperors and kings.

Michener knew where they were headed, and Ambrosi stopped outside the bronze door leading into the papal library where Gorbachev, Mandela, Carter, Yeltsin, Reagan, Bush, Clinton, Rabin, and Arafat had all visited.

“Ms. Lew will be waiting in the forward loggia when you are through,” Ambrosi said. “In the meantime, you will not be disturbed.”

Surprisingly Katerina did not object to being excluded and walked off with Ambrosi.

He opened the door and entered.

Three leaded-glass windows bathed the five-hundred-year-old bookshelves with fractured waves of light. Valendrea sat behind a desk, the same one popes had used for half a millennium. A panel depicting the Madonna graced the wall behind him. An upholstered armchair was angled in front of the desk, but Michener knew only heads of state were privileged to sit before the pope.

Valendrea stepped around the desk. The pope held out his hand, palm-down, and Michener knew what was expected of him. He stared deep into the Tuscan’s eyes. This was the moment of submission. He debated what to do, but decided discretion was a better tack, at least until he learned what this demon wanted. He knelt and kissed the ring, noticing that the Vatican jewelers had already crafted a new one.

“I am told Clement took pleasure in extracting a similar gesture from His Eminence, Cardinal Bartolo, in Turin. I will pass on to the good cardinal your respect for church protocol.”

Michener stood. “What do you want?” He did not add Holy Father.

“How are your injuries?”

“Surely you don’t care.”

“What would make you think otherwise?”

“The respect you’ve shown me the past three years.”

Valendrea stepped back toward the desk. “I assume you’re trying to provoke a response. I’ll ignore your tone.”

He asked again, “What do you want?”

“I want what Clement removed from the Riserva.”

“I was unaware anything was gone.”

“I am not in the mood. Clement told you everything.”

He recalled things Clement had told him. I allowed Valendrea to read what is in the Fatima box . . . In 1978 he removed from the Riserva part of the Virgin’s third message.

“Seems to me you’re the thief.”

“Bold words to your pope. Can you back them up?”

He wasn’t taking that bait. Let the son of a bitch wonder what he knew.

Valendrea moved toward him. He seemed quite comfortable dressed in white, the skullcap nearly lost in his thick mane. “I’m not asking, Michener. I’m ordering you to tell me where that writing is.”

There was a tinge of desperation in the command that made him wonder if Clement’s e-mail ramblings were more than those of a depressed soul about to die. “I didn’t know anything was gone, until a moment ago.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?”

“Believe what you want.”

“I’ve had the papal apartments and Castle Gandolfo searched. You have Clement’s personal belongings. I want them checked.”

“What is it you’re looking for?”

Valendrea appraised him with a suspicious gaze. “I can’t decide if you are being truthful or not.”