Berry, Steve: the Third Secret

“If God exists, then so does the devil.”

“So which one caused the death of Father Tibor?” Valendrea asked, defiance in his voice. “Was it the Lord, so that the truth would be revealed? Or the devil, so that the truth would be revealed? Both would have been motivated toward the same goal, would they not?”

“That’s why you killed Father Tibor? To prevent that?” Michener asked.

“In every religious movement there have been martyrs.” Not a speck of remorse laced the words.

Ngovi stepped forward. “That’s true. And we intend one more.”

“I already assumed what you had in mind. You’re going to have me prosecuted?”

“Not at all,” Ngovi said.

Michener offered Valendrea a small caramel-colored vial. “We expect you to join that list of martyrs.”

Valendrea’s brow creased in amazement.

Michener said, “This is the same sleeping medication Clement took. More than enough to kill. If in the morning your body is found, then you’ll have a papal funeral and be entombed in St. Peter’s with all ceremony. Your reign will be short, but you will be remembered in much the same way as John Paul I. On the other hand, if tomorrow you’re alive, the Sacred College will be informed of everything we know. Your memory then will be of the first pope in history to stand trial.”

Valendrea did not accept the vial. “You want me to kill myself?”

Michener never blinked. “You can die as a glorious pope, or be disgraced as a criminal. Personally, I prefer the latter, so I’m hoping you don’t have the guts to do what Clement did.”

“I can fight you.”

“You’ll lose. With what we know, I’d wager there are many in the Sacred College simply waiting for the opportunity to take you down. The evidence is irrefutable. Your co-conspirator will be your chief accuser. There’s no way you can win.”

Valendrea still would not take the vial. So Michener poured its contents out on the desk, then glared at him. “The choice is yours. If you love your Church as much as you profess, then sacrifice your life so it may live. You were quick to end Father Tibor’s life. Let’s see if you’re as liberal with your own. The dreadful judge has judged and the sentence is death.”

“You’re asking me to do the unthinkable,” Valendrea said.

“I’m asking you to save this institution the humiliation of forcibly removing you.”

“I am pope. No one can remove me.”

“Except the Lord. And in a manner of speaking, that’s exactly who’s doing this.”

Valendrea turned to Ngovi. “You’ll be the next pope, won’t you?”

“Almost certainly.”

“You could have won election in conclave, couldn’t you?”

“There was a reasonable chance.”

“So why drop out?”

“Because Clement told me to.”

Valendrea looked perplexed. “When?”

“A week before he died. He told me you and I would eventually be locked in that battle. But he said that you should win.”

“Why on earth would you have listened to him?”

Ngovi’s face hardened. “He was my pope.”

Valendrea shook his head in disbelief.

“And he was right.”

“Do you plan to do as the Virgin said too?”

“I will abolish all dogma contrary to Her message.”

“You’ll have revolt.”

Ngovi shrugged. “Those who disagree are free to leave and form their own religion. Such is their choice. They will receive no opposition from me. This Church, though, will do as told.”

Valendrea’s face became incredulous. “You think it’s going to be that easy? The cardinals will never allow it.”

Michener said, “This isn’t a democracy.”

“So no one will know the actual messages?”

Ngovi shook his head. “That isn’t necessary. Skeptics would claim Father Tibor’s translation was simply conformed to the Medjugorje message. The sheer magnitude of the message would do nothing but ignite criticism. Sister Lucia and Father Tibor are gone. Neither can verify anything. It is not necessary the world know what happened. The three of us know and that is what matters. I shall heed the words. This will be my act and mine alone. I will take the praise and the criticism.”

“The next pope will simply reverse you,” Valendrea muttered.

Ngovi shook his head. “You have so little faith.” The African turned and headed for the door. “We will await the news in the morning. Depending on what that is, we may or may not see you tomorrow.”

Michener hesitated before following. “The devil himself will find it difficult dealing with you.”

Not waiting for a response, he left.

SEVENTY

11:30 P.M.

Valendrea stared at the pills lying on the desk. For decades he’d dreamed of the papacy, and he’d devoted his entire adult life to achieving that goal. Now he was pope. He should have reigned twenty or more years, becoming the hope of the future by reclaiming the past. Only yesterday he’d spent an hour going over the details of his coronation, the ceremony a scant two weeks away. He’d toured the Vatican museum, personally inspected adornments his predecessors had relegated to exhibits, and ordered their preparation for the event. He wanted the moment the spiritual leader of a billion people assumed the reins of power to be a spectacle every Catholic could watch with pride.

He’d already thought about his homily. It would have been a call for tradition. A rejection of innovation—a retreat to a sacred past. The Church could and would be a weapon for change. No more impotent denunciations that world leaders ignored. Instead religious fervor would have been used to forge a new international policy. One emanating from him as the Vicar of Christ. The pope.

He slowly counted the capsules on the desk.

Twenty-eight.

If he swallowed them, he’d be remembered as the pope who reigned for four days. He’d be regarded as a fallen leader, taken by the Lord far too quickly. There was something to be said for dying suddenly. John Paul I had been an insignificant cardinal. Now he was venerated simply because he died thirty-three days after the conclave. A handful had reigned shorter, many more longer, but none had ever been forced into the position in which he now found himself.

He thought about Ambrosi’s betrayal. He wouldn’t have thought Paolo so disloyal. They’d been together many years. Maybe Ngovi and Michener had underestimated his old friend. Perhaps Ambrosi would be his legacy, the man who would ensure that the world never forgot Peter II. He hoped he was right in believing Ngovi might one day regret letting Paolo Ambrosi roam free.

He eyes returned to the pills. At least there’d be no pain. And Ngovi would make sure there was no autopsy. The African was still camerlengo. He could envision the bastard standing over him, gently tapping his forehead with a silver hammer and asking three times if he was dead.

He believed that if he was alive tomorrow, Ngovi would bring charges. Though there was no precedent for removing a pope, once he was implicated in murder he would never be allowed to remain in office.

Which raised his greatest concern.

Doing what Ngovi and Michener asked would mean he’d be soon answering for his sins. What would he say?

Proof that God existed meant there was also an immeasurable force of evil that misled the human spirit. Life seemed a perpetual tug between those two extremes. How would he explain his sins? Would there be forgiveness or only punishment? He still believed, even in the face of all he knew, that priests should be men. God’s Church was started by men and, over two millennia, male blood had been spilled to preserve that institution. The interjection of women into something so decidedly male seemed sacrilegious. Spouses and children were nothing but distractions. And to slaughter an unborn child seemed unthinkable. A woman’s duty was to bring forth life, no matter how it was conceived, whether wanted or unwanted. How could God have gotten everything so wrong?