Berry, Steve - the Third Secret

“You don’t lie well.”

He was tiring of the old man’s prodding. “Why does it matter? You won’t be here when the conclave occurs. Don’t concern yourself with the prospects.”

Clement shrugged. “It matters not. I’ll be enshrined beneath St. Peter’s, with the rest of the men who have occupied this chair. I couldn’t care less about my successor. But that man? Yes, that man should care greatly.”

What was it the old prelate knew? It seemed a habit lately to drop odd hints. “Is there something that displeases the Holy Father?”

Clement’s eyes flashed hot. “You are an opportunist, Alberto. A scheming politico. I might just disappoint you and live another ten years.”

He decided to drop the pretense. “I doubt it.”

“I actually hope you do inherit this job. You’ll find it far different than you might imagine. Maybe you should be the one.”

Now he wanted to know, “The one for what?”

For a few moments the pope went silent. Then he said, “The one to be pope, of course. What else?”

“What is it that bites your soul?”

“We are fools, Alberto. All of us, in our majesty, are nothing but fools. God is far wiser than any of us could even begin to imagine.”

“I don’t think any believer would question that.”

“We expound our dogma and, in the process, ruin the lives of men like Father Kealy. He’s just a priest trying to follow his conscience.”

“He seemed more like an opportunist—to use your description. A man who enjoys the spotlight. Surely, though, he understood Church policy when he took his oath to abide by our teachings.”

“But whose teachings? It is men like you and me pronouncing the so-called Word of God. It’s men like you and me, punishing other men for violating those teachings. I often wonder, is our precious dogma the thoughts of the Almighty or just those of ordinary clerics?”

Valendrea considered this inquiry just more of the strange behavior this pope had shown as of late. He debated whether to probe, but decided he was being tested, so he answered in the only way he could. “I consider the Word of God and the dogma of this Church one and the same.”

“Good answer. Textbook in its diction and syntax. Unfortunately, Alberto, that belief will eventually be your undoing.”

And the pope turned and stepped toward the window.

FIVE

Michener strolled into the midday sun. The morning rain had dissipated, the sky now littered with mottled clouds, the patches of blue striped by the contrail of an airplane on its way east. Before him, the cobbles of St. Peter’s Square bore the remnants of the earlier storm, puddles littered about like a multitude of lakes strewn across a vast landscape. The television crews were still there, many now broadcasting reports back home.

He’d left the tribunal before it adjourned. One of his aides later informed him that the confrontation between Father Kealy and Cardinal Valendrea had continued for the better part of two hours. He wondered about the point of the hearing. The decision to excommunicate Kealy had surely been made long before the priest had been commanded to Rome. Few accused clerics ever attended a tribunal, so Kealy had most likely come to draw more attention to his movement. Within a matter of weeks Kealy would be declared not in communion with the Holy See, just another expatriate proclaiming the Church a dinosaur heading toward extinction.

And sometimes Michener believed critics, like Kealy, might be right.

Nearly half of the world’s Catholics now lived in Latin America. Add Africa and Asia and the fraction rose to three-quarters. Placating this emerging international majority, while not alienating the Europeans and Italians, was a daily challenge. No head of state dealt with something so intricate. But the Roman Catholic Church had done just that for two thousand years—a claim no other of man’s institutions could make—and spread out before him was one of the Church’s grandest manifestations.

The key-shaped square, enclosed within Bernini’s two magnificent semicircular colonnades, was breathtaking. Michener had always been impressed with Vatican City. He’d first come a dozen years ago as the adjunct priest to the archbishop of Cologne—his virtue having been tested by Katerina Lew, but his resolve solidified. He recalled exploring all 108 acres of the walled enclave, marveling at the majesty that two millennia of constant building could achieve.

The tiny nation did not occupy one of the hills upon which Rome was first built, but instead crowned Mons Vaticanus, the only one of the seven ancient designations people still remembered. Fewer than two hundred were actual citizens, and even fewer held a passport. Not one soul had ever been born there, few besides popes died there, and even fewer were buried there. Its government was one of the world’s last remaining absolute monarchies and, in a twist Michener had always thought ironic, the Holy See’s United Nations representative could not sign the worldwide declaration of human rights because, inside the Vatican, there was no religious freedom.

He gazed out into the sunny square, past the television trucks with their array of antennas, and noticed people looking off to the right and up. A few were crying “Santissimo Padre.” Holy Father. He followed their upturned heads to the fourth floor of the Apostolic Palace. Between the wooden shutters of a corner window the face of Clement XV appeared.

Many started waving. Clement waved back.

“Still fascinates you, doesn’t it?” a female voice said.

He turned. Katerina Lew stood a few feet away. Somehow he’d known she would find him. She came close to where he stood, just inside the shadow of one of Bernini’s pillars. “You haven’t changed a bit. Still in love with your God. I could see it in your eyes in the tribunal.”

He tried to smile, but cautioned himself to focus on the challenge before him. “How have you been, Kate?” The features on her face softened. “Life everything you thought it would be?”

“I can’t complain. No, I won’t complain. Unproductive. That’s how you once described complaining.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“How did you know I’d be there this morning?”

“I saw your credentials application a few weeks back. May I ask what’s your interest in Father Kealy?”

“We haven’t spoken in fifteen years and that’s what you want to talk about?”

“The last time we spoke you told me never to speak of us again. You said there was no us. Only me and God. So I didn’t think that was a good subject.”

“But I said that only after you told me you were returning to the archbishop and devoting yourself to the service of others. A priest in the Catholic Church.”

They were standing a bit close, so he took a few steps back, deeper into the shadow of the colonnade. He caught a glimpse of Michelangelo’s dome atop St. Peter’s Basilica being dried by a brightening midautumn sun.

“I see you still have a talent for evading questions,” he pointed out.

“I’m here because Tom Kealy asked me to come. He’s no fool. He knows what that tribunal is going to do.”

“Who are you writing for?”

“Freelance. A book he and I are putting together.”

She was a good writer, especially of poetry. He’d always envied her ability, and he actually wanted to know more about what happened to her after Munich. He was aware of bits and pieces. Her stints at a few European newspapers, never long, even a job in America. He occasionally saw her byline—nothing heavy or weighty, mainly religious essays. Several times he’d almost tracked her down, longing to share a coffee, but he knew that was impossible. He’d made his choice and there was no going back.