The Secret of Fatima
Page 1
The Secret of Fatima
Peter J. Tanous
To
Theron Wade Raines
9/26/1925-11/05/2012
Founder, Raines & Raines, Literary Agents
and
Josephine Tanous
Contents
Chapter One, The Vatican
Chapter Two
Chapter Three, Washington, D.C.
Chapter Four, Rome, Italy
Chapter Five, Vatican City
Chapter Six, Seville, Spain
Chapter Seven, Kevin’s Mission, Vatican City
Chapter Eight, Seville, Spain
Chapter Nine, Rome, Italy
Chapter Ten, Rome, Italy
Chapter Eleven, Rome, Italy
Chapter Twelve, Rome, Italy
Chapter Thirteen, Pope Quintus II
Chapter Fourteen, Rome Italy
Chapter Fifteen, Fallujah, Iraq
Rome Italy
Chapter Sixteen, Rome, Italy
Chapter Seventeen, Rome, Italy
Chapter Eighteen, Rome, Italy
Chapter Nineteen, Rome, Italy
Chapter Twenty, Rome, Italy
Chapter Twenty-One, Fatima, Portugal
Chapter Twenty-Two, Rome, Italy
Chapter Twenty-Three, Sarjevo, Bosnia
Chapter Twenty-Four, Saragevo, Bosnia
Chapter Twenty-Five, Medjugorje, Herzegovina Region
Chapter Twenty-Six, The Vatican, Rome, Italy
Chapter Twenty-Seven, Rome, Italy
Chapter Twenty-Eight, Rome, Italy
Chapter Twenty-Nine, Vatican Hospital, Rome, Italy
Chapter Thirty, The Conclave
Chapter Thirty-One, Rome, Italy
Chapter Thirty-Two, Rome, Italy
Chapter Thirty-Three, The Sistine Chapel, Rome, Italy
Chapter Thirty-Four, The Sistine Chapel, St. Peter’s Square
Chapter Thirty-Five, Rome, Italy
Chapter Thirty-Six, Rome, Italy
Chapter Thirty-Seven, Rome, Italy
Chapter Thirty-Eight, Seville, Spain
Chapter Thirty-Nine, Seville, Spain
Chapter Forty, Seville, Spain
Chapter Forty-One, Seville, Spain
Chapter Forty-Two, Seville, Spain
Chapter Forty-Three, Seville, Spain
Chapter Forty-Four, Rome, Italy
Chapter Forty-Five, Rome, Italy
Chapter Forty-Six, Rome, Italy
Chapter Forty-Seven, Rome, Italy
Chapter Forty-Eight, Washington, D.C.
Chapter Forty-Nine, Washington, D.C.
Chapter Fifty, Washington, D.C.
Chapter Fifty-One, Washington, D.C.
Chapter Fifty-Two, Fredericksburg, Virginia
Chapter Fifty-Three, Washington, D.C.
Chapter Fifty-Four, Rome, Italy
Chapter Fifty-Five, Rome, Italy
Chapter Fifty-Six, Rome, Italy
Chapter One
The Vatican
September 28, 1978
Folds of paper-thin skin draped over the man’s eyes. His grim expression foretold the importance of the impending reading. His shoulders rounded forward, Monsignor Antonio Calvi emerged from an underground corridor deep within the Vatican, both hands clutching a jeweled velvet pouch at his chest. The pouch contained the wax seal of the previous pope, evidence the document within hadn’t been tampered with since the seal had been affixed. As archivist and custodian of the Vatican’s most sensitive documents, it was Calvi’s sole duty to protect it.
Three Pontifical Swiss Guards waited for him outside the Archivio Segreto Vaticano. As Calvi approached, they joined him. The four crowded into a small elevator and rode to the top floor of the Apostolic Palace. Besides the elevator’s grinding cables, the only sound was the thunderous pounding of Calvi’s heart. He was sure everyone could hear it. But no one was saying a word.
The elevator stopped with a thud. One by one, the men stepped out. With his eyes focused forward, Calvi led the way to Pope John Paul I’s private study in the papal library. The newly elected Holy Father had summoned Calvi, and the others, to his study where he’d break the seal on the jeweled velvet pouch and read the secret document inside. He alone was authorized to do so.
Cardinal Villot, secretary of state of the Vatican, greeted the men at the papal quarters. “Good morning, Monsignor Calvi. Join us, won’t you?”
Nodding, Calvi joined Cardinals Silvano and Villot, along with several priests, standing around a large oval mahogany table in the papal library. Heavy red velvet drapes had been drawn at the windows, shutting out the glaring lights in St. Peter’s Square.
The bedroom door opened. Smiling, John Paul I walked into the room. “Please be seated,” said the pope, gracefully waving his hand over the table. The pontiff wore a white silk cassock with matching pellegrina and white fringed fascia. On his head was the white papal zucchetto. The pectoral cross hung loosely around his neck. With his salt-and-pepper hair, the pope was youthful looking; his slender face lit up.
Calvi could see why, just a month after his election, people were calling this one “the “Smiling Pope.”
As Pope John Paul I seated himself at the head of the table, the others followed.
Slowly raising his eyes, Cardinal Villot nodded at Calvi.
Standing up, Calvi knelt to kiss the papal ring, and handed the jeweled pouch to the pontiff. The pope’s hands, he was surprised to note, were shaking. Probably from excitement and anticipation. In respect to the pontiff’s privacy, the monsignor turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Outside the study, Calvi and the three guards waited in silence. They stood erect, barely moving, lost in their thoughts. Calvi nervously paced the corridor, checking his watch repeatedly. When half an hour had passed, Cardinal Silvano flung open the door. His face fiery, lips pursed, he was noticeably unsettled, agitated.
“Calvi, come in!” Silvano bellowed, motioning frantically for him.
Confused, Calvi rushed inside, scanning the entire room. Something wasn’t right. Then he saw. The pope was lying fully stretched out on the floor, his body half-obscured by Cardinal Villot, who was leaning over him. Calvi’s heart jumped into his throat. The pontiff’s eyes were shut, his face distorted in pain. He wasn’t breathing. He was lifeless, drained of color.
“What happened?” whispered Calvi. He could barely form the words.
“We don’t know,” said Cardinal Villot, his mouth drawn into a thin line, his hands folded across his stomach. “It was sudden. Presumably a heart attack.”
The manuscript lay facedown on the table, its pages strewn, splayed like a deck of cards, the jeweled pouch at one side. The Holy Father’s reading specs were also there on the floor, shattered as if stomped on. Standing stupefied, Calvi gazed at the shards of glass. His heart was breaking like the glass before him. This couldn’t be happening!
Then suddenly the burning reality of his mandate was overpowering. Calvi sprang to the table, hurriedly gathered up the manuscript’s yellowed pages, refolding and inserting them back into the velvet pouch. He’d protect this secret document, no matter what, to the end. His job in this crisis was simple: to return the pouch, and its sacred contents, to the archives, unscathed.
Cardinal Villot requested holy oil to perform a last anointing. A monsignor handed him a vial.
“Si capax, ego te absolvo a peccatistuis, in nomine Patris, et Filli, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.” Villot dipped his thumb into the vial, tracing the sign of the cross on the pope’s forehead. “Through this anointing, may God forgive you whatever sins you have committed. By the faculty given me by the Apostolic See, I grant you a plenary indulgence and remission of all sins, in the name of
the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
Calvi was sobbing. This couldn’t be! A moment ago the Pope was healthy, smiling. How could His Holiness be no longer? Only a month into his papacy!
And now, for the second time in a year, Cardinal Villot was the Camerlengo—the man who’d assume papal responsibilities until the time when the conclave elected a new pope.
Clutching the jeweled pouch, Calvi thought he might be sick.
A priest took a lit candle and, with the flame, softened a red stick of wax. When it melted, the priest motioned for the pouch. He dripped a liquid circle onto the strings to seal it, then gave it back to Calvi.
Bending down, Villot eased the papal ring from the finger of the deceased pope and soaked it in the pool of soft wax, creating the final seal of John Paul I. A young priest retrieved a silver hammer from its ceremonial case in the study. Then, in keeping with sacred tradition, Cardinal Villot took the silver hammer and smashed the seal on the papal ring, marking the end of the papacy of John Paul I.
Turning to the six men present, Cardinal Villot addressed them. “It is September 28, 1978. On this day, His Holiness John Paul I has died. No man present here in this room will discuss what’s transpired here today. From this day forward, let it be known to all, our beloved pontiff passed in his sleep while reading ‘Imitation of Christ.’”
Calvi nodded, his eyes closed, his heart heavy with a foreboding. These damnable pages! What were they about? Calvi might never know. The document was accessible only to the pope. Faithfully, Calvi was following the rules to the letter. He knew one thing: Whatever was in that document had caused the death of the leader of the Catholic Church. Who’d be next? Calvi shuddered. His life’s work was safeguarding this document. Whatever its purpose or mystery, it was his solemn and sole mission to protect it. Even if it meant giving up his life for it.
Chapter Two
Washington D.C. Present day. Basketball practice started at seven-thirty a.m. sharp on weekdays. Father Kevin Thrall always told the boys to be there on time. On this day, as usual, he was early. He yawned, shaking off the stressful uncertainty caused by an unexpected four a.m. phone call. Groping to get to his bedside lamp for the phone, he’d knocked over a glass of water; when finally he’d answered it, no one was on the line. There were many who might have called. None good.
Glancing over the basketball court, Father Thrall noticed another sizeable chunk of the concrete had come loose. Hell, the damn parking lot was in better shape. The basketball court stood adjacent to the parking lot by St. Anthony’s main building, a Fifties structure which hadn’t seen repairs since its construction during the Eisenhower Administration. Southeast Washington, D.C., especially the Anacostia neighborhood, was a ramshackle area taken over by the African-American community and a few immigrant families. Kevin was happy here in this job. Kevin, as Father Thrall, could make a difference.
The students were tough city kids who longed for the chance to get out in the world and do something. Be somebody. Escape this life. Most of them in Father Thrall’s basketball squad had stuck it out, a tribute to their abiding respect for him and his program. And to their gratitude to him. They’d pegged him as a rebel, an iconoclast, and they admired him because they identified with him. It made it easier to deal with his military style of discipline.
At forty-two, Kevin Thrall was aware, and had come to terms, with his appearance. He knew he looked older than his years. It didn’t surprise him, given the knots in his life. Already his chestnut hair was speckled with flecks of gray and his blue eyes were lined more than they should’ve been. He didn’t mind. His six-foot, lean stature made him attractive to members of the opposite sex, which might’ve meant more to him if he’d been in another line of work. Still, it didn’t hurt to have women looking, smiling coyly at him. Some didn’t seem to care he was a priest.
This morning, Kevin had planned inter-squad drills, five-on-five, half-court. The boys, ranging in ages from thirteen to sixteen, fell in, played hard. With Father Thrall around, there could be no trash talk. That was the rule, unless the trash talk came from Father Thrall himself.
Kevin whistled at a particularly nasty foul; the play stopped.
“What the—? Sean, what was that, huh? A mugging?”
“I’m sorry, Father,” Sean said. Six feet tall and lanky, as if he hadn’t quite grown into his arms and legs, the fifteen-year-old bent to help a teammate up off the concrete.
“You okay, Lamar?”
“Yep, Coach. Fine.”
Kevin whistled, and the scrimmage started anew, just as Lamar drilled a three-pointer from the corner of the court.
A minute later, Bob Mather, St. Anthony’s headmaster, appeared suddenly on the edge of the court, signaling to Kevin. In his mid-fifties, Mather, partially bald, was on the heavy side. “Too many doughnuts,” he’d always say, patting his belly.
As the headmaster paced, Kevin couldn’t help but notice the tension pulling on his face. What now? The last thing Kevin needed was a confrontation with a self-important, pain-in-the-ass administrator who thought he was running a major university, not a third-rate high school.
“Excuse me, Father Thrall,” Mather hollered. Kevin motioned for play to continue while hustling to the sideline.
Out of the earshot of the players, Mather began speaking, his finger waggling, “Listen, Kevin, I’ve got a problem with Sister Helen. Apparently, your team has snazzy new uniforms. Her girls’ hockey team has no uniforms at all.”
Kevin grimaced. “You know where they came from, Bob? Me. I bought ’em. I’m not interested in hearing Sister Helen’s complaints.”
“Yeah, well it looks real bad if some teams have ’em and others don’t.”
“Listen, these kids have lousy home lives. What they need is personal pride and conviction. The uniforms provide that.” Kevin turned to the court, yelping, “Barkley, post up! Post up!” His look lingered on the lanky sophomore. What kind of world did these kids have without team sports? Most were products of single moms, drug-infested homes, poor nutrition, and the absence of paternal or spiritual guidance. Kevin wanted to help. Sometimes it was a losing battle, but when it was going well, he felt whole and satisfied. It was a special feeling, sacred, sublime joyfulness.
Mather straightened to his full stubbiness, squaring his shoulders. His face was rosy, aglow. “My decision is no new uniforms, unless all the school teams get them,” he said with as much authority as his high-pitched voice could muster. To Kevin, he looked like a squirrel with nuts stuffed in his cheeks.
Kevin glared at him. “Please, you’re interrupting my practice.”
“This isn’t over.”
“For now it is.” Kevin turned away.
“Not so fast, Father. You’ve got a visitor in my office. An emissary. From the Vatican.”
“What?” said Father Thrall, whipping his head around.
“Yessirree. Showed me his ID.” Mather grinned smugly. “Maybe some disciplinary committee from Rome. I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Suddenly Kevin remembered the early morning call he’d missed.
“Sean, take over the drill!” Yanking the cord from his neck, Kevin tossed the whistle to the young man. His mind racing, he traipsed behind Mather into the school building.
At the far end of the school’s main corridor, Mather’s office showcased an assortment of vintage sports trophies, stacks and stacks of books, and an enormous World War II-era desk with ladder-back chairs.
The Vatican emissary stood stoically to the side, briefcase in hand. He appeared roughly the same age as Kevin, with olive skin and black eyes. His face was proud and dignified. On first impression, perhaps from his polished manner and speech, Kevin assumed this guy came from a well-heeled Italian family. He was dressed in formal priestly attire, a dark suit with the traditional white turned collar. However, he wasn’t just a priest. The red buttons dotting his vest told his story: This guy was a monsignor. Standing in Mather’s office, his formal appea
rance contrasted markedly with Kevin’s, who sported a tattered gray tee, beat-up sneakers, and his couture-of-the-times, long, baggy basketball shorts.
“This is Father Kevin Thrall,” said Mather.
“Good morning,” the monsignor said with a nearly perfect American intonation. With a slightly limp wrist, he offered his hand. “I’m Monsignor Massimo Drotti from Rome. I’m sorry to intrude at such an early hour.”
“No problem. Nice to meet you,” said Kevin, shaking his hand.
“The pleasure is mine, Father Thrall,” Drotti said. “I’m here from Rome to talk to you.”
“Oh, was it you who called my cell at four this morning?”
“Indeed it was,” Drotti replied with an unapologetic smile.
“Now, please,” said Mather, interrupting the two men, pointing to the chairs in front of the desk. “Please. Have a seat.” He walked to his desk, seating himself, and opened his appointment calendar.
Watching Mather, Kevin suppressed a smile. He recognized the headmaster’s behavior. He was puffing up, trying to look important.
“Are you American?” Kevin asked Drotti.
“Well, yes and no. My father is American, my mother Italian. I was educated at Boston College, but since then I’ve spent my time in Rome. I understand you were in Rome for a while, as well.”
“Yes, I studied at the Theologica,” Kevin replied. He was twitching in his seat, eager for the monsignor to get to the point. Whatever it was bringing him all the way from Rome, it must be mighty important.
Drotti said, “Mr. Mather, I’m here to inform you that Father Thrall has been summoned to Rome and will be taking a leave from the school.”
What? Kevin beamed laser eyes on Drotti, then looked back at Mather. What the hell?
Mather’s eyes widened. He snapped, “Without the bishop’s consent, he’s not going anywhere.”
Kevin felt his fate being played, back and forth, like a ping-pong ball.
Drotti smiled, nodding. “Of course. The papal nuncio here in Washington spoke with His Excellency this morning. It’s all arranged. I thank you for your attention to protocol. Now, Mr. Mather, I must speak privately with Father Thrall.”