The Secret of Fatima

by Tanous, Peter J;

  “I’ve never met a man who killed another man … on purpose,” Drotti said. “Are you are suggesting you have no remorse?”

  “You don’t know the whole story,” said Kevin.

  “But Kevin, you’re a priest. You took solemn vows. It’s a mortal sin.”

  “So is missing Mass on Sunday. Back off,” said Kevin. “You don’t understand.”

  “You’re frightening me with this kind of talk.”

  Kevin shot up from his chair, shouting, “The man I killed had raped a young girl, Max!Judge that, will ya? What would you have done? Grant him absolution and tell him to say three Our Father’s and three Hail Mary’s?” Kevin’s face was beet red. He looked away from Drotti. “Max, every night I see her face. I’ve never seen such fear and hopelessness.” Kevin’s eyes were moist. “And after it was all over, she found the strength to look at me and thank me.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Drotti. “I didn’t know any of this. I can see this must have been an impossibly difficult situation for you.”

  “Yeah, it was hell. A kind of hell you had to be there to understand.”

  “I can’t begin to imagine,” said Drotti.

  “I wonder what you’d have done, monsignor?”

  “I don’t know,” Drotti said slowly. “I honestly can’t say.” Drotti paused for a second. “But you aren’t God.”

  “I’ll deal with God,” said Kevin.

  “Look, I didn’t mean to make you angry, Kevin,” Drotti said. “Clearly, this is not easy for you.”

  “No, it’s not,” said Kevin. “And since I wasn’t an ordained priest then, the situation was different. Still, I stand by my actions.”

  “Why don’t we just leave this subject, discuss it another time?” asked Drotti.

  “Sure,” said Kevin. “Sorry I got so angry”

  Drotti stood up. “Look, Kev, I need to go. I’m saying Mass tonight at 5:00.”

  “OK”

  “Why don’t we have dinner later after you’ve had some time to rest?” asked Drotti. “I know a great little trattoria not far away.”

  “Sure.”

  After Drotti gave him directions, Kevin sat in his apartment alone, nursing a Scotch. He wasn’t sure why he still got so upset about his time in Iraq. Perhaps one never gets over something like that. Not even with absolution and the gift of priesthood.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rome, Italy

  At eight p.m., Kevin waited at the bar of San Angelo, not far from St. Peter’s. This was the kind of place which tourists all hoped to stumble upon. It was an old-fashioned trattoria with only a few tables, and lots of wall-mounted photographs showing its steadfast celebrity clientele. There were lively young Italians three deep at the bar, noisily chatting it up, drinking.

  Waiting for Drotti, Kevin ordered a Scotch at the bar. When he joined Kevin, Drotti was a half hour late and was huffing and puffing. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “It’s OK, Max,” Kevin said. “I just fended off a beehive of great looking women.”

  Max caught his breath. “Just before I left, I received a call from Cardinal Gianni Serrano. You met him in the pontiff’s office, remember? He told me he was taking charge of the ‘incident’ that happened today, as he called it, and news of it mustn’t leak out. He said it’d be handled internally.”

  “Fine with me,” Kevin said, gulping the last slug of his Scotch. “C’mon, let’s sit down. I’m hungry.”

  Kevin was beginning to like Drotti. He’d relaxed and was more accessible and understanding. He knew his way around the Vatican and had insight into the circle that counted. But there were rules Kevin wanted to discuss.

  The two men got up and secured a quieter corner table so they could hear themselves talk over the noise.

  A waiter approached them and asked, “Un po di antipastino per cominciare?”

  The waiter ran through a litany of antipasti appetizers to start. Kevin’s stock answer was no, because a first course would spoil his appetite. But tonight he was ravenous. “Che cos’e? Affettati?” he asked.

  “No, no,” said the waiter. “Un po di questo, un po di quello, tutto caldo. It’s a little of this, a little of that, and all of it is warm.”

  “OK,” said Kevin. “Sound good to you, Max?”

  Max nodded good-naturedly, happy Kevin was no longer dispirited from their earlier conversation.

  As the little plates started arriving, there were two small crostini—made of pane di lariano and topped with whipped ricotta, drizzled with freshly pressed extra virgin olive oil. Then a wooden trencher full of steaming sugo-topped polenta with a sprinkling of fragrant parmesan. After a stressful day, it was just what they needed.

  After Kevin and Drotti made small talk, Kevin got serious, clearing his throat. “Max, I’d like to designate you as my good friend. My best listening friend, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Of course.” Max nodded while munching on a piece of bread.

  “And as my friend, I’ll talk to you about things that I wouldn’t discuss with anyone else, you understand?”

  “Of course.”

  “First, complete honesty. No backhanded deals or divided loyalties. OK?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Good. Then let’s start with the real reason I’m here.”

  “I don’t understand. What do you mean?” asked Drotti.

  “Don’t play games, Max. If we’re going to be friends, you can’t be evasive with me.”

  Drotti put down his fork, and looked Kevin straight in the eye. “It’s true that we didn’t tell you everything at the beginning, but now you know the real reason. I understand His Holiness himself told you about the secret of Fatima. We believe there’s something in the message that we’re not getting—that we don’t fully understand—which may ultimately destroy the Church.”

  Kevin shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Look, I believe in the Church and its mission. But this hokey fairytale of secrets told to children by the Virgin Mary appearing all over the place for them, is far-fetched.”

  “Well, I do believe in miracles,” Drotti said. “Don’t you?”

  Kevin hesitated. “Not sure.”

  “My beliefs come from deep faith and from hard evidence. Kevin, remember, at Lourdes, Bernadette came back with the phrase, ‘the Immaculate Conception’. A fourteen-year-old peasant girl wouldn’t have known such a phrase.”

  Kevin nodded. “I know. I know. I’m not saying I don’t believe in miracles—I do. But not all of them. Fatima is about as real as it gets for me. There were 70,000 witnesses to the miracle of the sun. It’s the so-called ‘secrets’ Mary supposedly voiced that I take issue with. These were a bunch of kids. They might have misunderstood.”

  “Wait a minute,” Max said. “Before we talk about the secrets, I want you to look at something.” He grabbed his leather briefcase from a side chair and pulled out his iPad. “Here, my dear Doubting Thomas, take a look at this!” Max pressed a button on the tablet; it sprang to life. “Let’s see what you think of this. Do you recall the Virgin Mary’s appearance at Zeitoun in Egypt in 1968?”

  Kevin searched his memory. “I don’t remember.”

  “In April 1968, the Virgin Mary appeared for weeks over a Coptic Church in Zeitoun, a suburb of Cairo. But unlike appearances in the nineteenth century when there were no photographs, in 1968 we had television! And there are shots of her appearance. Plus, it was broadcast live. On Egyptian television.”

  “Are you sure about this?” Kevin asked.

  “Look it up. There were numerous articles and photos in the press at the time. Here.” Max placed the iPad on the table. “Here is a photo taken of one of the appearances.”

  Kevin stared at the picture. “How do you know it’s not photoshopped?”

  Drotti smiled. “We’re not fools, my friend. The picture was examined and reexamined by experts, and remember, hundreds of people witnessed this. It’s real.”

  “Impressive, Max,” he said. “But right now,
I’ve got a problem with another miracle, the one I was summoned here for. I’ve got some good friends at the CIA and they told me the secret contained no discernible secret message. So what was it Opus Mundi saw that no one else could figure out?”

  Drotti took his napkin, dabbed his mouth, then lifted his wineglass. “Maybe you and I should look at the original.”

  Kevin picked up his wineglass, too, and took a sip. They’d chosen Prosecco, a much-loved sparkling wine from the Veneto area of Italy.

  “Yes. Good point. I think we need to see the original,” said Kevin.

  Max said, “Only the pope can touch the secret of Fatima. Perhaps an exception can be made, no?”

  “And I know just the person to do it.” Kevin smiled while raising his glass in a toast.

  The waiter approached with their entrees of lasagna al forno. With layers of noodles, meat, ricotta cheese, and a tomato sauce, it smelled delicious.

  “What is it about this secret, anyway?” asked Kevin as he dove into the lasagna. “The pope reveals it to the world in 2000, and it’s still causing problems.”

  “It’s still a big deal, Kevin. Right after the pope made the secret public, on May 14, 2000, the New York Times ran a front page story about the revelation of the secret of Fatima. Mind you, on the front page!”

  Drotti refilled both their wineglasses.

  Kevin asked, “Can you get us permission to see the original by tomorrow?”

  “Vediamo,” Max responded. Another clink of glasses. “We’ll see.”

  But Kevin took a deep breath, confident his new best friend was the best man on the job.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Rome, Italy

  Kevin woke up groggy. Too much Prosecco, and the Scotch chasers didn’t help, either. He finished his second cup of coffee when the phone buzzed. Katie. Her call couldn’t have come at a better time. Just hearing her voice brightened his mood.

  “How are you, Kevin?” Katie asked. Her voice sounded like honey melting on a hot biscuit.

  “Fine … sort of,” he said.

  “Oh? Did something happen?”

  “It’s too much to go into right now.”

  “God, Kevin, I hope you’re taking care of yourself.”

  “Mmm, yes and no. I could use some help in that department.”

  Katie laughed faintly, but ignored his innuendo.

  “I have a favor to ask,” she said.

  “What? Your boyfriend needs Hebrew lessons?”

  “Funny. Listen, I got a letter from the agency in Bosnia. My new baby boy is expected to be born in three weeks. I need to go there to pick him up.”

  “Congratulations, Katie. You’ll make a wonderful mother.”

  “Kevin, I want to ask if you’ll join me at the orphanage and baptize my son.”

  An awkward silence followed.

  “Kevin?”

  “I’m here, Katie.” Kevin didn’t relish the thought of being with her when she picked up her new son. Would she bring her fiancé? His heart ached at the thought of seeing her under these circumstances. Frankly, he dreaded it.

  “Of course I’ll do it,” he said, casting off the warning bells.

  “That’s great. And Jimmy will be coming, too, so you’ll get to meet him!”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Thanks again, Kevin. This is so important to me. We’ll meet in Sarajevo. I’ll email you the details.”

  “Great, Katie. Can’t wait.”

  “Another question if you don’t mind,” Katie said, her tone serious. “Did you and your friends check up on Greg Maggio’s company that I asked you about?”

  Kevin hesitated a split second. He had not wanted to burden Toby with this, so he had just googled the man’s name and the company name and found nothing of interest. “Yes,” Kevin replied. “Nothing particularly suspicious at this point.”

  “Thanks, Kev. That’s a relief. Look forward to seeing you in Sarajevo!”

  Hanging up, he wondered how he’d get out of this. One thing he was sure of: He didn’t want to meet “Jimmy” and watch his beloved Katie go off with him and a new baby to “happy ever after.”

  Kevin remained sprawled on the couch, the phone clutched in his hand. He knew there was no way out of this. If he declined to baptize Katie’s baby, she would be hurt and disappointed. It would create an obstacle to their continued relationship, one she wouldn’t forget.

  Thank you, Lord, for yet another challenge.

  Chapter Twenty

  Rome, Italy

  The following morning, when Kevin opened the door to his apartment, Monsignor Max Drotti greeted him warmly.

  “Mornin’,” said Kevin.

  “Mornin’ to you, my friend. It’s all done!” Drotti exclaimed. “Permission granted. I redeemed a special favor for this. Shall we go?”

  Kevin smiled. “Great. I knew I could count on you, Max. I’ll get my jacket.”

  Drotti and Kevin went to the office of Monsignor Antonio Calvi, archivist of the Vatican since 1974. The archives were located in a subterranean network of offices and storage facilities beneath the Vatican museum complex. Calvi, eighty-four years old, was waiting for them at the door, grinning, looking every bit his age.

  Sister Mary Catherine Powell, his assistant, an American nun from Massachusetts, sat by his side.

  “Bienvenuto!” the old man greeted them enthusiastically. Introductions were made all around. Sister Mary Catherine seemed particularly pleased to meet them. Kevin noticed she was tall and pretty with auburn hair like Katie’s. Probably around thirty years old. To Kevin, her perky demeanor and flashing blue eyes made her seem more of a high school cheerleader than a nun.

  Calvi spoke good, but not fluent, English. “May I escort you in a piccolo tour before we sit?” he asked.

  Without waiting for a reply, Calvi led them past towering shelves of old books and manuscripts, through the room containing records of every bishop and cardinal’s appointments for the past six hundred years. The ambiance made Kevin imagine the set of a witchcraft gothic horror movie where cobwebs were hanging from the ceiling of a dungeon filled with books.

  Calvi led them down the corridor of indulgences—the official granting of exemptions from suffering for those who’d earned the right to spend less time in Purgatory. Apparently, there weren’t too many students or scholars with access to this trove of exclusive information.

  As they moved along, Calvi gave explanations of the various documents. Another turn brought them to the Miscellanea. Kevin’s heart skipped a beat when his eyes landed on the file containing the letters of Joan of Arc, used against her in 1431 at her trial. He’d always been fascinated with the whole story of Joan of Arc.

  Arriving at Calvi’s office, Kevin thought to himself that it was exactly what he’d imagined: Worn wooden furniture, a carved Italian table resting below a brass chandelier hanging from the cathedral ceiling. Dracula would love this place, Kevin thought as they took seats around the table. He couldn’t help but think nostalgically of the times he and Katie had watched horror movies. Knowing he’d miss those trysts, he winced.

  “I’ve been told about your mission, Father Thrall,” Calvi began. “I’m quite surprised. No one, besides the sitting pope of course, has ever touched the secret. But I know I must follow orders.” Calvi threw his head back and struck a pose, looking upward, as if to say his order had come from the highest authority.

  With that, Calvi rose and removed a painting of St. Mark from the wall, to reveal behind it an embedded safe. He squinted dialing the combination numbers. “I can assure you,” he said, “since I knew you would be coming, this is only a temporary placement. The secret is normally stored in the most secure part of the archives.”

  From the safe, Calvi removed a jeweled velvet pouch sealed with crimson wax on which a mark had been embedded. As he broke the seal, his face was gnarled with pain. Slowly, his eyes focused as he gingerly removed four sheets of yellowing paper, handwritten and dated 1944. He placed them on a table d
irectly in front of Kevin. “Here,” he said. “Please don’t take long. It’s fragile.”

  Kevin picked up the pages one by one and examined each one. He couldn’t fully understand the written Portuguese script, although the writing was clear and the letters well formed. Was there a clue in something other than the text? Kevin perused the secret while the others in the room with him held their breath. The haunting quiet continued for several minutes. No one dared interrupt while Kevin absorbed the document’s contents.

  Finally, after about twenty minutes, Kevin laid the pages on the table and signaled to Monsignor Calvi that he’d finished. Calvi breathed a sigh of relief and went about reinserting the pages into the pouch.

  “If I may, monsignor, I’d like to ask a few questions,” Kevin said.

  Monsignor Calvi looked at Monsignor Drotti for a signal and Drotti nodded ever so slightly. “Yes, Father,” Calvi said. “Prego.”

  Kevin took his notebook out of his jacket. “Would you confirm for me the last time the secret was removed from the safe?”

  Calvi’s voice dropped an octave. He sounded grave. “It was May 13, 1981, the day John Paul II asked to read the secret.”

  Sister Mary Catherine piped in, “Monsignor Calvi personally took it to the papal library. That was the day His Holiness was shot by Mehmet Ali Agca in the Square. His Holiness was whisked straight to the hospital. He didn’t return to read the secret.” Her head dropped in sadness.

  “His Holiness Quintus II hasn’t read it?” Kevin asked.

  “He has, Father, but he read it here in the archives. It wasn’t removed.”

  Kevin nodded. “Did anyone else have access to the secret that day in May 1981?”

  Calvi shrugged. “The secret was in its pouch on the table in the library. When the pope was shot, everyone ran to the window to observe the … uh … activity in the Square. There was much shock, much commotion, as you can imagine.”

  “So it’s possible that it was compromised,” Kevin commented.