Sister Mary Catherine said, “Over the years, we’ve asked that same question. The truth is, we just don’t know.”
“Who was in the library at the time?” Kevin asked.
Calvi thought for a moment. “Cardinal Umberto Silvano, Cardinal Claudio Marini, who is with the secretariat of state, Cardinal Serrano, and Cardinal Bartilucci, who was the predecessor of Cardinal Porter. And there were several junior clerics and attendants. Of course, I was present.”
Kevin scribbled some notes, put his notebook away. “Monsignor Calvi, what do we know about the circumstances under which Lucia wrote the secret in 1944?”
Calvi frowned. “We know that what you’ve just seen she wrote in the presence of the bishop of Leira and a young man, a cousin of Lucia, who assisted the bishop.” Calvi hesitated for a moment before continuing. “In fact, before she died, I met Lucia, along with her cousin who helped her when she wrote the document in 1944. Her cousin went on to become a priest, you know.”
Kevin signaled to Max that it was time to leave.
“Thank you for your time,” said Kevin. “And thank you for allowing me to read the original document.”
“You are most welcome. I hope it’s helped,” said Calvi.
Max Drotti accompanied Kevin back to his quarters, retracing their walk past St. Peter’s and up the hill to Villa Domenica. The sun was setting in faint orange hues along the gardens and the west side of St. Peter’s Basilica.
“You look troubled, Max,” Kevin said as they were approaching his apartment.
“I thought you ended that meeting rather abruptly,” Drotti said.
“Yes, but for a reason. I’ve got an idea, Max. I need you to do some research. I did a quick calculation in the meeting. The cousin who was there when Lucia wrote the secret had to have been a teenager in 1944. We were told that he later became a priest. If he’s still alive he’d be in his eighties. Would you find out his name and see if he’s still with us? I’d like to meet him.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Fatima, Portugal
It took Max only a couple of hours to get the answers he was looking for about Lucia’s teenage cousin. Yes, the teenager who’d helped Lucia in 1944 was alive. His name was Father Alberto Salazar. He was a retired priest who lived close to Fatima, near Lisbon, Portugal.
Drotti arranged for the pope’s secretariat to phone Father Salazar and inform him that two priests from the Vatican wanted to talk with him. When the pope’s chief of staff called Max back, he cautioned that Father Salazar was very perplexed by the request, but felt it was his duty to oblige. The meeting was set for two days from now. Drotti made the plane reservations for him and Kevin to go to Lisbon.
The day before their departure, Kevin phoned Max to brief him on strategies.
“We’ve got to assume the Opus Mundi crowd is watching us,” Kevin said. “We obstructed their plot to assassinate the pope, so we need to take special precautions. They’ve already come after me once; I’m sure I’ll still be a target.”
“I’m worried that I’m in over my head, Kevin. You have far more experience with this sort of frolic.”
“Max, don’t worry. There’s method to my madness. We’ll stick together. You’ll be fine. Here’s what we’ll do. First, we won’t travel to the airport together. We’ll split up. Max, I want you to take a cab tomorrow morning to the main railroad station—”
“Stazione Termini,” Max said.
“Right. You’ll likely be followed. Take a commuter train. At the second stop, jump out just before the doors close. Chances are they won’t get a chance to follow you. Take the first train back to Termini and then grab a cab straight to the airport. I’ll meet you there. Then we’ll board our flight to Lisbon separately.”
“This sounds like espionage intrigue. What about you?” Max asked. “How are you going to get there?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m used to this stuff.”
The following morning, both men arrived at Leonardo da Vinci Airport. They didn’t acknowledge each other’s presence. When he spotted Max, Kevin breathed a sigh of relief. He suppressed a smile at Max’s dress: flashy sport jacket, tie, and leather briefcase. They boarded their flight, but sat in different rows.
Once they landed in Lisbon, Kevin and Max rented a car and drove the two hours to Fatima. To get to the small community in the hills north of the capital of Portugal, they wound around twisting narrow roads, a harrowing car ride, indeed.
Finally, once in Fatima, Kevin and Max parked in a public parking lot, and wandered the streets of the town, strolling the undulating cobbled paths, flanked by an endless number of small hotels, colorful souvenir shops, and quaint pensiones.
“Let’s find a place to stay the night,” said Kevin.
“This looks good,” said Drotti as they came upon a hotel with distressed green shutters. It had a sign with two stars, and an inviting lobby was furnished with simple, functional sofas and a reception desk. The clerk offered them a room for two, with a half bath, for sixty euros a night, including breakfast and dinner. The room had two small beds and a crucifix on the wall. It suited them fine. After settling in around five p.m., they had the rest of the evening to do as they wished.
Dinner at the hotel was served promptly at eight p.m. They were told not to be late. Their meeting with Father Alberto Salazar was scheduled for nine a.m. the following morning, and they wanted to get to bed early. A translator would be provided by the Vatican.
Kevin and Max made their way to the Shrine of Our Lady of Fatima.
One problem for Kevin with this special assignment was that his priestly routine was being compromised. Kevin hadn’t said Mass in over a week, and now he’d arranged with the rector of the Sanctuary of Fatima to say Mass in one of the most special places of worship in Christendom. Being from the Vatican had its privileges. In Washington, rarely would Kevin go more than three or four days without saying Mass. Since his arrival in Rome, his routine had fallen apart. He yearned to get it back.
Approaching the basilica, both men were awed by the huge expanse of the esplanade, an area that could hold several hundred thousand souls during the Season of the Miracles, when pilgrims gathered to commemorate holy apparitions. This wide area that culminated in the imposing Basilica was originally the Cova da Iria, an ordinary patch of hilly land where villagers had once herded sheep and led simple, pastoral lives. No longer. A rotunda, almost as big as the one in front of St. Peter’s, encircled the neoclassical church with a single gleaming spire. The approach to the church was surrounded by a colonnade, creating a plaza where the attendants could stand and participate in services of prayer and meditation. Some made their way to the basilica on their knees, praying the rosary as they inched forward.
The men entered the basilica on their way to the rectory and knelt before the main altar. They marveled at the striking painting above the altar depicting our Lady of Fatima along with the three children. In particular, Kevin noticed the mural with the portraits of several popes. Missing was John Paul II, who credited the secret of Fatima with saving his life when Mehmet Ali Agca shot him in St. Peter’s Square in 1981, on the anniversary of the first apparition at Fatima.
After a few moments, Kevin and Max rose and proceeded to the rectory and a reception area for visiting clergy. A Franciscan brother checked the men’s credentials. Upon recognizing Kevin’s name, he straightened smartly.
“Arrangements have been made, Father,” he said. “You will be saying Mass at the Chapel of Apparitions.” He handed a stack of vestments to Kevin and turned to Drotti. “And you, monsignor, may say Mass at altar number four in the basilica. These are dedicated to the Mysteries of the Rosary.” The two priests might have concelebrated Mass at the same altar, as permitted by Vatican II, but Kevin preferred to say Mass alone.
Both men took their vestments and went to an adjoining room to change. Max didn’t say anything, but gave a look to Kevin that implied, “How did you arrange that?”
Dressed for the s
ervice, Drotti went to his assigned altar in the basilica while Kevin went back outside, down the stairs to the covered, open air chapel to his right. His heart raced as he approached the white marble pedestal on which stood the statue of Virgin Mary, perhaps the most beautiful one he had ever seen. She held a gold rosary in her hands, which were joined together in prayer. On her head rested a large gold crown to which precious jewels were added as adornment.
In 1917, this was the exact spot where the Virgin had appeared to the young shepherds. To Kevin, this felt sacred.
Looking at the Blessed Mother, Kevin felt the pull of a special allegiance with her. I know you, he thought. And you know me. I don’t know why I’m here, but I accept your command with all my heart.
Bowing, Kevin turned to the altar where he was scheduled to say Mass. The altar was a simple slab of white marble on which stood a gold chalice and two candles. A number of pilgrims and nuns sat attentively in a semicircle around the altar, awaiting the start of Kevin’s Mass. Kevin arranged the items on the altar, still unnerved by the thought of standing on the spot where the Virgin Mary had appeared to three peasant children.
To serve God, to honor Mary who speaks to my soul, sending me messages I cannot know the meaning of? Is this what my life is about? he wondered.
After Mass, Kevin and Max reunited and walked through the narrow streets of the village to their hotel. As night fell and the time of the candlelight procession approached, the crowds swelled. To participate in the procession from the basilica to the site of the apparitions, many pilgrims carried candles.
Kevin was taking it all in. “There’s truly something special here,” he said. “More than at other miracle sites.”
“The spirituality is penetrating. I feel it in my bones,” Max said.
I feel it, too, Kevin thought. It’s a feeling which envelops me relentlessly and never lets up.
Dinner at the hotel was a lively affair with a number of pilgrims, clerics, and others. Everyone was seated side by side at long communal tables in the hotel’s modest restaurant. At the end of the dinner, Kevin raised his glass in a toast.
“No matter what happens tomorrow, here’s to our being together. I’m glad we came. Thanks, Max.”
Max seemed overcome by Kevin’s words, his lower lip quivering. He looked away at the diners in the restaurant, but said nothing.
After a brief walk outside for some fresh air, they retired to their room, read for a while, and called it a night.
The meeting with Father Salazar, who in 1944 had helped the teenage Lucia, transcribe the secret, would take place in the rectory of St. Anthony of Padua, a small church on the outskirts of town. The two-story building had an office downstairs, and a small apartment above where Father Salazar lived.
Apart from a table and a few chairs, there was little else in the room. A large poster of Our Lady and a wooden crucifix adorned the far wall.
The young nun greeting them had a familiar face. Kevin recognized her right away.
“Hello, Fathers.” She smiled. “It’s good to see you again. I’m Sister Mary Catherine. We met in Monsignor Calvi’s office.”
“And you will translate?” Max asked.
She smiled. “I’m from Fall River, Massachusetts. We speak more Portuguese there than English!” Indeed, at one time, Fall River was the largest Portuguese American community in the United States. “Call me MC if you like.” Her voice was distinctive, high-pitched, like a schoolgirl’s.
As they were conversing, Father Salazar was wheeled into the room. His head lowered, his hair was tousled. He wasn’t smiling. As he peered up, his eyes were sad. And he looked older than his eighty-six years. With a nod, he invited the guests to sit at the oak table in the center of the room. Kevin sensed some hostility to their visit. He concluded that the old priest didn’t want to answer any questions at all, but given the source of the request, he was obliged to obey.
Max spoke first. He started by saying that their mission was authorized by His Holiness himself. This didn’t seem to move Father Salazar. His dour expression remained unchanged. Max went on to say that they had a few questions for him, and they’d be obliged if he’d do his best to answer them.
Kevin spoke next. “Thank you for receiving us, Father,” he began. “I understand that, as a young man, you assisted Sister Lucia dos Santos in 1944 with the transcribing of the secret of Fatima.”
Father Salazar nodded, speaking quietly. “But why are you asking me these questions?” MC was scribbling away, translating for those present.
“I can’t give you answers, Father,” Kevin replied. “I can only say the security of the Church is at stake.”
With a puzzled look, Salazar turned to Sister Mary Catherine. She whispered something to him. He nodded.
“Yes, I was with Sister Lucia,” he replied. “She was ill, worried she might die. She spoke to the bishop who advised her to transcribe the last secret and send it to Rome. The next day she had a vision from Mary, who told her to do as the bishop had requested. That’s when I helped her.”
Kevin didn’t respond immediately. His next question was important. Leaning over, he whispered to Max. Then he went on. “I must ask you certain questions, Father. I hope they’ll not offend you, but I must ask them. First, have you yourself personally read the secret?”
MC scribbled, reread her notes, and translated in a fluster.
Salazar was appalled at the question. “Of course not!”
Kevin continued without pausing, “How many have you told about assisting Lucia with the letter?”
Father Salazar frowned and continued in a weak voice. MC stopped writing and translated directly. “I spoke with Pope Quintus II, Monsignor Calvi, and His Holiness Paul VI.”
“And would you remember how many pages in total Lucia had written at the time?”
Another quizzical look from the old priest.
“Seis,” he responded.
“Six?” Kevin repeated.
Max and Kevin locked eyes, eyebrows raised.
“Seis,” the elderly priest confirmed.
After a few more questions, Kevin and Max thanked Father Salazar, apologizing for having taken so much of his time. Sister Mary Catherine showed them out.
As they checked out of the hotel and booked a late afternoon return flight to Rome, the men were deep in thought, feeling reflective. They said little as they drove south to Lisbon.
Finally Drotti said, “It’s about the pages, isn’t it?”
Kevin kept his eyes on the road, nodding. “Right. I think so, anyway. I held the secret in my hands. There were only four pages. So whatever it is that’s spooked Opus Mundi is on the two pages that are missing. The two missing pages of the secret must have disappeared sometime between May 13, 1981, when Agca tried to kill John Paul II, and last year, when Quintus II read it. The four pages I read contained nothing alarming. We’ve got to find those two missing pages.”
Max tapped the dashboard. “So from this we can deduce with certainty it must have been the last two pages that caused John Paul I’s fatal heart attack.”
Kevin nodded.
Max shook his head. “I just can’t imagine what could be on those pages that would incite Opus Mundi to kill the pope.”
“Something scarier than we can even imagine.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rome, Italy
His arms propping up his head, Kevin was sitting at the desk deep in thought, his eyes fixated on the laptop screen. Katie’s email reminded him that he’d made a commitment he really didn’t want to keep. He was knee-deep in the mystery of the secret and finding the two missing pages was his priority. But where to begin? In her email, Katie had said she was thrilled Kevin would be coming to Sarajevo, to baptize the baby and to meet Jimmy. She was planning to arrive on Tuesday and hoped Kevin could join her for dinner. Jimmy was travelling from New York and wouldn’t arrive until later that night. Dinner alone with Katie? Kevin thought. Not a tough decision. In fact, a no-brainer.
When Max phoned, Kevin had settled on the sofa with his laptop to check flights.
“I’m going to be away for a few days next week, Max,” Kevin said.
“Shall I guess why?”
“No. You’ll likely guess right, which’ll just piss me off.”
“Can I help?” Drotti laughed.
“No, thanks. I’m going to Sarajevo to baptize Katie’s adopted child,” Kevin said.
“Sarajevo? I’m coming over, Kevin. I have things to tell you.”
Kevin barely had put the phone down when Max arrived, out of breath, holding a folder under his arm. He wiped sweat from his brow and plunked down in the armchair facing the sofa.
“If I said your behavior was strange, it’d be a gross understatement,” Kevin said. With a Peroni in one hand, he offered one to Max, who accepted it without saying a word.
Max pulled a map out of the papers he was holding. “Medjugorje is about 160 kilometers from Sarajevo. Our Lady wants you to go there.”
“Please tell me you’re not plagued by apparitions, too, Max.”
“No, no. Be serious. You’re familiar with Our Lady’s appearance at Medjugorje. These are the most trusted recent apparitions by the Virgin Mary. She appears regularly to six visionaries and has told them a total of ten secrets.”
Kevin nodded. Maybe Max was on to something.
Max pulled another page from his stack. “Listen to this. It’s a transcript of Our Lady’s message to the visionaries on August 25, 1991. Here, I’ll read you the salient parts:
“Dear children, today, I also invite you to prayer, now as never before when my plan has begun to be realized. Satan is strong and wants to sweep away plans of peace and joy and make you think that my Son is not strong in His decisions … I invite you to renunciation for nine days so that with your help, everything I wanted to realize through the secrets I began in Fatima may be fulfilled.”
“She referenced Fatima?”
“Yes!” Max almost shouted. “You’ve got to go to Medjugorje, Kevin. Our Lady must have planned this.”
The Secret of Fatima Page 13
