The Secret of Fatima

by Tanous, Peter J;

  Kevin took inventory. First, he’d successfully recovered the missing pages of the secret—a major accomplishment. The leather envelope lay securely under his mattress, its wax seal intact. Second, he uncovered Opus Mundi’s plan to go to the U.S. for an “operation.” “Operation” was deadly when it came to Opus Mundi.

  Third, Kevin wondered about Katie, if she was in danger. And who was this Jimmy Stein? Could he be setting up Katie to get at Kevin? Perhaps. If that was the strategy, it would get his full attention. And if so, how was Jimmy Stein involved? Who was Jimmy Stein? What was his game? Too many unanswered questions.

  Fourth, Kevin had decided to talk to MC’s priest friend, get whatever information out of him he could, regardless of the cost in lives, or in lofty principles.

  Fifth, soon he and Toby would have to go release the prisoners at the apartment building. Or, maybe they should just leave them, he thought. But no, not possible, bad idea. He wouldn’t want them to die of dehydration.

  The next morning, Kevin and Toby awoke early and went to the apartment. Entering, they could see Roberto and his friend weren’t there—they’d escaped!

  “Well, that’s either good news or bad,” Toby said.

  “Meaning what?” Kevin asked.

  “Well, either they got free by themselves and have split town; or some of their Opus Mundi operatives found them, which means they’re now hunting for us,” said Toby.

  “Another reason to get out of Seville,” said Kevin.

  The two hustled back to their hotel and started packing. Already packed, Max was patiently waiting for them. He asked if Kevin was going to try to see the pope.

  “Yes, as soon as we get back to Rome,” Kevin replied. “I’ve got something he wants.” Kevin smiled and held up the pouch. He then put it in his leather briefcase and locked it.

  “Aren’t you going to read it?” Toby asked as he closed his suitcase and put it on the floor.

  “I’ve got orders from the pope not to read it,” Kevin said.

  “Look, pal,” Toby said. “As far as I’m concerned, there may be something in those pages having to do with national security. You’ve got some extremely radical Catholic group killing people based on whatever’s written in there. I’d vote to go ahead and read it.”

  Kevin shook his head. “It’s sealed, Toby. I gave my word. I do a lot of questionable things, but countering a direct papal order isn’t one of them.”

  “Kevin, think hard about this. Uncle Sam financed this little expedition. I need to account for it.”

  “Okay, I’ll think about it,” Kevin said.

  “It’s a wonder we’re all alive,” said Max.

  “Well, it’s not over yet,” Toby said. Max looked at him with terror in his eyes. Toby laughed and punched him in the arm. “Just kidding, big guy. We’re safe … I hope.”

  The three men grabbed their bags and left quickly for Seville’s airport. In the taxi, Kevin’s cell buzzed. He didn’t recognize the number but answered it anyway.

  “Father Thrall, this is Ivan Koncik.” “Who?”

  “Ivan. Your friend from Medjugorje. I showed you around when you were here.”

  “Of course. Sorry, Ivan. Bad connection,” Kevin fibbed. He remembered now.

  “Kevin, I have a message for you.”

  “A message?”

  “Yes, one of the visionaries came to see me. She said that I must tell you something.”

  “Who is it?” Kevin asked.

  “I’m sorry. I can only tell you the message comes from one of the visionaries to whom Mary appears.”

  “What’s the message, Ivan?”

  “I wrote it down. Please hold.” There were sounds of paper crumpling. “Here it is,” Ivan continued. “You will soon have answers to questions important to you. Follow your destiny.”

  “Follow my destiny? Ivan, I can get advice like that from a fortune cookie. Was there anything else?”

  “That’s all, my friend.”

  “Thank you, Ivan.”

  “What’s that about?” asked Toby.

  Kevin shook his head. “A message from heaven,” he said. “Allegedly.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Rome, Italy

  Among the CIA’s many qualities, one that goes uncelebrated is its keen eye for valuable real estate. If the CIA were to cease to exist, it’d reap a fortune from its exquisite residential real estate holdings acquired over the years in some of the world’s most beautiful, coveted spots. These properties were lumped under the misnomer of ‘safe houses.’ Lodged in one of them, a nineteenth-century townhouse in the Parioli district of Rome, was Sister Mary Catherine.

  When Kevin had first studied in Rome, he enjoyed dinners and receptions in Parioli, a residential area of parks, tree-lined streets, and a mix of old villas and modern luxury apartment buildings. It’s Fellini rather than Borghese, Ferrari instead of Michelangelo, a modern twist on residential luxury.

  When the three arrived from the airport, an official minion opened the door. He looked for the approval of a CIA officer standing behind him. Recognizing Toby Beck, he allowed them entrance.

  Dressed in her usual spray-on jeans, Sister Mary Catherine greeted them in the drawing room, activating her brightest, toothy smile.

  “It’s good to see you guys,” she said, smiling and hugging them.

  “MC, I need to meet your friend,” Kevin said.

  “He’s upstairs,” she replied. “But, Kevin, remember what I asked you …”

  “Don’t worry,” said Kevin.

  “We’ll be on our best behavior,” added Toby.

  Toby and Kevin made their way upstairs. An attendant pointed to a room on the right of the staircase. Before entering, Toby said, “Your turn as bad cop.”

  Kevin nodded.

  Kevin knocked on the door, but didn’t wait before entering. Father Francesco Garibaldi was propped in a wing chair. As they entered, he turned to face them. Garibaldi was youthful, svelte, with long black hair, an aquiline nose, and the look of the fetching playboy models in Gucci ads. No wonder MC liked him, Kevin thought.

  After introductions, they invited the priest to join them at a nearby card table.

  “May I smoke?” Francesco asked with a pseudo-British accent. He didn’t wait for a reply before pulling out a Marlboro and a shiny gilded lighter.

  “We need to talk and don’t have much time,” Toby began.

  “I am at your disposal,” Father Garibaldi replied with a guarded smile. He opened his arms, bowed slightly, and simultaneously exhaled a heavy stream of smoke.

  Kevin thought he was quite full of himself.

  “I’m going to be blunt, Francesco,” said Toby. “You are in a CIA safe house. Don’t let the plush surroundings fool you. This serves two purposes: to protect some people and to get information from others.”

  “You are in the latter category,” Kevin said, leaning forward, inches from Francesco’s face.

  Francesco smiled again. “Of course,” he said.

  “Tell me what you know about Opus Mundi’s mission to the United States,” said Kevin.

  “Well,” he began. “First, let me say, I was recruited under duress. I don’t agree with their methods, which have become very, shall we say, harsh and unacceptable.”

  “Go on,” said Kevin.

  “I overheard conversations about a mission to Washington, D.C. Carlos Alameda is going, which leads me to believe it’s important. This Alameda—we also call him Columbo—indicated they plan to talk to a woman named Kate O’Connell.”

  “Why?” Kevin demanded.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hey, not acceptable,” Kevin said. “Look, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Are you with me?” Kevin rose and stood behind Francesco. Without warning, he locked his arm around Francesco’s neck and began strangling him.

  The young priest was shocked. He gasped for air and struggled to loosen Kevin’s grip, but Kevin was too strong.

  “Answer the qu
estion,” Kevin said, keeping his grip tight.

  “Wait a minute,” Toby said. “Give him a chance to talk.”Toby playing Mr. Nice Guy.

  Kevin released the priest and sat down facing him. “Next time I have to get up, we’re going downstairs to the basement,” Kevin said. “You won’t like it down there.” Kevin didn’t know if the townhouse had a basement or not, but he was assuming Francesco didn’t, either.

  Toby shot a look at Kevin which both men understood. This guy wasn’t going to take a chance on ruining his pretty looks. In no time, he’d be singing like a canary.

  “If I talk, will you protect me?” Francesco asked. He seemed afraid, and eager to cooperate.

  “We’ll get the Italian authorities to protect you,” Toby said. “But only if you tell us everything you know. If you don’t, we’ll let you walk out of here, but we’ll make sure the whole town knows you talked to us.”

  Francesco shuddered.

  “Tell me about the mission to Washington,” Kevin said, calmly.

  Francesco took a deep breath. “It’s about the secret, the unrevealed secret of Fatima. I don’t know what it says, but Alameda does. Whatever is in the secret is the reason Alameda is going to Washington.”

  “What about Katie O’Connell? How does she fit in? Is he using her to get at me?” Kevin shouted.

  “I do not know, sir. Honestly, this I don’t know.”

  Kevin jumped up from his chair, kicked it over, and reached across the table for Francesco.

  “Is he using her to get to me?”

  Toby stood up. “Easy, Kevin. This guy doesn’t know.”

  Kevin relaxed his grip, and let the priest slide back into his seat.

  Francesco begged to be released. “Please let me go! I know nothing else!”

  Toby and Kevin went to the corner of the room to discuss what to do with Francesco. Finally, they came to a decision. “You can go, Francesco,” said Toby. “But, don’t say a word to anyone about this meeting, or this location.”

  “I swear, signori!”

  “Get out of here before we change our minds,” said Kevin.

  “Please … are you going to tell them what I told you? If you do, they’ll kill me.”

  “We won’t tell anyone. At least, not unless we hear you talked. Capice?”

  Nodding, Francesco bolted for the door.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Rome, Italy

  That afternoon, Max Drotti went home, and Toby accompanied Kevin to his quarters in the Vatican. For the time being, MC would stay at the CIA safe house. It was the safest place for her. She had cried when Kevin let Francesco go, and thanked him profusely by wrapping her arms around him. “Kevin, if you need anything—and I mean anything, please ask me. I’ll do anything for you.”

  He knew what she meant as she rubbed her body against his. Once again, she’d conveniently forgotten his priestly calling.

  Toby watched them, shaking his head. He couldn’t believe this nun was throwing herself at Kevin. Honestly! Kevin—even as a priest—got more action than he did. It didn’t seem fair.

  Kevin found everything at his apartment the way he’d left it. “I’m really thankful for the security system here,” he told Toby.

  “It’s probably one of the best,” Toby said.

  Toby dropped his bag in the living room. Kevin made coffee.

  “I’m going back to D.C. tomorrow,” Toby said while making himself comfortable on the couch. “Time for me to head home. Have you thought any more about the secret?”

  Kevin had stored the pouch in his leather briefcase. He hadn’t let it out of his sight. “I’ll let you know in the morning, Toby.”

  “My plane’s at two p.m.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes, OK.” Kevin nodded. “May I ask another favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “Would you run a deeper check on Jimmy Stein? I need to know why he’s digging up dirt on me and if his recommendation of Maggio to Katie was innocent or because he knew something more. Could he be with Opus Mundi?”

  “If he is, there’s going to be a clue, something pointing to it, either through communications, travel, or money. I’m pretty sure, if he’s working with them, we’ll find something that tips us off. Might take time.”

  “Thanks, Toby.” Kevin said.

  Kevin and Toby turned on CNN to catch up on the latest news.

  Since assuming his role as successor to St. Peter and leader of the Roman Catholic Church, Pope Linus II had become a world celebrity. Kevin was proud to call him a friend, but knew his rising star would make access and communication hard. And he had to see him.

  It wasn’t enough that Porter had become the first American pope—remarkable in itself—but in his brief reign, he’d negotiated a peace between Israel and Iran, thus distinguishing himself as the first in history to do so. He’d become a world-class diplomat. However, the media was now referring to it not as “peace” but as a “Mexican standoff.” It didn’t matter. Either way, Porter had accomplished a major feat, which others before him hadn’t been able to do for several decades.

  And the accolades were newsworthy. For his exemplary conduct during an assassination attempt on his life, the United States Army made His Holiness an honorary Green Beret Ranger. The commandant of West Point was making plans to travel to Rome with a sizeable delegation to present the award. The Italian press speculated whether the pope would actually don the Green Beret during the ceremony. Officials at the Vatican made plans to ensure that he did not.

  While Toby watched the news, Kevin made phone calls. He was as surprised as anyone when his request for an audience with the pope was granted immediately. His Holiness would see Kevin at six p.m.

  Kevin showered, shaved, and donned his finest black suit and white collar. Looking at himself in the mirror, he thought he detected more gray in his hair. Given the stress of the last few weeks, he was neither surprised nor bothered. Vanity wasn’t one of his vices. Still, he liked his face. It had the ruddy charm of an almost middle-aged American man.

  Where the pope resided, the Apostolic Palace, the security was as tight as in the White House. A uniformed security man requested the leather portfolio in Kevin’s possession. Kevin wouldn’t let it out of his possession for anyone, and told that to the guard. Sensing a confrontation brewing, a papal aide motioned to the guard to stand fast. Clutching the leather folio under his arm, Kevin followed the aide up the stairs to the pope’s quarters.

  Porter, being American, had minimized some of the traditional ceremonial pomp and circumstance, the daily rituals accompanying the pope’s presentation. For example, there was no chamberlain with a commanding stick banging the floor to announce His Holiness. No lines of visiting clerics kneeling to kiss the pontiff’s ring. There were now mostly informal meetings in house dress with the Vatican higher officials.

  Instead, Kevin was escorted directly into the room and invited to sit on an embroidered armchair in the papal library. Once again, Kevin found himself admiring the bound volumes nestled in floor-to-ceiling bookcases around the room. The expansive windows offered a spectacular view of St. Peter’s Square below and of the basilica to the right. As always, a crowd was waiting to enter the church.

  Kevin had been seated for only a minute when the pontiff entered the room by himself, dressed in papal white. As usual, he wore the white zucchetto on his head.

  “Hello, Kevin.” The pontiff smiled, holding out his hand.

  Kevin jumped to his feet, took the pope’s hand and kissed his ring.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Holiness,” Kevin said. He knew the man well enough to know he couldn’t be fully adjusted to the papacy yet, his papacy.

  “Always good to see an old friend, Kevin. Let’s sit over here.” They sat facing each other in two plumped, down-filled armchairs. “It’s amazing the new friends I’ve made since becoming pope,” Porter added. “Have you found what you were looking for?”

  “I did, Holiness, with the help of a few
friends.” Kevin unzipped his leather case and retrieved the velvet pouch. He handed it to Porter, making sure he could see the unbroken wax seal.

  His Holiness took the pouch from Kevin and heaved a weary sigh. “I can feel the weight of this already,” he said, “and I suspect you do too, Kevin.”

  Kevin nodded.

  “Shall we see what’s inside?”

  Kevin was surprised, but pleased. He couldn’t help but notice that his friend had aged in the few weeks since taking office. His role as the spiritual leader for more than a billion people was not for the faint-hearted.

  “Considering what happened to some of your predecessors who read it, aren’t you a bit unsettled?” Kevin asked.

  The pope laughed. “Given that somebody was trying to shoot me the other day, I doubt the musings of some young lady about the goings on in 1917 will do me in.” He pressed a buzzer on the table beside him and a young man appeared and bowed. After addressing the man in Italian, the pope broke the seal on the velvet pouch. He withdrew two faded pieces of paper. Kevin glanced at the handwriting on the pages. He recognized it as Lucia’s, the same as the other four pages.

  The pope began to read. After a few seconds, he stopped and handed the pages to the young man, who bowed again and took a seat at a small desk in a corner of the room. He opened a small laptop and went to work.

  “He’s a translator, Kevin,” the pope said. “My Portuguese isn’t good enough to make it out. He is reliable and discreet. This should only take a few minutes.”

  Kevin noted to himself that as reliable as the translator might be, His Holiness had insisted he perform his work in his presence.

  The two sat quietly while they waited. An attendant in a white coat brought coffee and pastries. In the silence of the moment, as old friends, they were at ease, sipping coffee and sampling the croissants.

  Closing his eyes, Kevin wondered if he should share with His Holiness that Opus Mundi was targeting his friend, Katie O’Connell. He could decide after the pope had read the secret. He prayed the pontiff would share it with him.

  A few minutes later, the young man rose from the desk, bowed, and handed the pontiff a handwritten piece of paper and the two original, yellowing pages from which he’d translated.