by Steve Berry
Michener opened the door to his apartment on the fourth floor of the Apostolic Palace. His rooms were near the pope's, where papal secretaries had long lived. When he'd first moved in three years ago, he'd foolishly thought the spirits of its former residents might somehow guide him. But he'd since learned that none of those souls was to be found, and any guidance he might need would have to be discovered within himself.
He'd taken a taxi from the Rome airport instead of calling his office for a car, still adhering to Clement's orders that his trip go unnoticed. He'd entered the Vatican through St. Peter's Square, dressed casually, like one of the many thousands of tourists.
Saturday was not a busy day for the Curia. Most employees left and all the offices, save for a few in the Secretariat of State, were closed. He'd stopped by his office and learned that Clement had flown to Castle Gandolfo earlier and was not due back until Monday. The villa lay eighteen miles south of Rome and had served as a papal retreat for four hundred years. Modern pontiffs used its casual atmosphere as a place to avoid Rome's oppressive summers and as a weekend escape, helicopters providing transport back and forth.
Michener knew Clement loved the villa, but what concerned him was that the trip was not on the pope's itinerary. One of his assistants offered no explanation except that the pope had said he'd like a couple of days in the country, so everything was rescheduled. There'd been a few inquiries to the press office on the pontiff's health, not unusual when the schedule was varied, but the standard statement--the Holy Father enjoys a robust constitution and we wish him a long life--was promptly issued.
Yet Michener was concerned, so he raised the assistant who had accompanied Clement on the phone.
"What's he doing there?" Michener asked.
"He just wanted to see the lake and walk in the gardens."
"Has he asked about me?"
"Not a word."
"Tell him I'm back."
An hour later the phone rang in Michener's apartment.
"The Holy Father wants to see you. He said a drive south through the countryside would be lovely. Do you understand what he means?"
He smiled and checked his watch. Three twenty P.M. "Tell him I'll be there by nightfall."
Clement apparently did not want him using the helicopter, even though the Swiss guards preferred air transport. So he rang the car pool and requested that an unmarked vehicle be readied.
The drive to the southeast, through olive orchards, skirted the Alban Hills. The papal complex at Castle Gandolfo consisted of the Villa Barberini, the Cybo Villa, and an exquisite garden, all nestled beside Lake Albano. The sanctuary was devoid of Rome's incessant hum--a spot of solitude in the otherwise endless bustle of Church business.
He found Clement in the solarium. Michener once again looked the role of a papal secretary, wearing his Roman collar and black cassock with purple sash. The pope was perched in a wooden chair engulfed by horticulture. The towering glass panels for the outer walls faced an afternoon sun and the warm air reeked of nectar.
"Colin, pull one of those chairs over here." A smile accompanied the greeting.
He did as he was told. "You look good."
Clement grinned. "I didn't know I ever looked bad."
"You know what I mean."
"Actually, I feel good. And you'll be proud to know I ate breakfast and lunch today. Now, tell me about Romania. Every detail."
He explained what had happened, omitting only his time with Katerina. He then handed Clement the envelope and the pope read Father Tibor's response.
"What precisely did Father Tibor say to you?" Clement asked.
He told him, then said, "He spoke in riddles. Never really saying much, though he was not complimentary to the Church."
"That I understand," Clement muttered.
"He was upset over the Holy See's handling of the third secret. He implied that the Virgin's message was being intentionally ignored. He told me repeatedly for you to do as She said. No argument, no delay, just do it."
The old man's gaze lingered on him. "He told you about John XXIII, didn't he?"
He nodded.
"Tell me."
He did, and Clement seemed fascinated. "Father Tibor is the only person left alive who was there that day," the pope said when he finished. "What did you think of the priest?"
Thoughts of the orphanage flashed through his mind. "He appears sincere. But he was also obstinate." He didn't add what he was thinking--like you, Holy Father. "Jakob, can't you now tell me what this is about?"
"There is another trip I need you to take."
"Another?"
Clement nodded. "This time to Medjugorje."
"Bosnia?" he asked in disbelief.
"You must speak with one of the seers."
He was familiar with Medjugorje. On June 24, 1981, two children had reportedly seen a beautiful woman holding a baby atop a mountain in southwestern Yugoslavia. The next evening the children returned with four friends and all six saw a similar vision. Thereafter, the apparitions continued daily for the six children, each one receiving messages. Local communist officials claimed it was some sort of revolutionary plot and tried to stop the spectacle, but people flocked to the area. Within months there were reports of miraculous healing and rosaries turning to gold. Even during the Bosnian civil war the visions continued, and so did the pilgrimages. The children were now grown, the area renamed Bosnia-Herzegovina, and all but one of the six had stopped having visions. As with Fatima, there were secrets. Five of the seers had been entrusted by the Virgin with ten messages. The sixth knew only nine. Of the nine secrets, all had been made public, but the tenth remained a mystery.
"Holy Father, is such a trip necessary?"
He didn't particularly want to traipse across war-torn Bosnia. American and NATO peacekeeping forces were still there maintaining order.
"I need to know the tenth secret of Medjugorje," Clement said, and his tone signaled that the matter was not open for discussion. "Draft a papal instruction for the seers. He or she is to tell you the message. No one else. Only you."
He wanted to argue, but was too tired from the flight and yesterday's hectic schedule to engage in something he knew would be futile. So he simply asked, "When, Holy Father?"
His old friend seemed to sense his fatigue. "In a few days. That will draw less attention. And again, keep this between us."
TWENTY-FIVE
BUCHAREST, ROMANIA
9:40 P.M.
Valendrea unfastened his seat belt as the Gulfstream dropped from a cloudy night sky and touched down at Otopeni Airport. The jet was owned by an Italian conglomerate deeply entrenched with the Valendreas of Tuscany, and Valendrea himself regularly made use of the aircraft for quick trips out of Rome.
Father Ambrosi waited on the tarmac dressed in civilian clothes, a charcoal overcoat draping his slim frame.
"Welcome, Eminence," Ambrosi said.
The Romanian night was frigid and Valendrea was glad he'd worn a thick wool coat. Like Ambrosi, he'd dressed in street clothes. This was not an official visit and the last thing he needed was to be recognized. He was taking a risk coming, but he had to gauge the threat for himself.
"What about customs?" he asked.
"Handled. Vatican passports carry weight here."
They climbed into an idling sedan. Ambrosi drove while Valendrea sat alone in the rear. They headed north, away from Bucharest, toward the mountains over a series of rutted roads. This was Valendrea's first visit to Romania. He knew of Clement's desire for an official pilgrimage, but any papal missions to this troubled place would have to wait until he was in command.
"He goes there each Saturday evening to pray," Ambrosi was saying from the front seat. "In the cold or heat. Doesn't matter. He's done that for years."
He nodded at the information. Ambrosi had been his usual thorough self.
They drove for nearly an hour in silence. The terrain rose progressively until they were winding up the side of a steep forested incline. Amb
rosi slowed near the crest, eased onto a ragged shoulder, and killed the engine.
"It's there, down that path," Ambrosi said, pointing through fogged windows at a darkened lane between the trees.
In the headlights Valendrea noticed another car parked ahead. "Why does he come?"
"From what I was told, he considers the spot holy. In medieval times the old church was used by the local gentry. When Turks conquered the area, they burned all of the villagers alive inside. He seems to draw strength from their martyrdom."
"There is something you must know," he told Ambrosi. His assistant sat in the front seat, his gaze still out the windshield, unmoving. "We are about to cross a line, but it is imperative that we do. There is much at stake. I would not ask this of you if it were not of vital importance to the church."
"There is no need to explain," Ambrosi softly said. "It is enough that you say it is so."
"Your faith is impressive. But you are God's soldier, and a warrior should know what he is fighting for. So let me tell you what I know."
They emerged from the car. Ambrosi led the way beneath a velvet sky bleached by a nearly full moon. Fifty meters into the woods, the darkened shadow of a church appeared. As they approached, Valendrea noticed the ancient rosettes and the belfry, the stones no longer individual but fused, seemingly without joints. No light shone from inside.
"Father Tibor," Valendrea called out in English.
A black form appeared in the doorway. "Who's there?"
"I am Alberto Cardinal Valendrea. I have come from Rome to speak with you."
Tibor stepped from the church. "First the papal secretary. Now the secretary of state. Such wonders for a humble priest."
He couldn't decide if the tone leaned more toward sarcasm or respect. He extended his hand palm-down, and Tibor knelt before him and kissed the ring he'd worn since the day John Paul II invested him as a cardinal. He was appreciative at the priest's submissiveness.
"Please, Father, stand. We must talk."
Tibor came to his feet. "Has my message already made its way to Clement?"
"It has, and the pope is grateful. But I've been sent to learn more."
"Eminence, I'm afraid that I can say no more than I have. It is bad enough that I have violated the oath of silence I made to John XXIII."
He liked what he was hearing. "So you haven't spoken of this to anyone before? Not even a confessor?"
"That is correct, Eminence. I've told no one what I knew, other than Clement."
"Did not the papal secretary come here yesterday?"
"He did. But I merely hinted at the truth. He knows nothing. I assume you have seen my written response?"
"I have," he lied.
"Then you know I said little there, too."
"What motivated you to craft a reproduction of Sister Lucia's message?"
"Hard to explain. When I returned from my duties to John that day, I noticed the imprints on the pad. I prayed on the matter and something told me to color the page and reveal the words."
"Why keep them all those years?"
"I have asked myself the same question. I do not know why, only that I did."
"And why did you finally decide to make contact with Clement?"
"What has happened with regard to the third secret is not right. The Church has not been honest with its people. Something inside commanded me to speak, an urge I could not ignore."
Valendrea caught Ambrosi's gaze momentarily and noticed a slight tip of his head off to the right. That way.
"Let's walk, Father," he said, taking Tibor gently by the arm. "Tell me, why do you come to this spot?"
"I was actually wondering, Eminence, how you found me."
"Your devotion to prayer is well known. My assistant merely asked around and was told of your weekly ritual."
"This is a sacred place. Catholics have worshiped here for five hundred years. I find it comforting." Tibor paused. "It's also because of the Virgin that I come."
They were walking down a narrow path with Ambrosi leading the way. "Explain, Father."
"The Madonna told the children at Fatima that there should be a Communion of Reparation on the first Saturday of each month. I come here every week to offer my personal reparation."
"For what do you pray?"
"That the world will enjoy the peace the Lady predicted."
"I, too, pray for the same thing. As does the Holy Father."
The path ended at the edge of a precipice. Before them spread a panorama of mountains and thick forest, all cast in a pale blue-gray glow. Few lights dotted the landscape, though a couple of fires burned in the distance. A halo sprang from the southern horizon, marking the glow of Bucharest forty miles away.
"Such magnificence," Valendrea said. "A remarkable view."
"I come here many times after praying," Tibor said.
He kept his voice low. "Which must help deal with the agony of the orphanage."
Tibor nodded. "I've received much peace here."
"As you should."
He gestured to Ambrosi, who produced a long blade. Ambrosi's arm swung up from behind and slashed once across Tibor's throat. The priest's eyes bulged as he choked on the first gush of blood. Ambrosi dropped the knife, gripped Tibor from behind, and tossed the old man out over the edge.
The cleric's body dissolved into the blackness.
A second later there was an impact, then another, then silence.
Valendrea stood still with Ambrosi beside him. His gaze remained on the gorge below. "There are rocks?" he calmly asked.
"Many, and a fast-moving stream. The body should take a few days to be found."
"Was it hard to kill him?" He truly wanted to know.
"It had to be done."
He stared at his dear friend through the dark, then reached up and outlined a cross on the forehead, lips, and heart. "I forgive you, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit."
Ambrosi bowed his head in thanks.
"Every religious movement must have martyrs. And we have just borne witness to the Church's latest." He knelt on the ground. "Come, join me while I pray for Father Tibor's soul."
TWENTY-SIX
CASTLE GANDOLFO
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 12
12:00 P.M.
Michener stood behind Clement inside the Popemobile as the vehicle motored out of the villa grounds toward town. The specially designed car was a modified Mercedes-Benz station wagon that allowed two people to stand, encased within a transparent cocoon of bulletproof shielding. The vehicle was always used when the pope traveled through large crowds.
Clement had agreed to a Sunday visit. Only about three thousand people lived in the village that abutted the papal compound, but they were extraordinarily devoted to the pontiff and such trips were the pope's way of saying thanks.
After their discussion yesterday afternoon, Michener had not seen the pope until this morning. Though he innately loved people and enjoyed good conversation, Clement XV was still Jakob Volkner, a solitary man who treasured his privacy. So it was no surprise that Clement had spent last evening alone, praying and reading, then retiring early.
An hour ago Michener had drafted a papal letter instructing one of the Medjugorje seers to memorialize the so-called tenth secret, and Clement had signed the document. Michener still wasn't looking forward to traveling around Bosnia, and he would just have to hope that the trip was short.
It took only a few minutes to make the drive into town. The village square was packed and the crowd cheered as the papal car inched forward. Clement seemed to come alive at the display and waved back, pointing to faces he recognized, mouthing special greetings.
"It's good they love their pope," Clement said quietly in German, his attention still on the crowd, fingers gripped tight around the stainless-steel hand bar.
"You give them no reason not to," Michener said.
"That should be the goal of all who wear this robe."
The car looped through the square.
/> "Ask the driver to stop," the pope said.
Michener tapped twice on the window. The wagon halted and Clement unlatched the glass-paneled door. He stepped down to the cobblestones and the four security men who ringed the car instantly came alert.
"Do you think this wise?" Michener asked.
Clement looked up. "It is most wise."
Procedure called for the pope never to leave the vehicle. Though this visit had been arranged only yesterday, with little advance word, enough time had passed for there to be reason for concern.
Clement approached the crowd with outstretched arms. Children accepted his withered hands and he brought them close with a hug. Michener knew one of the great disappointments in Clement's life was not being a father. Children were precious to him.
The security team ringed the pope but the townspeople helped the situation, remaining reverent while Clement moved before them. Many shouted the traditional Viva, Viva popes had heard for centuries.
Michener simply watched. Clement XV was doing what popes had done for two millennia. Thou art Peter and on this rock I will build my Church. And the gates of hell will not stand against it. I will give you the Keys of the Kingdom of Heaven: whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven; whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven. Two hundred and sixty-seven men had been chosen as links in an unbroken chain, starting with Peter and ending with Clement XV. Before him was a perfect example of the shepherd out among the flock.
Part of the third secret of Fatima flashed through his mind.
The Holy Father passed through a big city half in ruins and half trembling with halting step, afflicted with pain and sorrow. He prayed for the souls of the corpses he met on his way. Having reached the top of the mountain, on his knees at the foot of the big Cross he was killed by a group of soldiers who fired bullets and arrows at him.
Perhaps that declaration of danger explained why John XXIII and his successors chose to quell the message. But a Russian-sponsored assassin ultimately tried to kill John Paul II in 1981. Shortly thereafter, while he recuperated, John Paul first read the third Fatima secret. So why did he wait nineteen years before finally revealing the Virgin's words to the world? A good question. One to be added to a growing list of unanswered inquiries. He decided not to think about any of that. Instead he concentrated on Clement as the pope enjoyed the crowd, and all his fears vanished.
