by Steve Berry
The cardinals stood and erupted in applause.
The grief for a dead pope was now replaced by the elation for a new pontiff. Outside the chapel doors Valendrea imagined the scene as observers heard the commotion, the first signal that something might have been decided. He watched as one of the scrutineers carried the ballots toward the stove. In a few moments white smoke would fill the morning sky and the piazza would erupt in cheers.
The ovation subsided. One more question was required.
"By what name will you be known?" Ngovi asked in Latin.
The chapel went silent.
The choosing of a name signaled much of what may be coming. John Paul I proclaimed his legacy by selecting the names of his two immediate predecessors, a message that he hoped to emulate the goodness of John and sternness of Paul. John Paul II conveyed a similar message when he chose his predecessor's dual label. For many years Valendrea had considered what name he would select, debating among the more popular choices--Innocent, Benedict, Gregory, Julius, Sixtus. Jakob Volkner had gravitated to Clement because of his German ancestry. Valendrea, though, wanted his name to send an unambiguous message that the imperial papacy had returned.
"Peter II."
Gasps pierced the chapel. Ngovi's expression never broke. Of the 267 pontiffs, there'd been twenty-three Johns, six Pauls, thirteen Leos, twelve named Pius, eight Alexanders, and a variety of other labels.
But only one Peter.
The first pope.
Thou art Peter and on this rock I will build my Church.
His bones lay only meters away, beneath the largest house of worship in Christendom. He was the first saint of the Catholic Church and the most revered. Over two millennia, no man had chosen his name.
He stood from his chair.
The time for pretense was over. All of the rituals had been dutifully performed. His election was certified, he'd formally accepted, and he'd announced his name. He was now Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Prince of the Apostles, Pontifex Maximus charged with primacy of jurisdiction over the Universal Church, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Primate of Italy, Patriarch of the West.
Servant of the Servants of God.
He faced the cardinals and made sure no one misunderstood. "I choose to be known as Peter II," he said in Italian.
No one said a word.
Then one of the three cardinals from last night started to clap. A few others slowly joined in. Soon the chapel reverberated with thunderous applause. Valendrea savored the absolute joy of victory that no man could take away. Yet his ecstacy was tempered by two things.
A smile that slowly crept onto Maurice Ngovi's lips, and the camerlengo's joining in the applause.
FIFTY
MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA
11:00 A.M.
Katerina sat beside the bed and kept watch over Michener. The vision of him being carried into the hospital unconscious was still fresh in her mind, and she now knew what the loss of this man would mean.
She hated herself even more for deceiving him. She was going to tell Michener the truth. Hopefully, he'd forgive her. She hated herself for agreeing to Valendrea's requests. But maybe she'd needed prodding since her pride and anger could have otherwise prevented her from ever rediscovering Michener. Their first encounter in the piazza three weeks ago had been a disaster. Valendrea's overtures had clearly made things easier, but it didn't make it right.
Michener's eyes blinked open.
"Colin."
"Kate?" He was trying to focus.
"I'm here."
"I hear you, but I can't see you. It's like looking underwater. What happened?"
"Lightning. It struck the cross on the mountain. You and Jasna were too close."
He reached up and rubbed his brow. His fingers gently probed the scrapes and cuts. "She okay?"
"Seems to be. She was out, like you. What were you doing there?"
"Later."
"Sure. Here, take some water. The doctor said you need to drink." She brought a cup to his lips and he sucked a few sips.
"Where am I?"
"A local infirmary the government operates for the pilgrims."
"They say what's wrong with me?"
"No concussion. Just too close to a lot of voltage. Any closer and you'd both be dead. Nothing's broken, but you've got a nasty lump and a gash on the back of your head."
The door opened and a middle-aged, bearded man entered. "How's the patient doing?" he asked in English. "I'm the doctor who treated you, Father. How do you feel?"
"Like an avalanche rolled over me," Michener said.
"Understandable. But you'll be okay. A small cut, but no skull cracks. I'd recommend a complete exam when you get back home. Actually, considering what happened, you were pretty lucky."
After a quick look and a little more advice the doctor left.
"How'd he know I was a priest?"
"I had to identify you. You scared the hell out of me."
"What about the conclave?" he asked. "Have you heard anything?"
"Why am I not surprised that's the first thing on your mind."
"You're not interested?"
Actually she was curious. "There was no news an hour ago."
She reached out and clasped his hand. He turned his head toward her and said, "I wish I could see you."
"I love you, Colin." She felt better having said it.
"And I love you, Kate. I should have told you that years ago."
"Yes, you should."
"I should have done a lot of things differently. I only know that I want my future to include you."
"And what of Rome?"
"I've done all that I said I would. I'm through with that. I want to go to Romania, with you."
Her eyes watered. She was glad he couldn't see her crying. She swiped away the tears. "We'll do good there," she said, trying to keep her voice from quivering.
He tightened his grip on her hand.
And she cherished the feeling.
FIFTY-ONE
VATICAN CITY, 11:45 P.M.
Valendrea accepted congratulations from the cardinals, then made his way out of the Sistine to a whitewashed space known as the Room of Tears. There, the vestments from the House of Gammarelli hung in neat rows. Gammarelli himself stood at ready.
"Where is Father Ambrosi?" he asked one of the priests in attendance.
"Here, Holy Father," Ambrosi said, entering the room. He liked the sound of those words from his acolyte's lips.
The secrecy of the conclave had ended as he left the chapel. The main doors had been flung open while white smoke spewed from the rooftop. By now, the name Peter II was being repeated throughout the palace. People would be marveling at his choice, and the pundits would be startled by his audacity. Maybe for once they'd be speechless.
"You are now my papal secretary," he said, as he lifted his scarlet robe up over his head. "My first command." A smile came to his lips as the private promise between them was fulfilled.
Ambrosi bowed his head in acceptance.
He motioned to the vestments he'd spied yesterday. "That set should do fine."
The tailor grabbed the selected garments and presented them saying, "Santissimo Padre."
He accepted the greeting reserved only for a pope and watched as his cardinal robes were folded. He knew they would be cleaned and boxed, custom requiring that they be provided at his death to the then-senior member of the Valendrea clan.
He donned a white linen cassock and fastened the buttons. Gammarelli knelt and began nipping the seam with a threaded needle. The stitching would not be perfect, but adequate enough for the next couple of hours. By then a precise set of vestments, tailored to his measurements, would be ready.
He tested the fit. "A bit tight. Get it right."
Gammarelli ripped the seam and tried again.
"Make sure the thread is secure." The last thing he wanted was for something to fall apart.
When the tailor finished,
he sat in a chair. One of the priests knelt before him and began removing his shoes and socks. He already liked the fact that little would ever be done by him anymore. A pair of white stockings and red leather shoes were brought forward. He checked the size. Perfect. He motioned that they should be slipped on his feet.
He stood.
A white zucchetto was handed to him. Back during the days when prelates shaved their scalps, the caps protected the bare skin during winter. Now they were an essential part of any high cleric's attire. Ever since the eighteenth century the pope's had been formed from eight triangular-shaped pieces of white silk, joined together. He clasped his hands at the edges and, like an emperor accepting his crown, nestled the cap on his head.
Ambrosi smiled in approval.
Time for the world to meet him.
But first, one last duty.
He left the dressing room and reentered the Sistine Chapel. The cardinals were standing at their assigned stations. A throne had been placed before the altar. He paraded straight to it and sat, waiting a full ten seconds before saying, "Be seated."
The ritual about to occur was a necessary element of the canonical election process. Each cardinal was expected to come forward, genuflect, and embrace the new pontiff.
He motioned to the senior cardinal-bishop, a supporter, who rose and started the process. John Paul II had broken a long-standing practice of popes sitting before the princes by greeting the college standing, but this was a new day and everyone might as well start adjusting. Actually, they should be glad--in centuries past, kissing the papal shoe had been a part of the ritual.
He stayed seated and offered his ring for a dutiful kiss.
Ngovi approached about halfway through the procession. The African knelt and reached for the offered ring. Valendrea noticed that lips did not actually touch gold. Ngovi then stood and walked away.
"No congratulations?" Valendrea asked.
Ngovi stopped and turned back. "May your reign be all that you deserve."
He wanted to teach the smug son of a bitch a lesson, but this was not the time or place. Maybe that was Ngovi's intent, a provocation to spark an early show of arrogance. So he calmed his emotions and simply said, "I take that to mean good wishes."
"Nothing but."
When the last cardinal departed the altar, he stood. "I thank you all. I will do my best for the mother Church. Now I believe it's time to face the world."
He stomped down the center aisle, through the marble gate, and out the chapel's main entrance. He strode into the basilica and crossed the Regal and Ducal Halls. He liked the chosen route, the massive paintings on the walls making clear the superiority of the papacy over temporal power clear.
He entered the central loggia.
About an hour had passed since his election and the rumors were, by now, at an epidemic stage. Enough conflicting information had surely seeped from the Sistine that no one could, as yet, know anything for sure. And that was the way he was going to keep it. Confusion could be an effective weapon, provided the source of that confusion was him. His choice of name alone should be generating a fair amount of speculation. Not even the great warrior-popes, or the sanctified diplomats who'd managed election over the past hundred years, had dared that move.
He reached the alcove that led out to the balcony. But he would not exit just yet. Instead, the cardinal-archivist, as senior cardinal-deacon, would appear, then the pope, followed by the president of the Sacred College and the camerlengo.
He stepped close to the cardinal-archivist, just inside the doorway, and whispered, "I told you, Eminence, that I would be patient. Now do your last duty."
The old man's eyes betrayed nothing. Surely he already knew his fate.
Without saying a word, the archivist stepped onto the balcony.
Five hundred thousand people roared.
A microphone stood before the balustrade and the archivist stepped to it and said, "Annuntio vobis gauduium magnum." Latin was required for this announcement, but Valendrea knew the translation well.
We have a pope.
The crowd exploded in raucous joy. He could not see the people, but their presence could be felt. The cardinal-archivist spoke again into the microphone, "Cardinalem Sanctae Romanae Ecclesiae . . . Valendrea."
The cheers were deafening. An Italian had regained the throne of St. Peter. Shouts of "Viva, Viva" grew in intensity.
The archivist paused to glance back and Valendrea caught the wintry expression. The old man clearly did not approve of what he was about to say. The cardinal-archivist turned back to the microphone, "Qui Sibi Imposuit Nomen--"
The words came back in an echo. The name that has been chosen is--
"Petrus II."
The echo bounced across the massive piazza, as if the statues topping the colonnade were talking to one another, each asking the other in wonderment if they'd heard correctly. The people, for an instant, considered the name, then understood.
The cheers amplified.
Valendrea started for the doorway, but noticed only one cardinal following. He turned. Ngovi had not moved.
"Are you coming?"
"I am not."
"It is your duty as camerlengo."
"It is my shame."
Valendrea took a step back into the alcove. "I let your insolence go in the chapel. Don't try me again."
"What would you do? Have me imprisoned? My possessions seized? My titles stripped? This is not the Middle Ages."
The other cardinal standing nearby seemed clearly embarrassed. The man was a staunch supporter, so some show of power was needed. "I will deal with you later, Ngovi."
"And the Lord will deal with you."
The African turned and walked away.
He wasn't going to let this moment be ruined. He faced the remaining cardinal. "Shall we, Eminence?"
And he stepped out into the sun, his arms extended in a warm embrace to the multitudes who shouted back their approval.
FIFTY-TWO
MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA
12:30 P.M.
Michener was feeling better. His vision had cleared and his head and stomach had finally settled down. He could now see that the infirmary room was a cubicle, the cinder-block walls a pale yellow. A window with lace curtains allowed light but no view, the panes coated with a thick layer of paint.
Katerina had gone to check on Jasna. There'd been no word from the doctor and he hoped she was all right.
The door opened.
"She's okay," Katerina said. "Apparently you both were just far enough away. Only a couple of nasty bumps to the head." She stood beside the bed. "And there's more news."
He looked at her, glad to once again see her lovely face.
"Valendrea is pope. I saw it on television. He just finished addressing the crowd in St. Peter's. Made a plea for a return to the Church's roots. And get this, he chose Peter II as his name."
"Romania is looking better and better."
She offered a half grin. "So tell me, was the climb to the top worth it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Whatever you and she were doing on that mountain last night."
"Jealous?"
"More curious."
He realized some explanation was owed. "She was supposed to tell me the tenth secret."
"In the middle of a storm?"
"Don't ask me to rationalize it. I woke up and she was outside in the street, waiting for me. It was spooky. But I felt the need to go."
He decided to say nothing about his hallucination, but his memory of the vision remained clear, like a dream that wouldn't let go. The doctor had said he'd been unconscious for several hours. So whatever he saw or heard was only a manifestation of all that he'd learned over the past few months, the messengers two men who weighed heavily on his mind. But what of the Lady? Probably nothing more than the image of what he'd seen at Jasna's house yesterday.
Or was it?
"Look, I don't know what Jasna had in mind. She told me that
to learn the secret I needed to come with her. So I went."
"You didn't find the situation a bit strange?"
"This whole thing is strange."
"She's coming here."
"What do you mean?"
"Jasna said she's coming here to see you. They were readying her when I left."
The door opened and a wheelchair guided by an older woman rolled into the cramped room. Jasna looked tired, her forehead and right arm bandaged.
"I wanted to see if you were all right," she said in weak voice.
"I was wondering the same about you."
"I only took you there because the Lady told me to. I meant no harm."
For the first time she sounded human. "I don't blame you for anything. I chose to go."
"I'm told the cross is permanently scarred. A blackened slash down its white length."
"Is that your sign to the atheists?" Katerina asked, a touch of scorn in her inquiry.
"I have no idea," Jasna said.
"Perhaps today's message to the faithful might clear up everything." Katerina apparently wasn't going to cut her any slack.
He wanted to tell her to back off, but he knew she was upset, venting her frustration on the easiest target.
"The Lady has come for the final time."
He studied the features of the woman sitting before him. Her face was sad, the eyes drawn tight, the expression different than yesterday. For twenty-plus years she'd supposedly talked with the mother of God. Real or not, the experience was significant to her. Now all of that was over, and the pain of her loss was evident. He imagined it being akin to the death of a loved one--a voice never to be heard again, counsel and comfort gone forever. As with his parents. And Jakob Volkner.
Her sadness suddenly became his.
"The Virgin revealed to me last night, on the mountaintop, the tenth secret."
He recalled what little he'd heard her say through the storm. I can remember. I know I can. Dear Lady, I had no idea.
"I wrote down what she said." She handed him a folded sheet of paper. "The Lady said for me to give it to you."
