The Third Revelation

by Ralph McInerny

  There was little to choose from between the Trepaniers and Catenas and the Hans Kungs.

  “Does the man want money?” he had asked Rodriguez.

  “That has not come up.”

  “You might look into that.”

  IV

  “Have you discussed this with Vincent?”

  Residents of the Domus Sanctae Marthae no longer regarded the ancient walls of Vatican City as adequate protection from the raging mobs outside. An archbishop had been attacked as he crossed Saint Peter’s Square and escaped with his life only when a band of Polish pilgrims had come to his aid. He brought back news of the placards hung on the very doors of Saint Peter’s, in Arabic, which he could not read, and of the struggle on the porch of the basilica as crazed zealots tried to tip one of the great statues of the apostles onto the broad staircase below. Prelates particularly were advised to wear secular clothes if they had to venture outside the walls. The guards at the gates had been reinforced. No longer was the Renaissance splendor of the uniforms designed by da Vinci in evidence. Now the guards looked indistinguishable from the armed soldiers one had associated with the Holy Land.

  The great question was, if the Vatican is not a haven, what is?

  Some spoke of returning to their native countries to wait out the violence, but the news from those countries was scarcely more encouraging than that in Rome itself.

  Where else in Rome and its environs was safety to be found?

  John Burke knew that the Holy Father had been flown to the Villa Stritch outside the city. It was where he had lived until he was offered rooms in the Domus. When the violence did not subside—as all had hoped it would, with the mob spending its fury and then allowing peace to return—he became more concerned about Heather.

  She listened in silence when he proposed that he spirit her away to the Villa Stritch.

  “But the sisters will remain?” she asked.

  “For now.”

  “I will stay with them.”

  Not a mile away was the Coliseum where Christians had been killed for the sport of emperors and the entertainment of the mob. Heather looked like a cinematic version of one of the Christian girls who had waited to be led into the arena.

  Equally close was the Marmatine prison in which Peter and Paul had been confined. Both had ended as martyrs for the faith they had helped spread so rapidly throughout the known world.

  The whole history of the Church could be read in terms of persecution and martyrdom. Periods of peace seemed anomalous, not the standard.

  John persisted. “Heather, I feel responsible for you.”

  “Have you discussed this with Vincent?”

  “I will, if you’d like.”

  “Please.”

  The couple seemed devoted to one another, but on a level far above the usual relation of man to woman, though doubtless for different reasons. John found Traeger an enigma. After his sudden disappearance following Brendan’s horrible death in the Empedocles compound, John had shared in the general suspicion of the man. But Heather had dispelled such suspicions, he was not quite sure how. Her endorsement of Traeger seemed sufficient. He agreed to talk with Traeger about Heather’s possible move to the Villa Stritch.

  He telephoned the Casa and asked for Traeger. The phone rang four times before it was answered.

  “Yes?”

  “You sound half asleep. Look, this is John Burke. I have to see you. Will you be there for the next hour?”

  Another sleepy, almost unintelligible yes. Apparently he had disturbed Traeger’s nap.

  He left the Vatican wearing street clothes, having removed the Roman collar from his Selma shirt and put it in his shoulder bag. The guards at the gate seemed almost hesitant to let him through.

  “Is it important, Father?”

  “Yes.” What is the objective scale of importance?

  “Would you like someone to accompany you?”

  John looked at the guards. With one of them at his side, he would be more rather than less of a target. He thanked them for the offer and emerged from the gate. To his left was the tunnel leading to the other side of the Tiber, not designed for pedestrians. At the river he looked toward the Vatican and saw the mass of people surging toward the Via della Conciliazione. And heard them, a low animal roar. He turned and walked toward Trastevere.

  When he crossed the bridge, he saw the distinctive tower of the great synagogue of Rome, the oldest Jewish quarter in Christendom, where Saint Paul had come to give his fellow Jews the good news. Even as he looked at it, there was a tremendous explosion. Stones, cobbles, pieces of machinery, perhaps pieces of people, rose with eerie slowness into the air, as if trying to escape the explosion. Sirens began to sound when John reached the other side of the river, and he started to move more quickly toward the Torre Argentina. Once there, he hurried through a narrow street, past the L’Eau Vive, a restaurant run by French nuns. On the door was a sign. Chiuso. Closed.

  Minutes later he was at the Casa. Inside the great arched entrance was a wrought iron gate. He pressed the bell beside it. An unintelligible reply. He stepped close to the speaker.

  “Father Burke.”

  A little ping as the gate was unlocked. He pushed through, stepped to his left, and punched the button for the elevator. On the third floor, he went down a corridor that turned sharply twice and then he was at Traeger’s room.

  He knocked, looked left and right, and was glad he lived in the Domus and not here. Still, there were priests who had lived here for years, and bishops, Archbishop Miller, now in Vancouver, among them. He knocked again. Then he took the handle, turned it, and found the door unlocked.

  “Vincent?”

  He must be in the bathroom. That door was closed. John stepped into the room.

  The window he faced seemed to light up as the blow struck him, solidly on the head. He made one step forward and then dropped into oblivion.

  V

  Quis custodiet custodes?

  Rodriguez brought Donna Quando with him, and Traeger told them the news of the abduction of Father John Burke. With all the rioting in the streets, the howling and burning and desecration of sacred places, it might have seemed only a small additional outrage. But it didn’t. The image of Laura formed in Traeger’s mind. All tragedies are personal.

  “Just carried him out of here?” Carlos Rodriguez asked.

  “The portiere said they went out the gate singing, one man held up by two others. He was more interested in getting the gate locked again.”

  “After the horse is stolen.” Carlos looked at Traeger significantly when he said it.

  Donna was looking around the cell-like room in the Casa del Clero. “You’ve been staying here?”

  “We thought it was safe,” Carlos said.

  “They thought it was me,” Traeger told her.

  She looked him over with a not-quite smile. “They must have been working with a vague description.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Carlos said. “Bring your things.”

  Traeger was packed in a minute. “You think they’ll be back?”

  “I quit thinking a long time ago.”

  Up a narrow street they found a bar and took an inside table. “How’s Dortmund?” Traeger asked.

  “We moved him to the Villa Stritch, Vincent. He reads a lot.”

  “He’s making up for lost years. I want to see him.”

  “Do you know Father Trepanier?” Donna asked.

  Traeger looked at her. “Yes.”

  “He’s in Rome. Out by the Anulare, staying with the Confraternity of Pius IX.”

  Donna had learned this from Father Harris. Now Carlos looked at her.

  “Harris came to the Domus,” she said. “We had a nice talk. I think he’s disenchanted.”

  “The confraternity has been remarkably silent about recent events.”

  “They can’t decide whether it’s good news or bad.”

  “Not bad enough to be good?”

  “I suppose. He cam
e to see Remi Pouvoir.”

  Now Traeger and Carlos looked at one another. They remembered the wispy little fellow who seemed to blend into the dust of the archives. Traeger remembered that the priest had carried an empty archival box to a table as if it were heavy.

  “What do we know about Pouvoir?”

  Donna opened the shoulder bag she had placed on her lap. “This is his dossier from the archives.” She handed it to Carlos. “I had the cleaning lady let me in his room. It doesn’t even look lived in. Of course, he spends all day in the archives, works late.”

  “We never questioned him,” Traeger said to Carlos.

  Carlos seemed to be going over in his mind that scene in the archives when they had discovered that the third secret was missing. Pouvoir had seemed just another item in the archives. The invisible man.

  “Better late than never.” This was meant as an instruction to Donna.

  Carlos drove him to the villa outside the city where Dortmund had been stashed. He was sitting outside, smoking his pipe under a palm tree, the second volume of Shelby Foote’s narrative of the Civil War on his lap.

  “You look comfortable.”

  “I miss Marvin.”

  “Do dogs go to heaven?”

  Dortmund frowned. He would never let sentimentality trump theology. He listened as Traeger told him of the abduction of John Burke. The old man winced and fell silent. He looked across the lawn. “When they learn it isn’t you, they’ll be in touch.”

  “Who is they?” Traeger asked.

  Dortmund tipped his head to one side.

  Traeger said, “Anatoly has been working alone.”

  “No one works alone.”

  Meaning that someone had been keeping an eye on Anatoly. Well, someone had been keeping an eye on him, too, and on Dortmund.

  “Quis custodiet custodes?” Dortmund mused. He shook his head. “That doesn’t sound right.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Who will watch the watchers? It’s like a daisy chain, just going on and on.”

  “No unwatched watcher?” Traeger said.

  Dortmund groaned. “I’m a bad influence on you.”

  “Maybe I should stay here.”

  “You couldn’t get in.” Dortmund leaned forward. “The pope is staying here.”

  Donna Quando had lent him her car. Traeger went down the walk to the parking lot, got in, and took out his pulsing cell phone. It was Carlos. The Russians had just delivered the fugitive Vincent Traeger to the American Embassy.

  “Is John Burke all right?”

  “Fit as a fiddle.” A pause. “Is that right?”

  “Right as rain.”

  He could imagine Carlos making note of yet another enigmatic saying.

  “Be careful,” Traeger said.

  It seemed unnecessary advice in a city that was completely out of control. Traeger left Donna’s car at the Vatican and walked to the metro. It was still operating. The cars were jammed with people, rocking along beneath the Eternal City, apparently observing a temporary truce. He got out at the Spanish Steps station and walked up the road to the Pincio. On a walkway that was lined with the busts of famous Italians, he sat on a bench by a bust of Thomas Aquinas.

  Waiting.

  No one works alone. Every watcher is watched. He lit a cigarette and felt suddenly tired. Physically tired. Tired of the goddamn modern world. Someone sat beside him.

  “They got the wrong Traeger.”

  He didn’t turn to look at Anatoly. “I heard.”

  “Can we make an exchange?”

  “It’s a little late.”

  “Can you get the report?” The report of the assassination attempt on John Paul II.

  “You still want it?”

  Anatoly’s eyes burned with a mad desire for that document, the document he thought would redeem a lifetime misspent in the service of his country.

  “Where?” Traeger asked.

  Anatoly thought. “Do you know the North American College?”

  “I can find it.”

  “It’s a stone’s throw from the Vatican,” Anatoly said.

  An unhappy choice of expressions in the circumstances.

  “I just knock on the door?” Traeger asked.

  “The portiere’s name is Lev. He will bring you to me.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll be on the roof.” He stood up. “No funny business.”

  “I work alone.”

  Anatoly went away up the path, cut across the lawn, then was gone.

  The custodian’s name is Lev. Quis custodiet custodes?

  PART III

  CHAPTER ONE

  I

  “Is he up there?”

  Traeger outlined the plan for Dortmund and watched his old chief’s frown deepen. Exchanges with the enemy were always dangerous. Traeger knew that, which was why he had come to Dortmund, now well ensconced in the Villa Stritch.

  “Are things quieting down?” he asked when Traeger showed up.

  “Far from it. You’re not keeping up with the news?”

  Dortmund smiled. “No, thank God.”

  Was peace of mind a function of ignorance? Not to know that the global madness that had followed on the publication by Trepanier of a fake passage in the third secret of Fatima seemed to be increasing permitted Dortmund to sit on his little balcony reading Jane Austen and enjoying the view of the magnificent grounds. This is where the pope had sought refuge, but Traeger was sure that the pope was kept apprised of how things were going in the city, which doubtless was why he was still here.

  Traeger explained. “The sooner I get the authentic document, the sooner we stand a chance of placating the Muslims and ending the burning and looting.”

  Dortmund had come unwillingly out of the eighteenth century of his novel. He had closed the book on his finger, but was obviously eager to open it again and immerse himself in the doings of the Bennet family.

  “You’ll be alone?” Dortmund said after he heard the plan.

  “So will he.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “He wants that report on the assassination attempt on John Paul II as much as the Vatican wants the authentic secret back.”

  “Then he can’t be working alone.”

  “I think he is.”

  Dortmund shrugged. “Are you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Vincent, whoever blew your cover had a hostile intent.”

  Traeger had tried to believe that somehow it was Anatoly who was responsible for the publicity that had made his departure on the Empedocles plane with Heather seem like the last flight out of Casablanca. But that meant that either Anatoly had an accomplice in the agency or access to the KGB file on Traeger. Which in turn meant that Anatoly was not working alone. But there was more danger on the streets of Rome than there could possibly be on the roof of the North American College.

  Rodriguez had taken Traeger to a nearby building that housed the Augustinians, from the roof of which they could study the North American College. Traeger brought it all closer with the binoculars Rodriguez handed him, checking the doorway that gave entrance to the roof, moving the glasses along the low ledge bordering it. There were chairs and tables scattered about. Students must go up there to relax, for the view. There was no one on the roof at the time.

  Rodriguez drew his attention to other buildings higher up the hill from the college.

  “You’ll be in view at all times.”

  “No,” Traeger said. “I gave my word.”

  “That you would come alone. And so you shall.”

  “The man is a pro, Carlos. The first thing he would have done is make just such a survey as this. He would know if I’m not alone.”

  Reluctantly, Rodriguez agreed that he would not have men on those nearby buildings. Traeger wished that he could believe him.

  He had printed out the assassination report that had been on the hard drive of his laptop all along. The pre-edited report, from which Dortmund
had excised all indications of their own involvement in those long-ago events before he turned it in. It was in exchange for that report that Anatoly would turn over the authentic third secret of Fatima.

  “Wednesday,” Anatoly had said on Monday.

  “Wednesday.”

  “I will meet you on the roof.”

  “What time?”

  “Three.”

  “Okay.”

  “Three in the morning.”

  Traeger smiled. Anatoly was a pro. The college would be asleep; it would be too dark for observers to monitor the exchange from nearby buildings.

  “I’ll be there.”

  On Tuesday at two in the afternoon Traeger’s cell phone vibrated.

  “Yes?”

  “Now.” It was the voice of Anatoly.

  The connection was broken. The Three Little Pigs. Anatoly wanted to meet a day earlier than agreed. Traeger approved. Now he need not worry that Rodriguez would have people watching over the exchange.

  Taken literally, “now” meant the time Anatoly had called. But Traeger had to get from the Casa del Clero to the North American College, a fair distance in the best of conditions, but now, with the city still erupting, public transportation shut down, and the whine of sirens as fire trucks tried to control conflagrations, it was like crossing a battlefield during a major operation. He could only hope Anatoly took into consideration the difficulties he faced.

  He took a circuitous route, avoiding the Piazza Navona, crossing the Vittorio Emanuele through a crowd of demonstrators, cutting through the Campo dei Fiori to the river. The North American College was across the Tiber, and the bridge was jammed with abandoned cars, charred ruins that had gone up in flames on the first day of the riots. Traeger picked his way among them. In the backseat of one half-intact vehicle, a couple snuggled, love among the ruins.

  On the far side, Traeger took out his cell phone and pressed buttons as he walked. The hope that he would find the number from which Anatoly had called recorded on his phone so he could tell him he was coming was rewarded. He punched and listened through a dozen rings, moving swiftly as he did.