The Third Revelation

by Ralph McInerny

  “What would they give for it?” he asked Pouvoir.

  “What you want.”

  “But that is gone.”

  “I think Rodriguez will be able to find it.”

  Of course. Chekovsky rose then, ignoring himself in the mirror. Avoirdupois had once been a sign of eminence in the Soviet diplomatic corps. Chekovsky had been affected against his will by all the nonsense in the West about obesity.

  He paid his bill, ignoring the fat little priest by the entrance. He felt a fleeting camaraderie with the overweight cleric as he went out the door and moved at a dignified pace toward his waiting car.

  IV

  “To what end?”

  When Jean-Jacques Trepanier showed Bishop Catena the photocopy for which he had paid so large a sum, the older man had studied it closely. He got out a book and compared the handwriting with a facsimile of Sister Lucia’s.

  “They are indistinguishable,” he murmured. He looked up at Trepanier. “The handwriting, not the Portuguese.”

  “How so?”

  “Would she have used ‘desagravar’?”

  “As a matter of fact, she does.”

  As had been the case whenever he met with Catena, there was initial verbal sparring as each tried to establish his primacy in the matters that concerned them both. Jay would not sit still for the suggestion that he was anything but an expert on what Lucia had written. Hadn’t he learned Portuguese in order to read her in the original? Catena was now studying Trepanier as he had the photocopy.

  “And who is Gabriel Faust?” Catena asked.

  Trepanier told Catena what he knew of the art historian.

  “He seems to have disappeared,” he added at the end.

  “With his ill-gotten gains.”

  But Trepanier had no desire to dwell on what a dupe he had been. He had not come to Rome to be patronized by Catena. He told his old adversary of Vincent Traeger.

  “I think he is working for Ignatius Hannan,” Trepanier said.

  “To what end?”

  Trepanier gave Catena a little word picture of the eccentric electronics billionaire who had regained his faith and was determined to put his vast wealth at the service of his beliefs. Catena nodded with approval when he told him of the replica of the grotto of Lourdes on the grounds of Empedocles Inc. He told him of Hannan’s plans for Refuge of Sinners.

  “He had hired Gabriel Faust as director.” It even sounded sarcastic.

  “And he has disappeared?”

  Trepanier stirred in his chair. “With Hannan’s millions and my money.”

  “You might have persuaded Mr. Hannan to support your efforts.”

  “He proposed that I join my efforts to his!”

  Catena’s smile did not become him. Trepanier sat forward. It was important that he join forces with the confraternity. Catena had connections in Rome, in the Vatican. Surely he must see the unprecedented opportunity they had.

  “Opportunity?”

  Trepanier spelled it out for him. The document they had sought to have released in its entirety was still theirs for the getting. Didn’t Catena understand the significance of what he had told him? Anatoly, the mysterious Russian, had the Fatima file. It was, one might say, in the public domain, no longer in the control of those in the Vatican with a vested interest in keeping the third secret a secret. There was of course no need to convince Catena that the supposed publishing of the third secret by Ratzinger in 2000 had been a ploy to damp down the continuing interest in what had not been made public.

  “This faked message is a mere diversion. I can almost believe that it was engineered to discredit . . .” Jay was about to say “me” but stopped himself in time, saying instead “those of us with the interests of the Blessed Virgin at heart.”

  Catena’s brows lifted and the corners of his mouth went down. “Causing global chaos in the process?”

  “Oh, they would have hoped for a quick exposure . . .” Of course Catena had a point. It had eaten deeply into Trepanier’s self-esteem that he had been taken in by such an interloper as Gabriel Faust. Had the art historian any notion of what that message could bring about? It helped, some, to deflect his own sense of guilt onto the flown Faust.

  “The third secret was intended for the People of God,” he said to Catena.

  “Via the pope.”

  “But the pope was to make it known in nineteen sixty! The Vatican has lost its right to Sister Lucia’s document. We have to get hold of it.”

  Catena had been subdued by the rioting, the sacrileges, the threats against the Church, no doubt of that, but under the effect of Trepanier’s enthusiasm some of the old fire was rekindled.

  “No one will believe anything the Vatican says anyway,” Trepanier assured him.

  As Catena’s old self took hold, Trepanier suggested that he bring in Father Harris.

  “I have told you everything he has told me.” Catena sounded piqued.

  “But I want to discuss what we must do.”

  Catena sent for him and ten minutes later Harris shuffled in. He wore the kind of sandals once favored by Franciscans, but this was because of the condition of his feet, supporting all that weight. Harris seemed a most improbable contact with friends in the Vatican, but perhaps that was in his favor. Harris eased himself into a chair, expelling air as he did so. His hands moved from the arms of his chair to meet on the vast expanse of his belly.

  “Tell me about Remi Pouvoir,” Trepanier urged.

  Harris looked at Catena, who nodded.

  Harris had become acquainted with Pouvoir while he was working in the Vatican on Our Lady of La Salette. The apparitions at La Salette had not captured the wide attention that Lourdes and later Fatima had, largely because of the Church’s efforts to discredit the caustic criticism of the hierarchy that the seer attributed to Our Lady of La Salette. Leon Bloy had had a great devotion to La Salette, and he had transferred it to his godson, the eventually world-famous Catholic philosopher Jacques Maritain.

  “Maritain wrote a book on La Salette,” Harris said.

  “He did?” Trepanier asked this dubiously. He knew of no such title by Maritain.

  “It was never published. While he was working on it, the Vatican put an embargo on discussions of Our Lady of La Salette. Maritain tried to get around the ban. During World War I he actually came to Rome, talked with the pope and others.”

  “And?”

  “He never published the book.”

  “Converts can be so docile,” Trepanier said. “What became of the manuscript?”

  “It is at Kolbsheim where most of Maritain’s papers and letters are. He and his wife are both buried there.” Harris sighed. “I visited there.”

  “And saw the manuscript?”

  “Yes.”

  Harris was not allowed to make notes as he studied what Maritain had written, but he did keep a diary, writing up what he remembered at night in his room. Remi Pouvoir had been fascinated when Harris returned with the tale. It was the beginning of their friendship.

  “And Fatima,” Trepanier said. “What does Pouvoir think of Fatima?”

  “He told me he had read the third secret.”

  Trepanier leaned expectantly toward Harris. “What did he say?”

  “Oh, he is a very discreet man.”

  “Didn’t you ask him whether what was made public in two thousand was the whole story?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what did he say?” Trepanier asked excitedly.

  “He just smiled.”

  “And what did you take that to mean?”

  Harris inhaled and exhaled. He made breathing seem an Olympic event. “What you take it to mean.”

  Harris then reviewed what he had learned of the former CIA agent, Vincent Traeger.

  “I’ve met him,” Trepanier said.

  “In Rome?”

  “No, no. In New Hampshire. He was flown here in one of Ignatius Hannan’s planes.”

  Harris said, “He intends to exchange the CIA
report on the attempted assassination of John Paul II for the Fatima file.”

  “How did you learn this?”

  “Chekovsky, the Russian ambassador to Italy, told Pouvoir.”

  “Why would he do that?” Trepanier asked.

  Harris thought for a moment. “People tell Remi things. Chekovsky actually suggested to Remi that he remove that file, the one on the assassination, and turn it over to Chekovsky.”

  “And he refused?”

  “That file also seems to be missing from the archives.”

  “Good. Good.” Trepanier looked brightly around. “That underscores how unreliable a custodian the Vatican is.”

  Harris grew uneasy. “We must not criticize Remi Pouvoir.”

  “Tell me about the plans for the exchange.”

  It seemed simple enough. Two men would meet on the rooftop of the North American College, exchange files, and go their separate ways. Except that one of those men was a rogue agent currently being sought in the United States.

  “And the other is a murderer,” Trepanier said.

  “A murderer!”

  “It is my guess that he is the one who broke into the guest residence hall at Empedocles and killed Father Brendan Crowe when he was surprised. No doubt that is when he came into possession of the Vatican file.”

  Harris nodded. “Remi is certain that Brendan Crowe removed the Fatima file from the archives.”

  “And flew off with it to Ignatius Hannan,” Trepanier said. “Perhaps he meant to extort money from Hannan as Gabriel Faust did.”

  “So what can we do?” Catena asked.

  Trepanier stood and smiled at the two men. “Your Excellency, I thank you for your hospitality. I think I shall take up residence elsewhere.”

  Harris and Catena waited.

  “I will ask for one of the guest rooms at the North American College.”

  V

  “Our own streets are full.”

  The ambassadors to Italy from Syria, Iran, and Saudi Arabia arrived at the Vatican in the cars Cardinal Piacere had sent for them, the better to keep secret their acceptance of his invitation. The cars avoided the great streets, which were still in the control of the mob, a mob that would have erupted even more at the thought of these ambassadors accepting an invitation from the acting secretary of state of the Vatican. The cars slipped along the streets of the Borgo Pio and darted through Saint Anne’s Gate, waved in by the alerted Swiss Guards. Cardinal Piacere had come down to meet them, as a conciliating gesture.

  Protocol ruled as the four men bowed to one another. Piacere pointed to the door that was opened wide for these important guests. Small talk sufficed as they rose in the elevator. Father Ladislaw, who was filling in for Bernagni, ushered them into a room where brocade chairs were arranged as if for a seminar.

  “I am grateful to you all for coming,” Cardinal Piacere began, when they were seated stiffly before him.

  “There must be no announcement of this visit,” Syria said. There seemed to be real fear in his voice.

  “Our discussion is covered by the most solemn and profound promise of total secrecy.”

  The ambassador from Saudi Arabia nodded. Of course this solemn promise had been a condition of their acceptance. But it seemed best to make it a formal premise of their meeting. It occurred to Piacere that these men were as terrified of the mobs surging through the streets as he himself was. It was nonsense to imagine that the rioters were somehow the instruments of these diplomats. The reverse would have been more accurate.

  Piacere joined his hands as if in prayer. “Let me begin by reminding you that the document that has caused all the trouble is, without any doubt, a forgery and a fake.”

  “Repudiate it!” The demand was in polyphony, several of his visitors speaking at once.

  “You will have read the Holy Father’s statement.”

  The pope had actually issued two statements, both of them, alas, characteristically cerebral. In his own name, Piacere had repudiated the forged document, saying it was an outrage to imagine that heaven wished a new crusade against the Muslim world. As he wrote the statement, Piacere tried not to think of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, who in the twelfth century had urged on the crusaders.

  “That is not enough, Your Eminence. Careful statements are not enough. The pope must apologize to the people of Islam. He must expose the one who forged that document. There must be punishment.”

  “Condign punishment,” said Saudi Arabia smoothly. Piacere had never before seen him in anything other than the flowing robes and distinctive headdress of the ruling family, of which he was one of the numerous members. In his Western-style dress he might have been Omar Sharif. “I believe there are still oubliettes in the Castel Sant’Angelo.”

  Piacere listened carefully. Ladislaw took notes surreptitiously. The secretary of state said that he fully understood the desire that those who had contrived this crisis should receive fitting punishment.

  “Contrived?” Syria said.

  “As I have said, the inflammatory document is a fake.”

  “But does it not express the true sentiments of the Church toward Islam?”

  Syria picked up his attaché case, placed it on his knees, and snapped it open. He drew out a sheaf of papers and began to read, his voice becoming falsetto with rage.

  “Who wrote that?” Piacere asked.

  “Oriana Fallaci.” Syria made the name sound like a sexual aberration.

  Piacere opened his hands. “My friend, Oriana Fallaci was not a Catholic. She called herself an atheist.”

  “A Catholic atheist.”

  “That is a contradiction in terms.”

  “Why did the pope receive her in a private audience?” Iran wanted to know.

  Piacere had not expected this. At the time, he had thought the Holy Father’s gesture of compassion a fitting one. But what must it have seemed to these men?

  “She was dying,” he said. “It was an act of compassion.”

  “Is it customary for popes to give a last blessing to atheists? And to such an atheist?”

  From that, Syria turned to the pope’s lecture at Regensburg in Germany. In it he had cited a Byzantine critic of Islam and the Arab world had erupted. It seemed a foretaste of what was happening now.

  And then there was the Holy Father’s insistence that the constitution of the European Union stress the essential role that Christianity had played in the formation of Europe. “This was a direct attack on the millions of Muslims now living in Europe, Your Eminence.”

  “The Holy Father’s point was a historical one.”

  “Then why did he not speak of the great role Islam played in Spain?”

  As the discussion continued, Piacere found himself surprised by his surprise that he was being confronted with an indictment of the Church, a bill of particulars against Catholicism. The forged message had proved to be merely an occasion that brought out all these scarcely suppressed resentments. In the manner of diplomats, he remained calm, noted what was said, and managed to avoid any reply that would compromise the Holy See. Eventually, gently, he went on the offensive.

  “Gentlemen, it would be helpful if your governments would condemn the rioting and burning and sacrileges that are going on.”

  “Our own streets are full,” cried one.

  “Of course there has been no encouragement of these actions,” said another.

  “They are understandable, however unfortunate,” the third remarked.

  “Could you propose to your governments that they contrast this rioting with the peaceful faith of Islam?” As a boy, Piacere would have crossed his fingers when making such a remark.

  Syria exploded. “You are blaming what has happened on us?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Do you think that these people are enraged because of something we have done?”

  “Would you like me to issue a statement that the Church does not blame responsible Muslims for what is happening?” Piacere asked.

  T
hey wanted nothing of the kind. They wanted an apology of the most abject sort. They wanted an admission that the Catholic Church had been an enemy of Islam for centuries and the instigator of crusades, the invasion and occupation of Arab lands in the name of the cross.

  Piacere’s suggestion that they have tea was indignantly refused. They had not come here to be placated in so meaningless a fashion.

  “Let me tell you what the Holy Father wishes,” Piacere said.

  The three fell silent.

  “The Holy Father would like your governments or your religious leaders or both to name a committee of Islamic scholars to come and study the true and authentic Fatima document. They will see that there is no similarity at all with this outrageous forgery.”

  “In order to exonerate the Holy See?” Syria asked.

  “In order to see the truth of the matter.”

  Disdainful as they were of this proposal, they did not reject it out of hand. Clearly, they had no better proposal to put an end to the riots and demonstrations that were wracking their own countries as much as those of Europe. But the most he could get from them was agreement that they would bring the matter before their governments.

  Piacere let Father Ladislaw take them down to their cars. Before they left, he thanked them for coming.

  “That must not become known!”

  “I have given you my word.”

  On Syria’s lips seemed to tremble a litany of instances when Islam had regretted taking the word of Christians.

  And then they were gone. Piacere went into his inner office and knelt on the prie-dieu there and invoked the aid of Our Lord and His Blessed Mother. And he had a very specific request. May we regain possession of the Fatima file so that scholars, if they were appointed, would have something to scrutinize.