by Steve Berry
"Take the children, Sister. And see to Dumitru's therapy."
The nun scooped the young boy into her arms and herded them down the hall. Father Tibor spit out instructions in Romanian, some of which Michener understood, but he wanted to know, "What kind of therapy does the boy receive?"
"We simply massage his legs and try to get him to walk. It's probably useless, but it's all we have available."
"No doctors?"
"We're lucky if we can feed these children. Medical aid is unheard of."
"Why do you do this?"
"A strange question coming from a priest. These children need us."
The enormity of what he'd just seen refused to leave his mind. "Is it like this throughout the country?"
"This is actually one of the better places. We've worked hard to make it livable. But, as you can see, we have a long way to go."
"No money?"
Tibor shook his head. "Only what the relief organizations throw our way. The government does little, the Church next to nothing."
"You came on your own?"
The older man nodded. "After the revolution, I read about the orphanages and decided this was where I should be. That was ten years ago. I have never left."
There was still an edge to the priest's voice, so he wanted to know, "Why are you so hostile?"
"I'm wondering what the papal secretary wants with an old man."
"You know who I am?"
"I'm not ignorant of the world."
He could see Andrej Tibor was no fool. Perhaps John XXIII had chosen wisely when he asked this man to translate Sister Lucia's note. "I have a letter from the Holy Father."
Tibor gently grasped Michener by the arm. "I was afraid of that. Let us go to the chapel."
They stepped down the hall toward the front of the building. What served as the chapel was a tiny room floored in gritty cardboard. The walls were bare stone, the ceiling crumbling wood. The only semblance of piety came from a solitary stained-glass window where a colored mosaic formed a Madonna, her arms outstretched, seemingly ready to embrace all who sought her comfort.
Tibor motioned to the image. "I found it not far from here, in a church that was about to be razed. One of the summer volunteers installed it for me. The children are all drawn to her."
"You know why I've come, don't you?"
Tibor said nothing.
He reached into his pocket, found the blue envelope, and handed it to Tibor.
The priest accepted the packet and stepped close to the window. Tibor ripped the fold and slipped out Clement's note. He held the paper away from his eyes as he strained to read in the dull light.
"It's been a while since I've read German," Tibor said. "But it's coming back to me." Tibor finished reading. "When I first wrote the pope, I was hoping he would simply do as I asked without more."
Michener wanted to know what the priest had asked, but instead said, "Do you have a response for the Holy Father?"
"I have many responses. Which one am I to give?"
"Only you can make that decision."
"I wish it were that simple." He cocked his head toward the stained glass. "She made it so complicated." Tibor stood for a moment in silence, then turned and faced him. "Are you staying in Bucharest?"
"Do you want me to?"
Tibor handed him the envelope. "There is a restaurant, the Cafe Krom, near the Pia ta Revolu tiei. It's easy to find. Come at eight. I'll think about this and have your response then."
FIFTEEN
Michener drove south to Bucharest, wrestling with images of the orphanage.
Like many of those children, he'd never known his natural parents. He learned much later in life that his birth mother had lived in Clogheen, a small Irish village north of Dublin. She was unmarried and not yet twenty when she became pregnant. His natural father was unknown--or at least that's what his birth mother had steadfastly maintained. Abortion was unheard of then, and Irish society scorned unwed mothers to the point of brutality.
So the church filled the gap.
Birthing centers was what the archbishop of Dublin labeled them, but they were little more than dumping places, like the one he'd just left. Each was run by nuns--not caring souls like back in Zlatna, but difficult women who treated the expectant mothers in their charge like criminals.
Women were forced to do demeaning labor up to and after giving birth, working in horrid conditions for little or no pay. Some were beaten, others starved, the majority mistreated. To the Church they were sinners, and forced repentance was their only path to salvation. Most, though, were mere peasant girls who could ill afford to raise a child. Some were the other side of illicit relationships that the fathers either did not acknowledge or wished to keep private. Others were wives who had the ill fortune to become pregnant against their husbands' wishes. The common denominator was shame. Not a one of them wanted to bring attention to herself, or to her family, for the sake of an unwanted child.
After birth, the babies would stay at the centers for a year, maybe two, being slowly weaned from their mothers--a little less time together each day. The final notice came only the night before. An American couple would arrive the following morning. Only Catholics were allowed the adoption privilege, and they had to agree to raise the child in the Church and not publicize where he or she came from. A cash donation to the Sacred Heart Adoption Society, the organization created to run the project, was appreciated but not required. The children could be told they were adopted, but the new parents were asked to say that the natural parents had died. Most of the birth mothers wanted it that way--the hope being that the shame of their mistake would pass in time. No one needed to know they'd given a child away.
Michener recalled vividly the day he'd visited the center where he was born. The gray limestone building sat in a wooden glen, a place called Kinnegad, not far from the Irish Sea. He'd walked through the deserted building, imagining an anguished mother sneaking into the nursery the night before her baby would leave forever, trying to muster the courage to say goodbye, wondering why a church and a God would allow such torment. Was her sin that great? If so, why wasn't the father's equal? Why did she bear all the guilt?
And all the pain.
He'd stood before a window on the upper floor and stared down at a mulberry tree. The only breach of the silence had come from a torrid breeze that echoed across the empty rooms like the cries of infants who'd once languished there. He'd felt the gut-wrenching horror as a mother tried to catch a final glimpse of her baby being carried to a car. His birth mother had been one of those women. Who she was, he would never know. Rarely were the children given surnames, so there was no way to match child to mother. He'd only learned the little bit he knew about himself because of a nun's faded memory.
More than two thousand babies left Ireland that way, one of them a tiny infant boy with light brown hair and bright green eyes whose destination was Savannah, Georgia. His adoptive father was a lawyer, his mother devoted to her new son. He grew up on the tidewaters of the Atlantic in an upper-middle-class neighborhood. He'd excelled in school and become a priest and a lawyer, pleasing his adoptive parents enormously. He'd then gone to Europe and found comfort with a lonely bishop who'd loved him like a son. Now he was a servant to that bishop, a man risen to pope, part of the same Church that had failed so miserably in Ireland.
He'd loved his adoptive parents dearly. They fulfilled their end of the bargain by always telling him that his natural parents had been killed. Only on her deathbed had his mother told him the truth--a confession by a sainted woman to her son, the priest, hoping both he and her God would forgive her.
I've seen her in my mind for years, Colin. How she must have felt when we took you away. They tried to tell me it was for the best. I tried to tell myself it was the right thing. But I still see her in my mind.
He hadn't known what to say.
We wanted a baby so bad. And the bishop told us your life would have been hard without us. No one would care for you.
But I still see her in my mind. I want to tell her I'm sorry. I want to tell her that I raised you well. I loved you as she would have. Maybe then she could forgive us.
But there was nothing to forgive. Society was to blame. The Church was to blame. Not the daughter of a south Georgia farmer who couldn't have a child of her own. She'd done nothing wrong, and he'd fervently pleaded with God to grant her peace.
He rarely thought about that past anymore, but the orphanage had brought it all back. The smell from its fetid air still lingered, and he tried to rid the stench with the cold wind from a downed window.
Those children would never enjoy a trip to America, never experience the love of parents who wanted them. Their world was limited within a gray retaining wall, within an iron-barred building equipped with no lights and little heat. There they would die, alone and forgotten, loved only by a few nuns and an old priest.
SIXTEEN
Michener found a hotel away from the Pia ta Revolu tiei and the busy university district, choosing a modest establishment near a quaint park. The rooms were small and clean, filled with art deco furnishings that looked out of place. His came with a washbasin that supplied surprisingly warm water, the shower and toilet shared down the hall.
Perched beside the room's only window, he was finishing off a pastry and a Diet Coke he'd bought to tide him over until dinner. A clock in the distance banged out chimes for five P.M.
The envelope Clement had given him lay on the bed. He knew what was expected of him. Now that Father Tibor had read the message, he was to destroy it, without reading its contents. Clement trusted him to do as instructed, and he'd never failed his mentor, though he'd always believed his relationship with Katerina a betrayal. He'd violated his vows, disobeyed his church, and offended his God. For that, there could be no forgiveness. But Clement had said otherwise.
You think you're the only priest to succumb?
That doesn't make it right.
Colin, forgiveness is the hallmark of our faith. You've sinned and should repent. But that doesn't mean throwing your life away. And was it that wrong, anyway?
He could still recall the curious look he'd given the archbishop of Cologne. What was he saying?
Did it feel wrong, Colin? Did your heart say it was wrong?
The answer to both questions then, and now, was no. He'd loved Katerina. It was a fact he could not deny. She'd come to him at a time, just after his mother's death, when he was tangling with his past. She'd traveled with him to that birthing center in Kinnegad. Afterward, they'd walked the rocky cliffs overlooking the Irish Sea. She'd held his hand and told him that his adoptive parents had loved him and he was lucky to have two people who cared that much. And she was right. But he couldn't rid the thoughts of his birth mother from his mind. How could societal pressure be so great that women willingly sacrificed their babies in order to make a life for themselves?
Why should that ever be necessary?
He drained the rest of the Coke and stared again at the envelope. His oldest and dearest friend, a man who'd been there for him half his life, was in trouble.
He made a decision. Time to do something.
He reached for the envelope and withdrew the blue paper. The words were penned in German, by Clement's own hand.
Father Tibor:
I am aware of the task you performed for the most holy and reverend John XXIII. Your first message to me caused great concern. "Why does the church lie?" was your inquiry. I truly had no idea what you meant. With your second contact, I now realize the dilemma you face. I have looked at the reproduction of the third secret you sent with your first note and read your translation many times. Why have you kept this evidence to yourself? Even after the third secret was revealed by John Paul, only silence from you. If what you sent is true, why did you not speak then? Some would say you are a fraud, a man not to be believed, but I know that to be false. Why? I cannot explain. Just know that I believe you. I have sent my secretary. He is a man to be trusted. You may tell Father Michener what you please. He will deliver your words only to me. If you have no response, tell him so. I can understand if you are disgusted with your Church. I, too, have similar thoughts. But there is much to consider, as you well know. I would ask that you return this note and envelope to Father Michener. I thank you for whatever service you may deem to offer. God go with you, Father.
Clement
P.P. Servus Servorum Dei.
The signature was the pope's official mark. Pastor of Pastors, Servant of the Servants of God. The way Clement signed every official document.
Michener felt bad about violating Clement's confidence. But something was clearly happening here. Father Tibor had apparently made an impression on the pope, enough that the papal secretary was being sent to judge the situation. Why have you kept this evidence to yourself?
What evidence?
I have looked at the reproduction of the third secret you sent with your first note and read your translation many times.
Were those two items now in the Riserva? Inside the wooden box Clement kept returning to open?
Impossible to say.
He still knew nothing.
So he replaced the blue sheet into the envelope, walked to the bathroom down the hall, and tore everything into pieces, flushing the scraps away.
Katerina listened as Colin Michener crossed the plank floor above. Her gaze traced the sound across the ceiling as it faded down the hall.
She'd followed him from Zlatna to Bucharest, deciding it more important to know where he was staying than to try to learn what happened with Father Tibor. She hadn't been surprised when he bypassed central downtown and headed straight for one of the city's lesser hotels. He'd also avoided the papal nuncio's office near Centru Civic--again no surprise, since Valendrea had made clear this was not an official visit.
Driving through downtown she was sad to see that an Orwellian sameness still permeated block after block of yellow-brick apartments, all coming after Ceau sescu bulldozed the city's history to make room for his grandiose developments. Somehow sheer magnitude was supposed to convey magnificence, and it mattered not that the buildings were impractical, expensive, and unwanted. The state decreed the populace would be appreciative--the ungrateful went to prison, the lucky were shot.
She'd left Romania six months after Ceau sescu faced the firing squad, staying only long enough to be part of the first election in the country's history. When no one but former communists won, she realized little would change quickly, and she'd noticed earlier how right that prediction had been. A sadness still filled Romania. She'd felt it in Zlatna, and on the streets in Bucharest. Like a wake after a funeral. And she could sympathize. What had become of her own life? She'd done little the past dozen years. Her father had urged her to stay and work for the new, supposedly free Romanian press, but she'd tired of the commotion. The excitement of revolt stood in stark contrast to the lull of its aftermath. Leave it to others to work a finish into the rough concrete--she preferred to churn the gravel, sand, and mortar. So she left and wandered Europe, found and lost Colin Michener, then made her way to America and Tom Kealy.
Now she was back.
And a man she once loved was walking around, one floor up.
How was she supposed to learn what he was doing? What had Valendrea said? I suggest using those same charms Tom Kealy apparently enjoys. Surely then your mission will be a complete success.
Asshole.
But maybe the cardinal had a point. The direct approach seemed best. She certainly knew Michener's weaknesses, and already hated herself for taking advantage of them.
But little choice remained.
She stood and headed for the door.
SEVENTEEN
VATICAN CITY, 5:30 P.M.
Valendrea's last appointment came early for a Friday. Then a dinner scheduled at the French embassy was unexpectedly canceled--some crisis in Paris had detained the ambassador--so he found himself with a rare free night.
He'd spent a tortu
rous hour with Clement just after lunch. The time was supposed to be a foreign affairs briefing, but all they'd done was bicker. Their relationship was rapidly deteriorating, and the risk of a public confrontation was growing by the day. His resignation had yet to be requested, Clement surely hoping he'd cite spiritual concerns and simply quit.
But that was never going to happen.
Part of the agenda for their earlier meeting had entailed a briefing on a visit by the American secretary of state, scheduled in two weeks. Washington was trying to enlist the Holy See's assistance on political initiatives in Brazil and Argentina. The Church was a political force in South America, and Valendrea had signaled a willingness to use Vatican influence on Washington's behalf. But Clement did not want the Church involved. In that respect he was nothing like John Paul II. The Pole had publicly preached the same philosophy, then privately done the opposite. A diversion, Valendrea had often thought, one that rocked Moscow and Warsaw to sleep and eventually brought communism to its knees. He'd seen firsthand what the moral and spiritual leader of a billion faithful could do to, and for, governments. Such a shame to waste that potential, but Clement had ordered that there would be no alliance between the United States and the Holy See. The Argentines and Brazilians would have to solve their own problems.
A knock came on the apartment door.
He was alone, having sent his chamberlain to fetch a carafe of coffee. He crossed his study into an adjacent anteroom and opened the double doors leading out to the hall. Two Swiss guards, their backs against the wall, flanked either side of the doorway. Between them stood Maurice Cardinal Ngovi.
"I was wondering, Eminence, if we might speak a moment. I tried at your office and was told you had retired for the evening."
Ngovi's voice was low and calm. And Valendrea noticed the formal label Eminence, surely for the guards' benefit. With Colin Michener plodding his way through Romania, Clement had apparently delegated the task of errand boy to Ngovi.
