The Third Secret

The Third Secret

Steve Berry - The Third Secret

The Third Secret (2005)

By: Steve Berry

D Synopsis

For Steve Berry, itOs a fortuitous coincidence that his third novel, a Vatican-centered conspiracy thriller titled The Third Secret, was published in the immediate aftermath of Pope Benedict XVIOs anointment in Rome. While this exuberantly contrived yarn would likely have drawn an audience at any time, it benefits from coming before readers just after theyOve been primed with news reports about papal succession, the relative influence and legacy of pontiffs, and the increasing tug-of-war between Roman Catholic progressives and conservative traditionalists.

Set in the near future, Secret introduces Jakob VolknerDPope Clement XVDa German Ocaretaker popeO who, nearing the age of 80, was elected as John Paul IIOs successor. But three years into his papacy, the thoughtful Clement has begun to quietly express skepticism about papal infallibility and the ChurchOs restrictive dogma, and to make odd requests of his longtime secretary, Monsignor Colin Michener, an Irish-born but American-reared priest whose vows of celibacy have been testedDand found wanting. Clement has also made repeated visits to a guarded sanctum within the Vatican archives, where sacred and historic documents are stored. And heOs dispatched Michener to Romania to locate an elderly cleric who, in the 1950s, translated three cryptic prophecies, purportedly offered by the Virgin Mary in 1917 to a trio of children in Fatima, Portugal. Those secrets have since been fully disclosed to the world. Or have they? ThatOs the question facing Michener in the wake of ClementOs shocking suicide, as he pursues a twisted trail of clues, crimes, and religious forecasts from Rome to Bosnia to Germany, accompanied by his former lover, journalist Katerina Lew. But making any additional secrets known to the world will put Michener in confrontation with doctrinal reactionaries, led by Cardinal Alberto Valendrea, the VaticanOs Italian secretary of state, whoOs determined to follow Clement as the Vicar of ChristDeven if that requires inventing a few new sins and flouting a 900-year-old prediction of doom for the next pope.

Attorney-author Berry, praised previously for The Amber Room and The Romanov Prophecy, enriches The Third Secret with glimpses behind the locked doors of a papal selection process and knowledge of centuries-old Catholic prognostications that, while employed judiciously in these pages, nonetheless suggest a prodigious amount of research. HeOs less successful with his casting. Valendrea is a wincingly unnuanced scoundrel, and Ms. Lew achieves scarce definition beyond being a raven-tressed temptress to powerful prelates. Thankfully, Berry does better by Michener, who finds himself at a crossroads, carrying on in ClementOs name even as he searches for confirmation that his own life of devotion and service has been meaningful. Although the secrets OrevealedO in this tale seem more controversial than plausible, and a potentially intriguing subplot about the excommunication of a maverick priest ends up as a throwaway device, The Third Secret builds to a conclusion that is as suspenseful and stunning as it is inevitable. Have faith. DJ. Kingston Pierce

WriterOs Note:

In researching this novel, I traveled to Italy and Germany. But this book grew out of my early Catholic education and a lifelong fascination with Fatima. Over the past two thousand years, the phenomena of Marian visions have occurred with surprising regularity. In modern times, the visions at La Salette, Lourdes, Fatima, and Medjugorje are most notable, though there are countless other lesser-known experiences. As with my first two novels, I wanted the information included in the story to both educate and entertain. Even more so than with the first two books, this one contains a wealth of reality.

The scene at Fatima, depicted in the prologue, is based on eyewitness accounts, most notably Lucia herself, who published her version of what happened in the early part of the twentieth century. The VirginOs words are Hers, as are most of LuciaOs. The three secrets, as quoted in chapter 7, are verbatim from the actual text. Only my modification detailed in chapter 65 is fictional.

What happened to Francisco and Jacinta, along with the third secretOs curious historyNhow it stayed sealed in the Vatican until May 2000, read only by popes (chapter 7)Nis all true, along with the ChurchOs refusal to allow Sister Lucia to speak publicly about Fatima. Sadly, Sister Lucia died shortly before this book was published, in February 2005, at the age of ninety-seven.

The La Salette visions from 1846, as mentioned in chapters 19 and 42, are accurately relatedNas is the history of those two seers, their biting public comments, and Pope Pius IXOs poignant observations. That particular Marian vision is one of the strangest on record and was mired by scandal and doubt. Secrets were part of the apparition and the original texts are indeed missing from the Vatican record, which further clouds what may have happened in that French Alpine village.

Medjugorje is similar, though it stands alone among Marian visions. Not a single event, or even several visions spread over a few monthsO time, Medjugorje involves thousands of apparitions over more than two decades. The Church has yet to formally acknowledge anything relative to what may have happened, though that Bosnian village has become a popular pilgrimage site. As noted in chapter 38, there are ten secrets associated with Medjugorje. Including this scenario within the plot seemed hard to resist, and what happens in chapter 65, linking the tenth secret of Medjugorje and the third secret of Fatima, evolved into the perfect way to finally prove that God exists. Yet, as Michener notes in chapter 69, even with this proof, the ultimate belief still comes down to faith.

The predictions attributed to St. Malachy, as detailed in chapter 56, are all true. The accuracy of the labels associated with the predicted popes is uncanny. His final prophecy concerning the 112th pope, one to be named Peter II, along with his statement that Oin the seven hilled city the dreadful judge will judge all people,O are likewise accurate. Currently John Paul II is the 110th pope on St. MalachyOs list. Two more to go to see if St. MalachyOs prophecy will be fulfilled. Similar to Rome, Bamberg, Germany, was once labeled the seven hilled city. I learned that fact while there and, after visiting, knew that this enchanting locale had to be included.

Sadly, the Irish birthing centers depicted in chapter 15 were real, as was all the pain they caused. Thousands of babies were taken from their mothers and adopted away. Little or nothing is known of their individual heritage and many of those children, now adults, have wrestled, as Colin Michener did, with the uncertainty of their existence. Thankfully, those centers no longer exist.

Equally sad is the plight of the Romanian orphans depicted in chapter 14. The tragedy befalling these children is ongoing. Disease, poverty, and desperationNnot to mention exploitation by the worldOs pedophilesNcontinue to ravage the ranks of these innocent souls.

All of the ChurchOs procedures and ceremonies are accurately reported, save for the ancient silver hammer being tapped on the dead popeOs forehead in chapters 30 and 71. That procedure is no longer used, but its former drama was hard to ignore.

The divisions within the Church between conservative and liberal, Italian and non-Italian, European and rest-of-the-world are real. The Church currently struggles with this divergence, and the conflict seemed a natural backdrop for the individual dilemmas faced by Clement XV and Alberto Valendrea.

The Bible verses noted in chapter 57 are, of course, accurate and are interesting when read in context with the novelOs plot. Likewise the words of John XXIII in chapters 7 and 68 when, in 1962, he addressed the opening session of the Vatican II council. His hope for reformNso the earthly city may be brought to the resemblance of that heavenly city where truth reignsNis fascinating considering he was the first pope to ever actually read the third secret of Fatima.

The third secret itself was released to the world in May 2000. As Cardinals Ngovi and Valendrea discussed in chapter 17, references to a possible papal assassination could explain the ChurchOs reluctance to publicize the message sooner. But overall, the riddles and parables contained within the third message are far more cryptic than threatening, which caused many observers to wonder if there might be more to the third secret.

The Catholic Church is unique among manOs institutions. It has not only survived for more than two millennia, but continues to grow and prosper. Yet many wonder what will be its fate in the coming century. Some, like Clement XV, want to fundamentally change the Church. Others, like Alberto Valendrea, want a return to its traditional roots. But perhaps Leo XIII, in 1881, said it best.

The Church needs nothing but the truth.

Prologue

FATIMA, PORTUGAL

JULY 13, 1917

Lucia stared toward heaven and watched the Lady descend. The apparition came from the east, as it had twice before, emerging as a sparkling dot from deep within the cloudy sky. Her glide never wavered as She quickly approached, Her form brightening as it settled above the holm oak, eight feet off the ground.

The Lady stood upright, Her crystallized image clothed in a glow that seemed more brilliant than the sun. Lucia lowered her eyes in response to the dazzling beauty.

A crowd surrounded Lucia, unlike the first time the Lady appeared, two months before. Then it had been only Lucia, Jacinta, and Francisco in the fields, tending the family sheep. Her cousins were seven and nine. She was the oldest, and felt it, at ten. On her right, Francisco knelt in his long trousers and stocking cap. To her left Jacinta was on her knees in a black skirt, a kerchief over her dark hair.

Lucia looked up and noticed the crowd again. The people had started amassing yesterday, many coming from neighboring villages, some accompanied by crippled children they hoped the Lady would cure. The prior of Fatima had proclaimed the apparition a fraud and urged all to stay away. The devil at work, heOd said. But the people had not listened, one parishioner even labeling the prior a fool since the devil would never incite people to pray.

A woman in the throng was shouting, calling Lucia and her cousins impostors, swearing God would avenge their sacrilege. Manuel Marto, LuciaOs uncle, Jacinta and FranciscoOs father, stood behind them and Lucia heard him admonish the woman to be silent. He commanded respect in the valley as a man whoOd seen more of the world than the surrounding Serra da Aire. Lucia derived comfort from his keen brown eyes and quiet manner. It was good he was nearby, there among the strangers.

She tried not to concentrate on any of the words being screamed her way, and blocked from her mind the scent of mint, the aroma of pine, and the pungent fragrance of wild rosemary. Her thoughts, and now her eyes, were on the Lady floating before her.

Only she, Jacinta, and Francisco could see the Lady, but only she and Jacinta could hear the words. Lucia thought that strangeNwhy Francisco should be deniedNbut, during Her first visit, the Lady had made it clear that Francisco would go to heaven only after saying many rosaries.

A breeze drifted across the checkered landscape of the great hollow basin known as Cova da Iria. The land belonged to LuciaOs parents and was littered with olive trees and patches of evergreens. The grass grew tall and made excellent hay, and the soil yielded potatoes, cabbage, and corn.

Rows of simple stone walls delineated the fields. Most had crumbled, for which Lucia was grateful, as it allowed the sheep to graze at will. Her task was to tend the family flock. Jacinta and Francisco were likewise charged by their parents, and theyOd spent many days over the past few years in the fields, sometimes playing, sometimes praying, sometimes listening to Francisco work his fife.

But all that had changed two months ago, when the apparition first appeared.

Ever since, theyOd been pounded with unceasing questions and scoffed at by nonbelievers. LuciaOs mother had even taken her to the parish priest, commanding her to say it was all a lie. The priest had listened to what sheOd said and stated it was not possible that Our Lady had descended from heaven simply to say that the rosary should be recited every day. LuciaOs only solace came when she was alone, able then to weep freely for both herself and the world.

The sky dimmed, and umbrellas used by the crowd for shade started to close. Lucia stood and yelled, OTake off your hats, for I see Our Lady.O

The men immediately obeyed, some crossing themselves as if to be forgiven for their rude behavior.

She turned back to the vision and knelt. OVocemec que me quere?O she asked. What do you want of me?

ODo not offend the Lord our God anymore because He is already much offended. I want you to come here on the thirteenth day of the coming month, and to continue to say five decades of the rosary every day in honor of Our Lady of the rosary to obtain the peace of the world and the end of the war. For She alone will be able to help.O

Lucia stared hard at the Lady. The form was transparent, in varied hues of yellow, white, and blue. The face was beautiful, but strangely shaded in sorrow. A dress fell to Her ankles. A veil covered Her head. A rosary resembling pearls intertwined folded hands. The voice was gentle and pleasant, never rising or lowering, a soothing constant, like the breeze that continued to sweep over the crowd.

Lucia mustered her courage and said, OI wish to ask you to tell us who you are, and to perform a miracle so that everyone will believe that you have appeared to us.O

OContinue to come here every month on this day. In October I will tell you who I am and what I wish, and I will perform a miracle that everyone will have to believe.O

Over the past month, Lucia had thought about what to say. Many had petitioned her with requests concerning loved ones and those too sick to speak for themselves. One in particular came to mind. OCan you cure Maria CarreiraOs crippled son?O

OI will not cure him. But I shall provide him a means of livelihood, provided he says the rosary every day.O

She thought it strange that a lady of heaven would attach conditions to mercy, but she understood the need for devotion. The parish priest always proclaimed such worship as the only means to gain GodOs grace.

OSacrifice yourselves for sinners,O the Lady said, Oand say many times, especially when you make some sacrifice: OO Jesus, it is for your love, for the conversion of sinners and in reparation for the sins committed against the Immaculate Heart of Mary.O O

The Lady opened Her clasped hands and spread Her arms. A penetrating radiance poured forth and bathed Lucia in a warmth much like that of a winter sun on a cool day. She embraced the feeling, then saw that the radiance did not stop at her and her two cousins. Instead, it passed through the earth and the ground opened.

This was new and different, and it frightened her.

A sea of fire spread before her in a magnificent vision. Within the flames blackened forms appeared, like chunks of beef swirling in a boiling soup. They were human in shape, though no features or faces were distinguishable. They popped from the fire then quickly descended, their bobbing accompanied by shrieks and groans so sorrowful that a shudder of fear crept down LuciaOs spine. The poor souls seemed to possess no weight or equilibrium, and were utterly at the mercy of the conflagration that consumed them. Animal forms appeared, some she recognized, but all were frightful and she knew them for what they were. Demons. Tenders of the flames. She was terrified and saw that Jacinta and Francisco were equally scared. Tears were welling in their eyes and she wanted to comfort them. If not for the Lady floating before them, she too would have lost control.

OLook at Her,O she whispered to her cousins.

They obeyed, and all three turned away from the horrible vision, their hands folded before them, fingers pointing skyward.

OYou see Hell, where the souls of poor sinners go,O the Lady said. OTo save them, God wishes to establish in the world the devotion to my Immaculate Heart. If they do what I will tell you, many souls will be saved, and there will be peace. The war is going to end. But if they do not stop offending God, another and worse one will begin in the reign of Pius XI.O

The vision of hell disappeared and the warm light retreated back into the LadyOs folded hands.

OWhen you shall see a night illuminated by an unknown light, know that it is the great sign that God gives you that He is going to punish the world for its crimes by means of war, hunger, and persecution of the Church and the Holy Father.O

Lucia was disturbed by the LadyOs words. She knew that a war had raged across Europe for the past several years. Men from villages had gone off to fight, many never returning. SheOd heard the sorrow of the families in church. Now she was being told a way to end that suffering.

OTo prevent this,O the Lady said, OI come to ask the consecration of Russia to my Immaculate Heart and the Communion of Reparation on the first Saturdays. If they listen to my requests, Russia will be converted and there will be peace. If not, she will scatter her errors through the world, provoking wars and persecutions of the church. The good will be martyred, the Holy Father will have much to suffer, various nations will be annihilated. In the end my Immaculate Heart will triumph. The Holy Father will consecrate Russia to me, and it will be converted, and a certain period of peace will be granted to the world.O

Lucia wondered what Russia was. Perhaps a person? A wicked woman in need of salvation? Maybe a place? Outside of the Galicians and Spain, she did not know the name of any other nation. Her world was the village of Fatima where her family lived, the nearby hamlet of Aljustrel where Francisco and Jacinta lived, the Cova da Iria where the sheep grazed and vegetables grew, and the Cabeco grotto where the angel had come last year and the year before, announcing the LadyOs arrival. This Russia was apparently quite important to capture the LadyOs attention. But Lucia wanted to know, OWhat of Portugal?O

OIn Portugal, the dogma of the faith will always be kept.O

She smiled. It was comforting to know that her homeland was well considered in heaven.

OWhen you say the rosary,O the Lady said, Osay after each mystery, OO my Jesus, pardon us and deliver us from the fires of hell. Draw all souls to salvation, especially those in need.O O

She nodded.

OI have more to tell you.O When the third message was completed, the Lady said, OTell this to no one, as yet.O

ONot even Francisco?O Lucia asked.

OYou may tell him.O

A long moment of silence followed. No sound leaked from the crowd. All of the men, women, and children were standing or kneeling, in rapture, enthralled by what the three seersNas Lucia had heard them labeledNwere doing. Many clutched at rosaries and muttered prayers. She knew no one could see or hear the LadyNtheir experience would be one of faith.

She took a moment to savor the silence. The entire Cova was locked in a deep solemnity. Even the wind had gone silent. Her flesh grew cold, and for the first time the weight of responsibility settled onto her. She sucked in a deep breath and asked, ODo you want nothing more of me?O

OToday I want nothing more of you.O

The Lady began to rise into the eastern sky. Something that sounded like thunder rumbled past overhead. Lucia stood. She was shaking. OThere She goes,O she cried, pointing to the sky.

The crowd sensed that the vision was over and started to press inward.

OWhat did she look like?O

OWhat did she say?O

OWhy do you look so sad?O

OWill she come again?O

The push of people toward the holm oak became intense and a sudden fear swept through Lucia. She blurted out, OItOs a secret. ItOs a secret.O

OGood or bad?O a woman screamed.

OGood for some. For others, bad.O

OAnd you wonOt tell us?O

OItOs a secret and the Lady told us not to tell.O

Manuel Marto picked Jacinta up and started to elbow his way through the crowd. Lucia followed with Francisco in hand. The stragglers pursued, pelting them with more questions. She could only think of one answer to their pleas.

OItOs a secret. ItOs a secret.O

E

Part One

One

VATICAN CITY

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 8, THE PRESENT

6:15 A.M.

Monsignor Colin Michener heard the sound again and closed the book. Somebody was there. He knew it.

Like before.

He stood from the reading desk and stared around at the array of baroque shelves. The ancient bookcases towered above him and more stood at attention down narrow halls that spanned in both directions. The cavernous room carried an aura, a mystique bred in part by its label. LOArchivio Segreto Vaticano. The Secret Archives of the Vatican.

HeOd always thought that name strange since little contained within the volumes was secret. Most were merely the meticulous record of two millennia of church organization, the accounts from a time when popes were kings, warriors, politicians, and lovers. All told there were twenty-five miles of shelves, which offered much if a searcher knew where to look.

And Michener certainly did.

Refocusing on the sound, his gaze drifted across the room, past frescoes of Constantine, Pepin, and Frederick II, before settling on an iron grille at the far side. The space beyond the grille was dark and quiet. The Riserva was accessed only by direct papal authority, the key to the grille held by the churchOs archivist. Michener had never entered that chamber, though heOd stood dutifully outside while his boss, Pope Clement XV, ventured inside. Even so, he was aware of some of the precious documents that the windowless space contained. The last letter of Mary, Queen of Scots, before she was beheaded by Elizabeth I. The petitions of seventy-five English lords asking the pope to annul Henry VIIIOs first marriage. GalileoOs signed confession. NapoleonOs Treaty of Tolentino.

He studied the cresting and buttresses of the iron grille, and the gilded frieze of foliage and animals hammered into the metal above. The gate itself had stood since the fourteenth century. Nothing in Vatican City was ordinary. Everything carried the distinctive mark of a renowned artist or a legendary craftsman, someone whoOd labored for years trying to please both his God and his pope.

He strode across the room, his footfalls echoing through the tepid air, and stopped at the iron gate. A warm breeze swept past him from beyond the grille. The right side of the portal was dominated by a huge hasp. He tested the bolt. Locked and secure.

He turned back, wondering if one of the staff had entered the archives. The duty scriptor had departed when heOd arrived earlier and no one else would be allowed inside while he was there, since the papal secretary needed no babysitter. But there were a multitude of doors that led in and out, and he wondered if the noise heOd heard moments ago was that of ancient hinges being worked open, then gently closed. It was hard to tell. Sound within the great expanse was as confused as the writings.

He stepped to his right, toward one of the long corridorsNthe Hall of Parchments. Beyond was the Room of Inventories and Indexes. As he walked, overhead bulbs flashed on and off, casting a succession of light pools, and he felt as if he were underground, though he was two stories up.

He ventured only a little way, heard nothing, then turned around.

It was early in the day and midweek. HeOd chosen this time for his research deliberatelyNless chance of impeding others whoOd gained access to the archives, and less chance of attracting the attention of curial employees. He was on a mission for the Holy Father, his inquiries private, but he was not alone. The last time, a week ago, heOd sensed the same thing.

He reentered the main hall and stepped back to the reading desk, his attention still on the room. The floor was a zodiacal diagram oriented to the sun, its rays able to penetrate thanks to carefully positioned slits high in the walls. He knew that centuries ago the Gregorian calendar had been calculated at this precise spot. Yet no sunlight leaked in today. Outside was cold and wet, a midautumn rainstorm pelting Rome.

The volumes that had held his attention for the past two hours were neatly arranged on the lectern. Many had been composed within the past two decades. Four were much older. Two of the oldest were written in Italian, one was in Spanish, the other in Portuguese. He could read all of them with easeNanother reason Clement XV coveted his employment.

The Spanish and Italian accounts were of little value, both rehashes of the Portuguese work: A Comprehensive and Detailed Study of the Reported Apparitions of the Holy Virgin Mary at FatimaDMay 13, 1917, to October 13, 1917.

Pope Benedict XV had ordered the investigation in 1922 as part of the ChurchOs investigation into what supposedly had occurred in a remote Portuguese valley. The entire manuscript was handwritten, the ink faded to a warm yellow so the words appeared as if they were scripted in gold. The bishop of Leira had performed a thorough inquiry, spending eight years in all, and the information later became critical in the 1930 acknowledgment by the Vatican that the VirginOs six earthly appearances at Fatima were worthy of assent. Three appendices, now attached to the original, had been generated in the 1950s, O60s, and O90s.

Michener had studied them all with the thoroughness of the lawyer heOd been trained by the Church to be. Seven years at the University of Munich had earned him his degrees, yet heOd never practiced law conventionally. His was a world of ecclesiastical pronouncements and canonical decrees. Precedent spanned two millennia and relied more on an understanding of the times than on any notion of stare decisis. His arduous legal training had become invaluable to his Church service, as the logic of the law had many times become an ally in the confusing mire of divine politics. More important, it had just helped him find in this labyrinth of forgotten information what Clement XV wanted.

The sound came again.

A soft squeak, like two limbs rubbing together in a breeze, or a mouse announcing its presence.

He rushed toward the source and glanced both ways.

Nothing.

Fifty feet off to the left, a door led out of the archive. He approached the portal and tested the lock. It yielded. He strained to open the heavy slab of carved oak and the iron hinges squealed ever so slightly.

A sound he recognized.

The hallway beyond was empty, but a gleam on the marble floor caught his attention.

He knelt.

The transparent clumps of moisture came with regularity, the droplets leading off into the corridor, then back through the doorway into the archive. Suspended within some were remnants of mud, leaves, and grass.

He followed the trail with his gaze which stopped at the end of a row of shelves. Rain continued to pound the roof.

He knew the puddles for what they were.

Footprints.

Two

7:45 A.M.

The media circus started early, as Michener knew it would. He stood before the window and watched as television vans and trailers eased into St. PeterOs Square and claimed their assigned positions. The Vatican press office had reported to him yesterday that seventy-one press applications had been approved for the tribunal from North American, English, and French journalists, though there were also a dozen Italians and three Germans in the group. Most were print media, but several news outlets had asked for and were granted on-site broadcast permission. The BBC had even lobbied for camera access inside the tribunal itself, part of a documentary it was preparing, but that request was denied. The whole thing should be quite a showNbut that was the price to be paid for going after a celebrity.

The Apostolic Penitentiary was the senior of three Vatican tribunals and dealt exclusively with excommunications. Canon law proclaimed five reasons a person could be excommunicated: Breaking the confidentiality of the confessional. Physically attacking the pope. Consecrating a bishop without Holy See approval. Desecrating the Eucharist. And the one at issue todayNa priest absolving his accomplice in a sexual sin.

Father Thomas Kealy of St. Peter and Paul Church in Richmond, Virginia had done the unthinkable. Three years ago heOd engaged in an open relationship with a woman, then in front of his congregation heOd absolved them both of sin. The stunt, and KealyOs scathing comments on the ChurchOs unbending position regarding celibacy, had garnered a great deal of attention. Individual priests and theologians had long challenged Rome on celibacy, and the usual response was to wait the advocate out, since most either quit or fell into line. Father Kealy, though, took his challenge to new levels by publishing three books, one an international best seller, that directly contradicted established Catholic doctrine. Michener well knew the institutional fear that surrounded him. It was one thing when a priest challenged Rome, quite another when people started listening.

And people listened to Thomas Kealy.

He was handsome and smart and possessed the enviable gift of being able to succinctly convey his thoughts. HeOd appeared across the globe and had attracted a strong following. Every movement needed a leader, and church reform advocates had apparently found theirs in this bold priest. His website, which Michener knew the Apostolic Penitentiary monitored on a daily basis, scored more than twenty thousand hits a day. A year ago Kealy had founded a global movement, Catholics Rallying for Equality Against Theological EccentricitiesNCREATENwhich now boasted over a million members, most from North America and Europe.

KealyOs bold leadership had even spawned courage among American bishops, and last year a sizable bloc came close to openly endorsing his ideas and questioning RomeOs continued reliance on archaic medieval philosophy. As Kealy had many times pronounced, the American church was in crisis thanks to old ideas, disgraced priests, and arrogant leaders. His argument that the Vatican loves American money, but not American influence resonated. He offered the kind of populist common sense that Michener knew Western minds craved. He had become a celebrity. Now the challenger had come to meet the champion, and their joust would be recorded by the world press.

But first, Michener had a joust of his own.

He turned from the window and stared at Clement XV, flushing from his mind the thought that his old friend might soon die.

OHow are you today, Holy Father?O he asked in German. When alone, they always used ClementOs native language. Almost none of the palace staff spoke German.

The pope reached for a china cup and savored a sip of espresso. OIt is amazing how being surrounded by such majesty can be so unsatisfying.O

The cynicism was nothing new, but of late its tone had intensified.

Clement tabled the cup. ODid you find the information in the archive?O

Michener stepped from the window and nodded.

OWas the original Fatima report helpful?O

ONot a bit. I discovered other documents that yielded more.O He wondered again why any of this was important, but said nothing.

The pope seemed to sense what he was thinking. OYou never ask, do you?O

OYouOd tell, if you wanted me to know.O

A lot had changed about this man over the past three yearsNthe pope growing more distant, pale, and fragile by the day. While Clement had always been a short, thin man, it seemed of late that his body was retreating within itself. His scalp, once covered by a thatch of brown hair, was now dusted with short gray fuzz. The bright face that had adorned newspapers and magazines, smiling from the balcony of St. PeterOs as his election was announced, loomed gaunt to the point of caricature, his flush cheeks gone, the once hardly noticeable port wine stain now a prominent splotch that the Vatican press office routinely airbrushed from photos. The pressures of occupying the chair of St. Peter had taken a toll, severely aging a man who, not so long ago, scaled the Bavarian Alps with regularity.

Michener motioned to the tray of coffee. He remembered when wurst, yogurt, and black bread constituted breakfast. OWhy donOt you eat? The steward told me you didnOt have any dinner last night.O

OSuch a worrier.O

OWhy are you not hungry?O

OPersistent, too.O

OEvading my questions does nothing to calm my fears.O

OAnd what are your fears, Colin?O

He wanted to mention the lines bracketing ClementOs brow, the alarming pallor of his skin, the veins that marked the old manOs hands and wrists. But he simply said, OOnly your health, Holy Father.O

Clement smiled. OYou are good at avoiding my taunts.O

OArguing with the Holy Father is a fruitless endeavor.O

OAh, that infallibility stuff. I forgot. IOm always right.O

He decided to take that challenge. ONot always.O

Clement chuckled. ODo you have the name found in the archives?O

He reached into his cassock and removed what heOd written just before heOd heard the sound. He handed it to Clement and said, OSomebody was there again.O

OWhich should not surprise you. Nothing is private here.O The pope read, then repeated what was written. OFather Andrej Tibor.O

He knew what was expected of him. OHeOs a retired priest living in Romania. I checked our records. His retirement check is still sent to an address there.O

OI want you to go see him.O

OAre you going to tell me why?O

ONot yet.O

For the past three months Clement had been deeply bothered. The old man had tried to conceal it, but after twenty-four years of friendship little escaped MichenerOs notice. He remembered precisely when the apprehension started. Just after a visit to the archivesNto the RiservaNand the ancient safe waiting behind the locked iron grille. ODo I get to know when you will tell me why?O

The pope rose from his chair. OAfter prayers.O

They left the study and walked in silence across the fourth floor, stopping at an open doorway. The chapel beyond was sheathed in white marble, the windows a dazzling glass mosaic fashioned to represent the Stations of the Cross. Clement came every morning for a few minutes of meditation. No one was allowed to interrupt him. Everything could wait until he finished talking with God.

Michener had served Clement since the early days when the wiry German was first an archbishop, then a cardinal, then Vatican secretary of state. HeOd risen with his mentorNfrom seminarian, to priest, to monsignorNthe climb culminating thirty-four months back when the Sacred College of Cardinals elected Jakob Cardinal Volkner the 267th successor to St. Peter. Volkner immediately chose Michener as his personal secretary.

Michener knew Clement for who he wasNa man educated in a postwar German society that had swirled in turmoilNlearning his diplomatic craft in such volatile postings as Dublin, Cairo, Cape Town, and Warsaw. Jakob Volkner was a man of immense patience and fanatical attention. Never once in their years together had Michener ever doubted his mentorOs faith or character, and heOd long ago resolved that if he could simply be half the man Volkner had been, he would consider his life a success.

Clement finished his prayers, crossed himself, then kissed the pectoral cross that graced the front of his white simar. His quiet time had been short today. The pope eased himself up from the prie-dieu, but lingered at the altar. Michener stood quiet in the corner until the pontiff stepped over to him.

OI intend to explain myself in a letter to Father Tibor. It will be papal authority for him to provide you with certain information.O

Still not an explanation as to why the Romanian trip was necessary. OWhen would you like me to go?O

OTomorrow. The next day at the latest.O

OIOm not sure thatOs a good idea. CanOt one of the legates handle the task?O

OI assure you, Colin. I wonOt die while you are gone. I may look bad, but I feel fine.O

Which had been confirmed by ClementOs doctors not less than a week ago. After a battery of tests, the pope had been proclaimed free of any debilitating disease. But privately the papal physician had cautioned that stress was ClementOs deadliest enemy, and his rapid decline over the past few months seemed evidence that something was tearing at his soul.

OI never said you looked bad, Holiness.O

OYou didnOt have to.O The old man pointed to his eyes. OItOs in there. IOve learned to read them.O

Michener held up the slip of paper. OWhy do you need to make contact with this priest?O

OI should have done it after I first went into the Riserva. But I resisted.O Clement paused. OI canOt resist any longer. I have no choice.O

OWhy is the supreme pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church without choices?O

The pope stepped away and faced a crucifix on the wall. Two stout candles burned bright on either side of the marble altar.

OAre you going to the tribunal this morning?O Clement asked, his back to him.

OThatOs not an answer to my question.O

OThe supreme pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church can pick and choose what he wants to answer.O

OI believe you instructed me to attend the tribunal. So, yes, IOll be there. Along with a roomful of reporters.O

OWill she be there?O

He knew exactly who the old man was referring to. OIOm told she applied for press credentials to cover the event.O

ODo you know her interest in the tribunal?O

He shook his head. OAs I told you before, I only learned of her presence by accident.O

Clement turned to face him. OBut what a fortunate accident.O

He wondered why the pope was interested.

OItOs all right to care, Colin. SheOs a part of your past. A part you should not forget.O

Clement only knew the whole story because Michener had needed a confessor, and the archbishop of Cologne had then been his closest companion. It was the only breach of his clerical vows during his quarter century as a priest. HeOd thought about quitting, but Clement talked him out of it, explaining that only through weakness could a soul gain strength. Nothing would be gained from walking away. Now, after more than a dozen years, he knew Jakob Volkner had been right. He was the papal secretary. For nearly three years heOd helped Clement XV govern a derisive combination of Catholic personality and culture. The fact that his entire participation was based on a violation of his oath to his God and his Church never seemed to bother him. And that realization had, of late, become quite troubling.

OI havenOt forgotten any of it,O he whispered.

The pope stepped close to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. ODo not lament for that which was lost. It is unhealthy and counterproductive.O

OLying doesnOt come easy to me.O

OYour God has forgiven you. That is all you need.O

OHow can you be sure?O

OI am. And if you canOt believe the infallible head of the Catholic Church, who can you believe?O A smile accompanied the facetious comment, one that told Michener not to take things quite so seriously.

He smiled, too. OYouOre impossible.O

Clement removed his hand. OTrue, but IOm lovable.O

OIOll try and remember that.O

OYou do that. IOll have my letter for Father Tibor ready shortly. It will call for a written response, but if he desires to speak, listen to him, ask what you will, and tell me everything. Understand?O

He wondered how he would know what to ask since he had no idea why he was even going, but he simply said, OI understand, Holiness. As always.O

Clement grinned. OThatOs right, Colin. As always.O

11:00 A.M.

Michener entered the tribunal chamber. The gathering hall was a lofty expanse of white and gray marble, enriched by a geometric pattern of colorful mosaics that had borne witness to four hundred years of Church history.

Two plain-clothed Swiss guards manned the bronze doors and bowed as they recognized the papal secretary. Michener had purposely waited an hour before walking over. He knew his presence would be cause for discussionNrarely did someone so close to the pope attend the proceedings.

At ClementOs insistence, Michener had read all three of KealyOs books and privately briefed the pontiff on their provocative content. Clement himself had not read them since that act would have generated too much speculation. Yet the pope had been intently interested in what Father Kealy had written and, as Michener slipped into a seat at the back of the chamber, he saw, for the first time, Thomas Kealy.

The accused sat alone at a table. Kealy appeared to be in his midthirties, with bushy auburn hair and a pleasant, youthful face. The grin that flashed periodically seemed calculatedNthe look and manner almost intentionally whimsical. Michener had read all of the background reports the tribunal had generated, and each one painted Kealy as smug and nonconformist. Clearly an opportunist, one of the investigators had written. Nonetheless, he could not help but think that KealyOs arguments were, in many ways, persuasive.

Kealy was being questioned by Alberto Cardinal Valendrea, the Vatican secretary of state, and Michener did not envy the manOs position. Kealy had drawn a tough panel. All of the cardinals and bishops were what Michener regarded as intensely conservative. None embraced the teachings of Vatican II, and not one was a supporter of Clement XV. Valendrea particularly was noted for a radical adherence to dogma. The tribunal members were each garbed in full vestments, the cardinals in scarlet silk, the bishops in black wool, perched behind a curved marble table beneath one of RaphaelOs paintings.

OThere is no one so far removed from God as a heretic,O Cardinal Valendrea said. His deep voice echoed without need of amplification.

OIt seems to me, Eminence,O Kealy said, Othe less open a heretic is, the more dangerous he would become. I donOt hide my disagreements. Instead, open debate is, I believe, healthy for the Church.O

Valendrea held up three books and Michener recognized the front covers of KealyOs works. OThese are heresy. There is no other way to view them.O

OBecause I advocate priests should marry? That women could be priests? That a priest can love a wife, a child, and his God like others of faith? That perhaps the pope is not infallible? HeOs human, capable of error. ThatOs heresy?O

OI donOt think one person on this tribunal would say otherwise.O

And none of them did.

Michener watched Valendrea as the Italian shifted in his chair. The cardinal was short and stumpy like a fire hydrant. A tangled fringe of white hair looped across his brow, drawing attention to itself simply by the contrast with his olive skin. At sixty, Valendrea enjoyed a luxury of relative youth within a Curia dominated by much older men. He also possessed none of the solemnity that outsiders associated with a prince of the Church. He smoked nearly two packs of cigarettes a day, owned a wine cellar that was the envy of many, and regularly moved within the right European social circles. His family was blessed with money, much of which was bestowed on him as the senior male in the paternal line.

The press had long labeled Valendrea papabile, a title that meant him eligible by age, rank, and influence for the papacy. Michener had heard rumors of how the secretary of state was positioning himself for the next conclave, bargaining with fence straddlers, strong-arming potential opposition. Clement had been forced to appoint him secretary of state, the most powerful office below pope, because a sizable bloc of cardinals had urged that Valendrea be given the job and Clement was astute enough to placate those whoOd placed him in power. Plus, as the pope explained at the time, let your friends stay near and your enemies nearer.

Valendrea rested his arms on the table. No papers were spread before him. He was known as a man who rarely needed reference material. OFather Kealy, there are many within the Church who feel the experiment of Vatican II cannot be judged a success, and you are a shining example of our failure. Clerics do not have freedom of expression. There are too many opinions in this world to allow discourse. This Church must speak with one voice, that being the Holy FatherOs.O

OAnd there are many today who feel celibacy and papal infallibility are flawed doctrine. Something from a time when the world was illiterate and the Church corrupt.O

OI differ with your conclusions. But even if those prelates exist, they keep their opinions to themselves.O

OFear has a way of silencing tongues, Eminence.O

OThere is nothing to fear.O

OFrom this chair, I beg to differ.O

OThe Church does not punish its clerics for thoughts, Father, only actions. Such as yours. Your organization is an insult to the Church you serve.O

OIf I had no regard for the Church, Eminence, then I would have simply quit and said nothing. Instead, I love my Church enough to challenge its policies.O

ODid you think the Church would do nothing while you breached your vows, carried on with a woman openly, and absolved yourself of sin?O Valendrea held the books up again. OThen wrote about it? You literally invited this challenge.O

ODo you honestly believe that all priests are celibate?O Kealy asked.

The question caught MichenerOs attention. He noticed the reporters perk up as well.

OIt matters not what I believe,O Valendrea said. OThat issue is with the individual cleric. Each one took an oath to his Lord and his Church. I expect that oath to be honored. Anyone who fails in this should leave or be forced out.O

OHave you kept your oath, Eminence?O

Michener was startled by KealyOs boldness. Perhaps he already realized his fate, so what did it matter.

Valendrea shook his head. ODo you find a personal challenge to me beneficial to your defense?O

OItOs a simple question.O

OYes, Father. I have kept my oath.O

Kealy seemed unfazed. OWhat other answer would you offer?O

OAre you saying that I am a liar?O

ONo, Eminence. Only that no priest, cardinal, or bishop would dare admit what he feels in his heart. We are each bound to say what the Church requires us to say. I have no idea what you truly feel, and that is sad.O

OWhat I feel is irrelevant to your heresy.O

OIt seems, Eminence, that you have already judged me.O

ONo more so than your God. Who is infallible. Or perhaps you take issue with that doctrine as well?O

OWhen did God decree that priests cannot know the love of a companion?O

OCompanion? Why not simply a woman?O

OBecause love knows no bounds, Eminence.O

OSo you are advocating homosexuality, too?O

OI advocate only that each individual must follow his heart.O

Valendrea shook his head. OHave you forgotten, Father, that your ordination was a union with Christ? The truth of your identityNwhich is the same for everyone on this tribunalNcomes from a full participation in that union. You are to be a living, transparent image of Christ.O

OBut how are we to know what that image is? None of us was around when Christ lived.O

OIt is as the Church says.O

OBut is that not merely man molding the divine to suit his need?O

ValendreaOs lifted his right eyebrow in apparent disbelief. OYour arrogance is amazing. Do you argue that Christ Himself was not celibate? That He did not place His Church above everything? That He was not in union with His Church?O

OI have no earthly idea what ChristOs sexual preference was, and neither do you.O

Valendrea hesitated a moment, then said, OYour celibacy, Father, is a gift of yourself. An expression of your devoted service. That is Church doctrine. One you seem unable, or unwilling, to understand.O

Kealy responded, quoting more dogma, and Michener let his attention drift from their debate. HeOd avoided looking, telling himself that it was not the reason heOd come, but his gaze quickly raked the hundred or so present, finally settling on a woman seated two rows behind Kealy.

Her hair was the color of midnight and possessed a noticeable depth and shine. He recalled how the strands once formed a thick mane and smelled of fresh lemon. Now they were short, layered, and finger-combed. He could only glimpse an angled profile, but the dainty nose and thin lips were still there. The skin remained the tint of heavily creamed coffee, evidence of a Romanian Gypsy mother and a Hungarian German father. Her name, Katerina Lew, meant Opure lion,O a description heOd always thought appropriate given her volatile temper and fanatical convictions.

TheyOd met in Munich. He was thirty-three, finishing his law degree. She was twenty-five, deciding between journalism and a career writing novels. SheOd known he was a priest, and they spent nearly two years together before the showdown came. Your God or me, she declared.

He chose God.

OFather Kealy,O Valendrea was saying, Othe nature of our faith is that nothing can be added or taken away. You must embrace the teachings of the mother Church in their entirety, or reject them totally. There is no such thing as a partial Catholic. Our principles, as expounded by the Holy Father, are not impious and cannot be diluted. They are as pure as God.O

OI believe those are the words of Pope Benedict XV,O Kealy said.

OYou are well versed. Which increases my sadness at your heresy. A man as intelligent as you appear to be should understand that this Church cannot, and will not tolerate open dissent. Especially of the degree you have offered.O

OWhat youOre saying is that the Church is afraid of debate.O

OI am saying that the Church sets rules. If you donOt like the rules, then muster enough votes to elect a pope who will change them. Short of that, you must do as told.O

OOh, I forgot. The Holy Father is infallible. Whatever is said by him concerning the faith is, without question, correct. Am I now stating correct dogma?O

Michener noticed that none of the other men on the tribunal had even attempted to utter a word. Apparently the secretary of state was the inquisitor for the day. He knew that all of the panelists were Valendrea loyalists, and little chance existed that any of them would challenge their benefactor. But Thomas Kealy was making it easy, doing more damage to himself than any of their questions might ever inflict.

OThat is correct,O Valendrea said. OPapal infallibility is essential to the Church.O

OAnother doctrine created by man.O

OAnother dogma this Church adheres to.O

OIOm a priest who loves his God and his Church,O Kealy said. OI donOt see why disagreeing with either would subject me to excommunication. Debate and discussion do nothing but foster wise policies. Why does the Church fear that?O

OFather, this hearing is not about freedom of speech. We have no American constitution that guarantees such a right. This hearing is about your brazen relationship with a woman, your public forgiveness of both your sins, and your open dissension. All of which is in direct contradiction to the rules of the Church you joined.O

MichenerOs gaze drifted back to Kate. It was the name heOd given her as a way of imposing some of his Irish heritage on her Eastern European personality. She sat straight, a notebook in her lap, her full attention on the unfolding debate.

He thought of their final Bavarian summer together when he took three weeks off between semesters. TheyOd traveled to an Alpine village and stayed at an inn surrounded by snowcapped summits. He knew it was wrong, but by then sheOd touched a part of him he thought did not exist. What Cardinal Valendrea had just said about Christ and a priestOs union with the Church was indeed the basis of clerical celibacy. A priest should devote himself solely to God and the Church. But ever since that summer heOd wondered why he couldnOt love a woman, his Church, and God simultaneously. What had Kealy said? Like others of faith.

He sensed the stare of eyes. As his mind refocused, he realized Katerina had turned her head and was now looking directly at him.

The face still carried the toughness heOd found so attractive. The slight hint of Asian eyes remained, the mouth tugged down, the jaw gentle and feminine. There were simply no sharp edges anywhere. Those, he knew, hid in her personality. He examined her expression and tried to gauge its temperature. Not anger. Not resentment. Not affection. A look that seemed to say nothing. Not even hello. He found it uncomfortable to be this close to a memory. Perhaps sheOd expected his appearance and didnOt want to give him the satisfaction of thinking she cared. After all, their parting all those years ago had not been amicable.

She turned back to the tribunal and his anxiety subsided.

OFather Kealy,O Valendrea said, OI ask you simply. Do you renounce your heresy? Do you recognize that what you have done is against the laws of this Church and your God?O

The priest pulled himself close to the table. OI do not believe that loving a woman is contrary to the laws of God. So the forgiving of that sin was therefore inconsequential. I have a right to speak my mind, so I make no apologies for the movement that I head. I have done nothing wrong, Eminence.O

OYou are a foolish man, Father. I have given you every opportunity to beg forgiveness. The Church can, and should, be forgiving. But contrition works in both directions. The penitent must be willing.O

OI do not seek your forgiveness.O

Valendrea shook his head. OMy heart aches for you and your followers, Father. Clearly, all of you are with the devil.O

1:05 P.M.

Alberto Cardinal Valendrea stood silent, hoping the euphoria from earlier at the tribunal would temper his rising irritation. Amazing how quickly a bad experience could utterly ruin a good one.

OWhat do you think, Alberto?O Clement XV said. OIs there time for me to view the crowd?O The pope motioned to the alcove and the open window.

It galled Valendrea that the pope would waste time standing before an open window and waving to people in St. PeterOs Square. Vatican Security had cautioned against the gesture, but the silly old man ignored the warnings. The press wrote about it all the time, comparing the German to John XXIII. And, in truth, there were similarities. Both ascended the papal throne near the age of eighty. Both were deemed caretaker popes. Both surprised everyone.

Valendrea hated the way Vatican observers also analogized the popeOs open window with his animated spirit, his unassuming openness, his charismatic warmth. The papacy was not about popularity. It was about consistency, and he resented how easily Clement had dispensed with so many time-honored customs. No longer did aides genuflect in the popeOs presence. Few kissed the papal ring. And rarely did Clement speak in the first person plural, as popes had done for centuries. This is the twenty-first century, Clement liked to say, while decreeing an end to another long-standing custom.

Valendrea remembered, not all that long ago, when popes would never stand in an open window. Security concerns aside, limited exposure bred an aura, it encouraged an air of mystery, and nothing promulgated faith and obedience more than a sense of wonder.

HeOd served popes for nearly four decades, rising in the Curia quickly, earning his cardinalOs hat before fifty, one of the youngest in modern times. He now held the second most powerful position in the Catholic ChurchNthe secretary of stateNa job that interjected him into every aspect of the Holy See. But he wanted more. He wanted the most powerful position. The one where no one challenged his decisions. Where he spoke infallibly and without question.

He wanted to be pope.

OIt is such a lovely day,O the pope was saying. OThe rain seems gone. The air is like back home, in the German mountains. An Alpine freshness. Such a shame to be inside.O

Clement stepped into the alcove, but not far enough for him to be seen from outside. The pope wore a white linen cassock, caped across the shoulders, with the traditional white vest. Scarlet shoes encased his feet and a white skullcap topped his balding head. He was the only prelate among one billion Catholics allowed to dress in that manner.

OPerhaps His Holiness could engage in that rather delightful activity after we have completed the briefing. I have other appointments, and the tribunal took up the entire morning.O

OIt would only take a few moments,O Clement said.

He knew the German enjoyed taunting him. From beyond the open window came the hum of Rome, that unique sound of three million souls and their machines moving across porous volcanic ash.

Clement seemed to notice the rumble, too. OIt has a strange sound, this city.O

OIt is our sound.O

OAh, I almost forgot. You are Italian, and all of us are not.O

Valendrea was standing beside a poster bed fashioned of heavy oak, the knicks and scrapes so numerous they seemed a part of its craftsmanship. A worn crocheted blanket draped one end, two oversized pillows the other. The remaining furniture was also GermanNthe armoire, dresser, and tables all painted gaily in a Bavarian style. There hadnOt been a German pope since the middle of the eleventh century. Clement II had been a source of inspiration for the current Clement XVNa fact that the pontiff made no secret about. But that earlier Clement was most likely poisoned to death. A lesson, Valendrea many times thought, this German should not forget.

OPerhaps you are right,O Clement said. OVisiting can wait. We do have business, now donOt we?O

A breeze eased past the sill and rustled papers on the desk. Valendrea reached down and halted their rise before they reached the computer terminal. Clement had not, as yet, switched on the machine. He was the first pope to be fully computer literateNanother point the press lovedNbut Valendrea had not minded that change. Computer and fax lines were far easier to monitor than telephones.

OI am told you were quite spirited this morning,O Clement said. OWhat will be the outcome of the tribunal?O

He assumed Michener had reported back. HeOd seen the papal secretary in the audience. OI was unaware that His Holiness was so interested in the subject matter of the tribunal.O

OHard to not to be curious. The square below is littered with television vans. So, please, answer my question.O

OFather Kealy presented us with few options. He will be excommunicated.O

The pope clasped his hands behind his back. OHe offered no apology?O

OHe was arrogant to the point of insult, and dared us to challenge him.O

OPerhaps we should.O

The suggestion caught Valendrea off guard, but decades of diplomatic service had taught him how to conceal surprise with questions. OAnd the purpose of such an unorthodox action?O

OWhy does everything need a purpose? Perhaps we should simply listen to an opposing point of view.O

He kept his body still. OThere is no way you could openly debate the question of celibacy. That has been doctrine for five hundred years. WhatOs next? Women in the priesthood? Marriage for clerics? An approval of birth control? Will there be a complete reversal of all dogma?O

Clement stepped toward the bed and stared up at a medieval rendition of Clement II hanging on the wall. Valendrea knew that it had been brought from one of the cavernous cellars, where it had rested for centuries. OHe was bishop of Bamberg. A simple man who possessed no desire to be pope.O

OHe was the kingOs confidant,O Valendrea said. OPolitically connected. In the right place at the right time.O

Clement turned to face him. OLike myself, I presume?O

OYour election was by an overwhelming majority of cardinals, each one inspired by the Holy Spirit.O

ClementOs mouth formed an irritating smile. OOr perhaps it was affected by the fact that none of the other candidates, yourself included, could amass enough votes for election?O

They were apparently going to start feuding early today.

OYou are an ambitious man, Alberto. You think wearing this white cassock will somehow make you happy. I can assure you, it wonOt.O

TheyOd had similar conversations before, but the intensity of their exchanges had risen of late. Both knew how the other felt. They were not friends, and never would be. Valendrea found it amusing how people thought just because he was a cardinal and Clement pope, theirs would be a sacred relationship of two pious souls, placing the needs of the Church first. Instead, they were vastly different men, their union born purely of conflicting politics. To their credit, neither had ever openly feuded with the other. Valendrea was smarter than thatNthe pope was required to argue with no oneNand Clement apparently realized that a great many cardinals supported his secretary of state. OI wish nothing, Holy Father, except for you to live a long and prosperous life.O

OYou donOt lie well.O

He was tiring of the old manOs prodding. OWhy does it matter? You wonOt be here when the conclave occurs. DonOt concern yourself with the prospects.O

Clement shrugged. OIt matters not. IOll be enshrined beneath St. PeterOs, with the rest of the men who have occupied this chair. I couldnOt care less about my successor. But that man? Yes, that man should care greatly.O

What was it the old prelate knew? It seemed a habit lately to drop odd hints. OIs there something that displeases the Holy Father?O

ClementOs eyes flashed hot. OYou are an opportunist, Alberto. A scheming politico. I might just disappoint you and live another ten years.O

He decided to drop the pretense. OI doubt it.O

OI actually hope you do inherit this job. YouOll find it far different than you might imagine. Maybe you should be the one.O

Now he wanted to know, OThe one for what?O

For a few moments the pope went silent. Then he said, OThe one to be pope, of course. What else?O

OWhat is it that bites your soul?O

OWe are fools, Alberto. All of us, in our majesty, are nothing but fools. God is far wiser than any of us could even begin to imagine.O

OI donOt think any believer would question that.O

OWe expound our dogma and, in the process, ruin the lives of men like Father Kealy. HeOs just a priest trying to follow his conscience.O

OHe seemed more like an opportunistNto use your description. A man who enjoys the spotlight. Surely, though, he understood Church policy when he took his oath to abide by our teachings.O

OBut whose teachings? It is men like you and me pronouncing the so-called Word of God. ItOs men like you and me, punishing other men for violating those teachings. I often wonder, is our precious dogma the thoughts of the Almighty or just those of ordinary clerics?O

Valendrea considered this inquiry just more of the strange behavior this pope had shown as of late. He debated whether to probe, but decided he was being tested, so he answered in the only way he could. OI consider the Word of God and the dogma of this Church one and the same.O

OGood answer. Textbook in its diction and syntax. Unfortunately, Alberto, that belief will eventually be your undoing.O

And the pope turned and stepped toward the window.

Michener strolled into the midday sun. The morning rain had dissipated, the sky now littered with mottled clouds, the patches of blue striped by the contrail of an airplane on its way east. Before him, the cobbles of St. PeterOs Square bore the remnants of the earlier storm, puddles littered about like a multitude of lakes strewn across a vast landscape. The television crews were still there, many now broadcasting reports back home.

HeOd left the tribunal before it adjourned. One of his aides later informed him that the confrontation between Father Kealy and Cardinal Valendrea had continued for the better part of two hours. He wondered about the point of the hearing. The decision to excommunicate Kealy had surely been made long before the priest had been commanded to Rome. Few accused clerics ever attended a tribunal, so Kealy had most likely come to draw more attention to his movement. Within a matter of weeks Kealy would be declared not in communion with the Holy See, just another expatriate proclaiming the Church a dinosaur heading toward extinction.

And sometimes Michener believed critics, like Kealy, might be right.

Nearly half of the worldOs Catholics now lived in Latin America. Add Africa and Asia and the fraction rose to three-quarters. Placating this emerging international majority, while not alienating the Europeans and Italians, was a daily challenge. No head of state dealt with something so intricate. But the Roman Catholic Church had done just that for two thousand yearsNa claim no other of manOs institutions could makeNand spread out before him was one of the ChurchOs grandest manifestations.

The key-shaped square, enclosed within BerniniOs two magnificent semicircular colonnades, was breathtaking. Michener had always been impressed with Vatican City. HeOd first come a dozen years ago as the adjunct priest to the archbishop of CologneNhis virtue having been tested by Katerina Lew, but his resolve solidified. He recalled exploring all 108 acres of the walled enclave, marveling at the majesty that two millennia of constant building could achieve.

The tiny nation did not occupy one of the hills upon which Rome was first built, but instead crowned Mons Vaticanus, the only one of the seven ancient designations people still remembered. Fewer than two hundred were actual citizens, and even fewer held a passport. Not one soul had ever been born there, few besides popes died there, and even fewer were buried there. Its government was one of the worldOs last remaining absolute monarchies and, in a twist Michener had always thought ironic, the Holy SeeOs United Nations representative could not sign the worldwide declaration of human rights because, inside the Vatican, there was no religious freedom.

He gazed out into the sunny square, past the television trucks with their array of antennas, and noticed people looking off to the right and up. A few were crying OSantissimo Padre.O Holy Father. He followed their upturned heads to the fourth floor of the Apostolic Palace. Between the wooden shutters of a corner window the face of Clement XV appeared.

Many started waving. Clement waved back.

OStill fascinates you, doesnOt it?O a female voice said.

He turned. Katerina Lew stood a few feet away. Somehow heOd known she would find him. She came close to where he stood, just inside the shadow of one of BerniniOs pillars. OYou havenOt changed a bit. Still in love with your God. I could see it in your eyes in the tribunal.O

He tried to smile, but cautioned himself to focus on the challenge before him. OHow have you been, Kate?O The features on her face softened. OLife everything you thought it would be?O

OI canOt complain. No, I wonOt complain. Unproductive. ThatOs how you once described complaining.O

OThatOs good to hear.O

OHow did you know IOd be there this morning?O

OI saw your credentials application a few weeks back. May I ask whatOs your interest in Father Kealy?O

OWe havenOt spoken in fifteen years and thatOs what you want to talk about?O

OThe last time we spoke you told me never to speak of us again. You said there was no us. Only me and God. So I didnOt think that was a good subject.O

OBut I said that only after you told me you were returning to the archbishop and devoting yourself to the service of others. A priest in the Catholic Church.O

They were standing a bit close, so he took a few steps back, deeper into the shadow of the colonnade. He caught a glimpse of MichelangeloOs dome atop St. PeterOs Basilica being dried by a brightening midautumn sun.

OI see you still have a talent for evading questions,O he pointed out.

OIOm here because Tom Kealy asked me to come. HeOs no fool. He knows what that tribunal is going to do.O

OWho are you writing for?O

OFreelance. A book he and I are putting together.O

She was a good writer, especially of poetry. HeOd always envied her ability, and he actually wanted to know more about what happened to her after Munich. He was aware of bits and pieces. Her stints at a few European newspapers, never long, even a job in America. He occasionally saw her bylineNnothing heavy or weighty, mainly religious essays. Several times heOd almost tracked her down, longing to share a coffee, but he knew that was impossible. HeOd made his choice and there was no going back.

OI wasnOt surprised when I read of your papal appointment,O she said. OI figured when Volkner was elected pope, he wouldnOt let you go.O

He caught the look in her emerald eyes and saw she was struggling with her emotions, just as she had fifteen years ago. Then, he was a priest working on a law degree, anxious and ambitious, tied to the fortunes of a German bishop whom many were saying could one day be a cardinal. Now there was talk of his own elevation to the Sacred College. It was not unheard of that papal secretaries moved directly from the Apostolic Palace into a scarlet hat. He wanted to be a prince of the Church, to be part of the next conclave in the Sistine Chapel, beneath the frescoes of Michelangelo and Botticelli, with a voice and a vote.

OClement is a good man,O he said.

OHeOs a fool,O she quietly stated. OJust somebody the good cardinals put on the throne until one of them can muster enough support.O

OWhat makes you such an authority?O

OAm I wrong?O

He turned from her, allowing his temper to cool, and watched a group of souvenir peddlers at the squareOs perimeter. Her surly attitude was still there, her words as biting and bitter as he remembered. She was pushing forty, but maturity had done little to abate her consuming passions. It was one of the things heOd never liked about her, and one of the things he missed. In his world, frankness was unknown. He was surrounded by people who could say with conviction what they never meant, so there was something to be said for truth. At least you knew exactly where you stood. Solid ground. Not the perpetual quicksand heOd grown accustomed to dealing with.

OClement is a good man charged with a nearly impossible task,O he said.

OOf course if the dear mother Church would bend a little, things might not be so difficult. Pretty hard to govern a billion when everyone has to accept that the pope is the only man on earth who canOt make a mistake.O

He didnOt want to debate dogma with her, especially in the middle of St. PeterOs Square. Two Swiss guards, plumed and helmeted, their halberds held high, marched past a few feet away. He watched them advance toward the basilicaOs main entrance. The six massive bells high in the dome were silent, but he realized the time was not that far off when they would toll at Clement XVOs death. Which made KaterinaOs insolence all the more infuriating. Going to the tribunal earlier and talking with her now were mistakes. He knew what he had to do. OItOs been nice seeing you again, Kate.O He turned to leave.

OBastard.O

She spit out the insult just loud enough for him to hear.

He turned back, wondering if she truly meant it. Conflict clouded her face. He stepped close and kept his voice down. OWe havenOt spoken in years and all you want to do is tell me how evil the Church is. If you despise it so much, why waste your time writing about it? Go write that novel you always said you would. I thought maybe, just maybe, you might have mellowed. But I see that hasnOt occurred.O

OHow wonderful to know you might actually care. You never considered my feelings when you told me it was over.O

ODo we have to go through all that again?O

ONo, Colin. ThereOs no need.O She retreated. ONo need at all. Like you said, itOs been good seeing you again.O

For an instant he registered hurt, but she seemed to quickly conquer whatever weakness may have swelled inside her.

He stared back toward the palace. Many more were now calling out and waving. Clement was still waving back. Several of the television crews were filming the moment.

OItOs him, Colin,O Katerina said. OHeOs your problem. You just donOt know it.O

And before he could reply, she was gone.

E

3:00 P.M.

Valendrea clamped the headphones over his ears, pushed PLAY on the reel-to-reel recorder, and listened to the conversation between Colin Michener and Clement XV. The eavesdropping devices installed in the papal apartments had again performed flawlessly. There were many such receivers throughout the Apostolic Palace. HeOd seen to that just after ClementOs election, which had been easy since, as secretary of state, he was charged with ensuring the security of the Vatican.

Clement had been right earlier. Valendrea wanted the current pontificate to run a little longer, time enough for him to secure the few remaining stragglers heOd need in the conclave. The current Sacred College was holding at 160, only 47 members over the age of eighty and ineligible to vote if a conclave happened within the next thirty days. At last count he felt reasonably confident of forty-five votes. A good start, but a long way from election. Last time heOd ignored the adage, He who goes into the conclave as pope comes out a cardinal. No chances would be taken this time. The listening devices were just one aspect of his strategy to assure that the Italian cardinals did not repeat their prior defection. Amazing the indiscretions princes of the Church engaged in on a daily basis. Sin was no stranger to them, their souls in need of cleansing like everyone else. But Valendrea well knew that, sometimes, penance had to be forced upon the penitent.

ItOs all right to care, Colin. SheOs a part of your past. A part you should not forget.

Valendrea removed the earphones and glanced up at the man sitting beside him. Father Paolo Ambrosi had stood at his side for over a decade. He was a short, slender man with straw-thin gray hair. The crook of his nose and the cut of his jaw reminded Valendrea of a hawk, an analogy that also amply described the priestOs personality. A smile was rare, a laugh even more so. A grave air constantly sheathed him, but that never bothered Valendrea because this priest was a man possessed of passion and ambition, two traits Valendrea greatly admired.

OItOs amusing, Paolo, how they speak German as if theyOre the only ones who might understand.O Valendrea switched off the recorder. OOur pope seems concerned about this woman Father Michener is apparently familiar with. Tell me about her.O

They were sitting in a windowless salon on the third floor of the Apostolic Palace, part of the enormous square footage allocated to the Secretariat of State. The tape recorders and radio receiver were stored there inside a locked cabinet. Valendrea was not concerned about anyone finding the hardware. With more than ten thousand chambers, audience halls, and passages, most of which were secured behind locked doors, little danger existed of this hundred or so square feet being disturbed.

OHer name is Katerina Lew. Born to Romanian parents who fled the country when she was a teenager. Her father was a professor of law. SheOs highly educated with a degree from the University of Munich, and another from the Belgian National College. She returned to Romania in the late 1980s and was there when Ceauusescu was deposed. SheOs a proud revolutionary.O He caught the touch of amusement that laced AmbrosiOs voice. OShe met Michener in Munich when they were both students. They had a love affair that lasted a couple of years.O

OHow do you know all this?O

OMichener and the pope have had other conversations.O

Valendrea knew that while he perused only the most important tapes, Ambrosi savored everything. OYouOve never mentioned this before?O

OIt seemed unimportant until the Holy Father showed interest in the tribunal.O

OI might have underestimated Father Michener. He appears human, after all. A man with a past. Faults, too. I actually like this side of him. Tell me more.O

OKaterina Lew has worked for a variety of European publications. She calls herself a journalist, but sheOs more of a freelance writer. SheOs had stints with Der Spiegel, Herald Tribune, and London Times. DoesnOt stay long. Her slant is leftist politics and radical religion. Her articles are not flattering to organized worship. SheOs co-authored three books, two on the German Green party, one on the Catholic Church in France. None was a big seller. SheOs highly intelligent, but undisciplined.O

Valendrea sensed what he really wanted to know. OAmbitious, too, IOd guess.O

OShe was married twice, after she and Michener split. Both brief. Her connection to Father Kealy was more her idea than his. SheOs been in America the past couple of years working. She appeared at his office one day and theyOve been together ever since.O

ValendreaOs interest was piqued. OAre they lovers?O

Ambrosi shrugged. OHard to say. But she seems to like priests, so I would assume so.O

Valendrea snapped the headphones back over his ears and switched on the recorder. Clement XVOs voice filled his ears. IOll have my letter to Father Tibor ready shortly. It will call for a written response, but if he desires to speak, listen to him, ask what you will, and tell me. He slipped off the earphones. OWhat is that old fool up to? Sending Michener to find an eighty-year-old priest. What could possibly be served by that?O

OHeOs the only other person left alive, besides Clement, who has actually seen what is contained within the Riserva regarding the Fatima secrets. Father Tibor was given Sister LuciaOs original text by John XXIII himself.O

His stomach went hollow at the mention of Fatima. OHave you located Tibor?O

OI have an address in Romania.O

OThis requires close monitoring.O

OI can see that. IOm wondering why.O

He wasnOt about to explain. Not until there was no choice. OI think some assistance in monitoring Michener could prove valuable.O

Ambrosi grinned. OYou believe Katerina Lew will help?O

He rolled the question over again in his mind, gauging his response to what he knew about Colin Michener, and what he now suspected about Katerina Lew. OWe shall see, Paolo.O

8:30 P.M.

Michener stood before the high altar in St. PeterOs Basilica. The church was closed for the day, the silence disturbed only by maintenance crews polishing the acres of mosaic floor. He leaned against a thick balustrade and watched while workmen ran mops up and down marble stairs, whisking away the dayOs debris. The theological and artistic focal point of all Christendom lay just beneath him in St. PeterOs grave. He turned and cocked his head upward toward BerniniOs curlicued baldacchino, then stared skyward into MichelangeloOs dome, which sheltered the altar, as one observer had noted, like the cupped hands of God.

He thought of the Vatican II council, imagining the nave surrounding him lined with tiered benches holding three thousand cardinals, priests, bishops, and theologians from nearly every religious denomination. In 1962 he was between his first Holy Communion and confirmation, a young boy attending Catholic school on the banks of the Savannah River in southeast Georgia. What was happening three thousand miles away in Rome meant nothing to him. Over the years heOd watched films of the councilOs opening session as John XXIII, hunched in the papal throne, pleaded with traditionalists and progressives to work in unison so the earthly city may be brought to the resemblance of that heavenly city where truth reigns. It had been an unprecedented move. A absolute monarch calling together subordinates to recommend how to change everything. For three years the delegates debated religious liberty, Judaism, the laity, marriage, culture, and the priesthood. In the end the Church was fundamentally altered. Some argued not enough, others thought too much.

A lot like his own life.

Though born in Ireland, he was raised in Georgia. His education started in America and finished in Europe. Despite his bicontinental upbringing, he was considered an American by the Italian-dominated Curia. Luckily, he fully understood the volatile atmosphere surrounding him. Within thirty days of arriving in the papal palace, heOd mastered the four basic rules of Vatican survival. Rule oneNnever contemplate an original thought. Rule twoNif for some reason an idea occurs, donOt voice it. Rule threeNabsolutely never set a thought to paper. And rule fourNunder no circumstance sign anything you foolishly decided to write.

He stared back out into the church, marveling at harmonious proportions that declared a near-perfect architectural balance. A hundred and thirty popes lay buried around him, and heOd hoped tonight to find some serenity among their tombs.

Yet his concerns about Clement continued to trouble him.

He reached into his cassock and removed two folded sheets of paper. All of his research on Fatima had centered on the VirginOs three messages, and those words seemed central to whatever was upsetting the pope. He unfolded and read Sister LuciaOs account of the first secret:

Our Lady showed us a great sea of fire which seemed to be under the earth. Plunged into this fire were demons and souls in human form, like transparent burning embers, all blackened or burnished bronze. This vision lasted but an instant.

The second secret was a direct result of the first:

You see Hell, where the souls of poor sinners go the Lady told us. To save them, God wishes to establish in the world the devotion to my Immaculate Heart. If they do what I will tell you, many souls will be saved, and there will be peace. The war is going to end. But if they do not stop offending God, another and worse one will begin in the reign of Pius XI. I come to ask for the consecration of Russia to my Immaculate Heart and the Communion of reparations on the First Saturdays. If my requests are heeded Russia will be converted and there will be peace, if not she will spread her errors throughout the world causing wars and persecutions of the Church. The good will be martyred, the Holy Father will have much to suffer, various nations will be annihilated. In the end my Immaculate Heart will triumph. The Holy Father will consecrate Russia to me and she shall be converted and a period of peace will be granted the world.

The third message was the most cryptic of all:

After the two parts which I have already explained, at the left of Our Lady and a little above, we saw an Angel with a flaming sword in his left hand, flashing. It gave out flames that looked as though they would set the world on fire, but they died out in contact with the splendor that Our Lady radiated towards him from her right hand. Pointing to the earth with his right hand, the Angel cried out in a loud voice: OPenance, Penance, Penance!,O and we saw in an immense light that is God. Something similar to how people appear in a mirror when they pass in front of it. A bishop dressed in white, Owe had the impression that it was the Holy Father,O other bishops, priests, men and women Religious going up a steep mountain, at the top of which there was a big Cross of rough-hewn trunks as of a cork-tree with the bark. Before reaching there 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, and in the same way there died one after another the other bishops, priests, men and women religious, and various lay people of different ranks and positions. Beneath the two arms of the Cross there were two Angels each with a crystal aspersorium in his hand, in which they gathered up the blood of the Martyrs and with it sprinkled the souls that were making their way to God.

The sentences bore the cryptic mystery of a poem, the meanings subtle and open to interpretation. Theologians, historians, and conspiratorialists had for decades postulated their own varied analyses. So who knew anything for sure? Yet something was deeply troubling Clement XV.

OFather Michener.O

He turned.

One of the nuns whoOd prepared his dinner was hustling toward him. OForgive me, but the Holy Father would like to see you.O

Usually Michener dined with Clement, but tonight the pope had eaten with a group of visiting Mexican bishops at the North American College. He glanced at his watch. Clement was back early. OThank you, Sister. IOll head to the apartment.O

OThe pope is not there.O

That was strange.

OHeOs in the LO Archivio Segreto Vaticano. The Riserva. He asked that you join him there.O

He concealed his surprise as he said, OAll right. IOll head there now.O

He walked the empty corridors toward the archives. ClementOs presence again in the Riserva was a problem. He knew exactly what the pope was doing. What he couldnOt figure out was why. So he allowed his mind to wander, reviewing once more the phenomenon of Fatima.

In 1917 the Virgin Mary revealed herself to three peasant children in a great hollow basin known as Cova da Iria, near the Portuguese village of Fatima. Jacinta and Francisco Marto were brother and sister. She was seven and he was nine. Lucia dos Santos, their first cousin, was ten. The mother of God appeared six times from May to October, always on the thirteenth of the month, at the same place, at the same time. By the final apparition, thousands were present to witness the sun dancing across the sky, a sign from heaven that the visions were real.

It was more than a decade later that the Church sanctioned the apparitions as worthy of assent. But two of the young seers never lived to see that recognition. Jacinta and Francisco both died of influenza within thirty months of the VirginOs final appearance. Lucia, though, lived to be an old woman, having died only recently, after devoting her life to God as a cloistered nun. The Virgin even foretold those occurrences when She said, I will take Jacinta and Francisco soon, but you, Lucia, shall remain here for a certain time. Jesus wishes to use you to make Me known and loved.

It was during Her July visit that the Virgin told three secrets to the young seers. Lucia herself revealed the first two secrets in the years after the apparitions, even including them in her memoirs, published in the early 1940s. Only Jacinta and Lucia actually heard the Virgin convey the third secret. For some reason Francisco was excluded from a direct rendition, but Lucia was given permission to tell him. Though pressed hard by the local bishop to reveal the third secret, all of the children refused. Jacinta and Francisco took the information with them to their graves, though Francisco told an interviewer in October 1917 that the third secret Owas for the good of souls and that many would be sad if they knew.O

It remained for Lucia to be the keeper of the final message.

Though she was blessed with good health, in 1943 a recurring pleurisy seemed to spell the end. Her local bishop, a man named da Silva, asked her to write the third secret down and seal it in an envelope. She initially resisted, but in January 1944 the Virgin appeared to her at the convent in Tuy and told her that it was GodOs will that she now memorialize the final message.

Lucia wrote the secret and sealed it in an envelope. On being asked when the communication should be publicly divulged, she would only say, in 1960. The envelope was delivered to Bishop da Silva and placed inside a larger envelope, sealed with wax, and deposited in the diocese safe, where it remained for thirteen years.

In 1957 the Vatican requested all of Sister LuciaOs writings be sent to Rome, including the third secret. On its arrival, Pope Pius XII placed the envelope containing the third secret inside a wooden box bearing the inscription SECRETUM SANCTI OFFICIO, Secret of the Holy Office. The box stayed on the popeOs desk for two years and Pius XII never read its contents.

In August 1959 the box was finally opened and the double envelope, still sealed with wax, was delivered to Pope John XXIII. In February 1960 the Vatican issued a curt statement pronouncing that the third secret of Fatima would remain under seal. No other explanation was offered. By papal order, Sister LuciaOs handwritten text was replaced in the wooden box and deposited in the Riserva. Each pope since John XXIII had ventured into the archives and opened the box, yet no pontiff ever publicly divulged the information.

Until John Paul II.

When an assassinOs bullet nearly killed him in 1981, he concluded that a motherly hand had guided the bulletOs path. Nineteen years later, in gratitude to the Virgin, he ordered the third secret revealed. To quell any debate, a forty-page dissertation accompanying the release interpreted the VirginOs complex metaphors. Also, photographs of Sister LuciaOs actual writing were published. The press was fascinated for a while, then the matter faded.

Speculation ended.

Few even mentioned the subject any longer.

Only Clement XV remained obsessed.

Michener entered the archives and passed the night prefect, who gave him only a cursory nod. The cavernous reading room beyond was cast in shadows. A yellowish glow shone from the far side, where the RiservaOs iron grille was swung open.

Maurice Cardinal Ngovi stood outside, his arms crossed beneath a scarlet cassock. He was a slim-hipped man with a face that carried the weather-beaten patina of a hard-fought life. His wiry hair was sparse and gray, and a pair of wire-framed glasses outlined eyes that offered a perpetual look of intense concern. Though only sixty-two, he was the archbishop of Nairobi, senior of the African cardinals. He was not a titular bishop, bestowed with an honorary diocese, but a working prelate whoOd actively managed the largest Catholic population in the sub-Sahara region.

His day-to-day involvement with that diocese changed when Clement XV summoned him to Rome to oversee the Congregation for Catholic Education. Ngovi then became involved with every aspect of Catholic education, thrust to the forefront with bishops and priests, working closely to ensure that Catholic schools, universities, and seminaries conformed to the Holy See. In decades past his had been a confrontational post, one resented outside Italy, but Vatican IIOs spirit of renewal altered that hostilityNas had men like Maurice Ngovi, who managed to soothe tension while ensuring conformity.

A spirited work ethic and an accommodating personality were two reasons Clement had appointed Ngovi. Another was a desire for more people to come to know this brilliant cardinal. Six months back, Clement had added another titleNcamerlengo. This meant Ngovi would administer the Holy See after ClementOs death, during the two weeks until a canonical election. It was a caretaker function, mainly ceremonial, but nonetheless important since it assured Ngovi would be a key player in the next conclave.

Michener and Clement had several times discussed the next pope. The ideal man, if history was any teacher, would be a noncontroversial figure, multilingual, with curial experienceNpreferably the archbishop of a nation that was not a world power. After three fruitful years in Rome, Maurice Ngovi now possessed all of those traits, and the same question was being posed over and over by Third World cardinals. Was it time for a pope of color?

Michener approached the entrance of the Riserva. Inside, Clement XV stood before an ancient safe that once bore witness to NapoleonOs plunder. Its double iron doors were swung back, exposing bronze drawers and shelves. Clement had opened one of the drawers. A wooden box was visible. The pope clutched a piece of paper in his trembling hands. Michener knew Sister LuciaOs original Fatima writing was still stored in that wooden box, but he also knew there was another sheet of paper there, too. An Italian translation of the original Portuguese message, created when John XXIII had first read the words in 1959. The priest whoOd performed that task was a young recruit in the Secretariat of State.

Father Andrej Tibor.

Michener had read diaries from curial officials, on file in the archives, which revealed how Father Tibor had personally handed his translation to Pope John XXIII, who read the message, then ordered the wooden box sealed, along with the translation.

Now Clement XV wanted to find Father Andrej Tibor.

OThis is disturbing,O Michener whispered, his eyes still on the scene in the Riserva.

Cardinal Ngovi stood close but said nothing. Instead the African grasped him by the arm and led him away, toward a row of shelves. Ngovi was one of the few in the Vatican he and Clement trusted without question.

OWhat are you doing here?O he asked Ngovi.

OI was summoned.O

OI thought Clement was at the North American College for the evening.O He kept his voice hushed.

OHe was, but he left abruptly. He called me half an hour ago and told me to meet him here.O

OThis is the third time in two weeks heOs been in there. Surely people are noticing.O

Ngovi nodded. OThankfully, that safe contains a multitude of items. Hard to know for sure what heOs doing.O

OIOm worried about this, Maurice. HeOs acting strange.O Only in private would he breach protocol and use first names.

OI agree. He dismisses all my inquiries with riddles.O

OIOve spent the last month researching every Marian apparition ever investigated. IOve read account after account taken from witnesses and seers. I never realized there were so many earthly visits from heaven. He wants to know the details on each one, along with every word the Virgin uttered. But he will not tell me why. All he does is keep returning here.O He shook his head. OIt wonOt be long before Valendrea learns of this.O

OHe and Ambrosi are outside the Vatican tonight.O

ODoesnOt matter. HeOll find out. I wonder sometimes if everybody here doesnOt report to him.O

The snap of a lid closing echoed from inside the Riserva, followed by the clank of a metal door. A moment later Clement appeared. OFather Tibor must be found.O

Michener stepped forward. OI learned from the registry office of his exact location in Romania.O

OWhen do you leave?O

OTomorrow evening or the following morning, depending on the flights.O

OI want this trip kept among the three of us. Take a holiday. Understand?O

He nodded. ClementOs voice had never risen above a whisper. He was curious. OWhy are we talking so low?O

OI was unaware that we were.O

Michener detected irritation. As if he wasnOt supposed to point that out.

OColin, you and Maurice are the only men I trust implicitly. My dear friend the cardinal here cannot travel abroad without drawing attentionNheOs too famous nowNtoo important. So you are the only one who can perform this task.O

Michener motioned into the Riserva. OWhy do you keep going in there?O

OThe words draw me.O

OHis Holiness John Paul II revealed the third Fatima message to the world at the start of the new millennium,O Ngovi said. OBeforehand, it was analyzed by a committee of priests and scholars. I served on that committee. The text was photographed and published worldwide.O

Clement did not respond.

OPerhaps a counsel with the cardinals could help with whatever the problem may be?O Ngovi said.

OIt is the cardinals I fear the most.O

Michener asked, OAnd what could you hope to learn from an old man in Romania?O

OHe sent me something that demands my attention.O

OI donOt recall anything coming from him,O Michener said.

OIt was in the diplomatic pouch. A sealed envelope from the nuncio in Bucharest. The sender said heOd translated the VirginOs message for Pope John.O

OWhen?O Michener asked.

OThree months ago.O

Michener noted that was just about the time Clement began visiting the Riserva.

ONow I know he spoke the truth, so I no longer desire for the nuncio to be involved. I need you to go to Romania and judge Father Tibor for yourself. Your opinion is important to me.O

OHoly FatherNO

Clement held up his hand. OI do not intend to be questioned on this matter any further.O Anger laced the declaration, an unusual emotion for Clement.

OAll right,O Michener said. OIOll find Father Tibor, Holiness. Rest assured.O

Clement glanced back into the Riserva. OMy predecessors were so wrong.O

OIn what way, Jakob?O Ngovi asked.

Clement turned back, his eyes distant and sad. OIn every way, Maurice.O

9:45 P.M.

Valendrea was enjoying his evening. He and Father Ambrosi had left the Vatican two hours ago and rode in an official car to La Marcello, one of his favorite bistros. Its veal heart with artichokes was, without question, the best in Rome. The ribollita, a Tuscan soup made from beans, vegetables, and bread, reminded him of childhood. And the dessert of lemon sorbet in a decadent mandarin sauce was enough to ensure that any first-timer would return. HeOd suppered there for years at his usual table toward the rear of the building, the owner fully aware of his wine preference and his requirement of absolute privacy.

OIt is a lovely night,O Ambrosi said.

The younger priest faced Valendrea in the rear of a stretched Mercedes coupe that had ushered many diplomats around the Eternal CityNeven the president of the United States, whoOd visited last autumn. The rear passenger compartment was separated from the driver by frosted glass. All of the exterior windows were tinted and bulletproof, the sidewalls and undercarriage lined with steel.

OYes, it is.O He was puffing away on a cigarette, enjoying the soothing feel of nicotine entering his bloodstream after a satisfying meal. OWhat have we learned of Father Tibor?O

HeOd taken to speaking in the first person plural, practice that he hoped would come in handy during the years ahead. Popes had spoken that way for centuries. John Paul II was the first to abandon the habit and Clement XV had officially decreed it dead. But if the present pope was determined to discard all the time-honored traditions, Valendrea would be equally determined to resurrect them.

During dinner he hadnOt asked Ambrosi anything on the subject that weighed heavily on his mind, adhering to his rule of never discussing Vatican business anywhere but in the Vatican. HeOd seen too many men brought down by careless tongues, several of whom heOd personally helped fall. But his car qualified as an extension of the Vatican, and Ambrosi daily ensured it was free of any listening devices.

A soft melody of Chopin spilled from the CD player. The music relaxed him, but also masked the conversation from any mobile eavesdropping devices.

OHis name is Andrej Tibor,O Ambrosi said. OHe worked in the Vatican from 1959 to 1967. After, he was an unremarkable priest who served many congregations before retiring two decades ago. He lives now in Romania and receives a monthly pension check thatOs regularly cashed with his endorsement.O

Valendrea savored a deep drag on his cigarette. OSo the inquiry of this day is, what does Clement want with that aging priest?O

OSurely it concerns Fatima.O

TheyOd just rounded Via Milazzo and were now speeding down Via Dei Fori Imperiali toward the Colosseum. He loved the way Rome clung to its past. He could easily envision emperors and popes enjoying the satisfaction of knowing that they could dominate something so spectacularly beautiful. One day he would savor that feeling as well. He was never going to be content with the scarlet biretta of a cardinal. He wanted to wear the camauro, reserved only for popes. Clement had rejected that old-style hat as anachronistic. But the red velvet cap trimmed in white fur would serve as one of many signs that the imperial papacy had returned. Western and Third World Catholics no longer would be allowed to dilute Latin dogma. The Church had become far more concerned with accommodating the world than with defending its faith. Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, and too many Protestant sects to count were cutting deeply into Catholic membership. And it was all the devilOs work. The one true apostolic church was in trouble, but he knew what its corpus neededNa firm hand. One that ensured priests obeyed, members stayed, and income rebounded. One he was more than willing to provide.

He felt a touch to his knee and looked away from the window. OEminence, itOs just ahead,O Ambrosi said, pointing.

He glanced back out the window as the car turned and a progression of cafZs, bistros, and flashy discos streamed by. They were on one of the lesser streets, Via Frattina, the sidewalks packed with night revelers.

OSheOs staying in the hotel just ahead,O Ambrosi said. OI located the information on her credentials application filed in the security office.O

Ambrosi had been thorough, as usual. Valendrea was taking a chance visiting Katerina Lew unannounced, but he hoped the hectic night and the late hour would minimize any curious eyes. How to make actual contact was something heOd been considering. He didnOt particularly want to parade up to her room. Nor did he want Ambrosi doing that. But then he saw none of that would be necessary.

OPerhaps God is watching over our mission,O he said, gesturing to a woman strolling down the sidewalk toward an ivy-encased entrance for the hotel.

Ambrosi smiled. OTiming is everything.O

The driver was instructed to speed past the hotel and ease alongside the woman. Valendrea pressed a button and the rear window descended.

OMs. Lew. I am Cardinal Alberto Valendrea. Perhaps you recall me from the tribunal this morning?O

She ceased her casual stride and stood facing the window. Her body was supple and petite. But the way she carried herself, how she planted her feet and considered his inquiry, the way her shoulders squared and her neck arched, signaled something more substantial in her character than her size might indicate. There was a languorous trait about her, as if a prince of the Catholic ChurchNthe secretary of state, no lessNapproached her every day. But Valendrea also sensed something else. Ambition. And that perception instantly relaxed him. This might be far easier than heOd first imagined.

ODo you think we might have a conversation? Here in the car?O

She threw him a smile. OHow could I refuse such a gracious request from the Vatican secretary of state?O

He opened the door and slid across the leather seat to give her room. She climbed inside, unbuttoning her fleece-lined jacket. Ambrosi closed the door behind her. Valendrea noticed a hike in her skirt as she settled into the seat.

The Mercedes inched forward, stopping a little way down a narrow alley. The crowds had been left behind. The driver exited and walked back to the end of the street, where Valendrea knew he would make certain no cars entered.

OThis is Father Paolo Ambrosi, my chief assistant in the Secretariat of State.O

Katerina shook AmbrosiOs offered hand. Valendrea noticed AmbrosiOs eyes soften, enough to signal calm to their guest. Paolo knew exactly how to handle a situation.

Valendrea said, OWe need to speak with you about an important matter we were hoping you might assist us on.O

OI fail to see how I could possibly help someone of your stature, Eminence.O

OYou attended the tribunal hearing this morning. I assume Father Kealy requested your presence?O

OIs that what this is about? You concerned about bad press on what happened?O

He offered a self-deprecating expression. OWith all the reporters that were present, I assure you bad press is not what this is about. Father KealyOs fate is sealed, as IOm sure you, he, and all the press realized. This is about something much more important than one heretic.O

OIs what youOre about to say for the record?O

He allowed himself a smile. OAlways the journalist. No, Ms. Lew, none of this is for the record. Still interested?O

He waited as she silently weighed her options. This was the moment when ambition must defeat good judgment.

OOkay,O she said. OOff the record. Go ahead.O

He was pleased. So far, so good. OThis is about Colin Michener.O

Her eyes showed surprise.

OYes, IOm aware of your relationship with the papal secretary. Quite a serious matter for a priest, especially one of his importance.O

OThat was a long time ago.O

Her words carried the tone of denial. Perhaps now, he thought, she realized why he was so willing to trust her off-the-record assertionNthis was about her, not him.

OPaolo witnessed your encounter with Michener this afternoon in the piazza. It was anything but cordial. Bastard, I believe, is what you called him.O

She cast a glance at his acolyte. OI donOt recall seeing him there.O

OSt. PeterOs Square is a large place,O Ambrosi said in a low voice.

Valendrea said, OYou are perhaps thinking, how could he have heard that? You barely whispered. Paolo is an excellent lip-reader. A talent that comes in handy, wouldnOt you say?O She seemed not to know how to respond, so he allowed her to linger a moment before saying, OMs. Lew, IOm not trying to be threatening. Actually, Father Michener is about to embark on a journey for the pope. I need some assistance from you regarding that journey.O

OWhat could I possibly do?O

OSomeone must monitor where he goes and what he does. You would be the ideal person for that.O

OAnd why would I do that?O

OBecause there was a time when you cared for him. Perhaps even loved him. You might even still. Many priests like Father Michener have known women. ItOs the shame of our times. Men who care nothing about a vow to their God.O He paused. OOr for the feelings of the women they might hurt. I sense that you would not want anything to harm Father Michener.O He let the words take hold of her. OWe believe thereOs a problem developing, one that could indeed harm him. Not physically, you understand, but it could hurt his standing within the Church. Perhaps jeopardize his career. IOm trying to keep that from happening. If I were to charge someone from the Vatican with this task, that fact would be known within a matter of hours and the mission would fail. I like Father Michener. I would not want to see his career hurt. I need the secrecy you can provide to protect him.O

She motioned at Ambrosi. OWhy not send the padre here?O

He was impressed with her spunk. OFather Ambrosi is too well known to accomplish the task. By a stroke of luck, the mission Father Michener has undertaken will take him to Romania, a place you know well. So you could appear without him asking too many questions. Assuming he even learned of your presence.O

OAnd the purpose of this visit to my homeland?O

He waved off the question. OThat would only taint your report. Instead, just observe. That way, we donOt risk slanting your observations.O

OIn another words, youOre not going to tell me.O

OPrecisely.O

OAnd what would be the benefit of my doing this favor for you?O

He allowed a chuckle as he slid a cigar from a side pocket on the door. OSadly, Clement XV will not last much longer. A conclave is approaching. When that happens, I can assure you that you will have a friend who will provide more than enough information to make your reports an important commodity in journalistic circles. Maybe enough to get you back to work with all those publishers who let you go.O

OAm I supposed to be impressed that you know things about me?O

OIOm not trying to impress you, Ms. Lew, only secure your assistance in return for something any journalist would die for.O He lit the cigar and savored a draw. He made no effort to crack the window before he exhaled a thick fog.

OThis must be important to you,O she said.

He noticed how she phrased the statement. Not important to the ChurchNimportant to you. He decided to add a dash of truth to their discussion. OEnough that IOve come to the streets of Rome. I assure you, I will keep my end of the arrangement. The next conclave will be a monumental one, and you will have a reliable source of firsthand information.O

She seemed to still be debating with herself. Maybe sheOd thought Colin Michener was going to become the unnamed Vatican source she could quote to validate the stories sheOd peddle. Here, though, was another opportunity. A lucrative offer. And all for such a simple task. He wasnOt asking her to steal or lie or cheat. Just take a trip back home and watch an old boyfriend for a few days.

OLet me think about it,O she finally said.

He sucked another lungful from the cigar. OI wouldnOt take too long. This is going to happen fast. IOll phone at your hotel tomorrow, say two oOclock, for an answer.O

OAssuming I say yes, how do I report what I find?O

He motioned to Ambrosi. OMy assistant will contact you. Never attempt to call me. Understand? HeOll find you.O

Ambrosi folded his hands across the front of his black cassock and Valendrea allowed him the pleasure of the moment. He wanted Katerina Lew to know that this priest was not someone she wanted to defy, and AmbrosiOs rigid pose communicated the message. HeOd always liked that quality in Paolo. So reserved in public, so intense in private.

Valendrea reached beneath the seat and produced an envelope, which he handed across to his guest. OTen thousand euros to help with airline tickets, hotel, whatever. If you decide to assist me, I would not expect you to fund the venture yourself. If you say no, keep the money for your trouble.O

He stretched an arm across her and opened the door. OI have enjoyed our conversation, Ms. Lew.O

She slipped out of the car, envelope in hand. He stared out into the night and said, OYour hotel is just back to the left on the main via. Have a nice evening.O

She said nothing and walked away. He pulled the door shut and whispered, OSo predictable. She wants us to wait. But thereOs no question what sheOll do.O

OIt was almost too easy,O Ambrosi said.

OPrecisely why I want you in Romania. This woman bears watching, and sheOll be easier to monitor than Michener. IOve arranged with one of our corporate benefactors to have a private jet available. You leave in the morning. Since we already know where Michener is headed, get there first and wait. He should arrive by tomorrow evening, or the next day at the latest. Stay out of sight, but keep an eye on her and make sure she understands we want a return on our investment.O

Ambrosi nodded.

The driver returned and climbed behind the wheel. Ambrosi tapped on the glass and the car backed toward the via.

Valendrea shifted his mood away from work.

OWith all this intrigue over, perhaps a cognac and some Tchaikovsky before bed? Would you like that, Paolo?O

11:50 P.M.

Katerina rolled off Father Tom Kealy and relaxed. HeOd been waiting for her when sheOd come upstairs and listened as sheOd told him about her unexpected meeting with Cardinal Valendrea.

OThat was nice, Katerina,O Kealy said. OAs usual.O

She studied the outline of his face, illuminated by an amber glow spilling in through partially drawn drapes.

OIOm stripped of my collar in the morning, then laid that night. And by a most beautiful woman, no less.O

OKind of takes the edge off.O

He chuckled. OYou could say that.O

Kealy knew all about her relationship with Colin Michener. It had actually felt good to empty her soul to someone she thought might understand. SheOd made the first contact, prancing into KealyOs Virginia parish, wanting an interview. She was in the States working freelance for some periodicals interested in radical religious slants. SheOd made a little money, enough to cover expenses, but she thought KealyOs story might be the ticket to something big.

Here was a priest at war with Rome on an issue that tugged at the hearts of Western Catholics. The North American Church was trying desperately to cling to members. Scandals concerning pedophile priests and child molestation had devastated the ChurchOs reputation, and RomeOs lackadaisical response had done nothing but complicate an already difficult situation. The bans on celibacy, homosexuality, and contraception only added to the popular disillusionment.

Kealy had asked her to dinner the first day, and it wasnOt long before she was in his bed. He was a pleasure to spar with, both physically and mentally. His relationship with the woman that caused all the commotion had ended a year before. SheOd tired of the attention and did not want to be the focus of a supposed religious revolution. Katerina had not taken her place, preferring to stay in the background, but she had recorded hours of interviews that, she hoped, would provide an excellent basis for a book. The Case Against Priestly Celibacy was her working title, and she envisioned a populist attack on a concept that Kealy said was as useful to the Church Oas teats on a boar hog.O The ChurchOs final assault, KealyOs excommunication, would form the basis of the promotional scheme. A priest defrocked for disagreeing with Rome lays out a case for the modern clergy. Clearly, the concept had played before, but Kealy offered a new, daring, folksy voice. CNN was even talking about hiring him as a commentator for the next conclave, an insider who could provide a counter to the usual conservative opinions traditionally heard at papal election time. All in all, their relationship had been mutually beneficial. But that was before the Vatican secretary of state approached her.

OWhat about Valendrea? What do you think of his offer?O she asked.

OHeOs a pompous ass who could well be the next pope.O

SheOd heard the same prediction from others, which made ValendreaOs offer all the more interesting. OHeOs interested in whatever it is Colin is doing.O

Kealy rolled over and faced her. OI must admit I am, too. What could possibly concern the papal secretary in Romania?O

OAs if nothing of interest lay there?O

OTouchy, arenOt we?O

Though she never really considered herself a patriot, she was nonetheless Romanian and proud of the fact. Her parents had fled the country when she was a teenager, but later she had returned to help overthrow the despot Ceauusescu. She was in Bucharest when the dictator made his final speech in front of the central committee building. It was supposed to be a staged event, one to demonstrate workersO support for the communist government, but it turned into a riot. She could still hear the screams when pandemonium broke out and the police moved in with guns, as prerecorded applause and cheers boomed from loudspeakers.

OI know you may find this hard to believe,O she said, Obut actual revolt isnOt donning makeup for a camera, or posting provocative words on the Internet, or even bedding a woman. Revolution means bloodshed.O

OTimes have changed, Katerina.O

OYou wonOt change the Church so easily.O

ODid you see all that media there today? That hearing will be reported around the world. People will take issue with what happens to me.O

OWhat if no one cares?O

OWe receive more than twenty thousand hits a day on the website. ThatOs a lot of attention. Words can have a powerful effect.O

OSo can bullets. I was there, those few days before Christmas, when Romanians died so that a dictator and his bitch of a wife could be shot dead.O

OYou would have pulled the trigger, if asked to, wouldnOt you?O

OIn a heartbeat. They ruined my homeland. Passion, Tom. ThatOs what moves revolt. Deep, unabiding passion.O

OSo what do you plan to do with Valendrea?O

She sighed. OI have no choice. I have to do it.O

He chuckled. OThere are always choices. Let me guess, this opportunity might allow you another chance with Colin Michener?O

SheOd come to realize that sheOd told Tom Kealy far too much about herself. HeOd assured her that he would never reveal anything, but she was concerned. Granted, MichenerOs lapse occurred long ago, but any revelation, whether true or false, would cost him his career. SheOd never publicly acknowledge anything, no matter how much she hated the choice Michener had made.

She sat still for a few moments and stared up at the ceiling. Valendrea had said that a problem was developing that could harm MichenerOs career. So if she could help Michener, while at the same time helping herself, then why not?

OIOm going.O

OYouOre entangling yourself with serpents,O Kealy said in his good-humored tone. OBut I think youOre well qualified to wrestle with this devil. And Valendrea is that, let me tell you. He is one ambitious bastard.O

OWhich you are well qualified to identify.O She couldnOt resist.

His hand eased over to her bare leg. OPerhaps. Along with my abilities for other things.O

His arrogance was amazing. Nothing seemed to faze him. Not the hearing this morning before solemn-faced prelates, and not the prospect of losing his collar. Perhaps it was his boldness that had initially attracted her? Regardless, Kealy was growing tiresome. She wondered if heOd ever cared about being a priest. One thing about MichenerNhis religious devotion was admirable. Tom KealyOs loyalty was only to the moment. Yet who was she to judge? SheOd latched onto him for selfish reasons, ones he surely recognized and exploited. But all that could now change. SheOd just talked with the Holy SeeOs secretary of state. A man whoOd sought her out for a task that could lead to so much more. And, yes, just as Valendrea said, it might just be enough to get her back to work with all those publishers whoOd let her go.

A strange tingle surged through her.

The eveningOs unexpected events were working on her like an aphrodisiac. Delicious possibilities about her future swirled through her mind. And those possibilities made the sex sheOd just enjoyed seem far more satisfying than the act warrantedNand the attention she wanted now that much more enticing.

TURIN, ITALY

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 9

10:30 A.M.

Michener peered down through the helicopterOs window at the city below. Turin lay wrapped in a wispy blanket as a bright morning sun fought to rid the air of fog. Beyond was the Piedmont, that region of Italy snuggled close to France and Switzerland, an abundant lowland plain walled in by Alpine summits, glaciers, and the sea.

Clement sat next to him, two security men opposite them. The pope had come north to bless the Holy Shroud of Turin before the relic was once again sealed away. This particular viewing had begun just after Easter and Clement should have been present for the unveiling. But a previously scheduled state visit to Spain had taken precedence. So it was decided he would come for the close of the exhibition, adding his veneration as popes had done for centuries.

The helicopter banked left and started a slow descent. Below, the Via Roma was packed with morning traffic, the Piazza San Carlo likewise congested. Turin was a manufacturing center, cars mainly, a company town in the European tradition, not unlike many Michener had known from childhood in the south of Georgia where the paper industry dominated.

The Duomo San Giovanni, its tall spires cloaked in mist, slipped into view. The cathedral, dedicated to St. John the Baptist, had stood since the fifteenth century. But it was not until the seventeenth century that the Holy Shroud was ensconced there for storage.

The helicopterOs skids gently touched the damp pavement.

Michener unbuckled his seat belt as the rotors whined down. Not until the blades were perfectly still did the two security men slide open the cabin door.

OShall we?O Clement asked.

The pope had said little on the journey from Rome. Clement could be like that when he traveled, and Michener was sensitive to the older manOs quirks.

Michener stepped out into the piazza, followed by Clement. A huge crowd lined the perimeter. The air was brisk, but Clement had insisted on not wearing a jacket. He cast an impressive sight in his white simar, a pectoral cross dangling before his chest. And the papal photographer began snapping pictures that would be available to the press before the end of the day. The pope waved and the crowd returned his attention.

OWe should not linger,O Michener whispered to Clement.

Vatican security had been emphatic that the piazza was not secure. This was to be an in-and-out affair, as the security teams tagged it, the cathedral and chapel the only locations swept for explosives and manned since yesterday. Because this particular visit had been highly publicized and arranged long in advance, the less time in the open, the better.

OIn a moment,O Clement said, as he continued to acknowledge the people. OTheyOve come to see their pontiff. Let them.O

Popes had always freely traveled throughout the peninsula. It was a perk Italians enjoyed in return for their two-thousand-year parentage of the mother Church, so Clement took a moment and acknowledged the crowd.

Finally the pope made his way into the cathedralOs alcove. Michener followed, intentionally dropping back to allow the local clergy an opportunity to be photographed with the Holy Father.

Gustavo Cardinal Bartolo waited inside. He wore a scarlet silk cassock with a matching sash that signified his senior status in the College of Cardinals. He was an impish man with white, lusterless hair and a heavy beard. Michener had often wondered if the appearance of a biblical prophet was intentional, since BartoloOs reputation was not one of intellectual brilliance or spiritual enlightenment, but more of a loyal errand boy. He had been appointed bishop of Turin by ClementOs predecessor and elevated to the Sacred College, which made him prefect of the Holy Shroud.

Clement had allowed the appointment to stand even though Bartolo was also one of Alberto ValendreaOs closest associates. BartoloOs vote in the next conclave was not in doubt, so Michener was amused when the pope walked straight to the cardinal and extended his right hand palm-down. Bartolo seemed to instantly realize what protocol entailed, and with priests and nuns watching, the cardinal had no choice but to accept the hand, kneel, and kiss the papal ring. Clement had, by and large, dispensed with the gesture. Usually in situations like this, inside closed doors and confined to Church officials, a handshake sufficed. The popeOs insistence on strict protocol was a message the cardinal apparently understood, as Michener read a momentary glare of annoyance that the elder cleric was trying hard to suppress.

Clement seemed unconcerned with BartoloOs discomfort and immediately started to exchange pleasantries with the others present. After a few minutes of light conversation, Clement blessed the two dozen standing around, then led the entourage into the cathedral.

Michener lagged back and allowed the ceremony to proceed without him. His job was to be nearby, ready to assist, not to become part of the proceedings. He noticed that one of the local priests waited, too. He knew the short, balding cleric was BartoloOs assistant.

OWill the Holy Father still be staying for lunch?O the priest asked in Italian.

He did not like the brisk tone. It was respectful but carried a hint of irritation. Clearly, this priestOs loyalties were not with an aging pope. Nor did the man feel the need to hide his animosity from an American monsignor who would surely be unemployed once the current Vicar of Christ died. This man carried visions of what his prelate could do for him, much like Michener two decades ago when a German bishop took a liking to a shy seminarian.

OThe pope will be staying for lunch, assuming the schedule is maintained. WeOre actually a little ahead of time. Did you receive the menu preference?O

A slight nod of the head. OIt is as requested.O

Clement did not care for Italian cuisine, a fact the Vatican went to great lengths to keep quiet. The official line was that the popeOs eating habits were a private matter, unrelated to his duties.

OShall we go inside?O Michener asked.

Lately heOd found himself less inclined to banter on Church politics since he realized that his influence was waning in direct proportion to ClementOs health.

He made his way into the cathedral and the irritating priest followed. Apparently this was his guardian angel for the day.

Clement stood at the intersection of the cathedralOs nave, where a rectangular glass case hung suspended from the ceiling. Inside, illuminated by indirect light, was a pale, biscuit-colored linen about fourteen feet long. Upon it was the faint image of a man, lying flat, his front and back halves joined at the head, as if a corpse had been laid on top then covered from above. He was bearded with shaggy hair past the shoulders, his hands crossed modestly across his loins. Wounds were evident to the head and wrist. The chest was slashed, the back littered with scourge marks.

Whether the image was that of Christ remained solely a matter of faith. Personally, Michener found it difficult to accept that a piece of herringbone cloth could stay intact for two thousand years, and he thought the relic akin to what heOd been reading with great intensity over the past couple of months concerning Marian apparitions. HeOd studied the accounts of each supposed seer claiming a visit from heaven. Papal investigators found most to be a mistake, or a hallucination, or the manifestation of psychological problems. Some were simply hoaxes. But there were about two dozen incidents that, try as they might, investigators had been unable to discredit. In the end, no other rationalization was found except an earthly appearance by the Mother of God. Those were the apparitions deemed worthy of assent.

Like Fatima.

But similar to the shroud hanging before him, that assent came down to a matter of faith.

Clement prayed a full ten minutes before the shroud. Michener noted that they were falling behind schedule, but no one dared interrupt. The assembly stood in silence until the pope rose, crossed himself, and followed Cardinal Bartolo into a black marble chapel. The cardinal-prefect seemed anxious to show off the impressive space.

The tour took nearly half an hour, prolonged by ClementOs questions and his insistence upon personally greeting all of the cathedral attendants. The timetable was now being strained, and Michener was relieved when Clement finally led the entourage into an adjacent building for lunch.

The pope stopped short of the dining room and turned to Bartolo. OIs there a place where I might have a moment with my secretary?O

The cardinal quickly located a windowless alcove that apparently served as a dressing chamber. After the door was closed, Clement reached into his cassock and withdrew a powder-blue envelope. Michener recognized the stationery the pope used for private communications. HeOd bought the set in a Rome store and presented it to Clement last Christmas.

OThis is the letter I wish you to take to Romania. If Father Tibor is incapable or unwilling to do as I have asked, destroy this and return to Rome.O

He accepted the envelope. OI understand, Holy Father.O

OThe good Cardinal Bartolo is quite accommodating, isnOt he?O A smile accompanied the popeOs question.

OI doubt he accrued the three hundred indulgences granted for kissing the papal ring.O

It had long been tradition that all who devoutly kissed the popeOs ring would receive a gift of indulgences. Michener often wondered if the medieval popes who created the reward were concerned about forgiving sin or just making sure they were venerated with the appropriate zeal.

Clement chuckled. OI imagine the cardinal needs more than three hundred sins forgiven. HeOs one of ValendreaOs closest allies. Bartolo might even replace Valendrea in the Secretariat of State, once the Tuscan secures the papacy. But the thought of that is frightening. Bartolo is barely qualified to be bishop of this cathedral.O

This was apparently going to be a frank conversation, so Michener felt at ease to say, OYouOll need all the friends you can get in the next conclave to ensure that doesnOt happen.O

Clement seemed to instantly understand. OYou want that scarlet biretta, donOt you?O

OYou know I do.O

The pope motioned to the envelope. OHandle this for me.O

He wondered if his errand to Romania was somehow tied to a cardinal appointment, but quickly dismissed the thought. That was not Jakob VolknerOs way. Nonetheless, the pope had been evasive, and it wasnOt the first time. OYou still wonOt tell me what troubles you?O

Clement moved toward the vestments. OBelieve me, Colin, you donOt want to know.O

OPerhaps I can help.O

OYou never did tell me about your conversation with Katerina Lew. How was she after all those years?O

Another change of subject. OWe spoke little. And what we did say was strained.O

ClementOs brow curled in curiosity. OWhy did you allow that to happen?O

OSheOs headstrong. Her opinions of the Church are uncompromising.O

OBut who could blame her, Colin. She probably loved you, yet could do nothing about it. Losing to another woman is one thing, but to God . . . that can be hard to accept. Restrained love is not a pleasant matter.O

He again wondered about ClementOs interest in his personal life. OIt doesnOt make any difference anymore. She has her life and I have mine.O

OBut that doesnOt mean you canOt be friends. Share your lives in words and feelings. Experience the closeness that someone who genuinely cares can provide. Surely the Church doesnOt forbid us that pleasure.O

Loneliness was an occupational hazard for any priest. Michener had been luckyNwhen heOd faltered with Katerina, heOd had Volkner, whoOd listened and granted him absolution. Ironically, that was the same thing Tom Kealy had done, for which he was to be excommunicated. Perhaps that was what drew Clement to Kealy?

The pope stepped to one of the racks and fingered the colorful vestments. OAs a child in Bamberg, I served as altar boy. I remember that time fondly. It was after the war and we were rebuilding. Luckily, the cathedral survived. No bombs. I always thought that an appropriate metaphor. Even in the face of all that man can work, our town church survived.O

Michener said nothing. Surely there was a point to all this. Why else would Clement delay everyone for this conversation, which could have waited?

OI loved that cathedral,O Clement said. OIt was a part of my youth. I can still hear the choir singing. Truly inspiring. I wish I could be buried there. But thatOs not possible, is it? Popes have to lie in St. PeterOs. I wonder who fashioned that rule?O

ClementOs voice was distant. Michener wondered who he was really talking to. He stepped close. OJakob, tell me whatOs wrong.O

Clement released his grip on the cloth and clenched his trembling hands before him. OYouOre very naive, Colin. You simply do not understand. Nor can you.O He talked through his teeth, hardly moving his mouth. The voice stayed flat, stripped of emotion. ODo you think for one moment we enjoy any measure of privacy? DonOt you understand the depth of ValendreaOs ambition? The Tuscan knows everything we do, everything we say. You want to be a cardinal? To achieve that you must grasp the measure of that responsibility. How can you expect me to elevate you when you fail to see what is so clear?O

Rarely in their association had they spoken cross words, but the pope was chastising him. And for what?

OWe are merely men, Colin. Nothing more. IOm no more infallible than you. Yet we proclaim ourselves princes of the Church. Devout clerics concerned only with pleasing God, while we simply please ourselves. That fool, Bartolo, waiting outside, is a good example. His only concern is when I am going to die. His fortunes will surely shift then. As will yours.O

OI hope you donOt speak like this with anyone else.O

Clement gently clasped the pectoral cross that hung before his chest. The gesture seemed to calm his tremors. OI worry about you, Colin. YouOre like a dolphin confined to an aquarium. All your life keepers made sure the water was clean, the food plentiful. Now theyOre about to return you to the ocean. Will you be able to survive?O

He resented ClementOs talking down to him. OI know more than you might think.O

OYou have no idea the depth of a person like Alberto Valendrea. He is no man of God. There have been many popes like himNgreedy and conceited, foolish men who think power is the answer to everything. I thought them part of our past. But I was wrong. You think you can do battle with Valendrea?O Clement shook his head. ONo, Colin. YouOre no match for him. YouOre too decent. Too trusting.O

OWhy are you telling me this?O

OIt needs to be said.O Clement stepped close. They were now only inches apart, toe-to-toe. OAlberto Valendrea will be the ruin of this ChurchNif I and my predecessors have not already been. You ask me constantly what is wrong. You should not be as concerned with what troubles me as with doing what I ask. Is that clear?O

He was taken aback by ClementOs bluntness. He was a forty-seven-year-old monsignor. The papal secretary. A devoted servant. Why was his old friend questioning both his loyalty and his ability? But he decided to argue no further. OIt is perfectly clear, Holy Father.O

OMaurice Ngovi is the closest thing to me you will ever have. Remember that in the days ahead.O Clement stepped back and his mood seemed to shift. OWhen do you leave for Romania?O

OIn the morning.O

Clement nodded, then reached back into his cassock and withdrew another powder-blue envelope. OExcellent. Now, would you mail this for me, please?O

He accepted the packet and noticed it was addressed to Irma Rahn. She and Clement were childhood friends. She still lived in Bamberg, and theyOd maintained a steady correspondence for years. OIOll take care of it.O

OFrom here.O

OExcuse me?O

OMail the letter from here. In Turin. You personally, please. No delegation to others.O

He always mailed the popeOs letters personally, and had never needed a reminder before. But again he decided not to question.

OOf course, Holy Father. IOll mail it from here. Personally.O

VATICAN CITY, 1:15 P.M.

Valendrea stepped directly toward the office of the archivist for the Holy Roman Church. The cardinal in charge of LOArchivio Segreto Vaticano was not one of his allies, but he hoped the man was perceptive enough not to cross someone who might soon be pope. All appointments ended at a papal death. Continued service was dependent solely on what the next Vicar of Christ decided, and Valendrea well knew that the present archivist wanted to keep his position.

He found the man behind his desk, busy at work. He calmly entered the sprawling office and closed a set of bronze doors behind him.

The cardinal glanced up, but said nothing. The man was nearing seventy and possessed brooding cheeks and a high, sloping forehead. A Spaniard by birth, heOd worked in Rome all his clerical life.

The Sacred College was divided into three categories. Cardinal-bishops who headed the sees of Rome, cardinal-priests who were heads of dioceses outside Rome, and cardinal-deacons who were full-time Curia officials. The archivist was the senior of the cardinal-deacons and, as such, was granted the honor of announcing from the balcony of St. PeterOs the name of any newly elected pope. Valendrea was not concerned with that hollow privilege. Instead, what made this old man important was his influence over a handful of cardinal-deacons still wavering in their preconclave support.

He stepped toward the desk and noticed his host did not rise and greet him. OIt isnOt that bad,O he said in response to a look he was receiving.

OIOm not so sure. I assume the pontiff is still in Turin?O

OWhy else would I be here?O

The archivist let out an audible sigh.

OI want you to open the Riserva, along with the safe,O Valendrea said.

The old man finally stood. OI must refuse.O

OThat would be unwise.O He hoped the man understood the message.

OYour threats cannot countermand a direct papal order. Only the pope can enter the Riserva. No one else. Not even you.O

ONo one needs to know. I wonOt be long.O

OMy oath to this office and the Church means more to me than you seem to assume.O

OListen to me, old man. IOm on a mission of greatest importance to the Church. One that demands extraordinary action.O It was a lie, but it sounded good.

OThen you wouldnOt mind if the Holy Father granted permission to allow access. I could place a call to Turin.O

Time for the moment of truth. OI have a sworn statement from your niece. She was more than happy to provide it. She swears before the Almighty that you forgave her daughterOs sin in aborting her baby. How is that possible, Eminence? ThatOs heresy.O

OIOm aware of the sworn statements. Your Father Ambrosi was quite persuasive with my sisterOs family. I absolved the woman because she was dying and fearful of spending an eternity in hell. I comforted her with the grace of God, as a priest should.O

OMy GodNyour GodNdoes not condone abortion. ThatOs murder. You had no right to forgive her. A point IOm sure the Holy Father would have no choice but to agree with.O

He could see that the old man was fortified in the face of his dilemma, but he also noticed a tremor that shook the left eyeNperhaps the precise spot where fear was making its escape.

The cardinal-archivistOs bravado did not impress Valendrea. The manOs entire life had been spent shoving paper from one file to another, enforcing meaningless rules, throwing roadblocks before anyone bold enough to challenge the Holy See. He followed a long line of scrittori whoOd made it their lifeOs labor to ensure that the papal archives remained secure. Once they perched themselves on a black throne, their physical presence in the archives served as a warning that permission to enter was not a license to browse. As with an archaeological dig, any revelations from those shelves came only after a meticulous plunge into their depths. And that took timeNa commodity the Church had only in the past few decades been willing to grant. The sole task, Valendrea realized, of men like the cardinal-archivist was to protect the mother Church, even from its princes.

ODo as you wish, Alberto. Tell the world what I did. But IOm not allowing you into the Riserva. To get there you will have to be pope. And that is not a given.O

Perhaps heOd underestimated this paper pusher. There was more brick to his foundation than the veneer showed. He decided to let the matter rest. At least for now. He might need this man in the coming months.

He turned and stepped toward the double doors. OIOll wait until IOm pope to speak with you again.O He stopped and glanced back. OThen weOll see if youOre as loyal to me as you are to others.O

ROME, 4:00 P.M.

Katerina had been waiting in her hotel room since a little past lunch. Cardinal Valendrea said he would call at two P.M., but he hadnOt kept his word. Perhaps he thought ten thousand euros was enough to ensure that she would wait by the phone. Maybe he believed her former relationship with Colin Michener enough incentive to guarantee that sheOd do as he asked. Regardless, she didnOt like the fact that the cardinal had apparently concluded himself clever in reading her.

True, she was almost out of the money accumulated from freelancing in the United States and tired of sponging off Tom Kealy, who seemed to enjoy that she was dependent on him. HeOd done well with his three books, and soon he was going to be doing even better. He liked that he was AmericaOs newest religious personality. He was addicted to the attention, which was understandable to a point, but she knew sides of Tom Kealy that his followers never saw. Emotions could not be posted on a website or slipped into a publicity memo. The truly skilled could convey them in words, but Kealy was not a good writer. All three of his books were ghostwrittenNone of those things only she and his publisher knew, and not something Kealy would want revealed. The man was simply not real. Just an illusion that a few million peopleNhimself among themNhad accepted.

So different from Michener.

She hated being bitter yesterday. SheOd told herself before arriving in Rome that if their paths crossed, she should watch what she said. After all, a lot of time had passedNtheyOd both moved on. But when she saw him in the tribunal she realized that heOd left an indelible mark on her emotions, one she was afraid to admit existed, one that churned resentment with the speed of a nuclear reaction.

Last night, while Kealy slept beside her, sheOd wondered if her own tortuous path over the past dozen years was nothing but a prelude to this moment. Her career was anything but a success, her personal life dismal, yet here she was waiting for the second most powerful man in the Catholic Church to call and give her a chance to deceive someone she still cared a great deal about.

Earlier, sheOd made a few inquiries to contacts in the Italian press and learned that Valendrea was a complex man. He was born to money in one of ItalyOs oldest patrician families. At least two popes and five cardinals were in his bloodline, and uncles and brothers were involved in either Italian politics or international business. The Valendrea clan was also heavily entrenched in the European arts, and owned palaces and grand estates. TheyOd been careful with Mussolini and even more so with the revolving-door Italian regimes that followed. Their industry and money had been, and still were, courted, and they were choosy about who and what they supported.

The VaticanOs Annuario Pontifico noted that Valendrea was sixty years old and held degrees from the University of Florence, the Catholic University of the Sacred Heart, and the Hague Academy of International Law. He was the author of fourteen treatises. His lifestyle required well more than the three thousand euros a month the Church paid its princes. And though the Vatican frowned on cardinals being involved in secular activities, Valendrea was noted as a stockholder in several Italian conglomerates and served on many boards of directors. His relative youth was deemed an asset, as were his innate political abilities and dominating personality. HeOd used his post as secretary of state wisely, becoming well known in the Western media. He was a man who recognized the propensities of modern communication and the need to convey a consistent public image. He was also a theological hard-liner who openly opposed Vatican II, a fact made clear during KealyOs tribunal, and was one of the strict traditionalists who felt the Church was best served as it was once served.

Nearly all of the people sheOd spoken with concurred that Valendrea was the front-runner to succeed Clement. Not necessarily because he was ideal for the job, but because there was no one strong enough to challenge him. By all accounts he was poised and ready for the next conclave.

But heOd also been a front-runner three years ago and lost.

The phone jarred her from her thoughts.

Her gaze darted to the receiver and she fought the urge to answer, preferring to let Valendrea, if indeed the caller was him, sweat a little.

After the sixth ring she lifted the handset.

OMaking me wait?O Valendrea said.

ONo more than IOve been.O

A chuckle came through the earpiece. OI like you, Ms. Lew. You have personality. So tell me, what is your decision?O

OAs if you have to ask.O

OI thought IOd be courteous.O

OYou donOt impress me as someone who cares about such details.O

OYou donOt have much respect for a cardinal of the Catholic Church.O

OYou put your clothes on every morning like everybody else.O

OI sense youOre not a religious woman.O

It was her time to laugh. ODonOt tell me you actually convert souls in between politicking.O

OI really did choose wisely in you. You and I will get along well.O

OWhat makes you think IOm not taping all this?O

OAnd miss the opportunity of a lifetime? I seriously doubt that. Not to mention a chance to be with the good Father Michener. All at my expense, no less. Who could ask for more?O

His irritating attitude wasnOt much different from Tom KealyOs. She wondered what it was about her that attracted such cocksure personalities. OWhen do I leave?O

OThe papal secretary flies out tomorrow morning, arriving in Bucharest by lunch. I thought you might leave this evening and stay ahead of him.O

OAnd where am I to go?O

OFather Michener is going to see a priest named Andrej Tibor. HeOs retired and works at an orphanage about forty miles to the north of Bucharest, in the village of Zlatna. Perhaps you know the place?O

OI know of it.O

OThen youOll have no trouble learning what Michener does and says while there. Also, Michener is carrying some sort of papal letter. Getting a look at its contents would further increase your stock in my eyes.O

OYou donOt want much, do you?O

OYou are a resourceful woman. I suggest using those same charms Tom Kealy apparently enjoys. Surely then your mission will be a complete success.O

And the line went dead.

VATICAN CITY, 5:30 P.M.

Valendrea stood at the window in his third-floor office. Outside, the tall cedars, stone pines, and cypresses in the Vatican gardens stubbornly clung to summer. Since the thirteenth century popes had strolled the brick paths lined with laurel and myrtle, finding comfort in the classical sculptures, busts, and bronze reliefs.

He recalled a time when heOd enjoyed the gardens. Fresh from the seminary, posted to the only place in the world where he wanted to serve. Then, the walkways were filled with young priests wondering about their future. He came from an era when Italians dominated the papacy. But Vatican II changed all that, and Clement XV was retreating even farther. Every day another list of orders shuffling priests, bishops, and cardinals filtered down from the fourth floor. More Westerners, Africans, and Asians were being summoned to Rome. HeOd tried to delay any implementation, hoping Clement would finally die, but eventually heOd had no choice but comply with every instruction.

The Italians were already outnumbered in the College of Cardinals, Paul VI perhaps the last of their breed. Valendrea had known the cardinal of Milan, fortunate to be in Rome for the last few years of PaulOs pontificate. By 1983 Valendrea was an archbishop. John Paul II finally bestowed him his red biretta, surely a way for the Pole to endear himself with the locals.

But maybe it was something more?

ValendreaOs conservative lean was legendary, as was his reputation as a diligent worker. John Paul appointed him prefect over the Congregation for the Evangelization of Peoples. There, heOd coordinated worldwide missionary activities, supervised the building of churches, delineated diocese boundaries, and educated catechists and clergy. The job had involved him in every aspect of the Church and allowed him to quietly build a power base among men who might one day be cardinals. He never forgot what his father had taught him. A favor offered is a favor returned.

How true.

Like real soon.

He turned from the window.

Ambrosi had already left for Romania. He missed Paolo when he was gone. He was the only person whom Valendrea felt entirely comfortable with. Ambrosi seemed to understand his nature. And his drive. There was so much to do at just the right time, in just the right proportions, and the chances of failure were far greater than those of success.

There were simply not many opportunities to become pope. HeOd participated in one conclave and a second was perhaps not far away. If he failed to achieve election this time, unless a sudden papal death occurred, the next pope could well reign beyond his time. His ability to be a part of the process officially ended at age eighty, a point he still wished Paul hadnOt conceded, and no amount of tapes loaded with secrets would change that reality.

He stared across his office at a portrait of Clement XV. Protocol demanded the irritating thing be there, but his choice would have been a photograph of Paul VI. Italian by birth, Roman by nature, Latin in character. Paul had been brilliant, bending only on small points, compromising just enough to satisfy the pundits. That was how he, too, would run the Church. Give a little, keep more. Ever since yesterday, heOd been thinking about Paul. What had Ambrosi said about Father Tibor? HeOs the only person left alive, besides Clement, who has actually seen what is contained within the Riserva regarding the Fatima secrets.

Not true.

His mind drifted back to 1978.

OCome, Alberto. Follow me.O

Paul VI rose and tested the pressure on his right knee. The aging pontiff had suffered much over the past few years. HeOd endured bronchitis, influenza, bladder problems, kidney failure, and had his prostate removed. Massive doses of antibiotics had warded off infections, but the drugs were weakening his immune system, sapping strength. His arthritis seemed particularly painful and Valendrea felt for the old man. The end was coming, but with an agonizing slowness.

The pope shuffled out of the apartment toward the fourth floorOs private elevator. It was late evening, a stormy May night, and the Apostolic Palace was quiet. Paul waved off the security men, saying he and his first assistant secretary would return shortly. His two papal secretaries need not be called.

Sister Giacomina appeared from her room. She was in charge of the domestic retinue and served as PaulOs nurse. The Church had long decreed that women who worked in clerical households must be of canonical age. Valendrea thought the rule amusing. In other words, they must be old and ugly.

OWhere are you going, Holy Father?O the nun asked, as if he were a child leaving his room without permission.

ODo not worry, Sister. I have business to handle.O

OYou should be resting. You know that.O

OI will return shortly. But I feel fine and need to attend to this matter. Father Valendrea will take good care of me.O

ONo more than half an hour. Clear?O

Paul smiled. OI promise. Half an hour and IOll be off my feet.O

The nun retreated to her room and they headed onto the elevator. On the ground floor, Paul inched ahead through a series of corridors to the entrance for the archives.

OI have delayed something for many years, Alberto. I think tonight is the time to remedy that.O

Paul continued along with the help of his cane and Valendrea shortened his stride to keep pace. He was saddened by the sight of this once great man. Giovanni Battista Montini was the son of a successful Italian lawyer. HeOd worked his way up through the Curia, ultimately serving in the Secretariat of State. After, he became the archbishop of Milan and governed that diocese with an efficient hand, catching the eye of the Italian-dominated Sacred College as the natural choice to succeed the beloved John XXIII. HeOd been an excellent pope, serving at a difficult time after Vatican II. The Church would sorely miss him, and so would Valendrea. Of late, heOd been fortunate to spend time with Paul. The old warrior seemed to enjoy his company. There was even talk of a possible elevation to bishop, something he hoped Paul saw the grace to extend before God summoned him.

They entered the archives and the prefect knelt at PaulOs appearance. OWhat brings you, Holy Father?O

OPlease open the Riserva.O

He liked the way Paul answered a question with a command. The prefect scurried for a set of oversized keys, then led the way into the darkened archives. Paul slowly followed, and they arrived as the prefect completed opening an iron grille and switching on a series of dull incandescent lights. Valendrea knew of the Riserva and of the rule that required papal authority for entry. It was the sacred reserve of the Vicars of Christ. Only Napoleon had violated its sanctity, paying for that insult in the end.

Paul entered the windowless room and pointed to a black safe. OOpen that.O

The prefect complied, spinning the dials and releasing tumblers. The double doors swung open. Not one sound leaked from the brass hinges.

The pope sat in one of three chairs.

OThat will be all,O Paul said, and the prefect left.

OMy predecessor was the first to read the third secret of Fatima. I am told that afterward he ordered it sealed in this safe. I have resisted the urge to come here for fifteen years.O

Valendrea was a little confused. ODid not the Vatican in O67 issue a statement that the secret would remain sealed? That was done without you reading it?O

OThere are many things the Curia does in my name of which I have little knowledge. I was told, though, about that one. After.O

Valendrea wondered if he might have stumbled with his question. He cautioned himself to watch his words.

OThe whole affair amazes me,O Paul said. OThe mother of God appears to three peasant childrenNnot to a priest, or a bishop, or the pope. She chooses three illiterate children. She seems to always choose the meek. Perhaps heaven is trying to tell us something?O

Valendrea knew all about how Sister LuciaOs message from the Virgin had made its way from Portugal to the Vatican.

OI never thought the good sisterOs words something that commanded my attention,O Paul said. OI met Lucia in Fatima, when I went in O67. I was criticized for going. The progressives said I was setting back the progress of Vatican II. Putting too much emphasis on the supernatural. Venerating Mary above Christ and the Lord. But I knew better.O

He noticed a fiery light in PaulOs eyes. There might still be some fight left in this old warrior.

OI knew young people loved Mary. They felt a pull from the sanctuaries. My going there was important to them. It showed that their pope cared. And I was right, Alberto. Mary is more popular today than ever.O

He knew Paul loved the Madonna, making a point throughout his pontificate to venerate her with titles and attention. Perhaps too many, some said.

Paul motioned to the safe. OThe fourth drawer on the left, Alberto. Open it and bring me what is inside.O

He did as Paul instructed, sliding out a heavy iron drawer. A small wooden box rested inside, a wax seal affixed to the outside bearing the papal crest of John XXIII. On top was a label that read secretum sancti officio, Secret of the Holy Office. He carried the box to Paul, who studied the outside with trembling hands.

OIt is said Pius XII placed the label on top and John himself ordered that seal. Now it is my turn to look inside. Could you crack the wax please, Alberto.O

He glanced around for a tool. Finding nothing, he wedged one of the corners of the safeOs doors into the wax and cracked it away. He handed the box back to Paul.

OClever,O the pope said.

He accepted the compliment with a nod.

Paul balanced the box in his lap and found a set of reading glasses in his cassock. He slipped the stems over his ears, hinged open the lid, and lifted out two packets of paper. He set one aside and unfolded the other. Valendrea saw a newer white sheet encased by a clearly older piece of paper. Both contained writing.

The pontiff studied the older page.

OThis is the original note Sister Lucia wrote in Portuguese,O Paul said. OUnfortunately, I cannot read that language.O

ONeither can I, Holy Father.O

Paul handed him the sheet. He saw that the text spanned about twenty or so lines written in black ink that had faded to gray. It was exciting to think that only Sister Lucia, a recognized seer of the Virgin Mary, and Pope John XXIII had touched that paper before him.

Paul motioned with the newer white page. OThis is the translation.O

OTranslation, Holy Father?O

OJohn could not read Portuguese, either. He had the message translated to Italian.O

Valendrea had not known that. So add a third set of fingerprintsNsome curial official called in to translate, surely sworn to secrecy afterward, probably dead by now.

Paul unfolded the second sheet and started to read. A curious look came to the popeOs face. OI was never good at riddles.O

The pope reassembled the packet, then reached for the second set. OIt appears the message carried to another page.O Paul unfolded the sheets. Again, one page newer, the other clearly older. OPortuguese, again.O Paul glanced at the newer sheet. OAh, Italian. Another translation.O

He watched as Paul read the words with an expression that shifted from confusion to a look of deep concern. The popeOs breaths came shallow, his eyebrows creased together, and the brow furrowed as he again scanned the translation.

The pope said nothing. Neither did Valendrea. He dared not ask to read the words.

The pope read the message a third time.

PaulOs tongue wet his cracked lips and he shifted in the chair. A look of astonishment flooded the old manOs features. For an instant, Valendrea was frightened. Here was the first pope to travel around the globe. A man whoOd stared down an army of Church progressives and tempered their revolution with moderation. HeOd stood before the United Nations and pronounced, ONever again war.O HeOd denounced birth control as a sin and held fast even in a firestorm of protest that shook the ChurchOs very foundation. HeOd reaffirmed the tradition of priestly celibacy and excommunicated dissenters. HeOd dodged an assassin in the Philippines, then defied terrorists and presided at the funeral of his friend, the prime minister of Italy. This was a determined vicar, not easily shaken. Yet something in the lines heOd just read affected him.

Paul reassembled the packet, then dropped both bundles into the wooden box and slammed the lid.

OPut it back,O the pope muttered, eyes down at his lap. Bits of the crimson wax dotted the white cassock. Paul brushed them away, as if they were a disease. OThis was a mistake. I should not have come.O Then the pope seemed to steel himself. Composure returned. OWhen we return upstairs, compile an order. I want you to personally reseal that box. Then there is to be no further entry on pain of excommunication. No exceptions.O

But that order would not apply to the pope, Valendrea thought. Clement XV could come and go in the Riserva as he pleased.

And the German had done just that.

Valendrea had long known of the Italian translation of Sister LuciaOs writing, but not until yesterday had he known the name of the translator.

Father Andrej Tibor.

Three questions racked his brain.

What kept summoning Clement XV into the Riserva? Why did the pope want to communicate with Tibor? And, most importantly, what did that translator know?

Right now, he possessed not a single response.

Perhaps, though, over the next few days, among Colin Michener, Katerina Lew, and Ambrosi, he would learn the answers to all three inquiries.

The Third Secret

Part 2

Fourteen E

BUCHAREST, ROMANIA

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 10

11:15 A.M.

Michener descended a set of metal steps to an oily tarmac at Otopeni Airport. The British Airways shuttle heOd arrived on from Rome had been half full, and was one of only four airliners utilizing the terminal.

HeOd visited Romania once before, while working in the Secretariat of State under then-Cardinal Volkner, assigned to the section for Relations with States, that portion of the International directorate charged with diplomatic activities.

The Vatican and Romanian churches had clashed for decades over a postDWorld War II transfer of Catholic property to the Orthodox Church, which included monasteries possessed of an ancient Latin tradition. Religious freedom returned with the fall of the communists, but the ownership debate lingered and several times Catholics and Orthodox had violently clashed. John Paul II started a dialogue with the Romanian government after Ceauusescu was toppled, and even made an official visit. Progress was slow. Michener himself was involved in some later negotiations. Recently thereOd been some movement from the centralist government. Close to two million Catholics compared with twenty-two million Orthodox filled the country, and their voices were beginning to be heard. Clement had made clear that he wanted to visit, but the ownership dispute marred any talk of a papal trip.

The whole affair was just more of the complicated politics that seemed to consume MichenerOs days. He really wasnOt a priest anymore. He was a government minister, diplomat, and personal confidantNall of which would end with ClementOs last breath. Maybe then he could go back to being a priest. HeOd never really served a congregation. Some missionary work might be a challenge. Cardinal Ngovi had spoken to him about Kenya. Africa could be an excellent refuge for an exDpapal secretary, especially if Clement died before making him a cardinal.

He flushed the uncertainties about his life away as he stepped toward the terminal. He could tell that heOd risen in altitude. The sullen air was coldNin the upper forties, the pilot had explained just before theyOd touched down. The sky was smeared with a thick swirl of low-level clouds that denied sunlight any opportunity of finding earth.

He entered the building and headed for passport control. HeOd packed light, only a shoulder bag, expecting to be gone no more than a day or two, and had dressed casually in jeans, a sweater, and jacket, honoring ClementOs request for discretion.

His Vatican passport gained entrance into the country without the customary visa fee. He then rented a battered Ford Fiesta from the Eurodollar counter just outside customs and learned directions to Zlatna from an attendant. His grasp of the language was good enough that he understood most of what the red-haired man told him.

He wasnOt particularly thrilled with the prospect of driving around one of the poorest countries in Europe alone. Research last evening had revealed several official advisories that warned of thieves and urged caution, especially at night and in the countryside. He would have preferred enlisting the help of the papal nuncio in Bucharest. One of the staff could serve as driver and guide, but Clement had nixed that idea. So he climbed into the rental car and made his way out of the airport, eventually finding the highway and speeding northwest toward Zlatna.

Katerina stood on the west side of the town square, the cobbles grossly misshapen, many missing, even more crumbling to gravel. People scampered back and forth, their concerns surely more vitalNfood, heat, water. Dilapidated pavement the least of their everyday worries.

SheOd arrived in Zlatna two hours ago and spent an hour gathering what information she could about Father Andrej Tibor. She was careful with her inquiries, since Romanians were intensely curious if nothing else. According to the information Valendrea had provided, MichenerOs flight touched down a little after eleven A.M. It would take him a good two hours to drive the ninety miles north from Bucharest. Her watch read one twenty P.M. So assuming his flight was on time, he should be arriving shortly.

It felt both strange and comforting to be back home. She was born and raised in Bucharest, but spent a lot of her childhood beyond the Carpathian Mountains, deep in Transylvania. She knew the region not as some novelized haunt of vampires and werewolves, but as ErdZly, a place of rich forests, citadel castles, and hearty people. The culture was a mixture of Hungary and Germany, spiced with Gypsy. Her father had been a descendant of the Saxon colonists brought there in the twelfth century to guard the mountain passes from invading Tartars. The descendants of that European stock had withstood a parade of Hungarian despots and Romanian monarchs, only to be slaughtered by the communists after World War II.

Her motherOs parents were uTigani, Gypsy, and the communists were anything but kind to them, orchestrating a collective hatred as Hitler had done with Jews. Seeing Zlatna, with its wooden houses, carved verandas, and Mughal-style train station, she was reminded of her grandparentsO village. Where Zlatna had escaped the regionOs earthquakes and survived CeauusescuOs systemization, her grandparentOs home had not. Like two-thirds of the countryOs villages, theirs was ritualistically destroyed, the residents consigned to drab communal apartment buildings. Her motherOs parents had even faced the shameful disgrace of having to demolish their own home. A way to combine peasant experience with Marxist efficiency, the plan was billed. And, sadly, few Romanians mourned the passing of Gypsy villages. She recalled visiting her grandparents afterward in their soulless apartment, the dingy gray rooms devoid of their ancestorsO warming spirits, the essential life drained from their souls. Which was the whole idea. It was later called ethnic cleansing in Bosnia. Ceauusescu like to say it was a move toward progressive living. She called it madness. And the sights and sounds of Zlatna resurrected all those ugly memories.

From a shopkeeper, she learned that three state orphanages were located nearby. The one where Father Tibor worked was regarded as the worst. The compound sat west of town and harbored terminally ill childrenNanother of CeauusescuOs insanities.

Boldly, the dictator outlawed contraception and proclaimed that women under the age of forty-five must birth at least five offspring. The result was a nation with more children than their parents could ever feed. The abandoning of infants on the street became commonplace. AIDS, tuberculosis, hepatitis, and syphilis exacted severe tolls. Eventually orphanages sprang up everywhere, all of them little more than dumping spots, the task of caring for the unwanted left to strangers.

SheOd also learned that Tibor was a Bulgarian who was nearing eightyNor maybe older, no one really knew for sureNand he was known as a pious man whoOd given up retirement to work with children who would soon meet their God. She wondered about the courage it took to comfort a dying infant, or tell a ten-year-old he would soon go to a place far better than here. She didnOt believe any of that. She was an atheist and always had been. Religion was created by manNas was God himself. Politics, not faith, explained everything for her. How better to regulate the masses than by terrifying them with the wrath of an omnipotent being. Better to trust yourself, believe in your own abilities, make your own luck in the world. Prayer was for the weak and the lazy. Not something sheOd ever needed.

She glanced at her watch. A little past one thirty.

Time to make her way to the orphanage.

So she headed off across the plaza. What to do once Michener arrived sheOd yet to determine.

But sheOd think of something.

Michener slowed the car as he approached the orphanage. Part of the drive from Bucharest had been on the autostrada, the four-laned roadway surprisingly well maintained, but the secondary road heOd taken earlier was vastly different, the shoulder ragged, its surface potholed like a moonscape and dotted with confusing signposts that had twice taken him out of his way. HeOd crossed the River Olt a few miles back, traversing a scenic gorge between two forested ranges. As heOd driven north the topography had changed from farmland to foothills to mountains. Along the way, heOd seen black snakes of factory smoke curling up on the horizon.

HeOd learned about Father Tibor from a butcher in Zlatna, who told him where the priest could be found. The orphanage occupied a red-tiled, two-story building. The pits and scars in its terra-cotta roof bore witness to the bitter sulfur air that stung MichenerOs throat. The windows were iron-barred, most of the panes taped their length. Many were whitewashed, and he wondered if it was to prevent people from looking in or looking out.

He motored inside the walled compound and parked.

The hard ground was carpeted with thick weeds. A rusty slide and swing sat to one side. A stream of something black and sludgy bordered the far wall and may have been the source of the foul odor that greeted his nostrils as he stepped from the car. From the buildingOs front door, a nun dressed in a brown ankle-length dress appeared.

OGood day, Sister, IOm Father Colin Michener. IOm here to speak with Father Tibor.O He spoke in English, hoping she understood, and added a smile.

The older woman tented her fingers and lightly bowed in a gesture of greeting. OWelcome, Father. I did not realize you were a priest.O

OIOm on holiday and decided to leave the cassock at home.O

OAre you a friend of Father TiborOs?O Her English was excellent and unaccented.

ONot exactly. Tell him IOm a colleague.O

OHeOs inside. Follow me please.O She hesitated. OAnd, Father, have you ever visited one of these places before?O

He thought the question strange. ONo, Sister.O

OPlease try to be patient with the children.O

He nodded his understanding and followed her up five crumbling stone stairs. The smell inside was a horrid combination of urine, feces, and neglect. He fought a rising nausea with shallow breaths and wanted to shield his nose but thought the act would be insulting. Glass chips crunched beneath his soles and he noticed paint peeling from the walls like skin burned by the sun.

Children flooded out from the rooms. About thirty, all male, their ages varying from toddlers to teenagers. They crowded around him, their heads shavenNto combat lice, the nun explained. Some walked with a limp, while others seemed to lack muscular control. A lazy eye afflicted many, a speech impediment others. They probed him with chapped hands, clamoring for his attention. Their voices carried a weak rasp and the dialects varied, Russian and Romanian the most common. Several asked who he was and why he was there. HeOd learned in town that most of them would be terminally ill or severely handicapped. The scene was made surreal by the dresses the boys wore, some over pants, some bare-legged. Their clothes were apparently whatever could be found that fit their lanky bodies. They seemed all eyes and bones. Few possessed teeth. Open sores spotted their arms, legs, and faces. He tried to be careful there. HeOd read last night how HIV was rampant among RomaniaOs forgotten children.

He wanted to tell them God would look out for them, that there was a point to their suffering. But before he could speak a tall man dressed in a black clerical suit, his Roman collar gone, stepped into the corridor. A small boy clung to his neck in a desperate embrace. The old manOs hair was cut close to the scalp, and everything about his face, manner, and stride suggested a gentle being. He wore a pair of chrome-rimmed glasses that framed saucer-round, brown eyes beneath a pyramid of bushy white eyebrows. He was wire-thin, but the arms were hard and muscular.

OFather Tibor?O he asked in English.

OI heard you say that you were a colleague.O The English carried an Eastern European accent.

OIOm Father Colin Michener.O

The older priest set down the child he was carrying. ODumitru is due for his daily therapy. Tell me why I should delay that to speak with you?O

He wondered about the hostility in the old manOs voice. OYour pope needs assistance.O

Tibor sucked a deep breath. OIs he finally going to recognize the situation we have here?O

He wanted to speak alone and didnOt like the audience surrounding them, especially the nun. The children were still tugging at his clothes. OWe need to talk in private.O

Father TiborOs face betrayed little emotion as he appraised Michener with an even gaze. He marveled at the physical condition the old man was in and hoped heOd be in half as good a shape when he reached eighty.

OTake the children, Sister. And see to DumitruOs therapy.O

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, OWhat kind of therapy does the boy receive?O

OWe simply massage his legs and try to get him to walk. ItOs probably useless, but itOs all we have available.O

ONo doctors?O

OWeOre lucky if we can feed these children. Medical aid is unheard of.O

OWhy do you do this?O

OA strange question coming from a priest. These children need us.O

The enormity of what heOd just seen refused to leave his mind. OIs it like this throughout the country?O

OThis is actually one of the better places. WeOve worked hard to make it livable. But, as you can see, we have a long way to go.O

ONo money?O

Tibor shook his head. OOnly what the relief organizations throw our way. The government does little, the Church next to nothing.O

OYou came on your own?O

The older man nodded. OAfter the revolution, I read about the orphanages and decided this was where I should be. That was ten years ago. I have never left.O

There was still an edge to the priestOs voice, so he wanted to know, OWhy are you so hostile?O

OIOm wondering what the papal secretary wants with an old man.O

OYou know who I am?O

OIOm not ignorant of the world.O

He could see Andrej Tibor was no fool. Perhaps John XXIII had chosen wisely when he asked this man to translate Sister LuciaOs note. OI have a letter from the Holy Father.O

Tibor gently grasped Michener by the arm. OI was afraid of that. Let us go to the chapel.O

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. OI 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.O

OYou know why IOve come, donOt you?O

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 ClementOs note. He held the paper away from his eyes as he strained to read in the dull light.

OItOs been a while since IOve read German,O Tibor said. OBut itOs coming back to me.O Tibor finished reading. OWhen I first wrote the pope, I was hoping he would simply do as I asked without more.O

Michener wanted to know what the priest had asked, but instead said, ODo you have a response for the Holy Father?O

OI have many responses. Which one am I to give?O

OOnly you can make that decision.O

OI wish it were that simple.O He cocked his head toward the stained glass. OShe made it so complicated.O Tibor stood for a moment in silence, then turned and faced him. OAre you staying in Bucharest?O

ODo you want me to?O

Tibor handed him the envelope. OThere is a restaurant, the CafZ Krom, near the Piauta Revoluutiei. ItOs easy to find. Come at eight. IOll think about this and have your response then.O

Michener drove south to Bucharest, wrestling with images of the orphanage.

Like many of those children, heOd 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 unknownNor at least thatOs 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 heOd just left. Each was run by nunsNnot 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 husbandsO 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 mothersNa 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 wayNthe hope being that the shame of their mistake would pass in time. No one needed to know theyOd given a child away.

Michener recalled vividly the day heOd 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. HeOd 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 wasnOt the fatherOs equal? Why did she bear all the guilt?

And all the pain.

HeOd 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 whoOd once languished there. HeOd 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. HeOd only learned the little bit he knew about himself because of a nunOs 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. HeOd excelled in school and become a priest and a lawyer, pleasing his adoptive parents enormously. HeOd then gone to Europe and found comfort with a lonely bishop whoOd 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.

HeOd 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 truthNa confession by a sainted woman to her son, the priest, hoping both he and her God would forgive her.

IOve 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 hadnOt 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 IOm 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 couldnOt have a child of her own. SheOd done nothing wrong, and heOd 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.

Michener found a hotel away from the Piauta Revoluutiei 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 roomOs only window, he was finishing off a pastry and a Diet Coke heOd 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 heOd never failed his mentor, though heOd always believed his relationship with Katerina a betrayal. HeOd violated his vows, disobeyed his church, and offended his God. For that, there could be no forgiveness. But Clement had said otherwise.

You think youOre the only priest to succumb?

That doesnOt make it right.

Colin, forgiveness is the hallmark of our faith. YouOve sinned and should repent. But that doesnOt mean throwing your life away. And was it that wrong, anyway?

He could still recall the curious look heOd 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. HeOd loved Katerina. It was a fact he could not deny. SheOd come to him at a time, just after his motherOs death, when he was tangling with his past. SheOd traveled with him to that birthing center in Kinnegad. Afterward, theyOd walked the rocky cliffs overlooking the Irish Sea. SheOd 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 couldnOt 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 whoOd 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 ClementOs 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. OWhy does the church lie?O 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 popeOs official mark. Pastor of Pastors, Servant of the Servants of God. The way Clement signed every official document.

Michener felt bad about violating ClementOs 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.

SheOd 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 hadnOt been surprised when he bypassed central downtown and headed straight for one of the cityOs lesser hotels. HeOd also avoided the papal nuncioOs office near Centru CivicNagain 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 Ceauusescu bulldozed the cityOs 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 appreciativeNthe ungrateful went to prison, the lucky were shot.

SheOd left Romania six months after Ceauusescu faced the firing squad, staying only long enough to be part of the first election in the countryOs history. When no one but former communists won, she realized little would change quickly, and sheOd noticed earlier how right that prediction had been. A sadness still filled Romania. SheOd 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? SheOd done little the past dozen years. Her father had urged her to stay and work for the new, supposedly free Romanian press, but sheOd 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 concreteNshe 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 MichenerOs weaknesses, and already hated herself for taking advantage of them.

But little choice remained.

She stood and headed for the door.

VATICAN CITY, 5:30 P.M.

ValendreaOs last appointment came early for a Friday. Then a dinner scheduled at the French embassy was unexpectedly canceledNsome crisis in Paris had detained the ambassadorNso he found himself with a rare free night.

HeOd spent a torturous hour with Clement just after lunch. The time was supposed to be a foreign affairs briefing, but all theyOd 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 heOd cite spiritual concerns and simply quit.

But that was never going to happen.

The Third Secret

Part of the agenda for their earlier meeting had entailed a...

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.

OI was wondering, Eminence, if we might speak a moment. I tried at your office and was told you had retired for the evening.O

NgoviOs voice was low and calm. And Valendrea noticed the formal label Eminence, surely for the guardsO benefit. With Colin Michener plodding his way through Romania, Clement had apparently delegated the task of errand boy to Ngovi.

He invited the cardinal inside and instructed the guards they were not to be disturbed. He then led Ngovi into his study and offered a seat in a gilded settee.

OI would pour coffee, but I sent the steward for some.O

Ngovi raised a hand. ONo need. I came to talk.O

Valendrea sat. OSo what does Clement want?O

OIt is I who wants something. What was the purpose of your visit to the archives yesterday? Your intimidation of the cardinal-archivist? It was uncalled for.O

OI donOt recall the archives being under the jurisdiction of the Congregation for Catholic Education.O

OAnswer the question.O

OSo Clement does want something, after all.O

Ngovi said nothing, an irritating strategy heOd noticed the African often employedNone that sometimes made Valendrea say too much.

OYou told the archivist that you were on a mission of the greatest importance to the Church. One that demanded extraordinary action. What were you referring to?O

He wondered how much the weak bastard in the archives had said. Surely he didnOt confess his sin in forgiving the abortion. The old fool wasnOt that reckless. Or was he? He decided an offensive tack best. OYou and I both know Clement is obsessed with the Fatima secret. HeOs been in the Riserva repeatedly.O

OWhich is the prerogative of the pope. It is not for us to question.O

Valendrea leaned forward in the chair. OWhy does our good German pontiff anguish so much over something the world already knows?O

OThat is not for you or me to question. John Paul II satisfied my curiosity with his revelation of the third secret.O

OYou served on the committee, didnOt you? The one that reviewed the secret and wrote the interpretation that accompanied its release.O

OIt was my honor. I had long wondered about the VirginOs final message.O

OBut it was so anticlimatic. DidnOt really say much of anything, beyond the usual call for penance and faith.O

OIt foretold a papal assassination.O

OWhich explains why the Church suppressed it all those years. No point in giving some lunatic a divine motive to shoot the pope.O

OWe believed that was the thinking when John XXIII read the message and ordered it sealed.O

OAnd what the Virgin predicted happened. Somebody tried to shoot Paul VI, then the Turk shot John Paul II. What I want to know, though, is why Clement feels the need to keep reading the original writing?O

OAgain, that is not for you or me to question.O

OExcept when either one of us is pope.O He waited to see if his adversary would take the bait.

OBut you and I are not pope. What you attempted was a violation of canon law.O NgoviOs voice stayed cool, and Valendrea wondered if this sedate man ever lost his temper.

OPlan to charge me?O

Ngovi did not flinch. OIf there was any way possible to be successful, I would.O

OThen maybe I would have to resign and you could be secretary of state? YouOd like that, wouldnOt you, Maurice?O

OI would only like to send you back to Florence where you and your Medici ancestors belong.O

He cautioned himself. The African was a master of provocation. This would be a good test for the conclave, where surely Ngovi would try every possible way to incite a reaction. OI am not Medici. I am Valendrea. We opposed the Medici.O

OSurely only after seeing that familyOs decline. I imagine your ancestors were opportunists, too.O

He realized the confrontation for what it wasNthe two leading contenders for the papacy, face-to-face. He well knew that Ngovi would be his toughest competition. HeOd already listened to taped conversations among cardinals when they thought themselves safe within locked Vatican offices. Ngovi was his most dangerous challenger, made even more formidable by the fact that the archbishop of Nairobi was not actively seeking the papacy. If asked, the wily bastard always stopped any speculation with a wave of his hand and a mention of his respect for Clement XV. None of which fooled Valendrea. An African had not sat on the throne of St. Peter since the first century. What a triumph that would be. Ngovi, if nothing else, was an ardent nationalist, open in his belief that Africa deserved better than it was presently receivingNand what better platform to push for social reform than as head of the Holy See?

OGive it up, Maurice,O he said. OWhy donOt you join the winning team? You wonOt leave the next conclave as pope. That much I guarantee.O

OWhat bothers me more is you becoming pope.O

OI know you have the African bloc held tight. But theyOre only eight votes. Not enough to stop me.O

OBut enough to become critical in a tight election.O

The first mention by Ngovi of the conclave. A message?

OWhere is Father Ambrosi?O Ngovi asked.

Now he realized the purpose of the visit. Clement needed information. OWhereOs Father Michener?O

OI am told heOs on holiday.O

OSo is Paolo. Maybe they went together.O He let a chuckle accompany the sarcasm.

OI would hope Colin has better taste in friends.O

OAs I would for Paolo.O

He wondered why the pope was so concerned about Ambrosi. What did it matter? Perhaps heOd underestimated the German. OYou know, Maurice, I was being facetious earlier, but you would make an excellent secretary of state. Your support in the conclave could assure that.O

Ngovi sat with his hands folded beneath his cassock. OAnd to how many others have you dangled that cube of sugar?O

OOnly those in a position to deliver.O

His guest rose from the settee. OI remind you of the Apostolic Constitution, which forbids campaigning for the papacy. We are both bound by that creed.O

Ngovi stepped toward the anteroom beyond.

Valendrea never moved from his chair, but called out to the retreating cardinal, OI wouldnOt stand on protocol too long, Maurice. WeOll all be in the Sistine soon, and your fortunes could drastically change. How, though, is solely up to you.O

BUCHAREST, 5:50 P.M.

The rap on the door startled Michener. Nobody knew he was in Romania except Clement and Father Tibor. And absolutely nobody knew he was staying at this hotel.

He stood, crossed the room, and opened the door to see Katerina Lew. OHow in the world did you find me?O

She smiled. OYou were the one who said the only secrets in the Vatican are the ones a person doesnOt know.O

He didnOt like what he was hearing. The last thing Clement would want was a reporter knowing what he was doing. And whoOd betrayed the information that heOd left Rome?

OI felt bad about the other day in the square,O she said. OI shouldnOt have said what I did.O

OSo you came to Romania to apologize?O

OWe need to talk, Colin.O

OThis isnOt a good time.O

OI was told you went on holiday. I thought it the best time.O

He invited her inside and closed the door behind her, reminding himself that the globe had shrunk since the last time he was alone with Katerina Lew. Then a troubling thought occurred. If she knew this much about him, imagine how much Valendrea knew. He needed to call Clement and advise him of a leak in the papal household. But he recalled what Clement had said yesterday in Turin about ValendreaNhe knows everything we do, everything we sayNand realized the pope already knew.

OColin, thereOs no reason for us to be so hostile. I understand much better what happened all those years ago. IOm even willing to admit I handled things poorly.O

OThatOs a first.O

She did not react to his rebuke. OIOve missed you. ThatOs really why I came to Rome. To see you.O

OWhat about Tom Kealy?O

OI was involved with Tom.O She hesitated. OBut heOs not you.O She stepped closer. OIOm not ashamed of my time with him. TomOs situation is stimulating to a journalist. Lots of opportunities there.O Her eyes grabbed his in a way only hers could. OBut I need to know. Why were you at the tribunal? Tom told me papal secretaries donOt usually bother with such things.O

OI knew youOd be there.O

OWere you glad to see me?O

He debated his response and settled on, OYou didnOt look particularly glad to see me.O

OI was just trying to gauge your reaction.O

OAs I recall, there was no reaction from you.O

She stepped away, toward the window. OWe shared something special, Colin. ThereOs no point denying it.O

ONo point rehashing it, either.O

OThatOs the last thing I want. WeOre both older. Hopefully smarter. CanOt we be friends?O

HeOd come to Romania on a papal errand. Now he was embroiled in an emotional discussion with a woman he once loved. Was the Lord testing him again? He couldnOt deny what he felt just being close to her. Like she said, theyOd once shared everything. SheOd been wonderful as he struggled to learn about his heritage, wondering what happened to his birth mother, curious why his biological father had abandoned him. With her help, heOd arrested many of those demons. But new ones were rising. Perhaps a truce with his conscience might be in order. What could it hurt?

OIOd like that.O

She wore a pair of black trousers that clung to her thin legs. A matching herringbone jacket and black leather vest cast a look of the revolutionary he knew her to be. No dreamy lights in her eyes. She was firmly rooted. Perhaps too much so. But down deep there was true emotion, and heOd missed that.

An odd flutter swept across him.

He recalled years ago when heOd retreated to the Alps for time to think and, like today, sheOd appeared at his door, confusing him even more.

OWhat were you doing in Zlatna?O she asked. OIOve been told that orphanage is a difficult place, run by an old priest.O

OYou were there?O

She nodded. OI followed you.O

Another disturbing reality, but he let it pass. OI went to talk with that priest.O

OCan you tell me about it?O

She sounded interested and he needed to talk about it. Perhaps she could help. But there was another matter to consider.

OOff the record?O he asked.

Her smile brought him comfort. OOf course, Colin. Off the record.O

8:00 P.M.

Michener led Katerina into the CafZ Krom. TheyOd talked in his room for two hours. HeOd told her an abridged version of what had happened with Clement XV over the past few months and the reason heOd come to Romania, omitting only that heOd read ClementOs note to Tibor. There was no one else, besides Cardinal Ngovi, to whom he would even consider speaking about his concerns. And even with Ngovi he knew discretion was the better tack. Vatican alliances shifted like the tide. A friend today could well be a foe tomorrow. Katerina was not allied to anyone inside the Church, and she was not ignorant of the third secret of Fatima. She told him about an article sheOd written for a Danish magazine in 2000 when John Paul II released its text. It dealt with a fringe group who believed the third secret was an apocalyptic vision, the complex metaphors used by the Virgin a clear declaration that the end was in sight. SheOd thought them all insane and her article addressed the lunacy such cults extolled. But after seeing ClementOs reaction in the Riserva, Michener wasnOt so sure about that lunacy anymore. He hoped Father Andrej Tibor could end the confusion.

The priest waited at a table near a plate-glass window. Outside, an amber glow illuminated people and traffic. A mist clouded the night air. The bistro sat in the heart of the city, near the Piauta Revoluutiei, and was busy with a Friday-night crowd. Tibor had changed clothes, replacing his black clerical garb with a pair of denim jeans and a turtleneck sweater. He rose as Michener introduced him to Katerina.

OMs. Lew is with my office. I brought her to take notes as to anything you might want to say.O HeOd decided earlier that he wanted her to hear what Tibor said, and he thought a lie better than the truth.

OIf the papal secretary so desires,O Tibor said, Owho am I to question?O

The priestOs tone was light and Michener hoped the bitterness from earlier had dissipated. Tibor got the waitressOs attention and ordered two more beers. The old priest then slid an envelope across the table. OThat is my response to ClementOs inquiry.O

He did not reach for the packet.

OI thought about it all afternoon,O Tibor said. OI wanted to be precise, so I wrote it down.O

The waitress deposited two steins of dark beer on the table. Michener gulped a short swallow of the frothy brew. So did Katerina. Tibor was already on his second stein, the empty one on the table.

OI havenOt thought of Fatima in a long time,O Tibor quietly said.

Katerina spoke up. ODid you work at the Vatican long?O

OEight years, between John XXIII and Paul VI. Then I returned to missionary work.O

OWere you actually there when John XXIII read the third secret?O Michener asked, probing gently, trying not to reveal what he knew of ClementOs note.

Tibor stared out the window for a long moment. OI was there.O

He knew what Clement had asked of Tibor, so he pushed. OFather, the pope is greatly bothered by something. Can you help me understand?O

OI can appreciate his anguish.O

He tried to appear nonchalant. OAny insights?O

The old man shook his head. OAfter four decades I still donOt understand myself.O He glanced away while he spoke, as if unsure of what he was saying. OSister Lucia was a saintly woman. The Church treated her badly.O

OHow do you mean?O Katerina asked.

ORome made sure she led a cloistered life. Remember, in 1959 only John XXIII and she knew the third secret. Then the Vatican ordered that only her immediate family could visit her, and she was not to discuss the apparitions with anyone.O

OBut she was part of the revelation when John Paul made the secret public in 2000,O Michener said. OShe was sitting on the dais when the text was read to the world at Fatima.O

OShe was over ninety years old. IOm told her hearing and eyesight were failing. And, do not forget, she was forbidden to speak on the subject. There were no comments from her. None whatsoever.O

Michener sucked another swallow of beer. OWhat was the problem with what the Vatican did regarding Sister Lucia? WerenOt they just protecting her from every nut in the world who wanted to badger her with questions?O

Tibor crossed his arms before his chest. OI wouldnOt expect you to understand. You are a product of the Curia.O

He resented the accusation, since he was anything but that. OMy pontiff is not the CuriaOs friend.O

OThe Vatican demands complete obedience. If not, the Apostolic Penitentiary sends one of their letters commanding you to Rome to account for yourself. WeOre to do as weOre told. Sister Lucia was a loyal servant. She did as she was told. Believe me, the last thing Rome would have wanted was for her to be available to the world press. John ordered her silent because he had no choice, and every pope after continued that order because they had no choice.O

OAs I recall, Paul VI and John Paul II both visited with her. John Paul even consulted her before the third secret was released. I have spoken to bishops and cardinals who were part of the revelation. She authenticated the writing as hers.O

OWhich writing?O Tibor asked.

An odd question.

OAre you saying the Church lied about the message?O Katerina asked.

Tibor reached for his drink. OWe will never know. The good nun, John XXIII, and John Paul II are no longer with us. All gone, except me.O

Michener decided to change the subject. OSo tell us what you do know. What happened when John XXIII read the secret?O

Tibor sat back in the rickety oak chair and seemed to consider the question with interest. Finally, the old priest said, OAll right. IOll tell you exactly what happened.O

ODo you know Portuguese?O Monsignor Capovilla asked.

Tibor glanced up from his seat. Ten months working in the Vatican and this was the first time anyone from the fourth floor of the Apostolic Palace had spoken to him, much less John XXIIIOs personal secretary.

OYes, Father.O

OThe Holy Father needs your assistance. Could you bring a pad and pen and come with me?O

He followed the priest to the elevator and rode in silence to the fourth floor, where he was ushered into the papal apartment. John XXIII sat perched behind a writing desk. A small wooden box with a broken wax seal lay on top. The pope held two pieces of notepaper.

OFather Tibor, can you read these?O John asked.

Tibor accepted the two sheets and scanned the words, not actually registering their meaning, only the fact that he understood. OYes, Holy Father.O

A smile came to the rotund manOs face. It was the smile that had galvanized Catholics from around the world. The press had taken to calling him Papa John, a label the pope had embraced. For so long, while Pius XII lay ailing, the papal palace windows had been shrouded in darkness, the curtains drawn in symbolic mourning. Now the shutters were thrown open, the Italian sun pouring through, a signal to all who entered St. PeterOs Square that this Venetian cardinal was committed to a revival.

OIf you would, sit there by the window and pen an Italian translation,O John said. OOne page each, separately, as the originals appear.O

Tibor spent the better part of an hour making sure his two translations were precise. The original writing was in a distinctly feminine hand, and the Portuguese was of an old style, used more toward the turn of the last century. Languages, like people and cultures, tended to change with time, but his training was extensive and the task relatively simple.

John paid him little attention while he worked, chatting quietly with his secretary. When finished, he handed his effort to the pope. He watched for a reaction while John read the first sheet. Nothing. Then the pope read the second page. A moment of silence passed.

OThis does not concern my papacy,O John softly said.

Given the words on the page, he thought the comment strange, but said nothing.

John folded each translation with its original, forming two separate packets. The pope sat silent for a few moments, and Tibor did not move. This pope, whoOd sat on the throne of St. Peter a mere nine months, had already profoundly changed the Catholic world. One reason Tibor had come to Rome was to be a part of what was happening. The world was ready for something different and God, it seemed, had provided.

John tented his chubby fingers before his mouth and rocked silently in the chair. OFather Tibor, I want your word to your pope and your God that what you just read will never be revealed.O

Tibor understood the importance of that pledge. OYou have my word, Holy Father.O

John stared at him through rheumy eyes with a gaze that pierced his soul. A cold shiver tickled his spine. He fought the urge to shift on his feet.

The pope seemed to read his mind.

OBe assured,O John said in barely a whisper, OI will do what I can to honor the VirginOs wishes.O

OI never spoke to John XXIII again,O Tibor said.

OAnd no other pope contacted you?O Katerina asked.

Tibor shook his head. ONot until today. I gave my word to John and kept it. Until three months ago.O

OWhat did you send the pope?O

OYou do not know?O

ONot the details.O

OPerhaps Clement doesnOt want you to know.O

OHe wouldnOt have sent me if he didnOt.O

Tibor motioned to Katerina. OWould he want her to know, too?O

OI do,O Michener said.

Tibor appraised him with a stern look. OIOm afraid not, Father. What I sent is between Clement and myself.O

OYou said John XXIII never spoke to you again. Did you try to make contact with him?O Michener asked.

Tibor shook his head. OIt was only a few days later John called for the Vatican II council. I remember the announcement well. I thought that his response.O

OCare to explain?O

The old man shook his head. ONot really.O

Michener finished his beer and wanted another, but knew better. He studied some of the faces that surrounded him and wondered if any might be interested in what he was doing, but quickly dismissed the thought. OWhat about when John Paul II released the third secret?O

TiborOs face tightened. OWhat of it?O

The manOs curtness was wearing on him. OThe world now knows the VirginOs words.O

OThe Church has been known to refashion the truth.O

OAre you suggesting the Holy Father deceived the world?O Michener asked.

Tibor did not immediately answer. OI donOt know what IOm suggesting. The Virgin has appeared many times on this earth. YouOd think we might finally get the message.O

OWhat message? IOve spent the past few months studying every apparition back two thousand years. Each one seems a unique experience.O

OThen you havenOt been studying closely,O Tibor said. OI, too, spent years reading about them. In every one there is a declaration from heaven to do as the Lord says. The Virgin is heavenOs messenger. She provides guidance and wisdom, and weOve foolishly ignored Her. In modern times, that mistake started at La Salette.O

Michener knew every detail about the apparition at La Salette, a village high in the French Alps. In 1846 two shepherd children, a boy, Maxim, and a girl, MZlanie, supposedly experienced a vision. The event was similar in many ways to FatimaNa pastoral scene, a light that wound down from the sky, an image of a woman who spoke to them.

OAs I recall,O Michener said, Othe two children were told secrets that were eventually written down, the texts presented to Pius IX. The seers then later published their own versions. Charges of embellishment were leveled. The entire apparition was tainted with scandal.O

OAre you saying thereOs a connection between La Salette and Fatima?O Katerina asked.

A look of annoyance crept onto TiborOs face. OIOm not saying anything. Father Michener here has access to the archives. Has he ascertained any connection?O

OI studied the La Salette visions,O Michener said. OPius IX made no comment after reading each of the secrets, yet he never allowed them to be publicly revealed. And though the original texts are indexed among the papers of Pius IX, the secrets are no longer in the archives.O

OI looked in 1960 for the La Salette secrets and also found nothing. But there are clues to their content.O

He knew exactly what Tibor meant. OI read the witness accounts of people who watched as MZlanie wrote down the messages. She asked how to spell infallibly, soiled, and anti-Christ, if I remember correctly.O

Tibor nodded.

OPius IX himself even offered a few clues. After reading MaximOs message he said, OHere is the candor and simplicity of a child.O But after reading MZlanieOs he cried and said, OI have less to fear from open impiety than from indifference. It is not without reason that the Church is called militant and you see here her captain.O O

OYou have a good memory,O Tibor said. OMZlanie was not kind when told of the popeOs reaction. OThis secret ought to give pleasure to the pope,O she said, Oa pope should love to suffer.O O

Michener recalled Church decrees issued at the time that commanded the faithful to refrain from discussing La Salette in any form on threat of sanctions. OFather Tibor, La Salette was never given the credence of Fatima.O

OBecause the original texts of the seersO messages are gone. All we have is speculation. ThereOs been no discussion of the subject because the church forbade it. Right after the apparition, Maxim said that the announcement the Virgin told them would be fortunate for some, unfortunate for others. Lucia uttered those same words seventy years later at Fatima. OGood for some. For others bad.O O The priest drained his mug. He seemed to enjoy alcohol. OMaxim and Lucia were both right. Good for some, bad for others. It is time the MadonnaOs words not be ignored.O

OWhat are you saying?O Michener asked, frustrated.

OAt Fatima heavenOs desires were made perfectly clear. I havenOt read the La Salette secret, but I can well imagine what it says.O

Michener was sick of riddles, but decided to let this old priest have his say. OIOm aware of what the Virgin said at Fatima in the second secret, about the consecration of Russia and what would happen if that wasnOt done. I agree, thatOs a specific instructionNO

OYet no pope,O Tibor said, Oever performed the consecration until John Paul II. All the bishops of the world, in conjunction with Rome, never consecrated Russia until 1984. And look what happened from 1917 to 1984. Communism flourished. Millions died. Romania was raped and pillaged by monsters. What did the Virgin say? The good will be martyred, the Holy Father will have much to suffer, various nations will be annihilated. All because popes chose their own course instead of heavenOs.O The anger was clear, no attempt being made to conceal it. OYet within six years of the consecration, communism fell.O Tibor massaged his brow. ONever once has Rome formally recognized a Marian apparition. The most it will ever do is deem the occurrence worthy of assent. The Church refuses to accept that visionaries have anything important to say.O

OBut thatOs only prudent,O Michener said.

OHow so? The Church acknowledges that the Virgin appeared, encourages the faithful to believe in the event, then discredits whatever the seers say? You donOt see a contradiction?O

Michener did not answer.

OReason it out,O Tibor said. OSince 1870 and the Vatican I council, the pope has been deemed infallible when he speaks of doctrine. What do you believe would happen to that concept if the words of a simple peasant child were made more important?O

Michener had never viewed the issue that way before.

OThe teaching authority of the Church would end,O Tibor said. OThe faithful would turn somewhere else for guidance. Rome would cease to be the center. And that could never be allowed to happen. The Curia survives, no matter what. ThatOs always been the case.O

OBut, Father Tibor,O Katerina said, Othe secrets from Fatima are precise on places, dates, and times. They talk about Russia and popes by name. They speak of papal assassinations. IsnOt the Church just being cautious? These so-called secrets are so different from the gospels that each could be deemed suspicious.O

OA good point. We humans have a tendency to ignore that which we do not agree with. But maybe heaven thought more specific instruction was needed. Those details you speak about.O

Michener could see the agitation on TiborOs face and the nervousness in the hands that wrapped the empty beer stein. A few moments of strained silence passed, then the old man slouched forward and motioned to the envelope.

OTell the Holy Father to do as the Madonna said. Not to argue or ignore it, just do as she said.O The voice was flat and emotionless. OIf not, tell him that he and I will soon be in heaven, and I expect him to take all the blame.O

10:00 P.M.

Michener and Katerina stepped off the metro train and made their way out of the subway station into a frosty night. The former Romanian royal palace, its battered stone faade awash in a sodium vapor glow, stood before them. The Piauta Revoluutiei fanned out in all directions, the damp cobbles dotted with people bundled in heavy wool coats. Traffic crawled by on the streets beyond. The cold air stained his throat with a taste of carbon.

He watched Katerina as she studied the plaza. Her eyes settled on the old communist headquarters, a Stalinist monolith, and he saw her focus on the buildingOs balcony.

OThat was where Ceauusescu made his speech that night.O She pointed off toward the north. OI stood over there. It was something. That pompous ass just stood there in the lights and proclaimed himself loved by all.O The building loomed dark, apparently no longer important enough to be illuminated. OTelevision cameras sent the speech all over the country. He was so proud of himself until we all started chanting, OTimiusoara, Timiusoara.O O

He knew about Timiusoara, a town in western Romania where a lone priest had finally spoke out against Ceauusescu. When the government-controlled Reformed Orthodox Church removed him, riots broke out across the country. Six days later the square before him erupted in violence.

OYou should have seen CeauusescuOs face, Colin. It was his indecision, that moment of shock, that we took as a call to act. We broke through the police lines and . . . there was no turning back.O Her voice lowered. OThe tanks eventually came, then the fire hoses, then bullets. I lost many friends that night.O

He stood with his hands stuffed in his coat pockets and watched his breath evaporate before his eyes, letting her remember, knowing she was proud of what sheOd done. He was, too.

OItOs good to have you back,O he said.

She turned toward him. A few other couples strolled the square arm in arm. OIOve missed you, Colin.O

HeOd read once that in everyoneOs life there was somebody who touched a spot so deep, so precious, that the mind always retreated, in time of need, to that cherished place, seeking comfort within memories that never seemed to disappoint. Katerina was that for him. And why the Church, or his God, couldnOt provide the same satisfaction was troubling.

She inched close. OWhat Father Tibor said, about doing as the Madonna said. What did he mean?O

OI wish I knew.O

OYou could learn.O

He knew what she meant and withdrew from his pocket the envelope that contained Father TiborOs response. OI canOt open it. You know that.O

OWhy not? We can find another envelope. Clement would never know.O

HeOd succumbed to enough dishonesty for one day by reading ClementOs first note. OI would know.O He knew how hollow that denial sounded, but he slipped the envelope back in his pocket.

OClement created a loyal servant,O Katerina said. OIOll give the old bird that.O

OHeOs my pope. I owe him respect.O

Her lips and cheeks twisted into a look heOd seen before. OIs your life to be in the service of popes? What of you, Colin Michener?O

HeOd wondered the same thing many times over the past few years. What of him? Was a cardinalOs hat to be the extent of his life? Doing little more than basking in the prestige of a scarlet robe? Men like Father Tibor were doing what priests were meant to do. He felt again the caress of the children from earlier, and smelled the stench of their despair.

A surge of guilt swept through him.

OI want you to know, Colin, I wonOt mention a word of this to anyone.O

OIncluding Tom Kealy?O He regretted how the question came out.

OJealous?O

OShould I be?O

OI seem to have a weakness for priests.O

OCareful with Tom Kealy. I get the impression heOs the kind who ran from this square when the shooting started.O He could see her jaw tighten. ONot like you.O

She smiled. OI stood in front of a tank with a hundred others.O

OThat thought is upsetting. I wouldnOt want to see you hurt.O

She threw him a curious look. OAny more than I already am?O

Katerina left Michener at his room and walked down the squeaky steps. She told him they would talk in the morning, over breakfast, before he flew back to Rome. He hadnOt been surprised to learn she was staying one floor below, and she didnOt mention that she, too, would be heading back to Rome, on a later flight, instead telling him that her next destination was up in the air.

She was beginning to regret her involvement with Cardinal Alberto Valendrea. What had started off as a career move had deteriorated into the deception of a man she still loved. It troubled her lying to Michener. Her father, if he knew what she was doing, would be ashamed. And that thought, too, was bothersome, since sheOd disappointed her parents enough over the past few years.

At her room, she opened the door and stepped inside.

The first thing she saw was the smiling face of Father Paolo Ambrosi. The sight momentarily startled her, but she quickly caught hold of her emotions, sensing that showing fear to this man would be a mistake. SheOd actually been expecting a visit, since Valendrea had said Ambrosi would find her. She closed the door, peeled off her coat, and stepped toward the lamp beside the bed.

OWhy donOt we let the light remain off,O Ambrosi said.

She noticed that Ambrosi was dressed in black trousers and a dark turtleneck. A dark overcoat hung open. None of the garb was religious. She shrugged and tossed her coat on the bed.

OWhat have you learned?O

She took a moment and told him an abbreviated account of the orphanage and of what Michener had told her about Clement, but she held back a few key facts. She finished by telling him about Father Tibor, again an abridged version, and recounted the old priestOs warning concerning the Madonna.

OYou must learn whatOs in TiborOs response,O Ambrosi said.

OColin wouldnOt open it.O

OFind a way.O

OHow do you expect me to do that?O

OGo upstairs. Seduce him. Read it while he sleeps afterward.O

OWhy donOt you? IOm sure priests interest you more than they do me.O

Ambrosi lunged, wrapping his long thin fingers around her neck and collapsing her down onto the bed. The grip was cold and waxy. He brought his knee onto her chest and pressed her firmly into the mattress folds. He was stronger than she would have thought.

OUnlike Cardinal Valendrea, I have little patience for your smart mouth. I remind you that we are in Romania, not Rome, and people disappear here all the time. I want to know what Father Tibor wrote. Find out, or I might not restrain myself the next time we meet.O AmbrosiOs knee pressed deeper into her chest. OIOll find you tomorrow, just as I found you this evening.O

She wanted to spit in his face, but the ever-tightening fingers around her neck cautioned otherwise.

Ambrosi released his grip and headed for the door.

She clutched her neck and sucked a few breaths, then leaped from the bed.

Ambrosi spun back to face her, a gun in his hand.

She halted her advance. OYou . . . fucking . . . mobster.O

He shrugged. OHistory teaches that there truly is an imperceptible line between good and evil. Sleep well.O

He opened the door and left.

VATICAN CITY, 11:40 P.M.

Valendrea crushed out his cigarette in an ashtray as a knock came on his bedchamber door. HeOd been engrossed in a novel for nearly an hour. He so enjoyed American suspense thrillers. They were a welcome escape from his life of careful words and strict protocol. His retreat each night into a world of mystery and intrigue was something he looked forward to, and Ambrosi made sure he always had a new adventure to read.

OEnter,O he called out.

The face of his chamberlain appeared. OI received a call a few moments ago, Eminence. The Holy Father is in the Riserva. You wished to be informed if that occurred.O

He slipped off his reading glasses and closed the book. OThat will be all.O

The chamberlain retreated.

He quickly dressed in a knit shirt and trousers, slipped on a pair of running shoes, and left his apartment, heading for the private elevator. At ground level he traversed the empty corridors of the Apostolic Palace. The silence was disturbed only by a soft whine from closed-circuit televison cameras revolving on their lofty perches and the squeak of his rubber soles on the terrazzo. No danger existed of anyone seeing himNthe palace was sealed for the night.

He entered the archives and ignored the night prefect, walking through the maze of shelves straight to the iron gate for the Riserva. Clement XV stood inside the lighted space, his back to him, dressed in a white linen cassock.

The doors of the ancient safe hung open. He made no effort to mask his approach. It was time for a confrontation.

OCome in, Alberto,O the pope said, the GermanOs back still to him.

OHow did you know it was me?O

Clement turned. OWho else would it be?O

He stepped into the light, the first time heOd been inside the Riserva since 1978. Then, only a few incandescent bulbs lit the windowless alcove. Now fluorescent fixtures cast everything in a pearly glow. The same wooden box lay in the same drawer, its lid open. Remnants of the wax seal heOd shattered and replaced adorned the outside.

OI was told about your visit here with Paul,O Clement said. The pope gestured to the box. OYou were present when he opened that. Tell me, Alberto, was he shocked? Did the old fool wince when he read the VirginOs words?O

He wasnOt going to give Clement the satisfaction of knowing the truth. OPaul was more of a pope than you ever could be.O

OHe was an obstinate, unbending man. He had a chance to do something, but he let his pride and arrogance control him.O Clement lifted an unfolded sheet of paper that lay beside the box. OHe read this, yet put himself before God.O

OHe died only three months later. What could he have done?O

OHe could have done everything the Virgin asked.O

ODo what, Jakob? What is so important? The third secret of Fatima commands nothing beyond faith and penance. What should Paul have done?O

Clement maintained his rigid pose. OYou lie so well.O

A blind fury built inside him that he quickly repressed. OAre you mad?O

The pope took a step toward him. OI know about your second visit to this room.O

He said nothing.

OThe archivists keep quite detailed records. They have noted for centuries every soul who has ever entered this chamber. On the night of May 19, 1978, you visited with Paul. An hour later, you returned. Alone.O

OI was on a mission for the Holy Father. He commanded that I return.O

OIOm sure he did, considering what was in the box at that time.O

OI was sent to reseal the box and the drawer.O

OBut before you resealed the box, you read what was inside. And who could blame you? You were a young priest, assigned to the papal household. Your pope, whom you worshiped, had just read the words of a Marian seer and they surely upset him.O

OYou donOt know that.O

OIf not, then he was more of a fool than I think him to be.O ClementOs gaze sharpened. OYou read the words, then you removed part of them. You see, there once were four sheets of paper in this box. Two written by Sister Lucia when she memorialized the third secret in 1944. Two composed by Father Tibor when he translated in 1960. But after Paul opened the box and you resealed it, no one again opened the box until 1981, when John Paul II read the third secret for the first time. That was done in the presence of several cardinals. Their testimony confirms that PaulOs seal was unbroken. All present that day also attested that only two sheets of paper lay inside the box, one written by Sister Lucia, the other Father TiborOs translation. Nineteen years later, in 2000, when John Paul finally released the text of the third secret to the world, there remained only the same two sheets of paper in the box. How do you account for that, Alberto? Where are the other two pages that were there in 1978?O

OYou know nothing.O

OUnfortunately for both me and you, I do. There was something you never knew. The translator for John XXIII, Father Andrej Tibor, copied the entire two-page third secret onto a pad, then produced a two-page translation. He gave the pope his original work, but later he noticed that upon his pad was left the impression of what heOd written. He, like myself, had the annoying habit of bearing down too hard. He took a pencil, shaded out the words, then traced them onto two sheets. One, the original words of Sister Lucia. The other, his translation.O Clement held up the paper in his hand. OOne of those facsimiles is this, which Father Tibor recently sent it to me.O

Valendrea kept his face frozen. OMay I see it?O

Clement smiled. OIf you like.O

He accepted the page. Waves of apprehension clutched his stomach. The words were the same feminine script he remembered, about ten lines, in Portuguese, which he still could not read.

OPortuguese was Sister LuciaOs native tongue,O Clement said. OI have compared the style, format, and lettering from Father TiborOs facsimile to the first part of the third secret you so graciously left in the box. They are identical in every way.O

OIs there a translation?O he asked, masking all emotion.

OThere is, and the good father sent his facsimile along.O Clement motioned. OBut it is in the box. Where it belongs.O

OPhotographs of Sister LuciaOs original writing were released to the world in 2000. This Father Tibor could have simply copied her style.O He gestured with the sheet. OThis could be a forgery.O

OWhy did I know you would say that? It could be, but itOs not. And we both know that.O

OThis is why you have been coming here?O he asked.

OWhat would you have me do?O

OIgnore these words.O

Clement shook his head. OThat is the one thing I cannot do. Along with his reproduction, Father Tibor sent me a simple query. Why does the church lie? You know the answer. No one lied. Because when John Paul II released the text of the third secret to the world, no one knew, besides Father Tibor and yourself, that there was more to the message.O

Valendrea stepped back, stuffed a hand into his pocket, and removed a lighter heOd noticed on the walk down. He ignited the paper and dropped the flaming sheet to the floor.

Clement did nothing to stop him.

Valendrea stamped on the blackened ashes as if heOd just done battle with the devil. Then his gaze locked on Clement. OGive me that damn priestOs translation.O

ONo, Alberto. It stays in the box.O

His instinct was to shove the old man aside and do what had to be done. But the night prefect appeared at the RiservaOs doorway.

OLock this safe,O Clement said to the attendant, and the man rushed forward to do as he was told.

The pope took Valendrea by the arm and led him from the Riserva. He wanted to pull away, but the prefectOs presence demanded he show respect. Outside, among the shelves, away from the prefect, he dislodged himself from ClementOs grip.

The pope said, OI wanted you to know what awaits you.O

But something was bothering him. OWhy didnOt you stop me from burning that paper?O

OIt was perfect, wasnOt it, Alberto? Removing those two pages from the Riserva? No one would know. Paul was in his final days, soon to be in the crypt. Sister Lucia was forbidden to speak with anyone, and she eventually died. No one else knew what was in that box, except perhaps an obscure Bulgarian translator. But by 1978 so many years had passed that that translator wasnOt a worry in your mind. Only you would know those two pages had ever existed. And even if anyone noticed, things have a tendency to disappear from our archives. If the translator surfaced, without the pages themselves, there was no proof. Only talk. Hearsay.O

He was not going to respond to any of what heOd just heard. Instead, he still wanted to know, OWhy didnOt you stop me from burning that paper?O

The pope hesitated a moment before saying, OYouOll see, Alberto.O

Then Clement shuffled away as the prefect slammed shut the RiservaOs gate.

E

BUCHAREST

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 11

6:00 A.M.

Katerina had slept poorly. Her neck was sore from AmbrosiOs attack, and she was mad as hell with Valendrea. Her first thought was to tell the secretary of state to screw himself and then tell Michener the truth. But she knew that whatever peace they might have forged last evening would be shattered. Michener would never believe that her main reason for allying herself with Valendrea was the chance to again be close to him. All he would see was her betrayal.

Tom Kealy had been right about Valendrea. That is one ambitious bastard. More than Kealy ever knew, she thought, staring again at the ceiling of the darkened room and massaging her bruised muscles. Kealy was also right about something else. He once told her there were two kinds of cardinalsNthose who want to be pope and those who really want to be pope. She now added a third kindNthose who coveted to be pope.

Like Alberto Valendrea.

She hated herself. There was an innocence about Michener that sheOd violated. He couldnOt help who he was or what he believed. Maybe that was what actually attracted her to him. Too bad the Church wouldnOt allow its clerics to be happy. Too bad the way things had always been controlled what would always be. Damn the Roman Catholic Church. And damn Alberto Valendrea.

SheOd slept in her clothes, and for the past two hours sheOd patiently waited. Now squeaks in the floorboards above alerted her. Her eyes followed the sound as Colin Michener stepped around his room. She heard water running in the basin and waited for the inevitable. A few moments later footsteps led toward the hall and she heard the door above open and close.

She stood, left the room, and made her way to the stairwell just as the bathroom door in the hall above closed. She crept up the stairs and hesitated at the top, waiting to hear water flowing in the shower. She then hustled down a threadbare runner, over uneven hardwood planks, to MichenerOs room, hoping he still did not lock anything.

The door opened.

She stepped inside, and her eyes found his travel bag. His clothes from last night and jacket were there, too. She searched the pockets and found the envelope Father Tibor had provided. She recalled MichenerOs habit of short showers and tore open the envelope:

Holy Father:

I kept the oath that John XXIII imposed upon me because of my love for our Lord. But several months ago an incident caused me to rethink my duty. One of the children at the orphanage died. In the final moments of his life, while he screamed in pain, he asked me about heaven and wanted to know if God would forgive him. I could not imagine what this innocent would need forgiven, but I told him the Lord will forgive anything. He wanted me to explain, but death was impatient and he passed before I could. It was then I realized that I, too, must seek forgiveness. Holy Father, my oath to my pope meant something to me. I kept it for more than forty years, but heaven should not be challenged. It is certainly not for me to tell you, the Vicar of Christ, what needs to be done. That can come only from your own blessed conscience and the guidance of our Lord and Savior. But I must ask, how much intolerance will heaven allow? I mean no disrespect, but it is you who have sought my opinion. So I offer it humbly.

Katerina read the message again. Father Tibor was as cryptic on paper as he had been in person the night before, offering only more riddles.

She refolded the note and slipped the sheet back into a white envelope sheOd found among her things. It was a bit larger than the original, but hopefully not different enough to arouse suspicion.

She stuffed the envelope back into the jacket and left the room.

As she passed the bathroom door, the water in the shower stopped. She imagined Michener drying himself, oblivious to her latest betrayal. She hesitated a moment, then descended the stairs, never looking back and feeling even worse about herself.

VATICAN CITY, 7:15 A.M.

Valendrea pushed aside his breakfast. He had no appetite. HeOd slept sparingly, the dream so real he still could not rid it from his mind.

He saw himself at his own coronation, being carried into St. PeterOs Basilica on the regal sedia gestatoria. Eight monsignors held aloft a silk canopy that sheltered the ancient golden chair. The papal court surrounded him, everyone dressed in sartorial majesty. Ostrich fans flanked him on three sides and accented his exalted position as ChristOs divine representative on earth. A choir sang as a million people cheered and millions more watched on television.

The strange part was that he was naked.

No robes. No crown. Totally naked and no one seemed to notice, though he was painfully aware. A strange uncomfortableness passed through him as he kept waving to the crowd. Why did no one see? He wanted to cover himself, but fear kept him rooted to the chair. If he stood people might really notice. Would they laugh? Ridicule him? Then, one face among the millions that engulfed him stood out.

Jakob VolknerOs.

The German was dressed in full papal regalia. He wore the robes, the miter, the palliumNeverything Valendrea should be wearing. Above the cheers, the music, and the choir, he heard VolknerOs every word, as clear as if they were standing side by side.

IOm glad itOs you, Alberto.

What do you mean?

YouOll see.

HeOd awakened in a clammy sweat and eventually drifted back to sleep, but the dream reoccurred. Finally, he relieved his tension with a scalding shower. HeOd nicked himself twice while shaving and nearly slipped on the bathroom floor. Being unnerved was unsettling. He was not accustomed to anxiety.

I wanted you know what awaits you, Alberto.

The damn German had been so smug last night.

And now he understood.

Jakob Volkner knew exactly what happened in 1978.

Valendrea reentered the Riserva. Paul had commanded that he return, so the archivist had been specifically instructed to open the safe and provide him with privacy.

He reached for the drawer and removed the wooden box. HeOd brought with him wax, a lighter, and the seal of Paul VI. Just as John XXIIIOs seal once was stamped on the outside, now PaulOs would signify that the box should not be opened, except by papal command.

He hinged open the top and made sure that two packets, four folded sheets of paper, remained inside. He could still see PaulOs face as heOd read the top packet. ThereOd been shock, which was an emotion rarely seen on the face of Paul VI. But thereOd been something else, too, only for an instant, but Valendrea had seen it clearly.

Fear.

He stared into the box. The two packets containing the third secret of Fatima were still there. He knew he shouldnOt, but no one would ever know. So he lifted out the top packet, the one that had brought such a reaction.

He unfolded and set aside the original Portuguese page, then scanned its Italian translation.

Comprehension took only an instant. He knew what had to be done. Perhaps that was why Paul had sent him? Maybe the old man realized that he would read the words and then do what a pope could not.

He slipped the translation into his cassock, joined a second later by Sister LuciaOs original writing. He then unfolded the remaining packet and read.

Nothing of any consequence.

So he reassembled those two pages, dropped them back inside, and sealed the box.

Valendrea stood from the table and locked the doors that led out of his apartment. He then strode into his bedroom and removed a small bronze casket from a cabinet. His father had presented the box to him for his seventeenth birthday. Ever since, heOd kept all his precious things inside, among them photos of his parents, deeds to properties, stock certificates, his first missal, and a rosary from John Paul II.

He reached beneath his vestments and found the key that hung from his neck. He hinged opened the box and shuffled through its contents to the bottom. The two sheets of folded paper, taken from the Riserva that night in 1978, were still there. One penned in Portuguese, the other Italian. Half of the entire third secret of Fatima.

He lifted both pages out.

He could not bring himself to read the words again. Once was more than enough. So he walked into the bathroom, ripped both sheets into tiny pieces, then allowed them to rain into the toilet.

He flushed the basin.

Gone.

Finally.

He needed to return to the Riserva and destroy TiborOs latest facsimile. But any return visit would have to be after ClementOs death. He also needed to talk with Father Ambrosi. HeOd tried the satellite phone an hour ago without success. Now he grabbed the handset from the bathroom counter and dialed the number again.

Ambrosi answered.

OWhat happened?O he asked his assistant.

OI spoke with our angel last evening. Little has been learned. SheOs to do better today.O

OForget that. What we originally planned is immaterial. I need something else.O

He had to be careful with his words as there was nothing private about a satellite phone.

OListen to me,O he said.

BUCHAREST, 6:45 A.M.

Michener finished dressing, then tossed his toiletries and dirty clothes into his travel bag. A part of him wanted to drive back to Zlatna and spend more time with those children. Winter was not far away, and Father Tibor had told them last night what a battle it was simply to keep the boilers running. Last year theyOd gone two months with frozen pipes, using makeshift stoves to burn whatever wood could be scrounged from the forest. This winter Tibor believed they should be all right, thanks to relief workers whoOd spent all summer repairing an aging boiler.

Tibor had said that his fondest wish was that another three months might pass without losing any more children. Three had died last year, buried in a cemetery just outside the wall. Michener wondered what purpose such suffering could serve. HeOd been fortunate. The object of the Irish birthing centers had been to find children homes. But the flip side was that mothers were forever separated from their children. HeOd imagined many times the Vatican bureaucrat whoOd approved such a preposterous plan, never once considering the pain. Such a maddening political machine, the Roman Catholic Church. Its gears had churned undaunted for two thousand years, unfazed by the Protestant Reformation, infidels, a schism that tore it apart, or the plunder of Napoleon. Why then, he mused, would the Church fear what a peasant girl from Fatima might have to say? What would it matter?

Yet apparently it did.

He shouldered his travel bag and walked downstairs to KaterinaOs room. TheyOd agreed to have breakfast together before he left for the airport. A note was wedged into the doorframe. He plucked it out.

Colin:

I thought it best we not see each other this morning. I wanted us to part with the feeling we shared last night. Two old friends who enjoyed each otherOs company. I wish you the best in Rome. You deserve success.

Always, Kate A part of him was relieved. HeOd really not known what to say to her. There was no way they could continue a friendship in Rome. The slightest appearance of impropriety would be enough to ruin his career. He was glad, though, that they were parting on good terms. Perhaps theyOd finally made peace. At least he hoped so.

He tore the paper to pieces and stepped down the hall, where he flushed every one of them away. So strange that was necessary. But no remnant of her message could remain. Nothing could exist that might link him and her together. Everything must be sanitized.

Why?

That was clear. Protocol and image.

What wasnOt so clear was his growing resentment of both reasons.

Michener opened the door to his apartment on the fourth floor of the Apostolic Palace. His rooms were near the popeOs, where papal secretaries had long lived. When heOd first moved in three years ago, heOd foolishly thought the spirits of its former residents might somehow guide him. But heOd since learned that none of those souls was to be found, and any guidance he might need would have to be discovered within himself.

HeOd taken a taxi from the Rome airport instead of calling his office for a car, still adhering to ClementOs orders that his trip go unnoticed. HeOd entered the Vatican through St. PeterOs 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. HeOd 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 RomeOs 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 popeOs itinerary. One of his assistants offered no explanation except that the pope had said heOd like a couple of days in the country, so everything was rescheduled. ThereOd been a few inquiries to the press office on the pontiffOs health, not unusual when the schedule was varied, but the standard statementNthe Holy Father enjoys a robust constitution and we wish him a long lifeNwas promptly issued.

Yet Michener was concerned, so he raised the assistant who had accompanied Clement on the phone.

OWhatOs he doing there?O Michener asked.

OHe just wanted to see the lake and walk in the gardens.O

OHas he asked about me?O

ONot a word.O

OTell him IOm back.O

An hour later the phone rang in MichenerOs apartment.

OThe Holy Father wants to see you. He said a drive south through the countryside would be lovely. Do you understand what he means?O

He smiled and checked his watch. Three twenty P.M. OTell him IOll be there by nightfall.O

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 RomeOs incessant humNa 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.

OColin, pull one of those chairs over here.O A smile accompanied the greeting.

He did as he was told. OYou look good.O

Clement grinned. OI didnOt know I ever looked bad.O

OYou know what I mean.O

OActually, I feel good. And youOll be proud to know I ate breakfast and lunch today. Now, tell me about Romania. Every detail.O

He explained what had happened, omitting only his time with Katerina. He then handed Clement the envelope and the pope read Father TiborOs response.

OWhat precisely did Father Tibor say to you?O Clement asked.

He told him, then said, OHe spoke in riddles. Never really saying much, though he was not complimentary to the Church.O

OThat I understand,O Clement muttered.

OHe was upset over the Holy SeeOs handling of the third secret. He implied that the VirginOs message was being intentionally ignored. He told me repeatedly for you to do as She said. No argument, no delay, just do it.O

The old manOs gaze lingered on him. OHe told you about John XXIII, didnOt he?O

He nodded.

OTell me.O

He did, and Clement seemed fascinated. OFather Tibor is the only person left alive who was there that day,O the pope said when he finished. OWhat did you think of the priest?O

Thoughts of the orphanage flashed through his mind. OHe appears sincere. But he was also obstinate.O He didnOt add what he was thinkingNlike you, Holy Father. OJakob, canOt you now tell me what this is about?O

OThere is another trip I need you to take.O

OAnother?O

Clement nodded. OThis time to Medjugorje.O

OBosnia?O he asked in disbelief.

OYou must speak with one of the seers.O

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.

OHoly Father, is such a trip necessary?O

He didnOt particularly want to traipse across war-torn Bosnia. American and NATO peacekeeping forces were still there maintaining order.

OI need to know the tenth secret of Medjugorje,O Clement said, and his tone signaled that the matter was not open for discussion. ODraft a papal instruction for the seers. He or she is to tell you the message. No one else. Only you.O

He wanted to argue, but was too tired from the flight and yesterdayOs hectic schedule to engage in something he knew would be futile. So he simply asked, OWhen, Holy Father?O

His old friend seemed to sense his fatigue. OIn a few days. That will draw less attention. And again, keep this between us.O

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.

OWelcome, Eminence,O Ambrosi said.

The Romanian night was frigid and Valendrea was glad heOd worn a thick wool coat. Like Ambrosi, heOd 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.

OWhat about customs?O he asked.

OHandled. Vatican passports carry weight here.O

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 ValendreaOs first visit to Romania. He knew of ClementOs desire for an official pilgrimage, but any papal missions to this troubled place would have to wait until he was in command.

OHe goes there each Saturday evening to pray,O Ambrosi was saying from the front seat. OIn the cold or heat. DoesnOt matter. HeOs done that for years.O

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. Ambrosi slowed near the crest, eased onto a ragged shoulder, and killed the engine.

OItOs there, down that path,O Ambrosi said, pointing through fogged windows at a darkened lane between the trees.

In the headlights Valendrea noticed another car parked ahead. OWhy does he come?O

OFrom 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.O

OThere is something you must know,O he told Ambrosi. His assistant sat in the front seat, his gaze still out the windshield, unmoving. OWe 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.O

OThere is no need to explain,O Ambrosi softly said. OIt is enough that you say it is so.O

OYour faith is impressive. But you are GodOs soldier, and a warrior should know what he is fighting for. So let me tell you what I know.O

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.

OFather Tibor,O Valendrea called out in English.

A black form appeared in the doorway. OWhoOs there?O

OI am Alberto Cardinal Valendrea. I have come from Rome to speak with you.O

Tibor stepped from the church. OFirst the papal secretary. Now the secretary of state. Such wonders for a humble priest.O

He couldnOt 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 heOd worn since the day John Paul II invested him as a cardinal. He was appreciative at the priestOs submissiveness.

OPlease, Father, stand. We must talk.O

Tibor came to his feet. OHas my message already made its way to Clement?O

OIt has, and the pope is grateful. But IOve been sent to learn more.O

OEminence, IOm 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.O

He liked what he was hearing. OSo you havenOt spoken of this to anyone before? Not even a confessor?O

OThat is correct, Eminence. IOve told no one what I knew, other than Clement.O

ODid not the papal secretary come here yesterday?O

OHe did. But I merely hinted at the truth. He knows nothing. I assume you have seen my written response?O

OI have,O he lied.

OThen you know I said little there, too.O

OWhat motivated you to craft a reproduction of Sister LuciaOs message?O

OHard 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.O

OWhy keep them all those years?O

OI have asked myself the same question. I do not know why, only that I did.O

OAnd why did you finally decide to make contact with Clement?O

OWhat 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.O

Valendrea caught AmbrosiOs gaze momentarily and noticed a slight tip of his head off to the right. That way.

OLetOs walk, Father,O he said, taking Tibor gently by the arm. OTell me, why do you come to this spot?O

OI was actually wondering, Eminence, how you found me.O

OYour devotion to prayer is well known. My assistant merely asked around and was told of your weekly ritual.O

OThis is a sacred place. Catholics have worshiped here for five hundred years. I find it comforting.O Tibor paused. OItOs also because of the Virgin that I come.O

They were walking down a narrow path with Ambrosi leading the way. OExplain, Father.O

OThe 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.O

OFor what do you pray?O

OThat the world will enjoy the peace the Lady predicted.O

OI, too, pray for the same thing. As does the Holy Father.O

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.

OSuch magnificence,O Valendrea said. OA remarkable view.O

OI come here many times after praying,O Tibor said.

He kept his voice low. OWhich must help deal with the agony of the orphanage.O

Tibor nodded. OIOve received much peace here.O

OAs you should.O

He gestured to Ambrosi, who produced a long blade. AmbrosiOs arm swung up from behind and slashed once across TiborOs throat. The priestOs 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 clericOs 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. OThere are rocks?O he calmly asked.

OMany, and a fast-moving stream. The body should take a few days to be found.O

OWas it hard to kill him?O He truly wanted to know.

OIt had to be done.O

He stared at his dear friend through the dark, then reached up and outlined a cross on the forehead, lips, and heart. OI forgive you, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.O

Ambrosi bowed his head in thanks.

OEvery religious movement must have martyrs. And we have just borne witness to the ChurchOs latest.O He knelt on the ground. OCome, join me while I pray for Father TiborOs soul.O

E

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 popeOs 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 wasnOt 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.

OItOs good they love their pope,O Clement said quietly in German, his attention still on the crowd, fingers gripped tight around the stainless-steel hand bar.

OYou give them no reason not to,O Michener said.

OThat should be the goal of all who wear this robe.O

The car looped through the square.

OAsk the driver to stop,O 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.

ODo you think this wise?O Michener asked.

Clement looked up. OIt is most wise.O

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 ClementOs 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.

The Third Secret

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 VirginOs 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.

Somehow he knew that no one, on this day, would cause his dear friend harm.

It was two P.M. when they returned to the villa. A light lunch was waiting in the solarium and Clement asked Michener to join him. They ate in silence, enjoying the flowers and a spectacular November afternoon. The compoundOs swimming pool, just beyond the glass walls, sat empty. It was one of the few luxuries John Paul II had insisted upon, telling the Curia, when it complained about the cost, that it was far cheaper than getting a new pope.

Lunch was a hearty beef soup littered with vegetables, one of ClementOs favorites, along with black bread. Michener was partial to the bread. It reminded him of Katerina. TheyOd often shared some over coffee and dinner. He wondered where she was right now and why sheOd felt the need to leave Bucharest without saying goodbye. He hoped that heOd see her again one day, maybe after his time at the Vatican ended, in a place where men like Alberto Valendrea did not exist, where no one cared who he was or what he did. Where maybe he could follow his heart.

OTell me about her,O Clement said.

OHow did you know I was thinking about her?O

OIt wasnOt difficult.O

He actually wanted to talk about it. OSheOs different. Familiar, but hard to define.O

Clement sipped wine from his goblet.

OI canOt help but think,O Michener said, Othat IOd be a better priest, a better man, if I didnOt have to suppress my feelings.O

The pope tabled his glass. OYour confusion is understandable. Celibacy is wrong.O

He stopped eating. OI hope you havenOt voiced that conclusion to anyone else.O

OIf I cannot be honest with you, then who?O

OWhen did you come to this conclusion?O

OThe Council of Trent was a long time ago. Yet here we are, in the twenty-first century, clinging to a sixteenth-century doctrine.O

OIt is the Catholic nature.O

OThe Council of Trent was convened to deal with the Protestant Reformation. We lost that battle, Colin. The Protestants are here to stay.O

He understood what Clement was saying. The Trent Council had affirmed celibacy as necessary for the gospelOs sake, but conceded that it was not of divine origin. Which meant it could be changed if the Church desired. The only other councils since Trent, Vatican I and II, had declined to do anything. Now the supreme pontiff, the one man who could do something, was questioning the wisdom of that indifference.

OWhat are you saying, Jakob?O

OIOm not saying anything. IOm only talking with an old friend. Why must priests not marry? Why must they remain chaste? If thatOs acceptable for others, why not the clergy?O

OPersonally, I agree with you. But I think the Curia would take a different view.O

Clement shifted his weight forward as he pushed his empty soup bowl aside. OAnd thatOs the problem. The Curia will always object to anything that threatens its survival. Do you know what one of them said to me a few weeks ago?O

Michener shook his head.

OHe said that celibacy must be maintained because the cost of paying priests would skyrocket. We would have to channel tens of millions to payroll for increased salaries because priests would now have wives and children to support. Can you imagine? That is the logic this Church uses.O

He agreed, but felt compelled to say, OIf you even hinted at a change, youOd be providing Valendrea a ready-made issue to use with the cardinals. You could have open revolt.O

OBut thatOs the benefit of being pope. I speak infallibly on matters of doctrine. My word is the last word. I donOt need permission, and I canOt be voted from office.O

OInfallibility was created by the Church, too,O he reminded. OIt can be changed, along with whatever you do, by the next pope.O

The pope was pinching the fleshy part of his hand, a nervous habit Michener had seen before. OIOve had a vision, Colin.O

The words, barely a whisper, took a moment to sink in. OA what?O

OThe Virgin spoke to me.O

OWhen?O

OMany weeks ago, just after Father TiborOs first communication. That is why I went to the Riserva. She told me to go.O

First the pope was talking about junking dogma that had stood for five centuries. Now he was proclaiming Marian apparitions. Michener realized this conversation must stay here, only the plants privy, but he heard again what Clement had said in Turin. Do you think for one moment we enjoy any measure of privacy when at the Vatican?

OIs it wise to speak of this?O He hoped his tone conveyed a warning. But Clement seemed not to hear.

OYesterday, She appeared in my chapel. I looked up and She was floating before me, surrounded by a blue and gold light, a halo encircling Her radiance.O The pope paused. OShe told me that Her heart was encircled with thorns with which men pierce Her by their blasphemies and ingratitude.O

OAre you sure of those statements?O he asked.

Clement nodded. OShe said them clearly.O Clement clinched his fingers together. OIOm not senile, Colin. It was a vision, of that IOm sure.O The pope paused. OJohn Paul II experienced the same.O

He knew that, but said nothing.

OWe are foolish men,O Clement said.

He was becoming agitated with riddles.

OThe Virgin said to go to Medjugorje.O

OAnd thatOs why IOm being sent?O

Clement nodded. OAll would be clear then, she said.O

A few moments of silence passed. He didnOt know what to say. It was hard to argue with heaven.

OI allowed Valendrea to read what is in the Fatima box,O Clement whispered.

He was confused. OWhatOs there?O

The Third Secret

OPart of what Father Tibor sent me.O

OYou going to tell me what that is?O

OI canOt.O

OWhy did you allow Valendrea to read it?O

OTo see his reaction. HeOd even tried to browbeat the archivist to allow a look. Now he knows exactly what I know.O

He was about to ask once again what that might be when a light rap on the solariumOs door interrupted their conversation. One of the stewards entered, carrying a folded sheet of paper. OThis came over the fax machine from Rome a few moments ago, Monsignor Michener. The cover said to give it to you immediately.O

He took the sheet and thanked the steward, who promptly left. He unfolded and read the message. He then looked at Clement and said, OA call was received a short while ago from the nuncio in Bucharest. Father Tibor is dead. His body was found this morning, washed ashore from a river north of town. His throat had been cut and he apparently was tossed from one of the cliffs. His car was found near an old church he frequented. The police suspect thieves. That area is riddled with them. I was notified, since one of the nuns at the orphanage told the nuncio about my visit. HeOs wondering why I was there unannounced.O

Color drained from ClementOs face. The pope made the sign of the cross and folded his hands in prayer. Michener watched as ClementOs eyelids clinched tight and the old man mumbled to himself.

Then tears streaked down the GermanOs face.

E

4:00 P.M.

Michener had thought about Father Tibor all afternoon. HeOd walked the villaOs gardens and tried to rid from his mind an image of the old BulgarianOs bloodied body being fished from a river. Finally he made his way to the chapel where popes and cardinals had for centuries stood before the altar. It had been more than a decade since heOd last said Mass. HeOd been far too busy serving the secular needs of others, but now he felt the urge to celebrate a funeral Mass in honor of the old priest.

In silence, he donned vestments. He then chose a black stole, draped it around his neck, and walked to the altar. Usually the deceased would be laid before the altar, the pews filled with friends and relatives. The point was to stress a union with Christ, a communion with the saints that the departed was now enjoying. Eventually, on Judgment Day, everyone would be reunited and they would all dwell forever in the house of the Lord.

Or so the Church proclaimed.

But as he mouthed the required prayers he couldnOt help wondering if it was all for naught. Was there really some supreme being waiting to offer eternal salvation? And could that reward be earned simply by doing what the Church said? Was a lifetime of misdeeds forgiven by a few moments of repentance? Would not God want more? Would He not want a lifetime of sacrifice? No one was perfect, thereOd always be lapses, but the measure of salvation must surely be greater than a few repentant acts.

He wasnOt sure when heOd started doubting. Maybe it was all those years ago with Katerina. Perhaps being surrounded by ambitious prelates, who openly proclaimed a love for God but were privately consumed by greed and ambition, had affected him. What was the point of falling to your knees and kissing a papal ring? Christ never sanctioned such displays. So why were His children allowed the privilege?

Could his doubts be simply a sign of the times?

The world was different from a hundred years ago. Everyone seemed linked. Communications were instant. Information had reached a gluttony stage. God just didnOt seem to fit. Maybe you were simply born, then you lived, and then you died, your body decomposing back into the earth. Dust to dust, as the Bible proclaimed. Nothing more. But if that were true, then what you made of your life could well be all the reward ever receivedNthe memory of your existence your salvation.

HeOd studied the Roman Catholic Church enough to understand that the majority of its teachings were directly related to its own interests, rather than those of its members. Time had certainly blurred all lines between practicality and divinity. What were once the creations of man had evolved into the laws of heaven. Priests were celibate because God ordained it. Priests were men because Christ was male. Adam and Eve were a man and woman, so love could only exist between the sexes. Where did these dogmas come from? Why did they persist?

Why was he questioning them?

He tried to switch off his brain and concentrate, but it was impossible. Maybe it was being with Katerina that had started him doubting again. Perhaps it was the senseless death of an old man in Romania that brought into focus that he was forty-seven years old and had done little with his life beyond riding the coattails of a German bishop to the Apostolic Palace.

He needed to do more. Something productive. Something that helped someone besides himself.

A movement at the door caught his attention. He stared up to see Clement amble into the chapel and kneel in one of the pews.

OPlease, finish. I, too, have a need,O the pope said as he bowed his head in prayer.

Michener went back to the Mass and prepared the sacrament. HeOd only brought one wafer, so he broke the slice of unleavened bread in half.

He stepped to Clement.

The old man looked up from his prayers, his eyes crimson from crying, the features marred by a patina of sadness. He wondered what sorrow had overtaken Jakob Volkner. Father TiborOs death had profoundly affected him. He offered the wafer and the pope opened his mouth.

OThe body of Christ,O he whispered, and laid communion on ClementOs tongue.

Clement crossed himself, then bowed his head in prayer. Michener withdrew to the altar and went about the task of completing the Mass.

But it was hard to finish.

The sobs of Clement XV that echoed through the chapel bit his heart.

E

ROME, 8:30 P.M.

Katerina hated herself for returning to Tom Kealy, but since her arrival in Rome yesterday, Cardinal Valendrea had yet to make contact. SheOd been told not to call, which was fine since she had little to report beyond what Ambrosi already knew.

SheOd read that the pope had traveled to Castle Gandolfo for the weekend, so she assumed Michener was there, too. Yesterday Kealy had taken a perverse pleasure in taunting her Romanian foray, implying that perhaps a lot more had occurred than she was willing to admit. SheOd purposely not told him everything Father Tibor had said. Michener was right about Kealy. He was not to be trusted. So sheOd given him an abridged version, enough for her to learn from him what Michener might be involved with.

She and Kealy were sitting in a cozy osteria. Kealy was dressed in a light-colored suit and tie, perhaps becoming accustomed to not wearing a collar in public.

OI donOt understand all the hype,O she said. OCatholics have made Marian secrets an institution. What makes the third secret of Fatima so important?O

Kealy was pouring wine from an expensive bottle. OIt was fascinating, even for the Church. Here was a message supposedly direct from heaven, yet a steady stream of popes suppressed it until John Paul II finally told the world in 2000.O

She stirred her soup and waited for him to explain.

OThe Church officially sanctioned the Fatima apparitions as worthy of assent in the 1930s. That meant it was okay for Catholics to believe in what happened, if they chose to.O He flashed a smile. OTypical hypocritical stance. Rome says one thing, does another. They didnOt mind people flocking to Fatima and offering millions in donations, but they couldnOt bring themselves to say the event actually occurred, and they certainly did not want the faithful to know what the Virgin may have said.O

OBut why conceal it?O

He sipped the burgundy, then fingered the stem of his glass. OSince when has the Vatican ever been sensible? These guys think theyOre still in the fifteenth century, when whatever they said was accepted without question. If anybody argued back then, the pope excommunicated them. But itOs a new day and that pile just doesnOt stink anymore.O Kealy caught the waiterOs attention and motioned for more bread. ORemember, the pope speaks infallibly when discussing matters of faith and morals. Vatican I pronounced that little jewel in 1870. What if, for one delicious moment, what the Virgin said was contrary to dogma? Now, wouldnOt that be something?O Kealy seemed immensely pleased with the thought. OMaybe thatOs the book we should write? All about the third secret of Fatima. We can expose the hypocrisy, take a close look at the popes and some of the cardinals. Maybe even Valendrea himself.O

OWhat about your situation? Not important anymore?O

OYou donOt honestly think thereOs any chance IOll win that tribunal.O

OThey might be content with a warning. That way they keep you within the fold, under their control, and you can save your collar.O

He laughed. OYou seem awfully concerned about my collar. Strange coming from an atheist.O

OScrew you, Tom.O SheOd definitely told this man too much about herself.

OSo full of spunk. I like that about you, Katerina.O He enjoyed another swallow of wine. OCNN called yesterday. They want me for the next conclave.O

OIOm glad for you. ThatOs great.O She wondered where that left her.

ODonOt worry, I still want to do that book. My agent is talking to publishers about that one and a novel. You and I will make a great team.O

The conclusion formed in her mind with a suddenness that surprised her. One of those decisions that was instantly clear. ThereOd be no team. What started out as promising had become tawdry. Luckily, she still had several thousand of ValendreaOs euros, enough cash to get her back to France or Germany where she could hire on with a newspaper or magazine. And this time sheOd behave herselfNplay by the rules.

OKaterina, are you there?O Kealy was asking.

Her attention returned to him.

OYou looked a million miles away.O

OI was. I donOt think thereOs going to be a book, Tom. IOm leaving Rome tomorrow. YouOll have to find another ghostwriter.O

The waiter deposited a basket of steaming bread on the table.

OIt wonOt be hard,O he made clear.

OI didnOt think so.O

He reached for a piece of the bread. OIOd leave your horse hitched to me, if I were you. This wagonOs going places.O

She stood from the table. OI can tell you one place itOs not going.O

OYou still have it for him, donOt you?O

OI donOt have it for anybody. IOm just sick of you. My father once told me that the higher a circus monkey climbed a pole, the more his ass showed. IOd remember that.O

And she walked away, feeling her best in weeks.

E

CASTLE GANDOLFO

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 13

6:00 A.M.

Michener came awake. HeOd never needed an alarm clock, his body seemingly blessed with an internal chronometer that always woke him at the precise time he selected before falling asleep. Jakob Volkner, when an archbishop and later a cardinal, had traveled the globe and served on committee after committee, relying always on MichenerOs ability never to be late, since punctuality was not one of Clement XVOs noted traits.

As in Rome, Michener occupied a bedroom on the same floor as ClementOs, just down the hall, a direct phone line linking their rooms. They were scheduled to return to the Vatican in two hours by helicopter. That would give the pope enough time for his morning prayers, breakfast, and a quick review of anything that required immediate attention, given thereOd been two days with no work. Several memoranda had been faxed last evening, and Michener had them ready for a postbreakfast discussion. He knew the rest of the day would be hectic, as there was a steady stream of papal audiences scheduled for the afternoon and into the evening. Even Cardinal Valendrea had requested a full hour for a foreign affairs briefing later in the morning.

He was still bothered by the funeral Mass. Clement had cried for half an hour before leaving the chapel. They hadnOt talked. Whatever was troubling his old friend was not open for discussion. Perhaps later thereOd be time. Hopefully, a return to the Vatican and the rigors of work might take the popeOs mind off the problem. But it had been disconcerting to watch such an onslaught of emotion.

He took his time showering, then dressed in a fresh black cassock and left his room. He strode down the corridor toward the popeOs quarters. A chamberlain was standing outside the door, along with one of the nuns assigned to the household. Michener glanced at his watch. Six forty-five A.M. He pointed to the door. ONot up yet?O

The chamberlain shook his head. OThereOs been no movement.O

He knew the staff waited outside each morning until they heard Clement stirring, usually between six and six thirty. The sound of the pope waking would be followed by a gentle tap on the door and the start of a morning routine that included a shower, shave, and dressing. Clement did not like anyone assisting him with bathing. That was done in private while the chamberlain made the bed and laid out his clothes. The nunOs task was to straighten the room and bring breakfast.

OPerhaps heOs just sleeping in,O Michener said. OEven popes can get a little lazy every once in a while.O

His two listeners smiled.

OIOll go back to my room. Come get me when you hear him.O

It was thirty minutes later that a knock came to his door. The chamberlain was outside.

OThere is still no sound, Monsignor,O the man said. Worry clouded his face.

He knew no one, save himself, would enter the papal bedroom without ClementOs permission. The area was regarded as the one place where popes could be assured of privacy. But it was approaching seven thirty, and he knew what the chamberlain wanted.

OAll right,O he said. OIOll go in and see.O

He followed the man back to where the nun stood guard. She indicated that there was still silence from inside. He lightly tapped on the door and waited. He tapped again, a little louder. Still nothing. He grasped the knob and turned. It opened. He swung the door inward and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

The bedchamber was spacious, with towering French doors at one end that opened to a balcony overlooking the gardens. The furnishings were ancient. Unlike the apartments in the Apostolic Palace, which were decorated by each successive pope in a style that made him comfortable, these rooms remained constant, oozing an Old World feel reminiscent of a time when popes were warrior-kings.

No lights were on, but the morning sun poured in through drawn sheers and bathed the room in a muted haze.

Clement lay under the sheets on his side. Michener stepped over and quietly said, OHoly Father.O

Clement did not respond.

OJakob.O

Still nothing.

The popeOs head faced away, the sheets and blanket pulled halfway over his frail body. He reached down and lightly shook the pope. Immediately he noticed a coldness. He stepped around to the other side of the bed and stared into ClementOs face. The skin was loose and ashen, the mouth open, a pool of spittle dried on the sheet beneath. He rolled the pope onto his back and yanked the covers down. Both arms draped lifelessly at ClementOs sides, the chest still.

He checked for a pulse.

None.

He thought about calling for help or administering CPR. HeOd been trained, as had all the household staff, but he knew it would be useless.

Clement XV was dead.

He closed his eyes and said a prayer, a wave of grief sweeping through him. It was like losing his mother and father all over again. He prayed for his dear friendOs soul, then gathered his emotions. There were things to do. Protocol that must be adhered to. Procedures of long standing, and it was his duty to ensure that they were strictly maintained.

But something caught his attention.

Resting on the nightstand was a small caramel-colored bottle. Several months back, the papal physician had prescribed medication to help Clement rest. Michener himself had ensured that the prescription was filled, and heOd personally placed the bottle in the popeOs bathroom. There were thirty of the tablets and, at last count, which Michener had taken only a few days ago, thirty remained. Clement despised drugs. It was a battle to simply get him to take an aspirin, so the vial, here, beside the bed, was surprising.

He peered inside the container.

Empty.

A glass of water resting beside the vial contained only a few drops.

The implications were so profound that he felt a need to cross himself.

He stared at Jakob Volkner and wondered about his dear friendOs soul. If there was a place called heaven, with all his fiber he hoped the old German had found his way there. The priest inside him wanted to forgive what had apparently been done, but now only God, if He did exist, could do that.

Popes had been clubbed to death, strangled, poisoned, suffocated, starved, and murdered by outraged husbands.

But never had one taken his own life.

Until now.

The Third Secret

Part Three

Thirty

9:00 A.M.

Michener watched from the bedroom window as the Vatican helicopter touched down. He hadnOt left Clement since his discovery, using the phone beside the bed to telephone Cardinal Ngovi in Rome.

The African was the camerlengo, chamberlain of the Holy Roman Church, the first person to be informed of a papal death. Under canon law Ngovi was charged with administering the Church during the sede vacante, the Vacant See, which was now the official designation for the Vatican government. There was no supreme pontiff. Instead Ngovi, in conjunction with the Sacred College of Cardinals, would administer a government by committee that would last for the next two weeks, during which time funeral preparations would be made and the coming conclave organized. As camerlengo, Ngovi would not be acting pope, just a caretaker, but his authority was nonetheless clear. Which was fine by Michener. Somebody was going to have to control Alberto Valendrea.

The chopper blades whirled down and the cabin door slid open. Ngovi exited first, followed by Valendrea, both dressed in scarlet regalia. As secretary of state, ValendreaOs presence was required. Two more bishops followed Valendrea, along with the papal physician, whom Michener had specifically requested. HeOd told Ngovi nothing of the details surrounding the death. Nor had he told the villa staff, merely informing the nun and chamberlain to make sure no one entered the bedroom.

Three minutes passed before the bedchamber door swung open and the two cardinals and physician entered. Ngovi closed the door and secured the latch. The doctor moved toward the bed and examined Clement. Michener had left everything exactly as he found it, including ClementOs laptop computer, still on, connected to a phone line, its monitor bright with a screen saver programmed specially for ClementNa tiara crossed by two keys.

OTell me what happened,O Ngovi said, laying a small black satchel on the bed.

Michener explained what heOd found, then motioned to the table. Neither of the cardinals had noticed the pill vial. OItOs empty.O

OAre you saying the supreme pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church killed himself?O Valendrea asked.

He wasnOt in the mood. OIOm not saying anything. Only that there were thirty pills in that container.O

Valendrea turned toward the doctor. OWhatOs your assessment, Doctor?O

OHeOs been dead for some time. Five or six hours, maybe longer. ThereOs no evidence of trauma, nothing to outwardly indicate cardiac arrest. No blood loss or bruising. From a first look, it appears he died in his sleep.O

OCould it have been from the pills?O Ngovi asked.

OThereOs no way to tell, except through an autopsy.O

OThatOs out of the question,O Valendrea immediately said.

Michener faced the secretary of state. OWe need to know.O

OWe donOt need to know anything.O ValendreaOs voice rose. OIn fact, itOs better we know nothing. Destroy that pill vial. Can you imagine the impact on the Church if it became known that the pope took his own life? The mere suggestion could cause irrevocable harm.O

Michener had already considered the same thing, but he was determined to handle the situation better than when John Paul I had died suddenly in 1978, only thirty-three days into his pontificate. The subsequent rumors and misleading informationNdesigned simply to shield the fact that a nun had discovered the body instead of a priestNonly fueled conspiratorialists with visions of a papal murder.

OI agree,O Michener conceded. OA suicide cannot be publicly known. But we should know the truth.O

OSo that we can lie?O Valendrea asked. OThis way we know nothing.O

Interesting Valendrea was concerned about lying, but Michener kept silent.

Ngovi faced the doctor. OWould a blood sample suffice?O

The physician nodded.

OTake it.O

OYou have no authority,O Valendrea boomed. OThat would need a consultation with the Sacred College. You are not pope.O

NgoviOs features remained expressionless. OI for one want to know how this man died. His immortal soul is of concern to me.O Ngovi faced the doctor. ORun the test yourself, then destroy the sample. Tell the results only to me. Clear?O

The man nodded.

OYouOre overstepping, Ngovi,O Valendrea said.

OTake it up with the Sacred College.O

ValendreaOs dilemma was amusing. He couldnOt overrule Ngovi nor, for obvious reasons, could he take the matter to the cardinals. So the Tuscan wisely kept his mouth shut. Maybe, Michener feared, he was simply giving Ngovi enough rope to hang himself.

Ngovi opened the black case heOd brought with him and removed a silver hammer, then stepped to the head of the bed. Michener realized the ritual about to be performed was required of the camerlengo, no matter how useless the task may be.

Ngovi lightly tapped ClementOs forehead with the hammer and asked the question that had been posed to the corpses of popes for centuries. OJakob Volkner. Are you dead?O

A full minute of silence passed, then Ngovi asked the question again. After another minute of silence, he asked a third time.

Ngovi then made the required declaration. OThe pope is dead.O

Ngovi reached down and lifted ClementOs right hand. The FishermanOs Ring wrapped the fourth finger.

OStrange,O Ngovi said. OClement did not usually wear this.O

Michener knew that to be true. The cumbersome gold ring was more a signet than a piece of jewelry. It depicted St. Peter the fisherman, encircled by ClementOs name and date of investiture. It had been placed on ClementOs finger after the last conclave by the then-camerlengo and was used to seal papal briefs. Rarely was it worn, and Clement particularly shunned it.

OMaybe he knew we would be looking for it,O Valendrea said.

He was right, Michener thought. Apparently, some planning had occurred. Which was so like Jakob Volkner.

Ngovi removed the ring and dropped it into a black velvet bag. Later, before the assembled cardinals, he would use the hammer to shatter both the ring and the popeOs lead seal. That way, no one could stamp any document until a new pope was chosen.

OIt is done,O Ngovi said.

Michener realized the transfer of power was now complete. The thirty-four-month reign of Clement XV, the 267th successor of St. Peter, the first German to hold the throne in nine hundred years, was over. From this moment on he was no longer the papal secretary. He was merely a monsignor in the temporary service of the camerlengo of the Holy Roman Church.

Katerina rushed through Leonardo da Vinci Airport toward the Lufthansa ticket counter. She was booked on a one oOclock flight to Frankfurt. From there she was unsure of her next destination, but sheOd worry about that tomorrow or the day after. The main thing was that Tom Kealy and Colin Michener were in the past, and it was time to make something of herself. She felt awful about deceiving Michener, but since sheOd never made contact with Valendrea and had told Ambrosi precious little, perhaps the violation could be forgiven.

She was glad to be done with Tom Kealy, though she doubted if he would even give her a second thought. He was on the rise and didnOt need a clinging vine, and that was exactly the way she felt. True, heOd need somebody to actually do all the work that heOd eventually take credit for, but she was sure some other woman would come along and take her place.

The terminal was busy, but she began to notice crowds huddled around the televisions that dotted the concourse. She also spotted women crying. Her gaze finally settled on one of the elevated video screens. St. PeterOs Square spanned out from an aerial view. Drifting close to the monitor, she heard, OThere is a profound sadness here. Clement XVOs death is being felt by all who loved this pontiff. He will be missed.O

OThe pope is dead?O she asked out loud.

A man in a wool overcoat said to her, OHe died in his sleep last night at Castle Gandolfo. May God take his soul.O

She was taken aback. A man sheOd hated for years was gone. SheOd never actually met himNMichener had tried once to introduce them, but sheOd refused. At the time, Jakob Volkner was the archbishop of Cologne, in whom she saw everything she despised about organized religionNnot to mention the other side of a tug-of-war that had yanked at Colin MichenerOs conscience. SheOd lost that battle and had resented Volkner ever since. Not for what he may or may not have done, but for what he symbolized.

Now he was dead. Colin must be devastated.

A part of her said to head for the ticket counter and fly to Germany. Michener would survive. He always did. But there would soon be a new pope. New appointments. A fresh wave of priests, bishops, and cardinals would flood to Rome. She knew enough about Vatican politics to realize that ClementOs allies were through. Their careers were over.

None of that was her problem. Yet a part of her said that it was. Maybe old habits truly were hard to break.

She turned, luggage in hand, and headed out of the terminal.

CASTLE GANDOLFO, 2:30 P.M.

Valendrea stared at the assembled cardinals. The mood was tense, many of the men pacing the room in an uncharacteristic show of anxiety. There were fourteen in the villaOs salon, mainly cardinals assigned to the Curia or to posts near Rome whoOd heeded the call made three hours ago to all 160 members of the Sacred College: CLEMENT XV IS DEAD. COME TO ROME IMMEDIATELY. To those within a hundred-mile radius of the Vatican, an additional message urged that they meet at Castle Gandolfo at two P.M.

The interregnum had begun, that period of time between the death of one pope and the election of another, a lapse of uncertainty when the reins of papal power hung loose. In centuries past this was when cardinals seized control, buying conclave votes with either promises or violence. Valendrea missed those times. The victor should be the strongest. The weak had no place at the apex. But modern papal elections were much more benign. The battles now were fought with television cameras and public opinion polls. Picking a popular pope was deemed far more critical than selecting a competent one. Which, Valendrea had often thought, explained more than anything else the rise of Jakob Volkner.

He was pleased with the turnout. Nearly all of the men whoOd come were in his column. By his latest count he was still shy of the two-thirds-plus-one needed for an early ballot victory, but among himself, Ambrosi, and the tape recorders, over the coming two weeks he should secure the needed support.

He was unsure as to what Ngovi was going to say. The two of them had not spoken since earlier in ClementOs bedroom. He could only hope the African would use good judgment. Ngovi was standing toward the end of the long room before an elegant white marble fireplace. All the other princes were standing, too.

OEminences,O Ngovi said, OI will have assignments later in the day to enlist your assistance in planning the funeral and conclave. I think it important Clement be given the finest farewell. The people loved him, and they should be given an opportunity to say a proper goodbye. In that regard, we will all accompany the body back to Rome later this evening. There will be a Mass in St. PeterOs.O

Many of the cardinals nodded.

OIs it clear how the Holy Father died?O one of the cardinals asked.

Ngovi faced the questioner. OThat is being ascertained now.O

OIs there any problem?O another asked.

Ngovi stood rigid. OHe appears to have died peacefully in his sleep. But I am no doctor. His physician will ascertain the cause of death. All of us realized the Holy Father was in declining health, so this is not altogether unexpected.O

Valendrea was pleased with NgoviOs comments. Yet another part of him was concerned. Ngovi was in a dominant position and seemed to be enjoying his status. Already, over the past few hours, the African had commanded the papal master of ceremonies and the Apostolic Camera to begin their administration of the Holy See. Traditionally those two departments directed the Curia during the interregnum. HeOd also taken possession of Castle Gandolfo by instructing the guards to admit no one, including cardinals, without his express approval, and directed the papal apartments in the Apostolic Palace to be sealed.

HeOd further communicated with the Vatican press office, arranged for the release of a prepared statement on ClementOs death, and delegated to three cardinals the task of personally communicating with the media. Everyone else had been ordered to decline interviews. The diplomatic corps around the world was similarly warned against press contact, but encouraged to communicate with their respective heads of state. Already tributes had come in from the United States, Britain, France, and Spain.

None of the actions taken so far was outside the camerlengoOs duties, so Valendrea could say nothing. But the last thing he needed was for the cardinals to draw strength from NgoviOs fortitude. Only two camerlengos in modern times had been elected pope, so the position was not a stepping-stone to the papacy. Unfortunately, though, neither was secretary of state.

OWill the conclave begin on time?O the cardinal from Venice asked.

OIn fifteen days,O Ngovi said. OWe will be ready.O

Valendrea knew, under rules promulgated in John Paul IIOs Apostolic Constitution, that was the soonest any conclave could begin. The preparation time had been eased by the construction of the Domus Sanctae Marthae, a spacious hotel-like facility normally used by seminarians. No longer was every available alcove converted into makeshift quarters, and Valendrea was glad things had changed. The new facility was at least comfortable. It had been used for the first time during ClementOs conclave, and Ngovi had already ordered the building readied for the 113 cardinals below the age of eighty who would be staying there during the voting.

OCardinal Ngovi,O Valendrea said, catching the AfricanOs attention, Owhen will the death certificate be issued?O He hoped only Ngovi understood the true message.

OI have requested the master of papal liturgical celebrations, the cleric prelates, secretary, and chancellor of the Apostolic Camera to be at the Vatican tonight. IOve been told the cause of death will be ascertained by then.O

OIs an autopsy being performed?O one of the cardinals asked.

Valendrea knew that was a sensitive subject. Only one pope had ever been subjected to an autopsy, and then only to ascertain if Napoleon had poisoned him. There had been talk of a postmortem on John Paul I when he died so unexpectedly, but the cardinals squelched that effort. But this situation was different. One of those pontiffs died suspiciously, the other suddenly. ClementOs death was not unexpected. HeOd been seventy-four when chosen and, after all, most of the cardinals had elected him simply because he would not live long.

ONo autopsy will be performed,O Ngovi said flatly.

His tone conveyed that the issue was not open for discussion. Ordinarily, Valendrea would have resented that overstepping, but not this time. He heaved a sigh of relief. Apparently his adversary had decided to play along, and thankfully none of the cardinals challenged the decision. A few glanced in his direction, as if waiting for a response. But his silence served as a signal that the secretary of state was satisfied with the camerlengoOs decision.

Beyond the theological implications of a papal suicide, Valendrea could ill afford a wave of sympathy aimed toward Clement. It was little secret that he and the pope did not get along. An inquisitive press might raise questions, and he did not want to be labeled as the man who may have driven a pope to his death. Cardinals terrified for their own careers might elect another man, like Ngovi, who would surely strip Valendrea of all powerNtapes or no tapes. HeOd learned at the last conclave to never underestimate the power of a coalition. Thankfully, Ngovi had apparently decided the good of the church outweighed this golden opportunity to unseat his chief rival, and Valendrea was glad for the manOs weakness. He would not have shown the same deference if the roles were reversed.

OI do have one word of warning,O Ngovi said.

Valendrea again could say nothing. And he noticed that the bishop of Nairobi seemed to be enjoying his self-imposed restraint.

OI remind each of you of your oath not to discuss the coming conclave prior to our being locked in the Sistine. There is to be no campaigning, no press interviews, no opinions expressed. Possible selections should not be discussed at all.O

OI donOt need a lecture,O one cardinal made clear.

OPerhaps you donOt. But there are some who do.O

And with that, Ngovi left the room.

3:00 P.M.

Michener sat in a chair beside the desk and watched as two nuns washed ClementOs body. The physician had finished his examination hours ago and returned to Rome with his blood sample. Cardinal Ngovi had already ordered that there would be no autopsy, and since Castle Gandolfo was part of the Vatican state, sovereign territory of an independent nation, no one would question that decision. With precious few exceptions, canon lawNnot Italian lawNgoverned here.

It was strange staring at the naked corpse of a man heOd known for more than a quarter century. He remembered back to all of the times theyOd shared. Clement was the one whoOd helped him come to the realization that his natural father simply thought more of himself than of his child, explaining Irish society and the pressures his birth mother surely would have faced as an unmarried mother. How can you blame her? Volkner had asked. And heOd agreed. He couldnOt. Resentment would only cloud the sacrifices his adoptive parents had made. So heOd finally let go of his anger and forgiven the mother and father he never knew.

Now he was staring at the lifeless body of the man whoOd helped make that forgiveness possible. He was here because protocol required a priest be in attendance. Normally the papal master of ceremonies performed the task, but that monsignor was not available. So Ngovi had directed that he substitute.

He stood from the chair and paced before the French doors as the nuns finished their bathing and the funeral technicians entered. They were part of RomeOs largest mortuary and had been embalming popes since Paul VI. They carried five bottles of pink solution and gently settled each container on the floor.

One of the technicians walked over. OPerhaps, Father, youOd like to wait outside. This is not a pleasant sight for those unaccustomed to it.O

He headed for the hall, where he found Cardinal Ngovi walking toward the bedroom.

OTheyOre here?O Ngovi asked.

OItalian law requires a twenty-four-hour period before embalming. You know that. This may be Vatican territory, but weOve been through this argument before. The Italians would require us to wait.O

Ngovi nodded. OI understand, but the doctor called from Rome. JakobOs bloodstream was saturated with medication. He killed himself, Colin. No doubt. I canOt allow evidence of that to remain. The doctor has destroyed his sample. He cannot, and will not, reveal anything.O

OAnd the cardinals?O

OTheyOll be told he died from cardiac arrest. ThatOs what will appear on the death certificate.O

He could see the strain on NgoviOs face. Lying did not come easy to this man.

OWe have no choice, Colin. He has to be embalmed. I canOt worry about Italian law.O

Michener ran a hand through his hair. This had been a long day, and it wasnOt over yet. OI knew he was bothered by something, but there was nothing that pointed to him being this troubled. How was he while I was gone?O

OHe went back into the Riserva. IOm told Valendrea was there with him.O

OI know.O He told Ngovi what Clement had said. OHe showed him what Father Tibor sent. What it was, he wouldnOt say.O He then told Ngovi more about Tibor and how the pope had reacted on learning of the BulgarianOs death.

Ngovi shook his head. OThis is not the way I thought his papacy would end.O

OWe must ensure his memory is preserved.O

OIt will be. Even Valendrea will be our ally on that.O Ngovi motioned to the door. OI donOt think anyone will question our actions in embalming this soon. Only four people know the truth, and shortly no proof will remain if any one of us chooses to speak. But thereOs little worry that will happen. The doctor is bound by laws of confidentiality, you and I loved the man, and Valendrea has self-interests. This secret is safe.O

The door to the bedroom opened and one of the technicians stepped out. OWe are nearly finished.O

OYou will burn the pontiffOs fluids?O Ngovi asked.

OThat has always been our practice. Our company is proud to be of service to the Holy See. You can depend on us.O

Ngovi thanked the man, who returned to the bedroom.

OWhat now?O Michener asked.

OHis pontifical vestments have been brought from Rome. You and I shall dress him for burial.O

He saw the significance in that gesture and said, OI think he would have liked that.O

The motorcade slowly wound its way through the rain toward the Vatican. It had taken nearly an hour to drive the eighteen miles from Castle Gandolfo, the route lined with thousands of mourners. Michener rode in the third vehicle with Ngovi, the remaining cardinals in an assortment of cars hastily ferried from the Vatican. A hearse led the procession, with ClementOs body lying in the rear dressed in robes and miter, illuminated so the faithful could see. Now, inside the city, nearing six P.M., it seemed as if all of Rome filled the sidewalks, the police keeping the way clear so the cars could proceed.

St. PeterOs Square was packed, but an alley had been cordoned off among a sea of umbrellas that twisted a path between the colonnades to the basilica. Wails and weeping followed the cars. Many of the mourners tossed flowers on the hoods, so many it was becoming difficult to see out the windshield. One of the security men finally swiped the piles away, but another simply started in its place.

The cars passed through the Arch of the Bells and left the crowds behind. Into the Piazza of the Protomartyrs the procession rounded the sacristy of St. PeterOs and headed for a rear entrance into the basilica. Here, safe behind the walls, the airspace above restricted, ClementOs body could be readied for three days of public viewing.

A light rain sheathed the gardens in a frothy mist. Walkway lights burned in blurred images like the sun through thick clouds.

Michener tried to imagine what was happening in the buildings around him. In the workshops of the sampietrini a triple coffin was being constructedNthe inner of bronze, the second of cedar, the outer of cypress. A catafalque had already been assembled and positioned inside St. PeterOs, a solitary candle burning nearby, awaiting the corpse it was to support in the days ahead.

Michener had noticed, as theyOd inched through the piazza, television crews installing cameras on the balustrades, the choicest spots among the 162 statues surely being claimed fast. The Vatican press office was by now under siege. HeOd assisted during the last papal funeral and could envision the thousands of calls that would come in the days ahead. Statesmen from around the world would soon be arriving, and legates would have to be assigned to assist them. The Holy See prided itself on strict adherence to protocol, even in the face of indescribable grief, the task of ensuring success resting with the soft-spoken cardinal sitting beside him.

The cars stopped and cardinals began to congregate near the hearse. Priests shielded each of the princes with an umbrella. The cardinals wore their black cassocks adorned with a red sash, as required. A Swiss honor guard in ceremonial dress stood at the entrance to the basilica. Clement would not be without them in the days ahead. Four of the guards cradled a bier on their shoulders and paraded toward the hearse. The papal master of ceremonies stood nearby. He was a Dutch priest with a bearded face and a rotund body. He stepped forward and said, OThe catafalque is ready.O

Ngovi nodded.

The master of ceremonies moved toward the hearse and assisted the technicians with the removal of ClementOs body. Once the corpse was centered on the bier and the miter positioned, the Dutchman motioned the technicians away. He then carefully arranged the vestments, slowly creasing each fold. Two priests held umbrellas over the body. Another young priest stepped forward, holding the pallium. The narrow band of white wool marked with six purple crosses signified the plenitude of the pontifical office. The master of ceremonies draped the two-inch band around ClementOs neck, then arranged the crosses above the chest, shoulders, and abdomen. He made a few adjustments to the shoulder blocks and finally straightened the head. He then knelt, signaling that he was finished.

A slight nod of NgoviOs head caused the Swiss guard to raise the bier. The priests with umbrellas withdrew. The cardinals fell into line behind.

Michener did not join the procession. He was not a prince of the Church, and what lay ahead was only for them. He would be expected to empty his apartment in the palace by tomorrow. It, too, would be sealed awaiting the conclave. His office must likewise be cleared. His patronage ended with ClementOs last breath. Those once in favor departed to make room for those soon-to-be-in-favor.

Ngovi waited until the end to join the line into the basilica. Before he marched off, the cardinal turned and whispered, OI want you to inventory the papal apartment and remove his belongings. Clement would have wanted no other to tend to his possessions. I have left word with the guards that you are to be allowed entrance. Do it now.O

The guard opened the papal apartment for Michener. The door closed behind him and he was left alone with an odd feeling. Where once heOd relished his time here, he now felt like an intruder.

The rooms were exactly as Clement had left them Saturday morning. The bed was made, the curtains parted, the popeOs spare reading glasses still lying on the nightstand. The leather-bound Bible that usually lay there, too, was at Castle Gandolfo, on the desk beside ClementOs laptop, both to be returned to Rome shortly.

A few papers remained on the desk beside the silent desktop computer. He thought it best to start there, so he booted the machine and checked the folders. He knew Clement e-mailed a few distant family members and some cardinals on a regular basis, but he apparently hadnOt saved any of those transmissionsNthere were no files recorded. The address book contained about two dozen names. He scanned all of the folders on the hard drive. Most were reports from curial departments, the written word now replaced by ones and zeros on a video screen. He deleted all the folders, using a special program that removed all traces of the files from the hard drive, then switched off the machine. The terminal would stay and be used by the next pope.

He glanced around. He would have to find boxes for ClementOs possessions, but for now he stacked everything in the center of the room. There wasnOt much. Clement had led a simple life. A bit of furniture, a few books, and some assorted family items were all that he owned.

The scrape of a key in the lock caught his attention.

The door opened and Paolo Ambrosi entered.

OWait outside,O Ambrosi said to the guard as he came in and closed the door.

Michener faced him. OWhat are you doing here?O

The thin priest stepped forward. OThe same as you, clearing out the apartment.O

OCardinal Ngovi delegated the task to me.O

OCardinal Valendrea said you might need help.O

Apparently the secretary of state thought a babysitter in order, but he was not in the mood. OGet out of here.O

The priest did not move. Michener was a head taller and fifty pounds heavier, but Ambrosi seemed unintimidated. OYour time has passed, Michener.O

OMaybe so. But where I come from thereOs a saying. A hen doesnOt cackle before she lays the egg.O

Ambrosi chuckled. OI will miss your American humor.O

He noticed AmbrosiOs reptilian eyes take in the scene.

OI told you to get out. I may be nothing, but Ngovi is camerlengo. Valendrea canOt override him.O

ONot yet.O

OLeave, or IOll interrupt the Mass for further instructions from Ngovi.O

He realized the last thing Valendrea would want was an embarrassing scene before the cardinals. Supporters might wonder why heOd ordered an associate to the papal apartments when that duty clearly fell on the papal secretary.

But Ambrosi did not move.

So he stepped around his visitor and headed for the door. OAs you say, Ambrosi, my timeOs passed. IOve got nothing to lose.O

He grasped the door handles.

OStop,O Ambrosi said. OIOll leave you to your task.O The voice was barely a whisper, the look on AmbrosiOs face devoid of feeling. He wondered how such a man could ever have become a priest.

Michener opened the door. The guards were just on the other side and he knew his visitor would say nothing to stimulate their interest. He let a smile form and said, OHave a nice evening, Father.O

Ambrosi brushed past and Michener slammed the door, but only after ordering the guards not to admit another soul.

He returned to the desk. He needed to finish what heOd started. His sadness in leaving the Vatican was tempered by a relief in knowing that he would no longer have to deal with the likes of Paolo Ambrosi.

He searched through the desk drawers. Most contained stationery, pens, some books, and a few computer disks. Nothing important until the bottom right drawer, where he found ClementOs will. The pope traditionally drafted his will himself, expressing in his own hand his final requests and hopes for the future. Michener unfolded the single sheet and noticed immediately the date, October 10, a little more than thirty days ago:

I, Jakob Volkner, presently possessed of all my faculties and desirous of expressing my last will and testament, do hereby bequeath all that I may possess at the time of my death to Colin Michener. My parents died long ago and my siblings followed in the years after. Colin served me long and well. He is the closest I have left in this world to family. I ask that he do with my belongings as he deems appropriate, using the wisdom and judgment I came to trust during my life. I would request that my funeral be simple and if possible that I be buried in Bamberg, in the cathedral of my youth, though I understand if the church deems otherwise. When I accepted the mantle of St. Peter I likewise accepted the responsibilities, including a duty to rest beneath the basilica with my brethren. I further ask forgiveness from all those I may have offended in words or deeds, and I especially ask forgiveness of our Lord and Savior for the shortcomings I have shown. May He have mercy on my soul.

Tears welled in MichenerOs eyes. He, too, hoped God would have mercy on his dear friendOs soul. Catholic teachings were clear. Human beings were obliged to preserve the honor of life as stewards, not owners, of what the Almighty had entrusted. Suicide was contrary to the love of oneself, and to the love of a living God. It broke the ties of solidarity with family and nation. In short, it was a sin. But the eternal salvation of those who took their own lives was not lost completely. The Church taught that, by ways known only to God, an opportunity for repentance would be provided.

And he hoped that was the case.

If indeed heaven existed, Jakob Volkner deserved admission. Whatever had compelled him to do the unspeakable should not consign his soul to eternal damnation.

He laid the will down and tried not to think about eternity.

HeOd found himself of late contemplating his own mortality. He was nearing fifty, not all that old, but life no longer seemed infinite. He could envision a time when his body or mind might not allow him the opportunity to enjoy what heOd come to expect. How much longer would he live? Twenty years? Thirty? Forty? Clement had still been vibrant approaching eighty, working sixteen-hour days with regularity. He could only hope he retained half that stamina. Still, his life would eventually end. And he wondered if the deprivations and sacrifices demanded by his Church, and his God, were worth it. Would there be a reward in the afterlife? Or simply nothing?

Dust to dust.

His mind snapped back to his duty.

The will lying before him would have to be given to the Vatican press office. It was traditional to release the text, but first the camerlengo would have to approve, so he slid the page into his cassock.

He decided to anonymously donate the furniture to a local charity. The books and few personal belongings heOd keep as a remembrance of a man heOd loved. Against the far wall rested the wooden chest Clement had carried with him for years. Michener knew that it had been carved in Oberammergau, a Bavarian town at the base of the Alps famous for its wood craftsmen. It possessed the look and feel of a Riemenschneider, the exterior unstained and adorned with bold portrayals of the apostles, saints, and the Virgin.

In all their years together, heOd never known what Clement kept inside. Now the chest was his. He walked over and tried the lid. Locked. A brass receptacle allowed for a key. He hadnOt seen one anywhere in the apartment, and he certainly did not want to inflict any damage prying the box open. So he decided to store the chest and worry about what was inside later.

He stepped back to the desk and finished cleaning out the remaining drawers. In the last one he found a single sheet of trifolded papal stationery. On it was a handwritten note.

I, Clement XV, on this day have elevated to the status of Cardinal Eminence the Reverend Father Colin Michener.

He could hardly believe what he read. Clement had exercised his ability to a appoint a cardinal in pettoNin secret. Usually cardinals were informed of their elevation through a certificate from the reigning pontiff, openly published, then invested by the pope in an elaborate consistory. But secret appointments became common for cardinals in communist countries, or in places where oppressive regimes might endanger the nominee. The rules for in petto appointments made clear that seniority dated from the time of the appointment, not from the time the selection was made public, but there was one other rule that sank his heart. If the pope died before an in petto selection was made public, the appointment died, too.

He held the sheet in his hand. It was dated sixty days before.

HeOd come so close to a scarlet biretta.

Alberto Valendrea could well be the next occupant of the apartments surrounding him. Little chance existed that an in petto appointment of Clement XVOs would be affirmed. But a part of him didnOt mind. With all that had happened over the past eighteen hours, he hadnOt even thought of Father Tibor, but now he considered the old priest. Maybe heOd return to Zlatna and the orphanage and finish what the Bulgarian had started. Something told him that was the thing for him to do. If the Church didnOt approve, heOd tell them all to go to hell, beginning with Alberto Valendrea.

You want to be a cardinal? To achieve that, you must grasp the measure of that responsibility. How can you expect me to elevate you when you fail to see what is so clear?

ClementOs words from Turin last Thursday. HeOd wondered about their harshness. Now knowing that his mentor had already chosen him, he wondered even more. How can you expect me to elevate you when you fail to see what is so clear?

See what?

He stuffed the paper into his pocket with the will.

No one would ever know what Clement had done. It didnOt matter anymore. All that mattered was that his friend had thought him worthy, and that was enough for him.

8:30 P.M.

Michener finished packing everything in the five boxes provided by the Swiss guards. The armoire, dresser, and nightstands were now empty. The furniture was being carted out by workmen to be stored in a basement warehouse until he could make arrangements for its donation.

He stood in the corridor as the doors were closed a final time and a lead seal stamped in place. In all likelihood he would never enter the papal apartments again. Few ever made it that far within the Church, and even fewer made a return trip. Ambrosi was right. His time was over. The rooms themselves would not be opened until a new pope stood before the doors and the seals were broken. He shuddered at the thought of Alberto Valendrea being that new occupant.

The cardinals were still assembled in St. PeterOs and a requiem funeral Mass was being said before the body of Clement XV, one of many to be offered over the next nine days. While that was happening, there was one task left for him to perform before his official duties ended.

He descended to the third floor.

As with ClementOs apartment, there was little in MichenerOs office that would not stay. All of the furnishings were Vatican requisition. The paintings on the wall, including a portrait of Clement, belonged to the Holy See. Everything he owned would fit into one box, and consisted of a few desk accessories, a Bavarian anniversary clock, and three pictures of his parents. All his postings with Clement had provided whatever tangible things heOd ever needed. Beyond some clothes and a laptop, he owned nothing. HeOd managed through the years to save a large portion of his salary and, after taking advantage of some savvy investment tips, a few hundred thousand dollars was on deposit in GenevaNhis retirement moneyNsince the Church provided miserably for priests. Reforming the pension fund had been discussed at length, and Clement had been in favor of doing something, but that endeavor would now have to await the next pontificate.

He sat at the desk and switched on his computer for a final time. He needed to check any e-mail messages and prepare instructions for his successor. Over the past week his deputies had handled everything, and he saw that most of his messages could wait until after the conclave. Depending on who was elected pope, he might be needed for a week or so after the conclave to ease the transition. But if Valendrea secured the throne, Paolo Ambrosi would almost certainly be the next papal secretary and MichenerOs Vatican credentials would be immediately revoked, his services no longer required. Which would be fine by him. He would do nothing to help Ambrosi.

He continued to scroll down the list of e-mails, checking each one, then deleting. A few he saved, tagging a short note for the staff. Three were condolences from bishops who were friends, and he sent back a short reply. Maybe one of them could use an aide? But he dismissed the thought. He wasnOt going to do that again. What had Katerina said in Bucharest? Is your life to be in the service of others? Perhaps if he devoted himself to something like the cause Father Tibor had deemed important, Clement XVOs soul might be granted salvation. His sacrifice could be penance for his friendOs shortcoming.

And that thought made him feel better.

The popeOs upcoming Christmas schedule appeared on the screen. The itinerary had been transmitted to Castle Gandolfo for review and bore ClementOs initials, signifying approval. It called for the pope to celebrate the traditional Christmas Eve Mass in St. PeterOs, then deliver his yuletide message the following day from the balcony. Michener noted the time of the return e-mail from Castle Gandolfo. Ten fifteen A.M., Saturday. That was about when heOd arrived back in Rome from Bucharest, long before he and Clement first talked. And even longer before Clement learned of Father TiborOs murder. Strange that a suicidal pontiff had taken the time to review a schedule he had no intention of keeping.

Michener scrolled down to the last e-mail message and noticed no identification tag. Occasionally he received anonymous messages from people who somehow managed to learn his Web address. Most were harmless devotions from folks who wanted their pope to know they cared.

He double-clicked on the entry and saw that the transmission emanated from Castle Gandolfo, dated last evening. Time received, eleven fifty-six P.M.

By now, Colin, youOre aware of what I have done. I donOt expect you to understand. Just know that the Virgin returned and told me my time had come. Father Tibor was with Her. I waited for Her to take me, but She said I must end my life through my own hand. Father Tibor said it was my duty, the penance for disobedience, and that all would be clear later. I wondered about my soul, but was told the Lord was waiting. I have for too long ignored heaven. I will not this time. You have asked me repeatedly what is wrong. I will tell you. In 1978 Valendrea removed from the Riserva part of the VirginOs third message from Fatima. Only five people know what was originally in that box. Four of themNSister Lucia, John XXIII, Paul VI, and Father TiborNare gone. Only Valendrea remains. Of course, he will deny everything and the words you are reading will be deemed the ramblings of a man who took his own life. But know that when John Paul read the third secret and released it to the world, he was not privy to the entire message. It is for you to set things right. Go to Medjugorje. It is vital. Not only for me, but for the Church. Consider it a last request from a friend.

I am sure the Church is preparing for my funeral. Ngovi will do his duty well. Please, do with my body as you please. Pomp and ceremony do not make the pious. For me, though, I would prefer the sanctity of Bamberg, that lovely city by the river, and the cathedral I so loved. My only regret is that I did not see its beauty one last time. Perhaps, though, my legacy could still be there. But I shall leave that conclusion to others. God stay with you, Colin, and know that I loved you dearly, as a father loves his son.

A suicide note, plain and simple, written by a troubled man who was apparently delusional. The supreme pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church was saying that the Virgin Mary told him to kill himself. But the part about Valendrea and the third secret was interesting. Could he give the information credence? He wondered if Ngovi should be apprised, but concluded that the fewer who knew about this message, the better. ClementOs body was now embalmed, his fluids consigned to flames, and the cause of death would never be known. The words glaring back at him from the screen were nothing but confirmation that perhaps the late pontiff had been mentally ill.

Not to mention obsessed.

Clement again had urged him to go to Bosnia. HeOd not planned on following through with that request. What was the point? He still carried the letter signed by Clement addressed to a seer, but the authority sanctioning that order now emanated from the camerlengo and the Sacred College. There was no way Alberto Valendrea was going to allow him a jaunt through Bosnia looking for Marian secrets. That would be an appeasement to a pope he openly despised. Not to mention official permission for any trip would require the cardinals being collectively informed about Father Tibor, papal apparitions, and ClementOs obsession with the third secret of Fatima. The number of questions generated by those revelations would be staggering. ClementOs reputation was too precious to risk. Bad enough four men knew of a papal suicide. He certainly wasnOt going to be the one who actually impugned the memory of a great man. Yet Ngovi might still need to read ClementOs last words. He recalled what Clement had urged at Turin. Maurice Ngovi is the closest thing to me you will ever have. Remember that in the days ahead.

He printed a hard copy.

Then erased the file and switched off the machine.

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 27

11:00 A.M.

Michener entered the Vatican through St. PeterOs Square, following a throng of visitors whoOd just streamed off buses. HeOd vacated his apartment in the Apostolic Palace ten days ago, just before Clement XVOs funeral. He was still credentialed with a security pass but, after tending to this last administrative matter, his duties to the Holy See would officially end.

Cardinal Ngovi had asked him to stay in Rome until the conclave convened. HeOd even suggested that he join his staff at the Congregation for Catholic Education, but could not promise a position past the conclave. NgoviOs Vatican assignment ended with ClementOs death as well, and the camerlengo had already said that if Valendrea achieved the papacy he would return to Africa.

ClementOs funeral had been a simple affair, held outdoors in front of the restored exterior of St. PeterOs Basilica. A million people had crowded the piazza, the flame of a single candle beside the coffin battered by a steady breeze. Michener had not sat with the princes of the Church, where he might have been if things had developed differently. Instead he took his place among the staff who had served their pope faithfully for thirty-four months. More than a hundred heads of state had attended, the entire ceremony transmitted live by television and radio around the world.

Ngovi did not preside. Instead, he delegated the speaking assignments to other cardinals. A shrewd move, actually, one that would surely endear the chosen men to the camerlengo. Maybe not enough to guarantee a conclave vote, but certainly enough to cultivate a willing listener.

Not surprisingly, none of the assignments went to Valendrea, and justifying that omission was easy. The secretary of state focused on the Holy SeeOs foreign relations during the interregnum. All his attention was on external matters, the task of praising Clement and bidding the pontiff farewell traditionally left to others. Valendrea had taken his duty to heart and been a fixture in the press over the past two weeks, interviewed by every major news organization in the world, the TuscanOs words sparse and carefully chosen.

When the ceremony ended, twelve pallbearers bore the coffin through the Door of Death and down into the grotto. The sarcophagus, hastily readied by stonemasons, bore an image of Clement II, the eleventh-century German pope Jakob Volkner had so admired, along with Clement XVOs papal emblem. The grave site was near John XXIIIOs, something else Clement would have liked. There he was entombed with 148 of his brethren.

OColin.O

His name being called out caught his attention and he stopped. Katerina was making her way across the piazza. HeOd not seen her since Bucharest, nearly three weeks ago.

OYouOre back in Rome?O he asked.

She was dressed in a different style. Chinos, chocolate-brown lamb-suede shirt, and houndstooth jacket. A bit more trendy than he recalled her tastes, but attractive.

OI never left.O

OYou came here from Bucharest?O

She nodded. Her ebony hair was worked by the wind and she brushed the strands from her face. OI was on my way to leave when I learned about Clement. So I stayed on.O

OWhat have you been doing?O

OGrabbed a couple of freelance jobs to cover the funeral.O

OI saw Kealy on CNN.O The priest had been a regular the past week, offering slanted insights into the coming conclave.

OI did, too. But I havenOt seen Tom since the day after Clement died. You were right. I can do better.O

OYou did the right thing. IOve been listening to that fool on television. HeOs got an opinion on everything, and most of them are wrong.O

OMaybe CNN should have hired you?O

He chuckled. OJust what I need.O

OWhat are you going to do, Colin?O

OIOm here to tell Cardinal Ngovi that IOm headed back to Romania.O

OTo see Father Tibor again?O

OYou donOt know?O

A puzzled look came to her face. He told her about TiborOs murder.

OThat poor man. He didnOt deserve that. And those children. He was all they had.O

OExactly why IOm going. You were right. ItOs time I do something.O

OYou seem happy about the decision.O

He glanced around the square at a place heOd once strolled with the impunity of the papal secretary. Now he felt like a stranger. OItOs time to move on.O

ONo more ivory towers?O

ONot in my future. That orphanage in Zlatna is going to be home for a while.O

She shifted on her feet. OWeOve come a long way. No arguments. No anger. Finally, friends.O

OJust donOt make the same mistakes twice. ThatOs all any of us can hope for.O And he saw that she agreed. He was glad theyOd run into each other again. But Ngovi was waiting. OTake care, Kate.O

OYou, too, Colin.O

And he walked away, fighting hard the urge to glance back one last time.

He found Ngovi in his office at the Congregation for Catholic Education. The outer warren of rooms bustled with activity. With the conclave starting tomorrow, there seemed a push to get everything finished.

OI actually believe weOre ready,O Ngovi told him.

The door was closed and the staff had been instructed not to disturb them. Michener was expecting another job pitch, since Ngovi was the one whoOd called for the meeting.

OI waited until now to speak with you, Colin. Tomorrow IOll be locked away in the Sistine.O Ngovi straightened in the chair. OI want you to go to Bosnia.O

The request surprised him. OFor what? You and I both agreed the whole thing was ridiculous.O

OThe matter disturbs me. Clement was intent on something, and I want to carry out his wishes. ThatOs the duty of any camerlengo. He wanted to learn the tenth secret. So do I.O

He hadnOt mentioned to Ngovi ClementOs final e-mail message. So he reached into his pocket and found the copy. OYou need to read this.O

The cardinal slipped on a pair of spectacles and studied the message.

OHe sent that just before midnight on that Sunday. Maurice, he was delusional. If I go traipsing around Bosnia, weOre going to do nothing but draw attention. Why donOt we let it lie?O

Ngovi removed his glasses. OI want you to go now more than ever.O

OYou sound like Jakob. WhatOs gotten into you?O

OI donOt know. I just know that this was important to him, and we should finish what he wanted. This new information about Valendrea removing part of the third secret makes it vital that we investigate.O

He remained unconvinced. OSo far, Maurice, thereOs been no issue raised over ClementOs death. You want to take that chance?O

OIOve considered that. But I doubt the press will be interested in what youOre doing. The conclave will consume their attention. So I want you to go. You still have his letter to the seer?O

He nodded.

OIOll give you one with my signature. That should be enough.O

He told Ngovi what he intended to do in Romania. OCanOt somebody else handle this?O

Ngovi shook his head. OYou know the answer to that.O

He could tell that Ngovi was more apprehensive than usual.

OThereOs something else you need to know, Colin.O Ngovi motioned to the e-mail. OIt bears on this. You told me that Valendrea went into the Riserva with the pope. I checked. The records confirm their visit on the Friday night before Clement died. What you donOt know is that Valendrea left the Vatican Saturday evening. The trip was unscheduled. In fact, he canceled all appointments to make the time. He was gone till early Sunday morning.O

He was impressed with NgoviOs information network. OI didnOt know you watched so closely.O

OThe Tuscan is not the only one with spies.O

OAny idea where he went?O

OOnly that he left the Rome airport in a private jet before dark and returned on the same aircraft early the next morning.O

He recalled the uncomfortable feeling in the cafZ while he and Katerina had talked with Tibor. Did Valendrea know about Father Tibor? Had he been followed? OTibor died Saturday night. What are you saying, Maurice?O

Ngovi held up his hands in a halting gesture. OIOm only reporting facts. In the Riserva, on Friday, Clement showed Valendrea whatever Father Tibor had sent him. Then the priest was killed the next night. Whether ValendreaOs sudden trip on Saturday was related to Father TiborOs murder, I do not know. But the priest left this world at quite an odd time, wouldnOt you say?O

OAnd you think thereOs an answer to all this in Bosnia?O

OClement believed so.O

He now appreciated NgoviOs true motives. But he wanted to know, OWhat about the cardinals? Would they not have to be informed what IOm doing?O

OYouOre not on an official mission. This is between you and me. A gesture to our departed friend. Besides, weOll be in conclave by morning. Locked away. Nobody could be informed.O

He understood now why Ngovi had waited to speak with him. But he also recalled ClementOs warning about Alberto Valendrea and the lack of privacy. He glanced around at walls that had been erected when the American Revolution was being fought. Could someone be listening? He decided it really didnOt matter. OAll right, Maurice. IOll do it. But only because you asked and Jakob wanted it. After that, IOm out.O

And he hoped Valendrea heard.

4:30 P.M.

Valendrea was overwhelmed by the volume of information the listening devices were uncovering. Ambrosi had worked every night over the past two weeks, sorting through the tapes, weeding out the trivia, preserving the nuggets. The abbreviated versions, provided to him on microcassette, had revealed much about the cardinalsO attitudes, and he was pleased to discover that he was becoming quite papabile in the eyes of many, even some heOd yet to fully confirm as supporters.

His restrained approach was working. This time, unlike at Clement XVOs conclave, heOd shown the reverence expected of a prince of the Catholic Church. And already commentators were including his name on a short list of possible candidates, along with that of Maurice Ngovi and four other cardinals.

An informal head count taken last evening showed there were forty-eight confirmed yes votes. He needed seventy-six to win on an early ballot, assuming all 113 eligible cardinals made it to Rome, which, barring serious illness, should happen. Thankfully, John Paul IIOs reforms allowed for a change in procedure after three days of balloting. If no pope was selected by then, a series of successive votes would occur, followed by a day of prayer and discussion. After twelve full days of conclave, if there was still no pope, a simple majority of cardinals could then elect. Which meant time was on his side, as he clearly possessed a majority, along with more than enough votes to block anyone elseOs early election. So he could filibuster if need beNprovided, of course, he could keep his voting bloc intact over twelve days.

A few cardinals were becoming a problem. TheyOd apparently told him one thing then, when theyOd thought locked doors afforded them privacy, proclaimed another. HeOd checked and found that Ambrosi had amassed some interesting information on several of the traitorsNmore than enough to convince them of the error in their waysNand he planned to dispatch his aide to each of them before morning.

After tomorrow it would be difficult pressuring votes. He could reinforce attitudes but, within the conclave, quarters were simply too confined, privacy too scarce, and something about the Sistine affected cardinals. Some called it a pull from the Holy Spirit. Others ambition. So he knew that the votes would have to be ensured now, the coming assembly only a confirmation that each was willing to uphold his end of the bargain.

Of course, blackmail could muster only so many votes. The majority of his supporters were loyal to him simply because of his standing within the Church and his background, which stamped him the most papabile of the favorites. And he was proud of himself for not doing anything over the past few days to alienate those natural allies.

He was still stunned by ClementOs suicide. HeOd never thought the German would do anything to endanger his soul. But something Clement said to him in the papal apartment nearly three weeks ago swept through his mind. I actually hope you do inherit this job. You will find it far different than you might imagine. Maybe you should be the one. And what the pope said that Friday night, after they left the Riserva. I wanted you to know what awaits you. And why hadnOt Clement stopped him from burning the translation? YouOll see.

ODamn you, Jakob,O he muttered.

A knock came on his office door, then Ambrosi stepped inside and crossed to the desk. He held a pocket tape recorder. OListen to this. I just dubbed it off the reel-to-reel. Michener and Ngovi about four hours ago in NgoviOs office.O

The conversation lasted about ten minutes. Valendrea switched off the machine. OFirst Romania. Now Bosnia. They will not stop.O

OApparently Clement left a suicide e-mail for Michener.O

Ambrosi knew about ClementOs suicide. HeOd told him that and more in Romania, including what had happened with Clement in the Riserva. OI must read that e-mail.O

Ambrosi stood straight before the desk. OI donOt see how thatOs possible.O

OWe could reenlist MichenerOs girlfriend.O

OThat thought occurred to me. But why does it matter anymore? The conclave starts tomorrow. You will be pope by sundown. Surely, by the next day.O

Possible, but he could just as easily be locked in a tight election. OWhat troubles me is that our African friend apparently has his own information network. I didnOt realize I was such a high priority with him.O It also bothered him that Ngovi had so easily linked his Romanian trip with TiborOs murder. That could become a problem. OI want you to find Katerina Lew.O

HeOd purposely not talked with her after Romania. No need. Thanks to Clement, he knew everything he needed to know. Yet it galled him that Ngovi was dispatching envoys on private missions. Especially missions that involved him. Still, there was little he could do about it since he couldnOt risk involving the Sacred College. ThereOd be too many questions and heOd have too few answers. It could also provide Ngovi a way to force an inquiry into his own Romanian trip, and he was not about to present the African with that opportunity.

He was the only one left alive who knew what the Virgin had said. Three popes were gone. HeOd already destroyed part of TiborOs cursed reproduction, eliminated the priest himself, and flushed Sister LuciaOs original writing into the sewers. All that remained was the facsimile translation waiting in the Riserva. No one could be allowed to see those words. But to gain access to that box he needed to be pope.

He stared up at Ambrosi.

OUnfortunately, Paolo, you must stay here over the coming days. I will need you nearby. But we have to know what Michener does in Bosnia, and she is our best conduit. So find Katerina Lew and reenlist her help. O

OHow do you know sheOs in Rome?O

OWhere else would she be?O

6:15 P.M.

Katerina was drawn to the CNN booth, just outside the south colonnade in St. PeterOs Square. SheOd seen Tom Kealy from across the cobbled expanse, beneath bright lights and in front of three cameras. The piazza was dotted with many makeshift television sets. The thousands of chairs and barricades from ClementOs funeral were gone, replaced by souvenir hawkers, protestors, pilgrims, and the journalists whoOd flocked to Rome, ready for the conclave that would begin tomorrow morning, camera lenses angled for the best view of a metal flue high above the Sistine Chapel where white smoke would signal success.

She drew close to a ring of gawkers huddled around the CNN dais where Kealy was talking to the cameras. He wore a black wool cassock and Roman collar, looking very much the priest. For someone with so little regard for his profession, he seemed entirely comfortable with its physical trappings.

ONthatOs right, in the old days, ballots were simply burned after each scrutiny with either dry or wet straw to produce black or white smoke. Now a chemical is added to produce color. ThereOs been a lot of confusion in recent conclaves about the smoke. Apparently even the Catholic Church can, at times, let science make matters easier.O

OWhat have you been hearing about tomorrow?O asked the female correspondent sitting beside Kealy.

Kealy turned his attention toward the camera. OMy guess is that there are two favorites. Cardinals Ngovi and Valendrea. Ngovi would be the first African pope since the first century and could do a lot for his home continent. Look what John Paul II did for Poland and Eastern Europe. Africa could likewise use a champion.O

OBut are Catholics ready for a black pope?O

Kealy gave a shrug. OWhat does it matter anymore? Most of todayOs Catholics are from Latin and South America and Asia. The European cardinals no longer dominate. All of the popes since John XXIII made sure of that by expanding the Sacred College and packing it with non-Italians. The Church would be better off, in my opinion, with Ngovi than Valendrea.O

She smiled. Kealy was apparently having his revenge on the righteous Alberto Valendrea. Interesting how the tide had turned. Nineteen days ago, Kealy was on the receiving end of a Valendrea barrage, on the way to excommunication. But during the interregnum, that tribunal, along with everything else, was suspended. Now here was the accused, on worldwide television, disparaging his chief accuser, a man about to make a serious run for the papacy.

OWhy would you say the Church would be better off with Ngovi?O asked the correspondent.

OValendrea is Italian. The Church has steadily moved away from Italian domination. His choice would be a retreat. HeOs also too conservative for the twenty-first-century Catholic.O

OSome might say a return to traditional roots would be beneficial.O

Kealy shook his head. OYou spend forty years since Vatican II trying to modernizeNdo a fairly good job in making your Church a worldwide institutionNthen toss all that out the door? The pope is no longer merely the bishop of Rome. HeOs the head of a billion faithful, the vast majority of whom are not Italian, not European, not even Caucasian. It would be suicidal to elect Valendrea. Not when thereOs somebody like Ngovi, equally as papabile, and far more attractive to the world.O

A hand on KaterinaOs shoulder startled her. She whirled around to see the black eyes of Father Paolo Ambrosi. The annoying little priest was only a few inches from her face. A bolt of anger flashed through her, but she kept calm.

OHe doesnOt seem to like Cardinal Valendrea,O the priest whispered.

OGet your hand off my shoulder.O

A smile frayed the edges of AmbrosiOs mouth and he withdrew his hand. OI thought you might be here.O He motioned to Kealy. OWith your paramour.O

A sick feeling clutched her gut, but she willed herself to show no fear. OWhat do you want?O

OSurely you donOt want to talk here? If your associate were to turn his head, he might wonder why you were conversing with one so close to the cardinal he despises. He might even get jealous and fly into a rage.O

OI donOt think heOs got anything to worry about from you. I piss sitting down, so I doubt IOm your type.O

Ambrosi said nothing, but maybe he was right. Whatever he had to say should be said in private. So she led him through the colonnade, past rows of kiosks peddling stamps and coins.

OItOs disgusting,O Ambrosi said, motioning to the capitalists. OThey think this a carnival. Nothing but an opportunity to make money.O

OAnd IOm sure the collection boxes in St. PeterOs have been closed since Clement died.O

OYou have a smart mouth.O

OWhatOs wrong? The truth hurt?O

They were beyond the Vatican, on Roman streets, strolling down a via lined with a warren of trendy apartments. Her nerves throbbed, keeping her on edge. She stopped. OWhat do you want?O

OColin Michener is going to Bosnia. His Eminence wants you to go with him and report what he does.O

OYou didnOt even care about Romania. I havenOt heard a word from you till now.O

OThat became unimportant. This is more so.O

OIOm not interested. Besides, Colin is going to Romania.O

ONot now. HeOs going to Bosnia. To the shrine at Medjugorje.O

She was confused. Why would Michener feel the need to make such a pilgrimage, especially after his earlier comments?

OHis Eminence urged me to make clear that a friend within the Vatican is still available to you. Not to mention the ten thousand euros already paid.O

OHe said that money was mine. No questions.O

OInteresting. Apparently, youOre not a cheap whore.O

She slapped his face.

Ambrosi showed no surprise. He simply stared back at her through piercing eyes. OYou shall not strike me again.O There was a bitter edge to his voice, one she did not like.

OIOve lost interest in being your spy.O

OYou are an impertinent bitch. My only hope is that His Eminence tires of you soon. Then, perhaps, I will pay you a return visit.O

She stepped back. OWhy is Colin going to Bosnia?O

OTo find one of the Medjugorje seers.O

OWhat is all this with seers and the Virgin Mary?O

OI assume, then, you are familiar with the Bosnian apparitions.O

OTheyOre nonsense. You donOt really believe the Virgin Mary appeared to those children every day for all those years, and is still appearing to one of them.O

OThe Church has yet to validate any of the visions.O

OAnd that seal of approval is going to make it real?O

OYour sarcasm is tiresome.O

OSo are you.O

But a stirring of interest was forming inside her. She didnOt want to do anything for Ambrosi or Valendrea, and sheOd stayed in Rome only because of Michener. SheOd learned that he moved from the VaticanNKealy had reported that as part of an analysis on the aftermath of a papal deathNbut she hadnOt made any effort to track him down. Actually, after their encounter earlier, sheOd toyed with the idea of following him to Romania. But now another possibility had opened. Bosnia.

OWhen does he leave?O she asked, hating herself for sounding interested.

AmbrosiOs eyes flickered in satisfaction. OI donOt know.O The priest slid a hand under his cassock and came out with a scrap of paper. OThatOs the address for his apartment. ItOs not far from here. You could . . . comfort him. His mentor is gone, his life in chaos. An enemy will soon be popeNO

OValendrea is quite sure of himself.O

She ignored his question. OAnd the problem?O

OYou think ColinOs vulnerable? That heOll open up to meNeven let me go with him?O

OThatOs the idea.O

OHeOs not that weak.O

Ambrosi smiled. OIOm betting that he is.O

ROME, 7:00 P.M.

Michener strolled down the Via Giotto toward the apartment. The quarter surrounding him had evolved into a gathering spot for the theater crowd, its streets lined with lively cafZs that had long hosted intellectuals and political radicals. He knew that MussoliniOs rise to power had been organized nearby, and thankfully most of the buildings survived Il DuceOs architectural cleanup and continued to project a nineteenth-century feel.

HeOd become a student of Mussolini, having read a couple of biographies after moving into the Apostolic Palace. Mussolini was an ambitious man whoOd dreamed of Italians wearing uniforms and all of RomeOs ancient stone buildings, with their terra-cotta rooftops, replaced with gleaming marble faades and obelisks memorializing his great military victories. But Il Duce ended up with a bullet in his head, then was hung by his ankles for all to see. Nothing remained of his grandiose plan. And Michener was worried that the Church might suffer a similar fate with a Valendrea papacy.

Megalomania was a mental disease compounded by arrogance. Valendrea was a clear sufferer. The secretary of stateOs opposition to Vatican II and all the later Church reforms was no secret. A swift Valendrea election could be spun into a mandate for radical reversal. The worst part was that the Tuscan could easily rule for twenty or more years. Which meant he would completely reshape the Sacred College of Cardinals, much as John Paul II had managed during his long reign. But John Paul II had been a benign ruler, a man of vision. Valendrea was a demon, and God help his enemies. Which seemed all the more reason for Michener to disappear into the Carpathian Mountains. God or no God, heaven or no heaven, those children needed him.

He found the apartment building and trudged up the stairs to the third floor. One of the bishops attached to the papal household had offered the two-bedroom, furnished apartment rent-free for a couple of weeks, and he appreciated the gesture. HeOd disposed of ClementOs furniture a few days ago. The five boxes of personal belongings and ClementOs wooden chest were stacked in the apartment. Originally heOd planned on leaving Rome by the end of the week. Now he would fly to Bosnia tomorrow on a ticket Ngovi had provided. By next week he would be in Romania, starting a new life.

A part of him resented Clement for what heOd done. History was replete with popes selected simply because they would soon die, and many of them had fooled everyone by lasting a decade or more. Jakob Volkner could have been one of those pontiffs. He was truly making a difference. Yet he ended all hope with a self-induced sleep.

Michener, too, felt like he was asleep. The past couple of weeks, starting with that awful Monday morning, seemed a dream. His life, once resonant with order, now gyrated out of control.

He needed order.

But stopping on the third-floor landing he knew that only more chaos lay ahead. Sitting on the floor, outside his apartment door, was Katerina Lew.

OWhy am I not surprised you found me again?O he said. OHow did you do it this time?O

OMore secrets everybody knows.O

She came to her feet and brushed grit from her pants. She was dressed the same as this morning and still looked lovely.

He opened the apartment door.

OStill going to Romania?O she asked.

He tossed the key on a table. OPlan on following?O

OI might.O

OI wouldnOt book a flight just yet.O

He told her about Medjugorje and what Ngovi had asked him to do, but omitted the details of ClementOs e-mail. He wasnOt looking forward to the trip and told Katerina so.

OThe warOs over, Colin,O she said. OItOs been quiet there for years.O

OThanks to American and NATO troops. ItOs not what I would call a vacation destination.O

OThen why go?O

OI owe it to Clement and Ngovi,O he said.

OYou donOt think your debts are paid?O

OI know what youOre going to say. But I was considering leaving the priesthood. It doesnOt really matter anymore.O

Her face registered shock. OWhy?O

OIOve had enough. ItOs not about God, or a good life, or eternal happiness. ItOs about politics, ambition, greed. Every time I think about where I was born, it makes me sick. How could anybody think they were doing something good there? There were better ways to help those mothers, yet nobody even tried. They just shipped us all off.O He shifted on his feet and found himself staring down at the floor. OAnd those kids in Romania? I think even heaven has forgotten them.O

OIOve never seen you this way.O

He stepped toward the window. OOdds are Valendrea will soon be pope. ThereOs going to be a lot of changes. Maybe Tom Kealy had it right after all.O

ODonOt give that ass credit for anything.O

He sensed something in her tone. OAll weOve talked about is me. What have you been doing since Bucharest?O

OLike I said, writing some pieces on the funeral for a Polish magazine. IOve also been doing background work on the conclave. The magazine hired me to do a feature.O

OThen how can you go to Romania?O

Her expression softened. OI canOt. Wishful thinking. But at least IOll know where to find you.O

The thought was comforting. He knew that if he never saw this woman again he would be sad. He recalled the last time, all those years ago, when theyOd been alone together. It was in Munich, not long before he was to graduate law school and return to Jakob VolknerOs service. SheOd looked much the same, her hair a bit longer, her face a moment fresher, her smile equally appealing. Two years heOd spent loving her, knowing the day would come when he would have to choose. Now he realized the mistake heOd made. Something heOd said to her earlier in the square came to mind. Just donOt make the same mistakes twice. ThatOs all any of us can hope for.

Damn right.

He stepped across the room and took her into his arms.

She did not resist.

Michener opened his eyes and focused on the clock next to the bed. Ten forty-three P.M. Katerina lay beside him. TheyOd been asleep nearly two hours. He did not feel guilty for what had happened. He loved her, and if God had a problem with that, then so be it. He didnOt really care anymore.

OWhat are you doing awake?O she said through the dark.

HeOd thought her sleeping. OIOm not used to waking up with somebody in my bed.O

She nuzzled her head against his chest. OCould you get used to it?O

OI was just asking myself the same thing.O

OI donOt want to leave this time, Colin.O

He kissed the top of her head. OWho said you had to?O

OI want to go with you to Bosnia?O

OWhat about your magazine assignment?O

OI lied. I donOt have one. IOm here, in Rome, because of you.O

His answer was never in doubt. OThen maybe a Bosnian holiday would do us both some good.O

HeOd gone from the public world of the Apostolic Palace to a realm where only he existed. Clement XV was ensconced within a triple coffin beneath St. PeterOs and he was naked in bed with a woman he loved.

Where it all was going, he could not say.

All he knew was that he finally felt content.

MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 28

1:00 P.M.

Michener stared out the bus window. The rocky coast whizzed past, the Adriatic Sea choppy thanks to a howling wind. He and Katerina had flown into Split on a short flight from Rome. Tourist buses had lined the airport exits, their drivers clamoring for passengers to Medjugorje. One of the men explained this was the slow time of the year. Pilgrims arrived at the rate of three to five thousand a day in summer, but that number dwindled to several hundred from November through March.

Over the past two hours a guide had explained to the fifty or so making the bus trip that Medjugorje sat in the southern portion of Herzegovina, near the coast, and that a mountainous wall to the north isolated the region both climatically and politically. The guide explained that the name Medjugorje meant Oland between the hills.O Croats dominated the population, and Catholicism flourished. In the early 1990s, when communism fell, the Croats immediately sought independence, but the SerbsNthe real power brokers in the former YugoslaviaNinvaded, trying to create a Greater Serbia. A bloody civil war raged for years. Two hundred thousand lost their lives until finally the international community stopped the genocide. Another war then flared between Croats and Muslims, but quickly ended when UN peacekeepers arrived.

Medjugorje itself had escaped the terror. Most of the fighting was waged to its north and west. Only about five hundred families actually lived in the area, but the townOs mammoth church hosted two thousand, and the guide explained that an infrastructure of hotels, guest houses, food vendors, and souvenir shops was now transforming the place into a religious mecca. Twenty million people from around the world had come. At last count, thereOd been some two thousand apparitions, something unprecedented in Marian visions.

ODo you believe any of this?O Katerina whispered to him. OA little far-fetched that the Madonna comes to earth every day to speak with a woman in a Bosnian village.O

OThe seer believes, and Clement did, too. Keep an open mind, okay?O

OIOm trying. But which seer do we approach?O

HeOd been thinking about that. So he asked the guide more about the seers and learned that one of the women, now thirty-five, was married with a son and lived in Italy. Another woman, thirty-six, was married with three children and still lived in Medjugorje, but she was intensely private and saw few pilgrims. One of the males, in his early thirties, tried twice to become a priest but failed and still hoped to one day achieve Holy Orders. He traveled extensively, bringing the Medjugorje message to the world, and would be difficult to find. The remaining male, the youngest of the six, was married with two children and talked little to visitors. Another of the females, almost forty, was married and no longer lived in Bosnia. The remaining woman was the one who continued to experience apparitions. Her name was Jasna, thirty-two years old, and she lived alone in Medjugorje. Her daily visitations were many times witnessed by thousands at St. James Church. The guide explained that Jasna was an introverted woman of few words, but she did take the time to speak with visitors.

He glanced over at Katerina and said, OLooks like our choices are limited. WeOll start with her.O

OJasna, though, doesnOt know all ten secrets the Madonna has passed to the others,O the guide was saying at the front of the bus, and MichenerOs attention returned to what the woman was explaining.

OAll five of the others know the ten secrets. It is said that when all six are told, the visions will end and a visible sign of the VirginOs presence will be left for atheists. But the faithful must not wait for that sign before they convert. Now is the time of grace. A time for deepening faith. A time for conversion. Because, when the sign comes, it will be too late for many. Those are the VirginOs words. A prediction for our future.O

OWhat do we do now?O Katrina whispered in his ear.

OI say we still go see her. If for nothing else, IOm curious. She can certainly answer the thousand questions I have.O

Outside, the guide motioned to Apparition Hill.

OThis is where the first visions occurred to the original two seers in June 1981Na brilliant ball of light in which stood a beautiful woman holding a baby. The next evening, the two children returned with four of their friends and the woman appeared again, this time wearing a crown of twelve stars and a pearl-gray dress. She seemed, according to them, clothed by the sun.O

The guide pointed to a steep footpath that led from the village of Podbrdo to a site where a cross stood. Even now, pilgrims were making the climb beneath thick clouds rolling in from the sea.

Cross Mountain appeared a few moments later, rising less than a mile from Medjugorje, its rounded peak standing more than sixteen hundred feet high.

OThe cross atop was erected in the 1930s by the local parish and carries no significance to the apparitions, except many pilgrims have reported seeing luminous signs in and around it. Because of that, this spot has become part of the experience. Try to make a trip to the top.O

The bus slowed and entered Medjugorje. The village was unlike the multitude of other undeveloped communities theyOd passed along the way from Split. Low stone buildings in varied shades of pink, green, and ocher gave way to taller buildingsNhotels, the guide explained, recently opened to handle an influx of pilgrims, along with duty-free shops, car rental agencies, and travel bureaus. Shiny Mercedes taxis skirted among transport trucks.

The bus stopped at the twin towered Church of St. James. A placard out front announced that Mass was said throughout the day in a variety of languages. A concrete piazza spanned the front, and the guide explained that the open expanse was a gathering spot at night for the faithful. Michener wondered about tonight, though, since thunder rumbled in the distance.

Soldiers patrolled the square.

OThey are part of the Spanish peacekeeping forces assigned to the region and can be helpful,O the guide explained.

They gathered their shoulder bags and left the bus. Michener approached the guide. OExcuse me, where could we find Jasna?O

The woman pointed down one of the streets. OShe lives in a house about four blocks in that direction. But she comes to the church each day at three, and sometimes in the evening for prayer. She will be here shortly.O

OAnd the apparitions, where do they occur?O

OMost times here in church. ThatOs why she comes. I must tell you, itOs unlikely she would see you unannounced.O

He got the message. Probably every pilgrim wanted an encounter with one of the seers. The guide motioned toward a visitor center across the street.

OThey can arrange for a meeting. Those usually take place later in the afternoon. Talk to them about Jasna. YouOll get more of a response. TheyOre sensitive to your needs.O

He thanked her, then he and Katerina walked off. OWe have to start somewhere, and this Jasna is the closest. I donOt particularly want to talk with a group present, and I donOt have any needs that require sensitivity. So letOs go find this woman ourselves.O

VATICAN CITY, 2:00 P.M.

The procession of cardinals made their way out of the Pauline Chapel, singing refrains from Veni Creator Spiritus. Their hands were clasped in prayer, their heads lowered. Valendrea kept pace behind Maurice Ngovi as the camerlengo led the group toward the Sistine Chapel.

All was ready. Valendrea himself had supervised one of the last chores an hour earlier when the House of Gammarelli arrived with five boxes containing white linen cassocks, red silk slippers, rochets, mozzettas, cotton stockings, and skullcaps in varying sizes, all with the backs and hems unsewn, the sleeves unfinished. Any adjustments would be made by Gammarelli himself, just before the cardinal chosen pope first appeared on the balcony of St. PeterOs.

On the pretense of inspecting everything, Valendrea had made sure there was a set of vestmentsN42 to 44 in the chest, 38 in the waist, size 10 slippersNwhich would require only a few modifications. After, he would have Gammarelli fashion an assortment of traditional white linen outfits, along with a few new designs heOd been mulling over for the past couple of years. He intended to be one of the best-dressed popes in history.

One hundred and thirteen cardinals had made the trip to Rome. Each of the men was attired in a scarlet cassock with a mozzetta encircling his shoulders. They wore red birettas and gold and silver pectoral crosses above their breasts. As they inched forward in a single-file line toward a towering doorway, television cameras captured the scene for billions around the world. Valendrea noticed the grave faces. Perhaps the cardinals were taking heed of NgoviOs sermon at the noon Mass when the camerlengo urged each of them to leave worldly considerations outside the Sistine and, with the help of the Holy Spirit, choose a capable pastor for the mother Church.

That word pastor was a problem. Rarely had a twentieth-century pope been pastoral. Most were career intellectuals or Vatican diplomats. Pastoral experience had been talked about over the past few days in the press as something the Sacred College should look for. Certainly a pastoral cardinal, one whoOd spent his career working with the faithful, carried a stronger appeal than a professional bureaucrat. HeOd even heard, on the tapes, how many of the cardinals mused that a pope who knew how to run a diocese would be a plus. Unfortunately, he was a product of the Curia, a born administrator, possessed of no pastoral experienceNunlike Ngovi, who rose from missionary priest to archbishop to cardinal. He resented the camerlengoOs earlier reference and took the comment as a jab at his candidacyNa subtle poke, but more evidence Ngovi could become a formidable opponent in the hours ahead.

The procession stopped outside the Sistine Chapel.

A choir echoed from inside.

Ngovi hesitated at the doors, then started forward.

Photographs portrayed the Sistine as a huge expanse, but it was actually a difficult place in which to accommodate 113 cardinals. It had been built five hundred years ago to be the popeOs private chapel, its walls framed in elegant pilasters and covered in narrative frescoes. On the left was the life of Moses, on the right the life of Christ. One set Israel free, the other the entire human race. The Creation on the ceiling expressed manOs destiny, then foresaw an inevitable fall. The Last Judgment above the altar was a terrifying vision of divine wrath, one Valendrea had long admired.

Two rows of raised platforms flanked the center aisle. Name cards delineated who sat where, the spots allocated by seniority. Chairs were straight-backed, and Valendrea did not cherish the prospect of sitting in one for long. Before each chair, on a tiny desk, sat a pencil, a pad of paper, and a single ballot.

The men moved to their assigned seats. No one as yet had spoken a word. The choir continued to sing.

ValendreaOs gaze fell on the stove. It sat in a far corner, raised off the mosaic floor by a metal scaffolding. A chimney rose, then narrowed into a flue that escaped out one of the windows, where the celebrated smoke would signal success or failure. He hoped there would not be too many fires lit inside. The more scrutinies, the less chance of victory.

Ngovi stood at the front of the chapel, his hands folded before him beneath his cassock. Valendrea took note of the stern look on the AfricanOs face and hoped the camerlengo enjoyed his moment.

OExtra omnes,O Ngovi said in a loud voice. All out.

The choir, servers, and television crews started leaving. Only the cardinals and thirty-two priests, nuns, and technicians would be allowed to remain.

The room fell under an uneasy quiet as two surveillance technicians made a sweep down the center aisle. They were responsible for ensuring the chapel stayed free of listening devices. At the iron grille the two men stopped and signaled an all-clear.

Valendrea nodded, and they withdrew. That ritual would be repeated before and after each dayOs voting.

Ngovi left the altar and marched down the aisle between the assembled cardinals. He passed through a marble screen and stopped at the bronze doors the attendants were pulling shut. Total silence draped the room. Where before thereOd been music and the shuffle of feet on the mats protecting the mosaic floor, now there was nothing. Beyond the doors, from outside, the sound of a key slipping into place and tumblers engaging echoed.

Ngovi tested the handles.

Locked.

OExtra omnes,O he called out.

No one responded. No one was supposed to. The silence was an indication that the conclave had begun. Valendrea knew lead seals were being stamped into place outside to symbolically ensure privacy. There was another way in and out of the SistineNthe route to be taken each day to and from the Domus Sanctae MarthaeNbut the sealing of the doors was the traditional method of beginning the electoral process.

Ngovi retraced his steps to the altar, faced the cardinals, and said what Valendrea had heard a camerlengo say at that same spot thirty-four months ago.

OMay the Lord bless you all. Let us begin.O

E

MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA

2:30 P.M.

Michener studied the house, a one-story built of stone, stained the color of moss. Dormant grapevines snaked across an arbor, and the only hint at gaiety sprang from swirling woodwork above the windows. A vegetable patch filled the side yard and seemed eager for the rain that was drawing closer. Mountains loomed in the distance.

TheyOd found the house only after asking two people for directions. Both had been reluctant to provide help until Michener revealed he was a priest and needed to speak with Jasna.

He led Katerina to the front door and knocked.

A tall woman with an almond-colored complexion and dark hair answered. She was thin as a sapling with a pleasant face and warm hazel eyes. She studied him with a measured mien that he found uncomfortable. She was perhaps thirty, with a rosary draping her neck.

OIOm due at church and really donOt have time to speak,O she said. OI would be glad to talk with you after the service.O Her words came in English.

OWeOre not here for the reason you think,O he said. He told her who he was and why he was there.

She did not react, as if a Vatican envoy contacted her daily. Finally she invited them inside.

The house was sparsely furnished in a mix-and-match decor. Sunlight spilled in from half-open windows, many of the panes cracked their length. A portrait of Mary hung over the fireplace, surrounded by flickering candles. A statue of the Virgin stood in one corner. The carved Madonna wore a gray dress trimmed in light blue. A white veil draped her face and highlighted wavy locks of brown hair. Her blue eyes were expressive and warm. Our Lady of Fatima, if he recalled correctly.

OWhy Fatima?O he asked, motioning to the carving.

OIt was a gift from a pilgrim. I like it. She seems alive.O

He noticed a slight tremor to JasnaOs right eye, and her barren expression and bland voice were causing him concern. He wondered if she was on something.

OYou donOt believe anymore, do you?O she quietly said.

The comment caught him off guard. OWhy is that important?O

She shifted her gaze pointedly in KaterinaOs direction. OShe confuses you.O

OWhy do you say that?O

OPriests rarely come here in the company of women. Especially a priest without his collar.O

He had no intention of answering her inquiry. They were still standing, their host yet to offer a seat, and things were starting off badly.

Jasna turned to Katerina. OYou donOt believe at all. And have not in many years. How your soul must be tormented.O

OAre these insights supposed to impress us?O If JasnaOs comment bothered Katerina, she apparently was not going to let the woman know.

OTo you,O Jasna said, Owhat is real is only what you can touch. But there is so much more. So much you cannot possibly imagine. And though it cannot be touched, it is nonetheless real.O

OWe are here on a mission for the pope,O he said.

OClement is with the Virgin.O

OThat is my hope.O

OBut you do him a disservice by not believing.O

OJasna, IOve been sent to learn the tenth secret. Clement and the camerlengo have both provided a written directive for it to be revealed.O

She turned back. OI do not know it. And I donOt want to. The Virgin will stop coming when that happens. Her messages are important. The world depends on them.O

He was familiar with the daily messages from Medjugorje, faxed and e-mailed worldwide. Most were simple pleas for faith and world peace, fasting and prayer urged as a means to accomplish both. Yesterday heOd read some of the more recent in the Vatican library. Websites routinely charged fees for furnishing heavenOs mandate, which made him wonder about JasnaOs motives. But considering the simplicity of her home and the plain manner of her dress she wasnOt reaping any profit. OWe realize you donOt know the secret, but can you tell us which one of the other seers we could talk with to learn it?O

OAll were told to keep the information private, until the Virgin releases their tongues.O

OWould not authority from the Holy Father be sufficient?O

OThe Holy Father is dead.O

He was tiring of her attitude. OWhy must you make things so difficult?O

OHeaven has asked the same thing.O

It sounded to him an awful lot like ClementOs lamentations in the weeks before his death.

OI have prayed for the pope,O she said. OHis soul needs our prayers.O

He was about to ask what she meant, but before he could say a word she crept close to the statue in the corner. Her gaze seemed suddenly distant and transfixed. She knelt on a prie-dieu, saying nothing.

OWhatOs she doing?O Katerina mouthed.

He shrugged.

A bell pealed three times in the distance, and he remembered that the Virgin supposedly appeared to Jasna at three P.M. each day. One of her hands found the rosary that draped her neck. She clutched at the beads and started mumbling words he could not understand. He bent close and followed her gaze upward toward the sculpture, but saw nothing except the stoic wooden face of the Virgin Mary.

He recalled from his research that witnesses at Fatima reported hearing a buzz and feeling a warmth during the apparitions, but he thought that simply part of a mass hysteria that engulfed illiterate souls who desperately wanted to believe. He wondered if he was truly witnessing a Marian apparition or just a womanOs delusion.

He moved closer.

Her gaze seemed locked on something beyond the walls. She was unaware of his presence and continued to mumble. For an instant he thought he caught a glimmer of light in her pupilsNtwo quick flashes of a reflected imageNa swirl of blue and gold. His head whirled left, searching for the source, but there was nothing. Only the sunlit corner and the silent statue. Whatever was occurring was apparently JasnaOs alone.

Finally her head dropped and she said, OThe LadyOs gone.O

She stood and moved toward a table and scribbled on a pad. When she finished, she handed the sheet to Michener.

My children, great is the love of God. Do not close your eyes, do not close your ears. Great is His love. Accept my call and my plea that I am entrusting to you. Consecrate your heart and make a home for the Lord within it. May He dwell within it forever. My eyes and my heart will be here even when I will not be appearing anymore. Conduct yourselves in everything as IOm asking you and leading you to the Lord. Do not reject GodOs name from yourselves, so that you would not be rejected. Accept my messages so that you would be accepted. It is time for decisions, my children. Be of righteous and innocent heart that I could lead you to your Father. Because this, my being here, is His great love.

OThatOs what the Virgin told me,O Jasna said.

He read the message again. OIs this directed to me?O

OOnly you can decide that.O

He handed the page to Katerina. OYou still havenOt answered my question. Who can tell us the tenth secret?O

ONo one can.O

OThe other five seers know the information. One of them can tell us.O

ONot unless the Virgin consents, and IOm the only one left who experiences Her visits daily. The others would have to wait to receive permission.O

OBut you donOt know the secret,O Katerina said. OSo it doesnOt matter youOre the only one whoOs not privy. We donOt need the Virgin, we need the tenth secret.O

OOne goes with the other,O Jasna said.

He couldnOt decide if he was dealing with a religious fanatic or someone truly blessed by heaven. Her impertinent attitude didnOt help. In fact, it only made him suspicious. He decided they would stay in town and try, on their own, to speak with the other seers who lived nearby. If nothing was learned, he could return to Italy and track down the one who lived there.

He thanked Jasna and started for the door, Katerina in tow.

Their host stayed rooted in the chair, her expression as blank as when they arrived. ODonOt forget Bamberg,O Jasna said.

Chilly fingers danced along his spine. He stopped and turned back. Had he heard right? OWhy did you say that?O

OI was told to.O

OWhat do you know about Bamberg?O

ONothing. I donOt even know what it is.O

OThen why say it?O

OI donOt question. I only do as I am told. Perhaps thatOs why the Virgin speaks to me. There is something to be said for a loyal servant.O

E

VATICAN CITY, 5:00 P.M.

Valendrea was growing impatient. His concern about the straight-backed chairs was proving justified, as heOd now spent nearly two agonizing hours sitting upright in the sedate Sistine Chapel. During that time each of the cardinals had walked to the altar and sworn before Ngovi and God that they would not support any interference in the election by secular authorities and, if elected, would be munus PetrinumNpastor of the universal churchNand defend the spiritual and temporal rights of the Holy See. He, too, had stood before Ngovi, the AfricanOs eyes intense while the words were said and repeated.

Another half hour was needed to administer an oath of secrecy to the attendants allowed to remain within the conclave. Then Ngovi ordered everyone but the cardinals from the Sistine and the remaining doors closed. He faced the assembly and said, ODo you wish a vote at this time?O

John Paul IIOs Apostolic Constitution allowed for a first vote immediately, if the conclave so desired. One of the French cardinals stood and stated that he would. Valendrea was pleased. The Frenchman was one of his.

OIf there be any opposition, speak now,O Ngovi said.

The chapel stayed in repose. There was a time when, at this moment, election by acclamation could occur, supposedly the result of a direct intervention by the Holy Spirit. A name would be spontaneously proclaimed and all would agree he was to be pope. But John Paul II eliminated that as a means of election.

OVery well,O Ngovi said, Owe will begin.O

The junior cardinal-deacon, a fat, swarthy man from Brazil, waddled forward and chose three names from a silver chalice. Those selected would act as scrutineers, their task to count each ballot and record the votes. If no pope was elected, they would burn the ballots in the stove. Three more names, the revisers, were pulled from the chalice. Their job would be to oversee the scrutineers. Finally, three infirmarii were selected to collect ballots from any cardinals who might be taken ill. Of the nine officials, only four could be regarded as solidly ValendreaOs. Particularly upsetting was the selection of the cardinal-archivist as a scrutineer. The old bastard might have his revenge after all.

Before each cardinal, beside the pad and pencil, lay a two-inch rectangular card. At the top was printed in black lettering: ELIGO IN SUMMUM PONTIFICEM. I elect as supreme pontiff. The space beneath was blank, ready for a name. Valendrea felt a special attachment to the ballot, as it had been designed by his beloved Paul VI.

At the altar, beneath the agony of MichelangeloOs Last Judgment, Ngovi emptied the silver chalice of the remaining names. They would be burned with the results of the first balloting. The African then addressed the cardinals, speaking in Latin, reiterating the voting procedures. When he finished, Ngovi left the altar and took a seat among the cardinals. His task as camerlengo was drawing to a close, and less and less would be demanded of him in the hours ahead. The process now would be controlled by the scrutineers until another ballot was required.

One of the scrutineers, a cardinal from Argentina, said, OPlease print a name on the card. More than one name will void the ballot and the scrutiny. Once done, fold the ballot and approach the altar.O

Valendrea glanced to his left and right. The 113 cardinals were wedged into the chapel elbow-to-elbow. He wanted to win early and be done with the agony, but he knew that rarely had any pope won on a first scrutiny. Usually electors cast their initial ballot for someone specialNa favorite cardinal, a close friend, a person from their particular part of the world, even themselves, though none would ever admit that. It was a way for the electors to conceal their true intentions and up the ante for their subsequent support, since nothing made the favorites more generous than an unpredictable future.

Valendrea printed his own name on the ballot, careful to disguise anything that might identify the script as his, then folded the paper twice and awaited his turn to approach the altar.

Depositing ballots was done by seniority. Cardinal-bishops before cardinal-priests, with cardinal-deacons last, each group ranked by date of investiture. He watched as the first senior cardinal-bishop, a silver-haired Italian from Venice, climbed four marble steps to the altar, his folded ballot held high for all to see.

At his turn Valendrea walked to the altar. He knew the other cardinals would be watching so he knelt for a moment of prayer, but said nothing to God. Instead, he waited an appropriate amount of time before rising. He then repeated out loud what every other cardinal was required to say.

OI call as my witness Christ the Lord, who will be my judge, that my vote is given to the one who before God I think should be elected.O

He laid his ballot on the paten, lifted the glistening plate, and allowed the card to slide into the chalice. The unorthodox method was a means of ensuring that only one ballot for each cardinal was cast. He gently replaced the paten, folded his hands in prayer, and retreated to this seat.

It took nearly an hour to complete the balloting. After the final vote slid into the chalice, the vessel was carried to another table. There, the contents were shaken, then each vote was counted by the three scrutineers. The revisers watched everything, their eyes never leaving the table. As each ballot was unfolded, the name written upon it was announced. Everyone kept his own tally. The total number of votes cast had to add up to 113 or the ballots would be destroyed and the scrutiny declared invalid.

When the last name was read, Valendrea studied the results. HeOd received thirty-two votes. Not bad for a first scrutiny. But Ngovi had amassed twenty-four. The remaining fifty-seven votes were scattered among two dozen candidates.

He stared up at the assembly.

Clearly they were all thinking what he was.

This was going to be a two-horse race.

E

MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA

6:30 P.M.

Michener found two rooms in one of the newer hotels. The rain had started just as they left JasnaOs house, and theyOd barely made it to the hotel before the sky exploded into a pyrotechnic display. This was the rainy season, an attendant informed them. The deluges came quick, fed by warm air off the Adriatic mixing with frigid northern breezes.

They ate supper at a nearby cafZ crowded with pilgrims. The conversations, mostly in English, French, and German, centered on the shrine. Someone remarked that two of the seers had been in St. James Church earlier. Jasna was supposed to appear, but had failed to show, and one of the pilgrims had noted it was not unusual for her to remain alone during the daily apparition.

OWeOll find those two seers tomorrow,O he told Katerina, as they ate. OI hope theyOre easier to get along with.O

OIntense, wasnOt she?O

OSheOs either an accomplished fraud or the genuine thing.O

OWhy did her mention of Bamberg bother you? ItOs no secret the pope was fond of his hometown. I donOt believe she didnOt know what the name signified.O

He told her what Clement had said in his final e-mail message about Bamberg. Do with my body as you please. Pomp and ceremony do not make the pious. For me, though, I would prefer the sanctity of Bamberg, that lovely city by the river, and the cathedral I so loved. My only regret is that I did not see its beauty one last time. Perhaps, though, my legacy could still be there. But he omitted that the message was a last statement from a pope who took his own life. Which brought to mind something else Jasna had said. I have prayed for the pope. His soul needs our prayers. It was crazy to think she knew the truth about ClementOs death.

OYou donOt actually believe we witnessed an apparition this afternoon?O Katerina asked. OThat woman was strung out.O

OI think JasnaOs visions are hers alone.O

OIs that your way of saying the Madonna wasnOt there today?O

ONo more than she was at Fatima, or Lourdes, or La Salette.O

OShe reminds me of Lucia,O Katerina said. OWhen we were with Father Tibor, in Bucharest, I didnOt say anything. But from the article I wrote a few years ago, I remember that Lucia was a troubled girl. Her father was an alcoholic. She was raised by her older sisters. Seven kids in the house and she was the youngest. Right before the apparitions started her father lost some of the family land, a couple of sisters married, and the remaining sisters took jobs outside the home. She was left alone with her brother, her mother, and a drunk father.O

OSome of that was in the ChurchOs report,O he said. OThe bishop in charge of the inquiry dismissed most of it as common for the time. What bothered me more were the similarities between Fatima and Lourdes. The parish priest in Fatima even testified that some of the VirginOs words were nearly identical to what was said at Lourdes. The visions at Lourdes were known in Fatima, and Lucia was aware of them.O He took a swallow of beer. OIOve read all of the accounts from four hundred years of apparitions. There are a lot of matching details. Always shepherd children, particularly young females with little or no education. Visions in the woods. Beautiful ladies. Secrets from heaven. Lots of coincidences.O

ONot to mention,O Katerina said, Othat all of the accounts that exist were written years after the apparition. It would be easy to add details to give greater authenticity. IsnOt it strange that none of the visionaries ever revealed their messages right after the appearance? Always decades pass, then little bits and pieces come to light.O

He agreed. Sister Lucia had not provided a detailed account of Fatima until 1925, then again in 1944. Many asserted that she embellished her messages with later facts, like mentioning the papacy of Pius XI, World War II, and the rise of Russia, all of which occurred long after 1917. And with Francisco and Jacinta dead, there was no one to contradict her testimony.

And one other fact kept circling through his lawyerly mind.

The Virgin at Fatima, in July 1917, as part of the second secret, talked about the consecration of Russia to her Immaculate Heart. But Russia at that time was a devoutly Christian nation. The communists did not rise to power until months later. So what was the point of any consecration?

OThe La Salette seers were a total mess,O Katerina was saying. OMaximNthe boyNhis mother died when he was an infant and his stepmother beat him. When he was first interviewed after the vision, he interpreted what he saw as a mother complaining about being beaten by her son, not the Virgin Mary.O

He nodded. OThe published versions of the La Salette secrets are in the Vatican archives. Maxim mentioned a vengeful Virgin who talked of famine and compared sinners to dogs.O

OThe kind of thing a troubled child might say about an abusive parent. The stepmother used to starve him as punishment.O

OHe eventually died young, broke and bitter,O he said. OOne of the original seers here in Bosnia was the same. She lost her mother a couple of months before the first vision. And the others have had problems, too.O

OItOs all hallucinations, Colin. Disturbed kids who have become troubled adults, convinced of what they imagined. The Church doesnOt want anyone to know about the seersO lives. It totally bursts the bubble. Causes doubt.O

Rain pounded the cafZOs roof.

OWhy did Clement send you here?O

OI wish I knew. He was obsessed with the third secret, and this place had something to do with it.O

He decided to tell her about ClementOs vision, but he omitted all reference to the Virgin asking the pope to end his life. He kept his voice in a whisper.

OYouOre here because the Virgin Mary told Clement to send you?O she asked.

He caught the waitressOs attention and held up two fingers for a couple more beers.

OSounds to me like Clement was losing it.O

OExactly why the world will never know what happened.O

OMaybe it should.O

He didnOt like the comment. OIOve spoken with you in confidence.O

OI know that. IOm just saying, maybe the world should know about this.O

He realized there was no way that could ever happen, given how Clement had died. He stared out at the street flooded with rain. There was something he wanted to know. OWhat about us, Kate?O

OI know where I plan to go.O

OWhat would you do in Romania?O

OHelp those kids. I could journal the effort. Write about it for the world. Draw attention.O

OPretty tough life.O

OItOs my home. YouOre not telling me anything I donOt already know.O

OEx-priests donOt make much.O

OIt doesnOt take much to live there.O

He nodded and wanted to reach over and take her hand. But that wouldnOt be smart. Not here.

She seemed to sense his wish and smiled. OSave it, until we get back to the hotel.O

E

VATICAN CITY, 7:00 P.M.

OI call for a third ballot,O the cardinal from the Netherlands said. He was the archbishop of Utrecht and one of ValendreaOs staunchest supporters. Valendrea had arranged with him yesterday that if no success came on the first two ballots, he was to immediately call for a third.

Valendrea was not happy. NgoviOs twenty-four votes on the first scrutiny had been a surprise. HeOd expected him to garner a dozen or so, no more. His own thirty-two were okay, but a long way from the seventy-six needed for election.

The second scrutiny, though, shocked him, and it had taken all his diplomatic reserve to keep his temper in check. NgoviOs support increased to thirty, while his own nudged up to a weak forty-one. The remaining forty-two votes were scattered among three other candidates. Conclave wisdom proclaimed that a front-runner must gain a respectable amount of support with each succeeding scrutiny. A failure to do so was perceived as weakness, and cardinals were notorious for abandoning weak candidates. Dark horses had many times emerged after the second ballot to claim the papacy. John Paul I and II were both elected that way, as was Clement XV. Valendrea did not want a repeat.

He imagined the pundits in the piazza musing over two billows of black smoke. Irritating asses like Tom Kealy would be telling the world the cardinals must surely be divided, no one candidate emerging as front-runner. ThereOd be more Valendrea-bashing. Kealy had surely taken a perverse pleasure in slandering him for the past two weeks, and quite cleverly he had to admit. Never had Kealy made any personal comments. No reference to his pending excommunication. Instead, the heretic had offered the Italians-versus-the-world argument, which apparently played well. He should have pushed the tribunal to defrock Kealy weeks ago. At least then heOd be an ex-priest with suspect credibility. As it stood, the fool was perceived as a maverick challenging the established guard, a David versus Goliath, and no ever rooted for the giant.

He watched as the cardinal-archivist passed out more ballots. The old man made his way down the row in silence and threw Valendrea a quick glare of defiance as he handed him a blank card. Another problem that should have been dealt with long ago.

Pencils once again scraped across paper and the ritual of depositing ballots into the silver chalice was repeated. The scrutineers shuffled the cards and started counting. He heard his name called fifty-nine times. NgoviOs was repeated forty-three. The remaining eleven votes remained scattered.

Those would be critical.

He needed seventeen more to achieve election. Even if he garnered every one of the eleven stragglers, he would still need six of NgoviOs supporters, and the African was gaining strength at an alarming rate. The most frightening prospect was that each one of the eleven scattered votes he failed to sway would have to come from NgoviOs total, and that could begin to prove impossible. Cardinals tended to dig in after the third vote.

HeOd had enough. He stood. OI think, Eminences, we have challenged ourselves enough for today. I suggest we eat dinner and rest and resume in the morning.O

It wasnOt a request. Any participant possessed the right to stop the voting. His gaze strafed the chapel, settling from time to time on men he suspected to be traitors.

He hoped the message was clear.

The black smoke that would soon seep from the Sistine matched his mood.

E

MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA

11:30 P.M.

Michener awoke from a sound sleep. Katerina lay beside him. An uneasiness flowed through him that seemed unrelated to their lovemaking. He felt no guilt about once more breaching his vow of Holy Orders, but it frightened him that what heOd worked a lifetime to achieve meant so little. Maybe it was simply that the woman lying next to him meant more. HeOd spent two decades serving the Church and Jakob Volkner. But his dear friend was dead and a new day was being forged in the Sistine Chapel, one that would not include him. The 268th successor to St. Peter would shortly be elected. And though heOd come close to a red hat, that was simply not to be. His destiny apparently lay elsewhere.

Another strange feeling surged through himNan odd combination of anxiety and stress. Earlier, in his dreams, he kept hearing Jasna. DonOt forget Bamberg . . . I have prayed for the pope. His soul needs our prayers. Was she trying to tell him something? Or simply convince him.

He climbed from the bed.

Katerina did not stir. SheOd enjoyed several beers at dinner and alcohol had always made her sleepy. Outside, the storm was still raging, rain pecking the glass, lightning strobing the room.

He crept to the window and looked out. Water pelted the terra-cotta roofs of the buildings across the street and streamed in rivers from drainpipes. Parked cars lined both sides of the quiet lane.

A lone figure stood in the center of the soaked pavement.

He focused on the face.

Jasna.

Her head was angled up, toward his window. The sight of her startled him and made him want to cover his nakedness, though he quickly realized she could not possibly see him. The curtains were partially drawn, a set of lace sheers between him and the sash, the outer pane smeared with rain. He was standing back, the room dark, outside even darker. But in the wash of the streetlights four stories down, he could see Jasna watching.

Something urged him to reveal his presence.

He parted the sheers.

Her right arm motioned for him to come. He didnOt know what to do. She gestured again with a simple wave of her hand. She wore the same clothes and tennis shoes from earlier, the dress pasted to her thin frame. Her long hair was soaked, but she seemed unfazed by the storm.

She beckoned again.

He looked over at Katerina. Should he wake her? Then he stared back out the window. Jasna was shaking her head no, and motioning once more.

Damn. Did she know what he was thinking?

He decided there was no choice and quietly dressed.

He stepped from the hotelOs entrance.

Jasna still stood in the street.

Lightning crackled overhead, and a renewed burst of rain poured from the blackened sky. He carried no umbrella.

OWhat are you doing here?O he asked.

OIf you want to know the tenth secret, come with me.O

OWhere?O

OMust you question everything? Is nothing accepted on faith?O

OWeOre standing in the middle of a downpour.O

OItOs a cleanse for the body and soul.O

This woman frightened him. Why? He was unsure. Maybe it was his compulsion to do as she asked.

OMy car is over there,O she said.

A tattered Ford Fiesta coupe was parked down the street. He followed her to it and she drove out of town, stopping at the base of a darkened mound in a parking lot devoid of vehicles. A sign revealed by the headlights read CROSS MOUNTAIN.

OWhy here?O he asked.

OI have no idea.O

He wanted to ask her who did, but let it go. This was obviously her show, and she intended to play it out her way.

They climbed out into the rain and he followed her toward a footpath. The ground was spongy, the rocks slippery.

OWeOre going to the top?O he asked.

She turned back. OWhere else?O

He tried to recall the details of Cross Mountain the guide had spewed out on the bus trip. More than sixteen hundred feet tall, it held a cross atop that had been erected in the 1930s by the local parish. Though unrelated to the apparitions, a climb to the summit was thought part of Othe Medjugorje experience.O But no one was partaking tonight. And he wasnOt particularly thrilled about being sixteen hundred feet up in the middle of an electrical storm. Yet Jasna seemed unaffected and, strangely, he was drawing strength from her courage.

Was that faith?

The climb was made more difficult by rivulets of water gushing past him. His clothes were soaked, his shoes caked with mud, and only lightning illuminated the way. He opened his mouth and allowed the rain to soak his tongue. Thunder clapped overhead. It was as if the center of the storm had settled directly above them.

The crest appeared after twenty minutes of hard climbing. His thighs ached and the back of his calves throbbed.

Before him rose the darkened outline of a massive white cross, perhaps forty feet tall. At its concrete base, flower bouquets were buffeted by the storm. A few of the arrangements lay strewn about by the wind.

OThey come from all over the world,O she said, pointing to the blossoms. OThey climb and lay offerings and pray to the Virgin. Yet she never once appeared here. But they still come. Their faith is to be admired.O

OAnd mine is not?O

OYou have no faith. Your soul is in jeopardy.O

The tone was matter-of-fact, like a wife telling a husband to take out the trash. Thunder rumbled past like a bass drum being worked to a beat. He waited for the inevitable flash of lightning and the burst splintered the sky in fractured bolts of blue-white light. He decided to confront this seer. OWhatOs there to have faith in? You know nothing of religion.O

OI only know of God. Religion is manOs creation. It can be changed, altered, or discarded entirely. Our Lord is another matter.O

OBut men invoke the power of God to justify their religions.O

OIt means nothing. Men like you must change that.O

OHow would I possibly do that?O

OBy believing, having faith, loving our Lord, and doing as He asks. Your pope tried to change things. Carry on his efforts.O

OIOm no longer in a position to do anything.O

OYou are in the same position in which Christ found Himself, and He changed everything.O

OWhy are we here?O

OTonight will be the final vision of our Lady. She said for me to come, at this hour, and to bring you. She will leave a visible sign of Her presence. She promised that when She first came, and now She will keep that promise. Have faith in this momentNnot later, when all will be clear.O

OIOm a priest, Jasna. I donOt need to be converted.O

OYou doubt, but do nothing to relieve that doubt. You, more than anyone, need to convert. This is the time of grace. A time for a deepening faith. A time for conversion. ThatOs what the Virgin told me today.O

OWhat did you mean by Bamberg?O

OYou know what I meant.O

OThatOs not an answer. Tell me what you meant.O

The rain quickened and a fresh burst of wind whipped drops like pinpricks across his face. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, Jasna was on her knees, hands clasped in prayer, the same faraway look from this afternoon in her eyes as she stared up to the black sky.

He knelt beside her.

She seemed so vulnerable, no longer the defiant seer seemingly better than everyone else. He looked skyward and saw nothing but the blackened outline of the cross. A flash of lightning momentarily gave life to the image. Then darkness reenveloped the cross.

OI can remember. I know I can,O she said to the night.

Thunder again rolled across the sky.

They needed to leave, but he was hesitant to interrupt. It might not be real to him, but it was to her.

ODear Lady, I had no idea,O she said to the wind.

A bright flash of light found earth and the cross exploded in a burst of heat that engulfed them.

His body rose off the ground and flew backward.

A strange tingling surged through his limbs. His head slammed into something hard. A wave of dizziness swept through him, then sickening nausea claimed his gut. His vision swirled. He tried to concentrate, to force himself to stay awake, but couldnOt.

Finally, everything went silent.

VATICAN CITY

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 29

12:30 A.M.

Valendrea buttoned his cassock and left his room in the Domus Sanctae Marthae. As secretary of state heOd been provided one of the larger spaces, normally used by the prelate who managed the dormitory for seminarians. A similar privilege had been extended to the camerlengo and the head of the Sacred College. The accommodations were not what he was accustomed to, but a big improvement from the days when a conclave meant sleeping on a cot and peeing into a bucket.

The route from the dormitory to the Sistine was through a series of secured passages. This was a change from the last conclave when cardinals were bused and escorted when traveling between the dormitory and the chapel. Many had resented having a chaperone, so a sealable route had been created through the Vatican corridors, available only to conclave participants.

HeOd quietly made clear during dinner that he wanted to meet with three of the cardinals later, and the three now waited inside the Sistine, at the opposite end from the altar, near the marble gate. Beyond, past the sealed entrance, in the hallway outside, he knew Swiss guards stood ready to throw open the bronze doors once white smoke seeped skyward. No one really expected that to occur after midnight, so the chapel would provide a safe place for a discreet discussion.

He approached the three cardinals and did not give them a chance to speak. OI only have a few things to say.O He kept his voice low. OIOm aware of what the three of you have said in previous days. You assured me of support, then privately betrayed me. Why, only you know. What I want is for the fourth ballot to be the last. If not, none of you will be a member of this college by this time next year.O

One of the cardinals started to speak and he raised his right hand to silence him.

OI donOt want to hear that you voted for me. All three of you have supported Ngovi. But that will change in the morning. In addition, before the first session I want others swayed. I expect a fourth-ballot victory and itOs up to you three to make that happen.O

OThatOs unrealistic,O one of the cardinals said.

OWhatOs unrealistic is how you escaped Spanish justice for embezzling Church funds. They clearly believed you a thief, they just lacked proof. I have that proof, gladly provided by a young se-orita youOre quite familiar with. And you other two shouldnOt be so smug. I have similar files on each of you, none of the information flattering. You know what I want. Start a movement. Invoke the Holy Spirit. I donOt care how itOs done, just make it happen. Success will ensure that you stay in Rome.O

OWhat if we donOt want to be in Rome?O one of the three asked.

OWould you prefer prison?O

Vatican observers loved to speculate about what happened within a conclave. The archives were replete with journals depicting pious men wrestling with their consciences. HeOd watched during the last conclave as cardinals argued that his youth was a disadvantage, since the Church did not fare well with a prolonged papacy. Five to ten years was good. Anything more created problems. And there was truth to that conclusion. Autocracy and infallibility could be a volatile mixture. But they could also be the ingredients of change. The throne of St. Peter was the ultimate pulpit and a strong pope could not be ignored. He intended on being that kind of pope, and he wasnOt about to let three petty fools ruin those plans.

OAll I want to hear is my name read seventy-six times in the morning. If I have to wait, there will be consequences. My patience was tried today. I would not recommend a repeat. If my smiling face does not appear on the balcony of St. PeterOs by tomorrow afternoon, before you make it back to your rooms in the Domus Sanctae Marthae to retrieve your things, your reputations will be gone.O

He turned and left, not giving them the chance to utter a word.

E

MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA

Michener watched as the world spun in a blurry haze. His head pounded and his stomach flip-flopped. He tried to stand but couldnOt. Bile pooled in his throat and his vision winked in and out.

He was still outside, now only a gentle rain soaking his already saturated clothes. Thunder overhead confirmed that the nocturnal storm was still raging. He brought his watch close to his eyes, but multiple images swirled before him and he could not read the luminous dial. He massaged his forehead and felt a knot on the back of his head.

He wondered about Jasna and was just about to call her name when a bright light appeared in the sky. He thought at first it might be another bolt of lightning, like what surely had happened earlier, but this ball was smaller, more controlled. He thought it a helicopter, but no sound preceded the blue-white splotch as it drew closer.

The image floated before him, a few feet above the ground. His head and stomach still would not allow him to stand, so he lay back on the rocky earth and stared up.

The glow intensified.

Warmth radiated outward and comforted him. He raised an arm to shield his eyes and through slits between his fingers saw an image form.

A woman.

She wore a gray dress trimmed in light blue. A white veil draped her face and highlighted long locks of auburn hair. Her eyes were expressive, and the hues of her form fluctuated from white to blue to the palest yellow.

He recognized the face and dress. The statue heOd seen earlier in JasnaOs house. Our Lady of Fatima.

The intensity of the glow subsided, and though he still could not focus on anything else beyond a few inches, he could see the woman clearly.

OStand, Father Michener,O she said in a mellow voice.

OI . . . tried . . . I canOt,O he stammered out.

OStand.O

He pushed himself up to his feet. His head no longer swirled. His stomach was calm. He faced the light. OWho are you?O

OYou do not know?O

OThe Virgin Mary?O

OYou speak the words as if they are a lie.O

OI donOt mean them to be.O

OYour defiance is strong. I see why you were chosen.O

OChosen for what?O

OI told the children long ago that I would leave a sign for all who do not believe.O

OSo Jasna now knows the tenth secret?O He was angry with himself for even asking the question. Bad enough he was hallucinating, now he was conversing with his own imagination.

OShe is a blessed woman. She has done as heaven asked. Other men, who claim to be pious, cannot make that claim.O

OClement XV?O

OYes, Colin. I am one of those.O

The voice had deepened and the image metamorphosized into Jakob Volkner. He stood in full papal regaliaNamice, cincture, stole, miter, and palliumNjust as heOd appeared at his burial, a shepherdOs staff held in his right hand. The sight startled him. What was happening here?

OJakob?O

ODo not ignore heaven any longer. Do as I asked. Remember, there is much to be said for a loyal servant.O

Exactly what Jasna had told him earlier. But why wouldnOt his own hallucination include information he already knew? OWhat is my destiny, Jakob?O

The vision became Father Tibor. The priest appeared exactly as when theyOd first met at the orphanage. OTo be a sign to the world. A beacon for repentance. The messenger to announce that God is very much alive.O

Before he could say anything, the VirginOs image returned.

ODo as your heart commands. There is nothing wrong in that. But do not forsake your faith, for in the end it will be all that remains.O

The vision started to rise, becoming a brilliant ball of light that dissolved into the night above. The farther away it receded, the more his head ached. As the light finally vanished, the world around him started to spin and his stomach erupted.

E

VATICAN CITY, 7:00 A.M.

Breakfast was a somber affair in the dining room of the Domus Sanctae Marthae. Nearly half of the cardinals were enjoying eggs, ham, fruit, and bread in silence. Many opted only for coffee or juice, but Valendrea filled a plate from the buffet line. He wanted to show the assembled men that he was unaffected by what had happened yesterday, his legendary appetite still in place.

He sat with a group of cardinals at a window table. They were a diverse lot, from Australia, Venezuela, Slovakia, Lebanon, and Mexico. Two were strong supporters, but the other three, he believed, were among the eleven whoOd yet to choose a side. His gaze caught Ngovi entering the dining room. The African was intent in a lively conversation with two cardinals. Perhaps he, too, was trying to project not the slightest hint of concern.

OAlberto,O one of the cardinals at the table was saying.

He glanced over at the Australian.

OKeep the faith today. I prayed all evening and feel something will occur this morning.O

He maintained a stoic look. OGodOs will is what drives us forward. My only hope is that the Holy Spirit is with us today.O

OYou are the logical choice,O the Lebanese cardinal said, his voice louder than necessary.

OYes, he is,O a cardinal at another table said.

He looked up from his eggs and saw it was the Spaniard from last night. The stout little man was out of his chair.

OThis Church has languished,O the Spaniard said. OItOs time something be done. I can recall when the pope commanded respect. When governments all the way to Moscow cared what Rome did. Now we are nothing. Our priests are forbidden from political involvement. Our bishops are discouraged from taking a stand. Complacent popes are destroying us.O

Another cardinal stood. He was a bearded man from Cameroon. Valendrea hardly knew him and assumed he was NgoviOs. OI didnOt consider Clement XV complacent. He was loved throughout the world and did much in his short time.O

The Spaniard held up his hands. OI donOt mean disrespect. This is not personal. ItOs about what is best for the Church. Luckily, we have a man among us who carries respect in the world. Cardinal Valendrea would be an exemplary pontiff. Why settle for less?O

Valendrea let his gaze settle on Ngovi. If the camerlengo was offended by the remark, he showed nothing.

This was one of those moments that pundits would later describe. How the Holy Spirit swept down and moved the conclave. Though the Apostolic Constitution banned campaigning prior to convening, there was no such prohibition once locked inside the Sistine. In fact, frank discussion was the entire purpose of the secret gathering. He was impressed with the SpaniardOs tactic. HeOd not thought the fool capable of such grandstanding.

OI donOt consider Cardinal Ngovi a settlement for less,O the Cameroon cardinal finally said. OHeOs a man of God. A man of this Church. Above reproach. He would be an excellent pontiff.O

OAnd Valendrea would not?O the French cardinal blurted out, coming to his feet.

Valendrea marveled at the sight, princes of the Church, adorned in robes, openly debating one another. Any other time they would go out of their way to avoid confrontation.

OValendrea is young. He is what this Church needs. Ceremony and rhetoric do not make a leader. ItOs the character of the man that leads the faithful. HeOs proven his character. HeOs served many popesNO

OMy point exactly,O the Cameroon cardinal said. OHeOs never served a diocese. How many confessions has he heard? How many funerals has he presided over? How many parishioners has he counseled? These pastoral experiences are what the throne of St. Peter demand.O

The boldness of the Cameroonian was impressive. Valendrea was unaware that such backbone could still be clothed in scarlet. Quite intuitively, this man had invoked the dreaded pastoral qualification. He made a note that this cardinal would be someone to watch in the years ahead.

OWhat does that matter?O the Frenchman asked. OThe pope is no pastor. ItOs a description scholars like to attach. An excuse we use to vote for one man over the other. It means nothing. The pope is an administrator. He must run this Church, and to do that he must understand the Curia, he must know its workings. Valendrea knows that better than any of us. WeOve had pastoral popes. Give me a leader.O

OPerhaps he knows our workings too well,O the cardinal-archivist said.

Valendrea almost winced. Here was the most senior member of the voting college. His opinion would carry much weight with the eleven stragglers.

OExplain yourself,O the Spaniard demanded.

The archivist stayed seated. OThe Curia already controls too much. We all complain about the bureaucracy, yet we do nothing about it. Why? Because it satisfies our needs. It provides a wall between us and whatever it is we donOt want to occur. So easy to blame everything on the Curia. Why would a pope who is ingrained in that institution do anything to threaten it? Yes, there would be changes, all popes tinker, but no one has demolished and rebuilt.O The old manOs eyes locked on Valendrea. OEspecially one who is a product of that system. We must ask ourselves, would Valendrea be so bold?O He paused. OI think not.O

Valendrea sipped his coffee. Finally, he tabled the cup and calmly said to the archivist, OApparently, Eminence, your vote is clear.O

OI want my last vote to count.O

He tipped his head in a casual gesture. OThat is your right, Eminence. And I would not presume to interfere.O

Ngovi stepped to the center of the room. OPerhaps there has been enough debate. Why donOt we finish our meal and retire to the chapel. There, we can take this up in more detail.O

No one disagreed.

Valendrea was thrilled with the whole display.

A little show-and-tell could only be a good thing.

E

MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA

9:00 A.M.

Katerina was beginning to worry. An hour had passed since sheOd woken to find Michener gone. The storm had passed, but the morning loomed warm and cloudy. SheOd first thought he walked downstairs for coffee, but he was not in the dining room when she checked a few minutes ago. She asked the desk clerk, but the woman knew nothing. Thinking he might have wandered to St. James Church, she walked over. But he was nowhere to be found. It was unlike Colin to leave and not say where he was going, and his travel bag, wallet, and passport were still in the room.

She now stood in the busy square outside the church and debated whether to approach one of the soldiers and enlist their assistance. Buses were already arriving, depositing a new batch of pilgrims. The streets were beginning to clog with traffic as shopkeepers prepared storefronts.

Their evening had been delightful, the talk in the restaurant stimulating, what came afterward even more so. SheOd already decided to tell Alberto Valendrea nothing. SheOd come to Bosnia to be with Michener, not to act as spy. Let Ambrosi and Valendrea think what they might of her. She was simply glad to be here. She didnOt really care about a journalism career any longer. SheOd go to Romania and work with the children. Make her parents proud. Make herself proud. For once, do some good.

SheOd resented Michener for all those years, but sheOd come to realize that fault lay with her, too. Only her shortcomings were worse. Michener loved his God and his Church. She loved only herself. But that was going to change. SheOd see to it. During dinner Michener had complained about never once having saved a soul. Maybe he was wrong. Perhaps she was his first.

She crossed the street and checked inside the information office. No one there had seen anyone matching MichenerOs description. She wandered down the sidewalk, spying into shops on the off chance he was doing a little investigating, trying to learn where the other seers lived. On impulse, she headed in the direction theyOd taken yesterday, past the same parade of white-stuccoed dwellings with red-tiled roofs, back toward JasnaOs residence.

She found the house and knocked on the door.

No one answered.

She retreated to the street. The shutters were drawn. She waited a few moments for any sign from within, but there was nothing. She noticed that JasnaOs car was no longer parked to the side.

She started back toward the hotel.

A woman rushed from the house across the street shouting in Croatian, OItOs so awful. So awful. Jesus help us.O

Her anguish was alarming.

OWhatOs wrong?O she called out in the best Croatian she could muster.

The older woman stopped. Panic filled her eyes. OItOs Jasna. They found her on the mountain, the cross and her hurt by lightning.O

OIs she all right?O

OI donOt know. TheyOre going after her now.O

The woman was distraught to the point of hysteria. Tears flowed from her eyes. She kept crossing herself and clutched a rosary, mumbling a Hail Mary between sobs. OMother of Jesus, save her. Do not let her die. She is blessed.O

OIs it that bad?O

OShe was barely breathing when they found her.O

A thought occurred to her. OWas she alone?O

The woman seemed not to hear her question and kept muttering prayers, pleading with God to save Jasna.

OWas she alone?O she asked again.

The woman caught herself and seemed to register the question. ONo. There was a man there. Bad off. Like her.O

E

VATICAN CITY, 9:30 A.M.

Valendrea made his way up the staircase toward the Sistine Chapel believing that the papacy was within his grasp. All that stood in the way was a cardinal from Kenya who was trying to cling to the failed policies of a pope whoOd killed himself. If it were up to him, and it just might be before the day was through, ClementOs body would be removed from St. PeterOs and shipped back to Germany. He might actually be able to accomplish that feat since ClementOs own willNthe text of which had been published a week agoNhad proclaimed a sincere desire to be buried in Bamberg. The gesture could be interpreted as a loving tribute from the Church to its dead pontiff, one that would surely garner a positive reaction, and one that would likewise rid hallowed ground of a weak soul.

He was still enjoying the display from breakfast. All of AmbrosiOs efforts over the past couple of years were beginning to return dividends. The listening devices had been PaoloOs idea. At first, heOd been nervous at the possibility of their discovery, but Ambrosi had been right. He would have to reward Paolo. He regretted not bringing him into the conclave, but Ambrosi had been left outside with express orders to remove the tape recorders and listening devices while the election was ongoing. It was the perfect time to accomplish that task since the Vatican was in hibernation, all eyes and ears on the Sistine.

He came to the top of a narrow marble staircase. Ngovi stood on the stoop, apparently waiting.

OJudgment day, Maurice,O he said, as he reached the last stair.

OThatOs one way of looking at it.O

The nearest cardinal was fifty feet away and no one else was climbing the steps behind him. Most were already inside. HeOd waited until the last moment to enter. OI wonOt miss your riddles. Yours or ClementOs.O

OIt is the answers to those riddles that interest me.O

OI wish you the best in Kenya. Enjoy the heat.O

He started to walk away.

OYou wonOt win,O Ngovi said.

He turned back. He didnOt like the smug look on the AfricanOs face, but couldnOt help asking, OWhy?O

Ngovi did not answer. He simply brushed past and entered the chapel.

The cardinals took their assigned places. Ngovi stood before the altar, appearing almost insignificant before the chaotic vision of color that was MichelangeloOs Last Judgment.

OBefore the voting begins, I have something to say.O

All 113 cardinals turned their heads toward Ngovi. Valendrea sucked a deep breath. He could do nothing. The camerlengo was still in charge.

OSome of you seem to think I am the one to succeed our most beloved and departed Holy Father. Though your confidence is flattering, I must decline. If I am chosen, I will not accept. Know that, and govern your vote accordingly.O

Ngovi stepped from the altar and took his place among the cardinals.

Valendrea realized that none of the forty-three men supporting Ngovi would stay with him now. They wanted to be part of a winning team. Since their horse had just bolted from the track, their allegiances would shift. With little chance for a third candidate to emerge at this late time, Valendrea quickly clicked off the math. He needed only to keep his present fifty-nine cardinals and add a fraction of NgoviOs headless bloc.

And that could easily be done.

He wanted to ask Ngovi why. The gesture made no sense. Though he denied wanting the papacy, somebody had orchestrated the AfricanOs forty-three votes, and he sure as hell didnOt believe the Holy Spirit had much to do with it. This was a battle between men, organized by men, and executed by men. One or more of the men surrounding him was clearly an enemy, albeit a covert one. A good candidate for the ringleader was the cardinal-archivist, who possessed both the stature and the knowledge. He hoped NgoviOs strength was not a rejection of him. He would need loyalty and enthusiasm in the years ahead, with dissidents being taught a lesson. That would be AmbrosiOs first task. All must understand that there was a price to pay for choosing wrong. But he had to give the African sitting across from him credit. You wonOt win. No. Ngovi was simply handing him the papacy. But who cared.

A winOs a win.

The voting took an hour. After NgoviOs surprise announcement, everyone appeared anxious to end the conclave.

Valendrea did not write down the tally, he just mentally added up each repeat of his name. When the seventy-sixth time occurred, he quit listening. Only when the scrutineers pronounced his election with 102 votes did he focus on the altar.

HeOd many times wondered what this moment would feel like. Now he alone dictated what a billion Catholics would or would not believe. No longer could any cardinal refuse his command. He would be called Holy Father, his every need catered to until the day he died. Cardinals had cried and cowered at this moment. A few had even fled the chapel, screaming their refusal. He realized every eye was about to focus upon him. He was no longer Alberto Cardinal Valendrea, bishop of Florence, secretary of state for the Holy See.

He was pope.

Ngovi approached the altar. Valendrea understood the African was about to perform his final duty as camerlengo. After a moment of prayer, Ngovi walked in silence down the center aisle and stood before him.

ODo you, most reverend Lord Cardinal, accept your election as supreme pontiff, which has been canonically carried out?O

They were words that had been spoken to victors for centuries.

He stared into NgoviOs piercing eyes and tried to sense what the older man was thinking. Why had he refused to be a candidate, knowing a man he despised would almost certainly be selected pontiff? From everything he knew, this African was a devout Catholic. A man who would do whatever was necessary to protect the Church. He was no coward. Yet heOd walked away from a fight he might have won.

He purged those confusing thoughts from his mind and said in a clear voice, OI accept.O It was the first time in decades that Italian had been used in response to that question.

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.

OBy what name will you be known?O 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 predecessorOs dual label. For many years Valendrea had considered what name he would select, debating among the more popular choicesNInnocent, 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.

OPeter II.O

Gasps pierced the chapel. NgoviOs expression never broke. Of the 267 pontiffs, thereOd 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, heOd formally accepted, and heOd 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. OI choose to be known as Peter II,O 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 NgoviOs lips, and the camerlengoOs joining in the applause.

E

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, heOd forgive her. She hated herself for agreeing to ValendreaOs requests. But maybe sheOd 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. ValendreaOs overtures had clearly made things easier, but it didnOt make it right.

MichenerOs eyes blinked open.

OColin.O

OKate?O He was trying to focus.

OIOm here.O

OI hear you, but I canOt see you. ItOs like looking underwater. What happened?O

OLightning. It struck the cross on the mountain. You and Jasna were too close.O

He reached up and rubbed his brow. His fingers gently probed the scrapes and cuts. OShe okay?O

OSeems to be. She was out, like you. What were you doing there?O

OLater.O

OSure. Here, take some water. The doctor said you need to drink.O She brought a cup to his lips and he sucked a few sips.

OWhere am I?O

OA local infirmary the government operates for the pilgrims.O

OThey say whatOs wrong with me?O

ONo concussion. Just too close to a lot of voltage. Any closer and youOd both be dead. NothingOs broken, but youOve got a nasty lump and a gash on the back of your head.O

The door opened and a middle-aged, bearded man entered. OHowOs the patient doing?O he asked in English. OIOm the doctor who treated you, Father. How do you feel?O

OLike an avalanche rolled over me,O Michener said.

OUnderstandable. But youOll be okay. A small cut, but no skull cracks. IOd recommend a complete exam when you get back home. Actually, considering what happened, you were pretty lucky.O

After a quick look and a little more advice the doctor left.

OHowOd he know I was a priest?O

OI had to identify you. You scared the hell out of me.O

OWhat about the conclave?O he asked. OHave you heard anything?O

OWhy am I not surprised thatOs the first thing on your mind.O

OYouOre not interested?O

Actually she was curious. OThere was no news an hour ago.O

She reached out and clasped his hand. He turned his head toward her and said, OI wish I could see you.O

OI love you, Colin.O She felt better having said it.

OAnd I love you, Kate. I should have told you that years ago.O

OYes, you should.O

OI should have done a lot of things differently. I only know that I want my future to include you.O

OAnd what of Rome?O

OIOve done all that I said I would. IOm through with that. I want to go to Romania, with you.O

Her eyes watered. She was glad he couldnOt see her crying. She swiped away the tears. OWeOll do good there,O she said, trying to keep her voice from quivering.

He tightened his grip on her hand.

And she cherished the feeling.

E

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.

OWhere is Father Ambrosi?O he asked one of the priests in attendance.

OHere, Holy Father,O Ambrosi said, entering the room. He liked the sound of those words from his acolyteOs 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 theyOd be speechless.

OYou are now my papal secretary,O he said, as he lifted his scarlet robe up over his head. OMy first command.O 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 heOd spied yesterday. OThat set should do fine.O

The tailor grabbed the selected garments and presented them saying, OSantissimo Padre.O

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. OA bit tight. Get it right.O

Gammarelli ripped the seam and tried again.

OMake sure the thread is secure.O 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 clericOs attire. Ever since the eighteenth century the popeOs 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, OBe seated.O

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 gladNin 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.

ONo congratulations?O Valendrea asked.

Ngovi stopped and turned back. OMay your reign be all that you deserve.O

He wanted to teach the smug son of a bitch a lesson, but this was not the time or place. Maybe that was NgoviOs intent, a provocation to spark an early show of arrogance. So he calmed his emotions and simply said, OI take that to mean good wishes.O

ONothing but.O

When the last cardinal departed the altar, he stood. OI thank you all. I will do my best for the mother Church. Now I believe itOs time to face the world.O

He stomped down the center aisle, through the marble gate, and out the chapelOs 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 whoOd 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, OI told you, Eminence, that I would be patient. Now do your last duty.O

The old manOs 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, OAnnuntio vobis gauduium magnum.O 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, OCardinalem Sanctae Romanae Ecclesiae . . . Valendrea.O

The cheers were deafening. An Italian had regained the throne of St. Peter. Shouts of OViva, VivaO 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, OQui Sibi Imposuit NomenNO

The words came back in an echo. The name that has been chosen isN

OPetrus II.O

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 theyOd 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.

OAre you coming?O

OI am not.O

OIt is your duty as camerlengo.O

OIt is my shame.O

Valendrea took a step back into the alcove. OI let your insolence go in the chapel. DonOt try me again.O

OWhat would you do? Have me imprisoned? My possessions seized? My titles stripped? This is not the Middle Ages.O

The other cardinal standing nearby seemed clearly embarrassed. The man was a staunch supporter, so some show of power was needed. OI will deal with you later, Ngovi.O

OAnd the Lord will deal with you.O

The African turned and walked away.

He wasnOt going to let this moment be ruined. He faced the remaining cardinal. OShall we, Eminence?O

And he stepped out into the sun, his arms extended in a warm embrace to the multitudes who shouted back their approval.

E

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. ThereOd been no word from the doctor and he hoped she was all right.

The door opened.

OSheOs okay,O Katerina said. OApparently you both were just far enough away. Only a couple of nasty bumps to the head.O She stood beside the bed. OAnd thereOs more news.O

He looked at her, glad to once again see her lovely face.

OValendrea is pope. I saw it on television. He just finished addressing the crowd in St. PeterOs. Made a plea for a return to the ChurchOs roots. And get this, he chose Peter II as his name.O

ORomania is looking better and better.O

She offered a half grin. OSo tell me, was the climb to the top worth it?O

OWhat do you mean?O

OWhatever you and she were doing on that mountain last night.O

OJealous?O

OMore curious.O

He realized some explanation was owed. OShe was supposed to tell me the tenth secret.O

OIn the middle of a storm?O

ODonOt 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.O

He decided to say nothing about his hallucination, but his memory of the vision remained clear, like a dream that wouldnOt let go. The doctor had said heOd been unconscious for several hours. So whatever he saw or heard was only a manifestation of all that heOd 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 heOd seen at JasnaOs house yesterday.

Or was it?

OLook, I donOt know what Jasna had in mind. She told me that to learn the secret I needed to come with her. So I went.O

OYou didnOt find the situation a bit strange?O

OThis whole thing is strange.O

OSheOs coming here.O

OWhat do you mean?O

OJasna said sheOs coming here to see you. They were readying her when I left.O

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.

OI wanted to see if you were all right,O she said in weak voice.

OI was wondering the same about you.O

OI only took you there because the Lady told me to. I meant no harm.O

For the first time she sounded human. OI donOt blame you for anything. I chose to go.O

OIOm told the cross is permanently scarred. A blackened slash down its white length.O

OIs that your sign to the atheists?O Katerina asked, a touch of scorn in her inquiry.

OI have no idea,O Jasna said.

OPerhaps todayOs message to the faithful might clear up everything.O Katerina apparently wasnOt 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.

OThe Lady has come for the final time.O

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 sheOd 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 oneNa voice never to be heard again, counsel and comfort gone forever. As with his parents. And Jakob Volkner.

Her sadness suddenly became his.

OThe Virgin revealed to me last night, on the mountaintop, the tenth secret.O

He recalled what little heOd heard her say through the storm. I can remember. I know I can. Dear Lady, I had no idea.

OI wrote down what she said.O She handed him a folded sheet of paper. OThe Lady said for me to give it to you.O

ODid she say anything else?O

OIt was then she vanished.O Jasna motioned to the older woman behind the chair. OIOm going back to my room. Get well, Father Michener. I will pray for you.O

OAnd I for you, Jasna,O he said, meaning it.

She left.

OColin, that woman is a fraud. CanOt you see it?O KaterinaOs voice was rising.

OI donOt know what she is, Kate. If sheOs a fraud, sheOs a good one. She believes what sheOs saying. And even if sheOs a fake, that scam just ended. The visions are over.O

She motioned to the paper. OAre you going to read it? ThereOs no papal order this time forbidding it.O

That was true. He unfolded the sheet, but focusing on the page made his head ache. He handed the writing to her.

OI canOt. Read it to me.O

VATICAN CITY, 1:00 P.M.

Valendrea stood in the audience chamber and accepted congratulations from the staff in the Secretariat of State. Ambrosi had already indicated a desire to move many of the priests and most of the secretaries to the papal office. He hadnOt argued. If he expected Ambrosi to cater to his every need, the least he could do was allow him to choose his own subordinates.

Ambrosi had left his side only sparingly since the morning, standing dutifully beyond the balcony as heOd addressed the throngs in St. PeterOs Square. Ambrosi had then monitored radio and television reports, which he reported were mainly positive, especially at ValendreaOs choice of label, the commentators agreeing that this could be a significant pontificate. Valendrea imagined even Tom Kealy stuttering a second or so as the words Peter II left his mouth. ThereOd be no more best-selling priests during his reign. Clerics would be doing as they were told. If not, theyOd be firedNstarting with Kealy. HeOd already told Ambrosi to defrock the idiot by the end of the week.

And there would be more changes.

The papal tiara would be resurrected, a coronation scheduled. Trumpets would sound at his entrance. Fans and drawn sabers would once again accompany him during the liturgy. And the gestatorial chair would be restored. Paul VI had changed most of thoseNa few momentary lapses in good judgment, or perhaps a reaction to his own timesNbut Valendrea would rectify all that.

The last of the well-wishers streamed by and he motioned to Ambrosi, who drew close. OThere is something I need to do,O he whispered. OEnd this.O

Ambrosi turned to the crowd. OEveryone, the Holy Father is hungry. He hasnOt eaten since breakfast. And we all know how our pontiff enjoys his meals.O

Laughter echoed through the hall.

OFor those he has not spoken with, I will make time later in the day.O

OMay the Lord bless each of you,O Valendrea said.

He followed Ambrosi from the hall to his office at the Secretariat of State. The papal apartments had been unsealed half an hour ago, and many of his belongings from his third-floor chambers were now being moved to the fourth floor. In the days ahead he would visit the museums and basement storage facilities. HeOd already provided Ambrosi with a list of items he wanted as part of the apartment dZcor. He was proud of his planning. Most of the decisions made over the last few hours had been contemplated long ago and the effect was of a pope in charge, doing the appropriate thing in the appropriate manner.

In his office, with the door closed, he turned to Ambrosi. OFind the cardinal-archivist. Tell him to be standing before the Riserva in fifteen minutes.O

Ambrosi bowed and withdrew.

He stepped into the bathroom adjoining his office. He was still incensed by NgoviOs arrogance. The African was right. There was little he could do to him besides reassignment to a post far from Rome. But that wouldnOt be wise. The soon-to-be-ex-camerlengo had amassed a surprising show of support. It would be foolish to pounce this soon. Patience was the call. But that didnOt mean heOd forgotten Maurice Ngovi.

He splashed water onto his face and dried off with a towel.

The door to the outer office opened and Ambrosi returned. OThe archivist is waiting.O

He tossed the towel onto the marble counter. OGood. LetOs go.O

He stormed from the office and descended to the ground floor. The startled looks on the Swiss guards he passed showed that they were not accustomed to a pope appearing without warning.

He entered the archives.

The reading and collection rooms were empty. No one had been allowed use of the facility since Clement died. He stepped into the main hall and crossed the mosaic floor toward the iron grille. The cardinal-archivist stood outside. No one else was there except Ambrosi.

He approached the old man. ONeedless to say, your services will no longer be needed. I would retire, if I were you. Be gone by the weekend.O

OMy desk is already cleaned out.O

OI have not forgotten your comments this morning at breakfast.O

OPlease donOt. When we both stand before the Lord, I want you to repeat them.O

He wanted to slap the mouthy Italian. Instead, he simply asked, OIs the safe open?O

The old man nodded.

He turned to Ambrosi. OWait here.O

For so long, others had commanded the Riserva. Paul VI. John Paul II. Clement XV. Even the irritating archivist. No more.

He rushed inside, reached for the drawer, and slid it open. The wooden box came into view. He lifted it out and carried it to the same table Paul VI had sat at all those decades ago.

He hinged open the lid and saw two sheets of paper interfolded. One, clearly older, was the first part of the third secret of FatimaNin Sister LuciaOs handNthe back of the sheet still bearing a Vatican mark from when the message was made public in 2000. The other, newer, was Father TiborOs 1960 Italian translation, it, too, marked.

But there should be another sheet.

Father TiborOs recent facsimile, which Clement himself had placed in the box. Where was it? HeOd come to finish the job. To protect the Church and preserve his sanity.

Yet the paper was gone.

He rushed from the Riserva and shot straight for the archivist. He grabbed the old man by his robes. A great surge of anger swept through him. The cardinalOs face filled with shock.

OWhere is it?O he spat out.

OWhat . . . do . . . you mean?O the old man stammered.

OIOm in no mood. Where is it?O

OI have touched nothing. I swear to you before my God.O

He could see the man was being truthful. This was not the source of the problem. He released his grip and the cardinal stepped back, clearly frightened by the assault.

OGet out of here,O he told the archivist.

The old man hustled away.

A thought flooded his mind. Clement. That Friday night when the pope allowed him to destroy half of what Tibor had sent.

I wanted you to know what awaits you, Alberto.

Why didnOt you stop me from burning the paper?

YouOll see.

And when he demanded the remaining portionNTiborOs translation.

No, Alberto. It stays in the box.

He should have shoved the bastard aside and done what had to be done, regardless of whether the night prefect was there.

Now he saw everything clearly.

The translation was never in the box. Did it even exist? Yes, it did. No question. And Clement had wanted him to know.

Now it had to be found.

He turned to Ambrosi. OGo to Bosnia. Bring Colin Michener back. No excuses, no exceptions. I want him here tomorrow. Tell him if heOs not, IOll have a warrant issued for his arrest.O

OThe charge, Holy Father?O Ambrosi asked, almost matter-of-factly. OSo I may say, if he asks.O

He thought a moment, then said, OComplicity in the murder of Father Andrej Tibor.O

The Third Secret

Part Four

Fifty-Four

MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA

6:00 P.M.

KaterinaOs stomach knotted as she spotted Father Ambrosi entering the hospital. She immediately noticed the addition of scarlet piping and a red sash to his black wool cassock, signifying an elevation to monsignor. Apparently Peter II wasted no time handing out the spoils.

Michener was resting in his room. All the tests run on him had come back negative, and the doctor predicted he should be fine by tomorrow. They planned to leave for Bucharest at lunchtime. The presence of Ambrosi, though, here in Bosnia, meant nothing but trouble.

Ambrosi spotted her and approached. OIOm told Father Michener had a close call with death.O

She resented his feigned concern, which was clearly for public consumption. OScrew you, Ambrosi.O She kept her voice low. OThis fountain is dry.O

He shook his head in a gesture to convey mock disgust. OLove truly does conquer all. No matter. We require nothing further from you.O

But she did of him. OI donOt want Colin to learn anything about you and me.O

OIOm sure you donOt.O

OIOll tell him myself. Understand?O

He did not answer.

The tenth secret, written by Jasna, was in her pocket. She almost yanked the slip of paper out and forced the words onto Ambrosi, but what heaven might want was surely of no interest to this arrogant ass. Whether the message was from the mother of God or the lamentations of a woman convinced she was divinely chosen, nobody would ever know. But she wondered how the Church and Alberto Valendrea would explain away the tenth secret, particularly after accepting the previous nine from Medjugorje.

OWhere is Michener?O Ambrosi asked, the tone expressionless.

OWhat do you want with him?O

OI want nothing, but his pope is another matter.O

OLeave him alone.O

OOh, my. The lioness bares her claws.O

OGet out of here, Ambrosi.O

OIOm afraid you donOt tell me what to do. The word of the papal secretary, I imagine, would carry much weight here. Surely more than that of an unemployed journalist.O He moved around her.

She quickly stepped in his way. OI mean it, Ambrosi. Back off. Tell Valendrea that ColinOs through with Rome.O

OHeOs still a priest in the Roman Catholic Church, subject to the authority of the pope. He will do as told, or face the consequences.O

OWhat does Valendrea want?O

OWhy donOt we go to Michener,O Ambrosi said, Oand IOll explain. I assure you, itOs worth listening to.O

She entered the room with Ambrosi following. Michener was sitting up in bed and his face constricted at the site of his visitor.

OI bring you greetings from Peter II,O Ambrosi said. OWe learned about what happenedNO

OAnd just had to fly over to let me know your deep concern.O

Ambrosi kept a stone face. Katerina wondered if heOd been born with the ability or mastered the technique through years of deceit.

OWeOre aware of why you are in Bosnia,O Ambrosi said. OIOve been sent to ascertain if you have learned anything from the seers?O

ONot a thing.O

She was impressed with MichenerOs ability to lie, too.

OMust I go and find out if youOre being truthful?O

ODo whatever you want.O

OThe information being circulated around town is that the tenth secret was revealed to the seer, Jasna, last night, and the visions are now over. The priests here are quite upset over that prospect.O

ONo more tourists? The money flow ended?O She couldnOt resist.

Ambrosi faced her. OPerhaps you should wait outside. This is Church business.O

OSheOs not going anywhere,O Michener said. OWith all you and Valendrea have surely been doing the past two days, youOre worried about whatOs happening here in Bosnia? Why?O

Ambrosi folded both hands behind his back. OIOm the one asking questions.O

OThen by all means fire away.O

OThe Holy Father commands you back to Rome.O

OYou know what you can tell the Holy Father.O

OSuch disrespect. At least we openly did not scorn Clement XV.O

MichenerOs face hardened. OThatOs supposed to impress me? You just did everything possible to thwart what he was trying to do.O

OI was hoping youOd be difficult.O

The tone of AmbrosiOs comment worried her. He seemed immensely pleased.

OIOm to inform you that if you do not come voluntarily, a warrant for your arrest will be issued through the Italian government.O

OWhat are you babbling about?O Michener asked.

OThe papal nuncio in Bucharest has informed His Holiness of your meeting with Father Tibor. HeOs upset he was not part of whatever you and Clement were doing. The Romanian authorities are now interested in talking with you. They, as we, are curious as to what the late pope wanted with that aging priest.O

KaterinaOs throat tightened. This was drifting into dangerous waters. Michener, though, seemed unfazed. OWho said Clement was interested in Father Tibor?O

Ambrosi shrugged. OYou? Clement? Who cares? All that matters is you went to see him and the Romanian police want to talk with you. The Holy See can either block that effort, or aid it. Which would you prefer?O

ODonOt care.O

Ambrosi turned around and faced Katerina. OWhat about you? Do you care?O

She realized the asshole was playing his trump card. Get Michener back to Rome or heOd learn, right now, how sheOd so easily found him in Bucharest and Rome.

OWhatOs she got to do with this?O Michener quickly asked.

Ambrosi hesitated for an agonizing pause. She wanted to slap his face, as she had in Rome, but she did nothing.

Ambrosi turned back to Michener. OI was only wondering what she might think. I understand sheOs a Romanian by birth, familiar with her countryOs police. I imagine their interrogation techniques are something one might want to avoid.O

OCare to tell me how you know so much about her?O

OFather Tibor spoke with the papal nuncio in Bucharest. He told him about Ms. Lew being present when you talked with him. I simply learned of her background.O

She was impressed with AmbrosiOs explanation. If not for knowing the truth, she would have believed it herself.

OLeave her out of this,O Michener said.

OWill you return to Rome?O

OIOll go back.O

The response surprised her.

Ambrosi nodded approval. OI have a plane available in Split. When will you leave this hospital?O

OIn the morning.O

OBe ready at seven A.M.O Ambrosi headed for the door. OAnd IOll pray this eveningNO He paused a moment. ONfor your speedy recovery.O

Then he left.

OIf heOs praying for me, IOm in real trouble,O Michener said as the door closed.

OWhy did you agree to go back? He was bluffing about Romania.O

Michener shifted in the bed and she helped him get situated. OI have to talk with Ngovi. He needs to know what Jasna said.O

OFor what? You canOt believe any of what she wrote. That secret is ludicrous.O

OMaybe so. But itOs the tenth secret of Medjugorje, whether we believe it or not. I need to give it to Ngovi.O

She adjusted the pillow. OEver heard of fax machines?O

OI donOt want to argue about this, Kate. Besides, IOm curious whatOs important enough for Valendrea to send his errand boy. Apparently thereOs something big involved, and I think I know what it is.O

OThe third secret of Fatima?O

He nodded. OBut it still makes no sense. That secret is known to the world.O

She recalled what Father Tibor had said in his messages to Clement. Do as the Madonna said . . . How much intolerance will heaven allow?

OThis whole thing is beyond logic,O Michener said.

She wanted to know, OHave you and Ambrosi always been enemies?O

He nodded. OI wonder how a man like that became a priest. If not for Valendrea, he never would have made it to Rome. TheyOre perfect for one another.O He hesitated, as if in thought. OI imagine thereOs going to be a lot of changes.O

OThatOs not your problem,O she said, hoping he wasnOt changing his mind about their future.

ODonOt worry, IOm not having second thoughts. But I wonder if the Romanian authorities are truly interested in me.O

OWhat do you mean?O

OCould be a smokescreen.O

She looked puzzled.

OClement sent me an e-mail the night he died. In it he told me that Valendrea may have removed part of the original third secret long ago when he worked for Paul VI.O

She listened with interest.

OClement and Valendrea went into the Riserva together the night before Clement died. Valendrea also took an unscheduled trip from Rome the next day.O

She instantly saw the significance. OThe Saturday Father Tibor was murdered?O

OConnect the dots and a picture starts to form.O

The image of Ambrosi, his knee jammed into her chest, his hands wrapped around her throat, flashed through her mind. Had Valendrea and Ambrosi been involved with TiborOs murder? She wanted to tell Michener what she knew, but realized that her explanation would generate far too many questions than she was presently willing to answer. Instead, she asked, OCould Valendrea have been involved with Father TiborOs death?O

OHard to say. But heOs certainly capable. As is Ambrosi. I still think Ambrosi is bluffing, though. The last thing the Vatican wants is attention. IOm betting our new pope will do whatever he can to keep the spotlight off him.O

OBut Valendrea could direct that spotlight somewhere else.O

Michener seemed to understand. OLike onto me.O

She nodded. ONothing better than an ex-employee to blame everything on.O

Valendrea donned one of the white cassocks the House of Gammarelli had crafted during the afternoon. HeOd been right this morningNhis measurements were on file, and it had been easy to fashion the appropriate garments in a short period of time. The seamstresses had done their job well. He admired good work and made a mental note to have Ambrosi forward an official thanks.

He hadnOt heard from Ambrosi since Paolo had left for Bosnia. But he had no doubt that his friend would tend to his mission. Ambrosi knew what was at stake. HeOd made things clear to him that night in Romania. Colin Michener had to be brought to Rome. Clement XV had cleverly thought aheadNheOd give the German thatNand had apparently concluded that Valendrea would succeed him, so heOd purposely removed TiborOs latest translation, knowing there was no way he could start his papacy with that potential disaster looming.

But where was it?

Michener surely knew.

The telephone rang.

He was in his bedroom on the third floor of the palace. The papal apartments were still being prepared.

The phone rang again.

He wondered about the interruption. It was nearly eight P.M. He was trying to dress for his first formal dinner, this one a celebration of thanks with the cardinals, and had left word not to be disturbed.

Another ring.

He lifted the receiver.

OHoly Father, Father Ambrosi is calling and asked that I connect him. He said it was important.O

ODo it.O

A few clicks and Ambrosi said, OI have done as you asked.O

OAnd the reaction?O

OHe will be there tomorrow.O

OHis health?O

ONothing severe.O

OHis traveling companion?O

OBeing her usual charming self.O

OLetOs keep that one happy, for the present.O Ambrosi had told him about her assault on him in Rome. At the time she was their best conduit to Michener, but the situation had changed.

ONothing from me will affect that.O

OTill tomorrow then,O he said. OHave a safe trip.O

E

VATICAN CITY

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 30

1:00 P.M.

Michener sat in the backseat of a Vatican car, Katerina beside him. Ambrosi was in the front, and on his command they were waved through the Arch of the Bells into the privacy of the St. Damascus courtyard. A warren of ancient buildings surrounded them, blocking the midday sun, casting the pavement in an indigo hue.

For the first time he felt uneasy about being inside the Vatican. The men in charge now were manipulators. Enemies. He needed to be careful, watch his words, and get whatever was about to happen over with as quickly as possible.

The car stopped and they climbed out.

Ambrosi led them into a drawing room encased on three sides with stained glass where popes, for centuries, had greeted guests beneath the impressive murals. They followed Ambrosi through a maze of loggias and galleries littered with candelabra and tapestries surrounded by walls bursting with images of popes receiving homage from emperors and kings.

Michener knew where they were headed, and Ambrosi stopped outside the bronze door leading into the papal library where Gorbachev, Mandela, Carter, Yeltsin, Reagan, Bush, Clinton, Rabin, and Arafat had all visited.

OMs. Lew will be waiting in the forward loggia when you are through,O Ambrosi said. OIn the meantime, you will not be disturbed.O

Surprisingly Katerina did not object to being excluded and walked off with Ambrosi.

He opened the door and entered.

Three leaded-glass windows bathed the five-hundred-year-old bookshelves with fractured waves of light. Valendrea sat behind a desk, the same one popes had used for half a millennium. A panel depicting the Madonna graced the wall behind him. An upholstered armchair was angled in front of the desk, but Michener knew only heads of state were privileged to sit before the pope.

Valendrea stepped around the desk. The pope held out his hand, palm-down, and Michener knew what was expected of him. He stared deep into the TuscanOs eyes. This was the moment of submission. He debated what to do, but decided discretion was a better tack, at least until he learned what this demon wanted. He knelt and kissed the ring, noticing that the Vatican jewelers had already crafted a new one.

OI am told Clement took pleasure in extracting a similar gesture from His Eminence, Cardinal Bartolo, in Turin. I will pass on to the good cardinal your respect for church protocol.O

Michener stood. OWhat do you want?O He did not add Holy Father.

OHow are your injuries?O

OSurely you donOt care.O

OWhat would make you think otherwise?O

OThe respect youOve shown me the past three years.O

Valendrea stepped back toward the desk. OI assume youOre trying to provoke a response. IOll ignore your tone.O

He asked again, OWhat do you want?O

OI want what Clement removed from the Riserva.O

OI was unaware anything was gone.O

OI am not in the mood. Clement told you everything.O

He recalled things Clement had told him. I allowed Valendrea to read what is in the Fatima box . . . In 1978 he removed from the Riserva part of the VirginOs third message.

OSeems to me youOre the thief.O

OBold words to your pope. Can you back them up?O

He wasnOt taking that bait. Let the son of a bitch wonder what he knew.

Valendrea moved toward him. He seemed quite comfortable dressed in white, the skullcap nearly lost in his thick mane. OIOm not asking, Michener. IOm ordering you to tell me where that writing is.O

There was a tinge of desperation in the command that made him wonder if ClementOs e-mail ramblings were more than those of a depressed soul about to die. OI didnOt know anything was gone, until a moment ago.O

OAnd IOm supposed to believe that?O

OBelieve what you want.O

OIOve had the papal apartments and Castle Gandolfo searched. You have ClementOs personal belongings. I want them checked.O

OWhat is it youOre looking for?O

Valendrea appraised him with a suspicious gaze. OI canOt decide if you are being truthful or not.O

He shrugged. OTrust me. I am.O

OAll right. Father Tibor reproduced Sister LuciaOs third message of Fatima. He sent his facsimile of both the original the good nun penned and his translation to Clement. The reproduced translation is now gone from the Riserva.O

Michener was beginning to understand. OSo you did take part of the third secret in 1978.O

OI simply want what that priest concocted. Where are ClementOs belongings?O

OI gave his furniture to charity. The rest I have.O

OHave you been through them?O

He lied. OOf course.O

OAnd you found nothing from Father Tibor?O

OWould you believe me if I answered?O

OWhy should I?O

OBecause IOm such a nice guy.O

Valendrea went silent for a moment. Michener stayed silent, too.

OWhat did you learn in Bosnia?O

He noticed the shift in subjects. ONot to climb a mountain in a rainstorm.O

OI see why Clement treasured you. A quick wit, matched by a sharp intellect.O He paused. ONow answer my question.O

He reached into his pocket, withdrew JasnaOs note, and handed the slip of paper to the pope. OThatOs the tenth secret of Medjugorje.O

Valendrea accepted the offering and read. The Tuscan drew a deep breath and his gaze shifted pointedly from the sheet to MichenerOs face. A low moan seeped from the popeOs mouth and, without warning, Valendrea lunged forward and grabbed two handfuls of MichenerOs black cassock, the paper still in his hand. Fury filled the eyes that stared upon him. OWhere is TiborOs reproduced translation?O

He was shocked by the attack, but kept his composure. OI considered JasnaOs words meaningless. Why do they bother you?O

OHer ramblings mean nothing. What I want is Father TiborOs facsimileNO

OIf the words are meaningless, why am I being assaulted?O

Valendrea seemed to realize the situation and released his grip. OTiborOs translation is Church property. I want it returned.O

OThen you need to dispatch the Swiss guard to locate it.O

OYou have forty-eight hours to produce it or IOll have a warrant issued for your arrest.O

OOn what charge?O

OTheft of Vatican property. IOll also turn you over to the Romanian police. They want to know about your visit with Father Tibor.O The words crackled with authority.

OIOm sure theyOll want to know about your visit with him, too.O

OWhat visit?O

He needed Valendrea to think he knew far more than he did. OYou left the Vatican the day Tibor was killed.O

OSince you seem to have all the answers, tell me where I went.O

OI know enough.O

ODo you really believe you can carry that bluff through? You plan to implicate the pope in a murder investigation? That effort would not get far.O

He tried another bluff. OYou werenOt alone.O

OReally now? Tell me more.O

OIOll wait until my police interrogation. The Romanians will be fascinated. That much I guarantee.O

A flushed look invaded ValendreaOs face. OYou have no idea whatOs at stake here. This is more important than you could ever realize.O

OYou sound like Clement.O

OOn this he was right.O Valendrea looked away for a moment, then turned back. ODid Clement tell you that he watched while I burned part of what Tibor sent him? He stood right there in the Riserva and let me destroy it. He also wanted me to know that the rest of what Tibor sent, a facsimile translation of Sister LuciaOs complete message, was there, too, in the box. But it is now gone. Clement didnOt want anything to happen to it. That much I know. So he gave it to you.O

OWhy is this translation so important?O

OI donOt plan to explain myself. I simply want the document returned.O

OHow do you know it was even there?O

OI donOt. But no one returned to the archives after that Friday night, and Clement was dead two days later.O

OAlong with Father Tibor.O

OWhatOs that supposed to mean?O

OWhatever you want it to mean.O

OIOll do whatever I have to do to get that document.O

A bitter edge laced to the words. OI believe you would.O He needed to leave. OAm I dismissed?O

OGet out. But IOd better hear from you in two days time or you wonOt like my next messenger.O

He wondered what that meant. The police? Somebody else? Hard to say.

OEver wonder how Ms. Lew found you in Romania?O Valendrea casually asked as he reached the door.

Did he hear right? How did he know anything about Katerina? He stopped and looked back.

OShe was there because I paid her to learn what you were doing.O

He was stunned, but said nothing.

OBosnia, too. She went to keep an eye on you. I told her to use her talents to gain your trust, as she apparently did.O

He rushed forward, but Valendrea produced a small black controller. OOne press and Swiss guards charge into this room. Assaulting the pope is a serious crime.O

He halted his advance and repressed a shudder.

OYou arenOt the first man to be duped by a woman. SheOs clever. But IOm telling you this as a warning. Careful whom you trust, Michener. ThereOs much at stake. You may not realize it, but I may be the only friend youOve got when all this is over.O

Michener left the library. Ambrosi was waiting outside but did not accompany him to the forward loggia, saying only that the car and driver would take him wherever he wanted to go.

Katerina sat alone on a gilded settee. He was trying to understand what had motivated her to deceive him. HeOd wondered about her finding him in Bucharest, then showing up at the apartment in Rome. He wanted to believe everything that had passed between them had been sincere, but he could not help thinking that it was all an act, designed to sway his emotions and lower his defenses. HeOd been worried about the household staff or listening devices. Instead the one person he trusted had become his enemyOs perfect emissary.

At Turin, Clement had warned him. You have no idea the depth of a person like Alberto Valendrea. You think you can do battle with Valendrea? No, Colin. YouOre no match for him. YouOre too decent. Too trusting.

His throat tightened as he came close to Katerina. Perhaps his strained expression betrayed his thoughts.

OHe told you about me, didnOt he?O Her voice was sad.

OYou expected that?O

OAmbrosi almost did yesterday. I figured Valendrea certainly would. IOm of no use to them anymore.O

Emotions ricocheted through him.

OI told them nothing, Colin. Absolutely nothing. I took ValendreaOs money and I went to Romania and Bosnia. ThatOs true. But because I wanted to go, not because they wanted me to. I used them, like they used me.O

The words sounded good, but were not enough to ease his pain. He calmly asked, ODoes the truth mean anything to you?O

She bit her lip and he noticed her right arm trembling. Anger, which was her usual response to a confrontation, had not surfaced. When she did not answer him, he said, OI trusted you, Kate. I told you things I would never tell anyone else.O

OAnd I didnOt violate that trust.O

OHow am I to believe you?O Though he wanted to.

OWhat did Valendrea say?O

OEnough for us to be having this conversation.O

He was rapidly numbing. His parents were gone, as was Jakob Volkner. Now Katerina had betrayed him. For the first time in his life he was alone, and suddenly the weight of being an unwanted baby, born in an institution and stripped from his mother, settled upon him. He was in many ways lost, with nowhere to turn. HeOd thought with Clement gone the woman standing before him held the answer to his future. He was even willing to discard a quarter century of his life for the chance to love her and be loved back.

But how could that possibly be now?

A moment of strained silence passed between them. Awkward and embarrassing.

OOkay, Colin,O she finally said. OI get the message. IOll go.O

She turned to leave.

The heels of her shoes tapped off the marble as she walked away. He wanted to tell her it was okay. DonOt leave. Stop. But he couldnOt bring himself to speak the words.

He headed in the opposite direction, down to ground level. He wasnOt about to use the car Ambrosi had offered. He wanted nothing more from this place except to be left alone.

He was inside the Vatican without credentials or an escort, but his face was so well known that none of the guards questioned his presence. He came to the end of a long loggia filled with planispheres and globes. Ahead, Maurice Ngovi stood in the opposite doorway.

OI heard you were here,O Ngovi said as he approached. OI also know what happened in Bosnia. You okay?O

He nodded. OI was going to call you later.O

OWe need to talk.O

OWhere?O

Ngovi seemed to understand and motioned for him to follow. They walked in silence to the archives. The reading rooms were once again full of scholars, historians, and journalists. Ngovi found the cardinal-archivist and the three men headed for one of the reading rooms. Once inside with the door closed, Ngovi said, OI think this place is reasonably private.O

Michener turned to the archivist. OI thought youOd be unemployed by now.O

OIOve been ordered out by the weekend. My replacement arrives the day after tomorrow.O

He knew what the job meant to the old man. OIOm sorry. But I think youOre better off.O

OWhat did our pontiff want with you?O Ngovi asked.

Michener plopped down in one of the chairs. OHe thinks I have a document that was supposedly in the Riserva. Something Father Tibor sent to Clement that concerns the third secret of Fatima. Some facsimile of a translation. I have no idea what heOs talking about.O

Ngovi gave the archivist a strange look.

OWhat is it?O Michener asked.

Ngovi told him about ValendreaOs visit yesterday to the Riserva.

OHe was like a madman,O the archivist said. OHe kept saying something was gone from the box. I was truly frightened of him. God help this Church.O

ODid Valendrea explain anything?O Ngovi asked him.

He told them both what the pope had said.

OThat Friday night,O the cardinal-archivist said, Owhen Clement and Valendrea were in the Riserva together, something was burned. We found ashes on the floor.O

OClement said nothing to you about that?O Michener asked.

The archivist shook his head. ONot a word.O

A lot of the pieces were coming together, but there was still a problem. He said, OThis whole thing is bizarre. Sister Lucia herself verified in 2000 the authenticity of the third secret before it was released by John Paul.O

Ngovi nodded. OI was present. The original writing was taken, in the box, from the Riserva to Portugal, and she confirmed that the document was the same one she penned in 1944. But, Colin, the box contained only two sheets of paper. I myself was there when it was opened. There was an original writing and an Italian translation. Nothing more.O

OIf the message was incomplete, would she not have said something?O Michener asked.

OShe was so old and frail,O Ngovi said. OI recall how she merely glanced at the page and nodded. I was told her eyesight was poor, her hearing gone.O

OMaurice asked me to check,O the archivist said. OValendrea and Paul VI entered the Riserva on May 18, 1978. Valendrea returned an hour later, on PaulOs express order, and stayed there, alone, for fifteen minutes.O

Ngovi nodded. OIt seems whatever Father Tibor sent to Clement opened a door Valendrea thought long closed.O

OAnd it may have cost Tibor his life.O He considered the situation. OValendrea called whatever is gone a facsimile translation. Translation of what?O

OColin,O Ngovi said. OThere is apparently more to the third secret of Fatima than we know.O

OAnd Valendrea thinks I have it.O

ODo you?O Ngovi asked.

He shook his head. OIf I did, IOd give him the damn thing. IOm sick of this and just want out.O

OAny thoughts as to what Clement might have done with TiborOs reproduction?O

He hadnOt really considered the point. ONo idea. Stealing was not like Clement.O Neither was committing suicide, but he knew better than to say anything. The archivist had no knowledge of that. But he sensed from NgoviOs expression the Kenyan was thinking the same thing.

OAnd what of Bosnia?O Ngovi asked.

OStranger than Romania.O

He showed them JasnaOs message. HeOd given Valendrea a copy, keeping the original.

OWe canOt put too much credence in this,O Ngovi said, motioning with JasnaOs words. OMedjugorje seems more a sideshow than a religious experience. This tenth secret could simply be the seerOs imagination and, quite frankly, considering its scope, I have to seriously question if that isnOt so.O

OMy thoughts exactly,O Michener said. OJasna has convinced herself itOs real and seems caught up in the experience. Yet Valendrea reacted strongly when he read the message.O He told them what had just happened.

OThatOs the way he was in the Riserva,O the archivist said. OA madman.O

Michener stared hard at Ngovi. OWhatOs going on here, Maurice?O

OI am at a loss. Years back, as a bishop, I and others spent three months studying the third secret at John PaulOs request. That message was so different from the first two. They were precise, detailed, but the third secret was more a parable. His Holiness thought guidance from the Church, in its interpretation, was called for. And I agreed. But never did we consider the message incomplete.O

Ngovi motioned to a thick, oversized volume lying on the table. The huge manuscript was ancient, its pages so aged they appeared charred. The cover was scrawled in Latin, surrounded by colorful drawings depicting what appeared to be popes and cardinals. The words LIGNUM VITAE were barely visible in faded crimson ink.

Ngovi sat in one of the chairs and asked Michener, OWhat do you know of St. Malachy?O

OEnough to question whether the man was genuine.O

OI assure you, his prophecies are real. This volume here was published in Venice in 1595 by a Dominican historian, Arnold Wion, as the definitive account of what St. Malachy himself wrote of his visions.O

OMaurice, those visions occurred in the middle of the twelfth century. Four hundred years passed before Wion began writing everything down. IOve heard all the tales. Who knows what Malachy said, if anything. His words have not survived.O

OBut MalachyOs writings were here in 1595,O the archivist said. OOur indexes show that. So Wion would have had access to them.O

OIf WionOs book survived, why didnOt MalachyOs text?O

Ngovi motioned to the book. OEven if WionOs writing is a forgery, his prophecies instead of MalachyOs, they, too, are remarkable in their accuracy. Made even more so with whatOs happened over the past couple of days.O

Ngovi offered him three typed sheets. Michener scanned the pages and saw that it was a narrative summary.

Malachy was an Irishman, born in 1094. He became a priest at age twenty-five, a bishop at thirty. In 1139 he left Ireland for Rome, where he delivered an account of his diocese to Pope Innocent II. While there he experienced a strange vision of the future, a long list of men who would one day rule the Church. He committed his vision to parchment and presented Innocent with the manuscript. The pope read the offering, then sealed it in the archives where it remained until 1595, when Arnold Wion again recorded the list of pontiffs Malachy had seen, along with MalachyOs prophetical mottoes, starting with Celestine II, in 1143, and ending 111 popes later with the supposed last pontiff.

OThereOs no evidence that Malachy even experienced visions,O Michener said. OAs I recall, that was all added to the story in the late nineteenth century from secondhand sources.O

ORead some of the mottoes,O Ngovi calmly said.

He stared again at the pages in his hand. The eighty-first pope was prophesied to be The Lily and the Rose. Urban VIII, who served at that time, came from Florence, which used the red lily as its symbol. He was also bishop of Spoletto, which took the rose for its symbol. The ninety-fourth pope was said to be A Rose of Umbria. Clement XIII, before becoming pope, was governor of Umbria. Apostolic Wanderer was the predicted motto for the ninety-sixth pope. Pius VI would end his days a wandering prisoner of the French revolutionists. Leo XIII was the 102nd pope. A Light in the Sky was his attributed motto. The papal arms of Leo showed a comet. John XXIII was said to be Shepherd and Sailor. Apt since he defined his pontificate as that of a shepherd and the badge of Vatican II, which he called into session, displayed a cross and a ship. Also, prior to his election, John was patriarch of Venice, an ancient maritime capital.

Michener looked up. OInteresting, but what does this have to do with anything?O

OClement was the one hundred and eleventh pope. Malachy labeled him From the Glory of the Olive. Do you recall the gospel of Matthew, chapter 24, the signs of the end of the age?O

He did. Jesus left the Temple and was walking away when his disciples complimented the beauty of the building. I tell you the truth, He said. Not one stone here will be left on another; every one will be thrown down. Then later, on the Mount of Olives, the disciples beseeched Him to say when that would happen and what will be the sign of the end of the age.

OChrist foretold the second coming in that passage. But, Maurice, you canOt seriously believe that the end of the age is at hand?O

OPerhaps not something that cataclysmic, but nonetheless a clear ending and a new beginning. Clement was predicted to be the precursor to that event. And thereOs more. Of MalachyOs described popes, starting in 1143, the last of his one hundred and twelve is the current pope. Malachy predicted in 1138 that he would be named Petrus Romanus.O

Peter the Roman.

OBut thatOs a fallacy,O Michener said. OSome say Malachy never predicted a Peter. Instead, that was added in a nineteenth-century publication of his prophecies.O

OI wish that were true,O Ngovi said as he slipped on a pair of cotton gloves and gently opened the bulky manuscript. The ancient parchment crackled from the effort. ORead this.O

He glanced down at the words, penned in Latin:

In the final persecution of the Holy Roman Church there will reign Peter the Roman who will feed his flock among many tribulations, after which in the seven hilled city the dreadful judge will judge all people.

OValendrea,O Ngovi said, Otook the name Peter on his own accord. Do you see now why IOm so concerned? Those are WionOs words, supposedly MalachyOs as well, written centuries ago. Who are we to question? Maybe Clement was right. We inquire far too much and do what we please, not what weOre supposed to do.O

OHow can you explain,O the cardinal-archivist asked, Othat this volume is nearly five hundred years old and these mottoes were attributed to these popes long ago? Ten or twenty being correct is coincidence. Ninety percent is something more, and thatOs what weOre talking about. Only around ten percent of the labels seem to have no bearing whatsoever. The vast majority are remarkably accurate. And the final one, Peter, comes exactly at one hundred and twelve. I shuddered when Valendrea took that name.O

A lot was coming fast. First the revelation about Katerina. Now the possibility that the end of the world was at hand. After which in the seven hilled city the dreadful judge will judge all people. Rome had long been labeled the seven hilled city. He looked over at Ngovi. Concern laced the older prelateOs face.

OColin, you must find TiborOs reproduced translation. If Valendrea thinks that document is critical, then so should we. You knew Jakob better than anybody. Locate his hiding place.O Ngovi closed the manuscript. OThis may be the last day we have access to this archive. A siege mentality is taking hold. Valendrea is purging all dissenters. I wanted you to see this firsthandNto understand the gravity. What the Medjugorje seer wrote is open to debate, but what Sister Lucia penned, and what Father Tibor translated, is quite another.O

OI have no idea where that document might be. I canOt even conceive of how Jakob removed it from the Vatican.O

OI was the only person with the safeOs combination,O the cardinal-archivist said. OAnd I opened it only for Clement.O

An emptiness swept over him as he thought again of KaterinaOs betrayal. Concentrating on something else might help, if only for a short while. OIOll see what I can do, Maurice. But I donOt even know where to start.O

NgoviOs face remained solemn. OColin, I donOt want to dramatize this any more than necessary. But the fate of the Church could well be in your hands.O

E

3:30 P.M.

Valendrea excused himself from the crowd of well-wishers gathered in the audience hall. The group had traveled from Florence to wish him well, and before leaving he assured them all that his first trip beyond the Vatican would be to Tuscany.

Ambrosi was waiting for him on the fourth floor. His secretary had left the audience chamber half an hour ago and he was curious why.

OHoly Father,O Ambrosi said. OMichener met with Ngovi and the cardinal-archivist after he left you.O

He now understood the urgency. OWhat was said?O

OIt was behind closed doors in one of the reading rooms. The priest I have in the archives could learn nothing except they had an ancient volume with them, one that ordinarily only the archivist may handle.O

OWhich one?O

OLignum Vitae.O

OMalachyOs prophecies? YouOve got to be kidding. ThatOs nonsense. Still, itOs a shame we donOt know what was said.O

OIOm in the process of reinstalling the listening devices. But it will take time.O

OWhen is Ngovi scheduled to leave?O

OHis office is already cleared. IOve been told he departs for Africa in a few days. For now, heOs still in his apartment.O

And still camerlengo. Valendrea had yet to decide on a replacement, debating among three cardinals who hadnOt wavered in their conclave support.

OIOve been thinking about ClementOs personal effects. TiborOs facsimile has to be among them. Clement could expect no one but Michener to go through his things.O

OWhat are you saying, Holy Father?O

OI donOt think Michener will bring us anything. He despises us. No, heOll give it to Ngovi. And I canOt let that happen.O

He watched Ambrosi for a reaction and his old friend did not disappoint him. OYou want to act first?O his secretary asked.

OWe need to demonstrate to Michener how serious we are. But not you this time, Paolo. Call our friends and enlist their aid.O

Michener entered the apartment heOd been using since ClementOs death. HeOd walked the streets of Rome the past couple of hours. His head started hurting half an hour ago, one of the headaches the Bosnian doctor warned would reoccur, so he went straight to the bathroom and downed two aspirin. The doctor had also told him to have a complete physical once back in Rome, but there was no time for that right now.

He unbuttoned his cassock and tossed it onto the bed. The clock on the nightstand read six thirty P.M. He could still feel ValendreaOs hands on him. God help the Catholic Church. A man possessed of no fear was a dangerous thing. Valendrea seemed to dart, unconcerned, from moment to moment, and absolute power vested him with unfettered choices. Then there was what St. Malachy supposedly said. He knew he should ignore the ridiculous, but a dread swelled inside him. Trouble lay ahead. Of that he was sure.

He dressed in a pair of jeans and a buttondown shirt, then trudged into the front room and settled on the sofa. He purposely left all the lights off.

Had Valendrea actually purged something from the Riserva decades ago? Did Clement recently do the same thing? What was happening? It was as if reality had turned itself upside down. Everything and everybody around him seemed tainted. And to cap the whole mess off, an Irish bishop who lived nine hundred years ago may have predicted the end of the world with the coming of a pope named Peter.

He rubbed his temples and tried to dull the pain. Through the windows, scattered rays of weak light found their way inside from the street below. In the shadows beneath the sill lay Jakob VolknerOs oak chest. He recalled it being locked the day he moved everything from the Vatican. It certainly seemed like a place where Clement might have secreted something important. No one would have dared to look inside.

He crawled across the rug to the chest.

He reached up, switched on one of the lamps, and studied the lock. He didnOt want to damage the chest by breaking it open, so he sat back and thought about the best course.

The cardboard box heOd brought from the papal apartments the day after ClementOs death sat a few feet away. Everything of ClementOs lay inside. He slid the box toward him and rummaged through the assorted items that had once graced the papal apartments. Most invoked fond memoriesNa Black Forest clock, some special pens, a framed photograph of ClementOs parents.

A gray paper bag contained ClementOs personal Bible. It had been sent from Castle Gandolfo the day of the funeral. He hadnOt opened the book, merely brought it back to the apartment and placed it in the box.

He now admired the white leather exterior, its gilt edging marred by time. Reverently, he opened the front cover. In German was written, ON THE OCCASION OF YOUR PRIESTHOOD. FROM YOUR PARENTS, WHO LOVE YOU VERY MUCH.

Clement had spoken many times of his parents. The Volkners had been Bavarian aristocracy in the time of Ludwig I, and the family had been anti-Nazi, never supporting Hitler, even in the glory days before the war. They hadnOt been foolish, though, and kept their dissension to themselves, doing quietly what they could to help BambergOs Jews. VolknerOs father had harbored the life savings of two local families, safeguarding the funds until after the war. Unfortunately, no one returned to claim the money. Instead, every mark was given to Israel. A gift from the past in the hope of the future.

The vision from last night flashed through his mind.

Jakob VolknerOs face.

Do not ignore heaven any longer. Do as I asked. Remember, there is much to be said for a loyal servant.

What is my destiny, Jakob?

But it was Father TiborOs image that answered.

To be a sign to the world. A beacon for repentance. The messenger to announce that God is very much alive.

What did it all mean? Was it real? Or just the delusion of a brain racked by lightning?

He slowly thumbed through the Bible. The pages were like cloth. Some bore underlining. A few had notes scribbled in the margin. He began to notice the marked passages.

Acts 5:29. Obedience to God carries more authority than obedience to men.

James 1:27. Pure unspoiled religion in the eyes of God our Father is this: coming to the help of orphans and widows when they need it and keeping oneself uncontaminated by the world.

Matthew 15:3D6. Why do you transgress the commandment of God for the sake of your tradition? In this way you have made GodOs word null and void by means of tradition.

Matthew 5:19. The man who relaxes even one of the least of these commandments and teaches others to act likewise will be considered the very least in the Kingdom of Heaven.

Daniel 4:23. Your Kingdom will be preserved for you, but only after you have learned that Heaven rules all.

John 8:28. I do nothing on my own authority, but preach only as the father has taught me.

Interesting choices. More messages from a troubled pope? Or just random selections?

Four strands of colored silk poked from the bookOs bottom edge, bunched together three-quarters of the way through. He grabbed the strands and folded back to the denoted pages.

Wedged into the binding was a thin silver key.

Had Clement done that on purpose? The Bible had been at Castle Gandolfo on the nightstand beside ClementOs bed. The pope could have assumed that no one but Michener would examine the book.

He freed the key and knew what it opened.

He inserted it into the chestOs lock. The tumblers gave way and the lid released.

Inside were envelopes. A hundred or more, each addressed to Clement in a feminine hand. The addresses varied. Munich, Cologne, Dublin, Cairo, Cape Town, Warsaw, Rome. All places where Clement had been posted. The return address on every envelope was the same. He knew the sender from a quarter century of handling VolknerOs mail. Her name was Irma Rahn, a childhood friend. HeOd never asked much about her, Clement only volunteering that they grew up together in Bamberg.

Clement regularly corresponded with a few longtime friends. Yet all of the envelopes in the chest were from Rahn. Why had Clement left such a legacy? Why not simply destroy them? Their implications could easily be misconstrued, especially by enemies like Valendrea. Apparently, though, Clement had decided the risk was worth taking.

Since they were now his property, he opened one of the envelopes, slid out the letter, and started reading.

Jakob:

My heart ached at the news from Warsaw. I saw your name mentioned as being there in the crowds when riots broke out. The communists would like nothing better than for you and the other bishops to fall victim. I was relieved to receive your letter and glad to know you were unharmed. I wish His Holiness would allow a posting to Rome where I know youOll be safe. I know you would never make such a request, but I pray to our Lord that it will happen. IOm hoping you are able to come home for the Christmas season. It would be good to spend a holiday near you. If such is possible, do let me know. As always I await your next letter and know, my dear Jakob, that I love you so.

Jakob:

I visited your parentsO grave today. I trimmed the grass and cleaned the stones. I left a bundle of lilies with your name on them. Such a shame they did not live to see what you have become. An archbishop of the church, perhaps even a cardinal one day. ItOs a testament to them what you have done. My parents and yours endured so much, too much really. I pray each day for the deliverance of Germany. Perhaps through good men like you our legacy could become something good. I hope your health is good. Mine is fine. I seem blessed with a strong constitution. I might be in Munich over the next three weeks. I will call if I come. My heart longs to see you again. Your precious words in your last letter have warmed me ever since. Take care, dear Jakob. My love, always and forever.

Jakob:

Cardinal Eminence. A title you so deserve. God bless John Paul for finally elevating you. Thank you again for letting me attend the consistory. Surely no one knew who I was. I sat off to the side and kept my thoughts to myself. Your Colin Michener was there and seemed so proud. He is as you described, a handsome young man. Make him the son we always wanted. Vest in him, as your father vested in you. Leave a legacy, Jakob, through him. There is nothing wrong with that, nothing in your vows to your church or your God forbids that. I still find my eyes watering at the memory of the pope crowning you with a scarlet hat. It was the proudest moment of my life. I love you, Jakob, and only hope that our bond is a source of strength. Take care, my darling, and do write soon.

Jakob:

Karl Haigl died a few days back. At the funeral I was remembering when the three of us were children, playing in the river on a warm summer day. He was such a gentle man and if not for you I may well have loved him. I suspect you know that, though. His wife passed several years ago and he lived alone. His children are an ungrateful and selfish lot. What has happened to our youth? Do they not appreciate from where they came? Many times I would take supper to him and we would sit and talk. He admired you so. Little scrawny Jakob, risen to a cardinal in the Catholic Church. Now itOs secretary of state. One step from the papacy. He would have liked to see you again and itOs a shame that wasnOt possible. Bamberg has not forgotten its bishop and I know its bishop has not forgotten the place of his youth. I have prayed diligently the past few days for you, Jakob. The pope is not well. Soon a new pope will be chosen. I have asked the Lord to watch over you. Maybe he will heed the plea of an old woman who loves both her God and her cardinal deeply. Take care.

Jakob:

I watched on television as you appeared on the balcony of St. PeterOs. The pride and love that swelled inside me was too much to describe. My Jakob is now Clement. Such a wise choice in names. At the mention, I recalled the times you and I went to the cathedral and visited the tomb. I remembered how you imagined Clement II. A German risen to pope. Even then there was vision in your eyes. Somehow he was a part of you. Now, as Clement XV, you are pope. Be wise dear Jakob, but be brave. The church is yours to mold or break. Let them remember Clement XV with pride. A pilgrimage back to Bamberg would be so wonderful. Try and arrange that one day. I have not seen you for so long. Just a few moments, even in public, would suffice. In the meantime let what we have warm your heart and mellow your soul. Shepherd the flock with strength and dignity and always know that my heart is with you.

9:00 P.M.

Katerina approached the building where Michener lived. The darkened street was devoid of people and lined with empty cars. From open windows she heard idle conversation, the squeals of children, and a snatch of music. Traffic rumbled from a boulevard fifty yards behind her.

A light burned in MichenerOs apartment, and she took refuge in a doorway across the street, safe within the shadows, and stared up three floors.

They needed to talk. He had to understand. She hadnOt betrayed him. SheOd told Valendrea nothing. Still, sheOd violated his confidence. He hadnOt been as angry as she expected, more hurt, and that made her feel worse. When would she ever learn? Why did she keep making the same mistakes? Could she not for once do the right thing, for the right reason? She was capable of better, but something seemed perpetually to restrain her.

She stood in the darkness, comforted by her solitude, resolute in knowing what needed to be done. There was no sign of movement in the third-floor window and she wondered if Michener was even there.

She was mustering the courage to cross the street when a car slowly turned off the boulevard and inched its way toward the building. Headlights swept a path ahead and she hugged the wall, sinking into darkness.

The headlights extinguished and the vehicle stopped.

A dark Mercedes coupe.

The rear door opened and a man stepped out. In the glow from the carOs cabin light she saw that he was tall, with a thin face split by a long, sharp nose. He wore a loose-fitting gray suit, and she did not like the gleam in his dark eyes. Men like this sheOd seen before. Two other men sat in the car, one driving, another in the backseat. Her brain screamed trouble. Ambrosi had surely dispatched them.

The tall man entered MichenerOs building.

The Mercedes rumbled ahead, farther down the street. The light in MichenerOs apartment was still on.

No time to call the police.

She emerged from the doorway and hurried across the street.

Michener finished the last letter and stared at the envelopes scattered around him. Over the past two hours heOd read every word Irma Rahn had written. Certainly the chest did not contain a lifetime of their correspondence. Perhaps Volkner saved only the letters that meant something. The most recent one was dated two months earlierNanother touching composition wherein Irma lamented about ClementOs health, concerned about what she was seeing on television, urging him to take care of himself.

He thought back through the years and now understood some of the comments Volkner had made, especially when they discussed Katerina.

You think youOre the only priest to succumb? And was it that wrong, anyway? Did it feel wrong, Colin? Did your heart say it was wrong?

And just before he died. The curious statement when Clement inquired about Katerina and the tribunal. ItOs all right to care, Colin. SheOs a part of your past. A part you should not forget.

HeOd thought his friend was only offering comfort. Now he realized there was more.

But that doesnOt mean you canOt be friends. Share your lives in words and feelings. Experience the closeness that someone who genuinely cares can provide. Surely the Church doesnOt forbid us that pleasure.

He recalled the questions Clement had posed at Castle Gandolfo, only hours before he died. Why must priests not marry? Why must they remain chaste? If thatOs acceptable for others, why not the clergy?

He couldnOt help wondering how far the relationship had progressed. Had the pope violated his own vow of celibacy? Had he done the same thing Thomas Kealy was accused of doing? Nothing from the letters indicated that, which in and of itself meant nothing. After all, who would write such a thing down?

He propped back against the sofa and rubbed his eyes.

Father TiborOs translation was nowhere in the chest. HeOd searched every envelope, read every letter, on the chance Clement had secreted the paper inside one of them. In fact, there was no mention of anything even remotely related to Fatima. His effort seemed another dead end. He was right back where he started, except he now knew about Irma Rahn.

DonOt forget Bamberg.

ThatOs what Jasna had said to him. And what had Clement written to him in his final message? I would prefer the sanctity of Bamberg, that lovely city by the river, and the cathedral I so loved. My only regret is that I did not see its beauty one last time. Perhaps, though, my legacy could still be there.

Then the afternoon in the solarium at Castle Gandolfo, and what Clement whispered.

I allowed Valendrea to read what is in the Fatima box.

WhatOs there?

The Third Secret

Part of what Father Tibor sent me.

Part? He hadnOt caught the hint until this moment.

The trip to Turin again flashed through his mind, along with ClementOs heated remarks about his loyalty and abilities. And the envelope. Would you mail this for me, please? It had been addressed to Irma Rahn. HeOd thought nothing of it. HeOd mailed many letters to her over the years. But the strange request to mail the letter from there, and to do it personally.

Clement had been in the Riserva only the night before. He and Ngovi had waited outside while the pope studied the contents of the box. That would have been a perfect opportunity for any removal. Which meant when Clement and Valendrea were in the Riserva days later, the reproduced translation was already gone. What had he asked Valendrea earlier?

How do you know it was even there?

I donOt. But no one returned to the archives after that Friday night, and Clement was dead two days later.

The apartment door burst open.

The room was illuminated only by a single lamp and, within the shadows, a tall, thin man lunged toward him. He was yanked from the floor and a fist rammed into his abdomen.

The breath left his lungs.

His assailant planted another blow into his chest that sent him staggering back toward the bedroom. The shock of the moment paralyzed him. HeOd never been in a fight before. Instinct told him to raise his arms for protection, but the man swung again into his stomach, the blow collapsing him onto the bed.

He panted hard and stared up at the blackened form, wondering what was next. Something came from the manOs pocket. A black rectangle, about six inches long, with shiny metal prongs protruding from one end like pincers. A flash of light suddenly sparked between the prongs.

A stun gun.

The Swiss guard carried them as a means to protect the pope without bullets. He and Clement had been shown the weapons and told how a nine-volt battery charge could be transformed into two hundred thousand volts that could quickly immobilize. He watched as blue-white current leaped from one electrode to another, cracking the air in between.

A smile came to the thin manOs lips. OWe have some fun now,O he said in Italian.

Michener summoned his strength and pivoted upward, swinging his leg and kicking the manOs outstretched arm. The stun gun flew away, toward the open doorway.

The act seemed to genuinely surprise his attacker, but the man recovered and backhanded MichenerOs face, propelling him flat onto the bed.

The manOs hand plunged into another pocket. A click and a knife appeared. With the blade clenched tight in his raised hand, the man lunged forward. Michener braced himself, wondering what it was going to feel like to be stabbed.

But he never felt a thing.

Instead there was a pop of electricity and the man winced. His eyes rolled skyward, his arms went limp, and the body started to convulse in deep spasms. The knife fell away as muscles went limp and he collapsed to the floor.

Michener sat up.

Standing behind his assailant was Katerina. She tossed the stun gun aside and rushed to him. OAre you all right?O

He was holding his stomach, fighting for air.

OColin, are you okay?O

OWho the hell was . . . that?O

ONo time. ThereOs two more downstairs.O

OWhat do you . . . know that I donOt?O

OIOll explain later. We need to go.O

His mind started working again. OGrab my travel bag. Over . . . there. I havenOt emptied it from Bosnia.O

OYou going somewhere?O

He didnOt want to answer her, and she seemed to understand his silence.

OYouOre not going to tell me,O she said.

OWhy are you . . . here?O

OI came to talk to you. To try to explain. But this man and two more drove up.O

He tried to rise from the bed, but a sharp pain forced him down.

OYouOre hurt,O she said.

He coughed up the air in his lungs. ODid you know that guy was coming here?O

OI canOt believe youOre asking me that.O

OAnswer me.O

OI came to talk to you and heard the stun gun. I saw you kick it away and then I saw the knife. So I grabbed the thing off the floor and did what I could. IOd think youOd be grateful.O

OI am. Tell me what you know.O

OAmbrosi attacked me the night we met with Father Tibor in Bucharest. He made it clear that if I didnOt cooperate, thereOd be hell to pay.O She motioned to the form on the floor. OI assume this man is connected to him in some way. But I donOt know why he came after you.O

OI assume Valendrea was unhappy with our discussion today and decided to force the issue. He told me I wouldnOt like the next messenger.O

OWe need to leave,O she said again.

He moved toward the travel bag and slipped on a pair of running shoes. The pain in his gut brought tears to his eyes.

OI love you, Colin. What I did was wrong, but I did it for the right reason.O The words came fast. She needed to say them.

He stared at her. OHard to argue with somebody who just saved my life.O

OI donOt want to argue.O

Neither did he. Maybe he shouldnOt be so righteous. He hadnOt been totally honest with her, either. He bent down and checked the pulse on his attacker. OProbably going to be pretty ticked off when he wakes up. I donOt want to be around.O

He headed toward the apartment door and spied the letters and envelopes scattered on the floor. They needed to be destroyed. He moved toward the scattered mess.

OColin, we have to get out here before the other two decide to come up.O

OI need to take theseNO He heard feet pounding the stairs three floors below.

OColin, weOre out of time.O

He grabbed a few handfuls of letters and stuffed what he could into the travel bag, but managed to retrieve only about half of what was there. He pulled himself to his feet and they slipped out the door. He pointed up, and they tiptoed toward the next floor as footsteps from below grew louder. The pain in his side made the going difficult, but adrenaline forced him ahead.

OHow are we going to get out of here?O she whispered.

OThereOs another staircase in the rear of the building. It leads to a courtyard. Follow me.O

They carefully made their way down the corridor, past closed apartment doors, away from the street side of the building. He found the rear staircase just as two men appeared fifty feet behind them.

He took three steps at a time, electric pain searing his abdomen. The travel bag banging against his rib cage, full of letters, only added to his agony. They turned at the landing, found the ground floor, then darted out of the building.

The courtyard beyond was filled with cars and they zigzagged a path around them. He led the way through an arched entrance to the busy boulevard. Cars whizzed past and people filled the sidewalks. Thank God Romans were late eaters.

He spotted a taxi hugging the curb fifty feet ahead.

He grabbed Katerina and hustled straight for the sooty vehicle. A glance back over his shoulder and he saw two men emerge from the courtyard.

They spotted him and bolted his way.

He made it to the taxi and yanked open the rear door. They jumped inside. OGo, now,O he screamed in Italian.

The car lurched forward. Through the rear window he watched the men halt their pursuit.

OWhere are we going?O Katerina asked.

ODo you have your passport?O

OIn my purse.O

OTo the airport,O he told the driver.

11:40 P.M.

Valendrea knelt before the altar in a chapel that his beloved Paul VI had personally commissioned. Clement had shied away from its use, preferring a smaller room down the hall, but he intended to utilize the richly decorated space for a daily morning Mass, a time when forty or so special guests could share a celebration with their pontiff. Afterward, a few minutes of his time and a photograph would cement their loyalty. Clement had never used the trappings of officeNanother of his many fallaciesNbut Valendrea meant to make the most of what popes had slaved for centuries to achieve.

The staff had gone for the night and Ambrosi was tending to Colin Michener. He was grateful for the time alone since he needed to pray to a God he knew was listening.

He wondered if he should offer the traditional Our Father or some other sanctioned plea, but finally decided a frank conversation would be more appropriate. Besides, he was the supreme pontiff of GodOs apostolic church. If he didnOt possess the right to talk openly with the Lord, who did?

He perceived what happened earlier with MichenerNhis ability to read the tenth secret of MedjugorjeNto be a sign from heaven. HeOd been allowed to know both the Medjugorje and Fatima messages for a reason. Clearly, Father TiborOs murder had been justified. Though one of the commandments forbade killing, popes had for centuries slaughtered millions in the name of the Lord. And now was no exception. The threat to the Roman Catholic Church was real. Though Clement XV was gone, his protZgZ lived and ClementOs legacy was out there. He could not allow the risks to escalate beyond their already dangerous proportions. The matter required a definitive resolution. Just as with Father Tibor, Colin Michener would have to be dealt with, too.

He clasped his hands and stared up at the tortured face of Christ on the crucifix. He reverently beseeched the son of God for guidance. HeOd obviously been chosen pope for a reason. HeOd also been motivated to choose the name Peter. Before this afternoon heOd thought both just the product of his own ambition. Now he knew better. He was the conduit. Peter II. To him, there was only one course of action, and he thanked the Almighty that he possessed the strength to do what had to be done.

OHoly Father.O

He crossed himself and stood from the prie-dieu. Ambrosi filled the doorway at the back of the dimly lit chapel. Concern filled his assistantOs face. OWhat about Michener?O

OGone. With Ms. Lew. But we found something.O

Valendrea scanned the cache of letters and marveled at this latest surprise. Clement XV had possessed a lover. Though nothing admitted to any mortal sinNand for a priest, a violation of Holy Orders would be a grave mortal sinNthe meaning was indisputable.

OI continue to be amazed,O he said to Ambrosi, glancing up.

They sat in the library. The same room where heOd confronted Michener earlier. He thought back to something Clement had said to him a month ago when the pope learned that Father Kealy had presented the tribunal with few options. Perhaps we should simply listen to an opposing point of view. Now he understood why Volkner had been so willing. Celibacy, apparently, was not a concept the German had taken seriously. He stared over at Ambrosi. OThis is as far reaching as the suicide. I never realized how complex Clement was.O

OAnd apparently resourceful,O Ambrosi said. OHe removed Father TiborOs writing from the Riserva, confident in what you would subsequently do.O

He didnOt particularly care for AmbrosiOs reminder of his predictability, but he said nothing. Instead he commanded, ODestroy these letters.O

OShould we not hold on to them?O

OWe can never use them, as much as IOd like to. ClementOs memory must be preserved. Discrediting him would only discredit this office, and that I cannot afford. WeOd hurt ourselves, while tarnishing a dead man. Shred them.O He asked what he really wanted to know. OWhere did Michener and Ms. Lew go?O

OOur friends are checking with the taxi company. We should know soon.O

HeOd thought earlier that ClementOs personal chest may have been his hiding place. But given what he now knew about his former enemyOs personality, the German had apparently been far more clever. He lifted one of the envelopes and read the return address. IRMA RAHN, HINTERHOLZ 19, BAMBERG, DEUTSCHLAND.

He heard a soft chime and Ambrosi removed a cellular phone from his cassock. A short conversation and Ambrosi beeped off the receiver.

He continued to stare at the envelope. OLet me guess. They were taken to the airport.O

Ambrosi nodded.

He handed the envelope across to his friend. OFind this woman, Paolo, and youOll find what we seek. Michener and Ms. Lew will be there, as well. TheyOre on their way to her now.O

OHow can you be sure?O

OYou can never be sure of anything, but itOs a safe assumption. Tend to this task yourself.O

OIs that not risky?O

OIt is a risk we will have to take. IOm sure you can conceal your presence carefully.O

OOf course, Holy Father.O

OI want TiborOs translation destroyed the moment you locate it. I donOt care how, just do it. Paolo, IOm counting on you to handle this. If anyone, and I mean anyoneNthis woman of ClementOs, Michener, Lew, I donOt care whoNreads those words or knows of them, kill them. DonOt hesitate, just eliminate them.O

The muscles in his secretaryOs face never quivered. The eyes, like those of a bird of prey, stared back with an intense glare. Valendrea knew all about Ambrosi and MichenerOs dissensionNheOd even encouraged it, since nothing ensured loyalty more than a common hatred. So the hours ahead might prove immensely satisfying for his old friend.

OI will not disappoint you, Holy Father,O Ambrosi softly said.

OIt is not I whom you should worry about disappointing. We are on a mission for the Lord, and there is much at stake. So very much.O

BAMBERG, GERMANY

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 1

10:00 A.M.

Michener strolled the cobbled streets and quickly came to understand Jakob VolknerOs love of Bamberg. HeOd never visited the town. VolknerOs few trips back home had all been taken alone. TheyOd planned a papal mission next year as part of a multicity German pilgrimage. Volkner had told him how he wanted to visit his parentsO grave, say Mass in the cathedral, and see old friends. Which made his suicide even more puzzling, since the planning for that joyous journey had been well under way when Clement died.

Bamberg sat where the swift Regnitz and meandering Main River merged. The ecclesiastical half of the city crowned the hills and showcased a royal residence, monastery, and cathedral, the forested crests once the home of prince-bishops. Clinging to the lower slopes, against the banks of the Regnitz, stood the secular portion, where business and commerce had always dominated. The symbolic meeting of the two halves was the river, where clever politicians centuries ago erected a city hall of half-timbered walls tattooed with bright frescoes. The rathaus sat on an island, at the center of the two classes, a stone bridge spanning the river, bisecting the building and connecting both worlds.

He and Katerina had flown from Rome to Munich and spent the night near the airport. This morning theyOd rented a car and driven north into central Bavaria, through the Franconian hills, for nearly two hours. They now stood in the Maxplatz, where a lively market filled the square. Other entrepreneurs were busy preparing for the start of the Christmas market, which would begin later in the day. The cold air chapped his lips, the sun flashed intermittently, and snow whisked across the pavement. He and Katerina, unprepared for the change in temperature, had stopped in one of the stores and purchased coats, gloves, and leather boots.

To his left, the Church of St. Martin cast a long shadow across the crowded plaza. Michener had thought a talk with the churchOs priest might prove helpful. Surely he would know of Irma Rahn, and the priest had indeed been accommodating, suggesting she might be at St. GangolfOs, the parish church a few blocks north across a canal.

They found her tending one of the side chapels, beneath a crucified Christ that gazed down in a mournful glare. The air reeked of incense mellowed by the scent of beeswax. She was a tiny woman, her pale skin and crenellated features still suggesting a beauty that had faded little from her youth. If he hadnOt known she was nearing eighty, he would have sworn her to be in her sixties.

They watched as she reverently genuflected each time she passed before the crucifix. Michener stepped forward and passed through an open iron gate. A strange feeling swept over him. Was he intruding on something that was none of his business? But he dismissed the thought. After all, Clement himself had led the way.

OAre you Irma Rahn?O he asked in German.

She faced him. Her silver hair fell to her shoulders. The bones in her cheeks and her sallow skin were untouched by makeup. Her wrinkled chin was round and dainty, the eyes soulful and compassionate.

She stepped close and said, OI was wondering how long it would be before you came.O

OHow do you know who I am? WeOve never met.O

OBut I know you.O

OYou expected me to come?O

OOh, yes. Jakob said you would. And he was always right . . . especially about you.O

Then he realized. OIn his letter. The one that came from Turin. He made mention in there?O

She nodded.

OYou have what I want, donOt you?O

OThat depends. Do you come for yourself or someone else?O

A strange question, and he considered his response. OI come for my Church.O

She smiled again. OJakob said you would answer that way. He knew you well.O

He motioned for Katerina and introduced them. The old woman flashed a warm smile and the two women shook hands. OItOs so nice to meet you. Jakob said you might come, too.O

VATICAN CITY, 10:30 A.M.

Valendrea leafed through Lignum Vitae. The archivist stood before him. HeOd ordered the elderly cardinal to present himself on the fourth floor and bring the volume with him. He wanted to see for himself what had held so much interest for Ngovi and Michener.

He found the section of MalachyOs prophecy that dealt with Peter the Roman at the end of Arnold WionOs eighteen-hundred-page account:

In the final persecution of the Holy Roman Church there will reign Peter the Roman who will feed his flock among many tribulations, after which in the seven hilled city the dreadful judge will judge all people.

OYou actually believe this rubbish?O he asked the archivist.

OYou are the one hundred and twelfth pope on MalachyOs list. The last one mentioned, and he said you would choose that name.O

OSo the Church is facing the apocalypse? From the seven hilled city the dreadful judge will judge all people. You believe that? You canOt be that ignorant.O

ORome is the seven hilled city. That has been its label since ancient times. And I resent your tone.O

OI donOt care what you resent. I only want to know what you, Ngovi, and Michener discussed.O

OIOm not telling you anything.O

He motioned to the manuscript. OThen tell me why you believe in this prophecy.O

OAs if it matters what I think.O

He stood from the desk. OIt matters a great deal, Eminence. Consider it a final act for the Church. This is your last day, I believe.O

The old manOs face betrayed nothing of the regret he was surely feeling. This cardinal had served Rome for nearly five decades and had certainly seen his share of joy and pain. But he was the man whoOd orchestrated the conclave support for NgoviNthat had become clear yesterday when the cardinals finally began talkingNand heOd done a masterful job of collating votes. A shame he hadnOt chosen the winning side.

Equally disturbing, though, was a discussion of Malachy prophecies that had arisen in the press over the past two days. He suspected the man standing before him was the source of those stories, though no reporter quoted anyone, only the usual unnamed Vatican official. The Malachy predictions were nothing newNconspiratorialists had long warned of themNbut journalists were now beginning to make a connection. The 112th pope had indeed taken the name Peter II. How could a monk in the eleventh century, or a chronicler in the sixteenth century, possibly have known that was going to happen? Coincidence? Maybe, but it strained the concept to its breaking point.

Valendrea actually wondered the same thing. Some would say he chose the name knowing what was recorded in the Vatican archives. But Peter had always been his preference, ever since he decided to achieve the papacy back in the days of John Paul II. HeOd never told anyone, not even Ambrosi. And heOd never read MalachyOs predictions.

He stared back at the archivist, waiting for an answer to his question. Finally the cardinal said, OI have nothing to say.O

OThen perhaps you could speculate where the missing document might be?O

OI know of no missing document. Everything in the inventory is there.O

OThis document is not on your inventory. Clement added it to the Riserva.O

OI have no responsibility for that which is unknown to me.O

OReally? Then tell me what you do know. What was mentioned when you met with Cardinal Ngovi and Monsignor Michener.O

The archivist said nothing.

OFrom your silence, I must assume that the subject was the missing document and you were involved in its removal.O

He realized the jab would tear at the old manOs heart. As archivist, his duty was to preserve Church writings. The fact one was missing would forever stain his tenure.

OI did nothing except open the Riserva on order of His Holiness, Clement XV.O

OAnd I believe you, Eminence. I think Clement himself, unbeknownst to anyone, removed the writing. All I want is to find it.O He lightened his tone, signaling an acceptance of the explanation.

OI, too, wantNO the archivist started, then stopped, as if he might say more than warranted.

OGo on. Tell me, Eminence.O

OIOm as shocked as you something may be gone. But I have no idea when that occurred or where it might be.O The tone made clear that was his story and he planned to stay with it.

OWhere is Michener?O He was already reasonably sure of the answer, but decided verification would ease any concern that Ambrosi might be following the wrong trail.

OI do not know,O the archivist said, a slight tremble in the voice.

He now asked what he really wanted to know. OAnd what of Ngovi? WhatOs his interest?O

The archivistOs face registered understanding. OYou fear him, donOt you?O

He didnOt allow the comment to affect him. OI fear no one, Eminence. IOm merely wondering why the camerlengo is so interested in Fatima.O

OI never said he was interested.O

OBut it was discussed during the meeting yesterday, was it not?O

OI didnOt say that, either.O

He let his gaze drift down to the book, a subtle signal that the old manOs obstinance wasnOt affecting him. OEminence, I fired you. I could just as easily rehire you. Would you not like to die here, in the Vatican, as cardinal-archivist of the Catholic Church? Would you not like to see the document now missing returned? Does not your duty mean more to you than any personal feelings about me?O

The old man shifted on his feet, his silence perhaps an indication that he was considering the proposal.

OWhat is it you want?O the archivist finally asked.

OTell me where Father Michener has gone.O

OI was told this morning he went to Bamberg.O The voice was filled with resignation.

OSo you lied to me?O

OYou asked if I knew where he was. I donOt. I only know what I was told.O

OAnd the purpose of the trip?O

OThe document you seek may be there.O

Now for something new. OAnd Ngovi?O

OHeOs waiting for Father MichenerOs call.O

His bare hands tightened on the edge of the book. He hadnOt bothered to wear gloves. What did it matter? The manuscript would be ashes by tomorrow. Now for the critical part. ONgovi is waiting to learn what is in the missing document?O

The old man nodded, as if it pained him to be honest. OThey want to know what you seemingly already know.O

E

BAMBERG, 11:00 A.M.

Michener and Katerina followed Irma Rahn through the Maxplatz, then beyond to the river and a five-story inn. A wrought-iron sign announced the name K...NIGSHOF, along with the designation 1614Nthe year, Irma explained, the building was erected.

Her family had owned the property for generations, and she had inherited it from her father after her brother was killed in World War II. Former fishermenOs houses surrounded the inn on both sides. Originally the building had served as a mill, the paddle wheel gone for centuries, but the black mansard roof, iron balconies, and baroque detailing were still there. SheOd added a tavern and restaurant and now led them inside, where they sat at an empty table beside a twelve-paned window. Outside, clouds dimmed the late-morning sky. More snow seemed on the way. Their host brought them each a stein of beer.

OWeOre only open for dinner,O Irma said. OThe tables will be full then. Our cook is quite popular.O

Michener wanted to know, OBack in the church, you said Jakob mentioned that Katerina and I would come. Was that really in his last letter?O

She nodded. OHe said to expect you and that probably this lovely woman would come with you. My Jakob was intuitive, especially when it came to you, Colin. May I call you that? I feel I know you well enough.O

OI wouldnOt want you to call me anything else.O

OAnd IOm Katerina.O

She threw them both a smile he liked.

OWhat else did Jakob say?O he asked.

OHe told me of your dilemma. Of your crisis in faith. Since youOre here, I assume you read my letters.O

OI never realized the depth of your relationship.O

Beyond the window, a barge chugged by, heading north.

OMy Jakob was a loving man. He devoted his entire life to others. Gave himself to God.O

OBut apparently not completely,O Katerina said.

Michener had been waiting for her to make the point. Last night sheOd read the letters heOd managed to salvage and was shocked by VolknerOs private emotion.

OI resented him,O Katerina said in a flat tone. OI envisioned him pressuring Colin into choosing, urging him to put the Church first. But I was wrong. I realize now that he, of all people, would have understood how I felt.O

OHe did. He talked to me about ColinOs pain. He wanted to tell him the truth, show him he wasnOt alone, but I said no. The time wasnOt right. I didnOt want anyone to know of us. That was something intensely private.O She faced him. OHe wanted you to stay a priest. To change things, he needed your help. I think he knew, even then, that one day you and he would make a difference.O

Michener needed to say, OHe tried to change things. Not with confrontation, but with reason. He was a man of peace.O

OBut above all, Colin, he was a man.O Her voice trailed off at the end of the statement, as if a memory returned for a moment and she didnOt want to ignore it. OJust a man, weak and sinful, like us all.O

Katerina reached across the table and cupped the old womanOs hand. Both womenOs eyes glistened.

OWhen did the relationship start?O Katerina asked.

OWhen we were children. I knew then that I loved him, and that I always would.O She bit her lip. OBut I also knew that I would never have him. Not completely. Even then, he wanted to be a priest. Somehow, though, it was always enough that I possessed his heart.O

He wanted to know something. Why, he wasnOt sure. It was really none of his business. But he sensed that it was all right to ask. OThe love was never consummated?O

Her gaze engaged his for several seconds before a slight smile came to her lips. ONo, Colin. Your Jakob never violated his oath to his Church. That would have been unthinkable for both him and me.O She looked at Katerina. OWe must all judge ourselves by the times in which we live. Jakob and I were from another era. Bad enough for us to love one another. It would have been unthinkable to take that farther.O

He recalled what Clement had said in Turin. Restrained love is not a pleasant matter. OYouOve lived here, alone, all that time?O

OI have my family, this business, my friends, and my God. I knew the love of a man who shared himself totally with me. Not in the physical sense, but in every other way. Few can make such a claim.O

OIt was never a problem you werenOt together?O Katerina asked. OI donOt mean sexually. I mean physically, close to one another. That had to be tough.O

OI would have preferred things to be different. But that was beyond my control. Jakob was called to the priesthood early. I knew that, and did nothing to interfere. I loved him enough to share him . . . even with heaven.O

A middle-aged woman pushed through a swinging door and spoke a few words to Irma. Something about the market and supplies. Another barge slipped past the window across the gray-brown river. A few flakes of snow tapped the panes.

ODoes anybody know about you and Jakob?O he asked after the woman left.

She shook her head. ONeither of us ever spoke of it. Many here in town know that Jakob and I were childhood friends.O

OHis death must have been awful for you,O Katerina said.

She let out a long breath. OYou canOt imagine. I knew he was looking bad. I saw him on television. I realized it was only a matter of time. WeOre both getting old. But his time came suddenly. I still expect a letter to arrive in the mail, like it did so many times before.O Her voice grew softer, cracking with emotion. OMy Jakob is gone, and you are the first people I have spoken to about him. He told me to trust you. That through your visit I could gain peace. And he was right. Simply talking about this has made me feel better.O

He wondered what this gentle woman would think if she knew Volkner had taken his own life. Did she have a right to know? She was opening her heart to them, and he was tired of lying. ClementOs memory would be safe with her. OHe killed himself.O

Irma said nothing for the longest time.

He caught KaterinaOs glare as she said, OThe pope took his own life?O

He nodded. OSleeping pills. He said the Virgin Mary told him that he must end his life through his own hand. The penance for disobedience. He said heOd ignored heaven far too long. But not this time.O

Irma still said nothing. She just stared at him with impassioned eyes.

OYou knew?O he asked.

She nodded. OHeOs come to me recently . . . in my dreams. He tells me that itOs okay. HeOs forgiven now. That he would have joined God soon anyway. I didnOt understand what he meant.O

OHave you experienced any visions while awake?O he asked.

She shook her head. OJust dreams.O Her voice was distant. OSoon IOll be with him. ThatOs all that keeps me going. For eternity, Jakob and I will be together. He tells me that in the dream.O She looked at Katerina. OYou asked me how it was to be apart. Those years of separation are inconsequential compared with forever. If nothing else, IOm a patient woman.O

He needed to nudge her toward the point of it all. OIrma, where is what Jakob sent to you?O

She stared down into her beer. OI have an envelope Jakob told me to give to you.O

OI need it.O

Irma rose from the table. OItOs next door in my apartment. IOll be right back.O

The old woman lumbered out of the restaurant.

OWhy didnOt you tell me about Clement?O Katerina asked, as the door closed. The frigid tone matched the temperature outside.

OI would think the answer is obvious.O

OWho knows?O

OOnly a few.O

She stood from the table. OAlways the same, isnOt it? Lots of secrets in the Vatican.O She slipped on her coat and headed for the door. OSomething you seem quite comfortable with.O

OJust like you.O He knew he shouldnOt have said it.

She stopped. OIOll give you that one. I deserve it. WhatOs your excuse?O

He said nothing and she turned to leave. OWhere are you going?O

OFor a walk. IOm sure you and ClementOs lover have much more to talk about that doesnOt include me, either.O

KaterinaOs mind swirled with confusion. Michener had not trusted her with the fact that Clement XV took his own life. Valendrea surely must knowNotherwise Ambrosi would have urged her to learn what she could about ClementOs death. What in the world was happening? Missing writings. Seers talking to Mary. A pope committing suicide after secretly loving a woman for six decades. Nobody would believe any of it.

She stepped from the inn, buttoned her coat, and decided to head back toward the Maxplatz and walk off her frustration. Bells pealed from all directions signaling noon. She swiped the quickening snow from her hair. The air was cold, parched, and sullen, like her mood.

Irma Rahn had opened her mind. Where years ago sheOd forced Michener into a choice, driving him away, hurting them both in the process, Irma had ventured down a less selfish path, one that reflected love, not possession. Maybe the old woman was right. It mattered not about a physical connection. What counted was possessing the heart and mind.

She wondered if she and Michener could have enjoyed a similar relationship. Probably not. Times were different. Yet here she was, back with the same man, seemingly on the same tortuous path of love lost, then found, then tested, thenNthat was the question. Then, what?

She continued to walk, finding the main plaza, crossing a canal, and spotting the onion-domed twin towers of St. GangolfOs.

Life was so damn complicated.

She could still see the man from last night standing over Michener, knife in hand. She hadnOt hesitated in attacking him. After, sheOd suggested going to the authorities, but Michener had nixed the idea. Now she knew why. He couldnOt risk the exposure of a papal suicide. Jakob Volkner meant so much to him. Maybe too much. And she now understood why heOd journeyed to BosniaNsearching for answers to questions his old friend had left behind. Clearly that chapter in his life could not be closed, because its ending had yet to be written. She wondered if it ever would be.

She kept walking and found herself back at the doors to St. GangolfOs. The warm air seeping from inside beckoned her. She entered and saw the gate for the side chapel, where Irma had been cleaning, remained open. She stepped past and stopped at another of the chapels. A statue of the Virgin Mary, cradling the Christ child in her arms, gazed down with the loving look of a proud mother. Surely a medieval representationNthat of an Anglo-Saxon CaucasianNbut an image the world had grown accustomed to worshiping. Mary had lived in Israel, a place where the sun burned hot and skin was tanned. Her features would have been Arabic, her hair dark, her body stout. Yet European Catholics would never have accepted that reality. So a familiar feminine vision was fashionedNone the Church had clung to ever since.

And was she a virgin? The Holy Spirit endowing her womb with the son of God? Even if that was true, the decision would have certainly been her choice. She alone would have consented to the pregnancy. Why then was the Church so opposed to abortion and birth control? When did a woman lose the option to decide if she wanted to give birth? Had not Mary established the right? What if sheOd refused? Would she still have been required to carry that divine child to term?

She was tired of puzzling dilemmas. There were far too many with no answers. She turned to leave.

Three feet away stood Paolo Ambrosi.

The sight of him startled her.

He lunged forward, spinning her around and hurling her into the chapel with the Virgin. He slammed her into the stone wall, her left arm twisted behind her back. Another hand quickly compressed her neck. Her face was pressed against the prickly stone.

OI was pondering how I might separate you from Michener. But you did it for me.O

Ambrosi increased the pressure on her arm. She opened her mouth to cry out.

ONow, now. LetOs not do that. Besides, there is no one here to hear you.O

She tried to break free, using her legs.

OStay still. My patience with you is exhausted.O

Her response was more struggling.

Ambrosi yanked her away from the wall and wrapped an arm around her neck. Instantly, her windpipe was constricted. She tried to break his hold, digging her fingernails into his skin, but the diminishing oxygen was causing everything before her to wink in and out.

She opened her mouth to scream, but there was no air to form the words.

Her eyes rolled upward.

The last thing she saw, before the world went black, was the mournful glare of the Virgin, which offered no solace for her predicament.

Michener watched Irma as she stared out the window toward the river. SheOd returned shortly after Katerina left, carrying a familiar blue envelope, which now lay on the table.

OMy Jakob killed himself,O she whispered to herself. OSo sad.O She faced him. OYet he was still buried in St. PeterOs. In consecrated ground.O

OWe couldnOt tell the world what happened.O

OThat was his one complaint with the Church. Truth is so rare. Ironic that his legacy is now dependent on a lie.O

Which seemed nothing unusual. Like Jakob Volkner, MichenerOs entire career had been based on a lie. Interesting how alike theyOd turned out to be. ODid he always love you?O

OWhat you mean is, were there others? No, Colin. Only me.O

OIt would seem, after a while, that you both would have needed to move on. DidnOt you wish for a husband, children?O

OChildren, yes. ThatOs my one regret in life. But I knew early on that I wanted to be JakobOs and he wished the same from me. IOm sure you realized that you were, in every way, his son.O

His eyes moistened at the thought.

OI read that you found his body. That must have been awful.O

He didnOt want to think about the image of Clement on the bed, the nuns readying him for burial. OHe was a remarkable man. Yet I now feel like he was a stranger.O

OThereOs no need to feel that way. There were just parts of him that were his alone. As IOm sure there are parts of you he never knew.O

How true.

She motioned to the envelope. OI could not read what he sent me.O

OYou tried?O

She nodded. OI opened the envelope. I was curious. But only after Jakob died. ItOs written in another language.O

OItalian.O

OTell me what it is.O

He did, and she listened in amazement. But he had to tell her that no one left alive, save for Alberto Valendrea, knew what the document in the envelope actually said.

OI knew something was bothering Jakob. His letters the last few months were depressing, even cynical. Not like him at all. And he wouldnOt tell me anything.O

OI tried, too, but he wouldnOt say a word.O

OHe could be like that.O

From the front of the building he heard a door open, then bang shut. Footsteps echoed across a plank floor. The restaurant was to the rear, beyond a small lobby alcove and a staircase leading to the upper floors. He assumed it was Katerina returning.

OMay I help you?O Irma said.

He was facing away from the doorway, toward the river, and turned to see Paolo Ambrosi standing a few feet behind him. The Italian was dressed in loose-fitting black jeans and a dark buttondown shirt. A gray overcoat fell to his knees and a maroon scarf draped his neck.

Michener stood. OWhereOs Katerina?O

Ambrosi did not answer. Michener liked nothing about the smug look on the bastardOs face. He stood and rushed forward, but Ambrosi calmly withdrew a gun from his coat pocket. He stopped.

OWho is this?O Irma asked.

OTrouble.O

OI am Father Paolo Ambrosi. You must be Irma Rahn.O

OHow do you know my name?O

Michener stayed between them, hoping Ambrosi would not notice the envelope on the table. OHe read your letters. I couldnOt get them all last night before I left Rome.O

She brought a knuckle to her mouth and a gasp seeped out. OThe pope knows?O

He motioned to Ambrosi. OIf this son of a bitch knows, Valendrea knows.O

She crossed herself.

He faced Ambrosi and understood. OTell me where Katerina is.O

The gun stayed on him. OSheOs safe, for now. But you know what I want.O

OAnd how do you know I have it?O

OEither you do or this woman does.O

OI thought Valendrea said it was mine to find.O He hoped Irma kept quiet.

OAnd Cardinal Ngovi would have been the recipient of any delivery you made.O

OI donOt know what I would have done.O

OI assume you do now.O

He wanted to pound the arrogance off AmbrosiOs face, but there was still the matter of the gun.

OKaterinaOs in danger?O Irma asked.

OShe is fine,O Ambrosi made clear.

Michener said, OFrankly, Ambrosi, Katerina is your problem. She was your spy. I donOt give a damn anymore.O

OIOm sure she will be brokenhearted to hear that.O

He shrugged. OShe got herself into this mess, itOs her problem to get herself out.O He wondered if he was jeopardizing KaterinaOs safety, but any show of weakness could be fatal.

OI want TiborOs translation,O Ambrosi said.

OI donOt have it.O

OBut Clement did send it here. Correct?O

OI donOt know that . . . yet.O He needed time. OBut I can find out. And thereOs one other thing.O He pointed to Irma. OWhen I do, I want this lady left out of everything. This doesnOt concern her.O

OClement involved her, not me.O

OIf you want the translation, thatOs a condition. Otherwise, IOll give it to the press.O

There was a momentary flicker in AmbrosiOs cold demeanor. He almost smiled. Michener had guessed right. Valendrea had sent his henchman to destroy the information, not retrieve it.

OSheOs a nonparticipant,O Ambrosi said, Oprovided she hasnOt read it.O

OShe doesnOt read Italian.O

OBut you do. So remember the warning. You will severely limit my options if you choose to ignore what IOm saying.O

OHow would you know if I read it, Ambrosi?O

OIOm assuming the message is one thatOs hard to conceal. Popes have shaken before it. So let it be, Michener. This doesnOt concern you any longer.O

OFor something that doesnOt concern me, I seem to be right in the middle. Like the visitor you sent calling last night.O

OI know nothing about that.O

OSame thing IOd say, if I were you.O

OWhat of Clement?O Irma asked, a plea in her voice. She was apparently still thinking of the letters.

Ambrosi shrugged. OHis memory is in your hands. I donOt want the press involved. But if that occurs, we are prepared to leak certain facts that will be, to say the least, devastating to his memory . . . and yours.O

OYou will tell the world how he died?O she asked.

Ambrosi glanced over at Michener. OShe knows?O

He nodded. OAs you do, apparently.O

OGood. That makes things easier. Yes, we would tell the world, but not directly. Rumor can do far more harm. People still believe the sainted John Paul I was murdered. Think what they would write about Clement. The few letters we have are damning enough. If you treasure him, as I believe you do, then cooperate in this matter and nothing will ever be known.O

Irma said nothing, but tears soaked her cheeks.

ODonOt cry,O Ambrosi said. OFather Michener will do the right thing. He always does.O Ambrosi backed toward the door, then stopped. OIOm told that the famous Bamberg crib circuit begins tonight. All the churches will be displaying nativity scenes. A Mass is said in the cathedral. Quite an audience attends. It starts at eight. Why donOt we beat the crowd and exchange what each of us wants at seven.O

OI didnOt say I wanted anything from you.O

Ambrosi flashed an irritating grin. OYou do. Tonight. In the cathedral.O He motioned to the window and the building crowning a hill on the far side of the river. OQuite public, so weOll all feel better. Or, if you prefer, we can make the exchange now.O

OSeven at the cathedral. Now get the hell out of here.O

ORemember what I said, Michener. Leave it sealed. Do yourself, Ms. Lew, and Ms. Rahn a favor.O

Ambrosi left.

Irma sat silent, sobbing. Finally, she said, OThat manOs evil.O

OHim and our new pope.O

OHeOs connected to Peter?O

OThe papal secretary.O

OWhatOs happening here, Colin?O

OTo know that, I need to read whatOs in this envelope.O But he also needed to safeguard her. OI want you to leave. I donOt want you to know anything.O

OWhy are you going to open it?O

He held up the envelope. OI have to know whatOs so important.O

OThat man was quite clear that you were not to do that.O

OThe hell with Ambrosi.O The severity of his tone surprised him.

She seemed to consider his predicament, then said, OIOll make sure youOre not disturbed.O

She withdrew and closed the door behind her. The hinges squealed ever so slightly, just like the ones in the archives he recalled from that rainy morning nearly a month ago when somebody was watching.

Surely Paolo Ambrosi.

The muted blare of a horn blew in the distance. From across the river, bells pealed, signaling one P.M.

He sat and opened the envelope.

Inside were two sheets of paper, one blue, one tan. He read the blue sheet first, penned in ClementOs hand:

Colin, by now you know that the Virgin left more. Her words are now entrusted to you. Be wise with them.

His hands trembled as he laid the blue sheet aside. Clement had apparently known he would eventually find his way to Bamberg and that heOd read what was inside the envelope.

He unfolded the tan sheet.

The ink was a light blue, the page crisp and new. He scanned the Italian, its translation flashing through his mind. A second pass refined the language. A final read and he now knew what Sister Lucia had written in 1944Nthe remainder of what the Virgin told her in the third secretNwhat Father Tibor translated that day in 1960.

Before the Lady left She stated there was one last message which the Lord wished to convey only to Jacinta and me. She told us She was the Mother of God and asked us to make public this message to the entire world at the appropriate time. In so doing we will find strong resistance. Listen well and pay attention was Her command. Men have to correct themselves. They have sinned and trod upon the gift given them. My child, She said, marriage is a sanctified state. Its love knows no boundaries. What the heart feels is genuine, no matter to whom or why, and God has placed no limit on what makes a sound union. Know well that happiness is the only real test of love. Know also that women are as much a part of GodOs church as men. To be called to the service of the Lord is not a masculine endeavor. Priests of the Lord should not be forbidden from love and companionship, nor from the joy of a child. To serve God is not to forgo oneOs heart. Priests should be bountiful in every way. Finally, She said, know that your body is yours. Just as God entrusted me with His son, the Lord entrusts to you and all women their unborn. It is for you alone to decide what is best. Go my little ones and proclaim the glory of these words. For that purpose I will always be at your side.

His hands shook. It wasnOt Sister LuciaOs words, provocative as they were. It was something else.

He reached into his pocket and found the message Jasna had written two days before. The words the Virgin told her on a Bosnian mountaintop. The tenth secret of Medjugorje. He unfolded and read the message again:

Do not fear, I am the Mother of God who talks to you and asks you to make public the present Message for the entire world. In so doing, you will find strong resistence. Listen well and pay attention to what I tell you. Men have to correct themselves. With humble petitions they have to ask forgiveness for sins committed and those they will commit. Proclaim in my name a great punishment will fall mankind; not today, not tomorrow, but soon if my words are not believed. I have already revealed this to the blessed ones at La Salette and again at Fatima and today I repeat it to you because mankind has sinned and trod upon the Gift that God has given. The time of times and the end of all ends will come, if mankind is not converted; and if all should stay as it is now, or worse, should it worsen even more, the great and the powerful will perish with the small and the weak.

Heed these words. Why persecute the man or woman who loves differently from others? Such persecution does not please the Lord. Know that marriage is to be shared by all without restriction. Anything contrary is the folly of man, not the word of the Lord. Women stand high in the eyes of God. Their service has too long been forbidden and that repression displeases heaven. ChristOs priests should be happy and bountiful. The joy of love and children should never be denied them and the Holy Father would do well to understand this. My last words are most important. Know that I freely chose to be the mother of God. The choice of a child rests with a woman and man should never interfere with that decision. Go now, tell the world my message, and proclaim the goodness of the Lord, but remember that I shall always be by your side.

He slid out of the chair and fell to his knees. The implications were not in question. Two messages. One written by a Portuguese nun in 1944Na woman with little education and a limited mastery of languageNtranslated by a priest in 1960Nthe account of what was said on July 13, 1917, when the Virgin Mary supposedly appeared. The other penned by a woman two days agoNa seer who had experienced hundreds of apparitionsNthe account of what was told to her on a stormy mountain when the Virgin Mary appeared to her for the last time.

Nearly a hundred years separated the two events.

The first message had been sealed in the Vatican, read only by popes and a Bulgarian translator, none of whom ever knew the bearer of the second message. The receiver of the second message likewise would have possessed no way to know the contents of the first. Yet the two messages were identical in contentNand the common denominator was the messenger.

Mary, the mother of God.

For two thousand years doubters had wanted proof God existed. Something tangible that demonstrated, without a doubt, He was a living entity, conscious of the world, alive in every sense. Not a parable or a metaphor. Instead, the ruler of heaven, provider to man, overseer of Creation. MichenerOs own vision of the Virgin flashed through his mind.

What is my destiny, heOd asked.

To be a sign to the world. A beacon for repentance. The messenger to announce that God is very much alive.

HeOd thought it all a hallucination. Now he knew it to be real.

He crossed himself and, for the first time, prayed knowing God was listening. He asked forgiveness for the Church and the foolishness of men, especially himself. If Clement was right, and there was now no longer any reason to doubt him, in 1978 Alberto Valendrea removed the part of the third secret heOd just read. He imagined what Valendrea must have been thinking when he saw the words for the first time. Two thousand years of Church teachings rejected by an illiterate Portuguese child. Women can be priests? Priests can marry and have children? Homosexuality is not a sin? Motherhood is the choice of the woman? Then, yesterday, when Valendrea read the Medjugorje message, heOd instantly realized what Michener now knew.

All of that was the Word of God.

The VirginOs words came to him again. Do not forsake your faith, for in the end it will be all that remains.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Clement was right. Man was foolish. Heaven had tried to steer humanity on the right course, and foolish people had ignored every effort. He thought about the missing messages from the La Salette seers. Had another pope a century ago accomplished what Valendrea had attempted? That might explain why the Virgin subsequently appeared at Fatima and Medjugorje. To try again. Yet Valendrea had sabotaged any revelation by destroying the evidence. Clement at least tried. The Virgin returned and told me my time had come. Father Tibor was with Her. I waited for Her to take me, but She said I must end my life through my own hand. Father Tibor said it was my duty, the penance for disobedience, and that all would be clear later. I wondered about my soul, but was told the Lord was waiting. I have for too long ignored heaven. I will not this time. Those words were not the ramblings of a demented soul, or even a suicide note from an unstable man. He now understood why Valendrea could not allow Father TiborOs reproduced translation to be compared with JasnaOs message.

The repercussions were devastating.

To be called to the service of the Lord is not a masculine endeavor. The ChurchOs stand on women as priests had been unbending. Ever since Roman times popes had convened councils to reaffirm that tradition. Christ was a man, so priests would be, too.

ChristOs priests should be happy and bountiful. The joy of love and children should never be denied them. Celibacy was a concept conceived by men and enforced by men. Christ was deemed a celibate. So should be His priests.

Why persecute the man or woman who loves differently from others? Genesis described a man and woman coming together as one body to transmit life to another, so the Church had long taught that only sin came from a union that could not foster life.

Just as God entrusted me with His son, the Lord entrusts to you and all women their unborn. It is for you alone to decide what is best. The Church had absolutely opposed birth control in any form. Popes had repeatedly decreed that the embryo was ensouled, a human being deserving of life, and that life must be preserved, even at the expense of the mother.

ManOs concept of GodOs Word was apparently far different from the Word itself. Even worse, for centuries, unbending attitudes had proclaimed GodOs message with a stamp of papal infallibility, which by definition was now proven false since no pope had done what heaven desired. What had Clement said? We are merely men, Colin. Nothing more. IOm no more infallible than you. Yet we proclaim ourselves princes of the church. Devout clerics concerned only with pleasing God, while we simply please ourselves.

He was right. May God bless his soul, he was right.

With the reading of a few simple words penned by two blessed women, thousands of years of religious blundering now became clear. He prayed again, this time thanking God for his patience. He asked the Lord to forgive humanity, then asked Clement to watch over him in the hours ahead.

There was no way he could give Father TiborOs translation to Ambrosi. The Virgin had told him that he was a sign to the world. A beacon for repentance. The messenger to announce that God was alive. To do that, he needed the complete third secret of Fatima. Scholars must study the text and eliminate the explainable, leaving only one conclusion.

But to keep Father TiborOs words would jeopardize Katerina.

So he again prayed, this time for guidance.

4:30 P.M.

Katerina struggled to free her hands and feet from thick tape. Her arms were folded behind her back and she lay sprawled on a stiff mattress draped with a scratchy quilt that smelled of paint. Through a solitary window she could see night approaching. Her mouth was covered with tape, so she forced herself to stay calm and breathe slowly through her nose.

How sheOd gotten here was a mystery. She only recalled Ambrosi choking her and the world going black. SheOd been awake maybe two hours, and had yet to hear anything besides an occasional voice from the street. It appeared she was on an upper story, perhaps in one of the baroque buildings that lined BambergOs ancient streets, near St. GangolfOs since Ambrosi couldnOt have carried her far. The cold air was drying her nostrils and she was glad he hadnOt removed her coat.

For an instant in the church sheOd thought her life was over. Apparently she was deemed more valuable aliveNsurely the bargaining chip Ambrosi would use to coerce what he wanted from Michener.

Tom Kealy had been right about Valendrea, but he was wrong about her being able to hold her own. The passions of these men were way beyond anything sheOd ever known. Valendrea had told Kealy at the tribunal that he was clearly with the devil. If that were true, then Kealy and Valendrea kept the same company.

She heard a door open, then close. Footsteps approached. The door to the room opened and Ambrosi stepped inside, yanking off a pair of gloves. OComfortable?O he asked.

Her eyes followed his movements. Ambrosi tossed his coat across a chair, then sat on the bed. OI would imagine you thought yourself dead in the church. Life is such a great gift, is it not? Of course you canOt answer, but thatOs okay. I like answering my own questions.O

He seemed pleased with himself.

OLife is indeed a gift, and I bestowed that gift on you. I could have killed you and been done with the problem you pose.O

She lay perfectly still. His gaze raked her body.

OMichener has enjoyed you, hasnOt he? Such a pleasure, IOm sure. What was it you told me in Rome. You pee sitting down, so I would not be interested. You think I donOt lust for a woman? You think I wouldnOt know what to do? Because IOm a priest? Or because I am queer?O

She wondered if this show was for her benefit or his.

OYour lover said he couldnOt care less what happens to you.O Amusement laced his words. OHe called you my spy. Said you were my problem, not his. Perhaps heOs right. After all, I recruited you.O

She tried to keep her eyes calm.

OYou think His Holiness enlisted your aid? No, IOm the one who learned about you and Michener. IOm the one who considered the possibility. Peter would know nothing, but for me.O

He suddenly wrenched her up and yanked the tape from her mouth. Before she could utter a sound he pulled her toward him and locked his lips on hers. The thrust of his tongue was revolting and she tried to recoil, but he maintained the embrace. He bent her head sideways and gripped her hair, sucking the breath from her lungs. His mouth tasted of beer. Finally, she clamped her teeth on his tongue. He pulled back and she lunged forward, snapping at his lower lip and drawing blood.

OYou fucking bitch,O he cried as he slammed her to the bed.

She spat his saliva from her mouth, as if exorcising evil. He leaped forward and swiped the back of his hand across her face. The blow stung and she tasted blood. He lashed out one more time, the force driving her head into the wall at the edge of the bed.

The room started to spin.

OI should kill you,O he muttered.

OFuck you,O she managed to say as she rolled onto her back, but the dizziness was still there.

He dabbed his bleeding lip with his shirtsleeve.

A trickle of blood seeped from the side of her mouth. She bobbed her face on the quilt. Red splotches stained the cloth. OYou better kill me. Because if you donOt, given the chance I will kill you.O

OYouOll never have the chance.O

She realized she was safe until he got what he wanted. Colin had done the right thing making the idiot think she was unimportant.

He came back close to the bed and dabbed his lip. OI only hope your lover ignores what I told him. IOm going to enjoy watching you both die.O

OBig words, little man.O

He lunged forward, rolled her flat, and straddled her. She knew he would not kill her. Not yet, anyway.

OWhatOs the matter, Ambrosi, donOt know what to do next?O

He quivered with anger. She was pushing him, but what the hell.

OI told Peter, after Romania, to leave you alone.O

OSo thatOs why IOm being beaten by his lapdog.O

OYouOre lucky thatOs all IOm doing to you.O

OMaybe Valendrea would be jealous. Perhaps we ought to keep this between us?O

The taunt brought pressure to her throat. Not enough to block her breathing, but enough to let her know to shut up.

OYouOre a tough man to a woman with her hands and feet bound. Untie me and letOs see how brave you are.O

Ambrosi rolled off her. OYouOre not worth the effort. We only have a couple of hours left. IOm going to get some dinner before I finish this.O His gaze bore into her. OFor good.O

E

VATICAN CITY, 6:30 P.M.

Valendrea strolled through the gardens and enjoyed an unusually mild December evening. This first Saturday of his papacy had been busy. HeOd celebrated Mass in the morning, then met with a procession of people whoOd traveled to Rome to offer him their best wishes. The afternoon had started with a gathering of cardinals. About eighty were lingering in town, and heOd met with them for three hours to outline some of what he intended. ThereOd been the usual questions, only this time heOd taken the opportunity to announce that all appointments of Clement XV would remain in place until the following week. The only exception was the cardinal-archivist, who, heOd said, had tendered his resignation for health reasons. The new archivist would be a Belgian cardinal whoOd already returned home, but was on his way back to Rome. Beyond that, heOd made no decisions and would not until after the weekend. HeOd noticed the look on many in the chamber, waiting for him to make good on preconclave assurances, but no one questioned his declarations. And he liked that.

Ahead of him stood Cardinal Bartolo, waiting where theyOd arranged earlier after the cardinalsO gathering. The prefect from Turin had been insistent they talk today. He knew Bartolo had been promised the position as secretary of state and now, apparently, the cardinal wanted that promise kept. Ambrosi was the one whoOd made the promise, but Paolo also had advised him to delay that particular selection for as long as possible. After all, Bartolo had not been the only man assured the job. For the losers, excuses would have to be found to eliminate them as contendersNsufficient reasons to quell bitterness and prevent retaliation. Certainly alternative posts could be offered to some, but he well knew that secretary of state was something more than one senior cardinal coveted.

Bartolo stood near the Pasetto di Borgo. The medieval passageway extended through the Vatican wall into the nearby Castel SantOAngelo, a fortification that had once protected popes from invaders.

OEminence,O Valendrea greeted as he approached.

Bartolo bowed his bearded face. OHoly Father.O The older man smiled. OYou like the sound of that, donOt you, Alberto?O

OIt does have a resonance.O

OYouOve been avoiding me.O

He waved off the observation. ONever.O

OI know you too well. IOm not the only one the secretary of state position has been offered to.O

OVotes are hard to come by. We must do what we must.O He was trying to keep the tone light, but realized Bartolo was not naive.

OI was directly responsible for at least a dozen of your votes.O

OWhich turned out not to be needed.O

The muscles in BartoloOs face tightened. OOnly because Ngovi withdrew. I imagine those twelve votes would have been critical if the fight had continued.O

The rising pitch of the old manOs voice seemed to sap the strength from the words, gestating them into a plea. Valendrea decided to get to the point. OGustavo, you are too old to be secretary. It is a demanding post. Much travel is required.O

Bartolo glared at him. This man was going to be a difficult ally to placate. The cardinal had indeed delivered a number of votes, confirmed by the listening devices, and had been his champion from the beginning. But BartoloOs reputation was one of a slacker with a mediocre education and no diplomatic experience. His selection for any post would not be popular, especially one as critical as secretary of state. There were three other cardinals whoOd worked equally hard, with exemplary backgrounds and greater standing within the Sacred College. Still, Bartolo offered one thing they did not. Unremitting obedience. And there was something to be said for that.

OGustavo, if I considered appointing you, there would be conditions.O He was testing the waters, seeing how inviting they might be.

OIOm listening.O

OI intend to personally direct foreign policy. Any decisions will be mine, not yours. You would have to do exactly as I say.O

OYou are pope.O

The response came quick, signaling desire.

OI would not tolerate dissension or maverick actions.O

OAlberto, I have been a priest nearly fifty years and have always done as popes said. I even knelt and kissed the ring of Jakob Volkner, a man I despised. I cannot see how you would question my loyalty.O

He allowed his face to melt into a grin. OIOm not questioning anything. I just want you to know the rules.O

He eased a bit down the path and Bartolo followed. He motioned upward and said, OPopes once fled the Vatican through that passageway. Hiding like children, afraid of the dark. The thought makes me sick.O

OArmies no longer invade the Vatican.O

ONot troops, but armies do still invade. TodayOs infidels come in the form of reporters and writers. They bring their cameras and notebooks and try to destroy the ChurchOs foundation, aided by liberals and dissidents. Sometimes, Gustavo, even the pope himself is their ally, as with Clement.O

OIt was a blessing he died.O

He liked what he was hearing, and he knew it wasnOt platitudes. OI intend to restore glory to the papacy. The pope commands a million or more when he appears anywhere in the world. Governments should fear that potential. I intend to be the most traveled pope in history.O

OAnd you would need the constant assistance of the secretary of state to achieve all that.O

They walked a bit farther. OMy thoughts exactly, Gustavo.O

Valendrea glanced again at the brick passageway and imagined the last pope whoOd fled the Vatican as German mercenaries stormed through Rome. He knew the exact dateNMay 6, 1527. One hundred and forty-seven Swiss guards died that day defending their pontiff. The pope barely escaped through the brick-enclosed corridor rising above him, tossing off his white garments so no one would recognize him.

OI will never flee the Vatican,O he made clear to not only Bartolo, but also the walls themselves. He was suddenly overcome with the moment and decided to disregard what Ambrosi had counseled. OAll right, Gustavo, IOll make the announcement Monday. You will be my secretary of state. Serve me well.O

The old manOs face beamed. OIn me you will have total dedication.O

Which made him think of his most loyal ally.

Ambrosi had phoned two hours ago and told him that Father TiborOs reproduced translation should be his at seven P.M. So far, there was no indication that anyone had read it, and that report pleased him.

He glanced at his watch. Six fifty P.M.

OMust you be somewhere, Holy Father?O

ONo, Eminence, I was only considering another matter that is, at this moment, being resolved.O

E

BAMBERG, 6:50 P.M.

Michener climbed a steep path toward the Cathedral of St. Peter and St. George and entered a sloping, oblong piazza. Below, a landscape of terra-cotta roofs and stone towers rose from the town proper, illuminated by pools of light that dotted the city. The dark sky yielded a steady fall of spiraling snow, but did not deter the crowds already making their way toward the church, its four spires splashed in a blue-white glow.

The churches and squares of Bamberg had celebrated Advent for more than four hundred years by displaying decorative nativity scenes. HeOd learned from Irma Rahn that the circuit always started in the cathedral and, after the bishopOs blessing, everyone would fan out through the city to view the yearOs offerings. Many came from all over Bavaria to take part, and Irma had warned that the streets would be crowded and noisy.

He glanced at his watch. Not quite seven.

He glanced around him and studied the families parading toward the cathedralOs entrance, many of the children chatting incessantly about snow, Christmas, and St. Nicholas. Off to the right, a group was huddled around a woman wrapped in a heavy wool coat. She was perched on a knee-high wall, talking about the cathedral and Bamberg. Some kind of tour.

He wondered what people would think if they knew what he now knew. That man had not created God. Instead, just as theologians and holy men had counseled since the beginning of time, God was there, watching, many times surely pleased, other times frustrated, sometimes angry. The best advice seemed the oldest advice. Serve Him well and faithfully.

He was still fearful of the atonement that would be required for his own sins. Maybe this task was part of his penance. But he was relieved to know that his love for Katerina had never, at least in heavenOs view, been a sin. How many priests had left the Church after similar failures? How many good men died thinking theyOd fallen?

He was about to edge past the tour group when something the woman said caught his attention.

ONthe seven hilled city.O

He froze.

OThatOs what the ancients called Bamberg. It refers to the seven mounds that surround the river. Hard to see now, but there are seven distinct hills, each one in centuries past occupied by a prince or a bishop or a church. In the time of Henry II, when this was the capital of the Holy Roman Empire, the analogy brought this political center closer to the religious center of Rome, which was another city referred to as seven hilled.O

In the final persecution of the Holy Roman Church there will reign Peter the Roman who will feed his flock among many tribulations, after which in the seven hilled city the dreadful judge will judge all people. ThatOs what St. Malachy had supposedly predicted in the eleventh century. Michener had thought the seven hilled city was a reference to Rome. HeOd never known of a similar label for Bamberg.

He closed his eyes and prayed again. Was this another insight? Something vital to what was about to happen?

He glanced up at the funnel-shaped entrance to the cathedral. The tympanum, bathed in light, depicted Christ at the Last Judgment. Mary and John, at his feet, were pleading for souls arising from their coffins, the blessed pushing forward behind Mary toward heaven, the damned being dragged to hell by a grinning devil. Had two thousand years of Christian arrogance come down to this nightNto a place where nearly a thousand years ago a sainted Irish priest had predicted humanity would come?

He sucked in a breath of frigid air, steeled himself, then elbowed his way into the nave. Inside, the sandstone walls were bathed in a soft hue. He took in the details of the heavily ribbed vaulting, stout piers, statuary, and tall windows. A choir perch soared on one end. The altar filled the other. Beyond the altar was the tomb of Clement II, the only pope ever buried in German soil, and Jakob VolknerOs namesake.

He stopped at a marble font and dabbed his finger into the holy water. He crossed himself and said another prayer for what he was about to do. An organ poured out a soft melody.

He glanced around at the crowd filling the long pews. Robed acolytes busily prepared the sanctuary. High to his left, standing before a thick stone balustrade, was Katerina. Beside her stood Ambrosi, wearing the same dark coat and scarf from earlier. Twin staircases rose on the left and right of the railing, the steps filled with people. Between the staircases sat the imperial tomb. Clement had also spoken of itNa Riemenschneider, rich in elaborate carvings depicting Henry II and his queen, in which their bodies had rested for half a millennium.

He realized a gun was near Katerina, but he didnOt believe Ambrosi would risk anything here. He wondered if reinforcements might be concealed among the crowd. He stood rigid as people filed past him.

Ambrosi gestured for him to ascend the left staircase.

He did not move.

Ambrosi gestured again.

He shook his head.

AmbrosiOs gaze tightened.

He withdrew the envelope from his pocket and displayed it for his nemesis to see. The look on the papal secretaryOs face showed recognition of the same envelope from earlier in the restaurant, lying innocently on the table.

He shook his head again.

Then he remembered what Katerina had told him of how Ambrosi had read her lips when she cursed him in St. PeterOs Square.

Screw you, Ambrosi, he mouthed.

He saw the priest understood.

He pocketed the envelope and headed for the exit, hoping he would not regret what was going to happen next.

Katerina watched Michener mouth something then turn to leave. SheOd offered no resistence on the walk to the cathedral because Ambrosi had told her he was not alone, and if they did not appear there at seven Michener would be killed. She was doubtful there were others, but her best bet was to get to the church and wait for an opportunity. So in the instant Ambrosi took to register MichenerOs betrayal, she ignored the gun barrel boring into her back and ground her left heel onto AmbrosiOs foot. She then shoved the priest away and yanked the gun from his grip, the weapon clattering across the tile floor.

She sprang for the gun as a woman beside her screamed. She used the confusion to grab the pistol and bolt for the staircase, catching a glimpse of Ambrosi rising to his feet.

The steps were crowded, and she plowed her way down before deciding to vault over the railing onto the imperial crypt. She landed on the stone effigy of a woman lying next to a robed man, then leaped to the floor. The gun was still in her hand. Voices rose. A panic swept the church. She pushed her way through a knot of people at the door and emerged into the frigid night.

Pocketing the gun, her eyes searched for Michener, and she saw him at the path that led down to the town center. A commotion behind her warned that Ambrosi was trying to make an exit, too.

So she ran.

Michener thought he saw Katerina as he started down the winding path. But he couldnOt stop. He had to keep going. If it was Kate sheOd follow and Ambrosi would pursue, so he loped down the narrow stone path, brushing past more people on their way up.

He made it to the bottom and hurried toward the town hall bridge. He crossed the river through a gateway that bisected the rickety timbered building and entered the busy Maxplatz.

He slowed and risked a quick glance behind.

Katerina was fifty yards back, heading his way.

Katerina wanted to cry out and tell Michener to wait, but he was moving at a determined gait, heading into Bamberg toward the bustling Christmas market. The gun was still in her pocket, and behind her Ambrosi was rapidly advancing. SheOd been on the lookout for a policeman, anyone in authority, but this night of merriment seemed a government holiday. No uniforms were in sight.

She had to trust Michener knew what he was doing. HeOd deliberately flaunted Ambrosi, apparently gambling that her assailant would not harm her in public. Whatever was contained in Father TiborOs translation must be important enough that Michener did not want Ambrosi, or Valendrea, to have it. But she wondered if it was important enough to risk what heOd apparently decided to ante in this seemingly high-stakes game.

Up ahead, Michener dissolved into the crowds surveying booths filled with Christmas wares. Bright lights illuminated the outdoor market in a daylight glow. The air reeked of grilled sausages and beer.

She slowed, too, as people enveloped her.

Michener hustled through the revelers, but not fast enough to draw attention. The market spanned about a hundred yards down the winding cobblestoned path. Half-timbered buildings lined its perimeter, wedging people and booths into a congested column.

He came to the last of the booths and the crowd thinned.

He regained a running pace, rubber soles slapping the cobbles as he left the noisy market and headed for the canal, crossing a stone bridge and entering a quiet part of town.

Behind him, more soles to stone could be heard. Up ahead, he spotted St. GangolfOs. All of the revelry was centralized back in the Maxplaz, or across the river in the cathedral district, and he was counting on some privacy for at least the next few minutes.

He only hoped he wasnOt tempting fate.

Katerina watched Michener enter St. GangolfOs. What was he doing there? This was stupid. Ambrosi was still behind her, yet Colin had deliberately come straight to the church. He must know she was following, and that her assailant would, too.

She glanced at the buildings around her. Few lights burned in the windows and the street ahead was empty. She raced to the church doors, yanked them open, and bolted inside. Her breaths were coming fast.

OColin.O

No answer.

She called his name again. Still no answer.

She trotted down the center aisle toward the altar, passing empty pews that sliced thin shadows in the blackness. Only a handful of lamps illuminated the nave. The church was apparently not a part of this yearOs celebration.

OColin.O

Desperation now laced her voice. Where was he? Why wouldnOt he answer? Had he left through another door? Was she trapped here alone?

The doors behind her opened.

She dove into a row of pews and clawed the floor, trying to slip across the gritty stone to the far side.

Footsteps stopped her advance.

Michener saw a man enter the church. A shaft of light revealed the face of Paolo Ambrosi. A few moments earlier, Katerina had entered and called out his name, but heOd intentionally not answered. She was now huddled on the floor between the pews.

OYou move fast, Ambrosi,O he called out.

His voice bounced off the walls, the echo making it difficult to pinpoint his location. He watched as Ambrosi moved right, toward the confessionals, his head sweeping back and forth so his ears could judge the sound. He hoped Katerina did not betray her presence.

OWhy make this hard, Michener?O Ambrosi said. OYou know what I want.O

OYou told me earlier things would be different if I read the words. For once you were right.O

OYou never could obey.O

OHow about Father Tibor? Did he obey?O

Ambrosi was approaching the altar. The priest moved with cautious steps, still searching the darkness for MichenerOs location.

OI never spoke with Tibor,O Ambrosi said.

OSure you did.O

Michener stared down from the raised pulpit, eight feet above Ambrosi.

OJust come on out, Michener. LetOs resolve this.O

As Ambrosi turned, his back momentarily to him, Michener leaped down. Together they pounded the floor and rolled.

Ambrosi pushed himself away and sprang to his feet.

Michener started to rise, too.

Movement to his right caught his attention. He saw Katerina rushing toward them, a gun in hand. Ambrosi pivoted off a row of pews and vaulted toward her, thrusting his feet into her chest, sending her to the floor. Michener heard a thud as skull found stone. Ambrosi disappeared over the pews and came back into view with the gun in his grip, yanking a limp Katerina to her feet and ramming the gun barrel into her neck. OOkay, Michener. Enough.O

He stood still.

OGive me TiborOs translation.O

Michener took a few steps toward them and withdrew the envelope from his pocket. OThis what you want?O

ODrop it on the floor and back away.O The hammer on the gun clicked into place. ODonOt push me, Michener. I possess the courage to do what needs to be done because the Lord gives me the strength.O

OPerhaps HeOs testing to see what you will do?O

OShut up. I donOt need a theology lesson.O

OI might be the best person on earth for that at the moment.O

OIs it the words?O The tone was quizzical, like a schoolboy inquiring of his teacher. OThey give you courage?O

He sensed something. OWhat is it, Ambrosi? Valendrea didnOt tell you everything? Too bad. He held back the best part.O

Ambrosi tightened his grip on Katerina. OJust drop the envelope and back away.O

The desperate look in AmbrosiOs eyes signaled that he might well make good on the threat. So he tossed the envelope to the floor.

Ambrosi released his hold on Katerina and shoved her toward Michener. He caught her and saw she was dazed from the head blow.

OYou okay?O he asked.

Her eyes were glassy, but she nodded.

Ambrosi was examining the envelopeOs contents.

OHow do you know thatOs what Valendrea wants?O he asked.

OI donOt. But my instructions were clear. Get what I can and eliminate the witnesses.O

OWhat if I made a copy?O

Ambrosi shrugged. OA chance we take. But, fortunately for us, you will not be here to offer any testimony.O The gun came level, pointed straight at them. OThis is the part I will truly enjoy.O

A form emerged from the shadows and slowly inched close to Ambrosi from behind. Not a sound came from the approaching steps. The man was clad in black trousers and a loose-fitting black jacket. The outline of a gun appeared in one hand, and it was slowly raised to AmbrosiOs right temple.

OI assure you, Father,O Cardinal Ngovi said. OI, too, will enjoy this part.O

OWhat are you doing here?O Ambrosi asked, surprise in his voice.

OI came to speak with you. So lower the weapon and answer some questions. Then youOre free to go.O

OYou want Valendrea, donOt you?O

OWhy else do you think youOre still breathing.O

Michener held his breath as Ambrosi weighed his options. When heOd telephoned Ngovi earlier, he was banking on AmbrosiOs survival instincts. He assumed that though Ambrosi might profess great loyalty, when it came to a choice between himself or his pope, there really was no choice at all. OItOs over, Ambrosi.O He pointed to the envelope. OI read it. Cardinal Ngovi read it. Too many know now. You canOt win this one.O

OAnd what was worth all this?O Ambrosi asked, the tone signaling that he was considering their proposal.

OLower the gun and find out.O

Another long moment of silence passed. Finally, AmbrosiOs hand came down. Ngovi grabbed the weapon and stood back, his gun still trained on the priest.

Ambrosi faced Michener. OYou were bait? The idea was to get me to follow?O

OSomething like that.O

Ngovi stepped forward. OWe have some questions. Cooperate and there will be no police, no arrest. Just disappear. A good deal, considering.O

OConsidering what?O

OFather TiborOs murder.O

Ambrosi chuckled. OThatOs a bluff and you know it. This is about you two bringing down Peter II.O

Michener stood. ONo. ItOs about you bringing Valendrea down. Which shouldnOt matter at all. HeOd do the same to you if the roles were reversed.O

Without question the man standing before him had been involved in Father TiborOs death, most likely the actual murderer. But Ambrosi was surely smart enough to realize that the game had changed.

OOkay,O Ambrosi said. OAsk away.O

The cardinal reached into his jacket pocket.

A tape recorder came into view.

Michener helped Katerina into the Ksnigshof. Irma Rahn met them at the front door.

ODid it go all right?O the older woman asked Michener. OIOve been frantic for the last hour.O

OIt went well.O

OPraise God. I was so worried.O

Katerina was still woozy, but feeling better.

OIOm going to take her upstairs,O he said.

He helped her to the second floor. Once inside the room she immediately asked, OWhat in GodOs name was Ngovi doing there?O

OI called this afternoon and told him what IOd learned. He flew to Munich and arrived here right before I headed to the cathedral. It was my job to lure Ambrosi to St. GangolfOs. We needed a place away from the festivities. Irma told me the church wasnOt displaying a crib scene this year. I had Ngovi talk with the parish priest. He doesnOt know anything, only that Vatican officials needed his church for a little while.O He knew what she was thinking. OLook, Kate, Ambrosi wouldnOt hurt anyone until he had TiborOs translation. He could never be sure of anything until then. We had to play it out.O

OSo I was bait?O

OYou and me. Defying him was the only way to make sure heOd turn on Valendrea.O

ONgoviOs a tough one.O

OHe was raised a street kid in Nairobi. He knows how to handle himself.O

TheyOd spent the past half hour with Ambrosi, recording what would be needed tomorrow. SheOd listened and now knew everything, except the entire third secret of Fatima. He removed an envelope from his pocket. OHereOs what Father Tibor sent to Clement. ItOs the copy I offered Ambrosi. Ngovi has the original.O

She read the words, then commented, OThatOs similar to what Jasna wrote. You were just going to give Ambrosi the Medjugorje message?O

He shook his head. OThose are not JasnaOs words. Those are the VirginOs, from Fatima, written by Lucia dos Santos in 1944, and translated by Father Tibor in 1960.O

OYou canOt be serious. Do you realize what that would mean if the two messages were essentially the same?O

OIOve realized that since this afternoon.O His voice was low and calm and he waited while she considered the implications. TheyOd talked many times about her lack of her faith. But heOd never been one to judge, considering his own lapses. After which in the seven hilled city the dreadful judge will judge all people. Maybe Katerina was the first of many to judge themselves.

OThe Lord seems to have made a comeback,O he said.

OItOs unbelievable. Yet what else could it be? How could those messages be the same?O

OItOs impossible, considering what you and I know. But doubters will say we fashioned Father TiborOs translation to match JasnaOs message. TheyOll say itOs all a fraud. The originals are gone and the drafters are all dead. WeOre the only ones who know the truth.O

OSo itOs still a matter of faith. You and I know what happened. But everybody else would have to simply take our word.O She shook her head. OSeems God is destined to always be a mystery.O

HeOd already considered the possibilities. The Virgin told him in Bosnia that he was to be a sign to the world. A beacon for repentance. The messenger to announce that God is very much alive. But something else the Virgin said was equally important. Do not forsake your faith, for in the end it will be all that remains.

OThere is a consolation,O he said. OI berated myself badly years ago for violating Holy Orders. I loved you, but believed that what I felt, what I did, was a sin. I know now that it wasnOt. Not in GodOs eyes.O

He heard John XXIIIOs urging to the Vatican II council again in his mind. His pleading with traditionalists and progressives to work in unison so the earthly city may be brought to the resemblance of that heavenly city where truth reigns. Only now did he fully understand what that pope meant.

OClement tried to do what he could,O she said. OIOm so sorry for the way I thought of him.O

OI think he understands.O

She threw him a smile. OWhat now?O

OBack to Rome. Ngovi and I have a meeting tomorrow.O

OThen what?O

He knew what she meant. OTo Romania. Those kids are waiting on us.O

OI thought maybe you were having second thoughts.O

He pointed skyward. OI think we owe it to Him. DonOt you?O

E

VATICAN CITY

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 2

11:00 A.M.

Michener and Ngovi walked down the loggia toward the papal library. Bright sunshine swept in through towering windows on both sides of the wide corridor. They were dressed in clerical robes, Ngovi in scarlet, Michener in black.

The papal office had been contacted earlier, and AmbrosiOs assistant had been enlisted to speak directly with Valendrea. Ngovi wanted a papal audience. No subject matter was provided, but Michener was banking on the fact that Valendrea would understand the significance that he and Ngovi needed to talk with him, and Paolo Ambrosi was nowhere to be found. The tactic apparently worked. The pope himself granted permission for them to enter the palace, allocating fifteen minutes for the audience.

OCan you accomplish your business in that time?O AmbrosiOs assistant had asked.

OI believe so,O Ngovi answered.

Valendrea had kept them waiting nearly half an hour. Now they approached the library and entered, closing the doors behind them. Valendrea stood before leaded-glass windows, his stout form, dressed in white, flooded in sunshine.

OI have to say, my curiosity was piqued when you requested an audience. You two would be the last people IOd expect to be here on a Saturday morning. I thought you, Maurice, were in Africa. And you, Michener, in Germany.O

OHalf right,O Ngovi said. OWe were both in Germany.O

A curious expression came to ValendreaOs face.

Michener decided to get to the point. OYou wonOt be hearing from Ambrosi.O

OWhat do you mean?O

Ngovi removed the recorder from his cassock and flipped on the machine. AmbrosiOs voice filled the library as he explained about Father TiborOs murder, the listening devices, the files on cardinals, and the blackmail used to secure conclave votes. Valendrea listened impassively as his sins were revealed. Ngovi switched off the machine. OClear enough?O

The pope said nothing.

OWe have the complete third secret of Fatima and the tenth secret of Medjugorje,O Michener said.

OI was under the impression I possessed the Medjugorje secret.O

OA copy. I know now why you reacted so strongly when you read JasnaOs message.O

Valendrea seemed jittery. For once, this obstinate man was not in control.

Michener stepped closer. OYou needed to suppress those words.O

OEven your Clement tried,O Valendrea said in defiance.

Michener shook his head. OHe knew what youOd do and had the foresight to get TiborOs translation away from here. He did more than anybody. He gave his life. HeOs better than any of us. He believed in the Lord . . . without proof.O His pulse pounded with excitement. ODid you know Bamberg was called the seven hilled city? Remember MalachyOs prediction? After which in the seven hilled city the dreadful judge will judge all people.O He pointed to the tape. OFor you, truth is the dreadful judge.O

OThat tape is merely the ramblings of a man caught,O Valendrea said. OItOs not proof of anything.O

Michener wasnOt impressed. OAmbrosi told us about your trip to Romania, and supplied more than enough details to mount a prosecution and obtain a conviction, especially in a former communist-bloc nation where the burden of proof is, shall we say, loose.O

OYouOre bluffing.O

Ngovi removed another microcassette from his pocket. OWe showed him the Fatima message and the one from Medjugorje. We did not have to explain their significance. Even an amoral man like Ambrosi saw the majesty of what awaits him. After that, his answers came freely. He begged me to hear his confession.O He motioned with the cassette. OBut not before he spoke for the record.O

OHe makes a good witness,O Michener said. OYou see, there actually is an authority higher than you.O

Valendrea paced across the room, toward the bookshelves, looking like an animal examining his cage. OPopes have been ignoring God for a long time. The La Salette message has been missing from the archives for a century. IOd wager the Virgin told those seers the same thing.O

OThose men,O Ngovi said, Ocan be forgiven. They considered the messages the seerOs, not the VirginOs. They rationalized their defiance with caution. They lacked the proof you possessed. You knew the words to be divine and still would have killed Michener and Katerina Lew to suppress them.O

ValendreaOs eyes flashed hot. OYou sanctimonious ass. What was I to do? Let the Church crumble? DonOt you realize what this revelation will do? Two thousand years of dogma has been rendered false.O

OIt is not for us to manipulate the ChurchOs fate,O Ngovi said. OGodOs Word is His alone, and apparently His patience has run out.O

Valendrea shook his head. OIt is for us to preserve the Church. What Catholic on this earth would listen to Rome if he knew we lied? And weOre not talking about minor points. Celibacy? Women priests? Abortion? Homosexuality? Even the essence of papal infallibility.O

Ngovi seemed unaffected by the plea. OIOm more concerned how I would explain to my Lord why I ignored His command.O

Michener faced Valendrea. OWhen you went back into the Riserva in 1978, there was no tenth Medjugorje secret. Yet you removed part of the message. How did you know Sister LuciaOs words were genuine?O

OI saw fear in PaulOs eyes when he read them. If that man was scared, then there was something to it. That Friday night, in the Riserva, when Clement told me of TiborOs latest translation, then showed part of the original message to me, it was as if a devil had returned.O

OIn a sense, thatOs exactly what happened,O Michener said.

Valendrea stared at him.

OIf God exists, then so does the devil.O

OSo which one caused the death of Father Tibor?O Valendrea asked, defiance in his voice. OWas it the Lord, so that the truth would be revealed? Or the devil, so that the truth would be revealed? Both would have been motivated toward the same goal, would they not?O

OThatOs why you killed Father Tibor? To prevent that?O Michener asked.

OIn every religious movement there have been martyrs.O Not a speck of remorse laced the words.

Ngovi stepped forward. OThatOs true. And we intend one more.O

OI already assumed what you had in mind. YouOre going to have me prosecuted?O

ONot at all,O Ngovi said.

Michener offered Valendrea a small caramel-colored vial. OWe expect you to join that list of martyrs.O

ValendreaOs brow creased in amazement.

Michener said, OThis is the same sleeping medication Clement took. More than enough to kill. If in the morning your body is found, then youOll have a papal funeral and be entombed in St. PeterOs with all ceremony. Your reign will be short, but you will be remembered in much the same way as John Paul I. On the other hand, if tomorrow youOre alive, the Sacred College will be informed of everything we know. Your memory then will be of the first pope in history to stand trial.O

Valendrea did not accept the vial. OYou want me to kill myself?O

Michener never blinked. OYou can die as a glorious pope, or be disgraced as a criminal. Personally, I prefer the latter, so IOm hoping you donOt have the guts to do what Clement did.O

OI can fight you.O

OYouOll lose. With what we know, IOd wager there are many in the Sacred College simply waiting for the opportunity to take you down. The evidence is irrefutable. Your co-conspirator will be your chief accuser. ThereOs no way you can win.O

Valendrea still would not take the vial. So Michener poured its contents out on the desk, then glared at him. OThe choice is yours. If you love your Church as much as you profess, then sacrifice your life so it may live. You were quick to end Father TiborOs life. LetOs see if youOre as liberal with your own. The dreadful judge has judged and the sentence is death.O

OYouOre asking me to do the unthinkable,O Valendrea said.

OIOm asking you to save this institution the humiliation of forcibly removing you.O

OI am pope. No one can remove me.O

OExcept the Lord. And in a manner of speaking, thatOs exactly whoOs doing this.O

Valendrea turned to Ngovi. OYouOll be the next pope, wonOt you?O

OAlmost certainly.O

OYou could have won election in conclave, couldnOt you?O

OThere was a reasonable chance.O

OSo why drop out?O

OBecause Clement told me to.O

Valendrea looked perplexed. OWhen?O

OA week before he died. He told me you and I would eventually be locked in that battle. But he said that you should win.O

OWhy on earth would you have listened to him?O

NgoviOs face hardened. OHe was my pope.O

Valendrea shook his head in disbelief.

OAnd he was right.O

ODo you plan to do as the Virgin said too?O

OI will abolish all dogma contrary to Her message.O

OYouOll have revolt.O

Ngovi shrugged. OThose who disagree are free to leave and form their own religion. Such is their choice. They will receive no opposition from me. This Church, though, will do as told.O

ValendreaOs face became incredulous. OYou think itOs going to be that easy? The cardinals will never allow it.O

Michener said, OThis isnOt a democracy.O

OSo no one will know the actual messages?O

Ngovi shook his head. OThat isnOt necessary. Skeptics would claim Father TiborOs translation was simply conformed to the Medjugorje message. The sheer magnitude of the message would do nothing but ignite criticism. Sister Lucia and Father Tibor are gone. Neither can verify anything. It is not necessary the world know what happened. The three of us know and that is what matters. I shall heed the words. This will be my act and mine alone. I will take the praise and the criticism.O

OThe next pope will simply reverse you,O Valendrea muttered.

Ngovi shook his head. OYou have so little faith.O The African turned and headed for the door. OWe will await the news in the morning. Depending on what that is, we may or may not see you tomorrow.O

Michener hesitated before following. OThe devil himself will find it difficult dealing with you.O

Not waiting for a response, he left.

11:30 P.M.

Valendrea stared at the pills lying on the desk. For decades heOd dreamed of the papacy, and heOd devoted his entire adult life to achieving that goal. Now he was pope. He should have reigned twenty or more years, becoming the hope of the future by reclaiming the past. Only yesterday heOd spent an hour going over the details of his coronation, the ceremony a scant two weeks away. HeOd toured the Vatican museum, personally inspected adornments his predecessors had relegated to exhibits, and ordered their preparation for the event. He wanted the moment the spiritual leader of a billion people assumed the reins of power to be a spectacle every Catholic could watch with pride.

HeOd already thought about his homily. It would have been a call for tradition. A rejection of innovationNa retreat to a sacred past. The Church could and would be a weapon for change. No more impotent denunciations that world leaders ignored. Instead religious fervor would have been used to forge a new international policy. One emanating from him as the Vicar of Christ. The pope.

He slowly counted the capsules on the desk.

Twenty-eight.

If he swallowed them, heOd be remembered as the pope who reigned for four days. HeOd be regarded as a fallen leader, taken by the Lord far too quickly. There was something to be said for dying suddenly. John Paul I had been an insignificant cardinal. Now he was venerated simply because he died thirty-three days after the conclave. A handful had reigned shorter, many more longer, but none had ever been forced into the position in which he now found himself.

He thought about AmbrosiOs betrayal. He wouldnOt have thought Paolo so disloyal. TheyOd been together many years. Maybe Ngovi and Michener had underestimated his old friend. Perhaps Ambrosi would be his legacy, the man who would ensure that the world never forgot Peter II. He hoped he was right in believing Ngovi might one day regret letting Paolo Ambrosi roam free.

He eyes returned to the pills. At least thereOd be no pain. And Ngovi would make sure there was no autopsy. The African was still camerlengo. He could envision the bastard standing over him, gently tapping his forehead with a silver hammer and asking three times if he was dead.

He believed that if he was alive tomorrow, Ngovi would bring charges. Though there was no precedent for removing a pope, once he was implicated in murder he would never be allowed to remain in office.

Which raised his greatest concern.

Doing what Ngovi and Michener asked would mean heOd be soon answering for his sins. What would he say?

Proof that God existed meant there was also an immeasurable force of evil that misled the human spirit. Life seemed a perpetual tug between those two extremes. How would he explain his sins? Would there be forgiveness or only punishment? He still believed, even in the face of all he knew, that priests should be men. GodOs Church was started by men and, over two millennia, male blood had been spilled to preserve that institution. The interjection of women into something so decidedly male seemed sacrilegious. Spouses and children were nothing but distractions. And to slaughter an unborn child seemed unthinkable. A womanOs duty was to bring forth life, no matter how it was conceived, whether wanted or unwanted. How could God have gotten everything so wrong?

He shifted the pills on the desk.

The Church was going to change. Nothing would ever be the same. Ngovi would make sure extremism prevailed. And that thought turned his stomach.

He knew what awaited him. ThereOd be an accounting, but he was not going to shrink from the challenge. HeOd face the Lord and tell Him that heOd done what he believed was right. If he be damned to hell, then there would be some pretty austere company. He was not the first pope to defy heaven.

He reached out and arranged the capsules in groups of seven. He scooped up one set and balanced them in the palm of his hand.

A certain perspective truly did come in the final moments of life.

His legacy among men was safe. He was Peter II, pope of the Roman Catholic Church, and no one could ever take that from him. Even Ngovi and Michener would have to publicly venerate his memory.

And that prospect gave him solace.

Along with a burst of courage.

He tossed the pills into his mouth and reached for the tumbler of water. He grabbed up another seven and swallowed them. While his fortitude was there, he gathered the remaining pills and let the remaining water send them to his stomach.

IOm hoping you donOt have the guts to do what Clement did.

Screw you, Michener.

He stepped across the room to a gilded prie-dieu facing a portrait of Christ. He knelt, crossed himself, and asked the Lord to forgive him. He stayed on his knees for ten minutes, until his head started spinning. It should add to his legacy that he was called to God during prayer.

The drowsiness became seductive and for a while he fought the urge to surrender. A part of him was relieved he would not be associated with a Church that was contrary to everything he believed. Perhaps it was better to rest beneath the basilica as the last pope of the way things used to be. He imagined Romans flooding into the piazza tomorrow, distraught over the loss of the their beloved Santissimo Padre. Millions would watch his funeral and the world press would write about him with respect. Eventually books about him would appear. He hoped traditionalists used him as a rallying point for their opposition to Ngovi. And there was always Ambrosi. Dear, sweet Paolo. He was still out there. And that thought pleased him.

His muscles craved sleep and he could no longer fight the urge, so he surrendered to the inevitable and collapsed to the floor.

He stared at the ceiling and finally let the pills take hold. The room winked in and out. He no longer fought the descent.

Instead he allowed his mind to drift away, hoping that God was indeed merciful.

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 3

1:00 P.M.

Michener and katerina followed the crowd into St. PeterOs Square. Around them, men and women openly wept. Many clutched rosaries. The basilicaOs bells tolled solemnly.

The announcement had come two hours ago, a curt statement in the usual Vatican rhetoric that the Holy Father had passed during the night. The camerlengo, Maurice Cardinal Ngovi, had been summoned and the papal physician had confirmed that a massive coronary claimed the life of Alberto Valendrea. The appropriate ceremony with the silver hammer occurred, and the Holy See was declared vacant. Cardinals were once again being summoned to Rome.

Michener had not told Katerina about yesterday. It was better that way. In a sense he was a murderer, though he did not feel like one. Instead he felt a great sense of retribution. Especially for Father Tibor. One wrong had been righted by another in a perverted sense of balance that only the odd circumstances of the past few weeks could have created.

In fifteen days another conclave would convene and another pope would be elected. The 269th since Peter and one beyond the list of St. Malachy. The dreadful judge had judged. The sinners had been punished. Now it would be up to Maurice Ngovi to see heavenOs will be done. Little doubt existed he would be the next pope. Yesterday, as they left the palace, Ngovi had asked him to stay on in Rome and be a part of what was coming. But heOd declined. He was going to Romania with Katerina. He wanted to share his life with her and Ngovi understood, wishing him well and telling him Vatican doors would always be open.

People continued to surge forward, filling the piazza between BerniniOs colonnades. He wasnOt sure why heOd come, but something seemed to summon him, and he sensed a peace within himself that he hadnOt felt in a long time.

OThese people have no idea about Valendrea,O Katerina whispered.

OTo them, he was their pope. An Italian. And we could never convince them otherwise. His memory will have to stand as it is.O

OYouOre never going to tell me what happened yesterday, are you?O

HeOd caught her studying him last evening. She realized something significant had occurred with Valendrea, but he hadnOt allowed the subject to be explored and she did not press.

Before he could answer her, an older woman, near one of the fountains, collapsed in a fit of grief. Several people came to her aid as she lamented that God had taken so good a pope. Michener watched as the woman sobbed uncontrollably and two men helped her toward the shade.

News crews were fanning across the square interviewing people. Soon the world press would return to ponder what the Sacred College might do within the Sistine Chapel.

OI guess Tom Kealy will be back,O he said.

OI was thinking the same thing. The man with all the answers.O She threw him a smile he understood.

They approached the basilica and stopped with the rest of the mourners before the barricades. The church was closed, its interior, he knew, being readied for another funeral. The balcony was draped in black. Michener glanced to his right. The shutters of the papal bedroom were closed. Behind them, a few hours ago, the body of Alberto Valendrea had been found. According to the press heOd been praying when his heart gave out, the corpse discovered on the floor beneath a portrait of Christ. He smiled at ValendreaOs last audacity.

Somebody grabbed his arm.

He turned.

The man standing before him was bearded with a crooked nose and bushy reddish hair. OTell me, Padre, what are we to do? Why has the Lord taken our Holy Father? What is the meaning of this?O

Michener assumed his black cassock had drawn the inquiry and the answer formed quickly in his mind. OWhy must there always be meaning? Can you not accept what the Lord has done without question?O

OPeter was to be a great pope. An Italian finally back on the throne. We had such hopes.O

OThere are many in the Church who can be great popes. And they need not be Italian.O His listener gave him a strange look. OWhat matters is their devotion to the Lord.O

He knew that of the thousands gathered around him, only he and Katerina truly understood. God was alive. He was there. Listening.

His gaze drifted from the man standing before him to the basilicaOs magnificent faade. For all its majesty, it was still nothing more than mortar and stone. Time and weather would eventually destroy it. But what it symbolized, what it meant, would last forever. 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.

He turned back to the man, who was saying something.

OItOs finished, Father. The pope is dead. Everything is finished before it even started.O

He wasnOt going to accept that and he wasnOt going to let this stranger accept defeatism, either. OYouOre wrong. ItOs not over.O He threw the man a reassuring smile. OIn fact, itOs only just beginning.O

Table of Contents

The Third Secret

Part 2

Part of the agenda for their earlier ...

Part of the third secret of Fatima fl...

ÒPart of what Father Tibor sent me.Ó

Part Three

Part Four

Part of what Father Tibor sent me.