the Third Secret

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.

“What are you doing here?” he asked Ngovi.

“I was summoned.”

“I thought Clement was at the North American College for the evening.” He kept his voice hushed.

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

“This is the third time in two weeks he’s been in there. Surely people are noticing.”

Ngovi nodded. “Thankfully, that safe contains a multitude of items. Hard to know for sure what he’s doing.”

“I’m worried about this, Maurice. He’s acting strange.” Only in private would he breach protocol and use first names.

“I agree. He dismisses all my inquiries with riddles.”

“I’ve spent the last month researching every Marian apparition ever investigated. I’ve 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.” He shook his head. “It won’t be long before Valendrea learns of this.”

“He and Ambrosi are outside the Vatican tonight.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’ll find out. I wonder sometimes if everybody here doesn’t report to him.”

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

Michener stepped forward. “I learned from the registry office of his exact location in Romania.”

“When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow evening or the following morning, depending on the flights.”

“I want this trip kept among the three of us. Take a holiday. Understand?”

He nodded. Clement’s voice had never risen above a whisper. He was curious. “Why are we talking so low?”

“I was unaware that we were.”

Michener detected irritation. As if he wasn’t supposed to point that out.

“Colin, you and Maurice are the only men I trust implicitly. My dear friend the cardinal here cannot travel abroad without drawing attention—he’s too famous now—too important. So you are the only one who can perform this task.”

Michener motioned into the Riserva. “Why do you keep going in there?”

“The words draw me.”

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

Clement did not respond.

“Perhaps a counsel with the cardinals could help with whatever the problem may be?” Ngovi said.

“It is the cardinals I fear the most.”

Michener asked, “And what could you hope to learn from an old man in Romania?”

“He sent me something that demands my attention.”

“I don’t recall anything coming from him,” Michener said.

“It was in the diplomatic pouch. A sealed envelope from the nuncio in Bucharest. The sender said he’d translated the Virgin’s message for Pope John.”

“When?” Michener asked.

“Three months ago.”

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

“Now 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.”

“Holy Father—”

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

“All right,” Michener said. “I’ll find Father Tibor, Holiness. Rest assured.”

Clement glanced back into the Riserva. “My predecessors were so wrong.”

“In what way, Jakob?” Ngovi asked.

Clement turned back, his eyes distant and sad. “In every way, Maurice.”

EIGHT

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. He’d 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.

“It is a lovely night,” Ambrosi said.

The younger priest faced Valendrea in the rear of a stretched Mercedes coupe that had ushered many diplomats around the Eternal City—even the president of the United States, who’d 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.

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

He’d 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 hadn’t 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. He’d seen too many men brought down by careless tongues, several of whom he’d 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.

“His name is Andrej Tibor,” Ambrosi said. “He 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 that’s regularly cashed with his endorsement.”

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

“Surely it concerns Fatima.”

They’d 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