the Third Secret

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.”

She seemed to still be debating with herself. Maybe she’d thought Colin Michener was going to become the unnamed Vatican source she could quote to validate the stories she’d peddle. Here, though, was another opportunity. A lucrative offer. And all for such a simple task. He wasn’t asking her to steal or lie or cheat. Just take a trip back home and watch an old boyfriend for a few days.

“Let me think about it,” she finally said.

He sucked another lungful from the cigar. “I wouldn’t take too long. This is going to happen fast. I’ll phone at your hotel tomorrow, say two o’clock, for an answer.”

“Assuming I say yes, how do I report what I find?”

He motioned to Ambrosi. “My assistant will contact you. Never attempt to call me. Understand? He’ll find you.”

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 Ambrosi’s rigid pose communicated the message. He’d 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. “Ten 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.”

He stretched an arm across her and opened the door. “I have enjoyed our conversation, Ms. Lew.”

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

She said nothing and walked away. He pulled the door shut and whispered, “So predictable. She wants us to wait. But there’s no question what she’ll do.”

“It was almost too easy,” Ambrosi said.

“Precisely why I want you in Romania. This woman bears watching, and she’ll be easier to monitor than Michener. I’ve 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.”

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.

“With all this intrigue over, perhaps a cognac and some Tchaikovsky before bed? Would you like that, Paolo?”

NINE

11:50 P.M.

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

“That was nice, Katerina,” Kealy said. “As usual.”

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

“I’m stripped of my collar in the morning, then laid that night. And by a most beautiful woman, no less.”

“Kind of takes the edge off.”

He chuckled. “You could say that.”

Kealy knew all about her relationship with Colin Michener. It had actually felt good to empty her soul to someone she thought might understand. She’d made the first contact, prancing into Kealy’s Virginia parish, wanting an interview. She was in the States working freelance for some periodicals interested in radical religious slants. She’d made a little money, enough to cover expenses, but she thought Kealy’s 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 Church’s reputation, and Rome’s 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 wasn’t 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. She’d 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 “as teats on a boar hog.” The Church’s final assault, Kealy’s 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.

“What about Valendrea? What do you think of his offer?” she asked.

“He’s a pompous ass who could well be the next pope.”

She’d heard the same prediction from others, which made Valendrea’s offer all the more interesting. “He’s interested in whatever it is Colin is doing.”

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

“As if nothing of interest lay there?”

“Touchy, aren’t we?”

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 Ceau?sescu. 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 workers’ 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.

“I know you may find this hard to believe,” she said, “but actual revolt isn’t donning makeup for a camera, or posting provocative words on the Internet, or even bedding a woman. Revolution means bloodshed.”

“Times have changed, Katerina.”

“You won’t change the Church so easily.”

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

“What if no one cares?”

“We receive more than twenty thousand hits a day on the website. That’s a lot of attention. Words can have a powerful effect.”

“So 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.”

“You would have pulled the trigger, if asked to, wouldn’t you?”

“In a heartbeat. They ruined my homeland. Passion, Tom. That’s what moves revolt. Deep, unabiding passion.”