the Third Secret

“Clever,” 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.

“This is the original note Sister Lucia wrote in Portuguese,” Paul said. “Unfortunately, I cannot read that language.”

“Neither can I, Holy Father.”

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. “This is the translation.”

“Translation, Holy Father?”

“John could not read Portuguese, either. He had the message translated to Italian.”

Valendrea had not known that. So add a third set of fingerprints—some 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 pope’s face. “I was never good at riddles.”

The pope reassembled the packet, then reached for the second set. “It appears the message carried to another page.” Paul unfolded the sheets. Again, one page newer, the other clearly older. “Portuguese, again.” Paul glanced at the newer sheet. “Ah, Italian. Another translation.”

He watched as Paul read the words with an expression that shifted from confusion to a look of deep concern. The pope’s 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.

Paul’s tongue wet his cracked lips and he shifted in the chair. A look of astonishment flooded the old man’s features. For an instant, Valendrea was frightened. Here was the first pope to travel around the globe. A man who’d stared down an army of Church progressives and tempered their revolution with moderation. He’d stood before the United Nations and pronounced, “Never again war.” He’d denounced birth control as a sin and held fast even in a firestorm of protest that shook the Church’s very foundation. He’d reaffirmed the tradition of priestly celibacy and excommunicated dissenters. He’d 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 he’d just read affected him.

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

“Put it back,” 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. “This was a mistake. I should not have come.” Then the pope seemed to steel himself. Composure returned. “When 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.”

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 Lucia’s 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.

FOURTEEN

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 he’d arrived on from Rome had been half full, and was one of only four airliners utilizing the terminal.

He’d 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 post–World 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 Ceau?sescu was toppled, and even made an official visit. Progress was slow. Michener himself was involved in some later negotiations. Recently there’d 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 Michener’s days. He really wasn’t a priest anymore. He was a government minister, diplomat, and personal confidant—all of which would end with Clement’s last breath. Maybe then he could go back to being a priest. He’d 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 ex–papal 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 he’d risen in altitude. The sullen air was cold—in the upper forties, the pilot had explained just before they’d 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. He’d 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 Clement’s 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