the Third Secret

carried to a car. His birth mother had been one of those women. Who she was, he would never know. Rarely were the children given surnames, so there was no way to match child to mother. He’d only learned the little bit he knew about himself because of a nun’s faded memory.

More than two thousand babies left Ireland that way, one of them a tiny infant boy with light brown hair and bright green eyes whose destination was Savannah, Georgia. His adoptive father was a lawyer, his mother devoted to her new son. He grew up on the tidewaters of the Atlantic in an upper-middle-class neighborhood. He’d excelled in school and become a priest and a lawyer, pleasing his adoptive parents enormously. He’d then gone to Europe and found comfort with a lonely bishop who’d loved him like a son. Now he was a servant to that bishop, a man risen to pope, part of the same Church that had failed so miserably in Ireland.

He’d loved his adoptive parents dearly. They fulfilled their end of the bargain by always telling him that his natural parents had been killed. Only on her deathbed had his mother told him the truth—a confession by a sainted woman to her son, the priest, hoping both he and her God would forgive her.

I’ve seen her in my mind for years, Colin. How she must have felt when we took you away. They tried to tell me it was for the best. I tried to tell myself it was the right thing. But I still see her in my mind.

He hadn’t known what to say.

We wanted a baby so bad. And the bishop told us your life would have been hard without us. No one would care for you. But I still see her in my mind. I want to tell her I’m sorry. I want to tell her that I raised you well. I loved you as she would have. Maybe then she could forgive us.

But there was nothing to forgive. Society was to blame. The Church was to blame. Not the daughter of a south Georgia farmer who couldn’t have a child of her own. She’d done nothing wrong, and he’d fervently pleaded with God to grant her peace.

He rarely thought about that past anymore, but the orphanage had brought it all back. The smell from its fetid air still lingered, and he tried to rid the stench with the cold wind from a downed window.

Those children would never enjoy a trip to America, never experience the love of parents who wanted them. Their world was limited within a gray retaining wall, within an iron-barred building equipped with no lights and little heat. There they would die, alone and forgotten, loved only by a few nuns and an old priest.

SIXTEEN

Michener found a hotel away from the Pia?ta Revolu?tiei and the busy university district, choosing a modest establishment near a quaint park. The rooms were small and clean, filled with art deco furnishings that looked out of place. His came with a washbasin that supplied surprisingly warm water, the shower and toilet shared down the hall.

Perched beside the room’s only window, he was finishing off a pastry and a Diet Coke he’d bought to tide him over until dinner. A clock in the distance banged out chimes for five P.M.

The envelope Clement had given him lay on the bed. He knew what was expected of him. Now that Father Tibor had read the message, he was to destroy it, without reading its contents. Clement trusted him to do as instructed, and he’d never failed his mentor, though he’d always believed his relationship with Katerina a betrayal. He’d violated his vows, disobeyed his church, and offended his God. For that, there could be no forgiveness. But Clement had said otherwise.

You think you’re the only priest to succumb?

That doesn’t make it right.

Colin, forgiveness is the hallmark of our faith. You’ve sinned and should repent. But that doesn’t mean throwing your life away. And was it that wrong, anyway?

He could still recall the curious look he’d given the archbishop of Cologne. What was he saying?

Did it feel wrong, Colin? Did your heart say it was wrong?

The answer to both questions then, and now, was no. He’d loved Katerina. It was a fact he could not deny. She’d come to him at a time, just after his mother’s death, when he was tangling with his past. She’d traveled with him to that birthing center in Kinnegad. Afterward, they’d walked the rocky cliffs overlooking the Irish Sea. She’d held his hand and told him that his adoptive parents had loved him and he was lucky to have two people who cared that much. And she was right. But he couldn’t rid the thoughts of his birth mother from his mind. How could societal pressure be so great that women willingly sacrificed their babies in order to make a life for themselves?

Why should that ever be necessary?

He drained the rest of the Coke and stared again at the envelope. His oldest and dearest friend, a man who’d been there for him half his life, was in trouble.

He made a decision. Time to do something.

He reached for the envelope and withdrew the blue paper. The words were penned in German, by Clement’s own hand.

Father Tibor:

I am aware of the task you performed for the most holy and reverend John XXIII. Your first message to me caused great concern. “Why does the church lie?” was your inquiry. I truly had no idea what you meant. With your second contact, I now realize the dilemma you face. I have looked at the reproduction of the third secret you sent with your first note and read your translation many times. Why have you kept this evidence to yourself? Even after the third secret was revealed by John Paul, only silence from you. If what you sent is true, why did you not speak then? Some would say you are a fraud, a man not to be believed, but I know that to be false. Why? I cannot explain. Just know that I believe you. I have sent my secretary. He is a man to be trusted. You may tell Father Michener what you please. He will deliver your words only to me. If you have no response, tell him so. I can understand if you are disgusted with your Church. I, too, have similar thoughts. But there is much to consider, as you well know. I would ask that you return this note and envelope to Father Michener. I thank you for whatever service you may deem to offer. God go with you, Father.

Clement

P.P. Servus Servorum Dei.

The signature was the pope’s official mark. Pastor of Pastors, Servant of the Servants of God. The way Clement signed every official document.

Michener felt bad about violating Clement’s confidence. But something was clearly happening here. Father Tibor had apparently made an impression on the pope, enough that the papal secretary was being sent to judge the situation. Why have you kept this evidence to yourself?

What evidence?

I have looked at the reproduction of the third secret you sent with your first note and read your translation many times.

Were those two items now in the Riserva? Inside the wooden box Clement kept returning to open?

Impossible to say.

He still knew nothing.

So he replaced the blue sheet into the envelope, walked to the bathroom down the hall, and tore everything into pieces, flushing the scraps away.

Katerina listened as Colin Michener crossed the plank floor above. Her gaze traced the sound across the ceiling as it faded down the hall.

She’d followed him from Zlatna to Bucharest, deciding it more important to know where he was staying than to try to learn what happened with Father Tibor. She hadn’t been surprised when he bypassed central downtown and headed straight for one of the city’s lesser hotels. He’d also avoided the papal nuncio’s office near Centru Civic—again no surprise, since Valendrea had made clear this was not an official visit.

Driving through downtown she was sad to see that an Orwellian sameness still permeated block after block of yellow-brick apartments, all coming after Ceau?sescu bulldozed the city’s history to make room for his grandiose developments. Somehow sheer magnitude was supposed to convey magnificence, and it mattered not that the buildings were impractical, expensive, and unwanted. The state decreed the populace would be appreciative—the