ungrateful went to prison, the lucky were shot.
She’d left Romania six months after Ceau?sescu faced the firing squad, staying only long enough to be part of the first election in the country’s history. When no one but former communists won, she realized little would change quickly, and she’d noticed earlier how right that prediction had been. A sadness still filled Romania. She’d 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? She’d done little the past dozen years. Her father had urged her to stay and work for the new, supposedly free Romanian press, but she’d 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 concrete—she 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?
Asshole.
But maybe the cardinal had a point. The direct approach seemed best. She certainly knew Michener’s weaknesses, and already hated herself for taking advantage of them.
But little choice remained.
She stood and headed for the door.
SEVENTEEN
VATICAN CITY, 5:30 P.M.
Valendrea’s last appointment came early for a Friday. Then a dinner scheduled at the French embassy was unexpectedly canceled—some crisis in Paris had detained the ambassador—so he found himself with a rare free night.
He’d spent a torturous hour with Clement just after lunch. The time was supposed to be a foreign affairs briefing, but all they’d 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 he’d cite spiritual concerns and simply quit.
But that was never going to happen.
Part of the agenda for their earlier meeting had entailed a briefing on a visit by the American secretary of state, scheduled in two weeks. Washington was trying to enlist the Holy See’s assistance on political initiatives in Brazil and Argentina. The Church was a political force in South America, and Valendrea had signaled a willingness to use Vatican influence on Washington’s behalf. But Clement did not want the Church involved. In that respect he was nothing like John Paul II. The Pole had publicly preached the same philosophy, then privately done the opposite. A diversion, Valendrea had often thought, one that rocked Moscow and Warsaw to sleep and eventually brought communism to its knees. He’d seen firsthand what the moral and spiritual leader of a billion faithful could do to, and for, governments. Such a shame to waste that potential, but Clement had ordered that there would be no alliance between the United States and the Holy See. The Argentines and Brazilians would have to solve their own problems.
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.
“I was wondering, Eminence, if we might speak a moment. I tried at your office and was told you had retired for the evening.”
Ngovi’s voice was low and calm. And Valendrea noticed the formal label
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.
“I would pour coffee, but I sent the steward for some.”
Ngovi raised a hand. “No need. I came to talk.”
Valendrea sat. “So what does Clement want?”
“It 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.”
“I don’t recall the archives being under the jurisdiction of the Congregation for Catholic Education.”
“Answer the question.”
“So Clement does want something, after all.”
Ngovi said nothing, an irritating strategy he’d noticed the African often employed—one that sometimes made Valendrea say too much.
“You 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?”
He wondered how much the weak bastard in the archives had said. Surely he didn’t confess his sin in forgiving the abortion. The old fool wasn’t that reckless. Or was he? He decided an offensive tack best. “You and I both know Clement is obsessed with the Fatima secret. He’s been in the Riserva repeatedly.”
“Which is the prerogative of the pope. It is not for us to question.”
Valendrea leaned forward in the chair. “Why does our good German pontiff anguish so much over something the world already knows?”
“That is not for you or me to question. John Paul II satisfied my curiosity with his revelation of the third secret.”
“You served on the committee, didn’t you? The one that reviewed the secret and wrote the interpretation that accompanied its release.”
“It was my honor. I had long wondered about the Virgin’s final message.”
“But it was so anticlimatic. Didn’t really say much of anything, beyond the usual call for penance and faith.”
“It foretold a papal assassination.”
“Which explains why the Church suppressed it all those years. No point in giving some lunatic a divine motive to shoot the pope.”
“We believed that was the thinking when John XXIII read the message and ordered it sealed.”
“And 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?”
“Again, that is not for you or me to question.”
“Except when either one of us is pope.” He waited to see if his adversary would take the bait.
“But you and I are not pope. What you attempted was a violation of canon law.” Ngovi’s voice stayed cool, and Valendrea wondered if this sedate man ever lost his temper.
“Plan to charge me?”
Ngovi did not flinch. “If there was any way possible to be successful, I would.”
“Then maybe I would have to resign and you could be secretary of state? You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Maurice?”
“I would only like to send you back to Florence where you and your Medici ancestors belong.”
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. “I am not Medici. I am Valendrea. We opposed the Medici.”
“Surely only after seeing that family’s decline. I imagine your ancestors were opportunists, too.”
He realized the confrontation for what it was—the two leading contenders for the papacy, face-to-face. He
