well knew that Ngovi would be his toughest competition. He’d already listened to taped conversations among cardinals when they thought themselves safe within locked Vatican offices. Ngovi was his most dangerous challenger, made even more formidable by the fact that the archbishop of Nairobi was not actively seeking the papacy. If asked, the wily bastard always stopped any speculation with a wave of his hand and a mention of his respect for Clement XV. None of which fooled Valendrea. An African had not sat on the throne of St. Peter since the first century. What a triumph that would be. Ngovi, if nothing else, was an ardent nationalist, open in his belief that Africa deserved better than it was presently receiving—and what better platform to push for social reform than as head of the Holy See?
“Give it up, Maurice,” he said. “Why don’t you join the winning team? You won’t leave the next conclave as pope. That much I guarantee.”
“What bothers me more is
“I know you have the African bloc held tight. But they’re only eight votes. Not enough to stop me.”
“But enough to become critical in a tight election.”
The first mention by Ngovi of the conclave. A message?
“Where is Father Ambrosi?” Ngovi asked.
Now he realized the purpose of the visit. Clement needed information. “Where’s Father Michener?”
“I am told he’s on holiday.”
“So is Paolo. Maybe they went together.” He let a chuckle accompany the sarcasm.
“I would hope Colin has better taste in friends.”
“As I would for Paolo.”
He wondered why the pope was so concerned about Ambrosi. What did it matter? Perhaps he’d underestimated the German. “You know, Maurice, I was being facetious earlier, but you would make an excellent secretary of state. Your support in the conclave could assure that.”
Ngovi sat with his hands folded beneath his cassock. “And to how many others have you dangled that cube of sugar?”
“Only those in a position to deliver.”
His guest rose from the settee. “I remind you of the Apostolic Constitution, which forbids campaigning for the papacy. We are both bound by that creed.”
Ngovi stepped toward the anteroom beyond.
Valendrea never moved from his chair, but called out to the retreating cardinal, “I wouldn’t stand on protocol too long, Maurice. We’ll all be in the Sistine soon, and your fortunes could drastically change. How, though, is solely up to you.”
EIGHTEEN
BUCHAREST, 5:50 P.M.
The rap on the door startled Michener. Nobody knew he was in Romania except Clement and Father Tibor. And absolutely nobody knew he was staying at this hotel.
He stood, crossed the room, and opened the door to see Katerina Lew. “How in the world did you find me?”
She smiled. “You were the one who said the only secrets in the Vatican are the ones a person doesn’t know.”
He didn’t like what he was hearing. The last thing Clement would want was a reporter knowing what he was doing. And who’d betrayed the information that he’d left Rome?
“I felt bad about the other day in the square,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”
“So you came to Romania to apologize?”
“We need to talk, Colin.”
“This isn’t a good time.”
“I was told you went on holiday. I thought it the best time.”
He invited her inside and closed the door behind her, reminding himself that the globe had shrunk since the last time he was alone with Katerina Lew. Then a troubling thought occurred. If she knew this much about him, imagine how much Valendrea knew. He needed to call Clement and advise him of a leak in the papal household. But he recalled what Clement had said yesterday in Turin about Valendrea—
“Colin, there’s no reason for us to be so hostile. I understand much better what happened all those years ago. I’m even willing to admit I handled things poorly.”
“That’s a first.”
She did not react to his rebuke. “I’ve missed you. That’s really why I came to Rome. To see you.”
“What about Tom Kealy?”
“I was involved with Tom.” She hesitated. “But he’s not you.” She stepped closer. “I’m not ashamed of my time with him. Tom’s situation is stimulating to a journalist. Lots of opportunities there.” Her eyes grabbed his in a way only hers could. “But I need to know. Why were you at the tribunal? Tom told me papal secretaries don’t usually bother with such things.”
“I knew you’d be there.”
“Were you glad to see me?”
He debated his response and settled on, “You didn’t look particularly glad to see me.”
“I was just trying to gauge your reaction.”
“As I recall, there was no reaction from you.”
She stepped away, toward the window. “We shared something special, Colin. There’s no point denying it.”
“No point rehashing it, either.”
“That’s the last thing I want. We’re both older. Hopefully smarter. Can’t we be friends?”
He’d come to Romania on a papal errand. Now he was embroiled in an emotional discussion with a woman he once loved. Was the Lord testing him again? He couldn’t deny what he felt just being close to her. Like she said, they’d once shared everything. She’d been wonderful as he struggled to learn about his heritage, wondering what happened to his birth mother, curious why his biological father had abandoned him. With her help, he’d arrested many of those demons. But new ones were rising. Perhaps a truce with his conscience might be in order. What could it hurt?
“I’d like that.”
She wore a pair of black trousers that clung to her thin legs. A matching herringbone jacket and black leather vest cast a look of the revolutionary he knew her to be. No dreamy lights in her eyes. She was firmly rooted. Perhaps too much so. But down deep there was true emotion, and he’d missed that.
An odd flutter swept across him.
He recalled years ago when he’d retreated to the Alps for time to think and, like today, she’d appeared at his door, confusing him even more.
“What were you doing in Zlatna?” she asked. “I’ve been told that orphanage is a difficult place, run by an old priest.”
“You were there?”
She nodded. “I followed you.”
Another disturbing reality, but he let it pass. “I went to talk with that priest.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
She sounded interested and he needed to talk about it. Perhaps she could help. But there was another matter to consider.
“Off the record?” he asked.
Her smile brought him comfort. “Of course, Colin. Off the record.”
