The Romanian night was frigid and Valendrea was glad he’d worn a thick wool coat. Like Ambrosi, he’d dressed in street clothes. This was not an official visit and the last thing he needed was to be recognized. He was taking a risk coming, but he had to gauge the threat for himself.
“What about customs?” he asked.
“Handled. Vatican passports carry weight here.”
They climbed into an idling sedan. Ambrosi drove while Valendrea sat alone in the rear. They headed north, away from Bucharest, toward the mountains over a series of rutted roads. This was Valendrea’s first visit to Romania. He knew of Clement’s desire for an official pilgrimage, but any papal missions to this troubled place would have to wait until he was in command.
“He goes there each Saturday evening to pray,” Ambrosi was saying from the front seat. “In the cold or heat. Doesn’t matter. He’s done that for years.”
He nodded at the information. Ambrosi had been his usual thorough self.
They drove for nearly an hour in silence. The terrain rose progressively until they were winding up the side of a steep forested incline. Ambrosi slowed near the crest, eased onto a ragged shoulder, and killed the engine.
“It’s there, down that path,” Ambrosi said, pointing through fogged windows at a darkened lane between the trees.
In the headlights Valendrea noticed another car parked ahead. “Why does he come?”
“From what I was told, he considers the spot holy. In medieval times the old church was used by the local gentry. When Turks conquered the area, they burned all of the villagers alive inside. He seems to draw strength from their martyrdom.”
“There is something you must know,” he told Ambrosi. His assistant sat in the front seat, his gaze still out the windshield, unmoving. “We are about to cross a line, but it is imperative that we do. There is much at stake. I would not ask this of you if it were not of vital importance to the church.”
“There is no need to explain,” Ambrosi softly said. “It is enough that you say it is so.”
“Your faith is impressive. But you are God’s soldier, and a warrior should know what he is fighting for. So let me tell you what I know.”
They emerged from the car. Ambrosi led the way beneath a velvet sky bleached by a nearly full moon. Fifty meters into the woods, the darkened shadow of a church appeared. As they approached, Valendrea noticed the ancient rosettes and the belfry, the stones no longer individual but fused, seemingly without joints. No light shone from inside.
“Father Tibor,” Valendrea called out in English.
A black form appeared in the doorway. “Who’s there?”
“I am Alberto Cardinal Valendrea. I have come from Rome to speak with you.”
Tibor stepped from the church. “First the papal secretary. Now the secretary of state. Such wonders for a humble priest.”
He couldn’t decide if the tone leaned more toward sarcasm or respect. He extended his hand palm-down, and Tibor knelt before him and kissed the ring he’d worn since the day John Paul II invested him as a cardinal. He was appreciative at the priest’s submissiveness.
“Please, Father, stand. We must talk.”
Tibor came to his feet. “Has my message already made its way to Clement?”
“It has, and the pope is grateful. But I’ve been sent to learn more.”
“Eminence, I’m afraid that I can say no more than I have. It is bad enough that I have violated the oath of silence I made to John XXIII.”
He liked what he was hearing. “So you haven’t spoken of this to anyone before? Not even a confessor?”
“That is correct, Eminence. I’ve told no one what I knew, other than Clement.”
“Did not the papal secretary come here yesterday?”
“He did. But I merely hinted at the truth. He knows nothing. I assume you have seen my written response?”
“I have,” he lied.
“Then you know I said little there, too.”
“What motivated you to craft a reproduction of Sister Lucia’s message?”
“Hard to explain. When I returned from my duties to John that day, I noticed the imprints on the pad. I prayed on the matter and something told me to color the page and reveal the words.”
“Why keep them all those years?”
“I have asked myself the same question. I do not know why, only that I did.”
“And why did you finally decide to make contact with Clement?”
“What has happened with regard to the third secret is not right. The Church has not been honest with its people. Something inside commanded me to speak, an urge I could not ignore.”
Valendrea caught Ambrosi’s gaze momentarily and noticed a slight tip of his head off to the right.
“Let’s walk, Father,” he said, taking Tibor gently by the arm. “Tell me, why do you come to this spot?”
“I was actually wondering, Eminence, how you found me.”
“Your devotion to prayer is well known. My assistant merely asked around and was told of your weekly ritual.”
“This is a sacred place. Catholics have worshiped here for five hundred years. I find it comforting.” Tibor paused. “It’s also because of the Virgin that I come.”
They were walking down a narrow path with Ambrosi leading the way. “Explain, Father.”
“The Madonna told the children at Fatima that there should be a Communion of Reparation on the first Saturday of each month. I come here every week to offer my personal reparation.”
“For what do you pray?”
“That the world will enjoy the peace the Lady predicted.”
“I, too, pray for the same thing. As does the Holy Father.”
The path ended at the edge of a precipice. Before them spread a panorama of mountains and thick forest, all cast in a pale blue-gray glow. Few lights dotted the landscape, though a couple of fires burned in the distance. A halo sprang from the southern horizon, marking the glow of Bucharest forty miles away.
“Such magnificence,” Valendrea said. “A remarkable view.”
“I come here many times after praying,” Tibor said.
He kept his voice low. “Which must help deal with the agony of the orphanage.”
Tibor nodded. “I’ve received much peace here.”
“As you should.”
He gestured to Ambrosi, who produced a long blade. Ambrosi’s arm swung up from behind and slashed once across Tibor’s throat. The priest’s eyes bulged as he choked on the first gush of blood. Ambrosi dropped the knife, gripped Tibor from behind, and tossed the old man out over the edge.
The cleric’s body dissolved into the blackness.
A second later there was an impact, then another, then silence.
Valendrea stood still with Ambrosi beside him. His gaze remained on the gorge below. “There are rocks?” he calmly asked.
“Many, and a fast-moving stream. The body should take a few days to be found.”
“Was it hard to kill him?” He truly wanted to know.
“It had to be done.”
He stared at his dear friend through the dark, then reached up and outlined a cross on the forehead, lips, and heart. “I forgive you, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
Ambrosi bowed his head in thanks.
“Every religious movement must have martyrs. And we have just borne witness to the Church’s latest.” He knelt on the ground. “Come, join me while I pray for Father Tibor’s soul.”
TWENTY-SIX
