the Third Secret

He recalled the uncomfortable feeling in the cafe while he and Katerina had talked with Tibor. Did Valendrea know about Father Tibor? Had he been followed? “Tibor died Saturday night. What are you saying, Maurice?”

Ngovi held up his hands in a halting gesture. “I’m only reporting facts. In the Riserva, on Friday, Clement showed Valendrea whatever Father Tibor had sent him. Then the priest was killed the next night. Whether Valendrea’s sudden trip on Saturday was related to Father Tibor’s murder, I do not know. But the priest left this world at quite an odd time, wouldn’t you say?”

“And you think there’s an answer to all this in Bosnia?”

“Clement believed so.”

He now appreciated Ngovi’s true motives. But he wanted to know, “What about the cardinals? Would they not have to be informed what I’m doing?”

“You’re not on an official mission. This is between you and me. A gesture to our departed friend. Besides, we’ll be in conclave by morning. Locked away. Nobody could be informed.”

He understood now why Ngovi had waited to speak with him. But he also recalled Clement’s warning about Alberto Valendrea and the lack of privacy. He glanced around at walls that had been erected when the American Revolution was being fought. Could someone be listening? He decided it really didn’t matter. “All right, Maurice. I’ll do it. But only because you asked and Jakob wanted it. After that, I’m out.”

And he hoped Valendrea heard.

THIRTY-FIVE

4:30 P.M.

Valendrea was overwhelmed by the volume of information the listening devices were uncovering. Ambrosi had worked every night over the past two weeks, sorting through the tapes, weeding out the trivia, preserving the nuggets. The abbreviated versions, provided to him on microcassette, had revealed much about the cardinals’ attitudes, and he was pleased to discover that he was becoming quite papabile in the eyes of many, even some he’d yet to fully confirm as supporters.

His restrained approach was working. This time, unlike at Clement XV’s conclave, he’d shown the reverence expected of a prince of the Catholic Church. And already commentators were including his name on a short list of possible candidates, along with that of Maurice Ngovi and four other cardinals.

An informal head count taken last evening showed there were forty-eight confirmed yes votes. He needed seventy-six to win on an early ballot, assuming all 113 eligible cardinals made it to Rome, which, barring serious illness, should happen. Thankfully, John Paul II’s reforms allowed for a change in procedure after three days of balloting. If no pope was selected by then, a series of successive votes would occur, followed by a day of prayer and discussion. After twelve full days of conclave, if there was still no pope, a simple majority of cardinals could then elect. Which meant time was on his side, as he clearly possessed a majority, along with more than enough votes to block anyone else’s early election. So he could filibuster if need be —provided, of course, he could keep his voting bloc intact over twelve days.

A few cardinals were becoming a problem. They’d apparently told him one thing then, when they’d thought locked doors afforded them privacy, proclaimed another. He’d checked and found that Ambrosi had amassed some interesting information on several of the traitors—more than enough to convince them of the error in their ways— and he planned to dispatch his aide to each of them before morning.

After tomorrow it would be difficult pressuring votes. He could reinforce attitudes but, within the conclave, quarters were simply too confined, privacy too scarce, and something about the Sistine affected cardinals. Some called it a pull from the Holy Spirit. Others ambition. So he knew that the votes would have to be ensured now, the coming assembly only a confirmation that each was willing to uphold his end of the bargain.

Of course, blackmail could muster only so many votes. The majority of his supporters were loyal to him simply because of his standing within the Church and his background, which stamped him the most papabile of the favorites. And he was proud of himself for not doing anything over the past few days to alienate those natural allies.

He was still stunned by Clement’s suicide. He’d never thought the German would do anything to endanger his soul. But something Clement said to him in the papal apartment nearly three weeks ago swept through his mind. I actually hope you do inherit this job. You will find it far different than you might imagine. Maybe you should be the one. And what the pope said that Friday night, after they left the Riserva. I wanted you to know what awaits you. And why hadn’t Clement stopped him from burning the translation? You’ll see.

“Damn you, Jakob,” he muttered.

A knock came on his office door, then Ambrosi stepped inside and crossed to the desk. He held a pocket tape recorder. “Listen to this. I just dubbed it off the reel-to-reel. Michener and Ngovi about four hours ago in Ngovi’s office.”

The conversation lasted about ten minutes. Valendrea switched off the machine. “First Romania. Now Bosnia. They will not stop.”

“Apparently Clement left a suicide e-mail for Michener.”

Ambrosi knew about Clement’s suicide. He’d told him that and more in Romania, including what had happened with Clement in the Riserva. “I must read that e-mail.”

Ambrosi stood straight before the desk. “I don’t see how that’s possible.”

“We could reenlist Michener’s girlfriend.”

“That thought occurred to me. But why does it matter anymore? The conclave starts tomorrow. You will be pope by sundown. Surely, by the next day.”

Possible, but he could just as easily be locked in a tight election. “What troubles me is that our African friend apparently has his own information network. I didn’t realize I was such a high priority with him.” It also bothered him that Ngovi had so easily linked his Romanian trip with Tibor’s murder. That could become a problem. “I want you to find Katerina Lew.”

He’d purposely not talked with her after Romania. No need. Thanks to Clement, he knew everything he needed to know. Yet it galled him that Ngovi was dispatching envoys on private missions. Especially missions that involved him. Still, there was little he could do about it since he couldn’t risk involving the Sacred College. There’d be too many questions and he’d have too few answers. It could also provide Ngovi a way to force an inquiry into his own Romanian trip, and he was not about to present the African with that opportunity.

He was the only one left alive who knew what the Virgin had said. Three popes were gone. He’d already destroyed part of Tibor’s cursed reproduction, eliminated the priest himself, and flushed Sister Lucia’s original writing into the sewers. All that remained was the facsimile translation waiting in the Riserva. No one could be allowed to see those words. But to gain access to that box he needed to be pope.

He stared up at Ambrosi.

“Unfortunately, Paolo, you must stay here over the coming days. I will need you nearby. But we have to know what Michener does in Bosnia, and she is our best conduit. So find Katerina Lew and reenlist her help. “

“How do you know she’s in Rome?”

“Where else would she be?”

THIRTY-SIX

6:15 P.M.

Katerina was drawn to the CNN booth, just outside the south colonnade in St. Peter’s Square. She’d seen Tom Kealy from across the cobbled expanse, beneath bright lights and in front of three cameras. The piazza was dotted with many makeshift television sets. The thousands of chairs and barricades from Clement’s funeral were gone, replaced by souvenir hawkers, protestors, pilgrims, and the journalists who’d flocked to Rome, ready for the conclave that would begin tomorrow morning, camera lenses angled for the best view of a metal flue high above the Sistine Chapel where white smoke would signal success.

She drew close to a ring of gawkers huddled around the CNN dais where Kealy was talking to the cameras.