buildings survived Il Duce’s architectural cleanup and continued to project a nineteenth-century feel.
He’d become a student of Mussolini, having read a couple of biographies after moving into the Apostolic Palace. Mussolini was an ambitious man who’d dreamed of Italians wearing uniforms and all of Rome’s ancient stone buildings, with their terra-cotta rooftops, replaced with gleaming marble facades and obelisks memorializing his great military victories. But Il Duce ended up with a bullet in his head, then was hung by his ankles for all to see. Nothing remained of his grandiose plan. And Michener was worried that the Church might suffer a similar fate with a Valendrea papacy.
Megalomania was a mental disease compounded by arrogance. Valendrea was a clear sufferer. The secretary of state’s opposition to Vatican II and all the later Church reforms was no secret. A swift Valendrea election could be spun into a mandate for radical reversal. The worst part was that the Tuscan could easily rule for twenty or more years. Which meant he would completely reshape the Sacred College of Cardinals, much as John Paul II had managed during his long reign. But John Paul II had been a benign ruler, a man of vision. Valendrea was a demon, and God help his enemies. Which seemed all the more reason for Michener to disappear into the Carpathian Mountains. God or no God, heaven or no heaven, those children needed him.
He found the apartment building and trudged up the stairs to the third floor. One of the bishops attached to the papal household had offered the two-bedroom, furnished apartment rent-free for a couple of weeks, and he appreciated the gesture. He’d disposed of Clement’s furniture a few days ago. The five boxes of personal belongings and Clement’s wooden chest were stacked in the apartment. Originally he’d planned on leaving Rome by the end of the week. Now he would fly to Bosnia tomorrow on a ticket Ngovi had provided. By next week he would be in Romania, starting a new life.
A part of him resented Clement for what he’d done. History was replete with popes selected simply because they would soon die, and many of them had fooled everyone by lasting a decade or more. Jakob Volkner could have been one of those pontiffs. He was truly making a difference. Yet he ended all hope with a self-induced sleep.
Michener, too, felt like he was asleep. The past couple of weeks, starting with that awful Monday morning, seemed a dream. His life, once resonant with order, now gyrated out of control.
He needed order.
But stopping on the third-floor landing he knew that only more chaos lay ahead. Sitting on the floor, outside his apartment door, was Katerina Lew.
“Why am I not surprised you found me again?” he said. “How did you do it this time?”
“More secrets everybody knows.”
She came to her feet and brushed grit from her pants. She was dressed the same as this morning and still looked lovely.
He opened the apartment door.
“Still going to Romania?” she asked.
He tossed the key on a table. “Plan on following?”
“I might.”
“I wouldn’t book a flight just yet.”
He told her about Medjugorje and what Ngovi had asked him to do, but omitted the details of Clement’s e- mail. He wasn’t looking forward to the trip and told Katerina so.
“The war’s over, Colin,” she said. “It’s been quiet there for years.”
“Thanks to American and NATO troops. It’s not what I would call a vacation destination.”
“Then why go?”
“I owe it to Clement and Ngovi,” he said.
“You don’t think your debts are paid?”
“I know what you’re going to say. But I was considering leaving the priesthood. It doesn’t really matter anymore.”
Her face registered shock. “Why?”
“I’ve had enough. It’s not about God, or a good life, or eternal happiness. It’s about politics, ambition, greed. Every time I think about where I was born, it makes me sick. How could anybody think they were doing something good there? There were better ways to help those mothers, yet nobody even tried. They just shipped us all off.” He shifted on his feet and found himself staring down at the floor. “And those kids in Romania? I think even heaven has forgotten them.”
“I’ve never seen you this way.”
He stepped toward the window. “Odds are Valendrea will soon be pope. There’s going to be a lot of changes. Maybe Tom Kealy had it right after all.”
“Don’t give that ass credit for anything.”
He sensed something in her tone. “All we’ve talked about is me. What have you been doing since Bucharest?”
“Like I said, writing some pieces on the funeral for a Polish magazine. I’ve also been doing background work on the conclave. The magazine hired me to do a feature.”
“Then how can you go to Romania?”
Her expression softened. “I can’t. Wishful thinking. But at least I’ll know where to find you.”
The thought was comforting. He knew that if he never saw this woman again he would be sad. He recalled the last time, all those years ago, when they’d been alone together. It was in Munich, not long before he was to graduate law school and return to Jakob Volkner’s service. She’d looked much the same, her hair a bit longer, her face a moment fresher, her smile equally appealing. Two years he’d spent loving her, knowing the day would come when he would have to choose. Now he realized the mistake he’d made. Something he’d said to her earlier in the square came to mind.
Damn right.
He stepped across the room and took her into his arms.
She did not resist.
Michener opened his eyes and focused on the clock next to the bed. Ten forty-three P.M. Katerina lay beside him. They’d been asleep nearly two hours. He did not feel guilty for what had happened. He loved her, and if God had a problem with that, then so be it. He didn’t really care anymore.
“What are you doing awake?” she said through the dark.
He’d thought her sleeping. “I’m not used to waking up with somebody in my bed.”
She nuzzled her head against his chest. “Could you get used to it?”
“I was just asking myself the same thing.”
“I don’t want to leave this time, Colin.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Who said you had to?”
“I want to go with you to Bosnia?”
“What about your magazine assignment?”
“I lied. I don’t have one. I’m here, in Rome, because of you.”
His answer was never in doubt. “Then maybe a Bosnian holiday would do us both some good.”
He’d gone from the public world of the Apostolic Palace to a realm where only he existed. Clement XV was ensconced within a triple coffin beneath St. Peter’s and he was naked in bed with a woman he loved.
Where it all was going, he could not say.
All he knew was that he finally felt content.
THIRTY-EIGHT
MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 28
1:00 P.M.
Michener stared out the bus window. The rocky coast whizzed past, the Adriatic Sea choppy thanks to a
