the Third Secret

the scene for billions around the world. Valendrea noticed the grave faces. Perhaps the cardinals were taking heed of Ngovi’s sermon at the noon Mass when the camerlengo urged each of them to leave worldly considerations outside the Sistine and, with the help of the Holy Spirit, choose a capable pastor for the mother Church.

That word pastor was a problem. Rarely had a twentieth-century pope been pastoral. Most were career intellectuals or Vatican diplomats. Pastoral experience had been talked about over the past few days in the press as something the Sacred College should look for. Certainly a pastoral cardinal, one who’d spent his career working with the faithful, carried a stronger appeal than a professional bureaucrat. He’d even heard, on the tapes, how many of the cardinals mused that a pope who knew how to run a diocese would be a plus. Unfortunately, he was a product of the Curia, a born administrator, possessed of no pastoral experience—unlike Ngovi, who rose from missionary priest to archbishop to cardinal. He resented the camerlengo’s earlier reference and took the comment as a jab at his candidacy—a subtle poke, but more evidence Ngovi could become a formidable opponent in the hours ahead.

The procession stopped outside the Sistine Chapel.

A choir echoed from inside.

Ngovi hesitated at the doors, then started forward.

Photographs portrayed the Sistine as a huge expanse, but it was actually a difficult place in which to accommodate 113 cardinals. It had been built five hundred years ago to be the pope’s private chapel, its walls framed in elegant pilasters and covered in narrative frescoes. On the left was the life of Moses, on the right the life of Christ. One set Israel free, the other the entire human race. The Creation on the ceiling expressed man’s destiny, then foresaw an inevitable fall. The Last Judgment above the altar was a terrifying vision of divine wrath, one Valendrea had long admired.

Two rows of raised platforms flanked the center aisle. Name cards delineated who sat where, the spots allocated by seniority. Chairs were straight-backed, and Valendrea did not cherish the prospect of sitting in one for long. Before each chair, on a tiny desk, sat a pencil, a pad of paper, and a single ballot.

The men moved to their assigned seats. No one as yet had spoken a word. The choir continued to sing.

Valendrea’s gaze fell on the stove. It sat in a far corner, raised off the mosaic floor by a metal scaffolding. A chimney rose, then narrowed into a flue that escaped out one of the windows, where the celebrated smoke would signal success or failure. He hoped there would not be too many fires lit inside. The more scrutinies, the less chance of victory.

Ngovi stood at the front of the chapel, his hands folded before him beneath his cassock. Valendrea took note of the stern look on the African’s face and hoped the camerlengo enjoyed his moment.

“Extra omnes,” Ngovi said in a loud voice. All out.

The choir, servers, and television crews started leaving. Only the cardinals and thirty-two priests, nuns, and technicians would be allowed to remain.

The room fell under an uneasy quiet as two surveillance technicians made a sweep down the center aisle. They were responsible for ensuring the chapel stayed free of listening devices. At the iron grille the two men stopped and signaled an all-clear.

Valendrea nodded, and they withdrew. That ritual would be repeated before and after each day’s voting.

Ngovi left the altar and marched down the aisle between the assembled cardinals. He passed through a marble screen and stopped at the bronze doors the attendants were pulling shut. Total silence draped the room. Where before there’d been music and the shuffle of feet on the mats protecting the mosaic floor, now there was nothing. Beyond the doors, from outside, the sound of a key slipping into place and tumblers engaging echoed.

Ngovi tested the handles.

Locked.

“Extra omnes,” he called out.

No one responded. No one was supposed to. The silence was an indication that the conclave had begun. Valendrea knew lead seals were being stamped into place outside to symbolically ensure privacy. There was another way in and out of the Sistine—the route to be taken each day to and from the Domus Sanctae Marthae—but the sealing of the doors was the traditional method of beginning the electoral process.

Ngovi retraced his steps to the altar, faced the cardinals, and said what Valendrea had heard a camerlengo say at that same spot thirty-four months ago.

“May the Lord bless you all. Let us begin.”

FORTY

MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA

2:30 P.M.

Michener studied the house, a one-story built of stone, stained the color of moss. Dormant grapevines snaked across an arbor, and the only hint at gaiety sprang from swirling woodwork above the windows. A vegetable patch filled the side yard and seemed eager for the rain that was drawing closer. Mountains loomed in the distance.

They’d found the house only after asking two people for directions. Both had been reluctant to provide help until Michener revealed he was a priest and needed to speak with Jasna.

He led Katerina to the front door and knocked.

A tall woman with an almond-colored complexion and dark hair answered. She was thin as a sapling with a pleasant face and warm hazel eyes. She studied him with a measured mien that he found uncomfortable. She was perhaps thirty, with a rosary draping her neck.

“I’m due at church and really don’t have time to speak,” she said. “I would be glad to talk with you after the service.” Her words came in English.

“We’re not here for the reason you think,” he said. He told her who he was and why he was there.

She did not react, as if a Vatican envoy contacted her daily. Finally she invited them inside.

The house was sparsely furnished in a mix-and-match decor. Sunlight spilled in from half-open windows, many of the panes cracked their length. A portrait of Mary hung over the fireplace, surrounded by flickering candles. A statue of the Virgin stood in one corner. The carved Madonna wore a gray dress trimmed in light blue. A white veil draped her face and highlighted wavy locks of brown hair. Her blue eyes were expressive and warm. Our Lady of Fatima, if he recalled correctly.

“Why Fatima?” he asked, motioning to the carving.

“It was a gift from a pilgrim. I like it. She seems alive.”

He noticed a slight tremor to Jasna’s right eye, and her barren expression and bland voice were causing him concern. He wondered if she was on something.

“You don’t believe anymore, do you?” she quietly said.

The comment caught him off guard. “Why is that important?”

She shifted her gaze pointedly in Katerina’s direction. “She confuses you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Priests rarely come here in the company of women. Especially a priest without his collar.”

He had no intention of answering her inquiry. They were still standing, their host yet to offer a seat, and things were starting off badly.

Jasna turned to Katerina. “You don’t believe at all. And have not in many years. How your soul must be tormented.”

“Are these insights supposed to impress us?” If Jasna’s comment bothered Katerina, she apparently was not going to let the woman know.

“To you,” Jasna said, “what is real is only what you can touch. But there is so much more. So much you cannot possibly imagine. And though it cannot be touched, it is nonetheless real.”

“We are here on a mission for the pope,” he said.

“Clement is with the Virgin.”

“That is my hope.”

“But you do him a disservice by not believing.”