VATICAN CITY
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 29
12:30 A.M.
Valendrea buttoned his cassock and left his room in the Domus Sanctae Marthae. As secretary of state he’d been provided one of the larger spaces, normally used by the prelate who managed the dormitory for seminarians. A similar privilege had been extended to the camerlengo and the head of the Sacred College. The accommodations were not what he was accustomed to, but a big improvement from the days when a conclave meant sleeping on a cot and peeing into a bucket.
The route from the dormitory to the Sistine was through a series of secured passages. This was a change from the last conclave when cardinals were bused and escorted when traveling between the dormitory and the chapel. Many had resented having a chaperone, so a sealable route had been created through the Vatican corridors, available only to conclave participants.
He’d quietly made clear during dinner that he wanted to meet with three of the cardinals later, and the three now waited inside the Sistine, at the opposite end from the altar, near the marble gate. Beyond, past the sealed entrance, in the hallway outside, he knew Swiss guards stood ready to throw open the bronze doors once white smoke seeped skyward. No one really expected that to occur after midnight, so the chapel would provide a safe place for a discreet discussion.
He approached the three cardinals and did not give them a chance to speak. “I only have a few things to say.” He kept his voice low. “I’m aware of what the three of you have said in previous days. You assured me of support, then privately betrayed me. Why, only you know. What I want is for the fourth ballot to be the last. If not, none of you will be a member of this college by this time next year.”
One of the cardinals started to speak and he raised his right hand to silence him.
“I don’t want to hear that you voted for me. All three of you have supported Ngovi. But that will change in the morning. In addition, before the first session I want others swayed. I expect a fourth-ballot victory and it’s up to you three to make that happen.”
“That’s unrealistic,” one of the cardinals said.
“What’s unrealistic is how you escaped Spanish justice for embezzling Church funds. They clearly believed you a thief, they just lacked proof. I have that proof, gladly provided by a young senorita you’re quite familiar with. And you other two shouldn’t be so smug. I have similar files on each of you, none of the information flattering. You know what I want. Start a movement. Invoke the Holy Spirit. I don’t care how it’s done, just make it happen. Success will ensure that you stay in Rome.”
“What if we don’t want to be in Rome?” one of the three asked.
“Would you prefer prison?”
Vatican observers loved to speculate about what happened within a conclave. The archives were replete with journals depicting pious men wrestling with their consciences. He’d watched during the last conclave as cardinals argued that his youth was a disadvantage, since the Church did not fare well with a prolonged papacy. Five to ten years was good. Anything more created problems. And there was truth to that conclusion. Autocracy and infallibility could be a volatile mixture. But they could also be the ingredients of change. The throne of St. Peter was the ultimate pulpit and a strong pope could not be ignored. He intended on being that kind of pope, and he wasn’t about to let three petty fools ruin those plans.
“All I want to hear is my name read seventy-six times in the morning. If I have to wait, there will be consequences. My patience was tried today. I would not recommend a repeat. If my smiling face does not appear on the balcony of St. Peter’s by tomorrow afternoon, before you make it back to your rooms in the Domus Sanctae Marthae to retrieve your things, your reputations will be gone.”
He turned and left, not giving them the chance to utter a word.
FORTY-SIX
MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA
Michener watched as the world spun in a blurry haze. His head pounded and his stomach flip-flopped. He tried to stand but couldn’t. Bile pooled in his throat and his vision winked in and out.
He was still outside, now only a gentle rain soaking his already saturated clothes. Thunder overhead confirmed that the nocturnal storm was still raging. He brought his watch close to his eyes, but multiple images swirled before him and he could not read the luminous dial. He massaged his forehead and felt a knot on the back of his head.
He wondered about Jasna and was just about to call her name when a bright light appeared in the sky. He thought at first it might be another bolt of lightning, like what surely had happened earlier, but this ball was smaller, more controlled. He thought it a helicopter, but no sound preceded the blue-white splotch as it drew closer.
The image floated before him, a few feet above the ground. His head and stomach still would not allow him to stand, so he lay back on the rocky earth and stared up.
The glow intensified.
Warmth radiated outward and comforted him. He raised an arm to shield his eyes and through slits between his fingers saw an image form.
A woman.
She wore a gray dress trimmed in light blue. A white veil draped her face and highlighted long locks of auburn hair. Her eyes were expressive, and the hues of her form fluctuated from white to blue to the palest yellow.
He recognized the face and dress. The statue he’d seen earlier in Jasna’s house. Our Lady of Fatima.
The intensity of the glow subsided, and though he still could not focus on anything else beyond a few inches, he could see the woman clearly.
“Stand, Father Michener,” she said in a mellow voice.
“I . . . tried . . . I can’t,” he stammered out.
“Stand.”
He pushed himself up to his feet. His head no longer swirled. His stomach was calm. He faced the light. “Who are you?”
“You do not know?”
“The Virgin Mary?”
“You speak the words as if they are a lie.”
“I don’t mean them to be.”
“Your defiance is strong. I see why you were chosen.”
“Chosen for what?”
“I told the children long ago that I would leave a sign for all who do not believe.”
“So Jasna now knows the tenth secret?” He was angry with himself for even asking the question. Bad enough he was hallucinating, now he was conversing with his own imagination.
“She is a blessed woman. She has done as heaven asked. Other men, who claim to be pious, cannot make that claim.”
“Clement XV?”
“Yes, Colin. I am one of those.”
The voice had deepened and the image metamorphosized into Jakob Volkner. He stood in full papal regalia— amice, cincture, stole, miter, and pallium—just as he’d appeared at his burial, a shepherd’s staff held in his right hand. The sight startled him. What was happening here?
“Jakob?”
“Do not ignore heaven any longer. Do as I asked. Remember, there is much to be said for a loyal servant.”
Exactly what Jasna had told him earlier. But why wouldn’t his own hallucination include information he already knew? “What is my destiny, Jakob?”
The vision became Father Tibor. The priest appeared exactly as when they’d first met at the orphanage. “To
