“—for your speedy recovery.”
Then he left.
“If he’s praying for me, I’m in real trouble,” Michener said as the door closed.
“Why did you agree to go back? He was bluffing about Romania.”
Michener shifted in the bed and she helped him get situated. “I have to talk with Ngovi. He needs to know what Jasna said.”
“For what? You can’t believe any of what she wrote. That secret is ludicrous.”
“Maybe so. But it’s the tenth secret of Medjugorje, whether we believe it or not. I need to give it to Ngovi.”
She adjusted the pillow. “Ever heard of fax machines?”
“I don’t want to argue about this, Kate. Besides, I’m curious what’s important enough for Valendrea to send his errand boy. Apparently there’s something big involved, and I think I know what it is.”
“The third secret of Fatima?”
He nodded. “But it still makes no sense. That secret is known to the world.”
She recalled what Father Tibor had said in his messages to Clement.
“This whole thing is beyond logic,” Michener said.
She wanted to know, “Have you and Ambrosi always been enemies?”
He nodded. “I wonder how a man like that became a priest. If not for Valendrea, he never would have made it to Rome. They’re perfect for one another.” He hesitated, as if in thought. “I imagine there’s going to be a lot of changes.”
“That’s not your problem,” she said, hoping he wasn’t changing his mind about their future.
“Don’t worry, I’m not having second thoughts. But I wonder if the Romanian authorities are truly interested in me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Could be a smokescreen.”
She looked puzzled.
“Clement sent me an e-mail the night he died. In it he told me that Valendrea may have removed part of the original third secret long ago when he worked for Paul VI.”
She listened with interest.
“Clement and Valendrea went into the Riserva together the night before Clement died. Valendrea also took an unscheduled trip from Rome the next day.”
She instantly saw the significance. “The Saturday Father Tibor was murdered?”
“Connect the dots and a picture starts to form.”
The image of Ambrosi, his knee jammed into her chest, his hands wrapped around her throat, flashed through her mind. Had Valendrea and Ambrosi been involved with Tibor’s murder? She wanted to tell Michener what she knew, but realized that her explanation would generate far too many questions than she was presently willing to answer. Instead, she asked, “Could Valendrea have been involved with Father Tibor’s death?”
“Hard to say. But he’s certainly capable. As is Ambrosi. I still think Ambrosi is bluffing, though. The last thing the Vatican wants is attention. I’m betting our new pope will do whatever he can to keep the spotlight off him.”
“But Valendrea could direct that spotlight somewhere else.”
Michener seemed to understand. “Like onto me.”
She nodded. “Nothing better than an ex-employee to blame everything on.”
Valendrea donned one of the white cassocks the House of Gammarelli had crafted during the afternoon. He’d been right this morning—his measurements were on file, and it had been easy to fashion the appropriate garments in a short period of time. The seamstresses had done their job well. He admired good work and made a mental note to have Ambrosi forward an official thanks.
He hadn’t heard from Ambrosi since Paolo had left for Bosnia. But he had no doubt that his friend would tend to his mission. Ambrosi knew what was at stake. He’d made things clear to him that night in Romania. Colin Michener had to be brought to Rome. Clement XV had cleverly thought ahead—he’d give the German that—and had apparently concluded that Valendrea would succeed him, so he’d purposely removed Tibor’s latest translation, knowing there was no way he could start his papacy with that potential disaster looming.
But where was it?
Michener surely knew.
The telephone rang.
He was in his bedroom on the third floor of the palace. The papal apartments were still being prepared.
The phone rang again.
He wondered about the interruption. It was nearly eight P.M. He was trying to dress for his first formal dinner, this one a celebration of thanks with the cardinals, and had left word not to be disturbed.
Another ring.
He lifted the receiver.
“Holy Father, Father Ambrosi is calling and asked that I connect him. He said it was important.”
“Do it.”
A few clicks and Ambrosi said, “I have done as you asked.”
“And the reaction?”
“He will be there tomorrow.”
“His health?”
“Nothing severe.”
“His traveling companion?”
“Being her usual charming self.”
“Let’s keep that one happy, for the present.” Ambrosi had told him about her assault on him in Rome. At the time she was their best conduit to Michener, but the situation had changed.
“Nothing from me will affect that.”
“Till tomorrow then,” he said. “Have a safe trip.”
FIFTY-FIVE
VATICAN CITY
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 30
1:00 P.M.
Michener sat in the backseat of a Vatican car, Katerina beside him. Ambrosi was in the front, and on his command they were waved through the Arch of the Bells into the privacy of the St. Damascus courtyard. A warren of ancient buildings surrounded them, blocking the midday sun, casting the pavement in an indigo hue.
For the first time he felt uneasy about being inside the Vatican. The men in charge now were manipulators. Enemies. He needed to be careful, watch his words, and get whatever was about to happen over with as quickly as possible.
The car stopped and they climbed out.
Ambrosi led them into a drawing room encased on three sides with stained glass where popes, for centuries, had greeted guests beneath the impressive murals. They followed Ambrosi through a maze of loggias and galleries littered with candelabra and tapestries surrounded by walls bursting with images of popes receiving homage from emperors and kings.
Michener knew where they were headed, and Ambrosi stopped outside the bronze door leading into the papal library where Gorbachev, Mandela, Carter, Yeltsin, Reagan, Bush, Clinton, Rabin, and Arafat had all visited.
“Ms. Lew will be waiting in the forward loggia when you are through,” Ambrosi said. “In the meantime, you
