is something more, and that’s what we’re talking about. Only around ten percent of the labels seem to have no bearing whatsoever. The vast majority are remarkably accurate. And the final one, Peter, comes exactly at one hundred and twelve. I shuddered when Valendrea took that name.”
A lot was coming fast. First the revelation about Katerina. Now the possibility that the end of the world was at hand.
“Colin, you must find Tibor’s reproduced translation. If Valendrea thinks that document is critical, then so should we. You knew Jakob better than anybody. Locate his hiding place.” Ngovi closed the manuscript. “This may be the last day we have access to this archive. A siege mentality is taking hold. Valendrea is purging all dissenters. I wanted you to see this firsthand—to understand the gravity. What the Medjugorje seer wrote is open to debate, but what Sister Lucia penned, and what Father Tibor translated, is quite another.”
“I have no idea where that document might be. I can’t even conceive of how Jakob removed it from the Vatican.”
“I was the only person with the safe’s combination,” the cardinal-archivist said. “And I opened it only for Clement.”
An emptiness swept over him as he thought again of Katerina’s betrayal. Concentrating on something else might help, if only for a short while. “I’ll see what I can do, Maurice. But I don’t even know where to start.”
Ngovi’s face remained solemn. “Colin, I don’t want to dramatize this any more than necessary. But the fate of the Church could well be in your hands.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
3:30 P.M.
Valendrea excused himself from the crowd of well-wishers gathered in the audience hall. The group had traveled from Florence to wish him well, and before leaving he assured them all that his first trip beyond the Vatican would be to Tuscany.
Ambrosi was waiting for him on the fourth floor. His secretary had left the audience chamber half an hour ago and he was curious why.
“Holy Father,” Ambrosi said. “Michener met with Ngovi and the cardinal-archivist after he left you.”
He now understood the urgency. “What was said?”
“It was behind closed doors in one of the reading rooms. The priest I have in the archives could learn nothing except they had an ancient volume with them, one that ordinarily only the archivist may handle.”
“Which one?”
“Malachy’s prophecies? You’ve got to be kidding. That’s nonsense. Still, it’s a shame we don’t know what was said.”
“I’m in the process of reinstalling the listening devices. But it will take time.”
“When is Ngovi scheduled to leave?”
“His office is already cleared. I’ve been told he departs for Africa in a few days. For now, he’s still in his apartment.”
And still camerlengo. Valendrea had yet to decide on a replacement, debating among three cardinals who hadn’t wavered in their conclave support.
“I’ve been thinking about Clement’s personal effects. Tibor’s facsimile has to be among them. Clement could expect no one but Michener to go through his things.”
“What are you saying, Holy Father?”
“I don’t think Michener will bring us anything. He despises us. No, he’ll give it to Ngovi. And I can’t let that happen.”
He watched Ambrosi for a reaction and his old friend did not disappoint him. “You want to act first?” his secretary asked.
“We need to demonstrate to Michener how serious we are. But not you this time, Paolo. Call our friends and enlist their aid.”
Michener entered the apartment he’d been using since Clement’s death. He’d walked the streets of Rome the past couple of hours. His head started hurting half an hour ago, one of the headaches the Bosnian doctor warned would reoccur, so he went straight to the bathroom and downed two aspirin. The doctor had also told him to have a complete physical once back in Rome, but there was no time for that right now.
He unbuttoned his cassock and tossed it onto the bed. The clock on the nightstand read six thirty P.M. He could still feel Valendrea’s hands on him. God help the Catholic Church. A man possessed of no fear was a dangerous thing. Valendrea seemed to dart, unconcerned, from moment to moment, and absolute power vested him with unfettered choices. Then there was what St. Malachy supposedly said. He knew he should ignore the ridiculous, but a dread swelled inside him. Trouble lay ahead. Of that he was sure.
He dressed in a pair of jeans and a buttondown shirt, then trudged into the front room and settled on the sofa. He purposely left all the lights off.
Had Valendrea actually purged something from the Riserva decades ago? Did Clement recently do the same thing? What was happening? It was as if reality had turned itself upside down. Everything and everybody around him seemed tainted. And to cap the whole mess off, an Irish bishop who lived nine hundred years ago may have predicted the end of the world with the coming of a pope named Peter.
He rubbed his temples and tried to dull the pain. Through the windows, scattered rays of weak light found their way inside from the street below. In the shadows beneath the sill lay Jakob Volkner’s oak chest. He recalled it being locked the day he moved everything from the Vatican. It certainly seemed like a place where Clement might have secreted something important. No one would have dared to look inside.
He crawled across the rug to the chest.
He reached up, switched on one of the lamps, and studied the lock. He didn’t want to damage the chest by breaking it open, so he sat back and thought about the best course.
The cardboard box he’d brought from the papal apartments the day after Clement’s death sat a few feet away. Everything of Clement’s lay inside. He slid the box toward him and rummaged through the assorted items that had once graced the papal apartments. Most invoked fond memories—a Black Forest clock, some special pens, a framed photograph of Clement’s parents.
A gray paper bag contained Clement’s personal Bible. It had been sent from Castle Gandolfo the day of the funeral. He hadn’t opened the book, merely brought it back to the apartment and placed it in the box.
He now admired the white leather exterior, its gilt edging marred by time. Reverently, he opened the front cover. In German was written, ON THE OCCASION OF YOUR PRIESTHOOD. FROM YOUR PARENTS, WHO LOVE YOU VERY MUCH.
Clement had spoken many times of his parents. The Volkners had been Bavarian aristocracy in the time of Ludwig I, and the family had been anti-Nazi, never supporting Hitler, even in the glory days before the war. They hadn’t been foolish, though, and kept their dissension to themselves, doing quietly what they could to help Bamberg’s Jews. Volkner’s father had harbored the life savings of two local families, safeguarding the funds until after the war. Unfortunately, no one returned to claim the money. Instead, every mark was given to Israel. A gift from the past in the hope of the future.
The vision from last night flashed through his mind.
Jakob Volkner’s face.
But it was Father Tibor’s image that answered.
