the Third Secret

by then she’d touched a part of him he thought did not exist. What Cardinal Valendrea had just said about Christ and a priest’s union with the Church was indeed the basis of clerical celibacy. A priest should devote himself solely to God and the Church. But ever since that summer he’d wondered why he couldn’t love a woman, his Church, and God simultaneously. What had Kealy said? Like others of faith.

He sensed the stare of eyes. As his mind refocused, he realized Katerina had turned her head and was now looking directly at him.

The face still carried the toughness he’d found so attractive. The slight hint of Asian eyes remained, the mouth tugged down, the jaw gentle and feminine. There were simply no sharp edges anywhere. Those, he knew, hid in her personality. He examined her expression and tried to gauge its temperature. Not anger. Not resentment. Not affection. A look that seemed to say nothing. Not even hello. He found it uncomfortable to be this close to a memory. Perhaps she’d expected his appearance and didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking she cared. After all, their parting all those years ago had not been amicable.

She turned back to the tribunal and his anxiety subsided.

“Father Kealy,” Valendrea said, “I ask you simply. Do you renounce your heresy? Do you recognize that what you have done is against the laws of this Church and your God?”

The priest pulled himself close to the table. “I do not believe that loving a woman is contrary to the laws of God. So the forgiving of that sin was therefore inconsequential. I have a right to speak my mind, so I make no apologies for the movement that I head. I have done nothing wrong, Eminence.”

“You are a foolish man, Father. I have given you every opportunity to beg forgiveness. The Church can, and should, be forgiving. But contrition works in both directions. The penitent must be willing.”

“I do not seek your forgiveness.”

Valendrea shook his head. “My heart aches for you and your followers, Father. Clearly, all of you are with the devil.”

FOUR

1:05 P.M.

Alberto Cardinal Valendrea stood silent, hoping the euphoria from earlier at the tribunal would temper his rising irritation. Amazing how quickly a bad experience could utterly ruin a good one.

“What do you think, Alberto?” Clement XV said. “Is there time for me to view the crowd?” The pope motioned to the alcove and the open window.

It galled Valendrea that the pope would waste time standing before an open window and waving to people in St. Peter’s Square. Vatican Security had cautioned against the gesture, but the silly old man ignored the warnings. The press wrote about it all the time, comparing the German to John XXIII. And, in truth, there were similarities. Both ascended the papal throne near the age of eighty. Both were deemed caretaker popes. Both surprised everyone.

Valendrea hated the way Vatican observers also analogized the pope’s open window with his animated spirit, his unassuming openness, his charismatic warmth. The papacy was not about popularity. It was about consistency, and he resented how easily Clement had dispensed with so many time- honored customs. No longer did aides genuflect in the pope’s presence. Few kissed the papal ring. And rarely did Clement speak in the first person plural, as popes had done for centuries. This is the twenty-first century, Clement liked to say, while decreeing an end to another long-standing custom.

Valendrea remembered, not all that long ago, when popes would never stand in an open window. Security concerns aside, limited exposure bred an aura, it encouraged an air of mystery, and nothing promulgated faith and obedience more than a sense of wonder.

He’d served popes for nearly four decades, rising in the Curia quickly, earning his cardinal’s hat before fifty, one of the youngest in modern times. He now held the second most powerful position in the Catholic Church—the secretary of state—a job that interjected him into every aspect of the Holy See. But he wanted more. He wanted the most powerful position. The one where no one challenged his decisions. Where he spoke infallibly and without question.

He wanted to be pope.

“It is such a lovely day,” the pope was saying. “The rain seems gone. The air is like back home, in the German mountains. An Alpine freshness. Such a shame to be inside.”

Clement stepped into the alcove, but not far enough for him to be seen from outside. The pope wore a white linen cassock, caped across the shoulders, with the traditional white vest. Scarlet shoes encased his feet and a white skullcap topped his balding head. He was the only prelate among one billion Catholics allowed to dress in that manner.

“Perhaps His Holiness could engage in that rather delightful activity after we have completed the briefing. I have other appointments, and the tribunal took up the entire morning.”

“It would only take a few moments,” Clement said.

He knew the German enjoyed taunting him. From beyond the open window came the hum of Rome, that unique sound of three million souls and their machines moving across porous volcanic ash.

Clement seemed to notice the rumble, too. “It has a strange sound, this city.”

“It is our sound.”

“Ah, I almost forgot. You are Italian, and all of us are not.”

Valendrea was standing beside a poster bed fashioned of heavy oak, the knicks and scrapes so numerous they seemed a part of its craftsmanship. A worn crocheted blanket draped one end, two oversized pillows the other. The remaining furniture was also German—the armoire, dresser, and tables all painted gaily in a Bavarian style. There hadn’t been a German pope since the middle of the eleventh century. Clement II had been a source of inspiration for the current Clement XV—a fact that the pontiff made no secret about. But that earlier Clement was most likely poisoned to death. A lesson, Valendrea many times thought, this German should not forget.

“Perhaps you are right,” Clement said. “Visiting can wait. We do have business, now don’t we?”

A breeze eased past the sill and rustled papers on the desk. Valendrea reached down and halted their rise before they reached the computer terminal. Clement had not, as yet, switched on the machine. He was the first pope to be fully computer literate—another point the press loved—but Valendrea had not minded that change. Computer and fax lines were far easier to monitor than telephones.

“I am told you were quite spirited this morning,” Clement said. “What will be the outcome of the tribunal?”

He assumed Michener had reported back. He’d seen the papal secretary in the audience. “I was unaware that His Holiness was so interested in the subject matter of the tribunal.”

“Hard to not to be curious. The square below is littered with television vans. So, please, answer my question.”

“Father Kealy presented us with few options. He will be excommunicated.”

The pope clasped his hands behind his back. “He offered no apology?”

“He was arrogant to the point of insult, and dared us to challenge him.”

“Perhaps we should.”

The suggestion caught Valendrea off guard, but decades of diplomatic service had taught him how to conceal surprise with questions. “And the purpose of such an unorthodox action?”

“Why does everything need a purpose? Perhaps we should simply listen to an opposing point of view.”

He kept his body still. “There is no way you could openly debate the question of celibacy. That has been doctrine for five hundred years. What’s next? Women in the priesthood? Marriage for clerics? An approval of birth control? Will there be a complete reversal of all dogma?”

Clement stepped toward the bed and stared up at a medieval rendition of Clement II hanging on the wall. Valendrea knew that it had been brought from one of the cavernous cellars, where it had rested for centuries. “He was bishop of Bamberg. A simple man who possessed no desire to be pope.”

“He was the king’s confidant,” Valendrea said. “Politically connected. In the right place at the right time.”

Clement turned to face him. “Like myself, I presume?”