She brought a knuckle to her mouth and a gasp seeped out. “The pope knows?”
He motioned to Ambrosi. “If this son of a bitch knows, Valendrea knows.”
She crossed herself.
He faced Ambrosi and understood. “Tell me where Katerina is.”
The gun stayed on him. “She’s safe, for now. But you know what I want.”
“And how do you know I have it?”
“Either you do or this woman does.”
“I thought Valendrea said it was mine to find.” He hoped Irma kept quiet.
“And Cardinal Ngovi would have been the recipient of any delivery you made.”
“I don’t know what I would have done.”
“I assume you do now.”
He wanted to pound the arrogance off Ambrosi’s face, but there was still the matter of the gun.
“Katerina’s in danger?” Irma asked.
“She is fine,” Ambrosi made clear.
Michener said, “Frankly, Ambrosi, Katerina is
“I’m sure she will be brokenhearted to hear that.”
He shrugged. “She got herself into this mess, it’s her problem to get herself out.” He wondered if he was jeopardizing Katerina’s safety, but any show of weakness could be fatal.
“I want Tibor’s translation,” Ambrosi said.
“I don’t have it.”
“But Clement did send it here. Correct?”
“I don’t know that . . . yet.” He needed time. “But I can find out. And there’s one other thing.” He pointed to Irma. “When I do, I want this lady left out of everything. This doesn’t concern her.”
“Clement involved her, not me.”
“If you want the translation, that’s a condition. Otherwise, I’ll give it to the press.”
There was a momentary flicker in Ambrosi’s cold demeanor. He almost smiled. Michener had guessed right. Valendrea had sent his henchman to destroy the information, not retrieve it.
“She’s a nonparticipant,” Ambrosi said, “provided she hasn’t read it.”
“She doesn’t read Italian.”
“But you do. So remember the warning. You will severely limit my options if you choose to ignore what I’m saying.”
“How would you know if I read it, Ambrosi?”
“I’m assuming the message is one that’s hard to conceal. Popes have shaken before it. So let it be, Michener. This doesn’t concern you any longer.”
“For something that doesn’t concern me, I seem to be right in the middle. Like the visitor you sent calling last night.”
“I know nothing about that.”
“Same thing I’d say, if I were you.”
“What of Clement?” Irma asked, a plea in her voice. She was apparently still thinking of the letters.
Ambrosi shrugged. “His memory is in your hands. I don’t want the press involved. But if that occurs, we are prepared to leak certain facts that will be, to say the least, devastating to his memory . . . and yours.”
“You will tell the world how he died?” she asked.
Ambrosi glanced over at Michener. “She knows?”
He nodded. “As you do, apparently.”
“Good. That makes things easier. Yes, we would tell the world, but not directly. Rumor can do far more harm. People still believe the sainted John Paul I was murdered. Think what they would write about Clement. The few letters we have are damning enough. If you treasure him, as I believe you do, then cooperate in this matter and nothing will ever be known.”
Irma said nothing, but tears soaked her cheeks.
“Don’t cry,” Ambrosi said. “Father Michener will do the right thing. He always does.” Ambrosi backed toward the door, then stopped. “I’m told that the famous Bamberg crib circuit begins tonight. All the churches will be displaying nativity scenes. A Mass is said in the cathedral. Quite an audience attends. It starts at eight. Why don’t we beat the crowd and exchange what each of us wants at seven.”
“I didn’t say I wanted anything from you.”
Ambrosi flashed an irritating grin. “You do. Tonight. In the cathedral.” He motioned to the window and the building crowning a hill on the far side of the river. “Quite public, so we’ll all feel better. Or, if you prefer, we can make the exchange now.”
“Seven at the cathedral. Now get the hell out of here.”
“Remember what I said, Michener. Leave it sealed. Do yourself, Ms. Lew, and Ms. Rahn a favor.”
Ambrosi left.
Irma sat silent, sobbing. Finally, she said, “That man’s evil.”
“Him and our new pope.”
“He’s connected to Peter?”
“The papal secretary.”
“What’s happening here, Colin?”
“To know that, I need to read what’s in this envelope.” But he also needed to safeguard her. “I want you to leave. I don’t want you to know anything.”
“Why are you going to open it?”
He held up the envelope. “I have to know what’s so important.”
“That man was quite clear that you were not to do that.”
“The hell with Ambrosi.” The severity of his tone surprised him.
She seemed to consider his predicament, then said, “I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.”
She withdrew and closed the door behind her. The hinges squealed ever so slightly, just like the ones in the archives he recalled from that rainy morning nearly a month ago when somebody was watching.
Surely Paolo Ambrosi.
The muted blare of a horn blew in the distance. From across the river, bells pealed, signaling one P.M.
He sat and opened the envelope.
Inside were two sheets of paper, one blue, one tan. He read the blue sheet first, penned in Clement’s hand:
His hands trembled as he laid the blue sheet aside. Clement had apparently known he would eventually find his way to Bamberg and that he’d read what was inside the envelope.
He unfolded the tan sheet.
The ink was a light blue, the page crisp and new. He scanned the Italian, its translation flashing through his mind. A second pass refined the language. A final read and he now knew what Sister Lucia had written in 1944—the remainder of what the Virgin told her in the third secret—what Father Tibor translated that day in 1960.
