the Third Secret

“I see you still have a talent for evading questions,” he pointed out.

“I’m here because Tom Kealy asked me to come. He’s no fool. He knows what that tribunal is going to do.”

“Who are you writing for?”

“Freelance. A book he and I are putting together.”

She was a good writer, especially of poetry. He’d always envied her ability, and he actually wanted to know more about what happened to her after Munich. He was aware of bits and pieces. Her stints at a few European newspapers, never long, even a job in America. He occasionally saw her byline—nothing heavy or weighty, mainly religious essays. Several times he’d almost tracked her down, longing to share a coffee, but he knew that was impossible. He’d made his choice and there was no going back.

“I wasn’t surprised when I read of your papal appointment,” she said. “I figured when Volkner was elected pope, he wouldn’t let you go.”

He caught the look in her emerald eyes and saw she was struggling with her emotions, just as she had fifteen years ago. Then, he was a priest working on a law degree, anxious and ambitious, tied to the fortunes of a German bishop whom many were saying could one day be a cardinal. Now there was talk of his own elevation to the Sacred College. It was not unheard of that papal secretaries moved directly from the Apostolic Palace into a scarlet hat. He wanted to be a prince of the Church, to be part of the next conclave in the Sistine Chapel, beneath the frescoes of Michelangelo and Botticelli, with a voice and a vote.

“Clement is a good man,” he said.

“He’s a fool,” she quietly stated. “Just somebody the good cardinals put on the throne until one of them can muster enough support.”

“What makes you such an authority?”

“Am I wrong?”

He turned from her, allowing his temper to cool, and watched a group of souvenir peddlers at the square’s perimeter. Her surly attitude was still there, her words as biting and bitter as he remembered. She was pushing forty, but maturity had done little to abate her consuming passions. It was one of the things he’d never liked about her, and one of the things he missed. In his world, frankness was unknown. He was surrounded by people who could say with conviction what they never meant, so there was something to be said for truth. At least you knew exactly where you stood. Solid ground. Not the perpetual quicksand he’d grown accustomed to dealing with.

“Clement is a good man charged with a nearly impossible task,” he said.

“Of course if the dear mother Church would bend a little, things might not be so difficult. Pretty hard to govern a billion when everyone has to accept that the pope is the only man on earth who can’t make a mistake.”

He didn’t want to debate dogma with her, especially in the middle of St. Peter’s Square. Two Swiss guards, plumed and helmeted, their halberds held high, marched past a few feet away. He watched them advance toward the basilica’s main entrance. The six massive bells high in the dome were silent, but he realized the time was not that far off when they would toll at Clement XV’s death. Which made Katerina’s insolence all the more infuriating. Going to the tribunal earlier and talking with her now were mistakes. He knew what he had to do. “It’s been nice seeing you again, Kate.” He turned to leave.

“Bastard.”

She spit out the insult just loud enough for him to hear.

He turned back, wondering if she truly meant it. Conflict clouded her face. He stepped close and kept his voice down. “We haven’t spoken in years and all you want to do is tell me how evil the Church is. If you despise it so much, why waste your time writing about it? Go write that novel you always said you would. I thought maybe, just maybe, you might have mellowed. But I see that hasn’t occurred.”

“How wonderful to know you might actually care. You never considered my feelings when you told me it was over.”

“Do we have to go through all that again?”

“No, Colin. There’s no need.” She retreated. “No need at all. Like you said, it’s been good seeing you again.”

For an instant he registered hurt, but she seemed to quickly conquer whatever weakness may have swelled inside her.

He stared back toward the palace. Many more were now calling out and waving. Clement was still waving back. Several of the television crews were filming the moment.

“It’s him, Colin,” Katerina said. “He’s your problem. You just don’t know it.”

And before he could reply, she was gone.

SIX

3:00 P.M.

Valendrea clamped the headphones over his ears, pushed PLAY on the reel-to-reel recorder, and listened to the conversation between Colin Michener and Clement XV. The eavesdropping devices installed in the papal apartments had again performed flawlessly. There were many such receivers throughout the Apostolic Palace. He’d seen to that just after Clement’s election, which had been easy since, as secretary of state, he was charged with ensuring the security of the Vatican.

Clement had been right earlier. Valendrea wanted the current pontificate to run a little longer, time enough for him to secure the few remaining stragglers he’d need in the conclave. The current Sacred College was holding at 160, only 47 members over the age of eighty and ineligible to vote if a conclave happened within the next thirty days. At last count he felt reasonably confident of forty-five votes. A good start, but a long way from election. Last time he’d ignored the adage, He who goes into the conclave as pope comes out a cardinal. No chances would be taken this time. The listening devices were just one aspect of his strategy to assure that the Italian cardinals did not repeat their prior defection. Amazing the indiscretions princes of the Church engaged in on a daily basis. Sin was no stranger to them, their souls in need of cleansing like everyone else. But Valendrea well knew that, sometimes, penance had to be forced upon the penitent.

It’s all right to care, Colin. She’s a part of your past. A part you should not forget.

Valendrea removed the earphones and glanced up at the man sitting beside him. Father Paolo Ambrosi had stood at his side for over a decade. He was a short, slender man with straw-thin gray hair. The crook of his nose and the cut of his jaw reminded Valendrea of a hawk, an analogy that also amply described the priest’s personality. A smile was rare, a laugh even more so. A grave air constantly sheathed him, but that never bothered Valendrea because this priest was a man possessed of passion and ambition, two traits Valendrea greatly admired.

“It’s amusing, Paolo, how they speak German as if they’re the only ones who might understand.” Valendrea switched off the recorder. “Our pope seems concerned about this woman Father Michener is apparently familiar with. Tell me about her.”

They were sitting in a windowless salon on the third floor of the Apostolic Palace, part of the enormous square footage allocated to the Secretariat of State. The tape recorders and radio receiver were stored there inside a locked cabinet. Valendrea was not concerned about anyone finding the hardware. With more than ten thousand chambers, audience halls, and passages, most of which were secured behind locked doors, little danger existed of this hundred or so square feet being disturbed.

“Her name is Katerina Lew. Born to Romanian parents who fled the country when she was a teenager. Her father was a professor of law. She’s highly educated with a degree from the University of Munich, and another from the Belgian National College. She returned to Romania in the late 1980s and was there when Ceau?sescu was deposed. She’s a proud revolutionary.” He caught the touch of amusement that laced Ambrosi’s voice. “She met Michener in Munich when they were both students. They had a love affair that lasted a couple of years.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Michener and the pope have had other conversations.”

Valendrea knew that while he perused only the most important tapes, Ambrosi savored everything. “You’ve