Jakob:
Karl Haigl died a few days back. At the funeral I was remembering when the three of us were children, playing in the river on a warm summer day. He was such a gentle man and if not for you I may well have loved him. I suspect you know that, though. His wife passed several years ago and he lived alone. His children are an ungrateful and selfish lot. What has happened to our youth? Do they not appreciate from where they came? Many times I would take supper to him and we would sit and talk. He admired you so. Little scrawny Jakob, risen to a cardinal in the Catholic Church. Now it's secretary of state. One step from the papacy. He would have liked to see you again and it's a shame that wasn't possible. Bamberg has not forgotten its bishop and I know its bishop has not forgotten the place of his youth. I have prayed diligently the past few days for you, Jakob. The pope is not well. Soon a new pope will be chosen. I have asked the Lord to watch over you. Maybe he will heed the plea of an old woman who loves both her God and her cardinal deeply. Take care.
Jakob:
I watched on television as you appeared on the balcony of St. Peter's. The pride and love that swelled inside me was too much to describe. My Jakob is now Clement. Such a wise choice in names. At the mention, I recalled the times you and I went to the cathedral and visited the tomb. I remembered how you imagined Clement II. A German risen to pope. Even then there was vision in your eyes. Somehow he was a part of you. Now, as Clement XV, you are pope. Be wise dear Jakob, but be brave. The church is yours to mold or break. Let them remember Clement XV with pride. A pilgrimage back to Bamberg would be so wonderful. Try and arrange that one day. I have not seen you for so long. Just a few moments, even in public, would suffice. In the meantime let what we have warm your heart and mellow your soul. Shepherd the flock with strength and dignity and always know that my heart is with you.
FIFTY-NINE
9:00 P.M.
Katerina approached the building where Michener lived. The darkened street was devoid of people and lined with empty cars. From open windows she heard idle conversation, the squeals of children, and a snatch of music. Traffic rumbled from a boulevard fifty yards behind her.
A light burned in Michener's apartment, and she took refuge in a doorway across the street, safe within the shadows, and stared up three floors.
They needed to talk. He had to understand. She hadn't betrayed him. She'd told Valendrea nothing. Still, she'd violated his confidence. He hadn't been as angry as she expected, more hurt, and that made her feel worse. When would she ever learn? Why did she keep making the same mistakes? Could she not for once do the right thing, for the right reason? She was capable of better, but something seemed perpetually to restrain her.
She stood in the darkness, comforted by her solitude, resolute in knowing what needed to be done. There was no sign of movement in the third-floor window and she wondered if Michener was even there.
She was mustering the courage to cross the street when a car slowly turned off the boulevard and inched its way toward the building. Headlights swept a path ahead and she hugged the wall, sinking into darkness.
The headlights extinguished and the vehicle stopped.
A dark Mercedes coupe.
The rear door opened and a man stepped out. In the glow from the car's cabin light she saw that he was tall, with a thin face split by a long, sharp nose. He wore a loose-fitting gray suit, and she did not like the gleam in his dark eyes. Men like this she'd seen before. Two other men sat in the car, one driving, another in the backseat. Her brain screamed trouble. Ambrosi had surely dispatched them.
The tall man entered Michener's building.
The Mercedes rumbled ahead, farther down the street. The light in Michener's apartment was still on.
No time to call the police.
She emerged from the doorway and hurried across the street.
Michener finished the last letter and stared at the envelopes scattered around him. Over the past two hours he'd read every word Irma Rahn had written. Certainly the chest did not contain a lifetime of their correspondence. Perhaps Volkner saved only the letters that meant something. The most recent one was dated two months earlier--another touching composition wherein Irma lamented about Clement's health, concerned about what she was seeing on television, urging him to take care of himself.
He thought back through the years and now understood some of the comments Volkner had made, especially when they discussed Katerina.
You think you're the only priest to succumb? And was it that wrong, anyway? Did it feel wrong, Colin? Did your heart say it was wrong?
And just before he died. The curious statement when Clement inquired about Katerina and the tribunal. It's all right to care, Colin. She's a part of your past. A part you should not forget.
He'd thought his friend was only offering comfort. Now he realized there was more.
But that doesn't mean you can't be friends. Share your lives in words and feelings. Experience the closeness that someone who genuinely cares can provide. Surely the Church doesn't forbid us that pleasure.
He recalled the questions Clement had posed at Castle Gandolfo, only hours before he died. Why must priests not marry? Why must they remain chaste? If that's acceptable for others, why not the clergy?
He couldn't help wondering how far the relationship had progressed. Had the pope violated his own vow of celibacy? Had he done the same thing Thomas Kealy was accused of doing? Nothing from the letters indicated that, which in and of itself meant nothing. After all, who would write such a thing down?
He propped back against the sofa and rubbed his eyes.
Father Tibor's translation was nowhere in the chest. He'd searched every envelope, read every letter, on the chance Clement had secreted the paper inside one of them. In fact, there was no mention of anything even remotely related to Fatima. His effort seemed another dead end. He was right back where he started, except he now knew about Irma Rahn.
Don't forget Bamberg.
That's what Jasna had said to him. And what had Clement written to him in his final message? I would prefer the sanctity of Bamberg, that lovely city by the river, and the cathedral I so loved. My only regret is that I did not see its beauty one last time. Perhaps, though, my legacy could still be there.
Then the afternoon in the solarium at Castle Gandolfo, and what Clement whispered.
I allowed Valendrea to read what is in the Fatima box.
What's there?
Part of what Father Tibor sent me.
Part? He hadn't caught the hint until this moment.
The trip to Turin again flashed through his mind, along with Clement's heated remarks about his loyalty and abilities. And the envelope. Would you mail this for me, please? It had been addressed to Irma Rahn. He'd thought nothing of it. He'd mailed many letters to her over the years. But the strange request to mail the letter from there, and to do it personally.
Clement had been in the Riserva only the night before. He and Ngovi had waited outside while the pope studied the contents of the box. That would have been a perfect opportunity for any removal. Which meant when Clement and Valendrea were in the Riserva days later, the reproduced translation was already gone. What had he asked Valendrea earlier?
How do you know it was even there?
I don't. But no one returned to the archives after that Friday night, and Clement was dead two days later.
The apartment door burst open.
The room was illuminated only by a single lamp and, within the shadows, a tall, thin man lunged toward him. He was yanked from the floor and a fist rammed into his abdomen.
The breath left his lungs.
His assailant planted another blow into his chest that sent him staggering back toward the bedroom. The shock of the moment paralyzed him. He'd never been in a fight before. Instinct told him to raise his arms for protection, but the man swung again into his stomach, the blow collapsing him onto the bed.
He panted hard and stared up at the blackened form, wondering what was next. Something c
ame from the man's pocket. A black rectangle, about six inches long, with shiny metal prongs protruding from one end like pincers. A flash of light suddenly sparked between the prongs.
A stun gun.
The Swiss guard carried them as a means to protect the pope without bullets. He and Clement had been shown the weapons and told how a nine-volt battery charge could be transformed into two hundred thousand volts that could quickly immobilize. He watched as blue-white current leaped from one electrode to another, cracking the air in between.
A smile came to the thin man's lips. "We have some fun now," he said in Italian.
Michener summoned his strength and pivoted upward, swinging his leg and kicking the man's outstretched arm. The stun gun flew away, toward the open doorway.
The act seemed to genuinely surprise his attacker, but the man recovered and backhanded Michener's face, propelling him flat onto the bed.
The man's hand plunged into another pocket. A click and a knife appeared. With the blade clenched tight in his raised hand, the man lunged forward. Michener braced himself, wondering what it was going to feel like to be stabbed.
But he never felt a thing.
Instead there was a pop of electricity and the man winced. His eyes rolled skyward, his arms went limp, and the body started to convulse in deep spasms. The knife fell away as muscles went limp and he collapsed to the floor.
Michener sat up.
Standing behind his assailant was Katerina. She tossed the stun gun aside and rushed to him. "Are you all right?"
He was holding his stomach, fighting for air.
"Colin, are you okay?"
"Who the hell was . . . that?"
"No time. There's two more downstairs."
"What do you . . . know that I don't?"
"I'll explain later. We need to go."