The Third Secret

He invited the cardinal inside and instructed the guards they were not to be disturbed. He then led Ngovi into his study and offered a seat in a gilded settee.

"I would pour coffee, but I sent the steward for some."

Ngovi raised a hand. "No need. I came to talk."

Valendrea sat. "So what does Clement want?"

"It is I who wants something. What was the purpose of your visit to the archives yesterday? Your intimidation of the cardinal-archivist? It was uncalled for."

"I don't recall the archives being under the jurisdiction of the Congregation for Catholic Education."

"Answer the question."

"So Clement does want something, after all."

Ngovi said nothing, an irritating strategy he'd noticed the African often employed--one that sometimes made Valendrea say too much.

"You told the archivist that you were on a mission of the greatest importance to the Church. One that demanded extraordinary action. What were you referring to?"

He wondered how much the weak bastard in the archives had said. Surely he didn't confess his sin in forgiving the abortion. The old fool wasn't that reckless. Or was he? He decided an offensive tack best. "You and I both know Clement is obsessed with the Fatima secret. He's been in the Riserva repeatedly."

"Which is the prerogative of the pope. It is not for us to question."

Valendrea leaned forward in the chair. "Why does our good German pontiff anguish so much over something the world already knows?"

"That is not for you or me to question. John Paul II satisfied my curiosity with his revelation of the third secret."

"You served on the committee, didn't you? The one that reviewed the secret and wrote the interpretation that accompanied its release."

"It was my honor. I had long wondered about the Virgin's final message."

"But it was so anticlimatic. Didn't really say much of anything, beyond the usual call for penance and faith."

"It foretold a papal assassination."

"Which explains why the Church suppressed it all those years. No point in giving some lunatic a divine motive to shoot the pope."

"We believed that was the thinking when John XXIII read the message and ordered it sealed."

"And what the Virgin predicted happened. Somebody tried to shoot Paul VI, then the Turk shot John Paul II. What I want to know, though, is why Clement feels the need to keep reading the original writing?"

"Again, that is not for you or me to question."

"Except when either one of us is pope." He waited to see if his adversary would take the bait.

"But you and I are not pope. What you attempted was a violation of canon law." Ngovi's voice stayed cool, and Valendrea wondered if this sedate man ever lost his temper.

"Plan to charge me?"

Ngovi did not flinch. "If there was any way possible to be successful, I would."

"Then maybe I would have to resign and you could be secretary of state? You'd like that, wouldn't you, Maurice?"

"I would only like to send you back to Florence where you and your Medici ancestors belong."

He cautioned himself. The African was a master of provocation. This would be a good test for the conclave, where surely Ngovi would try every possible way to incite a reaction. "I am not Medici. I am Valendrea. We opposed the Medici."

"Surely only after seeing that family's decline. I imagine your ancestors were opportunists, too."

He realized the confrontation for what it was--the two leading contenders for the papacy, face-to-face. He well knew that Ngovi would be his toughest competition. He'd already listened to taped conversations among cardinals when they thought themselves safe within locked Vatican offices. Ngovi was his most dangerous challenger, made even more formidable by the fact that the archbishop of Nairobi was not actively seeking the papacy. If asked, the wily bastard always stopped any speculation with a wave of his hand and a mention of his respect for Clement XV. None of which fooled Valendrea. An African had not sat on the throne of St. Peter since the first century. What a triumph that would be. Ngovi, if nothing else, was an ardent nationalist, open in his belief that Africa deserved better than it was presently receiving--and what better platform to push for social reform than as head of the Holy See?

"Give it up, Maurice," he said. "Why don't you join the winning team? You won't leave the next conclave as pope. That much I guarantee."

"What bothers me more is you becoming pope."

"I know you have the African bloc held tight. But they're only eight votes. Not enough to stop me."

"But enough to become critical in a tight election."

The first mention by Ngovi of the conclave. A message?

"Where is Father Ambrosi?" Ngovi asked.

Now he realized the purpose of the visit. Clement needed information. "Where's Father Michener?"

"I am told he's on holiday."

"So is Paolo. Maybe they went together." He let a chuckle accompany the sarcasm.

"I would hope Colin has better taste in friends."

"As I would for Paolo."

He wondered why the pope was so concerned about Ambrosi. What did it matter? Perhaps he'd underestimated the German. "You know, Maurice, I was being facetious earlier, but you would make an excellent secretary of state. Your support in the conclave could assure that."

Ngovi sat with his hands folded beneath his cassock. "And to how many others have you dangled that cube of sugar?"

"Only those in a position to deliver."

His guest rose from the settee. "I remind you of the Apostolic Constitution, which forbids campaigning for the papacy. We are both bound by that creed."

Ngovi stepped toward the anteroom beyond.

Valendrea never moved from his chair, but called out to the retreating cardinal, "I wouldn't stand on protocol too long, Maurice. We'll all be in the Sistine soon, and your fortunes could drastically change. How, though, is solely up to you."

EIGHTEEN

BUCHAREST, 5:50 P.M.

The rap on the door startled Michener. Nobody knew he was in Romania except Clement and Father Tibor. And absolutely nobody knew he was staying at this hotel.

He stood, crossed the room, and opened the door to see Katerina Lew. "How in the world did you find me?"

She smiled. "You were the one who said the only secrets in the Vatican are the ones a person doesn't know."

He didn't like what he was hearing. The last thing Clement would want was a reporter knowing what he was doing. And who'd betrayed the information that he'd left Rome?

"I felt bad about the other day in the square," she said. "I shouldn't have said what I did."

"So you came to Romania to apologize?"

"We need to talk, Colin."

"This isn't a good time."

"I was told you went on holiday. I thought it the best time."

He invited her inside and closed the door behind her, reminding himself that the globe had shrunk since the last time he was alone with Katerina Lew. Then a troubling thought occurred. If she knew this much about him, imagine how much Valendrea knew. He needed to call Clement and advise him of a leak in the papal household. But he recalled what Clement had said yesterday in Turin about Valendrea--he knows everything we do, everything we say--and realized the pope already knew.

"Colin, there's no reason for us to be so hostile. I understand much better what happened all those years ago. I'm even willing to admit I handled things poorly."

"That's a first."

She did not react to his rebuke. "I've missed you. That's really why I came to Rome. To see you."

"What about Tom Kealy?"

"I was involved with Tom." She hesitated. "But he's not you." She stepped closer. "I'm not ashamed of my time with him. Tom's situation is stimulating to a journalist. Lots of opportunities there." Her eyes grabbed his in a way only hers could. "But I need to know. Why were you at the tribunal? Tom told me papal secretaries don't usually bother with such things."

&nbs

p; "I knew you'd be there."

"Were you glad to see me?"

He debated his response and settled on, "You didn't look particularly glad to see me."