The Third Secret

The image floated before him, a few feet above the ground. His head and stomach still would not allow him to stand, so he lay back on the rocky earth and stared up.

The glow intensified.

Warmth radiated outward and comforted him. He raised an arm to shield his eyes and through slits between his fingers saw an image form.

A woman.

She wore a gray dress trimmed in light blue. A white veil draped her face and highlighted long locks of auburn hair. Her eyes were expressive, and the hues of her form fluctuated from white to blue to the palest yellow.

He recognized the face and dress. The statue he'd seen earlier in Jasna's house. Our Lady of Fatima.

The intensity of the glow subsided, and though he still could not focus on anything else beyond a few inches, he could see the woman clearly.

"Stand, Father Michener," she said in a mellow voice.

"I . . . tried . . . I can't," he stammered out.

"Stand."

He pushed himself up to his feet. His head no longer swirled. His stomach was calm. He faced the light. "Who are you?"

"You do not know?"

"The Virgin Mary?"

"You speak the words as if they are a lie."

"I don't mean them to be."

"Your defiance is strong. I see why you were chosen."

"Chosen for what?"

"I told the children long ago that I would leave a sign for all who do not believe."

"So Jasna now knows the tenth secret?" He was angry with himself for even asking the question. Bad enough he was hallucinating, now he was conversing with his own imagination.

"She is a blessed woman. She has done as heaven asked. Other men, who claim to be pious, cannot make that claim."

"Clement XV?"

"Yes, Colin. I am one of those."

The voice had deepened and the image metamorphosized into Jakob Volkner. He stood in full papal regalia--amice, cincture, stole, miter, and pallium--just as he'd appeared at his burial, a shepherd's staff held in his right hand. The sight startled him. What was happening here?

"Jakob?"

"Do not ignore heaven any longer. Do as I asked. Remember, there is much to be said for a loyal servant."

Exactly what Jasna had told him earlier. But why wouldn't his own hallucination include information he already knew? "What is my destiny, Jakob?"

The vision became Father Tibor. The priest appeared exactly as when they'd first met at the orphanage. "To be a sign to the world. A beacon for repentance. The messenger to announce that God is very much alive."

Before he could say anything, the Virgin's image returned.

"Do as your heart commands. There is nothing wrong in that. But do not forsake your faith, for in the end it will be all that remains."

The vision started to rise, becoming a brilliant ball of light that dissolved into the night above. The farther away it receded, the more his head ached. As the light finally vanished, the world around him started to spin and his stomach erupted.

FORTY-SEVEN

VATICAN CITY, 7:00 A.M.

Breakfast was a somber affair in the dining room of the Domus Sanctae Marthae. Nearly half of the cardinals were enjoying eggs, ham, fruit, and bread in silence. Many opted only for coffee or juice, but Valendrea filled a plate from the buffet line. He wanted to show the assembled men that he was unaffected by what had happened yesterday, his legendary appetite still in place.

He sat with a group of cardinals at a window table. They were a diverse lot, from Australia, Venezuela, Slovakia, Lebanon, and Mexico. Two were strong supporters, but the other three, he believed, were among the eleven who'd yet to choose a side. His gaze caught Ngovi entering the dining room. The African was intent in a lively conversation with two cardinals. Perhaps he, too, was trying to project not the slightest hint of concern.

"Alberto," one of the cardinals at the table was saying.

He glanced over at the Australian.

"Keep the faith today. I prayed all evening and feel something will occur this morning."

He maintained a stoic look. "God's will is what drives us forward. My only hope is that the Holy Spirit is with us today."

"You are the logical choice," the Lebanese cardinal said, his voice louder than necessary.

"Yes, he is," a cardinal at another table said.

He looked up from his eggs and saw it was the Spaniard from last night. The stout little man was out of his chair.

"This Church has languished," the Spaniard said. "It's time something be done. I can recall when the pope commanded respect. When governments all the way to Moscow cared what Rome did. Now we are nothing. Our priests are forbidden from political involvement. Our bishops are discouraged from taking a stand. Complacent popes are destroying us."

Another cardinal stood. He was a bearded man from Cameroon. Valendrea hardly knew him and assumed he was Ngovi's. "I didn't consider Clement XV complacent. He was loved throughout the world and did much in his short time."

The Spaniard held up his hands. "I don't mean disrespect. This is not personal. It's about what is best for the Church. Luckily, we have a man among us who carries respect in the world. Cardinal Valendrea would be an exemplary pontiff. Why settle for less?"

Valendrea let his gaze settle on Ngovi. If the camerlengo was offended by the remark, he showed nothing.

This was one of those moments that pundits would later describe. How the Holy Spirit swept down and moved the conclave. Though the Apostolic Constitution banned campaigning prior to convening, there was no such prohibition once locked inside the Sistine. In fact, frank discussion was the entire purpose of the secret gathering. He was impressed with the Spaniard's tactic. He'd not thought the fool capable of such grandstanding.

"I don't consider Cardinal Ngovi a settlement for less," the Cameroon cardinal finally said. "He's a man of God. A man of this Church. Above reproach. He would be an excellent pontiff."

"And Valendrea would not?" the French cardinal blurted out, coming to his feet.

Valendrea marveled at the sight, princes of the Church, adorned in robes, openly debating one another. Any other time they would go out of their way to avoid confrontation.

"Valendrea is young. He is what this Church needs. Ceremony and rhetoric do not make a leader. It's the character of the man that leads the faithful. He's proven his character. He's served many popes--"

"My point exactly," the Cameroon cardinal said. "He's never served a diocese. How many confessions has he heard? How many funerals has he presided over? How many parishioners has he counseled? These pastoral experiences are what the throne of St. Peter demand."

The boldness of the Cameroonian was impressive. Valendrea was unaware that such backbone could still be clothed in scarlet. Quite intuitively, this man had invoked the dreaded pastoral qualification. He made a note that this cardinal would be someone to watch in the years ahead.

"What does that matter?" the Frenchman asked. "The pope is no pastor. It's a description scholars like to attach. An excuse we use to vote for one man over the other. It means nothing. The pope is an administrator. He must run this Church, and to do that he must understand the Curia, he must know its workings. Valendrea knows that better than any of us. We've had pastoral popes. Give me a leader."

"Perhaps he knows our workings too well," the cardinal-archivist said.

Valendrea almost winced. Here was the most senior member of the voting college. His opinion would carry much weight with the eleven stragglers.

"Explain yourself," the Spaniard demanded.

The archivist stayed seated. "The Curia already controls too much. We all complain about the bureaucracy, yet we do nothing about it. Why? Because it satisfies our needs. It provides a wall between us and whatever it is we don't want to occur. So easy to blame everything on the Curia. Why would a pope who is ingrained in that institution do anything to threaten it? Yes, there would be changes, all popes tinker, but no one has demolished and rebuilt." The old man's eyes loc

ked on Valendrea. "Especially one who is a product of that system. We must ask ourselves, would Valendrea be so bold?" He paused. "I think not."

Valendrea sipped his coffee. Finally, he tabled the cup and calmly said to the archivist, "Apparently, Eminence, your vote is clear."

"I want my last vote to count."

He tipped his head in a casual gesture. "That is your right, Eminence. And I would not presume to interfere."

Ngovi stepped to the center of the room. "Perhaps there has been enough debate. Why don't we finish our meal and retire to the chapel. There, we can take this up in more detail."