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."
His mind started working again. "Grab my travel bag. Over . . . there. I haven't emptied it from Bosnia."
"You going somewhere?"
He didn't want to answer her, and she seemed to understand his silence.
"You're not going to tell me," she said.
"Why are you . . . here?"
"I came to talk to you. To try to explain. But this man and two more drove up."
He tried to rise from the bed, but a sharp pain forced him down.
"You're hurt," she said.
He coughed up the air in his lungs. "Did you know that guy was coming here?"
"I can't believe you're asking me that."
"Answer me."
"I came to talk to you and heard the stun gun. I saw you kick it away and then I saw the knife. So I grabbed the thing off the floor and did what I could. I'd think you'd be grateful."
"I am. Tell me what you know."
"Ambrosi attacked me the night we met with Father Tibor in Bucharest. He made it clear that if I didn't cooperate, there'd be hell to pay." She motioned to the form on the floor. "I assume this man is connected to him in some way. But I don't know why he came after you."
"I assume Valendrea was unhappy with our discussion today and decided to force the issue. He told me I wouldn't like the next messenger."
"We need to leave," she said again.
He moved toward the travel bag and slipped on a pair of running shoes. The pain in his gut brought tears to his eyes.
"I love you, Colin. What I did was wrong, but I did it for the right reason." The words came fast. She needed to say them.
He stared at her. "Hard to argue with somebody who just saved my life."
"I don't want to argue."
Neither did he. Maybe he shouldn't be so righteous. He hadn't been totally honest with her, either. He bent down and checked the pulse on his attacker. "Probably going to be pretty ticked off when he wakes up. I don't want to be around."
He headed toward the apartment door and spied the letters and envelopes scattered on the floor. They needed to be destroyed. He moved toward the scattered mess.
"Colin, we have to get out here before the other two decide to come up."
"I need to take these--" He heard feet pounding the stairs three floors below.
"Colin, we're out of time."
He grabbed a few handfuls of letters and stuffed what he could into the travel bag, but managed to retrieve only about half of what was there. He pulled himself to his feet and they slipped out the door. He pointed up, and they tiptoed toward the next floor as footsteps from below grew louder. The pain in his side made the going difficult, but adrenaline forced him ahead.
"How are we going to get out of here?" she whispered.
"There's another staircase in the rear of the building. It leads to a courtyard. Follow me."
They carefully made their way down the corridor, past closed apartment doors, away from the street side of the building. He found the rear staircase just as two men appeared fifty feet behind them.
He took three steps at a time, electric pain searing his abdomen. The travel bag banging against his rib cage, full of letters, only added to his agony. They turned at the landing, found the ground floor, then darted out of the building.
The courtyard beyond was filled with cars and they zigzagged a path around them. He led the way through an arched entrance to the busy boulevard. Cars whizzed past and people filled the sidewalks. Thank God Romans were late eaters.
He spotted a taxi hugging the curb fifty feet ahead.
He grabbed Katerina and hustled straight for the sooty vehicle. A glance back over his shoulder and he saw two men emerge from the courtyard.
They spotted him and bolted his way.
He made it to the taxi and yanked open the rear door. They jumped inside. "Go, now," he screamed in Italian.
The car lurched forward. Through the rear window he watched the men halt their pursuit.
"Where are we going?" Katerina asked.
"Do you have your passport?"
"In my purse."
"To the airport," he told the driver.
SIXTY
11:40 P.M.
Valendrea knelt before the altar in a chapel that his beloved Paul VI had personally commissioned. Clement had shied away from its use, preferring a smaller room down the hall, but he intended to utilize the richly decorated space for a daily morning Mass, a time when forty or so special guests could share a celebration with their pontiff. Afterward, a few minutes of his time and a photograph would cement their loyalty. Clement had never used the trappings of office--another of his many fallacies--but Valendrea meant to make the most of what popes had slaved for centuries to achieve.
The staff had gone for the night and Ambrosi was tending to Colin Michener. He was grateful for the time alone since he needed to pray to a God he knew was listening.
He wondered if he should offer the traditional Our Father or some other sanctioned plea, but finally decided a frank conversation would be more appropriate. Besides, he was the supreme pontiff of God's apostolic church. If he didn't possess the right to talk openly with the Lord, who did?
He perceived what happened earlier with Michener--his ability to read the tenth secret of Medjugorje--to be a sign from heaven. He'd been allowed to know both the Medjugorje and Fatima messages for a reason. Clearly, Father Tibor's murder had been justified. Though one of the commandments forbade killing, popes had for centuries slaughtered millions in the name of the Lord. And now was no exception. The threat to the Roman Catholic Church was real. Though Clement XV was gone, his protege lived and Clement's legacy was out there. He could not allow the risks to escalate beyond their already dangerous proportions. The matter required a definitive resolution. Just as with Father Tibor, Colin Michener would have to be dealt with, too.
He clasped his hands and stared up at the tortured face of Christ on the crucifix. He reverently beseeched the son of God for guidance. He'd obviously been chosen pope for a reason. He'd also been motivated to choose the name Peter. Before this afternoon he'd thought both just the product of his own ambition. Now he knew better. He was the conduit. Peter II. To h
im, there was only one course of action, and he thanked the Almighty that he possessed the strength to do what had to be done.
"Holy Father."
He crossed himself and stood from the prie-dieu. Ambrosi filled the doorway at the back of the dimly lit chapel. Concern filled his assistant's face. "What about Michener?"
"Gone. With Ms. Lew. But we found something."
Valendrea scanned the cache of letters and marveled at this latest surprise. Clement XV had possessed a lover. Though nothing admitted to any mortal sin--and for a priest, a violation of Holy Orders would be a grave mortal sin--the meaning was indisputable.
"I continue to be amazed," he said to Ambrosi, glancing up.
They sat in the library. The same room where he'd confronted Michener earlier. He thought back to something Clement had said to him a month ago when the pope learned that Father Kealy had presented the tribunal with few options. Perhaps we should simply listen to an opposing point of view. Now he understood why Volkner had been so willing. Celibacy, apparently, was not a concept the German had taken seriously. He stared over at Ambrosi. "This is as far reaching as the suicide. I never realized how complex Clement was."
"And apparently resourceful," Ambrosi said. "He removed Father Tibor's writing from the Riserva, confident in what you would subsequently do."
He didn't particularly care for Ambrosi's reminder of his predictability, but he said nothing. Instead he commanded, "Destroy these letters."
"Should we not hold on to them?"
"We can never use them, as much as I'd like to. Clement's memory must be preserved. Discrediting him would only discredit this office, and that I cannot afford. We'd hurt ourselves, while tarnishing a dead man. Shred them." He asked what he really wanted to know. "Where did Michener and Ms. Lew go?"
"Our friends are checking with the taxi company. We should know soon."
He'd thought earlier that Clement's personal chest may have been his hiding place. But given what he now knew about his former enemy's personality, the German had apparently been far more clever. He lifted one of the envelopes and read the return address. IRMA RAHN, HINTERHOLZ 19, BAMBERG, DEUTSCHLAND.