the Third Secret

ELEVEN

VATICAN CITY, 1:15 P.M.

Valendrea stepped directly toward the office of the archivist for the Holy Roman Church. The cardinal in charge of L’Archivio Segreto Vaticano was not one of his allies, but he hoped the man was perceptive enough not to cross someone who might soon be pope. All appointments ended at a papal death. Continued service was dependent solely on what the next Vicar of Christ decided, and Valendrea well knew that the present archivist wanted to keep his position.

He found the man behind his desk, busy at work. He calmly entered the sprawling office and closed a set of bronze doors behind him.

The cardinal glanced up, but said nothing. The man was nearing seventy and possessed brooding cheeks and a high, sloping forehead. A Spaniard by birth, he’d worked in Rome all his clerical life.

The Sacred College was divided into three categories. Cardinal-bishops who headed the sees of Rome, cardinal-priests who were heads of dioceses outside Rome, and cardinal-deacons who were full-time Curia officials. The archivist was the senior of the cardinal-deacons and, as such, was granted the honor of announcing from the balcony of St. Peter’s the name of any newly elected pope. Valendrea was not concerned with that hollow privilege. Instead, what made this old man important was his influence over a handful of cardinal-deacons still wavering in their preconclave support.

He stepped toward the desk and noticed his host did not rise and greet him. “It isn’t that bad,” he said in response to a look he was receiving.

“I’m not so sure. I assume the pontiff is still in Turin?”

“Why else would I be here?”

The archivist let out an audible sigh.

“I want you to open the Riserva, along with the safe,” Valendrea said.

The old man finally stood. “I must refuse.”

“That would be unwise.” He hoped the man understood the message.

“Your threats cannot countermand a direct papal order. Only the pope can enter the Riserva. No one else. Not even you.”

“No one needs to know. I won’t be long.”

“My oath to this office and the Church means more to me than you seem to assume.”

“Listen to me, old man. I’m on a mission of greatest importance to the Church. One that demands extraordinary action.” It was a lie, but it sounded good.

“Then you wouldn’t mind if the Holy Father granted permission to allow access. I could place a call to Turin.”

Time for the moment of truth. “I have a sworn statement from your niece. She was more than happy to provide it. She swears before the Almighty that you forgave her daughter’s sin in aborting her baby. How is that possible, Eminence? That’s heresy.”

“I’m aware of the sworn statements. Your Father Ambrosi was quite persuasive with my sister’s family. I absolved the woman because she was dying and fearful of spending an eternity in hell. I comforted her with the grace of God, as a priest should.”

“My God—your God—does not condone abortion. That’s murder. You had no right to forgive her. A point I’m sure the Holy Father would have no choice but to agree with.”

He could see that the old man was fortified in the face of his dilemma, but he also noticed a tremor that shook the left eye—perhaps the precise spot where fear was making its escape.

The cardinal-archivist’s bravado did not impress Valendrea. The man’s entire life had been spent shoving paper from one file to another, enforcing meaningless rules, throwing roadblocks before anyone bold enough to challenge the Holy See. He followed a long line of scrittori who’d made it their life’s labor to ensure that the papal archives remained secure. Once they perched themselves on a black throne, their physical presence in the archives served as a warning that permission to enter was not a license to browse. As with an archaeological dig, any revelations from those shelves came only after a meticulous plunge into their depths. And that took time—a commodity the Church had only in the past few decades been willing to grant. The sole task, Valendrea realized, of men like the cardinal-archivist was to protect the mother Church, even from its princes.

“Do as you wish, Alberto. Tell the world what I did. But I’m not allowing you into the Riserva. To get there you will have to be pope. And that is not a given.”

Perhaps he’d underestimated this paper pusher. There was more brick to his foundation than the veneer showed. He decided to let the matter rest. At least for now. He might need this man in the coming months.

He turned and stepped toward the double doors. “I’ll wait until I’m pope to speak with you again.” He stopped and glanced back. “Then we’ll see if you’re as loyal to me as you are to others.”