the Third Secret

THIRTEEN

VATICAN CITY, 5:30 P.M.

Valendrea stood at the window in his third-floor office. Outside, the tall cedars, stone pines, and cypresses in the Vatican gardens stubbornly clung to summer. Since the thirteenth century popes had strolled the brick paths lined with laurel and myrtle, finding comfort in the classical sculptures, busts, and bronze reliefs.

He recalled a time when he’d enjoyed the gardens. Fresh from the seminary, posted to the only place in the world where he wanted to serve. Then, the walkways were filled with young priests wondering about their future. He came from an era when Italians dominated the papacy. But Vatican II changed all that, and Clement XV was retreating even farther. Every day another list of orders shuffling priests, bishops, and cardinals filtered down from the fourth floor. More Westerners, Africans, and Asians were being summoned to Rome. He’d tried to delay any implementation, hoping Clement would finally die, but eventually he’d had no choice but comply with every instruction.

The Italians were already outnumbered in the College of Cardinals, Paul VI perhaps the last of their breed. Valendrea had known the cardinal of Milan, fortunate to be in Rome for the last few years of Paul’s pontificate. By 1983 Valendrea was an archbishop. John Paul II finally bestowed him his red biretta, surely a way for the Pole to endear himself with the locals.

But maybe it was something more?

Valendrea’s conservative lean was legendary, as was his reputation as a diligent worker. John Paul appointed him prefect over the Congregation for the Evangelization of Peoples. There, he’d coordinated worldwide missionary activities, supervised the building of churches, delineated diocese boundaries, and educated catechists and clergy. The job had involved him in every aspect of the Church and allowed him to quietly build a power base among men who might one day be cardinals. He never forgot what his father had taught him. A favor offered is a favor returned.

How true.

Like real soon.

He turned from the window.

Ambrosi had already left for Romania. He missed Paolo when he was gone. He was the only person whom Valendrea felt entirely comfortable with. Ambrosi seemed to understand his nature. And his drive. There was so much to do at just the right time, in just the right proportions, and the chances of failure were far greater than those of success.

There were simply not many opportunities to become pope. He’d participated in one conclave and a second was perhaps not far away. If he failed to achieve election this time, unless a sudden papal death occurred, the next pope could well reign beyond his time. His ability to be a part of the process officially ended at age eighty, a point he still wished Paul hadn’t conceded, and no amount of tapes loaded with secrets would change that reality.

He stared across his office at a portrait of Clement XV. Protocol demanded the irritating thing be there, but his choice would have been a photograph of Paul VI. Italian by birth, Roman by nature, Latin in character. Paul had been brilliant, bending only on small points, compromising just enough to satisfy the pundits. That was how he, too, would run the Church. Give a little, keep more. Ever since yesterday, he’d been thinking about Paul. What had Ambrosi said about Father Tibor? He’s the only person left alive, besides Clement, who has actually seen what is contained within the Riserva regarding the Fatima secrets.

Not true.

His mind drifted back to 1978.

“Come, Alberto. Follow me.”

Paul VI rose and tested the pressure on his right knee. The aging pontiff had suffered much over the past few years. He’d endured bronchitis, influenza, bladder problems, kidney failure, and had his prostate removed. Massive doses of antibiotics had warded off infections, but the drugs were weakening his immune system, sapping strength. His arthritis seemed particularly painful and Valendrea felt for the old man. The end was coming, but with an agonizing slowness.

The pope shuffled out of the apartment toward the fourth floor’s private elevator. It was late evening, a stormy May night, and the Apostolic Palace was quiet. Paul waved off the security men, saying he and his first assistant secretary would return shortly. His two papal secretaries need not be called.

Sister Giacomina appeared from her room. She was in charge of the domestic retinue and served as Paul’s nurse. The Church had long decreed that women who worked in clerical households must be of canonical age. Valendrea thought the rule amusing. In other words, they must be old and ugly.

“Where are you going, Holy Father?” the nun asked, as if he were a child leaving his room without permission.

“Do not worry, Sister. I have business to handle.”

“You should be resting. You know that.”

“I will return shortly. But I feel fine and need to attend to this matter. Father Valendrea will take good care of me.”

“No more than half an hour. Clear?”

Paul smiled. “I promise. Half an hour and I’ll be off my feet.”

The nun retreated to her room and they headed onto the elevator. On the ground floor, Paul inched ahead through a series of corridors to the entrance for the archives.

“I have delayed something for many years, Alberto. I think tonight is the time to remedy that.”

Paul continued along with the help of his cane and Valendrea shortened his stride to keep pace. He was saddened by the sight of this once great man. Giovanni Battista Montini was the son of a successful Italian lawyer. He’d worked his way up through the Curia, ultimately serving in the Secretariat of State. After, he became the archbishop of Milan and governed that diocese with an efficient hand, catching the eye of the Italian-dominated Sacred College as the natural choice to succeed the beloved John XXIII. He’d been an excellent pope, serving at a difficult time after Vatican II. The Church would sorely miss him, and so would Valendrea. Of late, he’d been fortunate to spend time with Paul. The old warrior seemed to enjoy his company. There was even talk of a possible elevation to bishop, something he hoped Paul saw the grace to extend before God summoned him.

They entered the archives and the prefect knelt at Paul’s appearance. “What brings you, Holy Father?”

“Please open the Riserva.”

He liked the way Paul answered a question with a command. The prefect scurried for a set of oversized keys, then led the way into the darkened archives. Paul slowly followed, and they arrived as the prefect completed opening an iron grille and switching on a series of dull incandescent lights. Valendrea knew of the Riserva and of the rule that required papal authority for entry. It was the sacred reserve of the Vicars of Christ. Only Napoleon had violated its sanctity, paying for that insult in the end.

Paul entered the windowless room and pointed to a black safe. “Open that.”

The prefect complied, spinning the dials and releasing tumblers. The double doors swung open. Not one sound leaked from the brass hinges.

The pope sat in one of three chairs.

“That will be all,” Paul said, and the prefect left.

“My predecessor was the first to read the third secret of Fatima. I am told that afterward he ordered it sealed in this safe. I have resisted the urge to come here for fifteen years.”

Valendrea was a little confused. “Did not the Vatican in ’67 issue a statement that the secret would remain sealed? That was done without you reading it?”

“There are many things the Curia does in my name of which I have little knowledge. I was told, though, about that one. After.”

Valendrea wondered if he might have stumbled with his question. He cautioned himself to watch his words.

“The whole affair amazes me,” Paul said. “The mother of God appears to three peasant children—not to a priest, or a bishop, or the pope. She chooses three illiterate children. She seems to always choose the meek. Perhaps heaven is trying to tell us something?”

Valendrea knew all about how Sister Lucia’s message from the Virgin had made its way from Portugal to the Vatican.

“I never thought the good sister’s words something that commanded my attention,” Paul said. “I met Lucia in Fatima, when I went in ’67. I was criticized for going. The progressives said I was setting back the progress of Vatican II. Putting too much emphasis on the supernatural. Venerating Mary above Christ and the Lord. But I knew better.”

He noticed a fiery light in Paul’s eyes. There might still be some fight left in this old warrior.

“I knew young people loved Mary. They felt a pull from the sanctuaries. My going there was important to them. It showed that their pope cared. And I was right, Alberto. Mary is more popular today than ever.”

He knew Paul loved the Madonna, making a point throughout his pontificate to venerate her with titles and attention. Perhaps too many, some said.

Paul motioned to the safe. “The fourth drawer on the left, Alberto. Open it and bring me what is inside.”

He did as Paul instructed, sliding out a heavy iron drawer. A small wooden box rested inside, a wax seal affixed to the outside bearing the papal crest of John XXIII. On top was a label that read secretum sancti officio, Secret of the Holy Office. He carried the box to Paul, who studied the outside with trembling hands.

“It is said Pius XII placed the label on top and John himself ordered that seal. Now it is my turn to look inside. Could you crack the wax please, Alberto.”

He glanced around for a tool. Finding nothing, he wedged one of the corners of the safe’s doors into the wax and cracked it away. He handed the box back to Paul.

“Clever,” the pope said.

He accepted the compliment with a nod.

Paul balanced the box in his lap and found a set of reading glasses in his cassock. He slipped the stems over his ears, hinged open the lid, and lifted out two packets of paper. He set one aside and unfolded the other. Valendrea saw a newer white sheet encased by a clearly older piece of paper. Both contained writing.

The pontiff studied the older page.

“This is the original note Sister Lucia wrote in Portuguese,” Paul said. “Unfortunately, I cannot read that language.”

“Neither can I, Holy Father.”

Paul handed him the sheet. He saw that the text spanned about twenty or so lines written in black ink that had faded to gray. It was exciting to think that only Sister Lucia, a recognized seer of the Virgin Mary, and Pope John XXIII had touched that paper before him.

Paul motioned with the newer white page. “This is the translation.”

“Translation, Holy Father?”

“John could not read Portuguese, either. He had the message translated to Italian.”

Valendrea had not known that. So add a third set of fingerprints—some curial official called in to translate, surely sworn to secrecy afterward, probably dead by now.

Paul unfolded the second sheet and started to read. A curious look came to the pope’s face. “I was never good at riddles.”

The pope reassembled the packet, then reached for the second set. “It appears the message carried to another page.” Paul unfolded the sheets. Again, one page newer, the other clearly older. “Portuguese, again.” Paul glanced at the newer sheet. “Ah, Italian. Another translation.”

He watched as Paul read the words with an expression that shifted from confusion to a look of deep concern. The pope’s breaths came shallow, his eyebrows creased together, and the brow furrowed as he again scanned the translation.

The pope said nothing. Neither did Valendrea. He dared not ask to read the words.

The pope read the message a third time.

Paul’s tongue wet his cracked lips and he shifted in the chair. A look of astonishment flooded the old man’s features. For an instant, Valendrea was frightened. Here was the first pope to travel around the globe. A man who’d stared down an army of Church progressives and tempered their revolution with moderation. He’d stood before the United Nations and pronounced, “Never again war.” He’d denounced birth control as a sin and held fast even in a firestorm of protest that shook the Church’s very foundation. He’d reaffirmed the tradition of priestly celibacy and excommunicated dissenters. He’d dodged an assassin in the Philippines, then defied terrorists and presided at the funeral of his friend, the prime minister of Italy. This was a determined vicar, not easily shaken. Yet something in the lines he’d just read affected him.

Paul reassembled the packet, then dropped both bundles into the wooden box and slammed the lid.

“Put it back,” the pope muttered, eyes down at his lap. Bits of the crimson wax dotted the white cassock. Paul brushed them away, as if they were a disease. “This was a mistake. I should not have come.” Then the pope seemed to steel himself. Composure returned. “When we return upstairs, compile an order. I want you to personally reseal that box. Then there is to be no further entry on pain of excommunication. No exceptions.”

But that order would not apply to the pope, Valendrea thought. Clement XV could come and go in the Riserva as he pleased.

And the German had done just that.

Valendrea had long known of the Italian translation of Sister Lucia’s writing, but not until yesterday had he known the name of the translator.

Father Andrej Tibor.

Three questions racked his brain.

What kept summoning Clement XV into the Riserva? Why did the pope want to communicate with Tibor? And, most importantly, what did that translator know?

Right now, he possessed not a single response.

Perhaps, though, over the next few days, among Colin Michener, Katerina Lew, and Ambrosi, he would learn the answers to all three inquiries.