the Third Secret

FOURTEEN

BUCHAREST, ROMANIA

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 10

11:15 A.M.

Michener descended a set of metal steps to an oily tarmac at Otopeni Airport. The British Airways shuttle he’d arrived on from Rome had been half full, and was one of only four airliners utilizing the terminal.

He’d visited Romania once before, while working in the Secretariat of State under then-Cardinal Volkner, assigned to the section for Relations with States, that portion of the International directorate charged with diplomatic activities.

The Vatican and Romanian churches had clashed for decades over a post–World War II transfer of Catholic property to the Orthodox Church, which included monasteries possessed of an ancient Latin tradition. Religious freedom returned with the fall of the communists, but the ownership debate lingered and several times Catholics and Orthodox had violently clashed. John Paul II started a dialogue with the Romanian government after Ceau¸sescu was toppled, and even made an official visit. Progress was slow. Michener himself was involved in some later negotiations. Recently there’d been some movement from the centralist government. Close to two million Catholics compared with twenty-two million Orthodox filled the country, and their voices were beginning to be heard. Clement had made clear that he wanted to visit, but the ownership dispute marred any talk of a papal trip.

The whole affair was just more of the complicated politics that seemed to consume Michener’s days. He really wasn’t a priest anymore. He was a government minister, diplomat, and personal confidant—all of which would end with Clement’s last breath. Maybe then he could go back to being a priest. He’d never really served a congregation. Some missionary work might be a challenge. Cardinal Ngovi had spoken to him about Kenya. Africa could be an excellent refuge for an ex–papal secretary, especially if Clement died before making him a cardinal.

He flushed the uncertainties about his life away as he stepped toward the terminal. He could tell that he’d risen in altitude. The sullen air was cold—in the upper forties, the pilot had explained just before they’d touched down. The sky was smeared with a thick swirl of low-level clouds that denied sunlight any opportunity of finding earth.

He entered the building and headed for passport control. He’d packed light, only a shoulder bag, expecting to be gone no more than a day or two, and had dressed casually in jeans, a sweater, and jacket, honoring Clement’s request for discretion.

His Vatican passport gained entrance into the country without the customary visa fee. He then rented a battered Ford Fiesta from the Eurodollar counter just outside customs and learned directions to Zlatna from an attendant. His grasp of the language was good enough that he understood most of what the red-haired man told him.

He wasn’t particularly thrilled with the prospect of driving around one of the poorest countries in Europe alone. Research last evening had revealed several official advisories that warned of thieves and urged caution, especially at night and in the countryside. He would have preferred enlisting the help of the papal nuncio in Bucharest. One of the staff could serve as driver and guide, but Clement had nixed that idea. So he climbed into the rental car and made his way out of the airport, eventually finding the highway and speeding northwest toward Zlatna.

Katerina stood on the west side of the town square, the cobbles grossly misshapen, many missing, even more crumbling to gravel. People scampered back and forth, their concerns surely more vital—food, heat, water. Dilapidated pavement the least of their everyday worries.

She’d arrived in Zlatna two hours ago and spent an hour gathering what information she could about Father Andrej Tibor. She was careful with her inquiries, since Romanians were intensely curious if nothing else. According to the information Valendrea had provided, Michener’s flight touched down a little after eleven A.M. It would take him a good two hours to drive the ninety miles north from Bucharest. Her watch read one twenty P.M. So assuming his flight was on time, he should be arriving shortly.

It felt both strange and comforting to be back home. She was born and raised in Bucharest, but spent a lot of her childhood beyond the Carpathian Mountains, deep in Transylvania. She knew the region not as some novelized haunt of vampires and werewolves, but as Erdély, a place of rich forests, citadel castles, and hearty people. The culture was a mixture of Hungary and Germany, spiced with Gypsy. Her father had been a descendant of the Saxon colonists brought there in the twelfth century to guard the mountain passes from invading Tartars. The descendants of that European stock had withstood a parade of Hungarian despots and Romanian monarchs, only to be slaughtered by the communists after World War II.

Her mother’s parents were ¸Tigani, Gypsy, and the communists were anything but kind to them, orchestrating a collective hatred as Hitler had done with Jews. Seeing Zlatna, with its wooden houses, carved verandas, and Mughal-style train station, she was reminded of her grandparents’ village. Where Zlatna had escaped the region’s earthquakes and survived Ceau¸sescu’s systemization, her grandparent’s home had not. Like two-thirds of the country’s villages, theirs was ritualistically destroyed, the residents consigned to drab communal apartment buildings. Her mother’s parents had even faced the shameful disgrace of having to demolish their own home. A way to combine peasant experience with Marxist efficiency, the plan was billed. And, sadly, few Romanians mourned the passing of Gypsy villages. She recalled visiting her grandparents afterward in their soulless apartment, the dingy gray rooms devoid of their ancestors’ warming spirits, the essential life drained from their souls. Which was the whole idea. It was later called ethnic cleansing in Bosnia. Ceau¸sescu like to say it was a move toward progressive living. She called it madness. And the sights and sounds of Zlatna resurrected all those ugly memories.

From a shopkeeper, she learned that three state orphanages were located nearby. The one where Father Tibor worked was regarded as the worst. The compound sat west of town and harbored terminally ill children—another of Ceau¸sescu’s insanities.

Boldly, the dictator outlawed contraception and proclaimed that women under the age of forty-five must birth at least five offspring. The result was a nation with more children than their parents could ever feed. The abandoning of infants on the street became commonplace. AIDS, tuberculosis, hepatitis, and syphilis exacted severe tolls. Eventually orphanages sprang up everywhere, all of them little more than dumping spots, the task of caring for the unwanted left to strangers.

She’d also learned that Tibor was a Bulgarian who was nearing eighty—or maybe older, no one really knew for sure—and he was known as a pious man who’d given up retirement to work with children who would soon meet their God. She wondered about the courage it took to comfort a dying infant, or tell a ten-year-old he would soon go to a place far better than here. She didn’t believe any of that. She was an atheist and always had been. Religion was created by man—as was God himself. Politics, not faith, explained everything for her. How better to regulate the masses than by terrifying them with the wrath of an omnipotent being. Better to trust yourself, believe in your own abilities, make your own luck in the world. Prayer was for the weak and the lazy. Not something she’d ever needed.

She glanced at her watch. A little past one thirty.

Time to make her way to the orphanage.

So she headed off across the plaza. What to do once Michener arrived she’d yet to determine.

But she’d think of something.

Michener slowed the car as he approached the orphanage. Part of the drive from Bucharest had been on the autostrada, the four-laned roadway surprisingly well maintained, but the secondary road he’d taken earlier was vastly different, the shoulder ragged, its surface potholed like a moonscape and dotted with confusing signposts that had twice taken him out of his way. He’d crossed the River Olt a few miles back, traversing a scenic gorge between two forested ranges. As he’d driven north the topography had changed from farmland to foothills to mountains. Along the way, he’d seen black snakes of factory smoke curling up on the horizon.

He’d learned about Father Tibor from a butcher in Zlatna, who told him where the priest could be found. The orphanage occupied a red-tiled, two-story building. The pits and scars in its terra-cotta roof bore witness to the bitter sulfur air that stung Michener’s throat. The windows were iron-barred, most of the panes taped their length. Many were whitewashed, and he wondered if it was to prevent people from looking in or looking out.

He motored inside the walled compound and parked.

The hard ground was carpeted with thick weeds. A rusty slide and swing sat to one side. A stream of something black and sludgy bordered the far wall and may have been the source of the foul odor that greeted his nostrils as he stepped from the car. From the building’s front door, a nun dressed in a brown ankle-length dress appeared.

“Good day, Sister, I’m Father Colin Michener. I’m here to speak with Father Tibor.” He spoke in English, hoping she understood, and added a smile.

The older woman tented her fingers and lightly bowed in a gesture of greeting. “Welcome, Father. I did not realize you were a priest.”

“I’m on holiday and decided to leave the cassock at home.”

“Are you a friend of Father Tibor’s?” Her English was excellent and unaccented.

“Not exactly. Tell him I’m a colleague.”

“He’s inside. Follow me please.” She hesitated. “And, Father, have you ever visited one of these places before?”

He thought the question strange. “No, Sister.”

“Please try to be patient with the children.”

He nodded his understanding and followed her up five crumbling stone stairs. The smell inside was a horrid combination of urine, feces, and neglect. He fought a rising nausea with shallow breaths and wanted to shield his nose but thought the act would be insulting. Glass chips crunched beneath his soles and he noticed paint peeling from the walls like skin burned by the sun.

Children flooded out from the rooms. About thirty, all male, their ages varying from toddlers to teenagers. They crowded around him, their heads shaven—to combat lice, the nun explained. Some walked with a limp, while others seemed to lack muscular control. A lazy eye afflicted many, a speech impediment others. They probed him with chapped hands, clamoring for his attention. Their voices carried a weak rasp and the dialects varied, Russian and Romanian the most common. Several asked who he was and why he was there. He’d learned in town that most of them would be terminally ill or severely handicapped. The scene was made surreal by the dresses the boys wore, some over pants, some bare-legged. Their clothes were apparently whatever could be found that fit their lanky bodies. They seemed all eyes and bones. Few possessed teeth. Open sores spotted their arms, legs, and faces. He tried to be careful there. He’d read last night how HIV was rampant among Romania’s forgotten children.

He wanted to tell them God would look out for them, that there was a point to their suffering. But before he could speak a tall man dressed in a black clerical suit, his Roman collar gone, stepped into the corridor. A small boy clung to his neck in a desperate embrace. The old man’s hair was cut close to the scalp, and everything about his face, manner, and stride suggested a gentle being. He wore a pair of chrome-rimmed glasses that framed saucer-round, brown eyes beneath a pyramid of bushy white eyebrows. He was wire-thin, but the arms were hard and muscular.

“Father Tibor?” he asked in English.

“I heard you say that you were a colleague.” The English carried an Eastern European accent.

“I’m Father Colin Michener.”

The older priest set down the child he was carrying. “Dumitru is due for his daily therapy. Tell me why I should delay that to speak with you?”

He wondered about the hostility in the old man’s voice. “Your pope needs assistance.”

Tibor sucked a deep breath. “Is he finally going to recognize the situation we have here?”

He wanted to speak alone and didn’t like the audience surrounding them, especially the nun. The children were still tugging at his clothes. “We need to talk in private.”

Father Tibor’s face betrayed little emotion as he appraised Michener with an even gaze. He marveled at the physical condition the old man was in and hoped he’d be in half as good a shape when he reached eighty.

“Take the children, Sister. And see to Dumitru’s therapy.”

The nun scooped the young boy into her arms and herded them down the hall. Father Tibor spit out instructions in Romanian, some of which Michener understood, but he wanted to know, “What kind of therapy does the boy receive?”

“We simply massage his legs and try to get him to walk. It’s probably useless, but it’s all we have available.”

“No doctors?”

“We’re lucky if we can feed these children. Medical aid is unheard of.”

“Why do you do this?”

“A strange question coming from a priest. These children need us.”

The enormity of what he’d just seen refused to leave his mind. “Is it like this throughout the country?”

“This is actually one of the better places. We’ve worked hard to make it livable. But, as you can see, we have a long way to go.”

“No money?”

Tibor shook his head. “Only what the relief organizations throw our way. The government does little, the Church next to nothing.”

“You came on your own?”

The older man nodded. “After the revolution, I read about the orphanages and decided this was where I should be. That was ten years ago. I have never left.”

There was still an edge to the priest’s voice, so he wanted to know, “Why are you so hostile?”

“I’m wondering what the papal secretary wants with an old man.”

“You know who I am?”

“I’m not ignorant of the world.”

He could see Andrej Tibor was no fool. Perhaps John XXIII had chosen wisely when he asked this man to translate Sister Lucia’s note. “I have a letter from the Holy Father.”

Tibor gently grasped Michener by the arm. “I was afraid of that. Let us go to the chapel.”

They stepped down the hall toward the front of the building. What served as the chapel was a tiny room floored in gritty cardboard. The walls were bare stone, the ceiling crumbling wood. The only semblance of piety came from a solitary stained-glass window where a colored mosaic formed a Madonna, her arms outstretched, seemingly ready to embrace all who sought her comfort.

Tibor motioned to the image. “I found it not far from here, in a church that was about to be razed. One of the summer volunteers installed it for me. The children are all drawn to her.”

“You know why I’ve come, don’t you?”

Tibor said nothing.

He reached into his pocket, found the blue envelope, and handed it to Tibor.

The priest accepted the packet and stepped close to the window. Tibor ripped the fold and slipped out Clement’s note. He held the paper away from his eyes as he strained to read in the dull light.

“It’s been a while since I’ve read German,” Tibor said. “But it’s coming back to me.” Tibor finished reading. “When I first wrote the pope, I was hoping he would simply do as I asked without more.”

Michener wanted to know what the priest had asked, but instead said, “Do you have a response for the Holy Father?”

“I have many responses. Which one am I to give?”

“Only you can make that decision.”

“I wish it were that simple.” He cocked his head toward the stained glass. “She made it so complicated.” Tibor stood for a moment in silence, then turned and faced him. “Are you staying in Bucharest?”

“Do you want me to?”

Tibor handed him the envelope. “There is a restaurant, the Café Krom, near the Pia¸ta Revolu¸tiei. It’s easy to find. Come at eight. I’ll think about this and have your response then.”