the Third Secret

TWENTY-TWO

BUCHAREST

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 11

6:00 A.M.

Katerina had slept poorly. Her neck was sore from Ambrosi’s attack, and she was mad as hell with Valendrea. Her first thought was to tell the secretary of state to screw himself and then tell Michener the truth. But she knew that whatever peace they might have forged last evening would be shattered. Michener would never believe that her main reason for allying herself with Valendrea was the chance to again be close to him. All he would see was her betrayal.

Tom Kealy had been right about Valendrea. That is one ambitious bastard. More than Kealy ever knew, she thought, staring again at the ceiling of the darkened room and massaging her bruised muscles. Kealy was also right about something else. He once told her there were two kinds of cardinals—those who want to be pope and those who really want to be pope. She now added a third kind—those who coveted to be pope.

Like Alberto Valendrea.

She hated herself. There was an innocence about Michener that she’d violated. He couldn’t help who he was or what he believed. Maybe that was what actually attracted her to him. Too bad the Church wouldn’t allow its clerics to be happy. Too bad the way things had always been controlled what would always be. Damn the Roman Catholic Church. And damn Alberto Valendrea.

She’d slept in her clothes, and for the past two hours she’d patiently waited. Now squeaks in the floorboards above alerted her. Her eyes followed the sound as Colin Michener stepped around his room. She heard water running in the basin and waited for the inevitable. A few moments later footsteps led toward the hall and she heard the door above open and close.

She stood, left the room, and made her way to the stairwell just as the bathroom door in the hall above closed. She crept up the stairs and hesitated at the top, waiting to hear water flowing in the shower. She then hustled down a threadbare runner, over uneven hardwood planks, to Michener’s room, hoping he still did not lock anything.

The door opened.

She stepped inside, and her eyes found his travel bag. His clothes from last night and jacket were there, too. She searched the pockets and found the envelope Father Tibor had provided. She recalled Michener’s habit of short showers and tore open the envelope:

Holy Father:

I kept the oath that John XXIII imposed upon me because of my love for our Lord. But several months ago an incident caused me to rethink my duty. One of the children at the orphanage died. In the final moments of his life, while he screamed in pain, he asked me about heaven and wanted to know if God would forgive him. I could not imagine what this innocent would need forgiven, but I told him the Lord will forgive anything. He wanted me to explain, but death was impatient and he passed before I could. It was then I realized that I, too, must seek forgiveness. Holy Father, my oath to my pope meant something to me. I kept it for more than forty years, but heaven should not be challenged. It is certainly not for me to tell you, the Vicar of Christ, what needs to be done. That can come only from your own blessed conscience and the guidance of our Lord and Savior. But I must ask, how much intolerance will heaven allow? I mean no disrespect, but it is you who have sought my opinion. So I offer it humbly.

Katerina read the message again. Father Tibor was as cryptic on paper as he had been in person the night before, offering only more riddles.

She refolded the note and slipped the sheet back into a white envelope she’d found among her things. It was a bit larger than the original, but hopefully not different enough to arouse suspicion.

She stuffed the envelope back into the jacket and left the room.

As she passed the bathroom door, the water in the shower stopped. She imagined Michener drying himself, oblivious to her latest betrayal. She hesitated a moment, then descended the stairs, never looking back and feeling even worse about herself.