The Third Secret

TWENTY-THREE

VATICAN CITY, 7:15 A.M.

Valendrea pushed aside his breakfast. He had no appetite. He’d slept sparingly, the dream so real he still could not rid it from his mind.

He saw himself at his own coronation, being carried into St. Peter’s Basilica on the regal sedia gestatoria. Eight monsignors held aloft a silk canopy that sheltered the ancient golden chair. The papal court surrounded him, everyone dressed in sartorial majesty. Ostrich fans flanked him on three sides and accented his exalted position as Christ’s divine representative on earth. A choir sang as a million people cheered and millions more watched on television.

The strange part was that he was naked.

No robes. No crown. Totally naked and no one seemed to notice, though he was painfully aware. A strange uncomfortableness passed through him as he kept waving to the crowd. Why did no one see? He wanted to cover himself, but fear kept him rooted to the chair. If he stood people might really notice. Would they laugh? Ridicule him? Then, one face among the millions that engulfed him stood out.

Jakob Volkner’s.

The German was dressed in full papal regalia. He wore the robes, the miter, the pallium—everything Valendrea should be wearing. Above the cheers, the music, and the choir, he heard Volkner’s every word, as clear as if they were standing side by side.

I’m glad it’s you, Alberto.

What do you mean?

You’ll see.

He’d awakened in a clammy sweat and eventually drifted back to sleep, but the dream reoccurred. Finally, he relieved his tension with a scalding shower. He’d nicked himself twice while shaving and nearly slipped on the bathroom floor. Being unnerved was unsettling. He was not accustomed to anxiety.

I wanted you know what awaits you, Alberto.

The damn German had been so smug last night.

And now he understood.

Jakob Volkner knew exactly what happened in 1978.

Valendrea reentered the Riserva. Paul had commanded that he return, so the archivist had been specifically instructed to open the safe and provide him with privacy.

He reached for the drawer and removed the wooden box. He’d brought with him wax, a lighter, and the seal of Paul VI. Just as John XXIII’s seal once was stamped on the outside, now Paul’s would signify that the box should not be opened, except by papal command.

He hinged open the top and made sure that two packets, four folded sheets of paper, remained inside. He could still see Paul’s face as he’d read the top packet. There’d been shock, which was an emotion rarely seen on the face of Paul VI. But there’d been something else, too, only for an instant, but Valendrea had seen it clearly.

Fear.

He stared into the box. The two packets containing the third secret of Fatima were still there. He knew he shouldn’t, but no one would ever know. So he lifted out the top packet, the one that had brought such a reaction.

He unfolded and set aside the original Portuguese page, then scanned its Italian translation.

Comprehension took only an instant. He knew what had to be done. Perhaps that was why Paul had sent him? Maybe the old man realized that he would read the words and then do what a pope could not.

He slipped the translation into his cassock, joined a second later by Sister Lucia’s original writing. He then unfolded the remaining packet and read.

Nothing of any consequence.

So he reassembled those two pages, dropped them back inside, and sealed the box.

Valendrea stood from the table and locked the doors that led out of his apartment. He then strode into his bedroom and removed a small bronze casket from a cabinet. His father had presented the box to him for his seventeenth birthday. Ever since, he’d kept all his precious things inside, among them photos of his parents, deeds to properties, stock certificates, his first missal, and a rosary from John Paul II.

He reached beneath his vestments and found the key that hung from his neck. He hinged opened the box and shuffled through its contents to the bottom. The two sheets of folded paper, taken from the Riserva that night in 1978, were still there. One penned in Portuguese, the other Italian. Half of the entire third secret of Fatima.

He lifted both pages out.

He could not bring himself to read the words again. Once was more than enough. So he walked into the bathroom, ripped both sheets into tiny pieces, then allowed them to rain into the toilet.

He flushed the basin.

Gone.

Finally.

He needed to return to the Riserva and destroy Tibor’s latest facsimile. But any return visit would have to be after Clement’s death. He also needed to talk with Father Ambrosi. He’d tried the satellite phone an hour ago without success. Now he grabbed the handset from the bathroom counter and dialed the number again.

Ambrosi answered.

“What happened?” he asked his assistant.

“I spoke with our angel last evening. Little has been learned. She’s to do better today.”

“Forget that. What we originally planned is immaterial. I need something else.”

He had to be careful with his words as there was nothing private about a satellite phone.

“Listen to me,” he said.