the Third Secret

TWENTY-NINE

CASTLE GANDOLFO

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 13

6:00 A.M.

Michener came awake. He’d never needed an alarm clock, his body seemingly blessed with an internal chronometer that always woke him at the precise time he selected before falling asleep. Jakob Volkner, when an archbishop and later a cardinal, had traveled the globe and served on committee after committee, relying always on Michener’s ability never to be late, since punctuality was not one of Clement XV’s noted traits.

As in Rome, Michener occupied a bedroom on the same floor as Clement’s, just down the hall, a direct phone line linking their rooms. They were scheduled to return to the Vatican in two hours by helicopter. That would give the pope enough time for his morning prayers, breakfast, and a quick review of anything that required immediate attention, given there’d been two days with no work. Several memoranda had been faxed last evening, and Michener had them ready for a postbreakfast discussion. He knew the rest of the day would be hectic, as there was a steady stream of papal audiences scheduled for the afternoon and into the evening. Even Cardinal Valendrea had requested a full hour for a foreign affairs briefing later in the morning.

He was still bothered by the funeral Mass. Clement had cried for half an hour before leaving the chapel. They hadn’t talked. Whatever was troubling his old friend was not open for discussion. Perhaps later there’d be time. Hopefully, a return to the Vatican and the rigors of work might take the pope’s mind off the problem. But it had been disconcerting to watch such an onslaught of emotion.

He took his time showering, then dressed in a fresh black cassock and left his room. He strode down the corridor toward the pope’s quarters. A chamberlain was standing outside the door, along with one of the nuns assigned to the household. Michener glanced at his watch. Six forty-five A.M. He pointed to the door. “Not up yet?”

The chamberlain shook his head. “There’s been no movement.”

He knew the staff waited outside each morning until they heard Clement stirring, usually between six and six thirty. The sound of the pope waking would be followed by a gentle tap on the door and the start of a morning routine that included a shower, shave, and dressing. Clement did not like anyone assisting him with bathing. That was done in private while the chamberlain made the bed and laid out his clothes. The nun’s task was to straighten the room and bring breakfast.

“Perhaps he’s just sleeping in,” Michener said. “Even popes can get a little lazy every once in a while.”

His two listeners smiled.

“I’ll go back to my room. Come get me when you hear him.”

It was thirty minutes later that a knock came to his door. The chamberlain was outside.

“There is still no sound, Monsignor,” the man said. Worry clouded his face.

He knew no one, save himself, would enter the papal bedroom without Clement’s permission. The area was regarded as the one place where popes could be assured of privacy. But it was approaching seven thirty, and he knew what the chamberlain wanted.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll go in and see.”

He followed the man back to where the nun stood guard. She indicated that there was still silence from inside. He lightly tapped on the door and waited. He tapped again, a little louder. Still nothing. He grasped the knob and turned. It opened. He swung the door inward and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

The bedchamber was spacious, with towering French doors at one end that opened to a balcony overlooking the gardens. The furnishings were ancient. Unlike the apartments in the Apostolic Palace, which were decorated by each successive pope in a style that made him comfortable, these rooms remained constant, oozing an Old World feel reminiscent of a time when popes were warrior-kings.

No lights were on, but the morning sun poured in through drawn sheers and bathed the room in a muted haze.

Clement lay under the sheets on his side. Michener stepped over and quietly said, “Holy Father.”

Clement did not respond.

“Jakob.”

Still nothing.

The pope’s head faced away, the sheets and blanket pulled halfway over his frail body. He reached down and lightly shook the pope. Immediately he noticed a coldness. He stepped around to the other side of the bed and stared into Clement’s face. The skin was loose and ashen, the mouth open, a pool of spittle dried on the sheet beneath. He rolled the pope onto his back and yanked the covers down. Both arms draped lifelessly at Clement’s sides, the chest still.

He checked for a pulse.

None.

He thought about calling for help or administering CPR. He’d been trained, as had all the household staff, but he knew it would be useless.

Clement XV was dead.

He closed his eyes and said a prayer, a wave of grief sweeping through him. It was like losing his mother and father all over again. He prayed for his dear friend’s soul, then gathered his emotions. There were things to do. Protocol that must be adhered to. Procedures of long standing, and it was his duty to ensure that they were strictly maintained.

But something caught his attention.

Resting on the nightstand was a small caramel-colored bottle. Several months back, the papal physician had prescribed medication to help Clement rest. Michener himself had ensured that the prescription was filled, and he’d personally placed the bottle in the pope’s bathroom. There were thirty of the tablets and, at last count, which Michener had taken only a few days ago, thirty remained. Clement despised drugs. It was a battle to simply get him to take an aspirin, so the vial, here, beside the bed, was surprising.

He peered inside the container.

Empty.

A glass of water resting beside the vial contained only a few drops.

The implications were so profound that he felt a need to cross himself.

He stared at Jakob Volkner and wondered about his dear friend’s soul. If there was a place called heaven, with all his fiber he hoped the old German had found his way there. The priest inside him wanted to forgive what had apparently been done, but now only God, if He did exist, could do that.

Popes had been clubbed to death, strangled, poisoned, suffocated, starved, and murdered by outraged husbands.

But never had one taken his own life.

Until now.