the Third Secret

SIXTY-ONE

BAMBERG, GERMANY

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 1

10:00 A.M.

Michener strolled the cobbled streets and quickly came to understand Jakob Volkner’s love of Bamberg. He’d never visited the town. Volkner’s few trips back home had all been taken alone. They’d planned a papal mission next year as part of a multicity German pilgrimage. Volkner had told him how he wanted to visit his parents’ grave, say Mass in the cathedral, and see old friends. Which made his suicide even more puzzling, since the planning for that joyous journey had been well under way when Clement died.

Bamberg sat where the swift Regnitz and meandering Main River merged. The ecclesiastical half of the city crowned the hills and showcased a royal residence, monastery, and cathedral, the forested crests once the home of prince-bishops. Clinging to the lower slopes, against the banks of the Regnitz, stood the secular portion, where business and commerce had always dominated. The symbolic meeting of the two halves was the river, where clever politicians centuries ago erected a city hall of half-timbered walls tattooed with bright frescoes. The rathaus sat on an island, at the center of the two classes, a stone bridge spanning the river, bisecting the building and connecting both worlds.

He and Katerina had flown from Rome to Munich and spent the night near the airport. This morning they’d rented a car and driven north into central Bavaria, through the Franconian hills, for nearly two hours. They now stood in the Maxplatz, where a lively market filled the square. Other entrepreneurs were busy preparing for the start of the Christmas market, which would begin later in the day. The cold air chapped his lips, the sun flashed intermittently, and snow whisked across the pavement. He and Katerina, unprepared for the change in temperature, had stopped in one of the stores and purchased coats, gloves, and leather boots.

To his left, the Church of St. Martin cast a long shadow across the crowded plaza. Michener had thought a talk with the church’s priest might prove helpful. Surely he would know of Irma Rahn, and the priest had indeed been accommodating, suggesting she might be at St. Gangolf’s, the parish church a few blocks north across a canal.

They found her tending one of the side chapels, beneath a crucified Christ that gazed down in a mournful glare. The air reeked of incense mellowed by the scent of beeswax. She was a tiny woman, her pale skin and crenellated features still suggesting a beauty that had faded little from her youth. If he hadn’t known she was nearing eighty, he would have sworn her to be in her sixties.

They watched as she reverently genuflected each time she passed before the crucifix. Michener stepped forward and passed through an open iron gate. A strange feeling swept over him. Was he intruding on something that was none of his business? But he dismissed the thought. After all, Clement himself had led the way.

“Are you Irma Rahn?” he asked in German.

She faced him. Her silver hair fell to her shoulders. The bones in her cheeks and her sallow skin were untouched by makeup. Her wrinkled chin was round and dainty, the eyes soulful and compassionate.

She stepped close and said, “I was wondering how long it would be before you came.”

“How do you know who I am? We’ve never met.”

“But I know you.”

“You expected me to come?”

“Oh, yes. Jakob said you would. And he was always right . . . especially about you.”

Then he realized. “In his letter. The one that came from Turin. He made mention in there?”

She nodded.

“You have what I want, don’t you?”

“That depends. Do you come for yourself or someone else?”

A strange question, and he considered his response. “I come for my Church.”

She smiled again. “Jakob said you would answer that way. He knew you well.”

He motioned for Katerina and introduced them. The old woman flashed a warm smile and the two women shook hands. “It’s so nice to meet you. Jakob said you might come, too.”