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"It is a lovely night," Ambrosi said.
The younger priest faced Valendrea in the rear of a stretched Mercedes coupe that had ushered many diplomats around the Eternal City--even the president of the United States, who'd visited last autumn. The rear passenger compartment was separated from the driver by frosted glass. All of the exterior windows were tinted and bulletproof, the sidewalls and undercarriage lined with steel.
"Yes, it is." He was puffing away on a cigarette, enjoying the soothing feel of nicotine entering his bloodstream after a satisfying meal. "What have we learned of Father Tibor?"
He'd taken to speaking in the first person plural, practice that he hoped would come in handy during the years ahead. Popes had spoken that way for centuries. John Paul II was the first to abandon the habit and Clement XV had officially decreed it dead. But if the present pope was determined to discard all the time-honored traditions, Valendrea would be equally determined to resurrect them.
During dinner he hadn't asked Ambrosi anything on the subject that weighed heavily on his mind, adhering to his rule of never discussing Vatican business anywhere but in the Vatican. He'd seen too many men brought down by careless tongues, several of whom he'd personally helped fall. But his car qualified as an extension of the Vatican, and Ambrosi daily ensured it was free of any listening devices.
A soft melody of Chopin spilled from the CD player. The music relaxed him, but also masked the conversation from any mobile eavesdropping devices.
"His name is Andrej Tibor," Ambrosi said. "He worked in the Vatican from 1959 to 1967. After, he was an unremarkable priest who served many congregations before retiring two decades ago. He lives now in Romania and receives a monthly pension check that's regularly cashed with his endorsement."
Valendrea savored a deep drag on his cigarette. "So the inquiry of this day is, what does Clement want with that aging priest?"
"Surely it concerns Fatima."
They'd just rounded Via Milazzo and were now speeding down Via Dei Fori Imperiali toward the Colosseum. He loved the way Rome clung to its past. He could easily envision emperors and popes enjoying the satisfaction of knowing that they could dominate something so spectacularly beautiful. One day he would savor that feeling as well. He was never going to be content with the scarlet biretta of a cardinal. He wanted to wear the camauro, reserved only for popes. Clement had rejected that old-style hat as anachronistic. But the red velvet cap trimmed in white fur would serve as one of many signs that the imperial papacy had returned. Western and Third World Catholics no longer would be allowed to dilute Latin dogma. The Church had become far more concerned with accommodating the world than with defending its faith. Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, and too many Protestant sects to count were cutting deeply into Catholic membership. And it was all the devil's work. The one true apostolic church was in trouble, but he knew what its corpus needed--a firm hand. One that ensured priests obeyed, members stayed, and income rebounded. One he was more than willing to provide.
He felt a touch to his knee and looked away from the window. "Eminence, it's just ahead," Ambrosi said, pointing.
He glanced back out the window as the car turned and a progression of cafes, bistros, and flashy discos streamed by. They were on one of the lesser streets, Via Frattina, the sidewalks packed with night revelers.
"She's staying in the hotel just ahead," Ambrosi said. "I located the information on her credentials application filed in the security office."
Ambrosi had been thorough, as usual. Valendrea was taking a chance visiting Katerina Lew unannounced, but he hoped the hectic night and the late hour would minimize any curious eyes. How to make actual contact was something he'd been considering. He didn't particularly want to parade up to her room. Nor did he want Ambrosi doing that. But then he saw none of that would be necessary.
"Perhaps God is watching over our mission," he said, gesturing to a woman strolling down the sidewalk toward an ivy-encased entrance for the hotel.
Ambrosi smiled. "Timing is everything."
The driver was instructed to speed past the hotel and ease alongside the woman. Valendrea pressed a button and the rear window descended.
"Ms. Lew. I am Cardinal Alberto Valendrea. Perhaps you recall me from the tribunal this morning?"
She ceased her casual stride and stood facing the window. Her body was supple and petite. But the way she carried herself, how she planted her feet and considered his inquiry, the way her shoulders squared and her neck arched, signaled something more substantial in her character than her size might indicate. There was a languorous trait about her, as if a prince of the Catholic Church--the secretary of state, no less--approached her every day. But Valendrea also sensed something else. Ambition. And that perception instantly relaxed him. This might be far easier than he'd first imagined.
"Do you think we might have a conversation? Here in the car?"
She threw him a smile. "How could I refuse such a gracious request from the Vatican secretary of state?"
He opened the door and slid across the leather seat to give her room. She climbed inside, unbuttoning her fleece-lined jacket. Ambrosi closed the door behind her. Valendrea noticed a hike in her skirt as she settled into the seat.
The Mercedes inched forward, stopping a little way down a narrow alley. The crowds had been left behind. The driver exited and walked back to the end of the street, where Valendrea knew he would make certain no cars entered.
"This is Father Paolo Ambrosi, my chief assistant in the Secretariat of State."
Katerina shook Ambrosi's offered hand. Valendrea noticed Ambrosi's eyes soften, enough to signal calm to their guest. Paolo knew exactly how to handle a situation.
Valendrea said, "We need to speak with you about an important matter we were hoping you might assist us on."
"I fail to see how I could possibly help someone of your stature, Eminence."
"You attended the tribunal hearing this morning. I assume Father Kealy requested your presence?"
"Is that what this is about? You concerned about bad press on what happened?"
He offered a self-deprecating expression. "With all the reporters that were present, I assure you bad press is not what this is about. Father Kealy's fate is sealed, as I'm sure you, he, and all the press realized. This is about something much more important than one heretic."
"Is what you're about to say for the record?"
He allowed himself a smile. "Always the journalist. No, Ms. Lew, none of this is for the record. Still interested?"
He waited as she silently weighed her options. This was the moment when ambition must defeat good judgment.
"Okay," she said. "Off the record. Go ahead."
He was pleased. So far, so good. "This is about Colin Michener."
Her eyes showed surprise.
"Yes, I'm aware of your relationship with the papal secretary. Quite a serious matter for a priest, especially one of his importance."
"That was a long time ago."
Her words carried the tone of denial. Perhaps now, he thought, she realized why he was so willing to trust her off-the-record assertion--this was about her, not him.
"Paolo witnessed your encounter with Michener this afternoon in the piazza. It was anything but cordial. Bastard, I believe, is what you called him."
She cast a glance at his acolyte. "I don't recall seeing him there."
"St. Peter's Square is a large place," Ambrosi said in a low voice.
Valendrea said, "You are perhaps thinking, how could he have heard that? You barely whispered. Paolo is an excellent lip-reader. A talent that comes in handy, wouldn't you say?" She seemed not to know how to respond, so he allowed her to linger a moment before saying, "Ms. Lew, I'm not trying to be threatening. Actually, Father Michener is about to embark on a journey for the pope. I need some assistance from you regarding that journey."
"What could I possibly do?"
"Someone must monitor where he goes and what he does. You would be the ideal person for that."
"And why would I do that?"
"Because there was a time when you cared for him. Perhaps even loved him. You might even still. Many priests like Father Michener have known women. It's the shame of our times. Men who care nothing about a vow to their God." He paused. "Or for the feelings of the women they might hurt. I sense that you would not want anything to harm Father Michener." He let the words take hold of her. "We believe there's a problem developing, one that could indeed harm him. Not physically, you understand, but it could hurt his standing within the Church. Perhaps jeopardize his career. I'm trying to keep that from happening. If I were to charge someone from the Vatican with this task, that fact would be known within a matter of hours and the mission would fail. I like Father Michener. I would not want to see his career hurt. I need the secrecy you can provide to protect him."
She motioned at Ambrosi. "Why not send the padre here?"
He was impressed with her spunk. "Father Ambrosi is too well known to accomplish the task. By a stroke of luck, the mission Father Michener has undertaken will take him to Romania, a place you know well. So you could appear without him asking too many questions. Assuming he even learned of your presence."
"And the purpose of this visit to my homeland?"
He waved off the question. "That would only taint your report. Instead, just observe. That way, we don't risk slanting your observations."
"In another words, you're not going to tell me."
"Precisely."
