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He found the man behind his desk, busy at work. He calmly entered the sprawling office and closed a set of bronze doors behind him.
The cardinal glanced up, but said nothing. The man was nearing seventy and possessed brooding cheeks and a high, sloping forehead. A Spaniard by birth, he'd worked in Rome all his clerical life.
The Sacred College was divided into three categories. Cardinal-bishops who headed the sees of Rome, cardinal-priests who were heads of dioceses outside Rome, and cardinal-deacons who were full-time Curia officials. The archivist was the senior of the cardinal-deacons and, as such, was granted the honor of announcing from the balcony of St. Peter's the name of any newly elected pope. Valendrea was not concerned with that hollow privilege. Instead, what made this old man important was his influence over a handful of cardinal-deacons still wavering in their preconclave support.
He stepped toward the desk and noticed his host did not rise and greet him. "It isn't that bad," he said in response to a look he was receiving.
"I'm not so sure. I assume the pontiff is still in Turin?"
"Why else would I be here?"
The archivist let out an audible sigh.
"I want you to open the Riserva, along with the safe," Valendrea said.
The old man finally stood. "I must refuse."
"That would be unwise." He hoped the man understood the message.
"Your threats cannot countermand a direct papal order. Only the pope can enter the Riserva. No one else. Not even you."
"No one needs to know. I won't be long."
"My oath to this office and the Church means more to me than you seem to assume."
"Listen to me, old man. I'm on a mission of greatest importance to the Church. One that demands extraordinary action." It was a lie, but it sounded good.
"Then you wouldn't mind if the Holy Father granted permission to allow access. I could place a call to Turin."
Time for the moment of truth. "I have a sworn statement from your niece. She was more than happy to provide it. She swears before the Almighty that you forgave her daughter's sin in aborting her baby. How is that possible, Eminence? That's heresy."
"I'm aware of the sworn statements. Your Father Ambrosi was quite persuasive with my sister's family. I absolved the woman because she was dying and fearful of spending an eternity in hell. I comforted her with the grace of God, as a priest should."
"My God--your God--does not condone abortion. That's murder. You had no right to forgive her. A point I'm sure the Holy Father would have no choice but to agree with."
He could see that the old man was fortified in the face of his dilemma, but he also noticed a tremor that shook the left eye--perhaps the precise spot where fear was making its escape.
The cardinal-archivist's bravado did not impress Valendrea. The man's entire life had been spent shoving paper from one file to another, enforcing meaningless rules, throwing roadblocks before anyone bold enough to challenge the Holy See. He followed a long line of scrittori who'd made it their life's labor to ensure that the papal archives remained secure. Once they perched themselves on a black throne, their physical presence in the archives served as a warning that permission to enter was not a license to browse. As with an archaeological dig, any revelations from those shelves came only after a meticulous plunge into their depths. And that took time--a commodity the Church had only in the past few decades been willing to grant. The sole task, Valendrea realized, of men like the cardinal-archivist was to protect the mother Church, even from its princes.
"Do as you wish, Alberto. Tell the world what I did. But I'm not allowing you into the Riserva. To get there you will have to be pope. And that is not a given."
Perhaps he'd underestimated this paper pusher. There was more brick to his foundation than the veneer showed. He decided to let the matter rest. At least for now. He might need this man in the coming months.
He turned and stepped toward the double doors. "I'll wait until I'm pope to speak with you again." He stopped and glanced back. "Then we'll see if you're as loyal to me as you are to others."
TWELVE
ROME, 4:00 P.M.
Katerina had been waiting in her hotel room since a little past lunch. Cardinal Valendrea said he would call at two P.M., but he hadn't kept his word. Perhaps he thought ten thousand euros was enough to ensure that she would wait by the phone. Maybe he believed her former relationship with Colin Michener enough incentive to guarantee that she'd do as he asked. Regardless, she didn't like the fact that the cardinal had apparently concluded himself clever in reading her.
True, she was almost out of the money accumulated from freelancing in the United States and tired of sponging off Tom Kealy, who seemed to enjoy that she was dependent on him. He'd done well with his three books, and soon he was going to be doing even better. He liked that he was America's newest religious personality. He was addicted to the attention, which was understandable to a point, but she knew sides of Tom Kealy that his followers never saw. Emotions could not be posted on a website or slipped into a publicity memo. The truly skilled could convey them in words, but Kealy was not a good writer. All three of his books were ghostwritten--one of those things only she and his publisher knew, and not something Kealy would want revealed. The man was simply not real. Just an illusion that a few million people--himself among them--had accepted.
So different from Michener.
She hated being bitter yesterday. She'd told herself before arriving in Rome that if their paths crossed, she should watch what she said. After all, a lot of time had passed--they'd both moved on. But when she saw him in the tribunal she realized that he'd left an indelible mark on her emotions, one she was afraid to admit existed, one that churned resentment with the speed of a nuclear reaction.
Last night, while Kealy slept beside her, she'd wondered if her own tortuous path over the past dozen years was nothing but a prelude to this moment. Her career was anything but a success, her personal life dismal, yet here she was waiting for the second most powerful man in the Catholic Church to call and give her a chance to deceive someone she still cared a great deal about.
Earlier, she'd made a few inquiries to contacts in the Italian press and learned that Valendrea was a complex man. He was born to money in one of Italy's oldest patrician families. At least two popes and five cardinals were in his bloodline, and uncles and brothers were involved in either Italian politics or international business. The Valendrea clan was also heavily entrenched in the European arts, and owned palaces and grand estates. They'd been careful with Mussolini and even more so with the revolving-door Italian regimes that followed. Their industry and money had been, and still were, courted, and they were choosy about who and what they supported.
The Vatican's Annuario Pontifico noted that Valendrea was sixty years old and held degrees from the University of Florence, the Catholic University of the Sacred Heart, and the Hague Academy of International Law. He was the author of fourteen treatises. His lifestyle required well more than the three thousand euros a month the Church paid its princes. And though the Vatican frowned on cardinals being involved in secular activities, Valendrea was noted as a stockholder in several Italian conglomerates and served on many boards of directors. His relative youth was deemed an asset, as were his innate political abilities and dominating personality. He'd used his post as secretary of state wisely, becoming well known in the Western media. He was a man who recognized the propensities of modern communication and the need to convey a consistent public image. He was also a theological hard-liner who openly opposed Vatican II, a fact made clear during Kealy's tribunal, and was one of the strict traditionalists who felt the Church was best served as it was once served.
Nearly all of the people she'd spoken with concurred that Valendrea was the front-runner to succeed Clement. Not necessarily because he was ideal for the job, but because there was no one strong enough to challenge him. By all accounts he was poised and ready for the next conclave.
But he'd also been a
front-runner three years ago and lost.
The phone jarred her from her thoughts.
Her gaze darted to the receiver and she fought the urge to answer, preferring to let Valendrea, if indeed the caller was him, sweat a little.
After the sixth ring she lifted the handset.
"Making me wait?" Valendrea said.
"No more than I've been."
A chuckle came through the earpiece. "I like you, Ms. Lew. You have personality. So tell me, what is your decision?"
"As if you have to ask."
"I thought I'd be courteous."
"You don't impress me as someone who cares about such details."
"You don't have much respect for a cardinal of the Catholic Church."
"You put your clothes on every morning like everybody else."
"I sense you're not a religious woman."
It was her time to laugh. "Don't tell me you actually convert souls in between politicking."
"I really did choose wisely in you. You and I will get along well."
"What makes you think I'm not taping all this?"
"And miss the opportunity of a lifetime? I seriously doubt that. Not to mention a chance to be with the good Father Michener. All at my expense, no less. Who could ask for more?"
