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His irritating attitude wasn't much different from Tom Kealy's. She wondered what it was about her that attracted such cocksure personalities. "When do I leave?"
"The papal secretary flies out tomorrow morning, arriving in Bucharest by lunch. I thought you might leave this evening and stay ahead of him."
"And where am I to go?"
"Father Michener is going to see a priest named Andrej Tibor. He's retired and works at an orphanage about forty miles to the north of Bucharest, in the village of Zlatna. Perhaps you know the place?"
"I know of it."
"Then you'll have no trouble learning what Michener does and says while there. Also, Michener is carrying some sort of papal letter. Getting a look at its contents would further increase your stock in my eyes."
"You don't want much, do you?"
"You are a resourceful woman. I suggest using those same charms Tom Kealy apparently enjoys. Surely then your mission will be a complete success."
And the line went dead.
THIRTEEN
VATICAN CITY, 5:30 P.M.
Valendrea stood at the window in his third-floor office. Outside, the tall cedars, stone pines, and cypresses in the Vatican gardens stubbornly clung to summer. Since the thirteenth century popes had strolled the brick paths lined with laurel and myrtle, finding comfort in the classical sculptures, busts, and bronze reliefs.
He recalled a time when he'd enjoyed the gardens. Fresh from the seminary, posted to the only place in the world where he wanted to serve. Then, the walkways were filled with young priests wondering about their future. He came from an era when Italians dominated the papacy. But Vatican II changed all that, and Clement XV was retreating even farther. Every day another list of orders shuffling priests, bishops, and cardinals filtered down from the fourth floor. More Westerners, Africans, and Asians were being summoned to Rome. He'd tried to delay any implementation, hoping Clement would finally die, but eventually he'd had no choice but comply with every instruction.
The Italians were already outnumbered in the College of Cardinals, Paul VI perhaps the last of their breed. Valendrea had known the cardinal of Milan, fortunate to be in Rome for the last few years of Paul's pontificate. By 1983 Valendrea was an archbishop. John Paul II finally bestowed him his red biretta, surely a way for the Pole to endear himself with the locals.
But maybe it was something more?
Valendrea's conservative lean was legendary, as was his reputation as a diligent worker. John Paul appointed him prefect over the Congregation for the Evangelization of Peoples. There, he'd coordinated worldwide missionary activities, supervised the building of churches, delineated diocese boundaries, and educated catechists and clergy. The job had involved him in every aspect of the Church and allowed him to quietly build a power base among men who might one day be cardinals. He never forgot what his father had taught him. A favor offered is a favor returned.
How true.
Like real soon.
He turned from the window.
Ambrosi had already left for Romania. He missed Paolo when he was gone. He was the only person whom Valendrea felt entirely comfortable with. Ambrosi seemed to understand his nature. And his drive. There was so much to do at just the right time, in just the right proportions, and the chances of failure were far greater than those of success.
There were simply not many opportunities to become pope. He'd participated in one conclave and a second was perhaps not far away. If he failed to achieve election this time, unless a sudden papal death occurred, the next pope could well reign beyond his time. His ability to be a part of the process officially ended at age eighty, a point he still wished Paul hadn't conceded, and no amount of tapes loaded with secrets would change that reality.
He stared across his office at a portrait of Clement XV. Protocol demanded the irritating thing be there, but his choice would have been a photograph of Paul VI. Italian by birth, Roman by nature, Latin in character. Paul had been brilliant, bending only on small points, compromising just enough to satisfy the pundits. That was how he, too, would run the Church. Give a little, keep more. Ever since yesterday, he'd been thinking about Paul. What had Ambrosi said about Father Tibor? He's the only person left alive, besides Clement, who has actually seen what is contained within the Riserva regarding the Fatima secrets.
Not true.
His mind drifted back to 1978.
"Come, Alberto. Follow me."
Paul VI rose and tested the pressure on his right knee. The aging pontiff had suffered much over the past few years. He'd endured bronchitis, influenza, bladder problems, kidney failure, and had his prostate removed. Massive doses of antibiotics had warded off infections, but the drugs were weakening his immune system, sapping strength. His arthritis seemed particularly painful and Valendrea felt for the old man. The end was coming, but with an agonizing slowness.
The pope shuffled out of the apartment toward the fourth floor's private elevator. It was late evening, a stormy May night, and the Apostolic Palace was quiet. Paul waved off the security men, saying he and his first assistant secretary would return shortly. His two papal secretaries need not be called.
Sister Giacomina appeared from her room. She was in charge of the domestic retinue and served as Paul's nurse. The Church had long decreed that women who worked in clerical households must be of canonical age. Valendrea thought the rule amusing. In other words, they must be old and ugly.
"Where are you going, Holy Father?" the nun asked, as if he were a child leaving his room without permission.
"Do not worry, Sister. I have business to handle."
"You should be resting. You know that."
"I will return shortly. But I feel fine and need to attend to this matter. Father Valendrea will take good care of me."
"No more than half an hour. Clear?"
Paul smiled. "I promise. Half an hour and I'll be off my feet."
The nun retreated to her room and they headed onto the elevator. On the ground floor, Paul inched ahead through a series of corridors to the entrance for the archives.
"I have delayed something for many years, Alberto. I think tonight is the time to remedy that."
Paul continued along with the help of his cane and Valendrea shortened his stride to keep pace. He was saddened by the sight of this once great man. Giovanni Battista Montini was the son of a successful Italian lawyer. He'd worked his way up through the Curia, ultimately serving in the Secretariat of State. After, he became the archbishop of Milan and governed that diocese with an efficient hand, catching the eye of the Italian-dominated Sacred College as the natural choice to succeed the beloved John XXIII. He'd been an excellent pope, serving at a difficult time after Vatican II. The Church would sorely miss him
, and so would Valendrea. Of late, he'd been fortunate to spend time with Paul. The old warrior seemed to enjoy his company. There was even talk of a possible elevation to bishop, something he hoped Paul saw the grace to extend before God summoned him.
They entered the archives and the prefect knelt at Paul's appearance. "What brings you, Holy Father?"
"Please open the Riserva."
He liked the way Paul answered a question with a command. The prefect scurried for a set of oversized keys, then led the way into the darkened archives. Paul slowly followed, and they arrived as the prefect completed opening an iron grille and switching on a series of dull incandescent lights. Valendrea knew of the Riserva and of the rule that required papal authority for entry. It was the sacred reserve of the Vicars of Christ. Only Napoleon had violated its sanctity, paying for that insult in the end.
Paul entered the windowless room and pointed to a black safe. "Open that."
The prefect complied, spinning the dials and releasing tumblers. The double doors swung open. Not one sound leaked from the brass hinges.
The pope sat in one of three chairs.
"That will be all," Paul said, and the prefect left.
"My predecessor was the first to read the third secret of Fatima. I am told that afterward he ordered it sealed in this safe. I have resisted the urge to come here for fifteen years."
Valendrea was a little confused. "Did not the Vatican in '67 issue a statement that the secret would remain sealed? That was done without you reading it?"
"There are many things the Curia does in my name of which I have little knowledge. I was told, though, about that one. After."
Valendrea wondered if he might have stumbled with his question. He cautioned himself to watch his words.
"The whole affair amazes me," Paul said. "The mother of God appears to three peasant children--not to a priest, or a bishop, or the pope. She chooses three illiterate children. She seems to always choose the meek. Perhaps heaven is trying to tell us something?"
