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Those children would never enjoy a trip to America, never experience the love of parents who wanted them. Their world was limited within a gray retaining wall, within an iron-barred building equipped with no lights and little heat. There they would die, alone and forgotten, loved only by a few nuns and an old priest.
SIXTEEN
Michener found a hotel away from the Pia ta Revolu tiei and the busy university district, choosing a modest establishment near a quaint park. The rooms were small and clean, filled with art deco furnishings that looked out of place. His came with a washbasin that supplied surprisingly warm water, the shower and toilet shared down the hall.
Perched beside the room's only window, he was finishing off a pastry and a Diet Coke he'd bought to tide him over until dinner. A clock in the distance banged out chimes for five P.M.
The envelope Clement had given him lay on the bed. He knew what was expected of him. Now that Father Tibor had read the message, he was to destroy it, without reading its contents. Clement trusted him to do as instructed, and he'd never failed his mentor, though he'd always believed his relationship with Katerina a betrayal. He'd violated his vows, disobeyed his church, and offended his God. For that, there could be no forgiveness. But Clement had said otherwise.
You think you're the only priest to succumb?
That doesn't make it right.
Colin, forgiveness is the hallmark of our faith. You've sinned and should repent. But that doesn't mean throwing your life away. And was it that wrong, anyway?
He could still recall the curious look he'd given the archbishop of Cologne. What was he saying?
Did it feel wrong, Colin? Did your heart say it was wrong?
The answer to both questions then, and now, was no. He'd loved Katerina. It was a fact he could not deny. She'd come to him at a time, just after his mother's death, when he was tangling with his past. She'd traveled with him to that birthing center in Kinnegad. Afterward, they'd walked the rocky cliffs overlooking the Irish Sea. She'd held his hand and told him that his adoptive parents had loved him and he was lucky to have two people who cared that much. And she was right. But he couldn't rid the thoughts of his birth mother from his mind. How could societal pressure be so great that women willingly sacrificed their babies in order to make a life for themselves?
Why should that ever be necessary?
He drained the rest of the Coke and stared again at the envelope. His oldest and dearest friend, a man who'd been there for him half his life, was in trouble.
He made a decision. Time to do something.
He reached for the envelope and withdrew the blue paper. The words were penned in German, by Clement's own hand.
Father Tibor:
I am aware of the task you performed for the most holy and reverend John XXIII. Your first message to me caused great concern. "Why does the church lie?" was your inquiry. I truly had no idea what you meant. With your second contact, I now realize the dilemma you face. I have looked at the reproduction of the third secret you sent with your first note and read your translation many times. Why have you kept this evidence to yourself? Even after the third secret was revealed by John Paul, only silence from you. If what you sent is true, why did you not speak then? Some would say you are a fraud, a man not to be believed, but I know that to be false. Why? I cannot explain. Just know that I believe you. I have sent my secretary. He is a man to be trusted. You may tell Father Michener what you please. He will deliver your words only to me. If you have no response, tell him so. I can understand if you are disgusted with your Church. I, too, have similar thoughts. But there is much to consider, as you well know. I would ask that you return this note and envelope to Father Michener. I thank you for whatever service you may deem to offer. God go with you, Father.
Clement
P.P. Servus Servorum Dei.
The signature was the pope's official mark. Pastor of Pastors, Servant of the Servants of God. The way Clement signed every official document.
Michener felt bad about violating Clement's confidence. But something was clearly happening here. Father Tibor had apparently made an impression on the pope, enough that the papal secretary was being sent to judge the situation. Why have you kept this evidence to yourself?
What evidence?
I have looked at the reproduction of the third secret you sent with your first note and read your translation many times.
Were those two items now in the Riserva? Inside the wooden box Clement kept returning to open?
Impossible to say.
He still knew nothing.
So he replaced the blue sheet into the envelope, walked to the bathroom down the hall, and tore everything into pieces, flushing the scraps away.
Katerina listened as Colin Michener crossed the plank floor above. Her gaze traced the sound across the ceiling as it faded down the hall.
She'd followed him from Zlatna to Bucharest, deciding it more important to know where he was staying than to try to learn what happened with Father Tibor. She hadn't been surprised when he bypassed central downtown and headed straight for one of the city's lesser hotels. He'd also avoided the papal nuncio's office near Centru Civic--again no surprise, since Valendrea had made clear this was not an official visit.
Driving through downtown she was sad to see that an Orwellian sameness still permeated block after block of yellow-brick apartments, all coming after Ceau sescu bulldozed the city's history to make room for his grandiose developments. Somehow sheer magnitude was supposed to convey magnificence, and it mattered not that the buildings were impractical, expensive, and unwanted. The state decreed the populace would be appreciative--the ungrateful went to prison, the lucky were shot.
She'd left Romania six months after Ceau sescu faced the firing squad, staying only long enough to be part of the first election in the country's history. When no one but former communists won, she realized little would change quickly, and she'd noticed earlier how right that prediction had been. A sadness still filled Romania. She'd felt it in Zlatna, and on the streets in Bucharest. Like a wake after a funeral. And she could sympathize. What had become of her own life? She'd done little the past dozen years. Her father had urged her to stay and work for the new, supposedly free Romanian press, but she'd tired of the commotion. The excitement of revolt stood in stark contrast to the lull of its aftermath. Leave it to others to work a finish into the rough concrete--she preferred to churn the gravel, sand, and mortar. So she left and wandered Europe, found and lost Colin Michener, then made her way to America and Tom Kealy.
Now she was back.
And a man she once loved was walking around, one floor up.
How was she supposed to learn what he was doing? What had Valendrea said? I suggest using those same charms Tom Kealy apparently enjoys. Surely then your mission will be a complete success.
Asshole.
But maybe the cardinal had a point. The direct approach seemed best. She certainly knew Michener's weaknesses, and already hated herself for taking advantage of them.
But little choice remained.
She stood and headed for the door.
SEVENTEEN
VATICAN CITY, 5:30 P.M.
Valendrea's last appointment came early for a Friday. Then a dinner scheduled at the French embassy was unexpectedly canceled--some crisis in Paris had detained the ambassador--so he found himself with a rare free night.
He'd spent a tortu
rous hour with Clement just after lunch. The time was supposed to be a foreign affairs briefing, but all they'd done was bicker. Their relationship was rapidly deteriorating, and the risk of a public confrontation was growing by the day. His resignation had yet to be requested, Clement surely hoping he'd cite spiritual concerns and simply quit.
But that was never going to happen.
Part of the agenda for their earlier meeting had entailed a briefing on a visit by the American secretary of state, scheduled in two weeks. Washington was trying to enlist the Holy See's assistance on political initiatives in Brazil and Argentina. The Church was a political force in South America, and Valendrea had signaled a willingness to use Vatican influence on Washington's behalf. But Clement did not want the Church involved. In that respect he was nothing like John Paul II. The Pole had publicly preached the same philosophy, then privately done the opposite. A diversion, Valendrea had often thought, one that rocked Moscow and Warsaw to sleep and eventually brought communism to its knees. He'd seen firsthand what the moral and spiritual leader of a billion faithful could do to, and for, governments. Such a shame to waste that potential, but Clement had ordered that there would be no alliance between the United States and the Holy See. The Argentines and Brazilians would have to solve their own problems.
A knock came on the apartment door.
He was alone, having sent his chamberlain to fetch a carafe of coffee. He crossed his study into an adjacent anteroom and opened the double doors leading out to the hall. Two Swiss guards, their backs against the wall, flanked either side of the doorway. Between them stood Maurice Cardinal Ngovi.
"I was wondering, Eminence, if we might speak a moment. I tried at your office and was told you had retired for the evening."
Ngovi's voice was low and calm. And Valendrea noticed the formal label Eminence, surely for the guards' benefit. With Colin Michener plodding his way through Romania, Clement had apparently delegated the task of errand boy to Ngovi.
