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She turned toward him. A few other couples strolled the square arm in arm. "I've missed you, Colin."
He'd read once that in everyone's life there was somebody who touched a spot so deep, so precious, that the mind always retreated, in time of need, to that cherished place, seeking comfort within memories that never seemed to disappoint. Katerina was that for him. And why the Church, or his God, couldn't provide the same satisfaction was troubling.
She inched close. "What Father Tibor said, about doing as the Madonna said. What did he mean?"
"I wish I knew."
"You could learn."
He knew what she meant and withdrew from his pocket the envelope that contained Father Tibor's response. "I can't open it. You know that."
"Why not? We can find another envelope. Clement would never know."
He'd succumbed to enough dishonesty for one day by reading Clement's first note. "I would know." He knew how hollow that denial sounded, but he slipped the envelope back in his pocket.
"Clement created a loyal servant," Katerina said. "I'll give the old bird that."
"He's my pope. I owe him respect."
Her lips and cheeks twisted into a look he'd seen before. "Is your life to be in the service of popes? What of you, Colin Michener?"
He'd wondered the same thing many times over the past few years. What of him? Was a cardinal's hat to be the extent of his life? Doing little more than basking in the prestige of a scarlet robe? Men like Father Tibor were doing what priests were meant to do. He felt again the caress of the children from earlier, and smelled the stench of their despair.
A surge of guilt swept through him.
"I want you to know, Colin, I won't mention a word of this to anyone."
"Including Tom Kealy?" He regretted how the question came out.
"Jealous?"
"Should I be?"
"I seem to have a weakness for priests."
"Careful with Tom Kealy. I get the impression he's the kind who ran from this square when the shooting started." He could see her jaw tighten. "Not like you."
She smiled. "I stood in front of a tank with a hundred others."
"That thought is upsetting. I wouldn't want to see you hurt."
She threw him a curious look. "Any more than I already am?"
Katerina left Michener at his room and walked down the squeaky steps. She told him they would talk in the morning, over breakfast, before he flew back to Rome. He hadn't been surprised to learn she was staying one floor below, and she didn't mention that she, too, would be heading back to Rome, on a later flight, instead telling him that her next destination was up in the air.
She was beginning to regret her involvement with Cardinal Alberto Valendrea. What had started off as a career move had deteriorated into the deception of a man she still loved. It troubled her lying to Michener. Her father, if he knew what she was doing, would be ashamed. And that thought, too, was bothersome, since she'd disappointed her parents enough over the past few years.
At her room, she opened the door and stepped inside.
The first thing she saw was the smiling face of Father Paolo Ambrosi. The sight momentarily startled her, but she quickly caught hold of her emotions, sensing that showing fear to this man would be a mistake. She'd actually been expecting a visit, since Valendrea had said Ambrosi would find her. She closed the door, peeled off her coat, and stepped toward the lamp beside the bed.
"Why don't we let the light remain off," Ambrosi said.
She noticed that Ambrosi was dressed in black trousers and a dark turtleneck. A dark overcoat hung open. None of the garb was religious. She shrugged and tossed her coat on the bed.
"What have you learned?"
She took a moment and told him an abbreviated account of the orphanage and of what Michener had told her about Clement, but she held back a few key facts. She finished by telling him about Father Tibor, again an abridged version, and recounted the old priest's warning concerning the Madonna.
"You must learn what's in Tibor's response," Ambrosi said.
"Colin wouldn't open it."
"Find a way."
"How do you expect me to do that?"
"Go upstairs. Seduce him. Read it while he sleeps afterward."
"Why don't you? I'm sure priests interest you more than they do me."
Ambrosi lunged, wrapping his long thin fingers around her neck and collapsing her down onto the bed. The grip was cold and waxy. He brought his knee onto her chest and pressed her firmly into the mattress folds. He was stronger than she would have thought.
"Unlike Cardinal Valendrea, I have little patience for your smart mouth. I remind you that we are in Romania, not Rome, and people disappear here all the time. I want to know what Father Tibor wrote. Find out, or I might not restrain myself the next time we meet." Ambrosi's knee pressed deeper into her chest. "I'll find you tomorrow, just as I found you this evening."
She wanted to spit in his face, but the ever-tightening fingers around her neck cautioned otherwise.
Ambrosi released his grip and headed for the door.
She clutched her neck and sucked a few breaths, then leaped from the bed.
Ambrosi spun back to face her, a gun in his hand.
She halted her advance. "You . . . fucking . . . mobster."
He shrugged. "History teaches that there truly is an imperceptible line between good and evil. Sleep well."
He opened the door and left.
TWENTY-ONE
VATICAN CITY, 11:40 P.M.
Valendrea crushed out his cigarette in an ashtray as a knock came on his bedchamber door. He'd been engrossed in a novel for nearly an hour. He so enjoyed American suspense thrillers. They were a welcome escape from his life of careful words and strict protocol. His retreat each night into a world of mystery and intrigue was something he looked fo
rward to, and Ambrosi made sure he always had a new adventure to read.
"Enter," he called out.
The face of his chamberlain appeared. "I received a call a few moments ago, Eminence. The Holy Father is in the Riserva. You wished to be informed if that occurred."
He slipped off his reading glasses and closed the book. "That will be all."
The chamberlain retreated.
He quickly dressed in a knit shirt and trousers, slipped on a pair of running shoes, and left his apartment, heading for the private elevator. At ground level he traversed the empty corridors of the Apostolic Palace. The silence was disturbed only by a soft whine from closed-circuit televison cameras revolving on their lofty perches and the squeak of his rubber soles on the terrazzo. No danger existed of anyone seeing him--the palace was sealed for the night.
He entered the archives and ignored the night prefect, walking through the maze of shelves straight to the iron gate for the Riserva. Clement XV stood inside the lighted space, his back to him, dressed in a white linen cassock.
The doors of the ancient safe hung open. He made no effort to mask his approach. It was time for a confrontation.
"Come in, Alberto," the pope said, the German's back still to him.
"How did you know it was me?"
Clement turned. "Who else would it be?"
He stepped into the light, the first time he'd been inside the Riserva since 1978. Then, only a few incandescent bulbs lit the windowless alcove. Now fluorescent fixtures cast everything in a pearly glow. The same wooden box lay in the same drawer, its lid open. Remnants of the wax seal he'd shattered and replaced adorned the outside.
"I was told about your visit here with Paul," Clement said. The pope gestured to the box. "You were present when he opened that. Tell me, Alberto, was he shocked? Did the old fool wince when he read the Virgin's words?"
He wasn't going to give Clement the satisfaction of knowing the truth. "Paul was more of a pope than you ever could be."
