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Somehow he knew that no one, on this day, would cause his dear friend harm.
It was two P.M. when they returned to the villa. A light lunch was waiting in the solarium and Clement asked Michener to join him. They ate in silence, enjoying the flowers and a spectacular November afternoon. The compound's swimming pool, just beyond the glass walls, sat empty. It was one of the few luxuries John Paul II had insisted upon, telling the Curia, when it complained about the cost, that it was far cheaper than getting a new pope.
Lunch was a hearty beef soup littered with vegetables, one of Clement's favorites, along with black bread. Michener was partial to the bread. It reminded him of Katerina. They'd often shared some over coffee and dinner. He wondered where she was right now and why she'd felt the need to leave Bucharest without saying goodbye. He hoped that he'd see her again one day, maybe after his time at the Vatican ended, in a place where men like Alberto Valendrea did not exist, where no one cared who he was or what he did. Where maybe he could follow his heart.
"Tell me about her," Clement said.
"How did you know I was thinking about her?"
"It wasn't difficult."
He actually wanted to talk about it. "She's different. Familiar, but hard to define."
Clement sipped wine from his goblet.
"I can't help but think," Michener said, "that I'd be a better priest, a better man, if I didn't have to suppress my feelings."
The pope tabled his glass. "Your confusion is understandable. Celibacy is wrong."
He stopped eating. "I hope you haven't voiced that conclusion to anyone else."
"If I cannot be honest with you, then who?"
"When did you come to this conclusion?"
"The Council of Trent was a long time ago. Yet here we are, in the twenty-first century, clinging to a sixteenth-century doctrine."
"It is the Catholic nature."
"The Council of Trent was convened to deal with the Protestant Reformation. We lost that battle, Colin. The Protestants are here to stay."
He understood what Clement was saying. The Trent Council had affirmed celibacy as necessary for the gospel's sake, but conceded that it was not of divine origin. Which meant it could be changed if the Church desired. The only other councils since Trent, Vatican I and II, had declined to do anything. Now the supreme pontiff, the one man who could do something, was questioning the wisdom of that indifference.
"What are you saying, Jakob?"
"I'm not saying anything. I'm only talking with an old friend. Why must priests not marry? Why must they remain chaste? If that's acceptable for others, why not the clergy?"
"Personally, I agree with you. But I think the Curia would take a different view."
Clement shifted his weight forward as he pushed his empty soup bowl aside. "And that's the problem. The Curia will always object to anything that threatens its survival. Do you know what one of them said to me a few weeks ago?"
Michener shook his head.
"He said that celibacy must be maintained because the cost of paying priests would skyrocket. We would have to channel tens of millions to payroll for increased salaries because priests would now have wives and children to support. Can you imagine? That is the logic this Church uses."
He agreed, but felt compelled to say, "If you even hinted at a change, you'd be providing Valendrea a ready-made issue to use with the cardinals. You could have open revolt."
"But that's the benefit of being pope. I speak infallibly on matters of doctrine. My word is the last word. I don't need permission, and I can't be voted from office."
"Infallibility was created by the Church, too," he reminded. "It can be changed, along with whatever you do, by the next pope."
The pope was pinching the fleshy part of his hand, a nervous habit Michener had seen before. "I've had a vision, Colin."
The words, barely a whisper, took a moment to sink in. "A what?"
"The Virgin spoke to me."
"When?"
"Many weeks ago, just after Father Tibor's first communication. That is why I went to the Riserva. She told me to go."
First the pope was talking about junking dogma that had stood for five centuries. Now he was proclaiming Marian apparitions. Michener realized this conversation must stay here, only the plants privy, but he heard again what Clement had said in Turin. Do you think for one moment we enjoy any measure of privacy when at the Vatican?
"Is it wise to speak of this?" He hoped his tone conveyed a warning. But Clement seemed not to hear.
"Yesterday, She appeared in my chapel. I looked up and She was floating before me, surrounded by a blue and gold light, a halo encircling Her radiance." The pope paused. "She told me that Her heart was encircled with thorns with which men pierce Her by their blasphemies and ingratitude."
"Are you sure of those statements?" he asked.
Clement nodded. "She said them clearly." Clement clinched his fingers together. "I'm not senile, Colin. It was a vision, of that I'm sure." The pope paused. "John Paul II experienced the same."
He knew that, but said nothing.
"We are foolish men," Clement said.
He was becoming agitated with riddles.
"The Virgin said to go to Medjugorje."
"And that's why I'm being sent?"
Clement nodded. "All would be clear then, she said."
A few moments of silence passed. He didn't know what to say. It was hard to argue with heaven.
"I allowed Valendrea to read what is in the Fatima box," Clement whispered.
He was confused. "What's there?"
"Part of what Father Tibor sent me."
"You going to tell me what that is?"
"I can't."
"Why did you allow Valendrea to read it?"
"To see his reaction. He'd even tried to browbeat the archivist to allow a look. Now he knows exactly what I know."
He was about to ask once again what that might be when a light rap on the solarium's door interrupted their conversation. One of the stewards entered, carrying a folded sheet of paper. "This came over the fax machine from Rome a few moments ago, Monsignor Michener. The cover said to give it to you immediately."
He took the sheet and thanked the steward, who promptly left. He unfolded and read the message. He then looked at Clement and said, "A call was received a short while ago from the nuncio in Bucharest. Father Tibor is dead. His body was found this morning, washed ashore from a river north of town. His throat had been cut and he apparently was tossed from one of the cliffs. His car was found near an old church he frequented. The police suspect thieves. That area is riddled with them. I was notified, since one of the nuns at the orphanage told the nuncio about my visit. He's wondering why I was there unannounced."
Color drained from Clement's face. The pope made the sign of the cross and folded his hands in prayer. Michener watched as Clement's eyelids clinched tight and the old man mumbled to himself.
Then tears streaked down the German's face.
TWENTY-SEVEN
4:00 P.M.
Michener had thought about Father Tibor all afternoon. He'd walked the villa's gardens and tried to rid from his mind an image of the old Bulgarian's bloodied body being fished from a river. Finally he made his way to the chapel where popes and cardinals had for centuries stood before the altar. It had been more than a decade since he'd last said Mass. He'd been far too busy serving the secular needs of others, but now he felt the urge to celebrate a funeral Mass in honor of the old priest.
In silence, he donned vestments. He then chose a black stole, draped it around his neck, and walked to the altar. Usually the deceased would be laid before the altar, the pews filled with friends and relatives. The point was to stress a union with Christ, a communion with the saints that the departed was now enjoying. Eventually, on Judgment Day, everyone would be reunited and they would all dwell forever in the house of the Lord.
Or so the Church proclaimed.
But as he mouthed the required prayers he
