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couldn't help wondering if it was all for naught. Was there really some supreme being waiting to offer eternal salvation? And could that reward be earned simply by doing what the Church said? Was a lifetime of misdeeds forgiven by a few moments of repentance? Would not God want more? Would He not want a lifetime of sacrifice? No one was perfect, there'd always be lapses, but the measure of salvation must surely be greater than a few repentant acts.
He wasn't sure when he'd started doubting. Maybe it was all those years ago with Katerina. Perhaps being surrounded by ambitious prelates, who openly proclaimed a love for God but were privately consumed by greed and ambition, had affected him. What was the point of falling to your knees and kissing a papal ring? Christ never sanctioned such displays. So why were His children allowed the privilege?
Could his doubts be simply a sign of the times?
The world was different from a hundred years ago. Everyone seemed linked. Communications were instant. Information had reached a gluttony stage. God just didn't seem to fit. Maybe you were simply born, then you lived, and then you died, your body decomposing back into the earth. Dust to dust, as the Bible proclaimed. Nothing more. But if that were true, then what you made of your life could well be all the reward ever received--the memory of your existence your salvation.
He'd studied the Roman Catholic Church enough to understand that the majority of its teachings were directly related to its own interests, rather than those of its members. Time had certainly blurred all lines between practicality and divinity. What were once the creations of man had evolved into the laws of heaven. Priests were celibate because God ordained it. Priests were men because Christ was male. Adam and Eve were a man and woman, so love could only exist between the sexes. Where did these dogmas come from? Why did they persist?
Why was he questioning them?
He tried to switch off his brain and concentrate, but it was impossible. Maybe it was being with Katerina that had started him doubting again. Perhaps it was the senseless death of an old man in Romania that brought into focus that he was forty-seven years old and had done little with his life beyond riding the coattails of a German bishop to the Apostolic Palace.
He needed to do more. Something productive. Something that helped someone besides himself.
A movement at the door caught his attention. He stared up to see Clement amble into the chapel and kneel in one of the pews.
"Please, finish. I, too, have a need," the pope said as he bowed his head in prayer.
Michener went back to the Mass and prepared the sacrament. He'd only brought one wafer, so he broke the slice of unleavened bread in half.
He stepped to Clement.
The old man looked up from his prayers, his eyes crimson from crying, the features marred by a patina of sadness. He wondered what sorrow had overtaken Jakob Volkner. Father Tibor's death had profoundly affected him. He offered the wafer and the pope opened his mouth.
"The body of Christ," he whispered, and laid communion on Clement's tongue.
Clement crossed himself, then bowed his head in prayer. Michener withdrew to the altar and went about the task of completing the Mass.
But it was hard to finish.
The sobs of Clement XV that echoed through the chapel bit his heart.
TWENTY-EIGHT
ROME, 8:30 P.M.
Katerina hated herself for returning to Tom Kealy, but since her arrival in Rome yesterday, Cardinal Valendrea had yet to make contact. She'd been told not to call, which was fine since she had little to report beyond what Ambrosi already knew.
She'd read that the pope had traveled to Castle Gandolfo for the weekend, so she assumed Michener was there, too. Yesterday Kealy had taken a perverse pleasure in taunting her Romanian foray, implying that perhaps a lot more had occurred than she was willing to admit. She'd purposely not told him everything Father Tibor had said. Michener was right about Kealy. He was not to be trusted. So she'd given him an abridged version, enough for her to learn from him what Michener might be involved with.
She and Kealy were sitting in a cozy osteria. Kealy was dressed in a light-colored suit and tie, perhaps becoming accustomed to not wearing a collar in public.
"I don't understand all the hype," she said. "Catholics have made Marian secrets an institution. What makes the third secret of Fatima so important?"
Kealy was pouring wine from an expensive bottle. "It was fascinating, even for the Church. Here was a message supposedly direct from heaven, yet a steady stream of popes suppressed it until John Paul II finally told the world in 2000."
She stirred her soup and waited for him to explain.
"The Church officially sanctioned the Fatima apparitions as worthy of assent in the 1930s. That meant it was okay for Catholics to believe in what happened, if they chose to." He flashed a smile. "Typical hypocritical stance. Rome says one thing, does another. They didn't mind people flocking to Fatima and offering millions in donations, but they couldn't bring themselves to say the event actually occurred, and they certainly did not want the faithful to know what the Virgin may have said."
"But why conceal it?"
He sipped the burgundy, then fingered the stem of his glass. "Since when has the Vatican ever been sensible? These guys think they're still in the fifteenth century, when whatever they said was accepted without question. If anybody argued back then, the pope excommunicated them. But it's a new day and that pile just doesn't stink anymore." Kealy caught the waiter's attention and motioned for more bread. "Remember, the pope speaks infallibly when discussing matters of faith and morals. Vatican I pronounced that little jewel in 1870. What if, for one delicious moment, what the Virgin said was contrary to dogma? Now, wouldn't that be something?" Kealy seemed immensely pleased with the thought. "Maybe that's the book we should write? All about the third secret of Fatima. We can expose the hypocrisy, take a close look at the popes and some of the cardinals. Maybe even Valendrea himself."
"What about your situation? Not important anymore?"
"You don't honestly think there's any chance I'll win that tribunal."
"They might be content with a warning. That way they keep you within the fold, under their control, and you can save your collar."
He laughed. "You seem awfully concerned about my collar. Strange coming from an atheist."
"Screw you, Tom." She'd definitely told this man too much about herself.
"So full of spunk. I like that about you, Katerina." He enjoyed another swallow of wine. "CNN called yesterday. They want me for the next conclave."
"I'm glad for you. That's great." She wondered where that left her.
"Don't worry, I still want to do that book. My agent is talking to publishers about that one and a novel. You and I will make a great team."
The conclusion formed in her mind with a suddenness that surprised her. One of those decisions that was instantly clear. There'd be no team. What started out as promising had become tawdry. Luckily, she still had several thousand of Valendrea's euros, enough cash to get her back to France or Germany where she could hire on with a newspaper or magazine. And this time she'd behave herself--play by the rules.
"Katerina, are you there?" Kealy was asking.
Her attention returned to him.
"You looked a million miles away."
"I was. I don't think there's going to be a book, Tom. I'm leaving Rome tomorrow. You'll have to find another ghostwriter."
The waiter deposited a basket of steaming bread on the table.
"It won't be hard," he made clear.
"I didn't think so."
He reached for a piece of the bread. "I'd leave your horse hitched to me, if I were you. This wagon's going places."
She stood from the table. "I can tell you one place it's not going."
"You still have it for him, don't you?"
"I don't have it for anybody. I'm just sick of you. My father once told me that the higher a circus monkey climbed a pole, the more his ass showed. I'd remember that."
And she walke
d away, feeling her best in weeks.
TWENTY-NINE
CASTLE GANDOLFO
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 13
6:00 A.M.
Michener came awake. He'd never needed an alarm clock, his body seemingly blessed with an internal chronometer that always woke him at the precise time he selected before falling asleep. Jakob Volkner, when an archbishop and later a cardinal, had traveled the globe and served on committee after committee, relying always on Michener's ability never to be late, since punctuality was not one of Clement XV's noted traits.
As in Rome, Michener occupied a bedroom on the same floor as Clement's, just down the hall, a direct phone line linking their rooms. They were scheduled to return to the Vatican in two hours by helicopter. That would give the pope enough time for his morning prayers, breakfast, and a quick review of anything that required immediate attention, given there'd been two days with no work. Several memoranda had been faxed last evening, and Michener had them ready for a postbreakfast discussion. He knew the rest of the day would be hectic, as there was a steady stream of papal audiences scheduled for the afternoon and into the evening. Even Cardinal Valendrea had requested a full hour for a foreign affairs briefing later in the morning.
He was still bothered by the funeral Mass. Clement had cried for half an hour before leaving the chapel. They hadn't talked. Whatever was troubling his old friend was not open for discussion. Perhaps later there'd be time. Hopefully, a return to the Vatican and the rigors of work might take the pope's mind off the problem. But it had been disconcerting to watch such an onslaught of emotion.
He took his time showering, then dressed in a fresh black cassock and left his room. He strode down the corridor toward the pope's quarters. A chamberlain was standing outside the door, along with one of the nuns assigned to the household. Michener glanced at his watch. Six forty-five A.M. He pointed to the door. "Not up yet?"
