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But where was it?
Michener surely knew.
The telephone rang.
He was in his bedroom on the third floor of the palace. The papal apartments were still being prepared.
The phone rang again.
He wondered about the interruption. It was nearly eight P.M. He was trying to dress for his first formal dinner, this one a celebration of thanks with the cardinals, and had left word not to be disturbed.
Another ring.
He lifted the receiver.
"Holy Father, Father Ambrosi is calling and asked that I connect him. He said it was important."
"Do it."
A few clicks and Ambrosi said, "I have done as you asked."
"And the reaction?"
"He will be there tomorrow."
"His health?"
"Nothing severe."
"His traveling companion?"
"Being her usual charming self."
"Let's keep that one happy, for the present." Ambrosi had told him about her assault on him in Rome. At the time she was their best conduit to Michener, but the situation had changed.
"Nothing from me will affect that."
"Till tomorrow then," he said. "Have a safe trip."
FIFTY-FIVE
VATICAN CITY
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 30
1:00 P.M.
Michener sat in the backseat of a Vatican car, Katerina beside him. Ambrosi was in the front, and on his command they were waved through the Arch of the Bells into the privacy of the St. Damascus courtyard. A warren of ancient buildings surrounded them, blocking the midday sun, casting the pavement in an indigo hue.
For the first time he felt uneasy about being inside the Vatican. The men in charge now were manipulators. Enemies. He needed to be careful, watch his words, and get whatever was about to happen over with as quickly as possible.
The car stopped and they climbed out.
Ambrosi led them into a drawing room encased on three sides with stained glass where popes, for centuries, had greeted guests beneath the impressive murals. They followed Ambrosi through a maze of loggias and galleries littered with candelabra and tapestries surrounded by walls bursting with images of popes receiving homage from emperors and kings.
Michener knew where they were headed, and Ambrosi stopped outside the bronze door leading into the papal library where Gorbachev, Mandela, Carter, Yeltsin, Reagan, Bush, Clinton, Rabin, and Arafat had all visited.
"Ms. Lew will be waiting in the forward loggia when you are through," Ambrosi said. "In the meantime, you will not be disturbed."
Surprisingly Katerina did not object to being excluded and walked off with Ambrosi.
He opened the door and entered.
Three leaded-glass windows bathed the five-hundred-year-old bookshelves with fractured waves of light. Valendrea sat behind a desk, the same one popes had used for half a millennium. A panel depicting the Madonna graced the wall behind him. An upholstered armchair was angled in front of the desk, but Michener knew only heads of state were privileged to sit before the pope.
Valendrea stepped around the desk. The pope held out his hand, palm-down, and Michener knew what was expected of him. He stared deep into the Tuscan's eyes. This was the moment of submission. He debated what to do, but decided discretion was a better tack, at least until he learned what this demon wanted. He knelt and kissed the ring, noticing that the Vatican jewelers had already crafted a new one.
"I am told Clement took pleasure in extracting a similar gesture from His Eminence, Cardinal Bartolo, in Turin. I will pass on to the good cardinal your respect for church protocol."
Michener stood. "What do you want?" He did not add Holy Father.
"How are your injuries?"
"Surely you don't care."
"What would make you think otherwise?"
"The respect you've shown me the past three years."
Valendrea stepped back toward the desk. "I assume you're trying to provoke a response. I'll ignore your tone."
He asked again, "What do you want?"
"I want what Clement removed from the Riserva."
"I was unaware anything was gone."
"I am not in the mood. Clement told you everything."
He recalled things Clement had told him. I allowed Valendrea to read what is in the Fatima box . . . In 1978 he removed from the Riserva part of the Virgin's third message.
"Seems to me you're the thief."
"Bold words to your pope. Can you back them up?"
He wasn't taking that bait. Let the son of a bitch wonder what he knew.
Valendrea moved toward him. He seemed quite comfortable dressed in white, the skullcap nearly lost in his thick mane. "I'm not asking, Michener. I'm ordering you to tell me where that writing is."
There was a tinge of desperation in the command that made him wonder if Clement's e-mail ramblings were more than those of a depressed soul about to die. "I didn't know anything was gone, until a moment ago."
"And I'm supposed to believe that?"
"Believe what you want."
"I've had the papal apartments and Castle Gandolfo searched. You have Clement's personal belongings. I want them checked."
"What is it you're looking for?"
Valendrea appraised him with a suspicious gaze. "I can't decide if you are being truthful or not."
He shrugged. "Trust me. I am."
"All right. Father Tibor reproduced Sister Lucia's third message of Fatima. He sent his facsimile of both the original the good nun penned and his translation to Clement. The reproduced translation is now gone from the Riserva."
Michener was beginning to understand. "So you did take part of the third secret in 1978."
"I simply want what that priest concocted. Where are Clement's belongings?"
"I gave his furniture to charity. The rest I have."
"Have you been through them?"
He lied. "Of course."
"And you found nothing from Father Tibor?"
"Would you believe me if I answered?"
"Why should I?"
"Because I'm such a nice guy."
Valendrea went silent for a moment. Michener stayed silent, too.
"What did you learn in Bosnia?"
He noticed the shift in subjects. "Not to climb a mountain in a rainstorm."
"I see why Clement treasured you. A quick wit, matched by a sharp intellect." He paused. "Now answer my question."
He reached into his pocket, withdrew Jasna's note, and handed the slip of paper to the pope. "That's the tenth secret of Medjugorje."
Valendrea accepted the offering and read. The Tuscan drew a deep breath and his gaze shifted pointedly from the sheet to Michener's face. A low moan seeped from the pope's mouth and, without warning, Valendrea lunged forward and grabbed two handfuls of Michener's black cassock, the paper still in his hand. Fury filled the eyes that stared upon him. "Where is Tibor's reproduced translation?"
He was shocked by the attack, but kept his composure. "I considered Jasna's words meaningless. Why do they bother you?"
"Her ramblings mean nothing. What I want is Father Tibor's facsimile--"
"If the words are meaningless, why am I being assaulted?"
Valendrea seemed to realize the situation and released his grip. "Tibor's translation is Church property. I want it returned."
"Then you need to dispatch the Swiss guard to locate it."
"You have forty-eight hours to produce it or I'll have a warrant issued for your arrest."
"On what charge?"
"Theft of Vatican property. I'll also turn you over to the Romanian police. They want to know about your visit with Father Tibor." The words crackled with authority.
"I'm sure they'll want to know about your visit with him, too."
"What visit?"
He needed Valendrea to think he knew far more than he did. "You left the Vatican the day Tibor was killed."
"Since you seem to have all the answers, tell me where I we
nt."
"I know enough."
"Do you really believe you can carry that bluff through? You plan to implicate the pope in a murder investigation? That effort would not get far."
