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He heard a soft chime and Ambrosi removed a cellular phone from his cassock. A short conversation and Ambrosi beeped off the receiver.
He continued to stare at the envelope. "Let me guess. They were taken to the airport."
Ambrosi nodded.
He handed the envelope across to his friend. "Find this woman, Paolo, and you'll find what we seek. Michener and Ms. Lew will be there, as well. They're on their way to her now."
"How can you be sure?"
"You can never be sure of anything, but it's a safe assumption. Tend to this task yourself."
"Is that not risky?"
"It is a risk we will have to take. I'm sure you can conceal your presence carefully."
"Of course, Holy Father."
"I want Tibor's translation destroyed the moment you locate it. I don't care how, just do it. Paolo, I'm counting on you to handle this. If anyone, and I mean anyone--this woman of Clement's, Michener, Lew, I don't care who--reads those words or knows of them, kill them. Don't hesitate, just eliminate them."
The muscles in his secretary's face never quivered. The eyes, like those of a bird of prey, stared back with an intense glare. Valendrea knew all about Ambrosi and Michener's dissension--he'd even encouraged it, since nothing ensured loyalty more than a common hatred. So the hours ahead might prove immensely satisfying for his old friend.
"I will not disappoint you, Holy Father," Ambrosi softly said.
"It is not I whom you should worry about disappointing. We are on a mission for the Lord, and there is much at stake. So very much."
SIXTY-ONE
BAMBERG, GERMANY
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 1
10:00 A.M.
Michener strolled the cobbled streets and quickly came to understand Jakob Volkner's love of Bamberg. He'd never visited the town. Volkner's few trips back home had all been taken alone. They'd planned a papal mission next year as part of a multicity German pilgrimage. Volkner had told him how he wanted to visit his parents' grave, say Mass in the cathedral, and see old friends. Which made his suicide even more puzzling, since the planning for that joyous journey had been well under way when Clement died.
Bamberg sat where the swift Regnitz and meandering Main River merged. The ecclesiastical half of the city crowned the hills and showcased a royal residence, monastery, and cathedral, the forested crests once the home of prince-bishops. Clinging to the lower slopes, against the banks of the Regnitz, stood the secular portion, where business and commerce had always dominated. The symbolic meeting of the two halves was the river, where clever politicians centuries ago erected a city hall of half-timbered walls tattooed with bright frescoes. The rathaus sat on an island, at the center of the two classes, a stone bridge spanning the river, bisecting the building and connecting both worlds.
He and Katerina had flown from Rome to Munich and spent the night near the airport. This morning they'd rented a car and driven north into central Bavaria, through the Franconian hills, for nearly two hours. They now stood in the Maxplatz, where a lively market filled the square. Other entrepreneurs were busy preparing for the start of the Christmas market, which would begin later in the day. The cold air chapped his lips, the sun flashed intermittently, and snow whisked across the pavement. He and Katerina, unprepared for the change in temperature, had stopped in one of the stores and purchased coats, gloves, and leather boots.
To his left, the Church of St. Martin cast a long shadow across the crowded plaza. Michener had thought a talk with the church's priest might prove helpful. Surely he would know of Irma Rahn, and the priest had indeed been accommodating, suggesting she might be at St. Gangolf's, the parish church a few blocks north across a canal.
They found her tending one of the side chapels, beneath a crucified Christ that gazed down in a mournful glare. The air reeked of incense mellowed by the scent of beeswax. She was a tiny woman, her pale skin and crenellated features still suggesting a beauty that had faded little from her youth. If he hadn't known she was nearing eighty, he would have sworn her to be in her sixties.
They watched as she reverently genuflected each time she passed before the crucifix. Michener stepped forward and passed through an open iron gate. A strange feeling swept over him. Was he intruding on something that was none of his business? But he dismissed the thought. After all, Clement himself had led the way.
"Are you Irma Rahn?" he asked in German.
She faced him. Her silver hair fell to her shoulders. The bones in her cheeks and her sallow skin were untouched by makeup. Her wrinkled chin was round and dainty, the eyes soulful and compassionate.
She stepped close and said, "I was wondering how long it would be before you came."
"How do you know who I am? We've never met."
"But I know you."
"You expected me to come?"
"Oh, yes. Jakob said you would. And he was always right . . . especially about you."
Then he realized. "In his letter. The one that came from Turin. He made mention in there?"
She nodded.
"You have what I want, don't you?"
"That depends. Do you come for yourself or someone else?"
A strange question, and he considered his response. "I come for my Church."
She smiled again. "Jakob said you would answer that way. He knew you well."
He motioned for Katerina and introduced them. The old woman flashed a warm smile and the two women shook hands. "It's so nice to meet you. Jakob said you might come, too."
SIXTY-TWO
VATICAN CITY, 10:30 A.M.
Valendrea leafed through Lignum Vitae. The archivist stood before him. He'd ordered the elderly cardinal to present himself on the fourth floor and bring the volume with him. He wanted to see for himself what had held so much interest for Ngovi and Michener.
He found the section of Malachy's prophecy that dealt with Peter the Roman at the end of Arnold Wion's eighteen-hundred-page account:
In the final persecution of the Holy Roman Church there will reign Peter the Roman who will feed his flock among many tribulations, after which in the seven hilled city the dreadful judge will judge all people.
"You actually believe this rubbish?" he asked the archivist.
"You are the one hundred and twelfth pope on Malachy's list. The last one mentioned, and he said you would choose that name."
"So the Church is facing the apocalypse? From the seven hilled city the dreadful judge will judge all people. You believe that? You can't be that ignorant."
"Rome is the seven hilled city. That has been its label since ancient times. And I resent your tone."
"I don't care what you resent. I only want to know what you, Ngovi, and Michener discussed."
"I'm not telling you anything."
He motioned to the manuscript. "Then tell me why you believe in this prophecy."
"As if it matters what I think."
He stood from the desk. "It matters a great deal, Eminence. Consider it a final act for the Church. This is your last day, I believe."
The old man's face betrayed nothing of the regret he was surely feeling. This cardinal had served Rome for nearly five decades and had certainly seen his share of joy and pain. But he was the man who'd orchestrated the conclave support for Ngovi--that had become clear yesterday when the cardinals finally began talking--and he'd done a masterful job of collating votes. A shame he hadn't chosen the winning side.
Equally disturbing, though, was a discussion of Malachy prophecies that had arisen in the press over the past two days. He suspected the man standing before him was the source of those stories, though no reporter quoted anyone, only the usual unnamed Vatican official. The Malachy predictions were nothing new--conspiratorialists had long warned of them--but journalists were now beginning to make a connection. The 112th pope had indeed taken the name Peter II. How could a monk in the eleventh century, or a chronicler in the sixteenth century, possibly have known that was going to happen? Coincidence? Maybe, but it strained the concept to its bre
aking point.
Valendrea actually wondered the same thing. Some would say he chose the name knowing what was recorded in the Vatican archives. But Peter had always been his preference, ever since he decided to achieve the papacy back in the days of John Paul II. He'd never told anyone, not even Ambrosi. And he'd never read Malachy's predictions.
He stared back at the archivist, waiting for an answer to his question. Finally the cardinal said, "I have nothing to say."
"Then perhaps you could speculate where the missing document might be?"
"I know of no missing document. Everything in the inventory is there."
"This document is not on your inventory. Clement added it to the Riserva."
"I have no responsibility for that which is unknown to me."
"Really? Then tell me what you do know. What was mentioned when you met with Cardinal Ngovi and Monsignor Michener."
The archivist said nothing.
"From your silence, I must assume that the subject was the missing document and you were involved in its removal."
He realized the jab would tear at the old man's heart. As archivist, his duty was to preserve Church writings. The fact one was missing would forever stain his tenure.
"I did nothing except open the Riserva on order of His Holiness, Clement XV."
"And I believe you, Eminence. I think Clement himself, unbeknownst to anyone, removed the writing. All I want is to find it." He lightened his tone, signaling an acceptance of the explanation.
