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"I, too, want--" the archivist started, then stopped, as if he might say more than warranted.
"Go on. Tell me, Eminence."
"I'm as shocked as you something may be gone. But I have no idea when that occurred or where it might be." The tone made clear that was his story and he planned to stay with it.
"Where is Michener?" He was already reasonably sure of the answer, but decided verification would ease any concern that Ambrosi might be following the wrong trail.
"I do not know," the archivist said, a slight tremble in the voice.
He now asked what he really wanted to know. "And what of Ngovi? What's his interest?"
The archivist's face registered understanding. "You fear him, don't you?"
He didn't allow the comment to affect him. "I fear no one, Eminence. I'm merely wondering why the camerlengo is so interested in Fatima."
"I never said he was interested."
"But it was discussed during the meeting yesterday, was it not?"
"I didn't say that, either."
He let his gaze drift down to the book, a subtle signal that the old man's obstinance wasn't affecting him. "Eminence, I fired you. I could just as easily rehire you. Would you not like to die here, in the Vatican, as cardinal-archivist of the Catholic Church? Would you not like to see the document now missing returned? Does not your duty mean more to you than any personal feelings about me?"
The old man shifted on his feet, his silence perhaps an indication that he was considering the proposal.
"What is it you want?" the archivist finally asked.
"Tell me where Father Michener has gone."
"I was told this morning he went to Bamberg." The voice was filled with resignation.
"So you lied to me?"
"You asked if I knew where he was. I don't. I only know what I was told."
"And the purpose of the trip?"
"The document you seek may be there."
Now for something new. "And Ngovi?"
"He's waiting for Father Michener's call."
His bare hands tightened on the edge of the book. He hadn't bothered to wear gloves. What did it matter? The manuscript would be ashes by tomorrow. Now for the critical part. "Ngovi is waiting to learn what is in the missing document?"
The old man nodded, as if it pained him to be honest. "They want to know what you seemingly already know."
SIXTY-THREE
BAMBERG, 11:00 A.M.
Michener and Katerina followed Irma Rahn through the Maxplatz, then beyond to the river and a five-story inn. A wrought-iron sign announced the name KONIGSHOF, along with the designation 1614--the year, Irma explained, the building was erected.
Her family had owned the property for generations, and she had inherited it from her father after her brother was killed in World War II. Former fishermen's houses surrounded the inn on both sides. Originally the building had served as a mill, the paddle wheel gone for centuries, but the black mansard roof, iron balconies, and baroque detailing were still there. She'd added a tavern and restaurant and now led them inside, where they sat at an empty table beside a twelve-paned window. Outside, clouds dimmed the late-morning sky. More snow seemed on the way. Their host brought them each a stein of beer.
"We're only open for dinner," Irma said. "The tables will be full then. Our cook is quite popular."
Michener wanted to know, "Back in the church, you said Jakob mentioned that Katerina and I would come. Was that really in his last letter?"
She nodded. "He said to expect you and that probably this lovely woman would come with you. My Jakob was intuitive, especially when it came to you, Colin. May I call you that? I feel I know you well enough."
"I wouldn't want you to call me anything else."
"And I'm Katerina."
She threw them both a smile he liked.
"What else did Jakob say?" he asked.
"He told me of your dilemma. Of your crisis in faith. Since you're here, I assume you read my letters."
"I never realized the depth of your relationship."
Beyond the window, a barge chugged by, heading north.
"My Jakob was a loving man. He devoted his entire life to others. Gave himself to God."
"But apparently not completely," Katerina said.
Michener had been waiting for her to make the point. Last night she'd read the letters he'd managed to salvage and was shocked by Volkner's private emotion.
"I resented him," Katerina said in a flat tone. "I envisioned him pressuring Colin into choosing, urging him to put the Church first. But I was wrong. I realize now that he, of all people, would have understood how I felt."
"He did. He talked to me about Colin's pain. He wanted to tell him the truth, show him he wasn't alone, but I said no. The time wasn't right. I didn't want anyone to know of us. That was something intensely private." She faced him. "He wanted you to stay a priest. To change things, he needed your help. I think he knew, even then, that one day you and he would make a difference."
Michener needed to say, "He tried to change things. Not with confrontation, but with reason. He was a man of peace."
"But above all, Colin, he was a man." Her voice trailed off at the end of the statement, as if a memory returned for a moment and she didn't want to ignore it. "Just a man, weak and sinful, like us all."
Katerina reached across the table and cupped the old woman's hand. Both women's eyes glistened.
"When did the relationship start?" Katerina asked.
"When we were children. I knew then that I loved him, and that I always would." She bit her lip. "But I also knew that I would never have him. Not completely. Even then, he wanted to be a priest. Somehow, though, it was always enough that I possessed his heart."
He wanted to know something. Why, he wasn't sure. It was really none of his business. But he sensed that it was all right to ask. "The love was never consummated?"
Her gaze engaged his for several seconds before a slight smile came to her lips. "No, Colin. Your Jakob never violated his oath to his Church. That would have been unthinkable for both him and me." She looked at Katerina. "We must all judge ourselves by the times in which we live. Jakob and I were from another era. Bad enough for us to love one another. It would have been unthinkable to take that farther."
He recalled what Clement had said in Turin. Restrained love is not a pleasant matter. "You've lived here, alone, all that time?"
"I have my family, this business, my friends, and my God. I knew the love of a man who shared
himself totally with me. Not in the physical sense, but in every other way. Few can make such a claim."
"It was never a problem you weren't together?" Katerina asked. "I don't mean sexually. I mean physically, close to one another. That had to be tough."
"I would have preferred things to be different. But that was beyond my control. Jakob was called to the priesthood early. I knew that, and did nothing to interfere. I loved him enough to share him . . . even with heaven."
A middle-aged woman pushed through a swinging door and spoke a few words to Irma. Something about the market and supplies. Another barge slipped past the window across the gray-brown river. A few flakes of snow tapped the panes.
"Does anybody know about you and Jakob?" he asked after the woman left.
She shook her head. "Neither of us ever spoke of it. Many here in town know that Jakob and I were childhood friends."
"His death must have been awful for you," Katerina said.
She let out a long breath. "You can't imagine. I knew he was looking bad. I saw him on television. I realized it was only a matter of time. We're both getting old. But his time came suddenly. I still expect a letter to arrive in the mail, like it did so many times before." Her voice grew softer, cracking with emotion. "My Jakob is gone, and you are the first people I have spoken to about him. He told me to trust you. That through your visit I could gain peace. And he was right. Simply talking about this has made me feel better."
He wondered what this gentle woman would think if she knew Volkner had taken his own life. Did she have a right to know? She was opening her heart to them, and he was tired of lying. Clement's memory would be safe with her. "He killed himself."
Irma said nothing for the longest time.
He caught Katerina's glare as she said, "The pope took his own life?"
He nodded. "Sleeping pills. He said the Virgin Mary told him that he must end his life through his own hand. The penance for disobedience. He said he'd ignored heaven far too long. But not this time."
Irma still said nothing. She just stared at him with impassioned eyes.
