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Michener had not told Katerina about yesterday. It was better that way. In a sense he was a murderer, though he did not feel like one. Instead he felt a great sense of retribution. Especially for Father Tibor. One wrong had been righted by another in a perverted sense of balance that only the odd circumstances of the past few weeks could have created.
In fifteen days another conclave would convene and another pope would be elected. The 269th since Peter and one beyond the list of St. Malachy. The dreadful judge had judged. The sinners had been punished. Now it would be up to Maurice Ngovi to see heaven's will be done. Little doubt existed he would be the next pope. Yesterday, as they left the palace, Ngovi had asked him to stay on in Rome and be a part of what was coming. But he'd declined. He was going to Romania with Katerina. He wanted to share his life with her and Ngovi understood, wishing him well and telling him Vatican doors would always be open.
People continued to surge forward, filling the piazza between Bernini's colonnades. He wasn't sure why he'd come, but something seemed to summon him, and he sensed a peace within himself that he hadn't felt in a long time.
"These people have no idea about Valendrea," Katerina whispered.
"To them, he was their pope. An Italian. And we could never convince them otherwise. His memory will have to stand as it is."
"You're never going to tell me what happened yesterday, are you?"
He'd caught her studying him last evening. She realized something significant had occurred with Valendrea, but he hadn't allowed the subject to be explored and she did not press.
Before he could answer her, an older woman, near one of the fountains, collapsed in a fit of grief. Several people came to her aid as she lamented that God had taken so good a pope. Michener watched as the woman sobbed uncontrollably and two men helped her toward the shade.
News crews were fanning across the square interviewing people. Soon the world press would return to ponder what the Sacred College might do within the Sistine Chapel.
"I guess Tom Kealy will be back," he said.
"I was thinking the same thing. The man with all the answers." She threw him a smile he understood.
They approached the basilica and stopped with the rest of the mourners before the barricades. The church was closed, its interior, he knew, being readied for another funeral. The balcony was draped in black. Michener glanced to his right. The shutters of the papal bedroom were closed. Behind them, a few hours ago, the body of Alberto Valendrea had been found. According to the press he'd been praying when his heart gave out, the corpse discovered on the floor beneath a portrait of Christ. He smiled at Valendrea's last audacity.
Somebody grabbed his arm.
He turned.
The man standing before him was bearded with a crooked nose and bushy reddish hair. "Tell me, Padre, what are we to do? Why has the Lord taken our Holy Father? What is the meaning of this?"
Michener assumed his black cassock had drawn the inquiry and the answer formed quickly in his mind. "Why must there always be meaning? Can you not accept what the Lord has done without question?"
"Peter was to be a great pope. An Italian finally back on the throne. We had such hopes."
"There are many in the Church who can be great popes. And they need not be Italian." His listener gave him a strange look. "What matters is their devotion to the Lord."
He knew that of the thousands gathered around him, only he and Katerina truly understood. God was alive. He was there. Listening.
His gaze drifted from the man standing before him to the basilica's magnificent facade. For all its majesty, it was still nothing more than mortar and stone. Time and weather would eventually destroy it. But what it symbolized, what it meant, would last forever. Thou art Peter and on this rock I will build my Church. And the gates of hell will not stand against it. I will give you the Keys of the Kingdom of Heaven: whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven; whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.
He turned back to the man, who was saying something.
"It's finished, Father. The pope is dead. Everything is finished before it even started."
He wasn't going to accept that and he wasn't going to let this stranger accept defeatism, either. "You're wrong. It's not over." He threw the man a reassuring smile. "In fact, it's only just beginning."
WRITER'S NOTE
In researching this novel, I traveled to Italy and Germany. But this book grew out of my early Catholic education and a lifelong fascination with Fatima. Over the past two thousand years, the phenomena of Marian visions have occurred with surprising regularity. In modern times, the visions at La Salette, Lourdes, Fatima, and Medjugorje are most notable, though there are countless other lesser-known experiences. As with my first two novels, I wanted the information included in the story to both educate and entertain. Even more so than with the first two books, this one contains a wealth of reality.
The scene at Fatima, depicted in the prologue, is based on eyewitness accounts, most notably Lucia herself, who published her version of what happened in the early part of the twentieth century. The Virgin's words are Hers, as are most of Lucia's. The three secrets, as quoted in chapter 7, are verbatim from the actual text. Only my modification detailed in chapter 65 is fictional.
What happened to Francisco and Jacinta, along with the third secret's curious history--how it stayed sealed in the Vatican until May 2000, read only by popes (chapter 7)--is all true, along with the Church's refusal to allow Sister Lucia to speak publicly about Fatima. Sadly, Sister Lucia died shortly before this book was published, in February 2005, at the age of ninety-seven.
The La Salette visions from 1846, as mentioned in chapters 19 and 42, are accurately related--as is the history of those two seers, their biting public comments, and Pope Pius IX's poignant observations. That particular Marian vision is one of the strangest on record and was mired by scandal and doubt. Secrets were part of the apparition and the original texts are indeed missing from the Vatican record, which further clouds what may have happened in that French Alpine village.
Medjugorje is similar, though it stands alone among Marian visions. Not a single event, or even several visions spread over a few months' time, Medjugorje involves thousands of apparitions over more than two decades. The Church has yet to formally acknowledge anything relative to what may have happened, though that Bosnian village has become a popular pilgrimage site. As noted in chapter 38, there are ten secrets associated with Medjugorje. Including this scenario within the plot seemed hard to resist, and what happens in chapter 65, linking the tenth secret of Medjugorje and the third secret of Fatima, evolved into the perfect way to finally prove that God exists. Yet, as Michener notes in chapter 69, even with this proof, the ultimate belief still comes down to faith.
The predictions attributed to St. Malachy, as detailed in chapter 56, are all true. The accuracy of the labels associated with the predicted popes is uncanny. His final prophecy concerning the 112th pope, one to be named Peter II, along with his statement that "in the seven hilled city the dreadful judge will judge all people," are likewise accurate. Currently John Paul II is the 110th pope on St. Malachy's list. Two more to go to see if St. Malachy's prophecy will be fulfilled. Similar to Rome, Bamberg, Germany, was once labeled the seven hilled city. I learned that fact while there and, after visiting, knew that this enchanting locale had to be included.
Sadly, the Irish birthing centers depicted in chapter 15 were real, as was all the pain they caused. Thousands of babies were taken from their mothers and adopted away. Little or nothing is known of their individual heritage and many of those children, now adults, have wrestled, as Colin Michener did, with the uncertainty of their existence. Thankfully, those centers no longer exist.
Equally sad is the plight of the Romanian orphans depicted in chapter 14. The tragedy befalling these children is ongoing. Disease, poverty, and desperation--not to mention exploitation by the world's pedophiles--continue to ravage the ranks of these innocent sou
ls.
All of the Church's procedures and ceremonies are accurately reported, save for the ancient silver hammer being tapped on the dead pope's forehead in chapters 30 and 71. That procedure is no longer used, but its former drama was hard to ignore.
The divisions within the Church between conservative and liberal, Italian and non-Italian, European and rest-of-the-world are real. The Church currently struggles with this divergence, and the conflict seemed a natural backdrop for the individual dilemmas faced by Clement XV and Alberto Valendrea.
The Bible verses noted in chapter 57 are, of course, accurate and are interesting when read in context with the novel's plot. Likewise the words of John XXIII in chapters 7 and 68 when, in 1962, he addressed the opening session of the Vatican II council. His hope for reform--so the earthly city may be brought to the resemblance of that heavenly city where truth reigns--is fascinating considering he was the first pope to ever actually read the third secret of Fatima.
The third secret itself was released to the world in May 2000. As Cardinals Ngovi and Valendrea discussed in chapter 17, references to a possible papal assassination could explain the Church's reluctance to publicize the message sooner. But overall, the riddles and parables contained within the third message are far more cryptic than threatening, which caused many observers to wonder if there might be more to the third secret.
The Catholic Church is unique among man's institutions. It has not only survived for more than two millennia, but continues to grow and prosper. Yet many wonder what will be its fate in the coming century. Some, like Clement XV, want to fundamentally change the Church. Others, like Alberto Valendrea, want a return to its traditional roots. But perhaps Leo XIII, in 1881, said it best.
The Church needs nothing but the truth.
ONE
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK
TUESDAY, MAY 15
12:40 PM
COTTON MALONE TYPED THE WEB ADDRESS WITH TREMBLING fingers. Like a phone that rings in the middle of the night, nothing about an anonymous message was ever good.
The note had arrived two hours ago, while he'd been out of his bookshop on an errand, but the employee who'd accepted the unmarked envelope forgot to give it to him until a few minutes ago.
"The woman didn't say it was urgent," she said in her defense.
"What woman?"
"Chinese lady, dressed in a gorgeous Burberry skirt. She said to give it only to you."
"She used my name?"
"Twice."
Inside had been a folded sheet of gray vellum upon which was printed a Web address with a dot-org suffix. He'd immediately climbed the four flights of stairs to his apartment above the bookshop and found his laptop.
He finished typing and waited while the screen blackened, then a new image appeared. A video display console indicated that a live feed was about to engage.
The communications link established.
A body appeared, lying on its back, arms above the head, ankles and wrists bound tight to what looked like a sheet of plywood. The person was angled so that the head was slightly beneath the feet. A towel wrapped the face, but it was clear the bound form was a woman.
"Mr. Malone." The voice was electronically altered, disguising every attribute of pitch and tone. "We've been waiting. Not in much of a hurry, are you? I have something for you to see."
A hooded figure appeared on the screen, holding a plastic bucket. He watched as water was poured onto the towel that wrapped the bound woman's face. Her body writhed as she struggled with her restraints.
He knew what was happening.
The liquid penetrated the towel and flowed unrestricted into her mouth and nose. At first a few gulps of air could be stolen--the throat constricted, inhaling little of the water--but that could be maintained only for a few seconds. Then the body's natural gag reflex would kick in and all control would be lost. The head was angled downward so gravity could prolong the agony. It was like drowning without ever being submerged.
The man stopped pouring.
The woman continued to struggle with her restraints.
The technique dated back to the Inquisition. Highly favored since it left no marks, its main drawback was harshness--so intense that the victim would immediately admit to anything. Malone had actually experienced it once, years ago, while training to become a Magellan Billet agent. All recruits had to take their turn as part of survival school. His agony had been amplified by his dislike of confinement. The bondage, combined with the soaked towel, had created an unbearable claustrophobia. He recalled the public debate a few years ago as to whether waterboarding was torture.
Damn right it was.
"Here's the purpose of my contact," the voice said.
The camera zoomed tight on the towel wrapping the woman's face. A hand entered the frame and wrenched the soaked cloth away, revealing Cassiopeia Vitt.
"Oh, no," Malone muttered.
