He glanced around. He would have to find boxes for Clement’s possessions, but for now he stacked everything in the center of the room. There wasn’t much. Clement had led a simple life. A bit of furniture, a few books, and some assorted family items were all that he owned.
The scrape of a key in the lock caught his attention.
The door opened and Paolo Ambrosi entered.
“Wait outside,” Ambrosi said to the guard as he came in and closed the door.
Michener faced him. “What are you doing here?”
The thin priest stepped forward. “The same as you, clearing out the apartment.”
“Cardinal Ngovi delegated the task to me.”
“Cardinal Valendrea said you might need help.”
Apparently the secretary of state thought a babysitter in order, but he was not in the mood. “Get out of here.”
The priest did not move. Michener was a head taller and fifty pounds heavier, but Ambrosi seemed unintimidated. “Your time has passed, Michener.”
“Maybe so. But where I come from there’s a saying. A hen doesn’t cackle before she lays the egg.”
Ambrosi chuckled. “I will miss your American humor.”
He noticed Ambrosi’s reptilian eyes take in the scene.
“I told you to get out. I may be nothing, but Ngovi is camerlengo. Valendrea can’t override him.”
“Not yet.”
“Leave, or I’ll interrupt the Mass for further instructions from Ngovi.”
He realized the last thing Valendrea would want was an embarrassing scene before the cardinals. Supporters might wonder why he’d ordered an associate to the papal apartments when that duty clearly fell on the papal secretary.
But Ambrosi did not move.
So he stepped around his visitor and headed for the door. “As you say, Ambrosi, my time’s passed. I’ve got nothing to lose.”
He grasped the door handles.
“Stop,” Ambrosi said. “I’ll leave you to your task.” The voice was barely a whisper, the look on Ambrosi’s face devoid of feeling. He wondered how such a man could ever have become a priest.
Michener opened the door. The guards were just on the other side and he knew his visitor would say nothing to stimulate their interest. He let a smile form and said, “Have a nice evening, Father.”
Ambrosi brushed past and Michener slammed the door, but only after ordering the guards not to admit another soul.
He returned to the desk. He needed to finish what he’d started. His sadness in leaving the Vatican was tempered by a relief in knowing that he would no longer have to deal with the likes of Paolo Ambrosi.
He searched through the desk drawers. Most contained stationery, pens, some books, and a few computer disks. Nothing important until the bottom right drawer, where he found Clement’s will. The pope traditionally drafted his will himself, expressing in his own hand his final requests and hopes for the future. Michener unfolded the single sheet and noticed immediately the date, October 10, a little more than thirty days ago:
I, Jakob Volkner, presently possessed of all my faculties and desirous of expressing my last will and testament, do hereby bequeath all that I may possess at the time of my death to Colin Michener. My parents died long ago and my siblings followed in the years after. Colin served me long and well. He is the closest I have left in this world to family. I ask that he do with my belongings as he deems appropriate, using the wisdom and judgment I came to trust during my life. I would request that my funeral be simple and if possible that I be buried in Bamberg, in the cathedral of my youth, though I understand if the church deems otherwise. When I accepted the mantle of St. Peter I likewise accepted the responsibilities, including a duty to rest beneath the basilica with my brethren. I further ask forgiveness from all those I may have offended in words or deeds, and I especially ask forgiveness of our Lord and Savior for the shortcomings I have shown. May He have mercy on my soul.
Tears welled in Michener’s eyes. He, too, hoped God would have mercy on his dear friend’s soul. Catholic teachings were clear. Human beings were obliged to preserve the honor of life as stewards, not owners, of what the Almighty had entrusted. Suicide was contrary to the love of oneself, and to the love of a living God. It broke the ties of solidarity with family and nation. In short, it was a sin. But the eternal salvation of those who took their own lives was not lost completely. The Church taught that, by ways known only to God, an opportunity for repentance would be provided.
And he hoped that was the case.
If indeed heaven existed, Jakob Volkner deserved admission. Whatever had compelled him to do the unspeakable should not consign his soul to eternal damnation.
He laid the will down and tried not to think about eternity.
He’d found himself of late contemplating his own mortality. He was nearing fifty, not all that old, but life no longer seemed infinite. He could envision a time when his body or mind might not allow him the opportunity to enjoy what he’d come to expect. How much longer would he live? Twenty years? Thirty? Forty? Clement had still been vibrant approaching eighty, working sixteen-hour days with regularity. He could only hope he retained half that stamina. Still, his life would eventually end. And he wondered if the deprivations and sacrifices demanded by his Church, and his God, were worth it. Would there be a reward in the afterlife? Or simply nothing?
Dust to dust.
His mind snapped back to his duty.
The will lying before him would have to be given to the Vatican press office. It was traditional to release the text, but first the camerlengo would have to approve, so he slid the page into his cassock.
He decided to anonymously donate the furniture to a local charity. The books and few personal belongings he’d keep as a remembrance of a man he’d loved. Against the far wall rested the wooden chest Clement had carried with him for years. Michener knew that it had been carved in Oberammergau, a Bavarian town at the base of the Alps famous for its wood craftsmen. It possessed the look and feel of a Riemenschneider, the exterior unstained and adorned with bold portrayals of the apostles, saints, and the Virgin.
In all their years together, he’d never known what Clement kept inside. Now the chest was his. He walked over and tried the lid. Locked. A brass receptacle allowed for a key. He hadn’t seen one anywhere in the apartment, and he certainly did not want to inflict any damage prying the box open. So he decided to store the chest and worry about what was inside later.
He stepped back to the desk and finished cleaning out the remaining drawers. In the last one he found a single sheet of trifolded papal stationery. On it was a handwritten note.
I, Clement XV, on this day have elevated to the status of Cardinal Eminence the Reverend Father Colin Michener.
He could hardly believe what he read. Clement had exercised his ability to a appoint a cardinal in petto—in secret. Usually cardinals were informed of their elevation through a certificate from the reigning pontiff, openly published, then invested by the pope in an elaborate consistory. But secret appointments became common for cardinals in communist countries, or in places where oppressive regimes might endanger the nominee. The rules for in petto appointments made clear that seniority dated from the time of the appointment, not from the time the selection was made public, but there was one other rule that sank his heart. If the pope died before an in petto selection was made public, the appointment died, too.