He held the sheet in his hand. It was dated sixty days before.
He’d come so close to a scarlet biretta.
Alberto Valendrea could well be the next occupant of the apartments surrounding him. Little chance existed that an in petto appointment of Clement XV’s would be affirmed. But a part of him didn’t mind. With all that had happened over the past eighteen hours, he hadn’t even thought of Father Tibor, but now he considered the old priest. Maybe he’d return to Zlatna and the orphanage and finish what the Bulgarian had started. Something told him that was the thing for him to do. If the Church didn’t approve, he’d tell them all to go to hell, beginning with Alberto Valendrea.
You want to be a cardinal? To achieve that, you must grasp the measure of that responsibility. How can you expect me to elevate you when you fail to see what is so clear?
Clement’s words from Turin last Thursday. He’d wondered about their harshness. Now knowing that his mentor had already chosen him, he wondered even more. How can you expect me to elevate you when you fail to see what is so clear?
See what?
He stuffed the paper into his pocket with the will.
No one would ever know what Clement had done. It didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was that his friend had thought him worthy, and that was enough for him.
THIRTY-THREE
8:30 P.M.
Michener finished packing everything in the five boxes provided by the Swiss guards. The armoire, dresser, and nightstands were now empty. The furniture was being carted out by workmen to be stored in a basement warehouse until he could make arrangements for its donation.
He stood in the corridor as the doors were closed a final time and a lead seal stamped in place. In all likelihood he would never enter the papal apartments again. Few ever made it that far within the Church, and even fewer made a return trip. Ambrosi was right. His time was over. The rooms themselves would not be opened until a new pope stood before the doors and the seals were broken. He shuddered at the thought of Alberto Valendrea being that new occupant.
The cardinals were still assembled in St. Peter’s and a requiem funeral Mass was being said before the body of Clement XV, one of many to be offered over the next nine days. While that was happening, there was one task left for him to perform before his official duties ended.
He descended to the third floor.
As with Clement’s apartment, there was little in Michener’s office that would not stay. All of the furnishings were Vatican requisition. The paintings on the wall, including a portrait of Clement, belonged to the Holy See. Everything he owned would fit into one box, and consisted of a few desk accessories, a Bavarian anniversary clock, and three pictures of his parents. All his postings with Clement had provided whatever tangible things he’d ever needed. Beyond some clothes and a laptop, he owned nothing. He’d managed through the years to save a large portion of his salary and, after taking advantage of some savvy investment tips, a few hundred thousand dollars was on deposit in Geneva—his retirement money—since the Church provided miserably for priests. Reforming the pension fund had been discussed at length, and Clement had been in favor of doing something, but that endeavor would now have to await the next pontificate.
He sat at the desk and switched on his computer for a final time. He needed to check any e-mail messages and prepare instructions for his successor. Over the past week his deputies had handled everything, and he saw that most of his messages could wait until after the conclave. Depending on who was elected pope, he might be needed for a week or so after the conclave to ease the transition. But if Valendrea secured the throne, Paolo Ambrosi would almost certainly be the next papal secretary and Michener’s Vatican credentials would be immediately revoked, his services no longer required. Which would be fine by him. He would do nothing to help Ambrosi.
He continued to scroll down the list of e-mails, checking each one, then deleting. A few he saved, tagging a short note for the staff. Three were condolences from bishops who were friends, and he sent back a short reply. Maybe one of them could use an aide? But he dismissed the thought. He wasn’t going to do that again. What had Katerina said in Bucharest? Is your life to be in the service of others? Perhaps if he devoted himself to something like the cause Father Tibor had deemed important, Clement XV’s soul might be granted salvation. His sacrifice could be penance for his friend’s shortcoming.
And that thought made him feel better.
The pope’s upcoming Christmas schedule appeared on the screen. The itinerary had been transmitted to Castle Gandolfo for review and bore Clement’s initials, signifying approval. It called for the pope to celebrate the traditional Christmas Eve Mass in St. Peter’s, then deliver his yuletide message the following day from the balcony. Michener noted the time of the return e-mail from Castle Gandolfo. Ten fifteen A.M., Saturday. That was about when he’d arrived back in Rome from Bucharest, long before he and Clement first talked. And even longer before Clement learned of Father Tibor’s murder. Strange that a suicidal pontiff had taken the time to review a schedule he had no intention of keeping.
Michener scrolled down to the last e-mail message and noticed no identification tag. Occasionally he received anonymous messages from people who somehow managed to learn his Web address. Most were harmless devotions from folks who wanted their pope to know they cared.
He double-clicked on the entry and saw that the transmission emanated from Castle Gandolfo, dated last evening. Time received, eleven fifty-six P.M.
By now, Colin, you’re aware of what I have done. I don’t expect you to understand. Just know that the Virgin returned and told me my time had come. Father Tibor was with Her. I waited for Her to take me, but She said I must end my life through my own hand. Father Tibor said it was my duty, the penance for disobedience, and that all would be clear later. I wondered about my soul, but was told the Lord was waiting. I have for too long ignored heaven. I will not this time. You have asked me repeatedly what is wrong. I will tell you. In 1978 Valendrea removed from the Riserva part of the Virgin’s third message from Fatima. Only five people know what was originally in that box. Four of them—Sister Lucia, John XXIII, Paul VI, and Father Tibor—are gone. Only Valendrea remains. Of course, he will deny everything and the words you are reading will be deemed the ramblings of a man who took his own life. But know that when John Paul read the third secret and released it to the world, he was not privy to the entire message. It is for you to set things right. Go to Medjugorje. It is vital. Not only for me, but for the Church. Consider it a last request from a friend.
I am sure the Church is preparing for my funeral. Ngovi will do his duty well. Please, do with my body as you please. Pomp and ceremony do not make the pious. For me, though, I would prefer the sanctity of Bamberg, that lovely city by the river, and the cathedral I so loved. My only regret is that I did not see its beauty one last time. Perhaps, though, my legacy could still be there. But I shall leave that conclusion to others. God stay with you, Colin, and know that I loved you dearly, as a father loves his son.
A suicide note, plain and simple, written by a troubled man who was apparently delusional. The supreme pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church was saying that the Virgin Mary told him to kill himself. But the part about Valendrea and the third secret was interesting. Could he give the information credence? He wondered if Ngovi should be apprised, but concluded that the fewer who knew about this message, the better. Clement’s body was now embalmed, his fluids consigned to flames, and the cause of death would never be known. The words glaring back at him from the screen were nothing but confirmation that perhaps the late pontiff had been mentally ill.