Not to mention obsessed.
Clement again had urged him to go to Bosnia. He’d not planned on following through with that request. What was the point? He still carried the letter signed by Clement addressed to a seer, but the authority sanctioning that order now emanated from the camerlengo and the Sacred College. There was no way Alberto Valendrea was going to allow him a jaunt through Bosnia looking for Marian secrets. That would be an appeasement to a pope he openly despised. Not to mention official permission for any trip would require the cardinals being collectively informed about Father Tibor, papal apparitions, and Clement’s obsession with the third secret of Fatima. The number of questions generated by those revelations would be staggering. Clement’s reputation was too precious to risk. Bad enough four men knew of a papal suicide. He certainly wasn’t going to be the one who actually impugned the memory of a great man. Yet Ngovi might still need to read Clement’s last words. He recalled what Clement had urged at Turin. Maurice Ngovi is the closest thing to me you will ever have. Remember that in the days ahead.
He printed a hard copy.
Then erased the file and switched off the machine.
THIRTY-FOUR
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 27
11:00 A.M.
Michener entered the Vatican through St. Peter’s Square, following a throng of visitors who’d just streamed off buses. He’d vacated his apartment in the Apostolic Palace ten days ago, just before Clement XV’s funeral. He was still credentialed with a security pass but, after tending to this last administrative matter, his duties to the Holy See would officially end.
Cardinal Ngovi had asked him to stay in Rome until the conclave convened. He’d even suggested that he join his staff at the Congregation for Catholic Education, but could not promise a position past the conclave. Ngovi’s Vatican assignment ended with Clement’s death as well, and the camerlengo had already said that if Valendrea achieved the papacy he would return to Africa.
Clement’s funeral had been a simple affair, held outdoors in front of the restored exterior of St. Peter’s Basilica. A million people had crowded the piazza, the flame of a single candle beside the coffin battered by a steady breeze. Michener had not sat with the princes of the Church, where he might have been if things had developed differently. Instead he took his place among the staff who had served their pope faithfully for thirty-four months. More than a hundred heads of state had attended, the entire ceremony transmitted live by television and radio around the world.
Ngovi did not preside. Instead, he delegated the speaking assignments to other cardinals. A shrewd move, actually, one that would surely endear the chosen men to the camerlengo. Maybe not enough to guarantee a conclave vote, but certainly enough to cultivate a willing listener.
Not surprisingly, none of the assignments went to Valendrea, and justifying that omission was easy. The secretary of state focused on the Holy See’s foreign relations during the interregnum. All his attention was on external matters, the task of praising Clement and bidding the pontiff farewell traditionally left to others. Valendrea had taken his duty to heart and been a fixture in the press over the past two weeks, interviewed by every major news organization in the world, the Tuscan’s words sparse and carefully chosen.
When the ceremony ended, twelve pallbearers bore the coffin through the Door of Death and down into the grotto. The sarcophagus, hastily readied by stonemasons, bore an image of Clement II, the eleventh-century German pope Jakob Volkner had so admired, along with Clement XV’s papal emblem. The grave site was near John XXIII’s, something else Clement would have liked. There he was entombed with 148 of his brethren.
“Colin.”
His name being called out caught his attention and he stopped. Katerina was making her way across the piazza. He’d not seen her since Bucharest, nearly three weeks ago.
“You’re back in Rome?” he asked.
She was dressed in a different style. Chinos, chocolate-brown lamb-suede shirt, and houndstooth jacket. A bit more trendy than he recalled her tastes, but attractive.
“I never left.”
“You came here from Bucharest?”
She nodded. Her ebony hair was worked by the wind and she brushed the strands from her face. “I was on my way to leave when I learned about Clement. So I stayed on.”
“What have you been doing?”
“Grabbed a couple of freelance jobs to cover the funeral.”
“I saw Kealy on CNN.” The priest had been a regular the past week, offering slanted insights into the coming conclave.
“I did, too. But I haven’t seen Tom since the day after Clement died. You were right. I can do better.”
“You did the right thing. I’ve been listening to that fool on television. He’s got an opinion on everything, and most of them are wrong.”
“Maybe CNN should have hired you?”
He chuckled. “Just what I need.”
“What are you going to do, Colin?”
“I’m here to tell Cardinal Ngovi that I’m headed back to Romania.”
“To see Father Tibor again?”
“You don’t know?”
A puzzled look came to her face. He told her about Tibor’s murder.
“That poor man. He didn’t deserve that. And those children. He was all they had.”
“Exactly why I’m going. You were right. It’s time I do something.”
“You seem happy about the decision.”
He glanced around the square at a place he’d once strolled with the impunity of the papal secretary. Now he felt like a stranger. “It’s time to move on.”
“No more ivory towers?”
“Not in my future. That orphanage in Zlatna is going to be home for a while.”
She shifted on her feet. “We’ve come a long way. No arguments. No anger. Finally, friends.”
“Just don’t make the same mistakes twice. That’s all any of us can hope for.” And he saw that she agreed. He was glad they’d run into each other again. But Ngovi was waiting. “Take care, Kate.”
“You, too, Colin.”
And he walked away, fighting hard the urge to glance back one last time.
He found Ngovi in his office at the Congregation for Catholic Education. The outer warren of rooms bustled with activity. With the conclave starting tomorrow, there seemed a push to get everything finished.
“I actually believe we’re ready,” Ngovi told him.
The door was closed and the staff had been instructed not to disturb them. Michener was expecting another job pitch, since Ngovi was the one who’d called for the meeting.
“I waited until now to speak with you, Colin. Tomorrow I’ll be locked away in the Sistine.” Ngovi straightened in the chair. “I want you to go to Bosnia.”
The request surprised him. “For what? You and I both agreed the whole thing was ridiculous.”
“The matter disturbs me. Clement was intent on something, and I want to carry out his wishes. That’s the duty of any camerlengo. He wanted to learn the tenth secret. So do I.”
He hadn’t mentioned to Ngovi Clement’s final e-mail message. So he reached into his pocket and found the copy. “You need to read this.”