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Valendrea did not write down the tally, he just mentally added up each repeat of his name. When the seventy-sixth time occurred, he quit listening. Only when the scrutineers pronounced his election with 102 votes did he focus on the altar.

He’d many times wondered what this moment would feel like. Now he alone dictated what a billion Catholics would or would not believe. No longer could any cardinal refuse his command. He would be called Holy Father, his every need catered to until the day he died. Cardinals had cried and cowered at this moment. A few had even fled the chapel, screaming their refusal. He realized every eye was about to focus upon him. He was no longer Alberto Cardinal Valendrea, bishop of Florence, secretary of state for the Holy See.

He was pope.

Ngovi approached the altar. Valendrea understood the African was about to perform his final duty as camerlengo. After a moment of prayer, Ngovi walked in silence down the center aisle and stood before him.

“Do you, most reverend Lord Cardinal, accept your election as supreme pontiff, which has been canonically carried out?”

They were words that had been spoken to victors for centuries.

He stared into Ngovi’s piercing eyes and tried to sense what the older man was thinking. Why had he refused to be a candidate, knowing a man he despised would almost certainly be selected pontiff? From everything he knew, this African was a devout Catholic. A man who would do whatever was necessary to protect the Church. He was no coward. Yet he’d walked away from a fight he might have won.

He purged those confusing thoughts from his mind and said in a clear voice, “I accept.” It was the first time in decades that Italian had been used in response to that question.

The cardinals stood and erupted in applause.

The grief for a dead pope was now replaced by the elation for a new pontiff. Outside the chapel doors Valendrea imagined the scene as observers heard the commotion, the first signal that something might have been decided. He watched as one of the scrutineers carried the ballots toward the stove. In a few moments white smoke would fill the morning sky and the piazza would erupt in cheers.

The ovation subsided. One more question was required.

“By what name will you be known?” Ngovi asked in Latin.

The chapel went silent.

The choosing of a name signaled much of what may be coming. John Paul I proclaimed his legacy by selecting the names of his two immediate predecessors, a message that he hoped to emulate the goodness of John and sternness of Paul. John Paul II conveyed a similar message when he chose his predecessor’s dual label. For many years Valendrea had considered what name he would select, debating among the more popular choices—Innocent, Benedict, Gregory, Julius, Sixtus. Jakob Volkner had gravitated to Clement because of his German ancestry. Valendrea, though, wanted his name to send an unambiguous message that the imperial papacy had returned.

“Peter II.”

Gasps pierced the chapel. Ngovi’s expression never broke. Of the 267 pontiffs, there’d been twenty-three Johns, six Pauls, thirteen Leos, twelve named Pius, eight Alexanders, and a variety of other labels.

But only one Peter.

The first pope.

Thou art Peter and on this rock I will build my Church.

His bones lay only meters away, beneath the largest house of worship in Christendom. He was the first saint of the Catholic Church and the most revered. Over two millennia, no man had chosen his name.

He stood from his chair.

The time for pretense was over. All of the rituals had been dutifully performed. His election was certified, he’d formally accepted, and he’d announced his name. He was now Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Prince of the Apostles, Pontifex Maximus charged with primacy of jurisdiction over the Universal Church, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Primate of Italy, Patriarch of the West.

Servant of the Servants of God.

He faced the cardinals and made sure no one misunderstood. “I choose to be known as Peter II,” he said in Italian.

No one said a word.

Then one of the three cardinals from last night started to clap. A few others slowly joined in. Soon the chapel reverberated with thunderous applause. Valendrea savored the absolute joy of victory that no man could take away. Yet his ecstacy was tempered by two things.

A smile that slowly crept onto Maurice Ngovi’s lips, and the camerlengo’s joining in the applause.

FIFTY

MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA

11:00 A.M.

Katerina sat beside the bed and kept watch over Michener. The vision of him being carried into the hospital unconscious was still fresh in her mind, and she now knew what the loss of this man would mean.

She hated herself even more for deceiving him. She was going to tell Michener the truth. Hopefully, he’d forgive her. She hated herself for agreeing to Valendrea’s requests. But maybe she’d needed prodding since her pride and anger could have otherwise prevented her from ever rediscovering Michener. Their first encounter in the piazza three weeks ago had been a disaster. Valendrea’s overtures had clearly made things easier, but it didn’t make it right.

Michener’s eyes blinked open.

“Colin.”

“Kate?” He was trying to focus.

“I’m here.”

“I hear you, but I can’t see you. It’s like looking underwater. What happened?”

“Lightning. It struck the cross on the mountain. You and Jasna were too close.”

He reached up and rubbed his brow. His fingers gently probed the scrapes and cuts. “She okay?”

“Seems to be. She was out, like you. What were you doing there?”

“Later.”

“Sure. Here, take some water. The doctor said you need to drink.” She brought a cup to his lips and he sucked a few sips.

“Where am I?”

“A local infirmary the government operates for the pilgrims.”

“They say what’s wrong with me?”

“No concussion. Just too close to a lot of voltage. Any closer and you’d both be dead. Nothing’s broken, but you’ve got a nasty lump and a gash on the back of your head.”

The door opened and a middle-aged, bearded man entered. “How’s the patient doing?” he asked in English. “I’m the doctor who treated you, Father. How do you feel?”

“Like an avalanche rolled over me,” Michener said.

“Understandable. But you’ll be okay. A small cut, but no skull cracks. I’d recommend a complete exam when you get back home. Actually, considering what happened, you were pretty lucky.”

After a quick look and a little more advice the doctor left.

“How’d he know I was a priest?”

“I had to identify you. You scared the hell out of me.”

“What about the conclave?” he asked. “Have you heard anything?”

“Why am I not surprised that’s the first thing on your mind.”

“You’re not interested?”

Actually she was curious. “There was no news an hour ago.”

She reached out and clasped his hand. He turned his head toward her and said, “I wish I could see you.”

“I love you, Colin.” She felt better having said it.

“And I love you, Kate. I should have told you that years ago.”

“Yes, you should.”

“I should have done a lot of things differently. I only know that I want my future to include you.”

“And what of Rome?”

“I’ve done all that I said I would. I’m through with that. I want to go to Romania, with you.”

Her eyes watered. She was glad he couldn’t see her crying. She swiped away the tears. “We’ll do good there,” she said, trying to keep her voice from quivering.