In his office, with the door closed, he turned to Ambrosi. “Find the cardinal-archivist. Tell him to be standing before the Riserva in fifteen minutes.”
Ambrosi bowed and withdrew.
He stepped into the bathroom adjoining his office. He was still incensed by Ngovi’s arrogance. The African was right. There was little he could do to him besides reassignment to a post far from Rome. But that wouldn’t be wise. The soon-to-be-ex-camerlengo had amassed a surprising show of support. It would be foolish to pounce this soon. Patience was the call. But that didn’t mean he’d forgotten Maurice Ngovi.
He splashed water onto his face and dried off with a towel.
The door to the outer office opened and Ambrosi returned. “The archivist is waiting.”
He tossed the towel onto the marble counter. “Good. Let’s go.”
He stormed from the office and descended to the ground floor. The startled looks on the Swiss guards he passed showed that they were not accustomed to a pope appearing without warning.
He entered the archives.
The reading and collection rooms were empty. No one had been allowed use of the facility since Clement died. He stepped into the main hall and crossed the mosaic floor toward the iron grille. The cardinal-archivist stood outside. No one else was there except Ambrosi.
He approached the old man. “Needless to say, your services will no longer be needed. I would retire, if I were you. Be gone by the weekend.”
“My desk is already cleaned out.”
“I have not forgotten your comments this morning at breakfast.”
“Please don’t. When we both stand before the Lord, I want you to repeat them.”
He wanted to slap the mouthy Italian. Instead, he simply asked, “Is the safe open?”
The old man nodded.
He turned to Ambrosi. “Wait here.”
For so long, others had commanded the Riserva. Paul VI. John Paul II. Clement XV. Even the irritating archivist. No more.
He rushed inside, reached for the drawer, and slid it open. The wooden box came into view. He lifted it out and carried it to the same table Paul VI had sat at all those decades ago.
He hinged open the lid and saw two sheets of paper interfolded. One, clearly older, was the first part of the third secret of Fatima—in Sister Lucia’s hand—the back of the sheet still bearing a Vatican mark from when the message was made public in 2000. The other, newer, was Father Tibor’s 1960 Italian translation, it, too, marked.
But there should be another sheet.
Father Tibor’s recent facsimile, which Clement himself had placed in the box. Where was it? He’d come to finish the job. To protect the Church and preserve his sanity.
Yet the paper was gone.
He rushed from the Riserva and shot straight for the archivist. He grabbed the old man by his robes. A great surge of anger swept through him. The cardinal’s face filled with shock.
“Where is it?” he spat out.
“What . . . do . . . you mean?” the old man stammered.
“I’m in no mood. Where is it?”
“I have touched nothing. I swear to you before my God.”
He could see the man was being truthful. This was not the source of the problem. He released his grip and the cardinal stepped back, clearly frightened by the assault.
“Get out of here,” he told the archivist.
The old man hustled away.
A thought flooded his mind. Clement. That Friday night when the pope allowed him to destroy half of what Tibor had sent.
I wanted you to know what awaits you, Alberto.
Why didn’t you stop me from burning the paper?
You’ll see.
And when he demanded the remaining portion—Tibor’s translation.
No, Alberto. It stays in the box.
He should have shoved the bastard aside and done what had to be done, regardless of whether the night prefect was there.
Now he saw everything clearly.
The translation was never in the box. Did it even exist? Yes, it did. No question. And Clement had wanted him to know.
Now it had to be found.
He turned to Ambrosi. “Go to Bosnia. Bring Colin Michener back. No excuses, no exceptions. I want him here tomorrow. Tell him if he’s not, I’ll have a warrant issued for his arrest.”
“The charge, Holy Father?” Ambrosi asked, almost matter-of-factly. “So I may say, if he asks.”
He thought a moment, then said, “Complicity in the murder of Father Andrej Tibor.”
FIFTY-FOUR
MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA
6:00 P.M.
Katerina’s stomach knotted as she spotted Father Ambrosi entering the hospital. She immediately noticed the addition of scarlet piping and a red sash to his black wool cassock, signifying an elevation to monsignor. Apparently Peter II wasted no time handing out the spoils.
Michener was resting in his room. All the tests run on him had come back negative, and the doctor predicted he should be fine by tomorrow. They planned to leave for Bucharest at lunchtime. The presence of Ambrosi, though, here in Bosnia, meant nothing but trouble.
Ambrosi spotted her and approached. “I’m told Father Michener had a close call with death.”
She resented his feigned concern, which was clearly for public consumption. “Screw you, Ambrosi.” She kept her voice low. “This fountain is dry.”
He shook his head in a gesture to convey mock disgust. “Love truly does conquer all. No matter. We require nothing further from you.”
But she did of him. “I don’t want Colin to learn anything about you and me.”
“I’m sure you don’t.”
“I’ll tell him myself. Understand?”
He did not answer.
The tenth secret, written by Jasna, was in her pocket. She almost yanked the slip of paper out and forced the words onto Ambrosi, but what heaven might want was surely of no interest to this arrogant ass. Whether the message was from the mother of God or the lamentations of a woman convinced she was divinely chosen, nobody would ever know. But she wondered how the Church and Alberto Valendrea would explain away the tenth secret, particularly after accepting the previous nine from Medjugorje.
“Where is Michener?” Ambrosi asked, the tone expressionless.
“What do you want with him?”
“I want nothing, but his pope is another matter.”
“Leave him alone.”
“Oh, my. The lioness bares her claws.”
“Get out of here, Ambrosi.”
“I’m afraid you don’t tell me what to do. The word of the papal secretary, I imagine, would carry much weight here. Surely more than that of an unemployed journalist.” He moved around her.
She quickly stepped in his way. “I mean it, Ambrosi. Back off. Tell Valendrea that Colin’s through with Rome.”
“He’s still a priest in the Roman Catholic Church, subject to the authority of the pope. He will do as told, or face the consequences.”
“What does Valendrea want?”
“Why don’t we go to Michener,” Ambrosi said, “and I’ll explain. I assure you, it’s worth listening to.”
She entered the room with Ambrosi following. Michener was sitting up in bed and his face constricted at the site of his visitor.