“I bring you greetings from Peter II,” Ambrosi said. “We learned about what happened—”
“And just had to fly over to let me know your deep concern.”
Ambrosi kept a stone face. Katerina wondered if he’d been born with the ability or mastered the technique through years of deceit.
“We’re aware of why you are in Bosnia,” Ambrosi said. “I’ve been sent to ascertain if you have learned anything from the seers?”
“Not a thing.”
She was impressed with Michener’s ability to lie, too.
“Must I go and find out if you’re being truthful?”
“Do whatever you want.”
“The information being circulated around town is that the tenth secret was revealed to the seer, Jasna, last night, and the visions are now over. The priests here are quite upset over that prospect.”
“No more tourists? The money flow ended?” She couldn’t resist.
Ambrosi faced her. “Perhaps you should wait outside. This is Church business.”
“She’s not going anywhere,” Michener said. “With all you and Valendrea have surely been doing the past two days, you’re worried about what’s happening here in Bosnia? Why?”
Ambrosi folded both hands behind his back. “I’m the one asking questions.”
“Then by all means fire away.”
“The Holy Father commands you back to Rome.”
“You know what you can tell the Holy Father.”
“Such disrespect. At least we openly did not scorn Clement XV.”
Michener’s face hardened. “That’s supposed to impress me? You just did everything possible to thwart what he was trying to do.”
“I was hoping you’d be difficult.”
The tone of Ambrosi’s comment worried her. He seemed immensely pleased.
“I’m to inform you that if you do not come voluntarily, a warrant for your arrest will be issued through the Italian government.”
“What are you babbling about?” Michener asked.
“The papal nuncio in Bucharest has informed His Holiness of your meeting with Father Tibor. He’s upset he was not part of whatever you and Clement were doing. The Romanian authorities are now interested in talking with you. They, as we, are curious as to what the late pope wanted with that aging priest.”
Katerina’s throat tightened. This was drifting into dangerous waters. Michener, though, seemed unfazed. “Who said Clement was interested in Father Tibor?”
Ambrosi shrugged. “You? Clement? Who cares? All that matters is you went to see him and the Romanian police want to talk with you. The Holy See can either block that effort, or aid it. Which would you prefer?”
“Don’t care.”
Ambrosi turned around and faced Katerina. “What about you? Do you care?”
She realized the asshole was playing his trump card. Get Michener back to Rome or he’d learn, right now, how she’d so easily found him in Bucharest and Rome.
“What’s she got to do with this?” Michener quickly asked.
Ambrosi hesitated for an agonizing pause. She wanted to slap his face, as she had in Rome, but she did nothing.
Ambrosi turned back to Michener. “I was only wondering what she might think. I understand she’s a Romanian by birth, familiar with her country’s police. I imagine their interrogation techniques are something one might want to avoid.”
“Care to tell me how you know so much about her?”
“Father Tibor spoke with the papal nuncio in Bucharest. He told him about Ms. Lew being present when you talked with him. I simply learned of her background.”
She was impressed with Ambrosi’s explanation. If not for knowing the truth, she would have believed it herself.
“Leave her out of this,” Michener said.
“Will you return to Rome?”
“I’ll go back.”
The response surprised her.
Ambrosi nodded approval. “I have a plane available in Split. When will you leave this hospital?”
“In the morning.”
“Be ready at seven A.M.” Ambrosi headed for the door. “And I’ll pray this evening—” He paused a moment. “—for your speedy recovery.”
Then he left.
“If he’s praying for me, I’m in real trouble,” Michener said as the door closed.
“Why did you agree to go back? He was bluffing about Romania.”
Michener shifted in the bed and she helped him get situated. “I have to talk with Ngovi. He needs to know what Jasna said.”
“For what? You can’t believe any of what she wrote. That secret is ludicrous.”
“Maybe so. But it’s the tenth secret of Medjugorje, whether we believe it or not. I need to give it to Ngovi.”
She adjusted the pillow. “Ever heard of fax machines?”
“I don’t want to argue about this, Kate. Besides, I’m curious what’s important enough for Valendrea to send his errand boy. Apparently there’s something big involved, and I think I know what it is.”
“The third secret of Fatima?”
He nodded. “But it still makes no sense. That secret is known to the world.”
She recalled what Father Tibor had said in his messages to Clement. Do as the Madonna said . . . How much intolerance will heaven allow?
“This whole thing is beyond logic,” Michener said.
She wanted to know, “Have you and Ambrosi always been enemies?”
He nodded. “I wonder how a man like that became a priest. If not for Valendrea, he never would have made it to Rome. They’re perfect for one another.” He hesitated, as if in thought. “I imagine there’s going to be a lot of changes.”
“That’s not your problem,” she said, hoping he wasn’t changing his mind about their future.
“Don’t worry, I’m not having second thoughts. But I wonder if the Romanian authorities are truly interested in me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Could be a smokescreen.”
She looked puzzled.
“Clement sent me an e-mail the night he died. In it he told me that Valendrea may have removed part of the original third secret long ago when he worked for Paul VI.”
She listened with interest.
“Clement and Valendrea went into the Riserva together the night before Clement died. Valendrea also took an unscheduled trip from Rome the next day.”
She instantly saw the significance. “The Saturday Father Tibor was murdered?”
“Connect the dots and a picture starts to form.”
The image of Ambrosi, his knee jammed into her chest, his hands wrapped around her throat, flashed through her mind. Had Valendrea and Ambrosi been involved with Tibor’s murder? She wanted to tell Michener what she knew, but realized that her explanation would generate far too many questions than she was presently willing to answer. Instead, she asked, “Could Valendrea have been involved with Father Tibor’s death?”
“Hard to say. But he’s certainly capable. As is Ambrosi. I still think Ambrosi is bluffing, though. The last thing the Vatican wants is attention. I’m betting our new pope will do whatever he can to keep the spotlight off him.”
“But Valendrea could direct that spotlight somewhere else.”
Michener seemed to understand. “Like onto me.”
She nodded. “Nothing better than an ex-employee to blame everything on.”
Valendrea donned one of the white cassocks the House of Gammarelli had crafted during the afternoon. He’d been right this morning—his measurements were on file, and it had been easy to fashion the appropriate garments in a short period of time. The seamstresses had done their job well. He admired good work and made a mental note to have Ambrosi forward an official thanks.
He hadn’t heard from Ambrosi since Paolo had left for Bosnia. But he had no doubt that his friend would tend to his mission. Ambrosi knew what was at stake. He’d made things clear to him that night in Romania. Colin Michener had to be brought to Rome. Clement XV had cleverly thought ahead—he’d give the German that—and had apparently concluded that Valendrea would succeed him, so he’d purposely removed Tibor’s latest translation, knowing there was no way he could start his papacy with that potential disaster looming.