He clasped his hands and stared up at the tortured face of Christ on the crucifix. He reverently beseeched the son of God for guidance. He’d obviously been chosen pope for a reason. He’d also been motivated to choose the name Peter. Before this afternoon he’d thought both just the product of his own ambition. Now he knew better. He was the conduit. Peter II. To him, there was only one course of action, and he thanked the Almighty that he possessed the strength to do what had to be done.
“Holy Father.”
He crossed himself and stood from the prie-dieu. Ambrosi filled the doorway at the back of the dimly lit chapel. Concern filled his assistant’s face. “What about Michener?”
“Gone. With Ms. Lew. But we found something.”
Valendrea scanned the cache of letters and marveled at this latest surprise. Clement XV had possessed a lover. Though nothing admitted to any mortal sin—and for a priest, a violation of Holy Orders would be a grave mortal sin—the meaning was indisputable.
“I continue to be amazed,” he said to Ambrosi, glancing up.
They sat in the library. The same room where he’d confronted Michener earlier. He thought back to something Clement had said to him a month ago when the pope learned that Father Kealy had presented the tribunal with few options. Perhaps we should simply listen to an opposing point of view. Now he understood why Volkner had been so willing. Celibacy, apparently, was not a concept the German had taken seriously. He stared over at Ambrosi. “This is as far reaching as the suicide. I never realized how complex Clement was.”
“And apparently resourceful,” Ambrosi said. “He removed Father Tibor’s writing from the Riserva, confident in what you would subsequently do.”
He didn’t particularly care for Ambrosi’s reminder of his predictability, but he said nothing. Instead he commanded, “Destroy these letters.”
“Should we not hold on to them?”
“We can never use them, as much as I’d like to. Clement’s memory must be preserved. Discrediting him would only discredit this office, and that I cannot afford. We’d hurt ourselves, while tarnishing a dead man. Shred them.” He asked what he really wanted to know. “Where did Michener and Ms. Lew go?”
“Our friends are checking with the taxi company. We should know soon.”
He’d thought earlier that Clement’s personal chest may have been his hiding place. But given what he now knew about his former enemy’s personality, the German had apparently been far more clever. He lifted one of the envelopes and read the return address. IRMA RAHN, HINTERHOLZ 19, BAMBERG, DEUTSCHLAND.
He heard a soft chime and Ambrosi removed a cellular phone from his cassock. A short conversation and Ambrosi beeped off the receiver.
He continued to stare at the envelope. “Let me guess. They were taken to the airport.”
Ambrosi nodded.
He handed the envelope across to his friend. “Find this woman, Paolo, and you’ll find what we seek. Michener and Ms. Lew will be there, as well. They’re on their way to her now.”
“How can you be sure?”
“You can never be sure of anything, but it’s a safe assumption. Tend to this task yourself.”
“Is that not risky?”
“It is a risk we will have to take. I’m sure you can conceal your presence carefully.”
“Of course, Holy Father.”
“I want Tibor’s translation destroyed the moment you locate it. I don’t care how, just do it. Paolo, I’m counting on you to handle this. If anyone, and I mean anyone—this woman of Clement’s, Michener, Lew, I don’t care who—reads those words or knows of them, kill them. Don’t hesitate, just eliminate them.”
The muscles in his secretary’s face never quivered. The eyes, like those of a bird of prey, stared back with an intense glare. Valendrea knew all about Ambrosi and Michener’s dissension—he’d even encouraged it, since nothing ensured loyalty more than a common hatred. So the hours ahead might prove immensely satisfying for his old friend.
“I will not disappoint you, Holy Father,” Ambrosi softly said.
“It is not I whom you should worry about disappointing. We are on a mission for the Lord, and there is much at stake. So very much.”
SIXTY-ONE
BAMBERG, GERMANY
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 1
10:00 A.M.
Michener strolled the cobbled streets and quickly came to understand Jakob Volkner’s love of Bamberg. He’d never visited the town. Volkner’s few trips back home had all been taken alone. They’d planned a papal mission next year as part of a multicity German pilgrimage. Volkner had told him how he wanted to visit his parents’ grave, say Mass in the cathedral, and see old friends. Which made his suicide even more puzzling, since the planning for that joyous journey had been well under way when Clement died.
Bamberg sat where the swift Regnitz and meandering Main River merged. The ecclesiastical half of the city crowned the hills and showcased a royal residence, monastery, and cathedral, the forested crests once the home of prince-bishops. Clinging to the lower slopes, against the banks of the Regnitz, stood the secular portion, where business and commerce had always dominated. The symbolic meeting of the two halves was the river, where clever politicians centuries ago erected a city hall of half-timbered walls tattooed with bright frescoes. The rathaus sat on an island, at the center of the two classes, a stone bridge spanning the river, bisecting the building and connecting both worlds.
He and Katerina had flown from Rome to Munich and spent the night near the airport. This morning they’d rented a car and driven north into central Bavaria, through the Franconian hills, for nearly two hours. They now stood in the Maxplatz, where a lively market filled the square. Other entrepreneurs were busy preparing for the start of the Christmas market, which would begin later in the day. The cold air chapped his lips, the sun flashed intermittently, and snow whisked across the pavement. He and Katerina, unprepared for the change in temperature, had stopped in one of the stores and purchased coats, gloves, and leather boots.
To his left, the Church of St. Martin cast a long shadow across the crowded plaza. Michener had thought a talk with the church’s priest might prove helpful. Surely he would know of Irma Rahn, and the priest had indeed been accommodating, suggesting she might be at St. Gangolf’s, the parish church a few blocks north across a canal.
They found her tending one of the side chapels, beneath a crucified Christ that gazed down in a mournful glare. The air reeked of incense mellowed by the scent of beeswax. She was a tiny woman, her pale skin and crenellated features still suggesting a beauty that had faded little from her youth. If he hadn’t known she was nearing eighty, he would have sworn her to be in her sixties.
They watched as she reverently genuflected each time she passed before the crucifix. Michener stepped forward and passed through an open iron gate. A strange feeling swept over him. Was he intruding on something that was none of his business? But he dismissed the thought. After all, Clement himself had led the way.
“Are you Irma Rahn?” he asked in German.
She faced him. Her silver hair fell to her shoulders. The bones in her cheeks and her sallow skin were untouched by makeup. Her wrinkled chin was round and dainty, the eyes soulful and compassionate.
She stepped close and said, “I was wondering how long it would be before you came.”
“How do you know who I am? We’ve never met.”
“But I know you.”