“You expected me to come?”
“Oh, yes. Jakob said you would. And he was always right . . . especially about you.”
Then he realized. “In his letter. The one that came from Turin. He made mention in there?”
She nodded.
“You have what I want, don’t you?”
“That depends. Do you come for yourself or someone else?”
A strange question, and he considered his response. “I come for my Church.”
She smiled again. “Jakob said you would answer that way. He knew you well.”
He motioned for Katerina and introduced them. The old woman flashed a warm smile and the two women shook hands. “It’s so nice to meet you. Jakob said you might come, too.”
SIXTY-TWO
VATICAN CITY, 10:30 A.M.
Valendrea leafed through Lignum Vitae. The archivist stood before him. He’d ordered the elderly cardinal to present himself on the fourth floor and bring the volume with him. He wanted to see for himself what had held so much interest for Ngovi and Michener.
He found the section of Malachy’s prophecy that dealt with Peter the Roman at the end of Arnold Wion’s eighteen-hundred-page account:
In the final persecution of the Holy Roman Church there will reign Peter the Roman who will feed his flock among many tribulations, after which in the seven hilled city the dreadful judge will judge all people.
“You actually believe this rubbish?” he asked the archivist.
“You are the one hundred and twelfth pope on Malachy’s list. The last one mentioned, and he said you would choose that name.”
“So the Church is facing the apocalypse? From the seven hilled city the dreadful judge will judge all people. You believe that? You can’t be that ignorant.”
“Rome is the seven hilled city. That has been its label since ancient times. And I resent your tone.”
“I don’t care what you resent. I only want to know what you, Ngovi, and Michener discussed.”
“I’m not telling you anything.”
He motioned to the manuscript. “Then tell me why you believe in this prophecy.”
“As if it matters what I think.”
He stood from the desk. “It matters a great deal, Eminence. Consider it a final act for the Church. This is your last day, I believe.”
The old man’s face betrayed nothing of the regret he was surely feeling. This cardinal had served Rome for nearly five decades and had certainly seen his share of joy and pain. But he was the man who’d orchestrated the conclave support for Ngovi—that had become clear yesterday when the cardinals finally began talking—and he’d done a masterful job of collating votes. A shame he hadn’t chosen the winning side.
Equally disturbing, though, was a discussion of Malachy prophecies that had arisen in the press over the past two days. He suspected the man standing before him was the source of those stories, though no reporter quoted anyone, only the usual unnamed Vatican official. The Malachy predictions were nothing new—conspiratorialists had long warned of them—but journalists were now beginning to make a connection. The 112th pope had indeed taken the name Peter II. How could a monk in the eleventh century, or a chronicler in the sixteenth century, possibly have known that was going to happen? Coincidence? Maybe, but it strained the concept to its breaking point.
Valendrea actually wondered the same thing. Some would say he chose the name knowing what was recorded in the Vatican archives. But Peter had always been his preference, ever since he decided to achieve the papacy back in the days of John Paul II. He’d never told anyone, not even Ambrosi. And he’d never read Malachy’s predictions.
He stared back at the archivist, waiting for an answer to his question. Finally the cardinal said, “I have nothing to say.”
“Then perhaps you could speculate where the missing document might be?”
“I know of no missing document. Everything in the inventory is there.”
“This document is not on your inventory. Clement added it to the Riserva.”
“I have no responsibility for that which is unknown to me.”
“Really? Then tell me what you do know. What was mentioned when you met with Cardinal Ngovi and Monsignor Michener.”
The archivist said nothing.
“From your silence, I must assume that the subject was the missing document and you were involved in its removal.”
He realized the jab would tear at the old man’s heart. As archivist, his duty was to preserve Church writings. The fact one was missing would forever stain his tenure.
“I did nothing except open the Riserva on order of His Holiness, Clement XV.”
“And I believe you, Eminence. I think Clement himself, unbeknownst to anyone, removed the writing. All I want is to find it.” He lightened his tone, signaling an acceptance of the explanation.
“I, too, want—” the archivist started, then stopped, as if he might say more than warranted.
“Go on. Tell me, Eminence.”
“I’m as shocked as you something may be gone. But I have no idea when that occurred or where it might be.” The tone made clear that was his story and he planned to stay with it.
“Where is Michener?” He was already reasonably sure of the answer, but decided verification would ease any concern that Ambrosi might be following the wrong trail.
“I do not know,” the archivist said, a slight tremble in the voice.
He now asked what he really wanted to know. “And what of Ngovi? What’s his interest?”
The archivist’s face registered understanding. “You fear him, don’t you?”
He didn’t allow the comment to affect him. “I fear no one, Eminence. I’m merely wondering why the camerlengo is so interested in Fatima.”
“I never said he was interested.”
“But it was discussed during the meeting yesterday, was it not?”
“I didn’t say that, either.”
He let his gaze drift down to the book, a subtle signal that the old man’s obstinance wasn’t affecting him. “Eminence, I fired you. I could just as easily rehire you. Would you not like to die here, in the Vatican, as cardinal-archivist of the Catholic Church? Would you not like to see the document now missing returned? Does not your duty mean more to you than any personal feelings about me?”
The old man shifted on his feet, his silence perhaps an indication that he was considering the proposal.
“What is it you want?” the archivist finally asked.
“Tell me where Father Michener has gone.”
“I was told this morning he went to Bamberg.” The voice was filled with resignation.
“So you lied to me?”
“You asked if I knew where he was. I don’t. I only know what I was told.”
“And the purpose of the trip?”
“The document you seek may be there.”
Now for something new. “And Ngovi?”
“He’s waiting for Father Michener’s call.”
His bare hands tightened on the edge of the book. He hadn’t bothered to wear gloves. What did it matter? The manuscript would be ashes by tomorrow. Now for the critical part. “Ngovi is waiting to learn what is in the missing document?”
The old man nodded, as if it pained him to be honest. “They want to know what you seemingly already know.”
SIXTY-THREE
BAMBERG, 11:00 A.M.
Michener and Katerina followed Irma Rahn through the Maxplatz, then beyond to the river and a five-story inn. A wrought-iron sign announced the name KÖNIGSHOF, along with the designation 1614—the year, Irma explained, the building was erected.
Her family had owned the property for generations, and she had inherited it from her father after her brother was killed in World War II. Former fishermen’s houses surrounded the inn on both sides. Originally the building had served as a mill, the paddle wheel gone for centuries, but the black mansard roof, iron balconies, and baroque detailing were still there. She’d added a tavern and restaurant and now led them inside, where they sat at an empty table beside a twelve-paned window. Outside, clouds dimmed the late-morning sky. More snow seemed on the way. Their host brought them each a stein of beer.