the Third Secret (2005) (29 page)

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.”

“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.

“We’re only open for dinner,” Irma said. “The tables will be full then. Our cook is quite popular.”

Michener wanted to know, “Back in the church, you said Jakob mentioned that Katerina and I would come. Was that really in his last letter?”

She nodded. “He said to expect you and that probably this lovely woman would come with you. My Jakob was intuitive, especially when it came to you, Colin. May I call you that? I feel I know you well enough.”

“I wouldn’t want you to call me anything else.”

“And I’m Katerina.”

She threw them both a smile he liked.

“What else did Jakob say?” he asked.

“He told me of your dilemma. Of your crisis in faith. Since you’re here, I assume you read my letters.”

“I never realized the depth of your relationship.”

Beyond the window, a barge chugged by, heading north.

“My Jakob was a loving man. He devoted his entire life to others. Gave himself to God.”

“But apparently not completely,” Katerina said.

Michener had been waiting for her to make the point. Last night she’d read the letters he’d managed to salvage and was shocked by Volkner’s private emotion.

“I resented him,” Katerina said in a flat tone. “I envisioned him pressuring Colin into choosing, urging him to put the Church first. But I was wrong. I realize now that he, of all people, would have understood how I felt.”

“He did. He talked to me about Colin’s pain. He wanted to tell him the truth, show him he wasn’t alone, but I said no. The time wasn’t right. I didn’t want anyone to know of us. That was something intensely private.” She faced him. “He wanted you to stay a priest. To change things, he needed your help. I think he knew, even then, that one day you and he would make a difference.”

Michener needed to say, “He tried to change things. Not with confrontation, but with reason. He was a man of peace.”

“But above all, Colin, he was a man.” Her voice trailed off at the end of the statement, as if a memory returned for a moment and she didn’t want to ignore it. “Just a man, weak and sinful, like us all.”

Katerina reached across the table and cupped the old woman’s hand. Both women’s eyes glistened.

“When did the relationship start?” Katerina asked.

“When we were children. I knew then that I loved him, and that I always would.” She bit her lip. “But I also knew that I would never have him. Not completely. Even then, he wanted to be a priest. Somehow, though, it was always enough that I possessed his heart.”

He wanted to know something. Why, he wasn’t sure. It was really none of his business. But he sensed that it was all right to ask. “The love was never consummated?”

Her gaze engaged his for several seconds before a slight smile came to her lips. “No, Colin. Your Jakob never violated his oath to his Church. That would have been unthinkable for both him and me.” She looked at Katerina. “We must all judge ourselves by the times in which we live. Jakob and I were from another era. Bad enough for us to love one another. It would have been unthinkable to take that farther.”

He recalled what Clement had said in Turin.
Restrained love is not a pleasant matter.
“You’ve lived here, alone, all that time?”

“I have my family, this business, my friends, and my God. I knew the love of a man who shared himself totally with me. Not in the physical sense, but in every other way. Few can make such a claim.”

“It was never a problem you weren’t together?” Katerina asked. “I don’t mean sexually. I mean physically, close to one another. That had to be tough.”

“I would have preferred things to be different. But that was beyond my control. Jakob was called to the priesthood early. I knew that, and did nothing to interfere. I loved him enough to share him . . . even with heaven.”

A middle-aged woman pushed through a swinging door and spoke a few words to Irma. Something about the market and supplies. Another barge slipped past the window across the gray-brown river. A few flakes of snow tapped the panes.

“Does anybody know about you and Jakob?” he asked after the woman left.

She shook her head. “Neither of us ever spoke of it. Many here in town know that Jakob and I were childhood friends.”

“His death must have been awful for you,” Katerina said.

She let out a long breath. “You can’t imagine. I knew he was looking bad. I saw him on television. I realized it was only a matter of time. We’re both getting old. But his time came suddenly. I still expect a letter to arrive in the mail, like it did so many times before.” Her voice grew softer, cracking with emotion. “My Jakob is gone, and you are the first people I have spoken to about him. He told me to trust you. That through your visit I could gain peace. And he was right. Simply talking about this has made me feel better.”

He wondered what this gentle woman would think if she knew Volkner had taken his own life. Did she have a right to know? She was opening her heart to them, and he was tired of lying. Clement’s memory would be safe with her. “He killed himself.”

Irma said nothing for the longest time.

He caught Katerina’s glare as she said, “The pope took his own life?”

He nodded. “Sleeping pills. He said the Virgin Mary told him that he must end his life through his own hand. The penance for disobedience. He said he’d ignored heaven far too long. But not this time.”

Irma still said nothing. She just stared at him with impassioned eyes.

“You knew?” he asked.

She nodded. “He’s come to me recently . . . in my dreams. He tells me that it’s okay. He’s forgiven now. That he would have joined God soon anyway. I didn’t understand what he meant.”

“Have you experienced any visions while awake?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Just dreams.” Her voice was distant. “Soon I’ll be with him. That’s all that keeps me going. For eternity, Jakob and I will be together. He tells me that in the dream.” She looked at Katerina. “You asked me how it was to be apart. Those years of separation are inconsequential compared with forever. If nothing else, I’m a patient woman.”

He needed to nudge her toward the point of it all. “Irma, where is what Jakob sent to you?”

She stared down into her beer. “I have an envelope Jakob told me to give to you.”

“I need it.”

Irma rose from the table. “It’s next door in my apartment. I’ll be right back.”

The old woman lumbered out of the restaurant.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Clement?” Katerina asked, as the door closed. The frigid tone matched the temperature outside.

“I would think the answer is obvious.”

“Who knows?”

“Only a few.”

She stood from the table. “Always the same, isn’t it? Lots of secrets in the Vatican.” She slipped on her coat and headed for the door. “Something you seem quite comfortable with.”

“Just like you.” He knew he shouldn’t have said it.

She stopped. “I’ll give you that one. I deserve it. What’s your excuse?”

He said nothing and she turned to leave. “Where are you going?”

“For a walk. I’m sure you and Clement’s lover have much more to talk about that doesn’t include me, either.”