the Third Secret (2005) (16 page)

THIRTY

9:00 A.M.

Michener watched from the bedroom window as the Vatican helicopter touched down. He hadn’t left Clement since his discovery, using the phone beside the bed to telephone Cardinal Ngovi in Rome.

The African was the camerlengo, chamberlain of the Holy Roman Church, the first person to be informed of a papal death. Under canon law Ngovi was charged with administering the Church during the
sede vacante,
the Vacant See, which was now the official designation for the Vatican government. There was no supreme pontiff. Instead Ngovi, in conjunction with the Sacred College of Cardinals, would administer a government by committee that would last for the next two weeks, during which time funeral preparations would be made and the coming conclave organized. As camerlengo, Ngovi would not be acting pope, just a caretaker, but his authority was nonetheless clear. Which was fine by Michener. Somebody was going to have to control Alberto Valendrea.

The chopper blades whirled down and the cabin door slid open. Ngovi exited first, followed by Valendrea, both dressed in scarlet regalia. As secretary of state, Valendrea’s presence was required. Two more bishops followed Valendrea, along with the papal physician, whom Michener had specifically requested. He’d told Ngovi nothing of the details surrounding the death. Nor had he told the villa staff, merely informing the nun and chamberlain to make sure no one entered the bedroom.

Three minutes passed before the bedchamber door swung open and the two cardinals and physician entered. Ngovi closed the door and secured the latch. The doctor moved toward the bed and examined Clement. Michener had left everything exactly as he found it, including Clement’s laptop computer, still on, connected to a phone line, its monitor bright with a screen saver programmed specially for Clement—a tiara crossed by two keys.

“Tell me what happened,” Ngovi said, laying a small black satchel on the bed.

Michener explained what he’d found, then motioned to the table. Neither of the cardinals had noticed the pill vial. “It’s empty.”

“Are you saying the supreme pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church killed himself?” Valendrea asked.

He wasn’t in the mood. “I’m not saying anything. Only that there were thirty pills in that container.”

Valendrea turned toward the doctor. “What’s your assessment, Doctor?”

“He’s been dead for some time. Five or six hours, maybe longer. There’s no evidence of trauma, nothing to outwardly indicate cardiac arrest. No blood loss or bruising. From a first look, it appears he died in his sleep.”

“Could it have been from the pills?” Ngovi asked.

“There’s no way to tell, except through an autopsy.”

“That’s out of the question,” Valendrea immediately said.

Michener faced the secretary of state. “We need to know.”

“We don’t need to know anything.” Valendrea’s voice rose. “In fact, it’s better we know nothing. Destroy that pill vial. Can you imagine the impact on the Church if it became known that the pope took his own life? The mere suggestion could cause irrevocable harm.”

Michener had already considered the same thing, but he was determined to handle the situation better than when John Paul I had died suddenly in 1978, only thirty-three days into his pontificate. The subsequent rumors and misleading information—designed simply to shield the fact that a nun had discovered the body instead of a priest—only fueled conspiratorialists with visions of a papal murder.

“I agree,” Michener conceded. “A suicide cannot be publicly known. But
we
should know the truth.”

“So that we can lie?” Valendrea asked. “This way we know nothing.”

Interesting Valendrea was concerned about lying, but Michener kept silent.

Ngovi faced the doctor. “Would a blood sample suffice?”

The physician nodded.

“Take it.”

“You have no authority,” Valendrea boomed. “That would need a consultation with the Sacred College. You are not pope.”

Ngovi’s features remained expressionless. “I for one want to know how this man died. His immortal soul is of concern to me.” Ngovi faced the doctor. “Run the test yourself, then destroy the sample. Tell the results only to me. Clear?”

The man nodded.

“You’re overstepping, Ngovi,” Valendrea said.

“Take it up with the Sacred College.”

Valendrea’s dilemma was amusing. He couldn’t overrule Ngovi nor, for obvious reasons, could he take the matter to the cardinals. So the Tuscan wisely kept his mouth shut. Maybe, Michener feared, he was simply giving Ngovi enough rope to hang himself.

Ngovi opened the black case he’d brought with him and removed a silver hammer, then stepped to the head of the bed. Michener realized the ritual about to be performed was required of the camerlengo, no matter how useless the task may be.

Ngovi lightly tapped Clement’s forehead with the hammer and asked the question that had been posed to the corpses of popes for centuries. “Jakob Volkner. Are you dead?”

A full minute of silence passed, then Ngovi asked the question again. After another minute of silence, he asked a third time.

Ngovi then made the required declaration. “The pope is dead.”

Ngovi reached down and lifted Clement’s right hand. The Fisherman’s Ring wrapped the fourth finger.

“Strange,” Ngovi said. “Clement did not usually wear this.”

Michener knew that to be true. The cumbersome gold ring was more a signet than a piece of jewelry. It depicted St. Peter the fisherman, encircled by Clement’s name and date of investiture. It had been placed on Clement’s finger after the last conclave by the then-camerlengo and was used to seal papal briefs. Rarely was it worn, and Clement particularly shunned it.

“Maybe he knew we would be looking for it,” Valendrea said.

He was right, Michener thought. Apparently, some planning had occurred. Which was so like Jakob Volkner.

Ngovi removed the ring and dropped it into a black velvet bag. Later, before the assembled cardinals, he would use the hammer to shatter both the ring and the pope’s lead seal. That way, no one could stamp any document until a new pope was chosen.

“It is done,” Ngovi said.

Michener realized the transfer of power was now complete. The thirty-four-month reign of Clement XV, the 267th successor of St. Peter, the first German to hold the throne in nine hundred years, was over. From this moment on he was no longer the papal secretary. He was merely a monsignor in the temporary service of the camerlengo of the Holy Roman Church.

Katerina rushed through Leonardo da Vinci Airport toward the Lufthansa ticket counter. She was booked on a one o’clock flight to Frankfurt. From there she was unsure of her next destination, but she’d worry about that tomorrow or the day after. The main thing was that Tom Kealy and Colin Michener were in the past, and it was time to make something of herself. She felt awful about deceiving Michener, but since she’d never made contact with Valendrea and had told Ambrosi precious little, perhaps the violation could be forgiven.

She was glad to be done with Tom Kealy, though she doubted if he would even give her a second thought. He was on the rise and didn’t need a clinging vine, and that was exactly the way she felt. True, he’d need somebody to actually do all the work that he’d eventually take credit for, but she was sure some other woman would come along and take her place.

The terminal was busy, but she began to notice crowds huddled around the televisions that dotted the concourse. She also spotted women crying. Her gaze finally settled on one of the elevated video screens. St. Peter’s Square spanned out from an aerial view. Drifting close to the monitor, she heard, “There is a profound sadness here. Clement XV’s death is being felt by all who loved this pontiff. He will be missed.”

“The pope is dead?” she asked out loud.

A man in a wool overcoat said to her, “He died in his sleep last night at Castle Gandolfo. May God take his soul.”

She was taken aback. A man she’d hated for years was gone. She’d never actually met him—Michener had tried once to introduce them, but she’d refused. At the time, Jakob Volkner was the archbishop of Cologne, in whom she saw everything she despised about organized religion—not to mention the other side of a tug-of-war that had yanked at Colin Michener’s conscience. She’d lost that battle and had resented Volkner ever since. Not for what he may or may not have done, but for what he symbolized.

Now he was dead. Colin must be devastated.

A part of her said to head for the ticket counter and fly to Germany. Michener would survive. He always did. But there would soon be a new pope. New appointments. A fresh wave of priests, bishops, and cardinals would flood to Rome. She knew enough about Vatican politics to realize that Clement’s allies were through. Their careers were over.

None of that was her problem. Yet a part of her said that it was. Maybe old habits truly were hard to break.

She turned, luggage in hand, and headed out of the terminal.

THIRTY-ONE

CASTLE GANDOLFO, 2:30 P.M.

Valendrea stared at the assembled cardinals. The mood was tense, many of the men pacing the room in an uncharacteristic show of anxiety. There were fourteen in the villa’s salon, mainly cardinals assigned to the Curia or to posts near Rome who’d heeded the call made three hours ago to all 160 members of the Sacred College:
CLEMENT XV IS DEAD. COME TO ROME IMMEDIATELY
. To those within a hundred-mile radius of the Vatican, an additional message urged that they meet at Castle Gandolfo at two
P.M.

The interregnum had begun, that period of time between the death of one pope and the election of another, a lapse of uncertainty when the reins of papal power hung loose. In centuries past this was when cardinals seized control, buying conclave votes with either promises or violence. Valendrea missed those times. The victor should be the strongest. The weak had no place at the apex. But modern papal elections were much more benign. The battles now were fought with television cameras and public opinion polls. Picking a popular pope was deemed far more critical than selecting a competent one. Which, Valendrea had often thought, explained more than anything else the rise of Jakob Volkner.

He was pleased with the turnout. Nearly all of the men who’d come were in his column. By his latest count he was still shy of the two-thirds-plus-one needed for an early ballot victory, but among himself, Ambrosi, and the tape recorders, over the coming two weeks he should secure the needed support.

He was unsure as to what Ngovi was going to say. The two of them had not spoken since earlier in Clement’s bedroom. He could only hope the African would use good judgment. Ngovi was standing toward the end of the long room before an elegant white marble fireplace. All the other princes were standing, too.

“Eminences,” Ngovi said, “I will have assignments later in the day to enlist your assistance in planning the funeral and conclave. I think it important Clement be given the finest farewell. The people loved him, and they should be given an opportunity to say a proper goodbye. In that regard, we will all accompany the body back to Rome later this evening. There will be a Mass in St. Peter’s.”

Many of the cardinals nodded.

“Is it clear how the Holy Father died?” one of the cardinals asked.

Ngovi faced the questioner. “That is being ascertained now.”

“Is there any problem?” another asked.

Ngovi stood rigid. “He appears to have died peacefully in his sleep. But I am no doctor. His physician will ascertain the cause of death. All of us realized the Holy Father was in declining health, so this is not altogether unexpected.”

Valendrea was pleased with Ngovi’s comments. Yet another part of him was concerned. Ngovi was in a dominant position and seemed to be enjoying his status. Already, over the past few hours, the African had commanded the papal master of ceremonies and the Apostolic Camera to begin their administration of the Holy See. Traditionally those two departments directed the Curia during the interregnum. He’d also taken possession of Castle Gandolfo by instructing the guards to admit no one, including cardinals, without his express approval, and directed the papal apartments in the Apostolic Palace to be sealed.

He’d further communicated with the Vatican press office, arranged for the release of a prepared statement on Clement’s death, and delegated to three cardinals the task of personally communicating with the media. Everyone else had been ordered to decline interviews. The diplomatic corps around the world was similarly warned against press contact, but encouraged to communicate with their respective heads of state. Already tributes had come in from the United States, Britain, France, and Spain.

None of the actions taken so far was outside the camerlengo’s duties, so Valendrea could say nothing. But the last thing he needed was for the cardinals to draw strength from Ngovi’s fortitude. Only two camerlengos in modern times had been elected pope, so the position was not a stepping-stone to the papacy. Unfortunately, though, neither was secretary of state.

“Will the conclave begin on time?” the cardinal from Venice asked.

“In fifteen days,” Ngovi said. “We will be ready.”

Valendrea knew, under rules promulgated in John Paul II’s Apostolic Constitution, that was the soonest any conclave could begin. The preparation time had been eased by the construction of the Domus Sanctae Marthae, a spacious hotel-like facility normally used by seminarians. No longer was every available alcove converted into makeshift quarters, and Valendrea was glad things had changed. The new facility was at least comfortable. It had been used for the first time during Clement’s conclave, and Ngovi had already ordered the building readied for the 113 cardinals below the age of eighty who would be staying there during the voting.

“Cardinal Ngovi,” Valendrea said, catching the African’s attention, “when will the death certificate be issued?” He hoped only Ngovi understood the true message.

“I have requested the master of papal liturgical celebrations, the cleric prelates, secretary, and chancellor of the Apostolic Camera to be at the Vatican tonight. I’ve been told the cause of death will be ascertained by then.”

“Is an autopsy being performed?” one of the cardinals asked.

Valendrea knew that was a sensitive subject. Only one pope had ever been subjected to an autopsy, and then only to ascertain if Napoleon had poisoned him. There had been talk of a postmortem on John Paul I when he died so unexpectedly, but the cardinals squelched that effort. But this situation was different. One of those pontiffs died suspiciously, the other suddenly. Clement’s death was not unexpected. He’d been seventy-four when chosen and, after all, most of the cardinals had elected him simply because he would not live long.

“No autopsy will be performed,” Ngovi said flatly.

His tone conveyed that the issue was not open for discussion. Ordinarily, Valendrea would have resented that overstepping, but not this time. He heaved a sigh of relief. Apparently his adversary had decided to play along, and thankfully none of the cardinals challenged the decision. A few glanced in his direction, as if waiting for a response. But his silence served as a signal that the secretary of state was satisfied with the camerlengo’s decision.

Beyond the theological implications of a papal suicide, Valendrea could ill afford a wave of sympathy aimed toward Clement. It was little secret that he and the pope did not get along. An inquisitive press might raise questions, and he did not want to be labeled as the man who may have driven a pope to his death. Cardinals terrified for their own careers might elect another man, like Ngovi, who would surely strip Valendrea of all power—tapes or no tapes. He’d learned at the last conclave to never underestimate the power of a coalition. Thankfully, Ngovi had apparently decided the good of the church outweighed this golden opportunity to unseat his chief rival, and Valendrea was glad for the man’s weakness. He would not have shown the same deference if the roles were reversed.

“I do have one word of warning,” Ngovi said.

Valendrea again could say nothing. And he noticed that the bishop of Nairobi seemed to be enjoying his self-imposed restraint.

“I remind each of you of your oath not to discuss the coming conclave prior to our being locked in the Sistine. There is to be no campaigning, no press interviews, no opinions expressed. Possible selections should not be discussed at all.”

“I don’t need a lecture,” one cardinal made clear.

“Perhaps you don’t. But there are some who do.”

And with that, Ngovi left the room.