Read Online the Third Secret (2005) by Steve Berry - Free Book Online
Authors: Steve Berry
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draw me.”
“His Holiness John Paul II revealed the third Fatima message to the world at the start of the new millennium,” Ngovi said. “Beforehand, it was analyzed by a committee of priests and scholars. I served on that committee. The text was photographed and published worldwide.”
Clement did not respond.
“Perhaps a counsel with the cardinals could help with whatever the problem may be?” Ngovi said.
“It is the cardinals I fear the most.”
Michener asked, “And what could you hope to learn from an old man in Romania?”
“He sent me something that demands my attention.”
“I don’t recall anything coming from him,” Michener said.
“It was in the diplomatic pouch. A sealed envelope from the nuncio in Bucharest. The sender said he’d translated the Virgin’s message for Pope John.”
“When?” Michener asked.
“Three months ago.”
Michener noted that was just about the time Clement began visiting the Riserva.
“Now I know he spoke the truth, so I no longer desire for the nuncio to be involved. I need you to go to Romania and judge Father Tibor for yourself. Your opinion is important to me.”
“Holy Father—”
Clement held up his hand. “I do not intend to be questioned on this matter any further.” Anger laced the declaration, an unusual emotion for Clement.
“All right,” Michener said. “I’ll find Father Tibor, Holiness. Rest assured.”
Clement glanced back into the Riserva. “My predecessors were so wrong.”
“In what way, Jakob?” Ngovi asked.
Clement turned back, his eyes distant and sad. “In every way, Maurice.”
EIGHT
9:45 P.M.
Valendrea was enjoying his evening. He and Father Ambrosi had left the Vatican two hours ago and rode in an official car to La Marcello, one of his favorite bistros. Its veal heart with artichokes was, without question, the best in Rome. The
ribollita,
a Tuscan soup made from beans, vegetables, and bread, reminded him of childhood. And the dessert of lemon sorbet in a decadent mandarin sauce was enough to ensure that any first-timer would return. He’d suppered there for years at his usual table toward the rear of the building, the owner fully aware of his wine preference and his requirement of absolute privacy.
“It is a lovely night,” Ambrosi said.
The younger priest faced Valendrea in the rear of a stretched Mercedes coupe that had ushered many diplomats around the Eternal City—even the president of the United States, who’d visited last autumn. The rear passenger compartment was separated from the driver by frosted glass. All of the exterior windows were tinted and bulletproof, the sidewalls and undercarriage lined with steel.
“Yes, it is.” He was puffing away on a cigarette, enjoying the soothing feel of nicotine entering his bloodstream after a satisfying meal. “What have we learned of Father Tibor?”
He’d taken to speaking in the first person plural, practice that he hoped would come in handy during the years ahead. Popes had spoken that way for centuries. John Paul II was the first to abandon the habit and Clement XV had officially decreed it dead. But if the present pope was determined to discard all the time-honored traditions, Valendrea would be equally determined to resurrect them.
During dinner he hadn’t asked Ambrosi anything on the subject that weighed heavily on his mind, adhering to his rule of never discussing Vatican business anywhere but in the Vatican. He’d seen too many men brought down by careless tongues, several of whom he’d personally helped fall. But his car qualified as an extension of the Vatican, and Ambrosi daily ensured it was free of any listening devices.
A soft melody of Chopin spilled from the CD player. The music relaxed him, but also masked the conversation from any mobile eavesdropping devices.
“His name is Andrej Tibor,” Ambrosi said. “He worked in the Vatican from 1959 to 1967. After, he was an unremarkable priest who served many congregations before
“His Holiness John Paul II revealed the third Fatima message to the world at the start of the new millennium,” Ngovi said. “Beforehand, it was analyzed by a committee of priests and scholars. I served on that committee. The text was photographed and published worldwide.”
Clement did not respond.
“Perhaps a counsel with the cardinals could help with whatever the problem may be?” Ngovi said.
“It is the cardinals I fear the most.”
Michener asked, “And what could you hope to learn from an old man in Romania?”
“He sent me something that demands my attention.”
“I don’t recall anything coming from him,” Michener said.
“It was in the diplomatic pouch. A sealed envelope from the nuncio in Bucharest. The sender said he’d translated the Virgin’s message for Pope John.”
“When?” Michener asked.
“Three months ago.”
Michener noted that was just about the time Clement began visiting the Riserva.
“Now I know he spoke the truth, so I no longer desire for the nuncio to be involved. I need you to go to Romania and judge Father Tibor for yourself. Your opinion is important to me.”
“Holy Father—”
Clement held up his hand. “I do not intend to be questioned on this matter any further.” Anger laced the declaration, an unusual emotion for Clement.
“All right,” Michener said. “I’ll find Father Tibor, Holiness. Rest assured.”
Clement glanced back into the Riserva. “My predecessors were so wrong.”
“In what way, Jakob?” Ngovi asked.
Clement turned back, his eyes distant and sad. “In every way, Maurice.”
EIGHT
9:45 P.M.
Valendrea was enjoying his evening. He and Father Ambrosi had left the Vatican two hours ago and rode in an official car to La Marcello, one of his favorite bistros. Its veal heart with artichokes was, without question, the best in Rome. The
ribollita,
a Tuscan soup made from beans, vegetables, and bread, reminded him of childhood. And the dessert of lemon sorbet in a decadent mandarin sauce was enough to ensure that any first-timer would return. He’d suppered there for years at his usual table toward the rear of the building, the owner fully aware of his wine preference and his requirement of absolute privacy.
“It is a lovely night,” Ambrosi said.
The younger priest faced Valendrea in the rear of a stretched Mercedes coupe that had ushered many diplomats around the Eternal City—even the president of the United States, who’d visited last autumn. The rear passenger compartment was separated from the driver by frosted glass. All of the exterior windows were tinted and bulletproof, the sidewalls and undercarriage lined with steel.
“Yes, it is.” He was puffing away on a cigarette, enjoying the soothing feel of nicotine entering his bloodstream after a satisfying meal. “What have we learned of Father Tibor?”
He’d taken to speaking in the first person plural, practice that he hoped would come in handy during the years ahead. Popes had spoken that way for centuries. John Paul II was the first to abandon the habit and Clement XV had officially decreed it dead. But if the present pope was determined to discard all the time-honored traditions, Valendrea would be equally determined to resurrect them.
During dinner he hadn’t asked Ambrosi anything on the subject that weighed heavily on his mind, adhering to his rule of never discussing Vatican business anywhere but in the Vatican. He’d seen too many men brought down by careless tongues, several of whom he’d personally helped fall. But his car qualified as an extension of the Vatican, and Ambrosi daily ensured it was free of any listening devices.
A soft melody of Chopin spilled from the CD player. The music relaxed him, but also masked the conversation from any mobile eavesdropping devices.
“His name is Andrej Tibor,” Ambrosi said. “He worked in the Vatican from 1959 to 1967. After, he was an unremarkable priest who served many congregations before
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