priests, bishops, and cardinals filtered down from the fourth floor. More Westerners, Africans, and Asians were being summoned to Rome. He’d tried to delay any implementation, hoping Clement would finally die, but eventually he’d had no choice but comply with every instruction.
The Italians were already outnumbered in the College of Cardinals, Paul VI perhaps the last of their breed. Valendrea had known the cardinal of Milan, fortunate to be in Rome for the last few years of Paul’s pontificate. By 1983 Valendrea was an archbishop. John Paul II finally bestowed him his red biretta, surely a way for the Pole to endear himself with the locals.
But maybe it was something more?
Valendrea’s conservative lean was legendary, as was his reputation as a diligent worker. John Paul appointed him prefect over the Congregation for the Evangelization of Peoples. There, he’d coordinated worldwide missionary activities, supervised the building of churches, delineated diocese boundaries, and educated catechists and clergy. The job had involved him in every aspect of the Church and allowed him to quietly build a power base among men who might one day be cardinals. He never forgot what his father had taught him.
A favor offered is a favor returned.
How true.
Like real soon.
He turned from the window.
Ambrosi had already left for Romania. He missed Paolo when he was gone. He was the only person whom Valendrea felt entirely comfortable with. Ambrosi seemed to understand his nature. And his drive. There was so much to do at just the right time, in just the right proportions, and the chances of failure were far greater than those of success.
There were simply not many opportunities to become pope. He’d participated in one conclave and a second was perhaps not far away. If he failed to achieve election this time, unless a sudden papal death occurred, the next pope could well reign beyond his time. His ability to be a part of the process officially ended at age eighty, a point he still wished Paul hadn’t conceded, and no amount of tapes loaded with secrets would change that reality.
He stared across his office at a portrait of Clement XV. Protocol demanded the irritating thing be there, but his choice would have been a photograph of Paul VI. Italian by birth, Roman by nature, Latin in character. Paul had been brilliant, bending only on small points, compromising just enough to satisfy the pundits. That was how he, too, would run the Church. Give a little, keep more. Ever since yesterday, he’d been thinking about Paul. What had Ambrosi said about Father Tibor?
He’s the only person left alive, besides Clement, who has actually seen what is contained within the Riserva regarding the Fatima secrets.
Not true.
His mind drifted back to 1978.
“Come, Alberto. Follow me.”
Paul VI rose and tested the pressure on his right knee. The aging pontiff had suffered much over the past few years. He’d endured bronchitis, influenza, bladder problems, kidney failure, and had his prostate removed. Massive doses of antibiotics had warded off infections, but the drugs were weakening his immune system, sapping strength. His arthritis seemed particularly painful and Valendrea felt for the old man. The end was coming, but with an agonizing slowness.
The pope shuffled out of the apartment toward the fourth floor’s private elevator. It was late evening, a stormy May night, and the Apostolic Palace was quiet. Paul waved off the security men, saying he and his first assistant secretary would return shortly. His two papal secretaries need not be called.
Sister Giacomina appeared from her room. She was in charge of the domestic retinue and served as Paul’s nurse. The Church had long decreed that women who worked in clerical households must be of canonical age. Valendrea thought the rule amusing. In other words, they must be old and ugly.
“Where are you going, Holy Father?” the nun asked, as if he were a child leaving his room without
The Italians were already outnumbered in the College of Cardinals, Paul VI perhaps the last of their breed. Valendrea had known the cardinal of Milan, fortunate to be in Rome for the last few years of Paul’s pontificate. By 1983 Valendrea was an archbishop. John Paul II finally bestowed him his red biretta, surely a way for the Pole to endear himself with the locals.
But maybe it was something more?
Valendrea’s conservative lean was legendary, as was his reputation as a diligent worker. John Paul appointed him prefect over the Congregation for the Evangelization of Peoples. There, he’d coordinated worldwide missionary activities, supervised the building of churches, delineated diocese boundaries, and educated catechists and clergy. The job had involved him in every aspect of the Church and allowed him to quietly build a power base among men who might one day be cardinals. He never forgot what his father had taught him.
A favor offered is a favor returned.
How true.
Like real soon.
He turned from the window.
Ambrosi had already left for Romania. He missed Paolo when he was gone. He was the only person whom Valendrea felt entirely comfortable with. Ambrosi seemed to understand his nature. And his drive. There was so much to do at just the right time, in just the right proportions, and the chances of failure were far greater than those of success.
There were simply not many opportunities to become pope. He’d participated in one conclave and a second was perhaps not far away. If he failed to achieve election this time, unless a sudden papal death occurred, the next pope could well reign beyond his time. His ability to be a part of the process officially ended at age eighty, a point he still wished Paul hadn’t conceded, and no amount of tapes loaded with secrets would change that reality.
He stared across his office at a portrait of Clement XV. Protocol demanded the irritating thing be there, but his choice would have been a photograph of Paul VI. Italian by birth, Roman by nature, Latin in character. Paul had been brilliant, bending only on small points, compromising just enough to satisfy the pundits. That was how he, too, would run the Church. Give a little, keep more. Ever since yesterday, he’d been thinking about Paul. What had Ambrosi said about Father Tibor?
He’s the only person left alive, besides Clement, who has actually seen what is contained within the Riserva regarding the Fatima secrets.
Not true.
His mind drifted back to 1978.
“Come, Alberto. Follow me.”
Paul VI rose and tested the pressure on his right knee. The aging pontiff had suffered much over the past few years. He’d endured bronchitis, influenza, bladder problems, kidney failure, and had his prostate removed. Massive doses of antibiotics had warded off infections, but the drugs were weakening his immune system, sapping strength. His arthritis seemed particularly painful and Valendrea felt for the old man. The end was coming, but with an agonizing slowness.
The pope shuffled out of the apartment toward the fourth floor’s private elevator. It was late evening, a stormy May night, and the Apostolic Palace was quiet. Paul waved off the security men, saying he and his first assistant secretary would return shortly. His two papal secretaries need not be called.
Sister Giacomina appeared from her room. She was in charge of the domestic retinue and served as Paul’s nurse. The Church had long decreed that women who worked in clerical households must be of canonical age. Valendrea thought the rule amusing. In other words, they must be old and ugly.
“Where are you going, Holy Father?” the nun asked, as if he were a child leaving his room without
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