the Third Secret (2005) (32 page)

SIXTY-EIGHT

BAMBERG, 6:50 P.M.

Michener climbed a steep path toward the Cathedral of St. Peter and St. George and entered a sloping, oblong piazza. Below, a landscape of terra-cotta roofs and stone towers rose from the town proper, illuminated by pools of light that dotted the city. The dark sky yielded a steady fall of spiraling snow, but did not deter the crowds already making their way toward the church, its four spires splashed in a blue-white glow.

The churches and squares of Bamberg had celebrated Advent for more than four hundred years by displaying decorative nativity scenes. He’d learned from Irma Rahn that the circuit always started in the cathedral and, after the bishop’s blessing, everyone would fan out through the city to view the year’s offerings. Many came from all over Bavaria to take part, and Irma had warned that the streets would be crowded and noisy.

He glanced at his watch. Not quite seven.

He glanced around him and studied the families parading toward the cathedral’s entrance, many of the children chatting incessantly about snow, Christmas, and St. Nicholas. Off to the right, a group was huddled around a woman wrapped in a heavy wool coat. She was perched on a knee-high wall, talking about the cathedral and Bamberg. Some kind of tour.

He wondered what people would think if they knew what he now knew. That man had not created God. Instead, just as theologians and holy men had counseled since the beginning of time, God was there, watching, many times surely pleased, other times frustrated, sometimes angry. The best advice seemed the oldest advice. Serve Him well and faithfully.

He was still fearful of the atonement that would be required for his own sins. Maybe this task was part of his penance. But he was relieved to know that his love for Katerina had never, at least in heaven’s view, been a sin. How many priests had left the Church after similar failures? How many good men died thinking they’d fallen?

He was about to edge past the tour group when something the woman said caught his attention.

“—the seven hilled city.”

He froze.

“That’s what the ancients called Bamberg. It refers to the seven mounds that surround the river. Hard to see now, but there are seven distinct hills, each one in centuries past occupied by a prince or a bishop or a church. In the time of Henry II, when this was the capital of the Holy Roman Empire, the analogy brought this political center closer to the religious center of Rome, which was another city referred to as
seven hilled.
”

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.
That’s what St. Malachy had supposedly predicted in the eleventh century. Michener had thought
the seven hilled city
was a reference to Rome. He’d never known of a similar label for Bamberg.

He closed his eyes and prayed again. Was this another insight? Something vital to what was about to happen?

He glanced up at the funnel-shaped entrance to the cathedral. The tympanum, bathed in light, depicted Christ at the Last Judgment. Mary and John, at his feet, were pleading for souls arising from their coffins, the blessed pushing forward behind Mary toward heaven, the damned being dragged to hell by a grinning devil. Had two thousand years of Christian arrogance come down to this night—to a place where nearly a thousand years ago a sainted Irish priest had predicted humanity would come?

He sucked in a breath of frigid air, steeled himself, then elbowed his way into the nave. Inside, the sandstone walls were bathed in a soft hue. He took in the details of the heavily ribbed vaulting, stout piers, statuary, and tall windows. A choir perch soared on one end. The altar filled the other. Beyond the altar was the tomb of Clement II, the only pope ever buried in German soil, and Jakob Volkner’s namesake.

He stopped at a marble font and dabbed his finger into the holy water. He crossed himself and said another prayer for what he was about to do. An organ poured out a soft melody.

He glanced around at the crowd filling the long pews. Robed acolytes busily prepared the sanctuary. High to his left, standing before a thick stone balustrade, was Katerina. Beside her stood Ambrosi, wearing the same dark coat and scarf from earlier. Twin staircases rose on the left and right of the railing, the steps filled with people. Between the staircases sat the imperial tomb. Clement had also spoken of it—a Riemenschneider, rich in elaborate carvings depicting Henry II and his queen, in which their bodies had rested for half a millennium.

He realized a gun was near Katerina, but he didn’t believe Ambrosi would risk anything here. He wondered if reinforcements might be concealed among the crowd. He stood rigid as people filed past him.

Ambrosi gestured for him to ascend the left staircase.

He did not move.

Ambrosi gestured again.

He shook his head.

Ambrosi’s gaze tightened.

He withdrew the envelope from his pocket and displayed it for his nemesis to see. The look on the papal secretary’s face showed recognition of the same envelope from earlier in the restaurant, lying innocently on the table.

He shook his head again.

Then he remembered what Katerina had told him of how Ambrosi had read her lips when she cursed him in St. Peter’s Square.

Screw you, Ambrosi,
he mouthed.

He saw the priest understood.

He pocketed the envelope and headed for the exit, hoping he would not regret what was going to happen next.

Katerina watched Michener mouth something then turn to leave. She’d offered no resistence on the walk to the cathedral because Ambrosi had told her he was not alone, and if they did not appear there at seven Michener would be killed. She was doubtful there were others, but her best bet was to get to the church and wait for an opportunity. So in the instant Ambrosi took to register Michener’s betrayal, she ignored the gun barrel boring into her back and ground her left heel onto Ambrosi’s foot. She then shoved the priest away and yanked the gun from his grip, the weapon clattering across the tile floor.

She sprang for the gun as a woman beside her screamed. She used the confusion to grab the pistol and bolt for the staircase, catching a glimpse of Ambrosi rising to his feet.

The steps were crowded, and she plowed her way down before deciding to vault over the railing onto the imperial crypt. She landed on the stone effigy of a woman lying next to a robed man, then leaped to the floor. The gun was still in her hand. Voices rose. A panic swept the church. She pushed her way through a knot of people at the door and emerged into the frigid night.

Pocketing the gun, her eyes searched for Michener, and she saw him at the path that led down to the town center. A commotion behind her warned that Ambrosi was trying to make an exit, too.

So she ran.

Michener thought he saw Katerina as he started down the winding path. But he couldn’t stop. He had to keep going. If it was Kate she’d follow and Ambrosi would pursue, so he loped down the narrow stone path, brushing past more people on their way up.

He made it to the bottom and hurried toward the town hall bridge. He crossed the river through a gateway that bisected the rickety timbered building and entered the busy Maxplatz.

He slowed and risked a quick glance behind.

Katerina was fifty yards back, heading his way.

Katerina wanted to cry out and tell Michener to wait, but he was moving at a determined gait, heading into Bamberg toward the bustling Christmas market. The gun was still in her pocket, and behind her Ambrosi was rapidly advancing. She’d been on the lookout for a policeman, anyone in authority, but this night of merriment seemed a government holiday. No uniforms were in sight.

She had to trust Michener knew what he was doing. He’d deliberately flaunted Ambrosi, apparently gambling that her assailant would not harm her in public. Whatever was contained in Father Tibor’s translation must be important enough that Michener did not want Ambrosi, or Valendrea, to have it. But she wondered if it was important enough to risk what he’d apparently decided to ante in this seemingly high-stakes game.

Up ahead, Michener dissolved into the crowds surveying booths filled with Christmas wares. Bright lights illuminated the outdoor market in a daylight glow. The air reeked of grilled sausages and beer.

She slowed, too, as people enveloped her.

Michener hustled through the revelers, but not fast enough to draw attention. The market spanned about a hundred yards down the winding cobblestoned path. Half-timbered buildings lined its perimeter, wedging people and booths into a congested column.

He came to the last of the booths and the crowd thinned.

He regained a running pace, rubber soles slapping the cobbles as he left the noisy market and headed for the canal, crossing a stone bridge and entering a quiet part of town.

Behind him, more soles to stone could be heard. Up ahead, he spotted St. Gangolf’s. All of the revelry was centralized back in the Maxplaz, or across the river in the cathedral district, and he was counting on some privacy for at least the next few minutes.

He only hoped he wasn’t tempting fate.