VIRGIN
MARY ELIZABETH MURPHY
BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."
VIRGIN
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley edition / January 1996
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1996 by Mary Elizabeth Murphy.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,
by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.
ISBN: 0-425-15124-7
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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
10 987654321
Is the human race approaching the final days? Is the world beyond healing?
Will we be given one last chance to save ourselves?
VIRGIN
Author Mary Elizabeth Murphy has created a thought-provoking thriller with a unique and startling premise. As the millennium's end draws near, the newspapers report countless stories of spiritual sightings. Murphy takes this phenomenon one step further—by imagining an event of apocalyptic proportions. A priest and a nun discover the remains of the Virgin Mary. And into our modern world of pain and suffering comes the light of hope. The wonder of healing. The return of miracles. And something more . . .
A dark omen that could mean a new beginning —or the final battle.
"A gripping page-turner . . I couldn't put it down."
—F. PAUL WILSON
To my husband, without whom this book would not have been possible
CONTENTS
Part I
Scrolls
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
Part II
Journeys
12
13
14
15
Part III
Miracles
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
Part IV
Assumptions
23
24
25
26
Part I
Scrolls
After they banished me from Jerusalem, I wandered south, leaving my position and my inheritance behind. What need had I of money? I wished to be dead.
I tore my blue robe with the three-striped sleeve and cast it from me. I traded it to a beggar for the filthy, louse-infested rags on his back. But the lice have not bitten me. They deserted the rags as soon as I donned them.
Even the vermin will have nothing to do with me!
FROM THE GLASS SCROLL
ROCKEFELLER MUSEUM TRANSLATION
1991
Winter
1
Israel
The Judean Wilderness
"Don't spare that switch, Achmed," Nabil called back from the lead position where he played the flashlight along the slope ahead of them. "Getting there second is as good as not getting there at all."
Achmed swatted the donkey's flanks with greater vigor as he and his brother pulled and drove the reluctant beast up the incline into the craggy foothills of the Judean Wilderness. Behind him the parched land sloped away to the Dead Sea; ahead lay the mountains, forbidding during the day, terrifying at night. Countless stars twinkled madly in the ebon dome of the sky, and the near-full moon on high etched the sere landscape with bleached light and Stygian shadow. The beam from Nabil's flashlight was barely distinguishable in the moonglow.
An empty sky now, but not long ago a dark object had screamed through the night, trailing fire and smoke. Achmed and Nabil had leapt from their camel-hair blankets and stumbled out of their tent into the cool night air in time to see the bright flare of its explosive collision with the nearby hills.
Achmed remembered his initial awe and terror. "It is the hand of Allah!"
He also remembered Nabil's none-too-gentle shove against his shoulder.
"Goat! It's a missile. You heard the talk around the fire last night. The hero Saddam is sending missiles against the Jews. Thousands of missiles. And he's killing them by the millions. Already he has sent the Americans howling with their tails between their legs. Soon there will be no more Israel and our herds will graze among our enemies' bones in the ruins of Tel Aviv. Let's go!"
"Go where?" Achmed cried as his older brother began pushing through the huddled goats toward their tethered ass.
"Into the hills!"
"Why?" He wasn't challenging his older brother—a good Bedouin boy did not question the eldest son of his father—he simply wanted to know.
Nabil turned and pointed toward the jagged sawblade of rock that cut the western sky. His face was shadowed but Achmed knew from the impatience in his voice that his brother was wearing his habitual you're-so-stupid scowl.
"That was a missile that just passed, a giant bullet. And what are bullets made of?" Achmed opened his mouth to answer but Nabil wasn't waiting. "Metal! And what do we do with any scrap metal we find?"
"We sell it," Achmed said quickly, and suddenly he saw the reason for Nabil's haste. "There will be lots of metal!" he said.
Nabil nodded. "Tons of it. So move those feet, camel face!"
Once again he realized why their father placed so much trust in Nabil, and why he was glad Nabil had been born first. Achmed doubted he could handle the responsibility of being the eldest son—the only thing he did better than Nabil was play the rababah, hardly a useful skill. He hoped he was as muscular as Nabil when he reached seventeen in three years, and prayed he'd be able to sport such a respectable start at a beard. At times he despaired of outgrowing this reedy, ungainly body.
And tonight was but further proof of his unsuitability for leadership. Never would he have thought of making profit for the family from the remnants of a spent and exploded missile. But he could lend his back to gathering the scrap so that his abu could be proud of both of his sons.
And now, as they clambered up a slope that seemed ever steeper, a thought struck him. The goats! Father had entrusted them with one of the family herds, to take it north in search of better grazing. That herd now stood untended and unguarded on the plain below, ready to be driven off unchallenged by any passer-by with a larcenous heart.
Achmed turned and gazed back down the slope. The Dead Sea gleamed in the moonlight like a strip of hammered silver, shadowed on the far side by the mountains of Jordan and outlined on the near by the black, shore-hugging ribbon of Highway 90. No lights moved on the highway. Their herd was safely huddled in a dry basin kilometers from the road. He realized his fears were groundless. Who would be wandering about the Judean Wilderness in the dead of night? The only thing moving here was Hamsin, the desert wind.
As he returned to the climb, a question popped into his mind.
"Nabil," he called. "Why has this missile landed here instead of in Tel Aviv?"
"Probably one of the Israelis hit it with a lucky shot and knocked it off course."
Of course, Achme
d thought. Why didn't I think of that? Nabil always had an answer.
Achmed followed his brother up the steepening incline of the dry wadi, so steep at times that he had to heave his shoulder against the donkey's hindquarters to assist the beast up the slope. Eventually they came to a ribbed outcrop of stone that towered over them. In the daytime this rock would have looked sandy red and yellow. Now in the moonlight it glowed goatsmilk white, streaked with the stark shadows of its crevices.
"What do we do now?" Achmed said.
Nabil looked around, then up, then ranged left and right along the face of the rock as if he expected to find a path into the cliffside.
"I don't know. There must be a way around this. The missile crashed atop it. We must find a way up."
"Maybe it crashed on the other side," Achmed said. "I couldn't tell from where we stood. Could you?"
Achmed saw his brother shake his shadowed head. "I'm sure it crashed atop this cliff. Almost sure. Maybe if we travel around it we'll find a way up."
To the left looked no more promising than the right, but something in Achmed drew him leftward.
"That way," he said, surprised by the certainty in his voice as he pointed south.
Nabil stared at him a moment, then shrugged and turned south.
"As good a way to start as any."
The going got rougher. No path here, no sign that man or beast had ever traveled this route. Their sandals and the donkey's hooves slipped on the loose shale that littered their way. The jagged edges angled up, cutting Achmed's feet and ankles.
After struggling along for a few hundred feet, Nabil turned and stopped the donkey.
"This isn't going anywhere," he said. "We'll turn back and try the other way."
"We've come so far already," Achmed said. "Just a little farther. Let's see what's around that bend before we turn back."
"All right," Nabil said. "To the bend and no more."
They struggled farther along the narrow path, and as they were slithering past a jagged rib in the cliff wall, Nabil called back from the lead.
"You were right! It ends here. We can get past it here!"
As Achmed followed the donkey around the rib, he saw that the far side was just as steep as the near, with no gully or ravine to allow them passage to the top. And worse, the landing edge of the outcrop was topped by an overhang of stone that would have daunted them even had there been a way to climb the face.
Achmed saw that they had entered the mouth of a deep canyon. Beyond the outcrop a broad dry wadi swept down from the upper reaches of the range; half a dozen feet above that, a small, raised field. And beyond the field stood another sheer-faced cliff even more forbidding than the one they had just skirted.
Nabil stood in the moonlight, head back, hands on hips, staring at the cliff face. "There's no way up," he said.
Achmed's voice choked on his disappointment. He could only nod. He'd been so sure . . .
Something stung his nostrils. He blinked his suddenly watery eyes. He couldn't see it but he could smell it. Smoke . . . riding the breeze that wafted down the wadi. "Nabil . . . ?"
But his brother had smelled it too. "Achmed! Follow! Quickly!"
They drove the donkey up the gentler slope of the dry riverbed. As they neared the small field the smoke became thicker. Another hundred feet and Achmed spotted the flames.
"It's here!" Nabil cried. "It crashed here!" They dragged and pushed the donkey up the far bank of the wadi and stopped at the top to stare at the tiny field that ran across the base of the canyon mouth. Stunted fig trees reached their twisted branches heavenward at regular intervals across its narrow span. A few of them were burning. Dozens of tiny grass fires crawled along the field's smooth surface.
"Let's get to work!" Nabil said.
As his older brother tethered the donkey to the nearest tree, Achmed spotted a dark lump in the sand to his right. He knelt and touched it, gingerly. Hard, with sharp, twisted edges. And warm. Still warm.
"I've found a piece!" he cried aloud. The first piece! he boasted silently.
"Drop it here," Nabil said, pointing to a spot near the donkey's feet. "We'll collect as much as we can and pile it here. When we've got as much as we can carry, we'll load up and head back to the herd. And hurry, Achmed. As sure as you breathe, we're going to have company soon." Company? Did he mean other Bedouin, or Israelis? Not that it mattered. Either way, they stood to lose whatever metal they gathered.
Over Beit Shemesh
Chaim Kesev set his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. He wasn't cold—far from it in this bulky flack jacket. No, the incessant vibrations from the engine coursing throughout the helicopter's fuselage were penetrating the padding of his seat, jittering up his spine, piercing his skull, and running to his teeth. He was sure a couple of them would rattle loose if he had to take much more of this.
Man was not meant to fly.
Kesev hated flying, and he hated flying in helicopters most of all. But after he'd watched the computer plot the course of the errant SCUD on the map, and seen the area encircled for maximum probability of impact—120 kilometers southeast of Tel Aviv—he knew he couldn't wait in the city for the report from the crash site. Everyone else in the tracking center had been relieved that the SCUD had landed in an unpopulated area of the Southern District wilderness. Not Kesev. Not when it was that particular area.
As soon as the all-clear had sounded, he'd pushed his way aboard the reconnaissance helicopter. His presence had raised eyebrows among the crew. Who was this pushy little man, this swarthy, slight, five-eight, middle-aged, bearded wonder to elbow his way onto their craft? But when he'd flashed them his Shin Bet identification they'd sealed their lips. None of them had the nerve to challenge the wishes of a Domestic Intelligence operative when the country was under attack.
Kesev stared down at the mountainous terrain below and wondered where they were.
"How much farther?" he asked the copilot lounging in the seat directly ahead of his.
"Not much longer now, sir," the airman said, then laughed.
"What's so funny?" Kesev said.
"Sorry, sir. It's just that whenever my family used to take a trip, I'd drive my father crazy saying, 'Are we there yet? Are we there yet?' And that's the answer he'd always give me: 'Not much longer now.' And here I am, saying it to you."
"I was not aware," Kesev said icily, "that a question concerning our arrival at the crash site of a weapon hurled at us by one of our most vicious enemies, a weapon that might contain chemical or biological toxins, could be construed as childish."
"Oh, sir," the copilot said, straightening in his seat and half turning toward him. "I meant nothing like that. I—"
He knew he was being unfair, but he was edgy and irritable and wanted to lay off some of that burden on this youngster.
"Nor was I aware that I was driving you crazy."
"Sir, I was just—"
"Just keep us on course."
"Yes, sir."
On course. The SCUD in question had been anything but. They had a reputation for being about as accurate as a fireworks rocket, but this particular missile's course had added a new dimension to the concept of erratic. It had turned so far south that it never came within range of the Patriots the Army had borrowed from the Americans. For a while it looked as if it might crash into the Dead Sea, but its trajectory had flattened momentarily, carrying it into the Wilderness.
Near the Resting Place.
Kesev had no doubt that it had missed the Resting Place. A direct hit was inconceivable. But anything focusing attention on that area posed a threat to the secret. He wanted to see the crash site himself, and he wanted to be there when the inspection team arrived. He'd be there to deal with any other intelligence service that might try to tag along. Domestic intelligence was Shin Bet's domain and Kesev was here to claim it for them. He feared that if he didn't stake out his territory now, Mossad and Aman would be horning in and might wander into areas they shouldn't. One area—the Resti
ng Place—was not to be disturbed.
Never disturbed. He shuddered to think of the consequences. . . .
Kesev tried to shake off the unease that had encircled his throat since he'd seen the computer MPI printout.
"I'm still waiting for the answer to my question," he said to no one in particular.
"ETA twenty minutes, sir," the copilot said without looking at him.
That's better, Kesev thought. That's the way to treat one of Shin Bet's top operatives.
Then he reconsidered. Perhaps he was being too hard on the youth. He'd been a young upstart once.
Dear Lord, how long ago had that been?
Never mind.
"Who do you think aimed this missile?" Kesev said, trying to lighten the leaden mood that had settled on the cabin. "A blind man?"
"Yeah," the pilot said. "Ayatollah Stevie Wonder."
The copilot laughed and Kesev forced a smile, all the while wanting to ask, Who's Stevie Wonder? But he feared sounding out of touch. He was ever on guard against sounding out of touch.
"Yeah," the copilot said. "Someone put a mean hook on that SCUD."
"Hook?" Kesev said.
"You ever play golf, sir?"
Kesev had tried it once or twice but had been unable to comprehend the fascination the game held for so many of his countrymen.
"Of course."
"Well, you aim a SCUD at Tel Aviv and it just misses the Dead Sea. I'd say that's one hell of a hook."
Missed Tel Aviv by 120 miles. That was indeed far off course. Too far off. Almost . . .
Don't think crazy thoughts, he told himself. It's an accident. Another one of those crazy things that just seem to happen.
But he'd long known from personal experience that some things which seemed to "just happen," didn't.
And he trembled at the possibility that this errant SCUD incident might be one of those.
F Paul Wilson - Novel 03 Page 1
