by Glenn Meade
He glanced over at John Becket, sitting at one of the tables opposite. He was an imposing figure. Tall and lean, with fair hair and gentle, honest blue eyes, the American was almost Christlike in appearance.
His face was deeply tanned and his hands had the rough calluses of a laborer. The kind of tough hands that might have built this very chapel. And yet there was something strangely regal about him.
Anyone in his company would at once have been aware of his incredibly powerful physical presence. Those who knew Becket spoke of his unique personality and charisma. The son of a Chicago lawyer, he had proved a learned, devout priest who had chosen to shun the many comforts of his American homeland for a deeply religious life.
An outsider, Becket had initially been considered a touch too young for the papacy at fifty-seven. This time, Cassini wondered which way the vote would go.
The Conclave of Cardinals had retreated to pray and seek further inspiration from the Holy Spirit. They had returned and placed their folded voting slips, first onto a golden platter, then into a gold chalice, to signify they had completed a sacred act. Then they had filed back solemnly to their individual tables and chairs and waited for the three scrutineers seated behind the platter and chalice to examine the slips and count the votes.
Now Cassini fidgeted nervously with his pectoral cross as the minutes ticked away. He saw the counters finish their work. One of the scrutineers approached him with the piece of paper bearing the result.
As he anxiously unfolded the slip of paper and read, Cassini felt absolutely stunned. Cardinal John Becket—81 votes. It certainly wasn’t the result Cassini had expected. Becket had not only completely changed the voting pattern, he had won. Despite the surprise result, Cassini felt overwhelmed with relief. He sighed deeply, felt the pains in his chest ebb away.
The scrutineer made the announcement. “Cardinal John Becket, eighty-one votes.”
As the remaining votes of the other candidates were read out, it hardly seemed to matter, for the tension in the chapel had been miraculously broken. All eyes had turned to John Becket, who simply sat there looking shocked, like a man who sensed danger all around him and saw no way of escape. He closed his eyes and his lips seemed to move in silent prayer.
Umberto Cassini rose majestically, despite his puny size. Accompanied by the master of ceremonies and the three scrutineers, he approached Becket. As tradition required, he asked the question in Latin that the elected pope was required to answer.
“Do you, Most Reverend Lord Cardinal, accept your election as Supreme Pontiff, which has been canonically carried out?”
Becket was silent and his eyes remained closed. Cassini nervously repeated the question. “Do you, Most Reverend Lord Cardinal, accept your election as Supreme Pontiff …?”
John Becket didn’t reply.
Cassini felt the tension rise in the chapel.
Very slowly, Becket’s eyes opened. He stood up from his chair, towering above Cassini and the others. Sweat glistened on Becket’s upper lip.
“Camerlengo, I am deeply moved by my brother cardinals’ faith in me. Words cannot express how humbled I feel. I honestly did not expect this result, which comes as a great surprise.” Becket paused as he took a deep breath. “I will accept my election, Camerlengo. I will accept in the name of—”
Becket’s voice faltered and his piercing blue eyes watered with emotion. “Forgive me, please. But before I continue, before I choose a papal name, I must explain something important to all present. Something deeply private that I have told no one until now. A secret in my heart that I feel must be revealed.”
Becket’s unexpected words had a stunning effect. An astonished hush settled over the chapel, as if all present expected a frightening confession. Cassini’s eyes flicked nervously to the bewildered faces of the cardinals seated around the chapel, then over at the wall clock—it was approaching midnight—before he looked back at Becket. “With respect, John, the rules make it quite clear. Your acceptance must proceed as protocol demands—”
“I am aware of the rules, Camerlengo. But I feel compelled by the Holy Spirit to speak. And once I speak, I fear some of my fellow cardinals may wish they had not elected me as their pope.”
The chapel was deathly silent. It seemed as if someone had pulled the pin on a grenade and everyone was waiting for the explosion to go off. Cassini, his heart again beating faster, drew in a worried breath. “And what is it that you wish to explain?”
For a time, John Becket didn’t speak, and then he looked out at his audience. “Long ago as a priest I made a promise to myself. A promise that if I was ever called to fill the Shoes of the Fisherman, I would do my utmost to fulfill certain personal goals. Those goals have been my lifelong ambition.”
Every pair of eyes in the majestic chapel focused on Becket. The fact that he was an American, born and brought up in Chicago, was only evident when he spoke. His Italian was reasonably fluent but America was there on his tongue like a visa stamp.
“The church is a rock, and I am well aware that rock isn’t malleable. But I made a pledge to myself that I would seek a new era of honesty, of truth within the church. If ever I was chosen as Vicar of Christ, I promised that my papacy would mark a new beginning, one that would require your help and support.”
The chapel was terribly still.
“Tonight, as we sit beneath Michelangelo’s vision of the Creation and the Flood, as we witness his frightening images of the Apocalypse, I am certain that what I propose may be seen by many among you as a threat. But I want to assure you it would not be so. It is something I am convinced Christ would have wished and which the church desperately needs. My promise was this: there would be absolute openness and honesty. There would be no more lies. No secrets kept from our flock or from the world. The church belongs to us all, not only to those who control the Vatican.”
A wave of disbelief spread through the astonished crowd.
“What exactly are you suggesting?” asked one elderly cardinal, ignoring protocol. “That we open the Vatican’s doors to public scrutiny?”
“That would be one intention of mine,” Becket answered firmly. “Nothing would be concealed. Even the darkest secrets hidden in our archives would be made public.”
There was a gasp from the audience and then silence. Cassini, standing in front of Becket, felt his chest about to explode. Never in the history of the church had anything like this ever happened.
Another cardinal asked, “And the Vatican’s finances?”
“Made public also.”
There was a murmur of disbelief from the listeners. Then Becket’s voice carried firmly over the hot, crowded chapel. “Did Christ want lies told? Did He want secrets kept? Did He want those of us in authority to behave like secretive, petty bureaucrats and banking officials? I cannot believe that He did. Above all, Christ believed in truth, as we should.”
Another elderly cardinal spoke up. “John, there are some things too dreadful for the world to know.”
Becket looked at the speaker, but his words were addressed to everyone present. “You mean there are some things the Vatican would not want the world to know. Things it has kept secret by design, unpleasant mistakes it has made that its flock should never know of. But they should know. Not just Catholics, but Christians everywhere. Our archives will greatly concern them too. Christians all over the world share a common purpose, and they have a right to know the dark secrets that have been kept in Christ’s name.”
Becket stared out at his audience, his arms held wide as if in pleading. “We ask our flock to confess the error of their ways yet we refuse to confess our own sins. How can this be right? You have chosen me and those are my intentions upon accepting the papacy. It will mark a new day, a new beginning that will return all of us to the ways of Jesus Christ. I have spoken.”
Some of the older cardinals looked deeply shocked, as if the devil himself and not the pope had spoken in their midst.
But most were profoundly moved, f
or it seemed a fresh blast of wind had suddenly blown through the musty Vatican corridors with the force of a hurricane. Every one of them knew he was in the presence of a man who radiated charisma and authority.
Umberto Cassini was quite dumbfounded and suddenly fearful. He looked up at John Becket, who settled his piercing, honest blue eyes on his audience.
“As for your fears, I will ask only one question. Have you no courage, my friends? The Lord may give us the burden. But He will also give us the strength to carry it. I accept my nomination as Supreme Pontiff. Ego recipero in nomen of verum. I accept in the name of truth. And the name I choose will be Celestine.”
3
TWENTY MILES EAST OF JERUSALEM
NEAR THE DEAD SEA
ISRAEL
THE ANCIENTS BELIEVED that the spirits of the dead lingered near their tombs. Jack Cane wanted to believe in that too as he drove toward the gravesite.
The Toyota Land Cruiser bumped over the desert trail and where it ended Cane cut the engine, jerked on the handbrake, and climbed out.
The grave stood near the curve of a ridge, four miles from the Dead Sea. It had a neat stone border filled with gravel chips and was a peaceful resting place. A ravine below and only the gritty wind and the occasional hawk soaring overhead.
Life had taught him a cruel lesson: grief is the hardest cross to bear.
Today, more than any other, he needed to talk to his ghosts.
Cane stepped toward the rear of the Land Cruiser, the white-hot sun of the Judean desert beating down on him. He was thirty-nine and had a confident, boyish look that some women found appealing. It was a look that hid a tough streak.
His tanned body was no stranger to backbreaking physical labor. His archaeologist’s getup—dusty cut-off Chinos and worn leather boots—were testament to a grueling day’s site work. But instead of physical exhaustion all he felt was a powerful sense of elation. Today of all days—the anniversary—he had discovered an astonishing treasure.
Cane raised a hand to shield his eyes from the fierce sun and surveyed the landscape. The desert ridge looked toward Jerusalem, sixteen miles away. The ancient city shimmered in a heat wave, its famous golden Dome of the Rock glinting like a mirror.
I’ve waited a long time for this day, but I never believed it would happen.
Cane unlocked the Land Cruiser’s rear door. Lying on the backseat was a bunch of white lilies and a plastic liter bottle of drinking water. He carefully removed the flowers and bottled water and turned again to face the grave. His eyes moistened.
Not a day passed when he didn’t reflect on the tragedy of his parents’ deaths. How the powerful loss of their passing had changed him forever. And today, of all days, he had important words to speak.
Do the ghosts of the dead hear the words of the living? I want to believe that mine do.
Overcome by emotion, Cane strode toward the gravesite.
4
MEDITERRANEAN SEA
TWO MILES OFF THE TEL AVIV COAST
ISRAEL
IT WAS A yacht fit for a Saudi king but the man who owned it had been born a pauper.
Sleek and white, sparkling with polished chrome, the vessel had anchored off the Israeli coast just after midnight. A $50 million yacht equipped with the latest technology, a helicopter pad, two bars, a ballroom, and a dozen luxurious cabins to pamper its guests.
That noon, a trio of bright red Kawasaki Jet Skis roared around the vessel, churning up the warm blue Mediterranean. The three muscled bodyguards who manned the Jet Skis were part of the ship’s three-dozen-strong crew, which included a top French chef lured from a famous Paris restaurant.
The special weekend guests were three beautiful, bikini-clad women who sunbathed by the stern’s turquoise swimming pool. One was a stunning Playmate, the other two were highly paid Paris models, their faces more beautiful than Botticelli angels. The man whose generosity they enjoyed stood alone by the pool.
Hassan Malik wore a linen suit and stared up at the sky. He had the quiet stillness of a man completely in control of his body and his emotions. His strong, lived-in face and quick, intelligent eyes seemed to miss nothing.
At that precise moment they were focused not on his three beautiful companions but on the skyline, as the yacht’s Bell helicopter sped in from the Israeli coast.
Hassan Malik was at home in a dozen capitals of the world—in his New York Trump Towers penthouse, two more residences in London and Cannes, and in his palatial villa outside Rome—but he felt at ease in none of them. His soul belonged in the parched deserts of his Bedouin ancestors that lay beyond Jerusalem. He had grown up in dire poverty but that same poverty had lit a fire under him, brought him riches other men could only dream of.
He heard the clatter of helicopter blades as the Bell banked sharply and came in to land. It hovered above the stern deck before it touched down with a bump.
The passenger door was flung open and his brother Nidal stepped out. He was twenty-eight, his boyish face drawn, almost sickly-looking. He wore a dark Armani suit and a white silk shirt, open at the collar, and his beard was neatly trimmed. His angry, olive green eyes seemed to regard the world with distrust.
Hassan Malik waited until his younger brother came over and then he kissed him fondly on both cheeks. “Well?”
Nidal said, “Cane has left Qumran and is headed toward the gravesite. Our pilot has arranged permission from Israeli air traffic control to overfly Jerusalem.”
“Good.” Hassan Malik strode after his brother to the helicopter, climbed in behind him, and slammed shut the door. The pilot raised the aircraft into the hot blue sky. Hassan consulted his watch: 5 p.m.
Fifteen more minutes and I will face my ghosts.
What was it his father used to say? We can never escape our past.
Hassan Malik didn’t want to. He wanted to remember his past because it felt like a stiletto in his heart—a wound that screamed out for vengeance.
And he knew exactly how to avenge that wound.
First, I’m going to use Jack Cane.
Then I’m going to kill him.
The powerful GE engines thrust the helicopter forward and sped its passengers in the direction of Jerusalem’s golden dome.
5
JACK CANE SAT on a boulder facing the gravestone. He placed the flowers in p pprched, sponge-filled opsis within the nept stone border, filled with gravel chips. Opening the water bottle, he drenched the oasis until it was soaking wet. He lay the empty plastic bottle by his side and his gaze swept over the chiseled granite marker that inscribed his pain.
In memory of Robert and Margaret Cane,
who died tragically at this spot.
Rest in peace.
Miss you always, love you forever.
Your son, Jack.
He still missed them, always would. Their passing had left such a deep sorrow, a terrible ache. He removed a worn leather wallet from his pocket and flipped it open. He kept the tattered, twenty-year-old photocopy of the newspaper clipping in a cracked plastic sheath and he unfolded the page. He knew the words by heart as he stared down at the page:
JERUSALEM POST
RENOWNED AMERICAN ARCHAEOLOGIST
AND HIS WIFE KILLED IN TRAGIC ACCIDENT
Five people were killed yesterday afternoon and another two badly injured on a remote stretch of road near Qumran.
Jerusalem police report that two men and one woman suffered fatal injuries when their pickup collided with an Israel Defense Forces truck and crashed into a ravine. The three were respected New York archaeologist Robert Cane, 69, and his wife Margaret, 58, along with local Bedu digger Basim Malik. Two teenage passengers traveling in the back of the pickup—Lela Raul and Jack Cane, both age nineteen—are being treated for injuries.
Police also confirm that the two deceased occupants of the military truck, which exploded carrying a munitions cargo, have not yet been named.
It is believed that Mr. Robert Cane was working on an international dig at Qumran
. He and his Bedu helper had only that morning discovered several fragments of an ancient scroll and were traveling to Jerusalem to show their find to the Israeli Antiquities Department when the fatal accident occurred. Police fear that the ancient parchment may have been destroyed by fire.
Father Franz Kubel, the Vatican-appointed coordinator of the Qumran dig and a colleague of Mr. Cane’s, was reported to be shocked by the deaths. “This is dreadful news. Robert Cane was a wonderful man and a highly respected archaeologist. He will be sadly missed.”
Local driver Basim Malik leaves behind a wife and three children.
Jack folded the cutting and shut his eyes. The dream often came to him when he visited the grave and it came to him now.
He was seventeen again, standing in a camp at Qumran, a warm spring day, watching his parents sweating as they dug on a hill above the ancient ruins. In his dream, he ran up the hill to join his parents. They saw him, waved, and opened their arms to greet him. But the closer Jack got, the more the image of his parents faded. He blinked, felt his eyes moisten.
He knew why the dream came. He had loved his parents deeply. His father was a patient, good-humored man with sharp blue eyes and an infectious laugh, always ready to share his enthusiasm for archaeology. His mother had blond hair and a beautiful face with high cheekbones. Jack remembered a cheerful woman with a warmth that could lift the gloom of any day.
A college buddy once told him, “All families are screwed up and dysfunctional. But some are even more dysfunctional than others.”
That had never been Jack’s experience. His childhood had been incredibly happy. As he accompanied his parents on digs to South America, Egypt, Rome, and Israel, by his sixteenth birthday he had traveled half the world with two people who never ceased to both love and fascinate him.
