The Second Messiah

by Glenn Meade

  “I’d say there’s a good chance you need psychiatric help.”

  Pasha laughed aloud. “I like you, Mr. Cane. But had you left well enough alone, this would not have happened, believe me.”

  “You’re killing everyone and razing the place to the ground and you’re blaming me?”

  Yasmin said, “Why do this?”

  Pasha looked at her. “Because every truth has a price, dear lady. And this particular truth has a high price indeed.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Pasha steadied the gun. “None of you should have come here. You should not have interfered. And this old Bedu goat who brought you should have had more sense.”

  Josuf said bitterly, “My brother told me you were a ruthless man.”

  “You should have listened to him and kept your nose out of this, old fool—”

  Jack suddenly lunged at Pasha. Despite his lame foot the Arab was quick up off the chair and in an instant he brandished the weapon. “Don’t be an idiot. Or you’ll end up like the priest. Now sit, Cane.”

  Jack sat. Footsteps sounded. The bodyguard returned, carrying a can of gasoline, his silenced pistol tucked into his belt. “It’s done,” he said calmly in Arabic. “We must leave, the blaze is spreading.”

  A strong smell of burning gasoline wafted on the warm air. Pasha nodded and limped back toward the door. “Move out to our vehicle, Botwan.”

  Yasmin was ashen. “What now? Are you going to kill us?”

  Pasha gestured with the gun. “We have a saying here: The less you know, the less is your burden.” He nodded to the bodyguard. “You know what to do, Botwan. If they try to make a run for it, kill them.”

  41

  9:05 P.M.

  “I’VE NEVER SEEN so many priests and nuns.” Ari Tauber stared out of the Volvo as they drove into Maloula’s busy streets.

  Lela saw that the ancient town was a bizarre blend of the Christian and Muslim traditions. Every few hundred yards was a convent or monastery, the narrow alleyways thronged with nuns, priests, and monks wearing religious garb, mixed in with locals in Arab dress, all out strolling in the balmy evening.

  Middle Eastern music blared from tiny shops that sold Arab gowns, worry beads, and trinkets, alongside icons of Jesus and Mary. Vendors sold kebabs and koftas cooked over smoking hot charcoal, the spiced aroma of fresh food wafting into the car.

  The driver had a map open on his knees. “The monastery shouldn’t be far from here.” He steered the Volvo out of town and onto a potholed desert road that twisted through a rocky creek, no traffic in sight except for a couple of elderly Arab goatherds. Two miles farther on Lela saw a signpost that said in Arabic and English: “St. Paul’s Monastery.”

  “Do you see that light up ahead?” She noticed a crimson glow on the horizon. It looked at first like the remains of sunset but then she realized that the glow was a blaze. “It looks like there’s a fire.”

  “I think you’re right.” Ari tensed and slapped the driver on the back. “Put your foot down.”

  Father Novara grunted in agony.

  His eyelids flicked and he was barely conscious. The room’s white walls were a blur, the pain in his chest excruciating. It felt as if a red hot poker had pierced his heart. As he lay on his side on the cool tiles he knew that he was dying. He coughed and spewed up a gob of crimson phlegm. His mouth tasted salty. When the shots struck him in the chest with the force of hammer blows, he had been unable to move, traumatized by his wounds. And so he had lain there in the growing pool of his own blood, pretending to be dead. How long he had lain he didn’t know but the pain became unbearable, and then the voices of the others in the room had faded and Novara had passed out. Now he had become conscious again, but he felt weak, his senses failing.

  Novara grunted, louder this time, but no one answered. He had no idea if his colleagues were still alive, or what was happening, but he feared the worst. He was a fool to have trusted Pasha. His mind floated as his brain released its chemical cocktail to blunt the pain of imminent death.

  Novara raised his right hand, touched his fingers to his chest, then drew them to his face. His fingertips dripped blood. He coughed up another gob of crimson. Death would claim him soon but anger flared inside him. He wanted to extract a payment from his killers for their sin.

  Novara tried to focus on the walls that stared him in the face, the whiteness blinding, almost heavenly. He felt his senses ebbing fast. He reached out to touch the wall.

  He failed, his hand falling away in a weak attempt.

  Novara groaned, made a supreme effort, and stretched out his bloodstained fingers once more, trying to reach the wall.

  42

  AS THE DRIVER pulled up outside the monastery, Lela jumped out.

  Mustard walls surrounded a centuries-old Arab fort that, unusually, had a crucifix set high above the arched entrance.

  Ari moved behind her, followed by the Mossad agents. One of the archways’ oak doors was wide open, revealing a splendid courtyard garden with gushing ponds. Lela saw thick plumes of smoke billow from the building’s upper floors, orange flames licking the roof. “The blaze looks out of control.”

  Ari turned to the woman named Rasha. “Stay with the car. Do you have a flashlight?”

  “Right here.” The woman reached under the Volvo’s seat and produced a rubber-encased light.

  Ari grabbed it and beckoned the driver. “Come with me. You too, Lela. Everyone keep their eyes open. There could be trouble waiting inside.”

  Ari reached for his Sig. He ran toward the entrance, the driver and Lela following, clutching her pistol. They stepped into the courtyard.

  It looked deserted.

  Without a word, Ari pointed two fingers of one hand to his eyes, and then pointed toward an archway across the courtyard. They swung their weapons left and right, covering each other as they moved toward the monastery, silent as phantoms.

  It became apparent to Lela that something was wrong. The monastery was too silent, the rooms empty.

  She expected to hear screams and shouts for help, frantic monks carrying water buckets as they fought the fire.

  There was no one. Not a soul. Except for the background crackle of blazing wood, the monastery was eerily deserted, hollow as a crypt. After five minutes of searching the rooms, Lela saw it first.

  They had moved into the main building and found the fire quickly spreading, engulfing the building. Roof timbers crashed and furniture was ablaze. As they climbed the stairs they were beaten back by a fog of smoke. Ari gave the order to retreat and they moved back down the stairway, along corridors untouched by the blaze. In one of the corridors, they found the monks’ sparse cells.

  Lela froze as she stepped inside the first cell. The body of a young monk lay sprawled across the bed from the force of gunshots to his head and chest. His threadbare white habit was stained with damp crimson. A single round left a blossom on his chest and drilled his forehead. Lela had seen death many times but she choked back a cry of disgust.

  Ari stepped up behind her.

  Lela reached out to feel the man’s lifeless wrist. “He can’t be dead long—he’s still warm.”

  Ari examined the wounds. “One shot to the heart, one to the head. A double tap, the sign of a professional hit.”

  The Mossad agent joined them. “I saw two more bodies across the hall. The same signature as this one, one shot to the heart, one to the head.”

  They crossed the hall and saw the bodies of two elderly monks. Ari said, “We can do nothing for them. Fan out, see if you can find any evidence of Cane and his friends.” He leveled his Sig and they moved back out into the hall. “Go carefully. Whoever pulled the trigger may still be here.”

  They searched the remaining cells along the corridor but found them empty. The blaze was spreading, the smoke like a fog, and they covered their nostrils as they found their way back toward the courtyard. Lela noticed a door ajar at the end of an archway.

  Ari saw it too. �
�Stay here and cover us, Lela.”

  He and the driver moved toward the door. Lela tensed as she watched both men linger outside the door and listen, then Ari shoved in the door and rushed in, followed by the driver.

  Lela waited, her pistol at arm’s length in a two-handed grip, ready to fire.

  Almost a minute passed. Nothing happened. Lela began to worry. What’s keeping Ari?

  Her pulse hammering in her temples, she stepped along the archway and kept her Sig aimed toward the room. As she approached it, Ari suddenly stepped out through the door, his pistol by his side.

  Lela’s heart skipped. “Ari! I could have fired. What kept you?”

  Ari’s face was ashen. “You need to see this.”

  Lela stepped into the room. It was sparse, with a wooden table and chairs, the floor covered in worn terra-cotta tiles. The Mossad driver was kneeling beside the corpse of an elderly gray-bearded monk. His white habit was bloodied from a massive chest wound and he lay on his side, his right arm outstretched, his fingers stained crimson. It appeared as if he had tried to write something on the wall with his bloodied fingers.

  To Lela, it looked like the image of twin crosses, side by side. The upright stem of the cross on the right trailed off in a bloody tendril. The monk’s dead fingers pointed skyward as if he had died in the process of finishing his work.

  Lela heard a strange whirring noise and startled.

  Ari was aiming an electronic camera and the flash popped. The camera whirred again as he photographed the bloody artwork on the walls and the victim’s body from at least a dozen angles. When Ari finished, he stared across, his face still pale. “What the devil does it all mean?”

  Lela stared back at him, lost for an answer.

  Five miles away, a strong desert wind had started to blow, tossing flurries of sand against the Mercedes’ windshield.

  Jack stared out worriedly beyond the glass, past the fog of gusting sand, while next to him in the driver’s seat Josuf slowly negotiated a narrow desert road. The weather was turning, a sandstorm blowing, and Jack was having difficulty seeing the pickup fifty yards ahead of them. Yasmin was driving the Ford, and the man named Botwan was covering her with his weapon.

  In the rear seat behind Jack, Pasha reached forward and prodded Josuf in the back of the neck with his pistol. “Stop here. Honk the car horn, then slowly pull off the road and cut the engine,” he ordered.

  Jack felt his heart hammering in his chest. He peered out into the desert but saw nothing but sand and a coarse, rocky track. For the last ten minutes Pasha had remained ominously silent as he kept his gun trained on them. Jack feared the worst.

  “I said honk the horn and pull in,” Pasha barked.

  Josuf obeyed, slapping the horn, causing three sharp blasts, then eased the Mercedes off the desert track. Immediately the Ford in front slowed and pulled up, its red taillights illuminating in the fog of the sandstorm. A moment later Yasmin climbed out, followed by Botwan brandishing his pistol, both of them covering their faces with their arms to shield themselves from the gritty gusts.

  “Get out of the car,” Pasha ordered.

  Jack was forced to obey, followed by Josuf, as Pasha clambered out after them, keeping his gun at the ready, covering his mouth with his sleeve as the sand flurries stung their faces.

  “Move over there.” He gestured with his pistol for them to move at least thirty feet out into the desert. Jack braced himself as Yasmin moved beside him, and he could feel her hand shaking as she gripped his. “Are—are you going to kill us?” she asked Pasha.

  Jack’s heart sank as Pasha racked the pistol slide and chambered a round, ready to fire. “It comes to us all, young lady,” the Syrian said matter-of-factly. “But I’ll give you time to say your prayers.”

  Josuf said valiantly, “Please, there is no need to kill them. I’m the one who’s responsible for bringing them here—”

  Botwan struck him a blow across the face with his pistol. The Bedu reeled back, blood on his lips. “Kneel, all of you,” Botwan ordered.

  They knelt in the sand and Jack’s heart jackhammered as he desperately sought a chance to escape, but the situation was dire, both Pasha and Botwan aiming their guns.

  Yasmin’s voice quivered as she begged, “Please … can’t you let us go? We promise we won’t tell anyone what happened.”

  “Tell it to the devil. I hope you’ve said your prayers, American. Because you’re first to die.”

  Jack couldn’t answer. He felt his body shake as Pasha stepped forward, clutching his pistol. Then Jack suddenly went rigid with shock as the Syrian brought up the weapon and aimed it at the middle of Jack’s forehead. Jack tightly closed his eyes, his heart pounding with dread, everything happening so fast he could hardly think, let alone pray.

  The pistol exploded.

  43

  ROME

  CARDINAL UMBERTO CASSINI stepped through the Belvedere Courtyard and entered the sturdy granite building that houses the Vatican’s Secret Archives.

  Moving past the security guards, Cassini ignored the custodian seated at the large table, bare except for the visitor book he guarded. Like many cardinals of the Curia, Cassini hardly ever signed the book. Besides, he had more urgent matters on his mind.

  He entered a sparsely furnished chamber, empty except for a couple of earnest young clerical scholars working at their desks. Cassini ignored them and came to a small room at the back of the building, protected by double oak doors blackened with age. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to mentally prepare himself for the difficult task that lay ahead.

  He rapped twice on the ancient wood and waited.

  The doors opened and a tall, handsome priest wearing a black soutane stood there. Father Emil Rossi was a respected archivist, a guardian of some of the most sensitive records in the Vatican Archives. With his high forehead, fine nose, and slender aristocratic hands, his chiselled face was made for sculpting. Rossi bowed in a slight, effeminate manner. “Your Eminence. It is good to see you.” He limped back to admit his visitor.

  Cassini stepped into a large chamber with pale, colored walls. It was crowded with at least two dozen priests who sat at metal tables placed around the room. Cassini knew that each man was specially chosen by John Becket for his impeccable trust. Piled high beside the priests were boxes of indexes, documents, and files. Some of the documents looked musty with age, others were more recent. But one thing Cassini noticed: they all bore the papal seal, which meant they had been removed from some of the Vatican Archives’ most guarded vaults. The clerics pored over them with scrupulous attention, taking notes as they worked, so eager that they barely looked up as Cassini entered.

  “I was informed that the Holy Father was here,” Cassini told Rossi in a hushed voice. “But obviously I was misled.”

  Rossi, who had the solemn air of someone entrusted with dark and dangerous secrets, shot a disapproving glance at the other priests in the room, as if upset that his personal territory had been invaded. “No, Your Eminence. He has been here all day with his examiners.”

  “And how goes it?”

  “We have been working around the clock. But no one complains of being tired. All the priests are deeply impressed by the Holy Father. He energizes them.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it.”

  “They feel a sense of importance that their work will help to reinvigorate the church. Indeed, I have heard some of my fellow priests claim that their faith has been refreshed by the pope’s election. In the words of one, it’s almost as if the messiah has again come among us.”

  “Invigorating words indeed. Where is the Holy Father now?”

  “We all shared a simple lunch and prayers afterward, before he stepped out for air not ten minutes ago. He said he would be back.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “I would try the gardens. He said he needed some time alone, to think.”

  Cassini turned to leave but hesitated, looked back at the handsome priest, and
whispered, “How did the Holy Father seem?”

  “I’m afraid he looked worried,” Rossi hissed back, his face darkening. “Yes, worried. That is the only way to describe him, Your Eminence.”

  Cassini nodded solemnly and headed in the direction of the gardens.

  44

  CASSINI FOLLOWED THE path though the Vatican Gardens, past the lawns and flower beds. Situated within walls first extended in the sixteenth century to defend the sacred city, the gardens had become disorderly with the years, a mishmash of orange groves, conifer trees, and shrubbery cluttered with religious statues and gurgling fountains. Cassini halted at the Fountain of the Rock, with its figures of dragons and tritons.

  John Becket sat beside the stone fountain. He was very still, the only movement a wisp of his hair ruffled by a stray breath of wind. He stared at the splashing waters, his face a solemn mask of concern.

  Cassini noticed that since his election, the pontiff had chosen not to wear papal garments. Instead he wore a simple wooden cross around his neck and a plain white cassock, but without the zucchetto, the small white skullcap the pope usually wore. Cassini moved closer and realized the pope wasn’t staring but praying as if transfixed, the set of rosary beads in his hands passing silently through his long, slim fingers.

  Cassini waited, expecting to be noticed, but when he wasn’t he coughed quietly. “Pardon, Holy Father.”

  John Becket turned to face him. The solemn look vanished, a smile came instantly to his lips, and the gentle blue eyes regarded Cassini warmly. “Umberto. It is good to see you.”

  Cassini bent his knee and kissed the pope’s right hand. “Your Holiness.”

  “Sit. Join me.”

  Cassini sat by the fountain. “I hope I did not disturb your prayers.”

  “My prayers are completed.”

  “I went to the archives, believing I might find you there. But Father Rossi suggested you came here, to the gardens, to have some time alone. My apologies if I have invaded your privacy, Holy Father.”