The Second Messiah

by Glenn Meade

  “No matter, Umberto. I am glad of your company.” John Becket’s smile widened at the mention of Rossi. “Father Rossi seems a remarkable man. I never told him I was going, yet he appears to know everything, not just the archive secrets he is a guardian of. I hope he is not upset that we have invaded his territory.”

  Cassini nodded. “Your examiners are certainly keeping him busy, but nobody seems to complain. By all accounts, everyone has only good words for you. They speak of you reverently, with the deepest of respect, Holy Father.”

  “They are far too kind, Umberto. And such hard workers.”

  “May I ask of your progress?”

  “These are early days yet. But for now, the records and files my examiners are most interested in relate to matters about which I consider our flock has an immediate right to know. Papers that have to do with the Vatican’s more recent past. Subjects of historical importance that have been shrouded in secrecy until now, yet endlessly speculated upon.”

  Cassini looked faintly anxious. “Could the Holy Father be more specific?”

  “Religious revelations and prophecies, for one. Also, the Vatican’s financial affairs and its investments. These are subjects that have caused more speculation and scandal than most. My examiners will report to me when their work has been completed. We shall proceed from there.” Becket paused. “Is that why you came to see me, Umberto, to inquire about their progress?”

  “No, Holy Father. If I may I be honest, I have two concerns.”

  “Tell me your concerns.”

  “One has to do with your personal safety. The other to do with your pledge to open the archives to public scrutiny. I simply wonder if you still think it wise to abide by this pledge, Holy Father.”

  “And why should I not, Umberto?”

  Cassini sighed, then said as delicately as he could, “I have heard of anxious whispers among Curia members who seem to think that it will destroy the church, and be the end of our religion as we know it. That your desire to embrace other Christian churches in your mission of truth is a step too far. They say your new beginning could really be an ending. I hate to even say this, but some have wondered aloud if this could be your true intention. The question I heard was, ‘What if he’s a devil in lamb’s clothing?’”

  “Are you among them, Umberto?”

  The unexpected question caught Cassini off guard. He flushed, the first time he had done so in many decades. Fifteen years of curial office had taught him to readily answer any question, never act surprised, but the directness of the query unsettled him. “I—I am merely voicing concerns that I have heard. We both know there are secrets within the archive vaults that could shake the church to its core. Many among the Curia believe those secrets would be best forgotten. Some of my colleagues have voiced certain questions.”

  “What questions?”

  “Do we really want to ignite the flames of controversy? To heap trouble upon ourselves? To unsettle the world by our supreme honesty?”

  “I seem to recall our Savior did exactly that. In regard to other Christians not of our church, belief in Jesus’ words are truly what matter, and is the glue that unites us. Christ believed in unity, but for too long, through our own pride and arrogance, I fear so many churches have ignored that belief. Perhaps we can begin by forsaking our own pride and reach out to them, Umberto. The simple truth is that deep in our hearts, all believers are more alike than unalike. We believe in the same creator.”

  Cassini flushed again. “Of course, but we are shepherds of the flock, responsible for the people and the church’s continuation. The foundations of the faith may be at risk.”

  “Do you really believe this, Umberto?”

  “I believe such concerns are genuine,” Cassini answered diplomatically.

  John Becket paused, closed his eyes. For a moment his fingers toyed with the rosary beads in his hands, and then he opened his eyes again. “Do you know why I chose the name Celestine, Umberto?”

  “No.”

  “Celestine was a very simple man. But he had an honest wisdom we can all learn from.”

  “Holy Father?”

  “He knew that while many popes have called themselves servants of God, few of them behaved with the humility of servants. Sadly, when the Curia conspired against him, Celestine resigned and soon after he was killed.”

  The pope paused and fixed his visitor with a gentle stare. “Know that I intend to be an honest servant, Umberto. The church is built on love and truth. They are the real foundations of our faith and are among our most important obligations as priests. Out of love for my flock I intend honoring my obligation to truth, come what may.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, Umberto. For years our flock has called for a new papal leadership, one that functions less as a monarch, more as a friend, a pastor. On the night I was chosen I promised that I would be an instrument of that change. I see no reason to alter that promise.”

  “And your personal safety, Holy Father, is that of no concern?” A trace of argument crept into Cassini’s tone. “The forces of darkness may wish to destroy you, as they have tried to destroy other popes. The church has many secretive groups who may even plot your downfall because of your intentions. There has been hate mail containing veiled threats. Monsignor Ryan has voiced to me his fears.”

  “Christ was threatened also, but did not succumb. We must follow his example, Umberto.”

  Cassini persisted. “Then will you at least change your mind about Sean Ryan’s recommendations? A bulletproof vest. Extra personal security?”

  Becket stood, his tall figure towering. “I place my safety in God’s hands. I know He will not fail me, Umberto.”

  There was unshakable strength in the reply, a power to its belief that made Cassini feel humbled. At that moment, the blue eyes that stared back at him were piercing, and Cassini felt himself almost wither under the unyielding intensity of Becket’s gaze.

  He knew why the Curia had ultimately picked this man, aside from the fact that he had all the qualifications desired of a pope: a long career within the church, ten years spent in Rome, almost twenty as a devout missionary in Africa and the Middle East, where he was as much admired for his pastoral work as his diplomacy, an ideal attribute for any pontiff—from the Latin, the word meant “bridge-builder.”

  But Cassini knew that John Becket was more than the sum of his parts. There was a powerful solidness to him, an incredible mystical integrity that made you feel you were in the presence of a truly extraordinary human being.

  Cassini said quietly, “The last Pope Celestine was killed at the hands of assassins. He, too, placed himself in God’s hands. Yet God failed him.”

  “He does not always do as we ask of Him. As a priest, you know that. But I am resigned to whatever fate He chooses for me. And now, please excuse me. I have important business to take care of, Umberto.”

  Cassini nodded silently. He knew his audience was over. He knelt, kissed the ring.

  John Becket turned to go, but hesitated. “There is something perhaps you should know. A worrying discovery made by one of the examiners.”

  “Holy Father?”

  “Some of the archives’ documents are missing.”

  Cassini looked stunned. “I don’t understand. How is that possible?”

  “A question I asked myself. It appears several files are unaccounted for. Some relate to the church’s financial dealings. Others to the findings in the Dead Sea scrolls. Either they have been deliberately removed, or they are mislaid. Which, is not yet clear.”

  “This is a serious business.”

  Becket nodded. “Father Rossi seems at a loss to explain. However, my examiners assure me they intend to get to the bottom of it.”

  “Of course, Holy Father. I’m sure they will.”

  “Bless you, Umberto.” The pontiff left, his white cassock flapping about his legs.

  Cassini watched him retreat and felt a tremor of concern. He was bitterly reminded of a saying am
ong the cardinals—elect a man as pope on one set of assumptions, and you will find he does something completely different. In this case he realized with certainty that at least one assumption of the cardinals had been misguided: John Becket may have been a compromise candidate, but he was not a compromising man.

  Cassini knew that argument had failed him. He would have to rely on other means to change the pontiff’s mind.

  45

  EXACTLY THIRTY MINUTES later, seated in his Vatican office, Cardinal Umberto Cassini was sipping a cup of espresso and attending to a pile of letters, slicing them open with his bone-handled letter opener, when his Nokia cell phone buzzed. He checked the number that appeared on his cell. It was Ryan. Cassini answered his phone. “Sean, any news?”

  “I’ve been busy watching our uncle, as agreed.”

  Cassini was unused to hearing the pope referred to as “uncle.” Ryan had suggested using that term when discussing the Holy Father over the phone, in case anyone eavesdropped on their conversation. Cassini said, “I just left him an hour ago.”

  “I know. But he’s on the move. He exited through the Vatican’s east gate.”

  Cassini put down the letter opener and sat up as he heard a clatter of street noise in the background of Ryan’s call. “Did you follow him, Sean?”

  “I’m on his tail as we speak. He’s walking fast, as if he’s in a hurry. You’ll never guess what: he’s dressed in civilian clothes and wearing a hat to mask his face.”

  “Where are you?”

  “About fifty yards behind him. I don’t think he’s seen me tailing him yet. I’m wearing civilian clothes myself.”

  Cassini rose excitedly from behind his desk. “Whatever you do, stay on him. Which direction is our uncle walking?”

  Ryan said, “Toward the red-light district.”

  “What?” A shocked Cassini stabbed the tip of the letter opener into his desk.

  “That’s why I called. He’s just this minute heading near the railway station, where the brothels are.”

  PART FIVE

  46

  BRACCIANO

  NEAR ROME

  THE LUXURY VILLA looked as if it had been built for a Roman emperor, all lush gardens and gushing ponds. As the sleek black Alfa Romeo drew up outside the wrought-iron gates, the Serb removed his Ray-Bans. He had a broad, brutal face, with high cheekbones and a broken nose.

  Beyond the gates, two men in suits came forward and peered at the vehicle, then one of them flicked on a walkie-talkie and began to speak into it.

  Bruno Zedik, 240 pounds of muscle and seated in the Alfa Romeo, brushed a fleck of dirt from his suit and turned to the tarty-looking girl beside him in the passenger seat. She wore a tight black Lycra skirt and a low-cut top.

  Zedik, a former Serb army commando, smiled. “This is the kind of villa I want to own one day. My own pool, servants, a view of the sea.”

  “That’s if you’re still alive, Bruno,” the girl said moodily. She pouted, her arms folded. “Still, I suppose as long as you know what you’re doing.”

  Zedik sighed. He often wondered why he tolerated Regina Rossini but he knew the answer to that question immediately. During the hour’s drive from his apartment the trouble had started when he told her who he was going to visit.

  Zedik pushed the Ray-Bans back on his broken nose. “Did anyone ever mention you’re hard to please?”

  “You do, all the time.” Regina sulked. “Now can we just get your business done with and get out of here? This boss of yours gives me the creeps.”

  “You ought to show more respect.”

  The girl flicked her mane of dyed blond hair. “You ask me, the guy’s got to be a gangster, Bruno. And in case you didn’t know it, gangsters kill people. You do wrong by people like that you’ll get your dinky cut off. It happened to one of my relatives in Palermo.”

  Zedik scoffed. “You see too many American films. Some of those Roman and Greek statues on the villa grounds, they’re genuine, thousands of years old. My boss is a respected international businessman and art collector.”

  “I’m supposed to be impressed?”

  “Behave yourself, Regina. He’s not mafia.”

  “If he’s just a businessman, I’m still a virgin.” The girl pouted. “And don’t tell me how to behave. No one tells Regina Rossini how to behave.”

  She was starting to get on Zedik’s nerves. Stupid woman. “You’ve got a really big mouth, you know that?”

  She grinned wickedly. “How come you never complain about it in bed?”

  The guard behind the gate put away his walkie-talkie. The second guard gestured for Zedik to drive forward as the gates whirred open.

  Zedik snorted, his muscled chest straining under the suit as he suddenly lashed out and struck Regina Rossi a stinging blow across the face.

  She reeled back into her seat with the force. A steely look that always lurked just beneath the surface erupted coldly in his eyes, a dangerous stare that told her she had pushed him too far and it was time to shut up. She whimpered. “I—I’m sorry, Bruno. Don’t hit me again, please.”

  Zedik grabbed her savagely by the hair and gritted his teeth. “Just stay out of the way when we’re inside the villa. Understand? Now shut up and try really hard to behave like a lady.”

  The gardens were dazzling in the sunshine. Beds of roses and frangipani ran along one side of the turquoise swimming pool, and the whole place had an air of luxury.

  Zedik inhaled the sweet scent as the butler escorted him past the pool to a small garden. There was an amazing collection of exotic flower beds and a well-trimmed maze. A man stood among the flowers, pruning scissors in one hand, a solid gold Patek Philippe watch on his wrist. He had the kind of powerful aura only wealth can bring. His face was rugged rather than handsome and he wore an old pair of designer jeans, crisp linen shirt, and scuffed moccasins. “Bruno. Thank you for coming.”

  Zedik shook his hand. “Always a pleasure to see you, boss.”

  His boss gestured to his flower beds with obvious pride. “Well, what do you think of my garden? You like my new roses?”

  “They’re terrific.” Zedik smiled. Personally, he could tell zilch about flowers, and each one smelled the same to him, but his boss was a passionate gardener and Zedik always tried to stay on his good side.

  He pointed with the pruning scissors and said to Zedik, “I’ve got a Spanish variety in the corner. Very rare. If I’m lucky, it will finally bloom after three years of hard work.”

  Who could have the patience to wait three years for a flower to bloom? Zedik thought. Only his boss had that kind of staying power. Zedik looked at the roses admiringly. “I’ll have to get some slips from you. One of my sisters is crazy about roses.”

  His boss looked at Zedik as if he were an errant wasp. “All my flowers are rare and special. I never give slips, Bruno, you ought to know that.”

  Zedik laughed nervously. “It’s just a joke, sir.”

  A tiny smile flickered on his boss’s face. “I hear you brought the same girl with you as last time. The one with the mouth as big as her bust.”

  Zedik grinned. “I’m afraid so, boss. I left her back in the villa.”

  His boss put down the pruning scissors. “Let’s sit by the pool. We need to talk some serious business.”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Malik.”

  47

  THE BUTLER BROUGHT them espresso and sweet almond biscuits. They sat at a table by the pool under the shade of a huge sun umbrella. Zedik admired the rolling lawns. He put down his cup. “What’s so important, Mr. Malik?”

  “You like this place, don’t you, Bruno?”

  Zedik nodded. “I love it, boss. Someday I’d like to own a place just like it.”

  Hassan Malik looked out at the immaculate gardens. “Ever since I was a small boy I wanted such a house. But my family were poor goat herders with only a filthy hovel for a home. I had a brother and sister. We all slept in the same room as my parents. My father died and then my moth
er. I was fifteen.”

  “That’s tragic, Mr. Malik.”

  “I begged, I stole, did anything to earn a crust to feed my brother and sister. Sometimes, to forget about my hardship, I used to ride a bus into Jerusalem and walk past the villas of the rich with their splendid gardens. I used to tell myself that I would have such a house one day. It wasn’t easy, but I did it.”

  “I can imagine, Mr. Malik.”

  Malik shook his head fiercely. “No, you cannot imagine. You can’t know what real poverty is. To never have enough food in your belly or money in your pocket.”

  Zedik reckoned his boss didn’t seem like himself today. Normally he was direct and to the point. He hardly ever spoke about his past or stuff like that but this morning the man seemed distracted. “Mr. Malik, I apologize—”

  Malik raised his hand, a serious look on his face. “Let’s get down to business. I have a job for you.” He reached in his shirt, plucked out an envelope, and placed it on the table. “You have always been loyal to me, Bruno. And that is why I am going to tell you a secret. It will help you understand why I have asked you here today and how important the job is. But I must be certain of your discretion.”

  Zedik said, “You know you can count on me, sir.”

  “Good. Because if a word of this ever leaks out, I assure you, Bruno, I will kill you. Slowly, painfully. It hurts me to have to make the consequences so clear to someone I trust, but I don’t make such a threat lightly.”

  Zedik saw icy danger in Malik’s eyes. In the ten years he had known his boss he had committed a catalogue of unlawful deeds on Malik’s behalf—some of them brutal—but Zedik had never once heard him utter such words. He swallowed. “Mr. Malik, I’d never break my word to you.”

  Malik smiled gently, tapped Zedik’s knee, and leaned closer. “Of course, I know you wouldn’t but I’ve got to make the rules clear. And a wise man should always know the rules of the game.” The smile vanished. “Especially a game as dangerous as the one about to begin. Take the envelope on the table, Bruno. It’s a sign of my trust.”