The Second Messiah

by Glenn Meade

  Despite being third-generation American Irish, and having a reputation as one of the Vatican’s heavy hitters, Kelly had cultivated a charming Irish lilt while lecturing in Ireland’s Maynooth College. He dabbed his brow with a handkerchief. “To tell the truth, Fabrio, in this heat I could really murder a cold glass of Guinness. But water’s fine.”

  The abbot laughed and poured a fresh glass from a pitcher on his desk. “The monks are busy at their work. You’ll have privacy in the garden at the back.”

  “That’s excellent, Fabrio.” Kelly drank the water in one swallow.

  Beyond the open windows lay a garden full of palm and olive trees, and a small circular pond with an ancient stone fountain. Despite the presence of three additional plainclothes guards wandering the garden, Kelly sensed an air of tranquil calm. He put down his glass, his expression more sombre. “How is the Holy Father?”

  “He spends his time praying and reflecting. He sleeps little, no more than five hours a night. When I rise each morning at four-thirty A.M. for prayers he is already awake before me and praying in the chapel. He looks troubled, I will say that. He seems to have much on his mind.”

  “Has he talked at all?”

  The abbot’s face lit up. “Sometimes he joins the monks and myself in the gardens for prayer and discussion. It’s really quite remarkable.”

  “What is?” Kelly enquired.

  “The monks devour every word the Holy Father says about this new era he promises for the church. We are deeply moved by his wisdom and his biblical knowledge. And I’ve never seen my colleagues so impressed. They sit around listening to him like wide-eyed schoolboys. It’s almost as if—”

  “As if they were sitting at the feet of Christ himself?”

  “Why—why, yes.”

  Kelly nodded. “I’ve known the pope ever since we were friends in the seminary. I knew even then he was destined for greatness. He’s always been one of the most remarkable men I’ve ever known. Tell me, Fabrio, has he left these walls since he arrived?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. He requested a simple cell, no frills, just a hard bed and coarse blankets, and that’s what I gave him. Why?”

  Kelly pursed his lips and shook his head. “Just curious. We may have to take special measures to ensure he doesn’t leave the monastery unguarded.”

  “Special measures?”

  “It’s a delicate matter. I’ll try to explain later, Fabrio.”

  “As you wish. Come, I’ll take you out to the garden and then I’ll tell Pope Celestine you’ve arrived.”

  63

  ROME

  “ROME’S AN INCREDIBLE, madcap place. A hundred years ago they called the Eternal City the biggest open-air lunatic asylum in the world.” Jack peered out the cab window as the autostrada traffic into Rome slowed to a thick stream of hooting horns and impatient drivers. “And that was before all the traffic problems.”

  Yasmin checked her watch. “We’ve hardly moved and it’s been an hour.”

  Seconds later the taxi driver—a small, middle-aged man with sad, hound-dog eyes and a two-day stubble—weaved away from the chaos by turning off onto a slip road. He drove up through a series of narrow cobbled streets and soon they were in the hills above the city. The driver grinned back at them and said in Italian, “A shortcut. We get there faster.”

  The driver made a severe right turn. Yasmin held on to the seat as the swerving cab sent them sliding across the backseat. They got their balance back and Yasmin giggled and sat upright. “Is this your first time in Rome, or are you a seasoned veteran?”

  “I was here on digs a bunch of times. In fact, most of ancient Rome has been buried, but parts of it can still be seen. There’s almost an entire city thirty to sixy feet below street level, and I’m talking almost every street.”

  “I’ve read about it.”

  “Even under the Vatican there are deep subterranean passages, tunnels, and sewers that traverse Rome. They lead down to crypts and catacombs, baths and palaces, prisons and brothels. It’s pretty incredible.”

  The Fiat continued to strain upward through a maze of narrow streets. Then the car nudged to the right and they were hurtling downhill, the sad-faced driver jabbing the brakes gingerly. Another five minutes and they drove past the vast splendor of St. Peter’s Square.

  Jack studied the ancient plaza, peppered with flocks of pigeons, as the taxi driver halted near the side entrance to a Vatican courtyard. It was protected by a barrier pole manned by Swiss Guards. The cheerless driver scratched his stubble and looked back at Jack for guidance, his eyes asking, Is this where you want me to stop?

  “This is fine,” Jack said, and paid the man from a wad of euros that he’d exchanged at Tel Aviv airport. The sad-eyed little man started to babble something.

  “What did he say?” Yasmin asked.

  “That his name’s Mario. That he’s got five kids who never stop opening his fridge door. That business is slow and if we need a driver he doesn’t mind waiting for us. He says he’ll show us Rome or take us wherever we want to go and his charges are very reasonable.”

  “I almost feel sorry for him.”

  “We could be a while.”

  “Tell him you’ve got a meeting and to wait right here but that we don’t know how long we’ll be.”

  Jack told the driver. The man was so pleased he stepped out of the cab and gallantly held open the rear door. “Take your time, signore, signora. Mario will wait, no problem.”

  As they strolled toward the Swiss Guards at the barrier, Jack said suddenly, “I have a confession to make. I took the scroll from Father Novara’s study.”

  Yasmin stopped walking and stared at him, her mouth open. She felt too stunned to talk.

  “It’s the truth, Yasmin. When I discovered the original I switched it with one of the other old parchments I found in the study.”

  “You mean Pasha has a fake?”

  “He sure has.”

  She laughed, but then her face began to darken as the reality set in. “Pasha’s not going to like you duping him.”

  “It’s a risk I took.”

  “How did you smuggle it into Israel?”

  Jack patted his injured leg. “The guards never checked my dressing. I’d slipped it into a clear plastic bag from Josuf’s first-aid kit and covered it with more gauze. After we crossed the border and I had a moment to myself I tucked it inside my shirt.”

  “Wasn’t the parchment damaged?”

  “More like roughed up a little.”

  “Jack, this could cost us both our lives.”

  “Now you understand why I wanted to come to Rome alone.”

  Yasmin was tense. “It’s a bit late to be telling me that now. But where’s the scroll?”

  “In a safe place. Don’t ask me any more.”

  “You’re not going to tell me?”

  “It’s got to remain my secret for now. No exceptions. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you serious? After all we’ve been through? Thanks a bunch for trusting me, Jack.”

  “It’s for your own good, believe me. Maybe at a later time. You’re the only one who knows I’ve hidden the scroll. I didn’t even tell Buddy. I don’t want anyone else getting roughed up or killed on account of what they know. But I can tell you that I believe I’ve decoded another line of text.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “While you were asleep during the flight I worked on a complete sentence I’d jotted down. I think I’ve cracked it.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  Jack flipped open his notebook. He pointed to a sentence he’d written in block letters.

  ON LEARNING THE TRUTH, JUDAS NOW BELIEVED HIS MASTER TO BE A FALSE MESSIAH AND NOT THE TRUE MESSIAH, THE ONE COME TO CHANGE THE WORLD.

  Yasmin said, puzzled, “What’s it supposed to mean?”

  Jack said excitedly, “I wish I knew, but it’s another incredible statement, like the last one. Judas believing his master to be a false messiah. That’s an
astonishing revelation.”

  “Could you decode any more?”

  “Sure I could, but it would be slow progress. To make any significant development we’re going to need expert help. Parts of the text are missing, others are damaged, you see.”

  “So there’s no way some of the text can be translated?”

  Jack folded away his notebook. “Actually, that’s not true. Some years ago unique software programs were written to help patch together and make sense of damaged Dead Sea scrolls. The programs can sometimes help fill in any missing gaps in the text by using mathematical projections. Don’t ask me how it works, but if the stories I’ve heard are true it’s been a terrific help to translators. The guy I know who’s an authority on Schonfeld’s code ought to be able to help in that regard.”

  “Are you at least going to tell me who you know in the Vatican?”

  “An old contact of my father’s I haven’t seen in years.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone high up I called before we left Israel. I figure he’s got the clout to get us into the Vatican Archives.”

  “You’re joking,” Yasmin answered. “Are we talking the pope here?”

  Jack smiled. “Not this time, even if I do know him.”

  Yasmin said wide-eyed, “You know the pope?”

  “He was one of a Vatican delegation that joined my father’s dig at Qumran.”

  “You certainly know how to impress a girl. What do you want to see in the archives?”

  “Something I’ve never had the opportunity to see.”

  “What?”

  “When my parents died, Father Kubel, one of the priests who arrived at the accident scene, wrote a confidential report. I’d like to read it.”

  “Why?”

  “Call it a gut feeling, or call it a sixth sense if you want, but something’s telling me there could be a connection between what happened then and what’s happening now.”

  “Explain, Jack.”

  “People die at Qumran and a precious scroll goes missing. It’s happened twice—to my parents and to your uncle, twenty years apart. Those kinds of feelings I can believe in, trust me.”

  “Everything I’ve heard suggests that the Vatican’s archives are off-limits except with the permission of high-ranking clergy. What makes you think your dad’s contact can help?”

  Jack took Yasmin’s arm and guided her toward the security entrance manned by the Swiss Guards. “Because I’m making him an offer he can’t refuse.”

  The silver Lancia pulled up sixty yards behind the white taxi. Nidal and the Serb observed the couple climb out and approach the Swiss Guards at the checkpoint. They saw the couple being led to one of the security lodges.

  One of the guards spoke into a telephone and then pointed them toward the Vatican. The taxi waited. Nidal scratched his beard. “It looks like they have business inside the Vatican.”

  “What now?” The Serb slid a MAC-10 machine pistol from under his seat and lay it on his lap, then grabbed a canvas travel bag from the backseat and slipped the weapon inside.

  A look of steel flashed in Nidal’s eyes and he took a Beretta pistol from his inside pocket. “We wait. They can’t stay in there forever. But just remember, when there’s killing to be done, Cane’s mine.”

  64

  ROME

  IT WAS VERY peaceful in the sunlit garden. The pond was covered with huge water lilies, a stone fish spewing water from its mouth. Kelly sat there in the noon heat, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. He heard soft footsteps and turned to see the tall figure of Pope Celestine approach.

  He wore scuffed leather sandals and a simple white cassock. Kelly rose. “Holy Father, it’s good to see you, as always.”

  Becket extended both his hands and gripped Kelly’s warmly before kissing him on the cheeks. “Liam, old friend.”

  As Kelly went to kneel and kiss the papal ring, the pope protested. “Please, we know each other a long time, you embarrass me. Do you like my hideaway? Abbot Fabrio is an old acquaintance and spoils me, of course. Wine with dinner and clean sheets every day. I’m ruined for kindness.”

  Kelly stood and admired the garden. “It’s certainly peaceful and quiet, and you can’t hear the traffic, a miracle in itself. The Romans drive like they’re still competing in an ancient chariot race to the death. Yesterday a madman tried to run me over as I crossed near the Colosseum.”

  The pope chuckled. “Poor Liam. And what did you do?”

  “I called him an ignorant eegit in my best Italian.”

  The pope laughed warmly and gestured to the bench facing the pond. “Let’s sit. We’ll be out of hearing of the guards and can talk in private.”

  * * *

  They sat by the bubbling pond. “Tell me what’s so important you wanted to talk about, Liam.”

  Kelly sighed and stared at the bubbling water. “Holy Father, with every passing day your cardinals and bishops hear stories about your inspectors burrowing away like mad beavers in the archives’ vaults.”

  Kelly’s good-humored lilt had disappeared. The pope said patiently, “What else do they hear, old friend?”

  “That they are discovering all kinds of material. Much of it a terrible embarrassment to the church and best consigned to history. They have also heard that all records of church financial dealings are being prepared for public scrutiny.”

  “This is simply as I promised, Liam. How can we speak of truth and then hide from truth ourselves?”

  Kelly turned red-faced. “Then there was an episode with a prostitute. And now this, Holy Father. You leave your Vatican quarters for … for a monastery. Permit me to be frank.”

  “Haven’t we always been, with each other?”

  “John, all this may impress the young bloods in the church who seem to consider you a second messiah, but to the gray hairs among us, this is pushing it a bit far. I’ve heard the fearful whispers too. Antipope. Antichrist. For some older, more conservative cardinals, these controversial decisions of yours only seem to confirm it. And now to top it all you’ve left your official Vatican residence, for heaven’s sake.”

  There was no trace of anger in the pope’s reply. “Am I less of a pope because I choose to live here, Liam?”

  “That wasn’t what I meant.” Kelly’s face flushed again. “The Vatican press office has managed to keep it a secret so far, but surely when the media gets hold of this story it might appear to some that you’re either choosing to live like a hermit or losing your mind. Or both. And then there’s the suggestion of reaching out in friendship to other Christian churches. What next? Even other religions, perhaps?”

  “Christians share many core beliefs and values, Liam. And may I remind you of a favorite saying of yours in the seminary—that the face of God can be seen from a thousand different angles?”

  “Fair enough, but your mission may be too much for some of my fellow cardinals. The fact that you want to embrace everyone might be seen as being overzealous.”

  “I thought that’s what Jesus wanted us to do—to embrace everyone.”

  “Well, yes, but the point is, there may be those among the Curia who will see your mission as threatening.”

  The pope stared back. “Who put you up to this, Liam? Was it your fellow senior Irish-American clerics? The ones we often jokingly called the ‘Murphia’? Have they sent one of my fellow countrymen to change my mind?”

  “I came here simply as a trusted friend, Holy Father. And out of concern for both you and the church.” Kelly leaned closer, his voice a fierce whisper. “For the love of heaven, John, can you not see that all this will set the church back centuries?”

  The pope met Kelly’s stare. “No, Liam. This is what the flock has been waiting for. A fresh start. A renewal. A return to the simple values that Jesus professed.”

  Kelly’s voice took on a bitter edge. “You mean there’ll really be a chance of that after the Italian tax authorities have torn us asunder by suing the Vatican for billions because of past financ
ial misdeeds? And after half the flock have disowned us for some of the revelations made public from the archives?”

  “Liam, I must tell you that some of the archives my inspectors hoped to find have gone missing. Deliberately, it may seem.”

  Kelly blushed. “Are you suggesting that I, one of your most trusted cardinals, had something to do with that?”

  “No, Liam, of course not. I will put the matter in Monsignor Ryan’s hands. I am hopeful he’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “Then what are you saying, Holy Father?”

  The pope put a hand on Kelly’s arm. “Simply that the church must bear the responsibility for its sins, Liam. Just as we ask our flock to bear responsibility for theirs. My plans will go ahead.”

  “I see.” Kelly ran a palm across his face again, as if in despair. Then he slowly reached under his gown and removed a newspaper clipping. He placed it on the bench space between them. “I wanted to show you this.”

  A headline announced in Italian:

  BRUTAL MURDER—MYSTERIOUS TWO-THOUSAND-YEAR-OLD SCROLL FOUND IN ISRAEL VANISHES

  Kelly tapped the cutting. “Another scroll has been found at Qumran. A renowned expert, Professor Green, was murdered there. It seems the Israeli police have so far not yet apprehended anyone for the crime.”

  The pope scanned the page, his face bleak. “Yes. I’ve read this.”

  “The Holy Father is better informed than I thought.”

  Becket met Kelly’s stare. “It seems there’s no end to the misfortune that follows the scrolls, is there, Liam? It’s like a curse.”

  Kelly folded the clipping and put it away. “I know of another curse. Your intention to open the archives. It could mean ruin for all of us who know what really happened at Qumran twenty years ago. What if some smart researcher reading the files pieces together the truth? It could be the nail in all our coffins.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You, me, Cassini, Father Kubel. We know what Robert Cane found and why it had to be kept secret. Just like the other scrolls were kept secret.”