The Second Messiah

by Glenn Meade

  134

  BUDDY SAVAGE HALTED the Land Cruiser and killed the headlights. He was fifteen minutes from the Jordanian border. Barren desert lay ahead, broken only by clumps of rocks and a few palm-fringed wadis.

  He knew that the nearest Israeli military outpost was five miles away but their patrols diligently scoured the surrounding area. Savage worried about that. Just as he worried about how the endgame was going to play out. He plucked a pair of powerful Zeiss binoculars from the glove compartment and swept the landscape, dusky with a faint murky gray.

  Nothing.

  Not even a light or a plume of dust to indicate that he wasn’t alone. His cell phone chirped. Savage’s heart skipped. He flipped it open. “Yeah?”

  “Are you near the rendezvous, Savage?”

  “Near enough. Maybe fifteen minutes away.”

  “Continue to drive southeast. After five miles you’ll reach a wadi, with a half-dozen palms. Halt your vehicle, step twenty yards away from it, and wait.”

  Savage didn’t reply.

  The silence went on and then the voice said, “Did you hear me, Savage?”

  “Yeah, I heard you, but there’s been a change of plan,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “There’s only one plan, Savage. The one I told you about—”

  Vehemence sounded in Savage’s reply. “Listen, you piece of dirt, whoever you are. Just shut your mouth and hear what I have to say or you can kiss the scroll good-bye—that’s a promise.”

  Savage heard the stunned silence down the line, and then the reply was pure fury. “Savage, you don’t know who you’re dealing with. If a man talks to me like that, he’d better be prepared to lose his life.”

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me right the first time. I said shut your mouth. Now you’re going to listen to my plan. Because if you think I’m going to walk into a trap you’ve got to be a total moron. I’ve got the scroll. And you want it. Are we at least clear on that? So from now on you do as I say.”

  “I’ve got your friend Cane,” the caller protested, his voice still firm, but a slight waver there.

  “Yeah, and his life obviously ain’t worth a cent if you’re prepared to trade it for the parchment. So this is how it’s going to pan out, pal; this is how we’re going to do our trade. But a word of warning: you try and mess with me and I swear I’ll burn the scroll to ashes. Got that?”

  There was a long pause. Savage could almost feel the white-hot anger on the line, and then the voice, suddenly calm and very composed, said, “What do you propose?”

  “This isn’t a proposal, it’s an order. You come alone and you bring Cane. And now here’s exactly how we’re going to do it.”

  Savage sat for a moment, sweating, breathing deeply, thinking hard. His mind was ablaze as he removed his baseball cap and wiped his brow. He didn’t like the sound of the caller’s voice. Angry at first, then perfectly calm. A real pro, he guessed. Not someone you messed with.

  But then neither was he.

  Turning back to the briefcase, Savage hefted out a Browning 9mm pistol with polished walnut handles. The same gun Pasha had given him in case there were ever problems. The same gun he’d threatened Professor Green with before he’d used the knife instead and stabbed him to death.

  Savage had stashed the pistol at Qumran behind a rock marker, ready to be retrieved if he needed it. And he needed it now. He needed it to put everything to bed, tie it all up in a neat bow, once and for all.

  Nothing had gone the way he’d originally planned. The whole scheme was messed up, everything all over the place like a madman’s mind. But then every dark cloud had a silver lining. And he’d just been handed one—a chance to resolve the entire mess.

  Savage felt the solid weight of the Browning pistol in his hand and checked to see that the magazine was loaded before he snapped it home. Then he tucked the pistol inside the briefcase and clicked it shut. He turned the ignition key and the Land Cruiser’s engine throbbed to life. He dimmed the lights and turned in an arc, heading for his new rendezvous.

  135

  THE SERB TURNED the pickup onto the rocky desert track. Hassan sat in the passenger seat. Jack felt cramped between both men, his hands bound in front of him with thin, blue plastic rope. Dawn was still struggling to rise over the mountains of Edom.

  Hassan said, “Pull in here.”

  The Serb halted and jerked on the handbrake. The second pickup following them pulled up right behind. Hassan jumped out, clutching a pair of night-vision binoculars and used them to sweep the dusky, rolling desert landscape. Behind him, Yasmin disembarked from the other pickup and joined him. “Do you see Savage’s vehicle?”

  “I see nothing.” Hassan put down the binoculars, his usually composed face tight with concern.

  Yasmin said, “I don’t like this, Hassan.”

  “Neither do I. But then nothing ever goes as planned, does it?” He kissed her on the forehead. “You will remain here, sister.”

  “No, I want to go with you.”

  Hassan’s hand came up and gently cupped her face. “No, you’ll stay. I don’t want you exposed to any more danger.” He slipped out a thin flashlight and flicked it on and off before he returned it to his pocket. “No matter what happens, stay put in the second pickup unless I give the signal that it’s safe to move, or I contact you on your cell phone. Otherwise, stay back at least a mile and keep the headlights off.”

  “What about Cane? He’s not a bad man, Hassan, he’s not—”

  Her brother put up his hand to silence her. “This is not the time for talk.”

  Hassan clicked his fingers and the Serb jumped out of the driver’s seat. One of the bodyguards tossed him a Heckler & Koch machine pistol. The Serb climbed into the back of the pickup, cocked the weapon, and made sure the safety was on.

  “Remember,” Hassan told him. “You don’t move unless I tell you to.”

  “Of course, Mr. Malik.” The Serb grinned, as if relishing trouble, then lay down flat in the pickup, out of sight.

  Yasmin asked, “Are you certain this is wise, Hassan? Savage said you were to go alone and unarmed.”

  “Don’t question me. I know what I’m doing. I know the area where Savage wants to meet. It’s right on the border and there’s more rock cover, which is to his advantage, but remember we have Cane.” Hassan gestured to one of the other bodyguards from the second pickup. “Bring him here.”

  The man did as he was told and dragged Cane from the truck cab over to Hassan, who stared him in the face. “You’ll do the driving, Cane. I’ll tell you which direction to take to meet Savage.”

  Jack met his stare. “No doubt you’ll kill him, too?”

  Hassan showed not a flicker of emotion. “That all depends.”

  “On what?”

  “If he safely hands over my property, everyone can go on their way. But if Savage double-crosses me, or either of you tries anything, I swear, Cane, you’ll both die.”

  136

  SAVAGE SAW THE pinpricks of headlights approach through the binoculars. They were at least a mile away, he guessed, the dawn light a murky gray.

  He stood on a rugged outcrop of rock, the Land Cruiser parked nearby. The rocks would offer him solid cover if there was any shooting.

  The headlights drew closer. He scanned the desert for any other signs of life but saw nothing, and heard only the faint throbbing of the approaching engine. It was too dark to distinguish the solid form of the vehicle just yet.

  He stepped down off the rocks and moved back to the Land Cruiser, tossed the binoculars on the seat, and slid out the briefcase. He clicked it open again and removed the Browning pistol. He flicked off the safety and cocked the slide, chambering the first round. One thing he’d never forgotten from his stint in Vietnam was how to use a gun. He’d been a good shot, not a virtue he boasted about. He flicked on the safety again, lay the pistol down, and picked up the binoculars once more.

  The headlights came closer.

  Even in the poor light he w
as pretty certain it was a single vehicle.

  He listened carefully and heard the low growl of an engine. He saw no trace of any other vehicles or movement in the murky landscape.

  It was still cold out in the desert and he shivered, as much from the temperature as from a growing fear. He knew now what he was going to do, everything planned out in his head, or as much of it as he could.

  Using one hand, he held on to the briefcase by placing four of his fingers behind the bottom part of the case, his thumb against the front part. Using his free hand, he slipped the pistol between his four fingers and the briefcase, keeping the weapon pressed hard against the leather so that it was out of sight.

  The headlights came closer and turned in a slight arc.

  Savage flipped open his cell phone with his free hand and thumbed the redial. It rang. The man’s voice sounded when it picked up. “We’re here, Savage. I can see you.”

  Savage said curtly, “Well I can’t see you. Turn on the interior light like I told you.”

  The cab light came on. Inside, Savage saw Jack in the driver’s seat. An Arab was seated beside him. Arrogant-looking, wearing a pale linen suit and open-necked shirt.

  Savage put up his left hand, indicating for the pickup to stop.

  Jack braked and it came to a halt with a squeal.

  Savage spoke into the phone to the Arab. “Kill the lights and switch off the engine.”

  The lights and the engine died.

  “Tell Jack to get out of the car. You do the same.”

  Jack stepped out. Hassan followed.

  Savage, close enough now to be heard, put down his cell phone and said to the Arab, “We meet at last.”

  “You have the scroll?” Hassan demanded.

  Savage held up the briefcase, still concealing the Browning pistol. “Right here. So how about we get this dirty little business over and done with and we can all be on our way?”

  137

  HASSAN WAS SILENT a few moments, then said, “You’ve caused me a lot of trouble, Mr. Savage.”

  “I’m not here to listen to your woes. Let’s get this done with.”

  Hassan said, “I’ve kept my part of the bargain, now keep to yours.”

  Savage held out the briefcase, his thumb on top, his fingers below, holding the Browning in place. “Here, take it. The scroll’s inside.”

  “Toss it on the ground, away from you.”

  “There’s a two-thousand-year-old scroll in here. If it was me, I wouldn’t want to risk damaging it. But that’s your choice.”

  “Toss it on the ground,” Hassan repeated.

  Savage seemed to hesitate, and then some instinct in Hassan sensed danger and he stepped backward toward the pickup and called out, “Bruno!”

  Jack shouted, “Look out, Buddy!”

  At that precise moment, the Serb rose from the back of the pickup. He raised the Heckler & Koch just as Savage dropped the briefcase and brought up the Browning. He fired twice, and twice again, hitting the Serb in the chest, sending him flying backward, his body toppling from the rear of the truck into the sand. He lay sprawled and motionless, then gave a groan.

  As the gunfire echoed across the desert a shocked Hassan raced to grab the machine pistol. Savage fired again, hitting him in the shoulder, spinning him round, knocking him off his feet. But Hassan struggled to his knees and crawled toward the machine pistol with a fierce determination.

  Savage stepped over and put the Browning against the back of Hassan’s neck. “Go ahead, try to pick it up. But it’ll be the last thing you’ll ever do.”

  Hassan turned and collapsed in the sand, clutching his bloody shoulder and staring up at Savage with a look of pure vehemence. “You’ve signed your own death warrant, American.”

  “I did that long ago.” Savage picked up the Heckler & Koch.

  Jack crossed to Hassan, searched his pocket, and pulled out his cell phone.

  Savage said, “What are you doing?”

  “Bringing this to an end.” Jack tossed the phone to Hassan. “Call your sister. Tell her to come here alone. And I mean alone.”

  138

  MOMENTS AFTER HASSAN made the call they saw the headlights appear. Dawn’s burnt orange painted the horizon. The approaching vehicle, a light-colored pickup, was visible in the distance. Savage looked worried as he went over to the Serb’s sprawled body, felt for a pulse, and said, “He’s gone. It couldn’t be helped.”

  He crossed to Hassan, examined his bloody shoulder, and said, “I’ve seen worse. You’ll live.”

  “But will you, Savage?” Hassan replied sourly.

  “You’re perky, I’ll give you that.” He turned to Jack. “Who is he?”

  “His name’s Hassan Malik.”

  Savage raised an eye. “I’ve heard stories about him. Poor Bedu boy turned rich. That the guy?”

  “Yes.” Jack saw the headlights speed closer. “Where did you learn how to shoot like that?”

  “Once a marine, always a marine. Tell me more about Hassan. What’s his angle in all of this?”

  By the time Jack told him, the headlights were less than a hundred yards away. “Cover the pickup, just in case,” he told Savage.

  Savage leveled the Heckler & Koch and shook his head in disbelief. “What a story. He planted the scroll?”

  “He wanted it found and the world to know about it, Buddy.”

  “I guess he succeeded. And destroyed us all in the process.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Before Buddy could reply, the pickup halted thirty yards away. Yasmin jumped out, saw the Serb’s body, and ran to her brother. “Hassan!”

  Jack said, “He’s lost some blood. Get him to a doctor as quick you as can.”

  Jack helped her maneuver Hassan over to the pickup and sat him in the passenger seat. “Let it end here, Hassan. Let it end and we both get on with our lives.”

  With that, Jack said to Savage, “Give me the briefcase.”

  “What?”

  “Just give it to me, Buddy.”

  Savage picked it up, crossed to Jack, and asked, “What’s going on?”

  Jack tugged the briefcase from Savage’s grasp, “The scroll’s caused nothing but death and trouble. Maybe if he has it back that’ll be the end of it.” Jack thrust the case into Hassan’s chest. “Take it and let’s call it quits. Head back over the Jordanian border; they can’t touch you there. Now get out of here fast.”

  Savage brandished the pistol. “Are you crazy? That’s not the deal I made, Jack.”

  “What deal? With who?”

  A second later a long string of headlights appeared and the faint rumble of engines sounded, moving fast across the desert, heading toward them at high speed from the Israeli border. Savage said, “The Israelis.”

  Hassan stared out at the approaching headlights with no sign of fear and said, “You’re a strange man, Cane. But an honorable one.”

  Savage brandished the machine pistol. “Give the briefcase back.”

  Jack said, “No, Buddy—at least this way the scroll stands a chance of being made public. If the Israelis get their hands on it, it may never see the light of day.”

  Hassan grunted, clutching his wound, the bleeding getting worse. “Ma’assalama, Cane.”

  “Ma’assalama.”

  Yasmin stared at Jack, their eyes met, and she started to say something, to touch his arm, but Jack said, “Move, before the Israelis get here or your brother bleeds to death.”

  “We owe you our gratitude,” Yasmin said.

  “You owe me nothing. Just keep your brother out of my life. And you try to live a long one.”

  Yasmin’s lips trembled. She bit them, then she started the engine and turned in an arc, heading toward the Jordanian border at high speed, the tires kicking up dust.

  The pickup drove off, the taillights disappeared, and then there was only the silence of the desert. The headlights from the Israeli side came ever closer.

  Jack said, “What deal did you m
ake, Buddy?”

  Savage put down the machine pistol but kept the Browning. “Get in the Land Cruiser. We haven’t got much time.”

  “For what?”

  Savage’s face tightened with fear. “I’m afraid you and I need to have a talk.”

  139

  JACK MOVED INSIDE the Land Cruiser. The cab faced away from the Israeli border, toward the mountains of Edom. Buddy sat next to him in the driver’s seat and kept his eyes on the procession of headlights in the rearview mirror. “Who’s coming?” Jack asked.

  “Your friend Lela and the cops. Maybe the Israel Defense Forces for all I know.”

  Jack stared at the Browning pistol in Buddy’s hand. “Where did you get the gun?”

  Savage’s face was blank. “I stole the scroll, Jack.”

  Jack’s shock was total. He felt as if someone had cut his wrists and his blood had drained.

  Buddy said, “I never meant to take it. All I wanted was a couple of fragments.”

  “I—I don’t follow. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Sometimes on site I’d work for myself. I’d take artifacts. Nothing major that would attract attention. But I’d sell them, like the Bedu who work the black market. Make some money.”

  Jack was still thunderstruck. “Sell them to whom, Buddy?”

  “Pasha. Some of his black-market stuff went to private collectors. The really important parchment material he sold to the Vatican by a special arrangement he’d had for years. I figured a few fragments of your scroll could make me a small fortune.”

  Jack said, stone cold. “Go on.”

  “A little after you left Green, I sneaked back into his tent. I’d been waiting for my chance all night. I got a smell of alcohol, saw him clutching an open bottle of Wild Turkey and lying on his bed. He looked to be asleep. So I went to work on the scroll, cutting off a few slivers. But Green was barely dozing and he woke and saw what I was up to. The guy went crazy. We scuffled, I pulled the gun. The rest you could probably figure.”