The Last Day

by Glenn Kleier

  Feldman could no longer control his emotions. He simply lost himself to her. To her sorrowfulness. To her sincerity. To her spirituality.

  In tender, selfless, pure and loving devotion, he leaned down to kiss her.

  But her eyes prevented him. They shocked him, numbed him in the darkness of their icy blue waters. As he reeled, insensate, she released his hands and he fell heavily to his knees. She stood there staring at him, tears reflecting moonlight from her cheeks. And then, like an illusion, she slipped away, disappearing quickly and silently off into the night.

  86

  Na-Juli apartments, Cairo, Egypt 10:00 A.M., Monday, March 20, 2000

  Before Feldman had left on his trip to Rome, he and Anke had made arrangements to get together today at his apartment to make up lost time. It was a decision Feldman was regretting. His state of mind after the previous evening was leaving no room for interpersonal associations. He desperately needed time alone. To rest. To reflect. To rebuild his damaged psyche.

  Despite Feldman's best efforts, it was obvious to him the minute Anke arrived at his door that she sensed the distance. He was unable to convey the accustomed warmth and emotion in his greeting. His hug was fleeting, his kiss perfunctory. He smiled with his lips, but his eyes were far away. She closed the door behind her and placed her hands on his cheeks, searching his face for a clue.

  He could not endure her scrutiny and turned away. “I—I'm just not myself today, Anke. The effects of the trip, I guess …”

  “Of course,” she comforted him. “I can't imagine what it must have been like for you. It was more than I could handle just watching it on TV. We don't have to go anywhere or do anything special today. Come on, let's just sit down, relax and talk for a while. I have so many questions!” She took his hand and escorted him to the couch.

  Reluctantly, Feldman acquiesced. He felt so unreconcilably guilty. Anke was such an amazingly vivacious and spirited woman. Such a positive force in his life. So full of optimism and happiness. So different from Jeza. Yet his romantic feelings for Anke had inexplicably gone into hiatus. Is it possible that a man could love two such different women, so differently? he wondered. Annoyed with the complexity, he closed his eyes and shook his head in a vain attempt to clear his mind.

  Noticeably concerned, Anke sought to draw him out. “Jon, what happened yesterday has really upset you, hasn't it?” She reached over and turned his face toward her to catch his eyes. “Can you let me in? I'd like to help.”

  He took her hand. Her soft fingers were slightly larger than Jeza's, but hardly as strong. What am I doing with these absurd comparisons? Feldman berated himself. He labored to meet her gaze, shook his head again, denying her.

  “Anke, I'm sorry, I can't talk about it now. I've been through a lot. I just need to regroup a little.”

  “Sure, Jon,” she accepted, reluctantly. “I—I was just hoping you could fill me in a bit about all that happened with Jeza. There's so much I don't understand.”

  “I have a feeling,” he continued to sidestep her, “that a lot of your questions are being addressed right now. Why don't we see what the latest news reports have to say?”

  Without waiting for an answer, eager to learn if any Vatican archival data other than WNN's might have survived the Swiss Guards, Feldman grabbed up the remote control and switched on the TV.

  Anke snuggled up to him, as if working to bridge the distance, but he remained preoccupied and the disconnect continued. Acceding to his strange behavior, Anke sighed and settled back on the sofa. A little more removed from him this time.

  The TV news report was chronicling world reactions to the previous day's events. Everywhere, more and more numbers of terrified, God-fearing people were polarizing into pro-Jeza or anti-Jeza alignments. Increasingly, the majority of Jeza supporters were rallying around the rising flag of the Messianic Guardians of God. Meanwhile, the opposition was dominated by their staunch archrivals, the Guardians of God. As the report elaborated, the current crisis was affecting all aspects of global society. The commerce and government of nations were crippled, falling apart, drifting, as many people simply canceled life, hunkered down and girded themselves for the coming unknown.

  Reports on the Vatican Secret Archives were all over the tube. But, as Feldman soon figured out, most of the purported exposés turned out to be bogus—rehashes of known Vatican scandals dating back centuries and masquerading as new revelations. Stories of papal intrigues: mistresses, illegitimate children, secret marriages, homosexualities, pedophilia, murders, graft and assorted corruptions. On and on.

  Feldman pointed this out to Anke with irritation, and Anke looked at him quizzically, surprised at his uncharacteristic level of emotional involvement.

  At last, Feldman's remote control found a channel with the report he was seeking. This was the genuine article. Although not a WNN production, the report credited WNN and other networks that had been successful in smuggling materials past the Swiss Guards.

  In a spirit of unprecedented cooperation, these several news media had shared their spoils of precious information, assembling the scattered bits and pieces of the archival puzzle for a clearer, although incomplete, picture of Jeza's revelations. Feldman and Anke watched intently as, once again, Hunter's camera traveled down the musty halls of the Vatican Museum, chasing Jeza through the massive bronze doors of Bramante's Corridor while the announcer revealed the findings:

  “… penetrating the veil of the mysterious, forbidden Secret Archives of the Roman Catholic Church. Records previously hidden from all eyes but those of caretaker monks sworn to lifetime vows of silence, now exposed to the world for the very first time.

  “This first series of documents,” the announcer explained, “is a collection of records detailing a portion of the Vatican's vast financial holdings.” And a number of accounting sheets were displayed in succession, with specific entries emboldened. The Italian was translated into English across the screen.

  The columns displayed the assets of the Administration of the Patrimony of the Holy See—the Propaganda Fide. The viewer was taken quickly through the numbers, arriving ultimately in a bottom line of trillions of lire. Once this figure was established, the huge sum was converted to U.S. dollars and displayed at the top center of the picture. This financial figure was captioned “Vatican Assets” and remained on the screen as a running tally while the report moved on to investigate other records.

  Next came an analysis of the portfolio value of the Vatican International Bank, the Instituto per le Opere di Religione. This body of stocks, bonds, securities and notes also turned out to be substantial. But even more astounding was the production of a receipt substantiating large stores of gold bullion stockpiled by the Vatican at the U.S. Fort Knox depository. The fabulous sums were added to the previous number.

  “It's tike a telethon,” Feldman observed.

  Turning to an analysis of the Church's corporate holdings, the announcer apologized for the incomplete data, which nevertheless provided enough end-of-year financial statements to document trillions more lire in assets. The tally at the top of the screen grew ever higher.

  Moving on, the announcer presented a compilation of financial records from thousands of Catholic dioceses, bishoprics and cardinalships around the globe; records of the Vatican's worldwide ecclesiastical and nonecclesiastical real estate holdings that the Church had systematically and quietly accumulated over the millennia through third-party purchases, private donations, estate bequeathals and charitable gifts.

  Next came an even more startling revelation. A fascinating account of a long-standing, on-again, off-again, direct and indirect involvement with the Sicilian Mafia. Cited were specific, significant financial contributions made by la Cosa Nostra through the years, which were demonstrated to have been accepted knowingly by the Church.

  But, as the announcer pointed out, this odd-couple relationship grew more problematic. “In a 1988 internal report from the Vatican Prefecture for Economic Affairs is the di
sclosure of major financial fraud involving several disastrous investments of the Vatican Bank.

  “It's shown that during the 1980s, the cardinal secretary of the Vatican Bank served in a personal capacity on the boards of several Italian companies in which the Vatican had majority holdings. Owning sizable shares in two of these companies, and known to the Vatican at this time, was a Mafia-controlled entity called Finia C.C.”

  The report went on to explain how the Vatican had allowed Finia to pool their collective holdings for the purpose of acquiring shares of international companies through bulk stock transfers. Later, Mafia financiers manipulated these holdings into a complicated foreign exchange pyramid scheme in a hostile takeover attempt of the ailing insurance firm International Fidelity Trust of New York.

  Ultimately, the venture ran afoul of the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission. But the Vatican, alerted beforehand by a sympathizer in the SEC, sounded the alarm to Finia, which then divested the conglomerate of all relevant holdings before the investigation became public. The unfortunate companies and individuals who acquired the problem holdings, however, were left with massive losses and tangled legal actions which continued to this day.

  The reporter concluded this account by displaying a compromising Vatican file of dates and financial figures, including the names of Mafia individuals involved in the illegal transactions.

  The revelations continued.

  More records showed that, near the end of World War II, the Vatican had accepted from Nazi Germany many important art objects and other spoils of war. Included in this trove were more than 139 master paintings, extensive collections of valuable jewelry and miscellaneous rare antiquities, rightful ownership of which was never questioned by Curia officials.

  “Until now,” the announcer expounded, “all of these valuables were presumed lost or in Russian hands. As detailed in these Secret Archive records, however, this priceless art collection is now known to reside in the private repositories of St. Peter's Treasury.”

  And on the topic of St. Peter's Treasury, more disclosures. An incomplete cataloguing of some of the Vatican's prized collection of modern masterpieces: oils by Matisse, Chagall, Gaugin; watercolors and drawings by Klee, Kandinsky, Moore, Dalí and Modigliani. All told, over eight hundred signed works by more than two hundred fifty of the world's most renowned and accomplished artists. And beyond this, a fabulous wealth of statuary, tapestries, rare furnishings and artifacts of inestimable worth.

  Although incomplete, the news report's final assessment of the Church's assets, as calculated on the toteboard in U.S. dollars, came in at an astronomical sum in the staggering billions.

  Feldman whistled in astonishment. He could only wonder what other surprises had been intercepted by the Swiss Guard and reconsigned to the dust and cobwebs of the Vatican's eternally mysterious Bibliotheca Secreta.

  The report ended and neither Anke nor Feldman spoke.

  At length, Anke looked sideways at her companion and suggested, “Maybe we should take our minds off all this unpleasantness.” She turned, slipped her hand slowly under his T-shirt, up his flat stomach to his muscled, furry chest. Caressing him slowly and lovingly, her fingers worked their way up to the tense muscles of his shoulders and neck.

  But none of the familiar stirrings were there for him. He gazed back into her enticing eyes, and while he felt her sensuality, he couldn't return it. She kissed him, but his response wasn't heartfelt. She backed off.

  Without sufficient nurturing, the interlude withered.

  87

  National Ministry of the Universal Kingdom, Dallas, Texas 10:00 A.M., Thursday, March 23, 2000

  At the knock upon his door, the Right Reverend Solomon T. Brady, D.D., rolled himself away from his mahogany desk and leaned back in his kidskin leather chair, a look of peace and contentment on his face. He ran a grooming hand through his perfect white pompadour and waited.

  The magnificent burl-wood doors at the far end of his office swung wide and an attractive, well-dressed young woman entered the room, calling out across the expanse of marble flooring.

  “Dr. Brady, your ten o'clock appointment.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Conners,” the Reverend replied brightly to his new secretary, and the young woman stepped back to admit a gaunt, gray, up-spirited-looking gentleman with thick glasses and loose-fitting suit.

  “How are you today, Walter?” The Reverend greeted his chief accounting officer with a warm grin.

  The accountant returned the smile. “Very well, sir, I must say!” He walked forward and placed on Brady's desk a thick report of the Universal Kingdom's latest income figures.

  Brady didn't care to inspect it. “Just tell me, Walter, in round percentages.”

  “Well, sir, we're up nearly seventeen points. Your venture with the Mexican Jeza Hotline has proven a real winner. I have to tell you, I fully expect our next returns to post an all-time record.”

  Solomon Brady's eyes glistened. “Thank you, Walter. I'll go through the report over lunch and get back to you if I have any questions. Be sure to have Ms. Conners give you a framed copy of the new Jeza Bible Study Center architectural drawing on your way out. It's a marvel.”

  “Yes, sir. I'm anxious to see it I'll certainly do that. Good day.”

  As his visitor exited, the clergyman swiveled his chair toward the window to view the rather deserted campus below. Despite the fact that enrollments were dramatically off, the Reverend's fortunes had never been better. He exhaled contentedly, looking ahead, beyond the Jeza era, to the next cycle where the Reverend would once again preside over a thriving divinity college and a burgeoning, national—perhaps international—congregation. It was merely a matter of time. For those with foresight.

  88

  Palace of the Sanctum Officium, Headquarters of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, Vatican City, Rome, Italy 9:00 A.M., Friday, March 24, 2000

  Antonio Cardinal di Concerci presided over a dispirited quorum of his congregation. To the prefect's side at the head of the table, in his accustomed velvet armchair, sat the pope, looking pale, tired and distracted. On the other side sat four cardinal officials. The rest of the Curia were dispersed irregularly around the long table, somberly conferring with one another in small groups. Several cardinals were not in attendance today, having resigned their positions in the aftermath of the past week's revelations, either because of complicity or indignation.

  “I understand the Church is being investigated for international securities fraud,” one grim cardinal said to another.

  “Yes,” his confidant replied ruefully, and added, “we're also the subject of a criminal grand theft investigation. What problems poor Nicholas has inherited.”

  They shook their heads forlornly.

  Di Concerci, however, was surprisingly relaxed and collected under the circumstances. “Your Holiness,” he said, rising from his seat to open his address. “And my distinguished fellow cardinals. God's blessings upon us that we may achieve the great purpose for which we are assembled here today.”

  A chorus of solemn “Amens” answered.

  The prefect peered into the eyes of his colleagues assembled around him. “As we are all painfully aware,” he framed the problem, “our beloved Church is enduring the onslaught of its most formidable challenge since the Roman persecutions of the first century A.D. Allegations have been raised that focus world acrimony upon us and jeopardize the very continuation of our sacred apostolic mission.

  “Unfortunately, there are some parishioners throughout the world who are willing to simply accept everything they see and hear at face value; all too ready to abandon their faith in despair. Indeed, there are even clergy of this disposition. Some who once sat among us at this very table, who are not with us today.

  “To them I say,” and he shouted this in a thunderous condemnation, jolting his audience, “O ye of little faith! God has sent us these travails to test us, to try our beliefs and to verify our true love of our Lord, Jesus Christ! Ju
st as God tested Job and Isaac and the apostles and the holy martyrs who persevered in their faith down through the centuries under the most horrible of physical and mental afflictions Satan could visit upon them.

  “Has our great religion endured all of this over the millennia only to resign itself suddenly, overnight, because of the acrimonious words of some unknown, untested girl? This Jeza? This self-ordained spokeswoman of God who preaches destruction and lashes out against us and all religions? I stand before you today to say that the Catholic Church will endure only if we truly believe in the power and the glory of our Almighty. I challenge each of you. Do you have the strength and the faith to persevere?”

  The prefect was met with less-than-enthusiastic agreement.

  “Do you have the strength and the faith to persevere?” he asked again, but did not wait for an answer this time. “Because I come before you now with the most disturbing revelation of all. A revelation that will bring fear to your hearts and require far greater courage than has been demanded of you heretofore!”

  He paused, satisfied now that he had their complete attention.

  “Last Monday evening, in the aftermath of Jeza's attack, I entered, alone, the catacombs of St. Peter's. I took with me this,” and he held up a copy of a small, very old and worn book with a faded burgundy cover.

  “This is a fifteenth-century, hand-lettered Latin manuscript of the Gospel of Saint John. Once the property of Joan of Arc, this is the very testament that the Maid of Orlèans carried with her in the breastplate of her armor as she rode into battle. The stains on these pages are of her own blood when she was once wounded in combat. A peasant girl, unable to read, Joan carried this Book of the Gospel as a sacred talisman to inspire her triumphs over seemingly insurmountable odds.