7

by Van R. Mayhall Jr.

“I thought at first the author had to be Judas because of how we found it,” she replied. “The references that led us to it were in the Greek version of the Gospel of Judas.”

  “So it was Judas?” asked J.E.

  “I’m not so sure now. It might be, but it could be others. Some of it has that third-person thing we see in the Gospel of St. John,” said Cloe. “You know, where he refers to himself as the disciple who loved Jesus or as the ‘other.’ Remember, it’s in scraps that must be assembled in some order to make sense. Some of it is very clear and straightforward. That’s the interesting voice. It’s very authoritative. So there may be several authors.”

  “Okay, so we are not sure who wrote it, but does it give us any help for our current circumstances?” asked the monsignor. “You have mentioned a possible conversation between Jesus and St. John about the end of times. Maybe this is a clue for us.”

  “Perhaps,” said Cloe. “The problem is I’m at a dead end in trying to translate the conversation. I’ve gotten to the point where I believe Jesus and St. John are talking in a private conversation, and I’m sure Jesus mentions the rise of evil. He talks about the signs that will appear, but the written language departs from Aramaic into what appear to be symbols.”

  “Signs, symbols?” mulled the monsignor. “Jesus and St. John were very close, often together, and St. John is known as the disciple who Christ loved. Why would there be signs or symbols?”

  “What signs?” asked the curator.

  “There is talk of famine and plagues,” responded Cloe. “Civil unrest and wars emerge, but the persecution and killing of the religious is given as a foremost sign that evil is ascendant. There are many others discussed. Jesus says the evil one will awake, take a familiar form, and there will be a final battle with all the kingdoms of the world.”

  “Wow!” said J.E. “It does seem that a lot of that is going on now.”

  “St. John was the only disciple who stayed with Jesus throughout, even unto the cross itself,” said the curator. “He and his brother Andrew were two of the first disciples chosen, and he was the one to whom Jesus entrusted his mother as he was dying on the cross.”

  “Perhaps they had a secret language only between them—that’s what the symbols are,” suggested J.E.

  “All possible,” said Cloe. “But it doesn’t feel like that. It’s not a secret language two people might invent. It’s like it’s written in little pictures such as Chinese. But it’s nothing like Chinese.”

  “Cloe, are we talking hieroglyphs?” asked the monsignor. “Are these Egyptian-type hieroglyphs?”

  “I’m not sure,” she replied. “Jesus seems to be giving John instructions on how to deal with the rise of evil, which he says will happen periodically. He says God will provide the forces to battle evil no matter how bad things seem. We should have faith. Then he says in such times we should look to … something. That’s when the strange language starts. Whatever we are to look to is coded.”

  “If John and Jesus had a secret language between them, why don’t we see it in the Gospel of St. John or in his other writings?” asked J.E.

  “Well, it might be that the other writings of St. John were for public consumption. They couldn’t be in code,” said the monsignor.

  “John is reputed to have written Revelation seventy years after Christ’s death, and it’s in a sort of code,” responded Cloe. “But it’s not the same. The meaning of Revelation is disguised, but it’s not written in an indecipherable language. Revelation can be understood by references to then current events. This is different.”

  “Why would Jesus give John coded instructions on defeating evil?” asked J.E. “Shouldn’t we all know about this?”

  “We may not be able to answer that question until we can understand what it says,” said Cloe. “John may have included it all in the book of Revelation. That may be all there is. But we have to decode it to know what it says in order to see if Revelation gives us clues as to what it means.”

  “Where is the language?” asked the curator. “I would like to view it.”

  “It is on my laptop, which I left at Castel Gandolfo with the pope.”

  Just then the jet engines began to ramp down.

  “I’ve got to go land this thing,” said Sky. “We will be with the pope shortly.”

  “There will be an answer,” said the monsignor.

  CHAPTER

  37

  Robby knelt and prayed the “Our Father,” and there was little to do but to join him. Zack and his group were hopelessly outnumbered and had little in the way of weapons. The leather boys could easily sweep them away.

  So Zack knelt, and Louie, Rey, Mel, and the others did likewise, still holding hands or touching the person in front. Zack could feel the power surge through them. It was not of them but through them.

  The young men in front of them stopped as if they had hit a brick wall. The leader looked bewildered and turned to urge his men forward. The leather boys relaxed their grip on their weapons and soon began to drop them to the floor. In short order, the hoods were defenseless.

  Zack, Robby, and the rest stood, still praying, and stepped forward toward the entrance to the breezeway. Zack could see the large, inner dining room lined with mirrors in the New Orleans style. The kitchen staff and wait staff had come from the back and were poking their heads out the door to see what the commotion was.

  “What’s going on?” shouted a man who looked like he might be in charge.

  The leader of the dirty boys looked around and took a step back.

  “Call the army post,” said the manager to one of his workers. “Tell them we need help.”

  Zack and the others moved slowly forward, one step at a time, still praying as their adversaries retreated. They had nearly crossed the large front entrance area to the restaurant when the thugs withdrew and trotted toward the parking lot.

  The leader looked around and said, “Come on, boys. I already had breakfast anyway.” They turned and ran—all but the leader. He spun toward them and smiled with down-turned lips and said, “This has only begun. We will meet again.”

  ***

  “Oh my God!” said Mel. “What was that?”

  Zack rushed to the end of the breezeway and looked out. He could see the leather boys had mounted motorcycles and were now roaring off to the south.

  “Come on, we’ve got to get out of here,” said Zack. “They could come back. Wherever this goes, for so long as it takes, we are together.”

  “I think it may go farther than we think,” said Louie, finally speaking. “Wherever we go, no matter how long it takes, we are one.”

  One, Zack thought. The more he considered it, the more it fit. They were here for a reason, and they were together for the same reason. They were one, for better or worse.

  After the scene at the coffeehouse, none of them could go back to their hotels. Indeed, they could not separate; they had to stay together. There was only one reasonably safe place, but first they had to deal with Robby’s situation. He had to come with them to gather them together, but what would his parents say? If they did not talk to the parents, it would not be long before the military cops were looking for Robby.

  Zack faced the others and said, “We have to talk to Robby’s parents.” They all nodded in understanding.

  Robby led them to a small house with a tiny, well-trimmed lawn and single-car carport. After they introduced themselves, all six of them sat in the living-dining room combination, facing Robby’s mother. Robby’s dad had not come home from a deployment to Iraq. Zack could see the flag and the medals on the mantel, which told the story. The young widow was dressed in medical scrubs and had dark brown hair and a pretty face. Zack thought she could not be too much older than he. As usual, Bully sat between Robby and the door, watching the door but with his ears pricked up, listening to the proceedings.

  There
was nothing any of them could say that might cause a mother to part with her seven-year-old child. They had discussed several cover stories, but no one had faith in any of them. In the end, they told Robby’s mother the truth as they knew it.

  “You’re not seriously asking that I let a seven-year-old boy go with people I have only just met to be part of some unknown mission?” she asked incredulously. “I think you people need to get out of my house.”

  “Ma’am,” said Zack. “Robby has told you about the strange giant. He told you about the card?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “That changes nothing.”

  “It changes everything,” said Mel, holding her card up.

  They all reached into pockets and purses and held up identical cards, each gleaming in the low light.

  “Rey got his in Manila, Zoe in Australia, Anna in Germany, Mel in Guam, and the rest of us in various parts of the US,” said Zack. “We have come from all over the world to New Orleans. Robby is one of us and must come with us. He has been chosen.”

  “Chosen!” she cried, pulling Robby to her side. “I’ve lost my husband. In a sense, he too was chosen. I can’t lose Robby. He’s all I have.”

  The group in the long front room was quiet. The wood floors creaked under their immaculate gleam. There was a neat little dining area adjacent with a table and four chairs that transitioned into the cozy kitchen.

  “We understand, and we have all lost people we loved,” said Mel. “I buried my dad on Guam. What we are about is important.”

  “And what is that?” asked Robby’s mother, blotting her eyes on her sleeve. “What are you about?”

  “We are not sure,” said Rey. “We just know it is important; somehow it’s critical.”

  “Critical to what? To whom?” she demanded.

  “We just don’t know,” said Zack, sighing.

  “You want me to let my son go with you, God knows where, for who knows what,” she remarked. “Please leave my house. This conversation is over.”

  A small arm tugged at her slacks, and she looked down at her son.

  “Mom, I have to go with them,” said Robby. “It’s part of the plan.”

  “Plan? What plan?” she asked. “Robby, what are you saying?”

  “Well, I’m not all that sure, but I can tell you what I think it feels like,” said Robby. “You know when you and I read my Bible studies? We read the deal about Noah and the ark. It’s like that.”

  “Noah?” questioned his mother.

  “Yes. He was told to build this big thing and get all these animals and get inside,” said Robby. “It seemed crazy. But Noah didn’t really need to worry about that ’cause he had faith.”

  Zack smiled at the innocent wisdom of children. He already loved this little boy.

  “I think I see,” said his mother. “You’re saying I should have faith.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the little boy said.

  “But, Robby, Noah was touched by God,” she replied. “He did what he did because he was an instrument of God.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Robby.

  CHAPTER

  38

  The pope welcomed them back and after the formalities gave the monsignor a great bear hug. Cloe could have sworn that there was a tear in the corner of the pope’s eye. They were seated once again in the conference room at Castel Gandolfo, enjoying coffee and the wonderful cookies prepared by the German order of nuns that served the pope’s household.

  “That’s quite an adventure for what was supposed to be a simple diplomatic mission,” said the pope after hearing what had transpired on Malta. “The important thing is Albert is here with us again. Cloe, we owe you and your colleagues a great debt of gratitude.”

  “Thank you, Holiness, but without this group, whom we think may have been the descendants of the Knights of Malta, we would all still be imprisoned at the Ghallis Tower. Valent, the son of the leader, was very courageous in coming into the tower to get us out,” said Cloe. “His life was constantly at risk, and he was wounded in our escape.”

  “If things ever settle down and Malta once again becomes hospitable, I shall send emissaries to seek out these brave men,” said the pope. “I should like to recognize them—that is, if they will allow such a thing.”

  “Holiness, you may be quite correct in your suggestion,” replied the monsignor. “They are underground for their own good reasons, most likely so they can emerge to help Malta in times like these. They may prefer their anonymity.”

  “Quite so, Albert, but there are many ways to recognize them that do not involve exposing our friends,” said the pope. “We shall see.”

  “Holy Father,” said Cloe, “we were not able to complete our mission without the loss of the ring. We had hoped that we could somehow bargain with the potentate in such a way that we could rescue the monsignor and bring the ring back to you.”

  “My child, the ring was committed as the ransom,” the pope replied. “The important thing is Albert is back. While the ring is symbolic, it is still only a thing to be gladly sacrificed for the safe return of our people.”

  Cloe was amazed at the pope’s implicit expression of the priceless value of one person’s life yet unsure if dealing with terrorists in such a manner was the best policy in the long run. She glanced at J.E., who by his expression was reading her thoughts.

  Seeing her look of concern, the pontiff said, “You don’t approve of our bargaining strategy? It is well known that it is the policy of the US not to negotiate with terrorists about the freeing of hostages or prisoners.”

  “That’s true, Holiness,” said J.E. “The concern is that even a successful bargain only encourages the terrorists to take more prisoners in hopes of more treasure.”

  The room grew still, and Cloe was fearful she and J.E. had said too much.

  “Not all countries have the resources of the United States. While the Vatican is not a poor country, it is the smallest one, and our resources are committed in many ways,” the pope kindly observed. “Thus, in situations like this, which thankfully are very rare, we have to use all the tools we have. We bargain, and we look for opportunity. Still, it’s not over; the ring may yet be recovered.”

  Cloe heard the shepherd in his voice, but she also heard something else: steel. She smiled at Pope Francis with a new respect.

  ***

  After the pope had retired, the others remained in the conference room as Cloe booted up her trusty laptop. She thought back to when she had deciphered key phrases from the Judas gospel while en route to Lyon, France, to meet the Kolektor. The ruthless monster had kidnapped her elderly uncle Sonny. She and her laptop had been through a lot. She looked down at the screen as the familiar notes sounded. The portion of the journal she had last worked on came up.

  “Here’s where I left off with the translation,” she said as the others gathered around and looked over her shoulder. “You can see my notes of what I had tentatively translated.”

  “That certainly suggests the other party was St. John,” said the monsignor. “That third-person style is classic Johannine verbiage found throughout the Gospel of St. John.”

  “Quite so,” said the curator. “Only John used that special language so one could conclude he wrote it. Do you think this is his journal?”

  “It’s hard to say,” replied Cloe. “I began thinking this was a diary or journal, chronicling Christ’s public ministry, probably written by Judas Iscariot. That was somewhat implied by references to it in the Judas gospel. Now, I’m not so sure.”

  “It may end up that it was written by more than one person,” suggested J.E.

  “We may find more styles and more authors as we go on. Or it could have been someone imitating John’s well-known style.”

  “Could Jesus Christ himself have written some, or all, of this journal?” asked J.E. “Is this Christ’s diary?”

/>   Cloe’s mouth fell open. It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room by J.E.’s question. Why had that not occurred to her? Was it possible? Her head reeled at the thought. “Christ’s diary?” she asked herself.

  “There has never been any writing directly attributed to Jesus ever discovered,” said the curator. “It has long been assumed that there is none.”

  “But, Father Curator,” said the monsignor, “that answer only begs the question. Is it not equally plausible to believe that no such writing has yet been discovered as it is to believe that none exists?”

  “Yes, Albert. Your point is well taken,” said the curator. “But how could such a thing ever be proven? We have no other writings of Christ with which to compare it and no contemporary references to verify it.”

  “Well, it might be possible to speculate as to the author based solely upon the internal content of the journal. We could eliminate other possible authors based upon comparison to their contemporary writings,” mused Cloe. “This would take years of work and might never be definitive, but it would be an astounding task. Any number of scholars would gladly devote their life’s work to such a project.”

  “Amazing,” said the monsignor. “Just as we peel back one layer of the mystery of the journal, ten more layers present themselves.”

  “Quite right, Albert,” said Cloe. “That’s all for another day. Right now we need to know about this conversation.”

  “Okay, but what does the part you have translated say?” asked J.E.

  “It’s a relatively long conversation, but the gist is that there will be numerous signs that will announce evil’s rise. It vaguely talks about when this will occur, how to recognize the signs, and what to do about it.”

  “Well, that’s good,” said J.E. “So, what do we do about it?”

  “That’s the thing,” said Cloe. “The next sections are in this strange code.”

  They all squinted down at the small screen, studying the strange characters.

  “Wait a minute,” said the curator, moving away from the table and pushing a button on the wall. As a large screen began to scroll down from a recessed panel in the ceiling, he opened a drawer in a cabinet along the wall and withdrew a USB cable.