The Second Messiah

by Glenn Meade

  The major snapped off a salute. “I’ll leave you here. You haven’t far to go; just carry on past the village and you’ll come to St. Paul’s Monastery.”

  “My thanks, Cousin.” Josuf and the major embraced and kissed each other on both cheeks, Arab style.

  The major shook hands with Yasmin and Jack and offered them a map. “Take this, just in case the old goat that’s driving you gets lost on the way back in the dark. The roads around here are poorly marked.”

  Josuf started the engine, and Yasmin climbed into the pickup, followed by Jack. “We appreciate your help, Major.”

  The major slapped the roof twice with the palm of his hand. “Drive carefully, and may Allah go with you.”

  34

  7:28 P.M.

  THE BLACK HAWK is a robust helicopter, one of the most successful ever built, with powerful twin GE turboshaft engines and a top cruising speed of over 150 knots. The one that Lela and Ari Tauber flew in that evening was a well-used special ops transporter, its mission ferrying them both to a rendezvous near the monastery of St. Paul.

  Lela tried to ignore the noise as she and Ari sat on a couple of bucket seats up near the cockpit, the chop of the blades a constant throb in their ears. Five feet away, standing near the flight crew, was a small, balding man with a mustache and cautious eyes who held a map and a pencil torch in his hand and talked with the crew via a communications headset.

  Ari said above the rotor noise, “Saul’s our dispatcher. He’s going to make sure the pilots drop us at our rendezvous and not on some dung pile in the wrong part of the desert.”

  “Have you ever done this kind of thing before?” Lela shouted above the din.

  Ari smiled. “I better not answer that on the grounds it might incriminate me.”

  “Where are we now?”

  The man named Saul must have overheard the question because he removed one of the headset cans from his ear and smiled over at Lela. “We’ve just crossed the Jordanian border. Another forty-five minutes will have us at our target. Sit back, relax, enjoy the ride.”

  The man named Saul turned back to talk with the flight crew. Lela said to Ari, “What about the Jordanian or Syrian radar and their air defenses? Couldn’t we get shot at?”

  Ari grinned. “What radar? It doesn’t operate at low altitudes. We simply keep to under a thousand feet. As for air defenses, Saul tells me that we’ll be keeping well away from the established Jordanian and Syrian patrol routes.” He shrugged. “Don’t ask me how Mossad knows the routes, but intelligence collected by American satellites probably plays a big part.”

  Lela peered out of the nearest cabin window. At a dusky, moonlit seven hundred feet all she could see was endless desert, dotted with the dark outline of an occasional gnarled tree. The Black Hawk buffeted in a gust of wind, and then settled. “What if we encounter a technical problem and have to land short of our drop?”

  “No problem, Lela. We’ve got another Black Hawk flying shotgun three minutes behind us that’ll pick us up.”

  “Your boss seems to have thought of everything.”

  Ari smiled. “Did you get a load of his sandals? They look like something he stole off a dead monk. Speaking of footwear, I’ve got something for you.” He opened a couple of black canvas bags at his feet and removed a pair of plain, flat black shoes for Lela. Next came undergarments, then black jeans, a cotton top, and a female Arab gown, a black hijab, which would cover her completely from head to toe.

  Ari said, “The clothes are all Syrian made and you can change into them now but keep the hijab handy. Slip it over whatever you’re wearing if there’s a chance we might be stopped by a Syrian patrol. That way they’re less likely to search you. They’re generally respectful toward women. You remember our cover story?”

  “We’re traveling to Damascus for our wedding anniversary to visit relatives.”

  Ari nodded. “Just stick to the bare bones of the story and let me do the talking. A Syrian patrol wouldn’t expect the woman to do much of the explaining. These are your documents.”

  He handed Lela a Syrian passport. She flicked through it and saw what looked like the actual snapshot from her own passport, but in the photograph she was wearing an Arab headdress with her face exposed. Even her passport signature style matched, and her birth date, but the document was in the name of a woman named Melina Rasifa.

  Lela marveled at how authentic the forgery looked. “How did Mossad get my photograph?”

  “Our forgers had to work fast so they pulled the copy held at the passport office. They had less than three hours once Weiss decided he wanted you on board. They did a pretty good job, don’t you think?”

  “The headdress looks so realistic. Did they doctor the shot by computer?”

  Ari nodded. “Forgers can do wonders these days with technology, and Mossad’s guys are the best in the business.”

  “Your boss said we’d have help. What exactly did he mean?”

  “Two of our agents in Syria will be waiting on the ground, ready to give us whatever assistance we need.” Ari consulted his watch. “They ought to be at the rendezvous by now. I’m hoping we can wrap this up quickly but then you never know. There’s just more thing, Lela.”

  Ari took two compact Sig 9mm automatic pistols from one of the bags. One pistol had a black leather hip holster, which he took for himself, and the second weapon had an ankle holster, complete with Velcro straps. “You better take one of these. You might prefer the ankle holster. Are you familiar with this make of firearm?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He handed the second Sig to Lela, along with three spare loaded magazines and a matte black silencer, then added with a smile, “You know what they say: The best gunfight is the one that doesn’t happen. Hopefully, we won’t get involved in any trouble. But these are for what our American cousins like to call in English, JIC. Just-in-case.”

  The dispatcher named Saul shouted above the din. “Max fifteen minutes to the drop, you guys!”

  Lela tensed. It was almost impossible to believe that she was in a helicopter flying over the Syrian desert, risking her life and hunting down Jack Cane as a suspected murderer and thief. She felt her chest tighten and her heart quicken. “What does the Qumran scroll contain, Ari? It has to be something remarkable for Mossad to go to all this trouble. And why all the secrecy?”

  Ari’s smile vanished abruptly. “That’s a subject I can’t discuss, Lela. Now, we better go over our cover story one more time, just so we’re clear.”

  35

  ST. PAUL’S MONASTERY

  MALOULA

  SYRIA

  8:12 P.M.

  “WE ARE HERE,” Josuf announced.

  Darkness had fallen, the heat still oppressive as the lights of Josuf’s pickup turned onto a narrow desert track. Five hundred yards outside Maloula, silhouetted against the full moon, Jack saw the outline of an old fortress with Arab-style turrets, not a single light on inside. The track led past a cluster of ruined yellow sandstone outbuildings.

  Yasmin said, “Are you sure this is the place? It looks abandoned.”

  “It is here, madame. My cousin assured me.” Josuf drove along the track until they came to a cobbled square in front of the fortress. He halted the pickup and rolled down his window to get a better look. In the wash of the headlights they saw a citadel with mustard-colored walls. Set in the middle was an archway with a pair of oak doors, studded with rusty nails. High above the archway was a wrought-iron crucifix. Jack said, “Do you have a flashlight, Josuf?”

  The Bedu reached behind the cabin and produced a scuffed industrial flashlight made of sturdy yellow plastic. Jack took it and stepped out of the car. “Let’s take a look.”

  The others followed as Jack flicked on the flashlight and walked over to the oak doors. The ancient wood was split by wide cracks. A square view-hole in the door was protected by a metal grille, a bellpull next to it. Jack shone the powerful beam through one of the cracks and saw a lush courtyard garden beyond
, silvered by lunar light, a stone fountain bubbling away.

  Yasmin asked, “What do you see?”

  “Take a look for yourself,” Jack answered.

  “It looks deserted,” Yasmin said, peering inside, and then Josuf did the same.

  “Let’s find out if anyone’s home.” Jack yanked the bellpull and a tinkle sounded somewhere in the darkness.

  When no one appeared, he pulled the bell again until finally they heard echoing footsteps scurrying toward them. A bolt scraped, the view-hole opened, and Jack’s torch lit up the face of a young monk wearing a worn white habit. He said hoarsely in Arabic, “Yes? What do you want?”

  “We’ve come to speak with one of your priests.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Jack Cane, and this is Yasmin Green and Josuf Bin Doha.”

  The young monk frowned. “There is only one priest here: Father Novara. The rest are brother monks.”

  “Then I guess it must be Father Novara we need to see. We have important business to discuss with him.”

  The monk was reluctant. “What business?”

  Jack said, “It’s private, for his ears only. If you could please tell the priest that we need to talk with him urgently.”

  The monk glanced out warily at their pickup. “You must wait,” he answered, and closed the view-hole. They heard his footsteps fade away but they returned after a few minutes and the view-hole snapped opened again. This time it was a much older, gray-bearded monk wearing a white habit. He had a broad, intelligent-looking forehead and his face was full of strength, firm and pious. He spoke perfect English with no trace of an Italian accent. “I am Father Vincento Novara. What do you want here?”

  Jack said, “It’s complicated, Father. But if you could spare us a little of your time we promise to explain everything.”

  “You’re not Syrians. Where are you from?”

  “We’ve traveled a long way to find you, Father. I’m American, Josuf here is Bedu, and—”

  “I’m very sorry, but it’s late.” The priest interrupted impatiently. “And I am about to start evening prayers. Come back tomorrow.”

  “Father—”

  “Please respect my wishes.”

  The priest turned to go, but Jack said, “I believe you’ve translated a number of ancient scrolls for certain Syrian friends of yours, Father.”

  The monk’s jaw dropped in response. “Who—who told you this?”

  “Let us in and I’ll explain everything. Otherwise, I’ll have to involve the police.”

  The priest turned ashen. “Let me see some identification.”

  They handed their passports through the grille and the priest’s face disappeared a few moments, but they saw his features illuminated by the flicker of an oil lamp as he scrutinized their documents. Father Novara frowned as if trying to make up his mind, then he fumbled for something. They heard a rattle of keys, a bolt was slid, and the gates opened into a beautiful stone-flagged courtyard, decorated in the Arab style, full of bubbling fountains and water features.

  Father Novara stood there, a tough, gnarled little man with a powerful physique and a head too big for his body. His frayed white habit had a knotted cord at his waist from which hung a cross. He carried an oil lamp and a bunch of keys in his hand.

  “It seems,” he said bleakly, “that we need to talk.”

  36

  FATHER NOVARA LED them across the fountained courtyard, his habit flapping as he walked. They moved under a darkened archway and came to a solid wooden door. The priest held up the oil lamp as he ushered them through the door. “This way, please.”

  They entered a room with whitewashed walls. A table and a couple of benches were set in the middle, the floor covered in worn stone slabs. Novara seemed uneasy as he closed the door.

  Jack tried to draw him out. “You speak excellent English, Father.”

  “I ought to, it’s my native tongue. Despite my surname I was born in England, of Italian parents. I studied archaeology and ancient languages at Cambridge many years ago, before I came here.”

  “It seems an interesting old monastery.”

  The priest shrugged as he used his lamp to light another that hung from a nail in the wall. “It was an Arab citadel until the ninth century before becoming a Catholic monastery, though nowadays there are only a few of us monks left. But that’s not what we’re here to discuss. Tell me exactly why you came.”

  Jack said, “We’re interested in a couple of black-market Syrian dealers. One in particular, a man with a withered hand. He’s known to us as Pasha. I believe he’s a friend of yours.”

  A muscle twitched in the priest’s cheek. “Who told you this?”

  Jack said, “That really doesn’t matter. But we need to find him.”

  The priest put a palm to his forehead as if in deep thought, and let it rest there a moment, his intelligent eyes studying each of his visitors in turn before his hand fell away and his gaze returned to Jack. “You are merely fishing for information, aren’t you? Trying to find out what I might know. But I really don’t know what you are talking about. You have been misled.”

  Yasmin said, “I don’t think so, Father. We know that you’ve helped this man translate stolen Dead Sea parchments.”

  Father Novara looked indignant. “That’s preposterous. A total lie. I helped no one do such a thing.”

  “Maybe you’d like to reconsider, Father? Josuf’s brother once did business with the man, sold him ancient scrolls. He knows that you helped to translate them.”

  The priest’s face muscle twitched again but he was steadfast. “He can say all he wants but I deny it.”

  Jack took out his cell phone. “In that case, you won’t mind if we call the police.”

  The priest was defiant as he held up their passports. “Perhaps you can tell them what three people with Israeli stamps on their passports are doing in Syria. Like me, I’m sure they’d be interested to know.”

  Jack started to punch in numbers on his cell. “I think they’d be even more interested to know that you’re involved in a brutal homicide, don’t you, Father?”

  “Homicide? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Jack stopped punching the keypad and fixed the priest with a stare. “Early this morning a man was stabbed to death at Qumran, in Israel. His name was Donald Green and he was in charge of an important archaeological dig. He was also my boss. A valuable scroll I unearthed was stolen during the murder. There’s an international police alert already under way to help solve the crime. But if you don’t want to help us, it might be better if you deal with the police. After all, you could be an accomplice to murder.”

  Father Novara’s eyes widened, his confidence vaporized, and he grasped Jack’s wrist to prevent him using his cell phone. “No, please, wait. I’m an accomplice to nothing.”

  Yasmin urged, “Father, we need your help to find these men.”

  The priest nervously bit his lip, then moved to open the door. “I—I must ask permission from my abbot to talk further. Please wait here.”

  “How long?”

  “Five minutes, no more,” Novara said, and closed the door after him, his footsteps echoing out in the stone courtyard.

  At the end of the courtyard Father Vincento Novara came to a winding granite staircase. Using his lamp to guide him he climbed up one floor. He was trembling, his legs barely able to carry him. He reached a landing with a stone archway. He stepped through and entered a large room with vaulted wooden ceilings that served as his private office.

  Crammed with bookshelves, the room also held a simple wooden chair and desk set against one wall. Novara’s eyes were drawn to the desk, the wood shiny with age. On top lay a foot-long pinewood box. It was fitted with secure metal clamps that held a hinged lid in place. He stepped over to the box but paused beside the rows of bookshelves, stacked with leather-bound books and rolls of ancient parchments, some of them centuries old.

  Novara knew those musty books and parchments as intimate
ly as he knew his own life. His was a life dedicated to scholastic research ever since as a young priest he had studied to become an expert in ancient Aramaic and Hebrew documents. These were reference works to aid his research, and samples of ancient script that went back thousands of years.

  Novara placed the oil lamp on the desk and felt a bead of sweat drip from his brow. He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and noticed that his hands trembled. Next to the pinewood box was a lab microscope and a magnifying glass with a cracked ivory handle. He anxiously licked his lips, released the metal clamps on the box, and lifted the hinged lid.

  Inside was an unraveled, sepia-colored scroll.

  Using scissors, he had cut out a pair of thin Perspex sheets, which now sandwiched the scroll for protection. Some portions of the parchment were worn and patched with holes, but it was still in reasonably good condition and most of it legible.

  He had translated so many manuscripts in his lifetime, but in truth none was as intriguing as this ancient scroll that he had finished translating an hour ago. It was truly astonishing.

  But then so was the arrival of his three visitors.

  Novara closed the pinewood lid and snapped shut the clamps. He moved across the room to another door, opened it, and climbed some stone steps onto a large roof battlement. He lifted his habit, removed a Siemens cell phone, and flicked it open. Twenty feet away was a miniature satellite dish to ensure that he always had a signal. And up here on the roof the signal strength was best. Novara punched the cell phone keypad and called the number in Damascus.

  37

  8:32 P.M.

  “FATHER NOVARA SEEMS to be taking a long time.” Jack stepped over to the door and listened.

  Yasmin said, “Tell me more about these collectors who buy ancient artifacts. What do you know about them?”