The Second Messiah

by Glenn Meade

  “They’re usually wealthy individuals who get a kick out of possessing rare and precious artifacts all to themselves. Some pay millions for the privilege. And they couldn’t care less if the artifact’s been stolen because no one’s ever going to see it except them. That’s what gives them their big thrill.”

  “Do you know of any collectors who might want your scroll?”

  “I’m sure there are lots.” Jack turned to listen at the door again. “There’s not a sound out there. I wonder where the heck Novara’s got to.”

  Yasmin said, “Do you ever get a chill on the back of your neck when something isn’t quite right? I get the same feeling about Novara.”

  Jack nodded. “You might be right. I wouldn’t count on him telling us the truth either. I think he may know a lot more than he’s saying.”

  Josuf said, “Maybe I should get my knife from the pickup?”

  Yasmin said, “Why?”

  “To loosen the priest’s tongue.”

  Jack moved to the door, opened it a crack, and listened. “No, stay here, Josuf. Take care of Yasmin.”

  “Why, where are you going?” Yasmin asked.

  Jack stepped out into the deserted courtyard. “To take a look around for Novara.”

  * * *

  Jack walked to the end of the courtyard. The monastery appeared deserted, the only sound his own echoing footsteps and gurgling water from the fountain. Overhead, stars burned silver in the desert night, the air clammy.

  He came to a granite staircase that wound upward into darkness. He peered up, listened, but heard nothing. He moved up the staircase, pressing his hands to the side of the smooth stone walls to keep his balance, and came out into an enormous, sparsely furnished chamber.

  The room looked to be a private study or office, an oak door at the end. The air had a dank smell. A crucifix was nailed high into one of the bare stone walls. He approached a wooden chair and desk set against a wall. On top lay a pinewood box.

  Jack startled when he thought he heard a faint voice in the distance. He listened again. Silence, except for the faint creaking of the floor-boards.

  Nearby, a long row of wooden shelves sagged under the weight of leather-bound books and rolls of withering parchments. Some were obviously many centuries old. Below the shelves, a clutch of what appeared to be parchment scrolls were laid out on a broad table, each under a sheet of Perspex.

  A magnifying glass lay nearby. It looked as if the parchments were being studied for some kind of comparison. Jack’s heart beat faster as he eagerly moved closer. All the parchments appeared to be written in Aramaic. He didn’t waste time reading the complete texts but scanned them.

  His heart sank. None was his Qumran scroll.

  He turned back to the desk and the pinewood box lying on top. It was fitted with a pair of sturdy-looking metal clamps to keep it securely shut. A lab microscope, a desk lamp, and an ivory-handled magnifying glass lay next to the box.

  A slim pile of notes and papers were stacked on the desk. Jack flicked through them and frowned. Some of the papers had what looked like jotted combinations of Aramaic words and letters, some of them scratched out, as if the writer had been trying to decipher words. Jack shuffled through more pages. On one he found a legible sentence, written in English:

  When the messiah’s corpse was removed from the cross, it was placed in a tomb in the burial caves outside Dora, on the road to Caesarea.

  The sentence jolted Jack. His pulse raced. He didn’t understand the words’ significance but knew he had stumbled upon something remarkable. He read the sentence again to be certain he’d read it correctly. Then he checked the next page and found a pen-and-ink drawing—it was embellished with vivid, dramatic images of animals, monsters, and sylphs.

  He frowned again. Something about the drawing looked familiar. He racked his mind but couldn’t put a finger on it. Jack slid open one of the desk drawers. Inside was a jumble of pens and pencils, rubber erasers, and paper clips. He pulled open another drawer and discovered bottles of different colored inks, from black to purple, and copper brown. He eased shut the drawers, his attention drawn back to the pinewood box. Looking closely, he noticed it had a hinged lid. He fiddled with the clamps, pressing hard on one until it snapped open. His curiosity aroused, he snapped open the second clamp.

  Very carefully, he touched his hand to the lid and lifted it back.

  Inside the box lay the Qumran scroll.

  Well I’ll be darned. Jack felt his heart race. I’ve found it.

  Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to unravel and protect the ancient parchment, placing it in a two-layer sandwich of what looked like foot-square plastic or Perspex sheets. At the very bottom was a layer of straw. The plastic sheets were held in place by spring clips. Unrolled, the sepia-colored scroll was less than a foot long.

  Portions of the parchment were worn and eaten with holes but most of it appeared to be in legible condition. He noticed something odd. Two sharp lines cut about an inch into the top right edge of the scroll, as if someone had attempted to slice away small portions of the parchment with a knife or scissors, then changed their mind.

  Despite the cuts, none of the inked words in that part of the parchment appeared missing. Jack switched on the table lamp and the scroll’s coppery sepia tones came alive.

  He could hardly contain his excitement. His mind was on fire; his palms felt sweaty. He lifted the magnifier from the desk and held it in focus over the parchment. The words in the first paragraph leapt out at him: Yeshua HaMeshiah.

  With his excitement came a stab of fear. He knew he could be disturbed at any minute. He urgently tried to figure what to do next. A thought came to him and he replaced the magnifier and fumbled for his cell phone.

  He flicked on the built-in camera and pointed it down. The screen blinked and came alive with the image on the desk in front of him. Aiming the lens at the scroll, he directed the desk lamp to neutralize the glare. When he got the distance just right, it allowed him to read a portion of the scroll with a crisp enough image.

  He managed to shoot off seven photographs before he heard footsteps beyond the far door. He had a powerful instinct to grab the scroll and run but he suppressed it. Instead, he took out his notebook and pen, flicked off the desk light, and slowly lifted the clips at the edge that held the Perspex in place …

  A little later Jack heard the door creak open and Novara appeared. He looked as surprised as Jack. “What are you doing in here?” the priest demanded.

  Jack plucked down a book as he stood in front of one of the bookshelves. “I thought I heard footsteps. You took so long I came to look for you. Why?”

  Novara let the door close behind him and raised his hand. He clutched a deadly-looking steel-blue automatic pistol. “Move away from the shelves, Mr. Cane, and do exactly as I tell you.”

  “Did you hear that?”

  Josuf rose from the table. “Hear what, madame?”

  “It sounded like footsteps.” Yasmin heard a noise beyond the door and it opened suddenly. At the sight of Jack standing there, she let out a breath and said, “You had us worried for a minute. What’s the matter?”

  They both saw Father Novara appear in the doorway, armed with a pistol. He pushed Jack into the room and closed the door after him.

  Yasmin, alarmed, took a step back. “What—what’s going on?”

  Novara brandished the pistol. “Sit still and be quiet. Otherwise I’m liable to kill you all.”

  38

  NORTH OF EL LEJA

  SYRIA

  8:45 P.M.

  THE BLACK HAWK powered through the darkness. The dull chopping of the blades seemed to throb in unison with Lela’s pounding heartbeat.

  Ari said, “This chopper’s got a FLIR system fitted to its belly—that’s forward-looking infrared to you and me. Along with telemetry units, they’ll help the pilot get a precise fix on our contact’s ground transmission.”

  “Who are the people meeting us?”

  “
A couple of Mossad’s agents working out of Damascus. They’ll make sure we don’t get lost.”

  The helicopter banked sharply, its speed slowing. Saul said, “Approaching target now, better ready yourselves.”

  Lela, wearing the jeans and top Ari had given her, grabbed the bag at her feet containing the hijab gown. Nervous excitement fluttered in her stomach. Staring out the window she saw total darkness as the chopper leveled out again.

  Ari reached for his bag. “Forget the window view and take a look into the cockpit. Near the center of the console you’ll see a small TV with a green screen. That’s for the passive thermal imaging equipment fitted to the chopper’s belly. It’s scanning the road and the immediate area for any human activity. With any luck, you ought to see our welcoming committee.”

  The Black Hawk began to hover, its nose swinging gently left and right in a sweeping motion. Lela peered into the cockpit, past Saul and the busy crew. She noticed a miniature TV in the center console, the screen filled with thermal images in different shades of luminous green and black. Lela could make out the vague shapes of what looked like a car and a human figure standing near the vehicle, the image shot from a high angle.

  “You see that? Our contact,” Saul told them, smiling. “The wonders of modern technology.”

  “Target directly below,” the pilot called out, maneuvering the joystick as the Black Hawk descended. Moments later the chopper’s struts hit the ground with a gentle bump. Saul yanked open the door and a blast of warm desert air swirled into the cabin.

  Lela felt a wave of anxiety as the dispatcher ushered them out. “Go, move it, quick as you can.”

  Ari jumped out first and then held out a hand to her. Lela jumped and her feet hit a hard tarmac road. She followed Ari out under the whirling helicopter blades. A car waited in the vastness of the empty desert. A woman stood by the vehicle, waving at them.

  Behind Lela, the Black Hawk was already lifting off again. It rose into the air and sped toward another Black Hawk hovering two hundred yards away, its lights extinguished. The two aircraft powered away, their dull chopping noise fading into darkness.

  Lela and Ari reached the woman. She waited beside a gray Volvo station wagon. She appeared young and wore an Arab hijab, a coil of cheap bangles dangling from one of her wrists. Ari exchanged words with her, then the woman said to Lela, “I’m Rasha. Come, we have no time to lose.”

  The Volvo’s rear door was already open and she ushered them inside.

  Lela climbed in first, followed by Ari, who shut the door as the woman jumped into the passenger seat. A middle-aged Arab sat behind the wheel. He wore an immaculate suit and shirt, and he offered his hand and grinned. “I’m Uday.”

  Lela noticed that the driver clutched what looked like a palm-sized transmitter, which he’d used to guide down the Black Hawk. He stuffed the transmitter into his pocket, started the Volvo’s engine, but left the headlights off .

  “I’d say welcome to Syria, my friends, a wonderful country, except it’s a one-party police state that really stinks. Better fasten your seat belts, from here on we may have a bumpy ride ahead of us.”

  39

  ST. PAUL’S MONASTERY

  MALOULA

  SYRIA

  8:46 P.M.

  AT LEAST THIRTY minutes had passed, the heat in the small room oppressive. Jack wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “What’s going on, Novara? Maybe it’s time you explained why a man of the cloth is threatening us with a gun.”

  Novara’s grip tightened on the pistol as he turned toward the door, and they all heard the sound of a car approaching. “You won’t have to wait much longer to have your question answered.”

  The engine noise came closer, then idled for a few seconds and died. Novara took the bunch of keys from his belt and opened the door. “Escape is impossible. The door is locked and I have the only key. I’ll be back with someone who wants to meet you.”

  “Who?”

  “You’ll see.” Novara stepped out, closing the door, then a key rattled in the lock and he was gone.

  Jack moved over to the door and heard Novara’s footsteps fade. “It sounds as if he’s heading in the direction of the main gate.”

  Yasmin joined him. “Do you think it’s Pasha who’s arrived?”

  “Who knows? But I saw the scroll.”

  “Where?” Yasmin said, as she and Josuf stared at Jack.

  “In a room upstairs. From the looks of things Father Novara’s been working on it. Give me a hand trying to open the door, Josuf.”

  Jack turned the door handle and tried pulling. When that didn’t succeed, he and Josuf took turns heaving their shoulders against the wood but it didn’t budge or splinter.

  “It’s rock solid. We need something to try to lever it open.” Jack grabbed the oil lamp and scoured the room but he saw nothing, the chair legs too flimsy and the table legs too thick to wedge into the doorjamb.

  “Wait, listen,” Yasmin said.

  Footsteps sounded out in the courtyard. Jack replaced the lamp as a key rattled in the lock and the door was pushed open. Novara appeared, the gun still in his hand. Behind him stood two men.

  One was gray-bearded, in his fifties with dark, restless eyes. He wore a crumpled Panama hat, pale linen suit, and a silk cravat. His left hand was badly scarred and looked withered and twisted. In his other hand he clutched a polished walking cane.

  His companion was younger, with a muscular torso that bulged under his lightweight suit. His coarse face had a violent, brutal look.

  Novara stepped into the room, followed by the men. The one in the linen suit limped in front of the table and doffed his hat. “My apologies for keeping you, Mr. Cane. Please sit, all of you.”

  Jack and the others sat at the table. The man held out his good hand to the priest. “Give me the gun, Vincento.”

  Novara handed over the pistol and the man said, “Now bring me the box.”

  “You want it here?”

  “Yes. Now.”

  Novara frowned. “Why, Pasha?”

  “Don’t question. Just do as I say.”

  Novara seemed to know better than to argue and he left, his footsteps fading in the corridor. The man named Pasha studied his captives, his eyes settling on Jack. “So, the priest says you told him you found out about me through the Bedu’s brother. Before you answer my questions I would suggest you tell the truth. Unless you want my bodyguard here to show you what a callous brute he can be, Mr. Cane. The priest also tells me that it was you who found the scroll.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re a very lucky man, Mr. Cane.”

  “You could have fooled me.”

  The man named Pasha smiled. Novara’s footsteps returned. He carried the pinewood box reverently in his hands, as if it contained something precious. Pasha carefully took it from him. “The translation?”

  Novara removed a sealed white envelope from under his habit, his face alive with excitement as he silently handed it to Pasha. “It’s as I said, truly remarkable.”

  Jack said, “Any chance of hearing the translation?”

  Novara gave him a stern look. “The scroll is destined never to be seen, along with the others.”

  “What others?” Cane asked.

  Before the priest could answer, Pasha put up a hand for him be silent. “You have said enough, Vincento.” He turned to his bodyguard. “Take care of our problem, Botwan.”

  The bodyguard removed an HK automatic pistol from his pocket, along with a silencer, and screwed it onto the tip of the weapon.

  Father Novara looked horrified. “You can’t kill them here. This is a house of God.”

  “We do what we must. How many of your fellow monks are in the monastery: three, four?”

  “Four, including myself. But that’s not the point.”

  “I’m afraid it is the point,” Pasha said.

  The bodyguard aimed the pistol at Father Novara. The priest’s mouth opened in alarm as the
weapon coughed twice. Two rounds thudded into his chest. He was flung back against the wall and collapsed in a heap onto the floor.

  Yasmin screamed. Jack held her and shouted at Pasha, “For God’s sake …”

  Pasha said, “You’re right. Unfortunately, God has everything to do with it.”

  Blood pooled around the priest’s body as Pasha knelt, felt the man’s neck for a pulse. Finally he stood, brandishing the priest’s weapon and said to the bodyguard, “You know what to do, Botwan. I want no trace of us left behind. I’ll deal with these three.”

  40

  JACK CLUTCHED YASMIN’S hand as Pasha pulled up a chair, sat opposite, and kept the pistol aimed at them. The minutes passed but he didn’t speak. Jack said, “Are you going to kill us?”

  Pasha shrugged indifferently. “It comes to us all in the end, Mr. Cane. I have learned that whether any of us live or die is really of no great consequence except, of course, to those whom we love.”

  “Then how’d you like to do us all a favor and shoot yourself?”

  A grin spread on Pasha’s face. “It’s good that you have a sense of humor, Mr. Cane. I like that.” He touched Novara’s limp body with the tip of his shoe. “Men like the priest here, dry as a stick, they give me a headache.”

  Pasha removed his Panama hat, placed it on the table, and lit a cigarette. “The monk had a great academic mind but in the end he was a stupid man. What is it they say? He who sups with the devil must have a long spoon. I’m afraid his spoon was not long enough. He mixed with the wrong company.”

  “You mean you, obviously.”

  Pasha gave a vague shrug.

  “Who do you work for?” Jack asked.

  “It’s unimportant.” Pasha gestured toward the door. “You know what’s going on outside as we speak?”

  “I could take a good guess.”

  Pasha grimaced. “This ancient monastery whose history stretches back for centuries is about to go up in flames and its inhabitants executed. And all because of your incredible stupidity, Mr. Cane. What do you say to that?”