The Second Messiah

by Glenn Meade

  Jack came down the few short steps of the monastery entrance. Behind him, Abbot Fabrio closed the oak doors. One of the armed guards unlocked the security gate and Jack stepped out onto the sunny pavement.

  As he started to walk toward the café where he had left Lela, his cell phone rang. Jack checked the number. It was unfamiliar to him. He decided to take the call.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Cane.” A man’s voice, full of authority.

  “Who is this?”

  “No questions. Just listen and obey the orders I give you.”

  “What—”

  “Listen, Mr. Cane.”

  It sounded as if the phone was being manhandled, then Yasmin’s voice came on the line, edged with fear. “Jack? Is that you?”

  “Yasmin—”

  “Jack, these—these people say they’ll kill me.”

  “Which people?”

  He heard panic in Yasmin’s voice. “They want the scroll, Jack. They want to—”

  Yasmin was cut off mid-sentence and the man interrupted, “Where are you, Mr. Cane?”

  “In Trastevere.”

  “Do you know where the Trevi Fountain is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go there. Across the plaza from the fountain you’ll see the Via del Lavatore. Stand on the corner and wait. Contact no one or the woman will be killed.”

  “Listen—”

  “You have twenty minutes to get there, Mr. Cane.”

  “I can’t make it to the Trevi that quickly.”

  “Twenty minutes, or don’t bother coming. She’ll be dead.”

  Ari kept the binoculars pointed toward the monastery and said, “Okay, Cane’s on his way.”

  Lela saw Jack appear from behind the security gate, ushered out by one of the guards. He walked toward the café for a few moments, then suddenly took out his cell phone and put it to his ear.

  Ari watched. “He’s taking a call.”

  “What do we do?” Cohen asked Ari.

  “Wait until he gets closer, then make our move.”

  Lela saw Jack finish talking on his cell phone. He halted, stood a few moments as if he was trying to make up his mind, then walked on again, disappearing behind a parked green van.

  Seconds passed but he didn’t reappear. Ari frowned, still watching with the binoculars. “Where’s he gone?”

  More anxious seconds passed but there was no sign of Jack Cane. A frustrated Ari tapped Cohen on the shoulder. “Start the car and cruise closer to the van. For some reason Cane’s stopped behind it.”

  Cohen said, “Or else he’s hiding.”

  Ari said, “We’ll soon find out. Get ready to grab him.”

  Lela saw Ari remove a black silencer from his pocket and screw it on the end of the Sig’s barrel. Ari said, “I want to make sure we don’t alert the Vatican’s security guards.”

  “I’ve got a funny feeling about this, Ari. This isn’t you.”

  Ari ignored her, finished screwing on the silencer, and cocked the pistol. “Where the heck is he, Mario? Cohen, get closer to the van.”

  As they came alongside the green van, Lela saw that it concealed a cobbled alleyway that was completely deserted.

  Ari clenched a fist and hammered it on the car seat. “Cane’s suckered us. He’s slipped away.”

  114

  JACK RAN UNTIL his lungs seared his chest. He figured that the Trevi was maybe a couple of miles from the monastery.

  When he ran down the alleyway behind the van he came down onto an empty street. Five minutes of hard running and he was breathless as he reached the Via della Renella. He reckoned it could take him more than another twenty minutes to reach the Trevi.

  “Twenty minutes, or don’t bother coming. She’ll be dead.” The man’s tone suggested that he meant what he said. Regardless of who Yasmin really was, he couldn’t bear to think that he’d be responsible for her death.

  He crossed the Tiber and came to a piazza. Halting for a few seconds to catch his breath, he checked his watch. Nine minutes had passed. Eleven minutes remained.

  He’d never make the Trevi in time.

  Traffic whizzed around the piazza. A rage of car engines, mopeds, and buses merged into a symphony of noise and choking exhaust fumes. Among the mass of vehicles Jack saw a couple of cabs whiz by. He stuck out his arm to hail one down. Not one stopped.

  He sweated, panic taking hold now, conscious that with every passing second Yasmin’s life might hang in the balance. Another taxi sped past and Jack shot out a hand. The driver completely ignored him.

  Jack felt drenched in sweat. Thirty yards to his right a tough-looking youth wearing a sleeveless wife-beater T-shirt dismounted from a Vespa scooter and put it on its kickstand. He removed his black motorcycle helmet, left it on the seat, and crossed to a kiosk next to a park. He bought a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and strolled over to chat with a couple of girls sitting on a nearby park bench.

  Jack crossed to the scooter. The keys were still in the ignition. He looked over at the tough-looking youth, still smoking and chatting with the girls.

  He grabbed the scooter by the handlebar and the seat and jerked it off its stand. The helmet rolled onto the ground and he at once heard a roar behind him.

  One of the girls pointed to him and yelled at the moped’s owner. The youth spun around and spotted what Jack was up to. A vicious scowl erupted on his face.

  Tossing away his cigarette, he balled his fists and strode forward, shouting obscenities in Italian.

  Jack ran with the scooter, jumped on, and twisted the ignition key as the youth raced toward him, screaming his lungs out.

  The engine started the first time. Jack shifted into gear, revved the engine’s handlebar controls, and released the clutch. He had barely moved ten yards when the youth caught up and reached out to drag him off the scooter.

  Jack revved hard and flicked into second gear. The Vespa’s engine snarled and it sped forward with a burst of power …

  Ten minutes later, with barely a second to spare he turned the Vespa into a side street leading on to the Trevi Fountain. He’d broken the speed limits in his rush to reach his destination, but this was Rome, where almost every motorist was deranged.

  He removed the Vespa’s ignition keys and stuffed them in his pocket.

  The cops would eventually find the scooter and the youth would get it back, minus his keys, but at least no one else could steal it in the meantime.

  Jack crossed to the corner of the Via del Lavatore. He saw no one waiting nearby except a couple of Japanese tourists clutching handfuls of shopping bags. Jack was still sweating, from anxiety this time, wondering what would happen next. What if I’m walking into a trap?

  He stood on the street corner and turned in a slow circle. The place was busy with tourists and shoppers.

  A second later someone brushed up behind him. Jack felt a sharp pain in his shoulder, like the hard stab of a hypodermic needle. He spun around but immediately his legs started to feel like rubber under him. “What the—?”

  A powerfully built man gripped his arms. Jack couldn’t see his face but he heard his voice. “Do as I tell you, Cane. Move to the edge of the pavement.”

  Jack felt lightheaded, his senses fading. When he didn’t respond to the order, the man pushed him toward the pavement’s brink. A dark-colored Toyota van drove up beside him and slid to a halt. The side door rolled open and Jack was roughly pushed inside, other hands grabbing him before he could fall.

  The man jumped in and the door rolled shut. In the back of the van someone grabbed hold of Jack’s hair, then dragged an eyeless woollen mask over his face. The last thing he heard as he surrendered to blackness was the sound of screeching tires.

  115

  BRACCIANO

  NEAR ROME

  HASSAN MALIK STOOD at the villa’s study window, smoking a cigarette. He saw the headlights sweep up the gravel path and the Toyota van slide to a halt under some palm trees. The side door burst open and the Serb and two m
ore bodyguards dragged a masked and unconscious Jack Cane from the back of the vehicle.

  A look of vehemence erupted on Hassan’s face as he crushed his cigarette in a crystal ashtray on the desk in front of him. He reached down and slid open one of the drawers. Inside lay a silvered Walther PPK pistol with polished ebony grips. Next to it was a fully loaded magazine with seven rounds.

  Hassan removed the pistol and magazine as the study door sprang open and the Serb appeared. “Well?” Hassan asked.

  The Serb grinned, as if he relished what was to come. “We’ve got everything set up in the back room, Mr. Malik. The blowtorch, the tools, the lot. I’m ready to go to work whenever you are.”

  Hassan slammed the magazine into the Walther’s butt and tucked the pistol into his pocket. “The time has come for Cane to pay for his sins.”

  “Pull up here,” Ari ordered.

  Cohen halted the taxi and Ari jumped out like an angry bull. After driving in circles they ended up in one of the avenues leading to the Colosseum, hoping to catch sight of Cane in one of the maze of side streets, but there was no sign of him.

  Ari slapped his balled fist off the car’s hood. “Cane could be anywhere by now.”

  Lela climbed out of the backseat. Ari said, “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “We need to talk, Ari. What are you going to do with Jack? Tell me honestly.”

  “I told you. Take him back to Tel Aviv, like Weiss ordered.”

  “What happens to Jack then? Does he end up in some desert prison, locked up at Mossad’s discretion? Weiss could do anything he wants with him.”

  “Probably. I don’t know what Weiss intends back in Tel Aviv. But I can tell you this.” Ari plucked out his cell phone and began punching in a number. “I know who Yasmin Green really is and right now that’s the only lead we have.”

  116

  “WAKE UP, CANE. Wake up.”

  Jack came awake with a jolt as a fist crashed into his jaw. A light blinded his face and he was strapped down, his hands and legs tied with rope to a chair.

  Another blow struck him and Jack’s head snapped back. He tasted blood in his mouth. His mind was a fog and it took a couple of moments before he began to come to his senses.

  “Good. You’re back in the land of the living.”

  Jack blinked and saw the Serb stand over him with two companions. One of them twisted the knobs on a portable blow torch, rubber tubes running to an oxyacetylene tank. The Serb smacked a leather cosh in his hand. “Can you hear me, Cane?”

  When Jack didn’t reply, the cosh smacked hard against his injured leg. An excruciating pain shot up his thigh and he stifled a cry. He came wide awake, fear stabbing at his heart. “Who—are you?”

  “Where’s the scroll?”

  Jack heard the question, expected it, but said nothing.

  The Serb nodded to his companion. “Let’s see if we can jog his memory.”

  The second man took out a cigarette lighter, touched it to the tip of the blow torch, and the flame lit. The torch glowed red, then turned an intense blue. The Serb said, “Burn off his fingers, one at a time. That’ll loosen his tongue.”

  As Jack struggled, the man stepped forward with the blow torch.

  “Stop. That’s enough for now.”

  A figure stepped out from the shadows. Blinded by the light, Jack couldn’t see the man’s face but he heard the authority in his voice. “Leave us. I’ll call you when I need you to continue.”

  The Serb nodded. His companion doused the blow torch, hung it on a metal hook by the gas bottle, and the three men left.

  Slowly, the man who had spoken emerged out of the shadows. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed blood from Jack’s mouth.

  “Who are you?” Jack asked.

  The man ignored the question. “You’ve chosen to walk on very dangerous ground, Mr. Cane. My men mean to kill you. But if you do as I say, perhaps—just perhaps—I’ll spare your life.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Hassan Malik. You’ve heard of me?”

  “Yes.” Jack blinked, his skull still on fire with pain. “It’s been a long time.”

  “But I never forgot you, Cane. We have an appointment with destiny.”

  “I haven’t the remotest idea what you’re taking about.”

  Hassan took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, laid them on the table, and selected one before he produced a gold cigarette lighter. “Then you’re about to learn exactly why Professor Green was murdered. And most important, why I want my scroll back.”

  “Your scroll?”

  Hassan lit a cigarette, touching the lighter flame to the tip, then blew out a cloud of smoke. “Yes. It belongs to me. I planted it at Qumran.”

  117

  THE POLISHED BLACK Mercedes with tinted windows silently turned the corner of the Via della Conciliazione. Two other dark-windowed SUVs drove in front and two behind—like the Mercedes, they were specially armored to withstand even a rocket-propelled grenade. Each SUV carried Vatican security guards armed with sidearms and Heckler & Koch machine pistols.

  John Becket sat in the back of the chauffeured limousine, his armed driver and a bodyguard occupying the front seats. As the cortege approached the broad barrier-controlled streets leading up to the Vatican, the sidewalks were lined with crowds making their way to St. Peter’s Square.

  Becket glanced out of the dark-tinted windows that hid his identity from the throng.

  Next to him, Ryan observed the legions of worshippers that crammed the sidewalks and the gaudy souvenir shops and kiosks. “As they say on Broadway, it seems we have a full house.”

  “You and your men will have a busy afternoon, Sean.”

  “They’ll earn their money, that’s for sure. According to the carabinieri, over a quarter million people are expected in Rome for your blessing. Naturally security will be tight, but I’d beg you once again to reconsider the bulletproof vest, Holy Father?”

  The pope waved his hand as if to dismiss Ryan’s question. “You said you had important news for me, Sean?”

  Ryan stuck his fingers inside a brown leather briefcase on his lap. He produced a plastic evidence bag containing a single sheet of paper, made up of cut-and-paste newspaper letters stuck on the page. “The threatening letter I told you about that I had checked for prints.”

  “I’m listening, Sean.”

  Ryan waved the plastic bag containing the letter. “I’m afraid we didn’t find a single print. However, we had the page analyzed by a forensics lab.” He turned the page over and pointed to an illegible line of black characters. “The lab discovered these faint print characters on the back of the paper. Perhaps it was an old sheet that was discarded when the printer ink ran out. But luckily for us, the perpetrator obviously didn’t notice it when he decided to use the page to assemble his collage of letters.”

  “What does all this tell us?”

  “First, the typeface matches a mass-produced Hewlett-Packard printer commonly in use in all the curial cardinals’ offices. There’s absolutely no doubt the source was someone who works in those offices.”

  “But can you tell who exactly the printer belongs to?”

  Ryan seemed genuinely embarrassed delivering the news. “Microscopic differences in printer ink and character formation can sometimes discern minute variations, even in material printed by mass-produced printers. This one belongs to Cardinal Cassini’s office, it’s his own private printer. It could, of course, mean that someone deliberately used the printer to falsely lay blame. Or it could point the finger. Only further investigation will tell.”

  The pope considered, then sighed and nodded. “You have my authority to do so. Is there anything else, Sean?”

  “You asked me to check all the security tape footage from the Vatican archives, from the day after your election until you discovered that the archive documents went missing.”

  “Why do I have the feeling that you’re going to tell me they were stolen?�
�

  “I’m afraid so. With over a hundred cardinals, some will abuse their rank and choose not to sign the Secret Archives visitor’s book. That’s a breach of protocol, of course, but many young archivists are reluctant to challenge their superiors.”

  The Mercedes and its cortege approached one of the Vatican gate entrances, manned by the Swiss Guard. There was a barrier down, three uniformed Swiss Guards on duty. The pope said, “Who’s the thief, Sean?”

  Ryan stuck his hand in his briefcase and removed a DVD stored in a clear plastic case. “We turned up a possible suspect on this security disc from several days ago. You can see a figure entering the archives. It’s obvious that he knew the building layout because he tries to keep his head down and remain in certain camera blind spots, but there’s a camera or two we more recently installed that—”

  “Who, Sean?”

  There was a momentary distraction as the Swiss Guards lifted the barrier and saluted, and then the pope’s Mercedes passed into the Vatican.

  Ryan said solemnly, “I’d stake my life it’s Cardinal Liam Kelly.”

  Five minutes later the pope entered his private apartments, and Ryan followed. Two of the pope’s staff were already waiting, an array of papal vestments laid out on a long trestle table, others hung from a metal rail with wooden hangers.

  Gold-threaded gowns were made of the finest linen and silk. The papal hat was embossed with silver and gold and encrusted with sparkling diamonds.

  Exquisite slippers lined with Siberian fur were inlaid with precious gemstones, every garment exquisitely tailored by Italy’s finest crafts-men. A secretary bowed. “We are ready to dress you whenever you are ready, Holy Father.”

  “I have no need of these garments.”

  “Pardon, Holy Father?”

  Becket inspected a richly embroidered gown inset with dazzling gemstones, then replaced it on the table and fingered the simple wooden cross at his neck. “In a world scourged by poverty, I should have no need of these expensive garments. I will wear a simple smock. The one I’m wearing will do well enough. Along with my cross and sandals.”