The Second Messiah

by Glenn Meade

  Ari vented his frustration as he stood beside the pool. “Wherever Hassan and his men have disappeared to is anyone’s guess. Maybe he expected trouble and just decided to wind things down and get out of here.”

  Lela said, “Is this the only Italian property belonging to Hassan that Mossad knows of?”

  Ari kicked out at a pool chair and sent it skittering across the tiles and splashing into the water. “This is it. And we’ve no other leads.”

  He stormed over to the patio doors on the back of the mansion. They were thrown open, lights blazing inside. Cohen and Mario with their Uzi machine pistols and powerful flashlights wandered the gardens searching for any evidence.

  Ari had found the room at the back, with the chair and discarded lengths of rope, the oxyacetylene blow torch attached to a bottle, a few bloodstains on the floor. But no sign of Jack Cane.

  “They probably brought him here and tortured him,” Lela said worriedly.

  Ari lingered by the patio doors, clutching his pistol and slapping it against his leg in nervous agitation. “They obviously think he knows something.”

  Lela fell silent.

  Ari turned to her. “You look guilty.”

  “Jack has the scroll.”

  “What?”

  “He’s hidden it in a safe place.”

  Ari fumed. “How long have you known this?”

  “Since after I escaped from the underground.”

  Ari’s fury was instant. “And you never told me? Whose side are you on, Lela?”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “Withholding information like that could have cost us the scroll, never mind what happens to your friend Cane. Weiss will have your head for this.” Ari yanked out his phone and began to punch in a number.

  “Who are you calling?” Lela asked.

  “Weiss. He’s still in Rome and isn’t due to fly back to Israel until tonight.” Ari’s mouth twisted ironically. “But I’m pretty sure he’ll delay his departure to talk to you.”

  Cohen came running up. “I’ve noticed something. Take a look over here.”

  Ari stopped making his call and they all followed Cohen around the side of the property and onto a huge lawn.

  “You see what I see?” Cohen first pointed with his Uzi toward a wide concrete pathway. At the end was an empty aircraft hangar of some sort. Then with the barrel of his Uzi, Cohen followed the line of the path toward the lawn’s center.

  Ari stared at where Cohen’s barrel ended—at a large circular marking on the ground, with a giant H in the center. “Yeah, it’s a helicopter pad. So?”

  “Where’s the helicopter?”

  124

  CASSINI STEPPED OUT of the secret passageway onto cold marble tiles. A false wall panel swung shut behind him and clicked back into place.

  Dripping sweat, he found himself standing in a massive corridor with soaring white plaster walls and stained-glass windows. A few feet away a wood bench was positioned beneath a magnificent window.

  Cassini grasped hold of the bench and dragged it, scraping across the marble floor, to position in front of the false wall panel and block it from opening.

  It would stop Ryan exiting the passageway.

  Slow him down, at least for a time.

  Cassini stood there resting, catching his breath again, his chest still aching with pain. When he regained his stamina he moved along the soaring hallway and halted in front of a pastel blue door. He was outside one of the Sistine Chapel entrances.

  He pressed down on the door handle and pushed it open on its hinges without a sound. Silence was the watchword in the vicinity of any of the Vatican’s chapels. Every hinge was well oiled or greased.

  Cassini took a couple of calming breaths before he stepped into the fourteenth-century chapel. The air was infused with the fragrance of incense. He loved the peace and drama of this chapel, with its motifs of power and pain, heaven and hell, torment and redemption.

  He feasted his eyes on Michelangelo’s powerful wall and ceiling images depicting the terror of the Apocalypse, the Creation, and the Flood. Standing there in the calm of the ancient chapel he suddenly felt a strange peace, and the pains in his chest ebbed away.

  The peace before the tempest.

  John Becket lay prostrate on his stomach on the floor, praying.

  Cassini couldn’t hear his prayers, only a hushed whisper. He knew there was no going back now. This was for the sake of the entire church. Someday, the value of his selfless deed would be recognized. Perhaps he would even be elevated to sainthood.

  St. Umberto. The church’s savior.

  As he stared at John Becket’s spread-eagled figure on the cold marble tile, Cassini felt his anger rise again as he concentrated on his reason for coming here.

  To scourge the church of the traitor who threatened to destroy two thousand years of history.

  Cassini took a step forward and heard a soft click of shoe leather.

  He halted.

  John Becket didn’t move.

  Cassini hesitated and looked down. His black slip-ons had leather soles. He nudged them off with his toes, heel by heel, until he was in his stocking feet. He began to step silently across the silky marble.

  Eight yards.

  Seven.

  Six.

  Cassini quickened his pace, his eyes fixed on Becket’s back.

  Five yards.

  Four.

  Three.

  Two.

  He stood over John Becket.

  The pope must have sensed his presence because his back arched and he began to raise himself from the floor. Becket halted in a kneeling position, blessed himself, and turned. His brow creased when he saw Cassini standing over him. The Sicilian offered him a twisted grin.

  “Umberto, what—” The words died in the pope’s mouth as he put up his hands to defend himself.

  Cassini pulled the metal blade from under his gown and spat out his reply. “Traitor! Devil! You will destroy no more!”

  And in an instant Cassini’s blade flashed and he plunged the steel into Becket, again and again.

  125

  RYAN’S CHEST HEAVED as he sucked in mouthfuls of air. He raced down the corridor, Angelo Butoni behind him.

  They came to a landing. Ryan saw a paneled door, slapped at the handle, and gave the door a powerful kick. It burst open and he stormed into a room, his Glock gripped in both hands, Butoni and the other security officers behind him.

  Ryan’s face was drenched in sweat as he swung his pistol barrel in an arc, scanning the armory, seeking a target.

  Three sturdy, black metal boxes with heavy locks were pushed against one wall.

  Ryan checked the locks and saw scrape marks on the surrounding paint. He rattled every lock. They were secure. “It looks as if someone’s tried to pry open the boxes to get at the weapons.”

  “Cassini.”

  “Who else?”

  The other guards thoroughly searched the room and checked the doors before Butoni said, “Every door’s locked. I don’t think Cassini hung around.”

  But Ryan was already darting back into the secret passageway. “He must be headed for the Sistine.”

  And Ryan plunged frantically down the winding steps, Butoni and the guards hard on his heels.

  Moments later Ryan came to another landing and a wall panel. He turned the handle on the panel and pushed. The panel didn’t budge. He slammed his shoulder against it and saw a crack appear, light spilling in from a hallway beyond. Butoni and the others joined him.

  Ryan said, “There’s something shoved against the panel. Give me a hand here, Angelo.”

  Butoni pushed his shoulder against the panel and both men heaved. The panel opened another inch. Ryan peered through the crack. “Curse it anyway. It looks like a bench is wedged against the door. Get back.”

  Ryan gestured for everyone to step back and he took a short run at the door and kicked it with the flat of his shoe. He felt the wood tremor and the object behind the panel appe
ared to budge. Encouraged, he shouldered the panel again and again. “Come on, give me a hand, all together now, heave.”

  A sweating Ryan, Butoni, and the others pushed and shoved, until at last the panel scraped open at least a foot and a half. Ryan squeezed through the gap, followed by the others.

  They found themselves in a corridor. Soaring white plaster walls and stained-glass windows. Across the hall was a pastel blue door, an entrance into the Sistine Chapel.

  A muffled cry of agony rang out. It seemed to echo from the chapel.

  “Oh no!” Ryan uttered, and sprinted across the marble floor toward the blue door.

  126

  RYAN PUSHED OPEN the door and stormed into the Sistine, the others behind him.

  Ryan’s face was misted with sweat and as he scanned the room everything seemed to happen in a kind of slow motion. Afterward, he would recall that what he saw was so disturbing and absurd. In this wonderful place of peace and solitude with its fragrant smell of incense, here he was clutching a loaded Glock, his sights searching out a target, which he soon found.

  A disturbing sight caught his eye near the altar.

  Cassini.

  He was kneeling over John Becket’s body, which was spread-eagled on its back on the marble tile. Cassini clutched a blade in both hands. He stabbed it into Becket’s chest, again and again, the pope’s white gown awash with crimson.

  “Cassini!” Ryan’s alarmed cry echoed around the chapel like an explosion.

  Cassini’s head snapped around, his eyes blazing with a deranged look, something close to madness, his own gown spattered with blood.

  “Cassini, for pity’s sake, stop!” Ryan screamed.

  But Cassini ignored him and raised his hands to again bury the blade in the pope’s body.

  In an instant Ryan squeezed the Glock’s trigger once, then once again, and two powerful .40-caliber rounds thudded into Cassini’s chest and head. The force sent his body flying back across the altar, the shots exploding around the Sistine like bursts of thunder, the shock waves rippling and dying over the dazzling visions of Michelangelo’s Apocalypse, the Creation, and the Flood.

  127

  THE LEAR JET entered Lebanese airspace just after 3:30 A.M., skimming above the clouds at twenty thousand feet.

  Sitting in a leather passenger seat in the luxurious private cabin, Hassan Malik wore an expensive linen suit and shirt, Italian handmade shoes, and his Patek Philippe watch.

  On the tray in front of him lay the curved Arab knife that had once belonged to his father, and to Nidal. The thought of his beloved Nidal lying cold as marble in a desert grave sent a ghostly chill down Hassan’s spine. His eyes moistened.

  He slid the curved blade from its scabbard and the polished metal gleamed, the edge scalpel-sharp. An aide came through the cabin. “A call from Rome, sir. And the captain says we should be landing in thirty minutes.”

  Hassan slammed the blade into the scabbard. “Good. Tell Bruno to come in here.”

  “Yes, sir.” The aide left.

  Hassan took the satellite phone. He listened to the voice at the other end as it spoke for several minutes, and when the conversation ended, Hassan said, “Mille gratzi. I appreciate the news. Arrivederci.”

  The line clicked dead and Hassan put aside the phone as the door to his private cabin snapped open. The Serb appeared. “You wanted me, Mr. Malik?”

  Hassan picked up the curved Arab blade in its scabbard and tossed it to the Serb, who caught it. “Wake up Cane and bring him here. Then you know what to do.”

  Jack woke with a blinding headache. He felt a sinking sensation. He blinked open his eyes. He was covered with a blanket and seated in a large, comfortable leather seat in what appeared to be a private aircraft. The dimly lit cabin had similar plush seats on both sides of the narrow aisle. Darkness raced beyond the oval windows.

  He had a faint recollection of telling Hassan everything, then the Serb jabbed him with a hypodermic before they had dragged him from Hassan’s mansion to a helicopter. After that he blacked out. He heard a sigh and turned his head.

  Yasmin lay on the seat next to him, a blanket draped over her body. He could hear her breathing softly, her dark eyelashes closed, her beautiful face angelic in sleep. He smelled the almond scent of her. He couldn’t help but reach out to stroke her hair. She murmured in her sleep. He thought, Who is she?

  Across the cabin, he recognized two of Hassan’s bodyguards, tough-looking men in suits who lounged in their seats. One slept, his arms folded and his head thrown back, mouth open as he snored. The other man was awake and watchful, and stared blankly at Jack.

  A cabin door behind him opened. The Serb appeared. “So, you’ve decided to join us again. How do you feel, Cane?”

  “Like I’ve been kicked by a camel.”

  The Serb grinned and pulled away the blanket. “And the fun hasn’t even started yet.” He grabbed Jack viciously by the hair and dragged him up. “Move. Someone wants to talk with you.”

  128

  JACK WAS PUSHED into another cabin. Hassan sat in a leather seat, his expression blank. The Serb forced Jack into the seat opposite and withdrew, leaving them both alone.

  Jack said to Hassan, “What’s happening? Where are you taking me?”

  “Back to my homeland, Cane. We’ll be landing shortly.”

  “You’ll be arrested. Mossad will find you. They’re not stupid—”

  “I’m well aware of Mossad and their ways. We’re not landing in Israel. But over the border in Jordan, at a private airfield.”

  “And the plan is?”

  “To retrieve the scroll. The desert is the Bedu’s home, Cane, and always has been. No Israelis or border patrols will ever stop that. But we’ll remain near the border with Israel, for safety.” Hassan held up the satellite phone. “The call has already been made to have someone bring the scroll to us.”

  Hassan snapped his fingers. Jack looked up. Behind him the Serb had reappeared in the cabin doorway, holding a savage-looking curved Arab blade. The Serb grabbed Jack by the hair, yanked back his head, and held the knife against his throat.

  Hassan said, “Just a friendly warning. If you’ve lied to me about the location of the scroll, Bruno will slit your throat.”

  “I told the truth.”

  The Serb let go of Jack’s hair and stepped back.

  Jack said to Hassan, “Why does the scroll still matter to you if the Vatican opens its archives?”

  Hassan tossed the satellite phone on the seat opposite. “So you claim. But I wouldn’t count on that, Cane. The news I heard from Rome is that your friend Becket was stabbed by a knife-wielding madman and is not expected to live. Whoever succeeds Becket, I doubt that he’ll be willing to be assassinated for the sake of revealing the truth.”

  Jack said in disbelief, “You’re lying—”

  “I have no cause to. No doubt it’ll soon be in every newspaper in the world. Nothing will change in the Vatican now, not ever. You say you left the parchment hidden under the gravel at your parents’ grave. It makes sense.” Hassan nodded to the Serb, who disappeared a moment, then reappeared with Yasmin, who stepped into the cabin.

  Hassan said to her, “Well? Has Cane told the truth about where he buried the parchment?”

  Yasmin’s face was pale with torment as she stared over at Jack, then turned to answer Hassan. “I was with him at the gravesite. For a time he had his back to me, so he could have hid something under the gravel.”

  “One good truth deserves another.” Hassan forced a smile, stood, and put his arm around Yasmin, whose brown eyes never left Jack’s face. “It’s time I introduced you to my sister.”

  129

  MONSIGNOR SEAN RYAN clutched his hands together in prayer and paced the corridor outside the emergency room in Rome’s Gemelli Polyclinic Hospital.

  He prayed with every step.

  Prayer was a habit with him: he prayed every single morning, afternoon, and night. But at that moment, the focus of his prayer was
John Becket.

  Ryan felt a sickness in the pit of his stomach and looked down at his clutched hands. They were shaking. He had killed Cassini. The team of paramedics and doctors who came to attend to the pope had pronounced the Sicilian cardinal dead.

  “He was probably dead before his head even hit the marble altar,” a medic later observed, seeing the massive wounds the .40-caliber slugs had inflicted on Cassini’s skull and chest.

  Ryan still felt shaken. He had taken a life. His cloud of depression was made only worse by his knowledge that the pope was not expected to live through the night.

  Ryan was drawn to a blaze of light beyond the corridor windows and paced over to the glass. The world had gone raving mad.

  Powerful television arc lamps illuminated the hospital. The parking lot was a chaos of media crews, TV vans with satellite dishes, and heaving crowds, all eagerly awaiting news.

  Ryan knew from the Vatican Press Office that more than a thousand carabinieri and police were drafted to keep back the surging masses. But still the crowds came, to gape, to pray, to wait—the fearful, the hopeful, the curiosity seekers, the doomsday mongers.

  A mute TV hung from a corner ceiling of the corridor. It caught Ryan’s eye for the umpteenth time in the last half hour. The screen spewed out file footage of Pope Celestine and the Vatican, live shots of the hospital, and interviews with every religious commentator on the planet giving their two cents’ worth.

  Ryan turned back as a surgeon wearing a blood-spattered green gown came out through the double doors of the emergency room. The man crossed the corridor and bought a coffee from a vending machine. Then he stepped toward an open window, lit an illicit cigarette, and inhaled deeply. Ryan noticed that about Italian doctors: so many of them had the nicotine habit.

  He saw the surgeon pace the floor as he drew hard on his cigarette. The man’s expression was bleak, edgy. Ryan recognized him as one of the ER team attending John Becket. Ryan saw the surgeon glance over at him. Their eyes met. No words were spoken, but Ryan raised an eyebrow in query. How goes it?