The Second Messiah (16 page)

She was leaning against a wall, wearing high heels, clutching a white handbag, a cell phone pressed to her ear. Dark-haired and pretty, she was dressed in a short black skirt, a denim jacket, and a tight white top that displayed her bosom. The handbag had Gucci written on it but Becket imagined it was probably a cheap fake, the kind you saw touted by poor African immigrant vendors who plied the tourist backstreets. She saw him, put away her cell phone, and sashayed toward him. “Hello, Father.”

“Hello, my child.”

“Would you like to spend a little time with me, Father?”

Becket stopped in his tracks. He wasn’t shocked by the prostitute’s offer. But close up he saw that her left jaw was badly bruised. The damage was masked with thick makeup but it was still unmistakable.

She forced a smile, as if the effort was difficult. “What do you say, Father? I have an apartment nearby. We could have a good time together. I’ll give you the best experience of your life. It’ll make your eyeballs roll.”

Becket knew that the fact the young woman was touting a clergyman for business spoke for itself. Priests were human. Some perhaps too human. He looked into the young woman’s eyes and said gently, “What is your name, child?”

“Maria. What’s yours?”

A powerful anger rose in Becket’s chest as he studied the woman’s bruises. “Who did this to you? Who hurt you?”

She fell silent. Becket was certain his question had touched a
vulnerable
nerve. He went to put up a hand to gently examine her face but she drew back. “Don’t touch me,” she said, suddenly defensive.

“You need medical attention, my child. Your jaw—”

“Do you want to spend time with me or not?” the woman snapped back.

Becket wasn’t struck by the direct language—he had heard much worse—but by the irony of the situation. Here he was, the pope, being propositioned by a young woman.

“Please understand, I simply want to help you.”

“Then how about you buy me a drink? There’s a café around the corner. Even a coffee will do.”

“I have no money, child. Please, let me see your face.”

When she realized that she was getting no customer, the woman glanced up and down the alley and said, “Listen, I don’t need your help. If the pimps around here see a goody two-shoes trying to interfere on their turf they’ll do the same to you. Now get lost, and I’m saying that for your own good, Father. Beat it.” She went to lean against the wall and light a cigarette.

“But you really need to see a doctor,” Becket called after her.

The woman drew on her cigarette. “I’ll be fine. Didn’t you hear me? It’s a dangerous place around here. Get lost.”

Two young men entered the alleyway. The woman named Maria forced another smile as she went to approach them. “Hey, you guys want to have a good time?”

Becket suppressed the ire in his heart. He stared up at the alleyway’s nameplate for directions, committed it to his memory, and hurried on.

He came to a littered side street and stopped in front of a terraced house. The double front door was painted blue, its crumbling sandstone walls at least eighteenth century. He yanked a bellpull and a tinkling noise echoed somewhere inside. Moments later he heard bolts being slid. A double door opened and a woman stood there. She was middle-aged, with a buxom matronly figure. She smiled at her visitor. “Yes?”

Becket didn’t speak but lifted his head. When the shocked woman saw his face beneath the hood she put a hand to her mouth. “John—”

Becket’s brow glistened with sweat. “I got the letter. We need to talk, Anna.”

The woman glanced up and down the empty street to make sure no one had seen them and then she ushered him inside.

JORDAN

5:35
P.M.

JACK SWEATED INSIDE
the Ford pickup. They had entered Jordan over a hundred miles ago and Josuf was speeding along a stretch of open desert road, the dusty windshield spattered with dead flies, the late afternoon sun hot as a furnace.

“The air-conditioning
kaput
,” Josuf told them, cursing the weak stream of cool air that flowed from the cabin’s dashboard. They had left the windows open but still it was blistering hot. Endless sand plains stretched across either side, broken only by the occasional palm-fringed wadi or the rusting wrecks of abandoned vehicles littering the side of the road.

Yasmin sat between Jack and Josuf, the pickup cabin cramped. A pair of furry dice dangled from the rearview mirror, the dashboard jam-packed with stuck-on pictures of Josuf’s extended family.

The Bedu kept a firm grip on the steering wheel and his foot to the floor, the Ford chewing up the desert road. “From here on it gets more dangerous. Entering Jordan was easy, but where we cross the Syrian border there are often army patrols. If we meet one, please let me do the talking.”

“If you say so.” Jack felt the tension rise in the cabin. For the last half hour there had been no road signs and it amazed him to think that Josuf could navigate without maps or a GPS system. But then it stood to reason that the desert’s geography had to be in the Bedu’s blood.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Cane, you and the lady will be safe. My cousin is serving with the Syrian army and has promised to guide us over the border.”

“You’re sure he won’t let us down?”

“Not Faisal. He’s as reliable as the dawn.”

Jack tried to relax but found it impossible. If they were caught illegally crossing the Syrian border, they could spend years in prison.

Josuf said proudly, “The Syrian military likes to enlist the Bedu, as do the Jordanians, and even the Israelis. They make excellent soldiers. Faisal is an officer.”

“What happens after we meet him?”

“He’ll lead us to Maloula.”

“Tell me about the monastery.”

“All I know is that it was once part of an Arab fort, built over a thousand years ago. The monastery is still in use and is a place of Christian pilgrimage.”

Jack wiped sweat from his brow. They had crossed the Israeli–Jordanian border at the Allenby Bridge. For the last two hours they had driven across a ribbon of coarse roads through endless desert. Before they had left Qumran, Josuf had sent Yasmin back to the camp to pack. On the floor between Jack’s feet was an overnight bag that Yasmin had stashed with a clean change of clothes, underwear, and toiletries for both of them.

Josuf depressed the windshield-wash button but when a few miserable squirts hit the dusty glass, he pulled to the side of the road and kept the engine running.

“What’s up?” Jack asked.

“I must fill the windshield bottle with water. I have a plastic container in the back.” Josuf reached under his seat and plucked out a set of number plates, along with a screwdriver. “I need also to fit Syrian licence plates. Not false, but genuine. My vehicle is registered in three countries.”

“Do you pay taxes in any of them?”

Josuf laughed, flashing his silver tooth. “I try not to, Mr. Cane.”

“When do we cross the border?”

“We crossed it five minutes ago.”

JOSUF WENT TO
raise the hood and Jack said to Yasmin, “You look distracted. Are you okay?”

“I’m trying not to think what might happen if we get caught. I’ve heard scary stories about the Syrian secret police. People getting locked up for years without trial, and even being tortured.”

Jack felt the furnace heat of the desert fill the cabin and took a slug of bottled water. “Don’t dwell on it. Have you ever heard of this St. Paul’s Monastery before?”

“Never.”

“If we had a signal around here, maybe we could try the Internet?”

“I’ll try.” Yasmin plucked out her cell phone, flicked it open, and after a few moments said, “No, I can’t get a signal.”

Outside, Josuf finished under the hood. The Bedu slammed it shut and began using the screwdriver to attach the number plates.

Jack looked at Yasmin, struck by her near-perfect features, her almond eyes and bronzed skin. “By the way, I appreciate you coming along.”

Yasmin smiled and touched his arm. “I think you’re starting to bring out the maternal instinct in me. Besides, you needed someone to keep you company aside from Josuf.”

Jack felt that same familiar stab of electricity as she touched him. She wasn’t wearing shorts now but a black Arab hijab that covered her entire body, except the face veil was left open. The hijab had been Josuf’s idea so that she wouldn’t attract attention. “You could be right.”

Josuf came back and climbed into his seat. As he stashed away the
old
number plates he suddenly said hoarsely, “I think we have company.”

Jack peered beyond the windshield and felt his heart skip. A huge dust trail plumed behind two canvas-topped trucks painted in desert camouflage as they streaked across the sand. They were clearly police or military vehicles and Jack saw that each had a machine-gunner standing in the back. “Tell me we’re about to meet this military cousin of yours.”

Josuf’s face drained of color as he shook his head. “This looks like a Syrian border patrol.”

The vehicles turned toward them, the canvas tops rippling as they picked up speed. Jack said desperately, “Can’t you reverse and drive back over the border?”

“It’s too late for that.” Josuf sounded desperate.

“Try, for goodness’ sake,” Jack urged.

Josuf reversed the pickup, revved the engine, and turned in a half circle, just as a heavy-caliber machine gun erupted and the desert to the right of them kicked up sand. A second later another loud volley smacked into the road ahead of them, gouging out chunks of asphalt.

“Hey, they mean business!” Jack exclaimed.

The Syrian trucks roared closer. Two of the vehicles cut out in front of the pickup. Josuf slammed on the brakes in the middle of the road as half a dozen soldiers armed with Kalashnikov assault rifles jumped down, cocking their weapons. One of the soldiers screamed an order.

Josuf’s face was drenched in sweat. “They want us to step out and keep our hands in the air.”

“Is your cousin among them?”

“No, Mr. Cane.”

“Terrific.”