The Second Messiah (22 page)

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.”

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?”

“I’d say there’s a good chance you need psychiatric help.”

Pasha laughed aloud. “I like you, Mr. Cane. But had you left well enough alone, this would not have happened, believe me.”

“You’re killing everyone and razing the place to the ground and you’re blaming
me
?”

Yasmin said, “Why do this?”

Pasha looked at her. “Because every truth has a price, dear lady. And this particular truth has a high price indeed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Pasha steadied the gun. “None of you should have come here. You should not have interfered. And this old Bedu goat who brought you should have had more sense.”

Josuf said bitterly, “My brother told me you were a ruthless man.”

“You should have listened to him and kept your nose out of this, old fool—”

Jack suddenly lunged at Pasha. Despite his lame foot the Arab was quick up off the chair and in an instant he brandished the weapon. “Don’t be an idiot. Or you’ll end up like the priest. Now sit, Cane.”

Jack sat. Footsteps sounded. The bodyguard returned, carrying a can of gasoline, his silenced pistol tucked into his belt. “It’s done,” he said calmly in Arabic. “We must leave, the blaze is spreading.”

A strong smell of burning gasoline wafted on the warm air. Pasha nodded and limped back toward the door. “Move out to our vehicle, Botwan.”

Yasmin was ashen. “What now? Are you going to kill us?”

Pasha gestured with the gun. “We have a saying here: The less you know, the less is your burden.” He nodded to the bodyguard. “You know what to do, Botwan. If they try to make a run for it, kill them.”

9:05
P.M.

“I’VE NEVER SEEN
so many priests and nuns.” Ari Tauber stared out of the Volvo as they drove into Maloula’s busy streets.

Lela saw that the ancient town was a bizarre blend of the Christian and Muslim traditions. Every few hundred yards was a convent or monastery, the narrow alleyways thronged with nuns, priests, and monks wearing religious garb, mixed in with locals in Arab dress, all out strolling in the balmy evening.

Middle Eastern music blared from tiny shops that sold Arab gowns, worry beads, and trinkets, alongside icons of Jesus and Mary. Vendors sold kebabs and
koftas
cooked over smoking hot charcoal, the spiced aroma of fresh food wafting into the car.

The driver had a map open on his knees. “The monastery shouldn’t be far from here.” He steered the Volvo out of town and onto a potholed desert road that twisted through a rocky creek, no traffic in sight except for a couple of elderly Arab goatherds. Two miles farther on Lela saw a signpost that said in Arabic and English: “St. Paul’s Monastery.”

“Do you see that light up ahead?” She noticed a crimson glow on the horizon. It looked at first like the remains of sunset but then she realized that the glow was a blaze. “It looks like there’s a fire.”

“I think you’re right.” Ari tensed and slapped the driver on the back. “Put your foot down.”

Father Novara grunted in agony.

His eyelids flicked and he was barely conscious. The room’s white walls were a blur, the pain in his chest excruciating. It felt as if a red hot poker had pierced his heart. As he lay on his side on the cool tiles he knew that he was dying. He coughed and spewed up a gob of crimson phlegm. His mouth tasted salty. When the shots struck him in the chest with the force of hammer blows, he had been unable to move, traumatized by his wounds. And so he had lain there in the growing pool of his own blood, pretending to be dead. How long he had lain he didn’t know but the pain became unbearable, and then the voices of the others in the room had faded and Novara had passed out. Now he had become conscious again, but he felt weak, his senses failing.

Novara grunted, louder this time, but no one answered. He had no idea if his colleagues were still alive, or what was happening, but he feared the worst. He was a fool to have trusted Pasha. His mind floated as his brain released its chemical cocktail to blunt the pain of imminent death.

Novara raised his right hand, touched his fingers to his chest, then drew them to his face. His fingertips dripped blood. He coughed up another gob of crimson. Death would claim him soon but anger flared inside him. He wanted to extract a payment from his killers for their sin.

Novara tried to focus on the walls that stared him in the face, the whiteness blinding, almost heavenly. He felt his senses ebbing fast. He reached out to touch the wall.

He failed, his hand falling away in a weak attempt.

Novara groaned, made a supreme effort, and stretched out his bloodstained fingers once more, trying to reach the wall.

AS THE DRIVER
pulled up outside the monastery, Lela jumped out.

Mustard walls surrounded a centuries-old Arab fort that, unusually, had a crucifix set high above the arched entrance.

Ari moved behind her, followed by the Mossad agents. One of the archways’ oak doors was wide open, revealing a splendid courtyard garden with gushing ponds. Lela saw thick plumes of smoke billow from the building’s upper floors, orange flames licking the roof. “The blaze looks out of control.”

Ari turned to the woman named Rasha. “Stay with the car. Do you have a flashlight?”

“Right here.” The woman reached under the Volvo’s seat and produced a rubber-encased light.

Ari grabbed it and beckoned the driver. “Come with me. You too, Lela. Everyone keep their eyes open. There could be trouble waiting inside.”

Ari reached for his Sig. He ran toward the entrance, the driver and Lela following, clutching her pistol. They stepped into the courtyard.

It looked deserted.

Without a word, Ari pointed two fingers of one hand to his eyes, and then pointed toward an archway across the courtyard. They swung their weapons left and right, covering each other as they moved toward the monastery, silent as phantoms.