The Second Messiah (23 page)

It became apparent to Lela that something was wrong. The monastery was too silent, the rooms empty.

She expected to hear screams and shouts for help, frantic monks carrying water buckets as they fought the fire.

There was no one. Not a soul. Except for the background crackle of blazing wood, the monastery was eerily deserted, hollow as a crypt. After five minutes of searching the rooms, Lela saw it first.

They had moved into the main building and found the fire quickly spreading, engulfing the building. Roof timbers crashed and furniture was ablaze. As they climbed the stairs they were beaten back by a fog of smoke. Ari gave the order to retreat and they moved back down the stairway, along corridors untouched by the blaze. In one of the corridors, they found the monks’ sparse cells.

Lela froze as she stepped inside the first cell. The body of a young monk lay sprawled across the bed from the force of gunshots to his head and chest. His threadbare white habit was stained with damp crimson. A single round left a blossom on his chest and drilled his forehead. Lela had seen death many times but she choked back a cry of disgust.

Ari stepped up behind her.

Lela reached out to feel the man’s lifeless wrist. “He can’t be dead long—he’s still warm.”

Ari examined the wounds. “One shot to the heart, one to the head. A double tap, the sign of a professional hit.”

The Mossad agent joined them. “I saw two more bodies across the hall. The same signature as this one, one shot to the heart, one to the head.”

They crossed the hall and saw the bodies of two elderly monks. Ari said, “We can do nothing for them. Fan out, see if you can find any evidence of Cane and his friends.” He leveled his Sig and they moved back out into the hall. “Go carefully. Whoever pulled the trigger may still be here.”

They searched the remaining cells along the corridor but found them empty. The blaze was spreading, the smoke like a fog, and they covered their nostrils as they found their way back toward the courtyard. Lela noticed a door ajar at the end of an archway.

Ari saw it too. “Stay here and cover us, Lela.”

He and the driver moved toward the door. Lela tensed as she
watched
both men linger outside the door and listen, then Ari shoved in the door and rushed in, followed by the driver.

Lela waited, her pistol at arm’s length in a two-handed grip, ready to fire.

Almost a minute passed. Nothing happened. Lela began to worry.
What’s keeping Ari?

Her pulse hammering in her temples, she stepped along the archway and kept her Sig aimed toward the room. As she approached it, Ari suddenly stepped out through the door, his pistol by his side.

Lela’s heart skipped. “Ari! I could have fired. What kept you?”

Ari’s face was ashen. “You need to see this.”

Lela stepped into the room. It was sparse, with a wooden table and chairs, the floor covered in worn terra-cotta tiles. The Mossad driver was kneeling beside the corpse of an elderly gray-bearded monk. His white habit was bloodied from a massive chest wound and he lay on his side, his right arm outstretched, his fingers stained crimson. It appeared as if he had tried to write something on the wall with his bloodied fingers.

To Lela, it looked like the image of twin crosses, side by side. The upright stem of the cross on the right trailed off in a bloody tendril. The monk’s dead fingers pointed skyward as if he had died in the process of finishing his work.

Lela heard a strange whirring noise and startled.

Ari was aiming an electronic camera and the flash popped. The camera whirred again as he photographed the bloody artwork on the walls and the victim’s body from at least a dozen angles. When Ari
finished
, he stared across, his face still pale. “What the devil does it all mean?”

Lela stared back at him, lost for an answer.

Five miles away, a strong desert wind had started to blow, tossing flurries of sand against the Mercedes’ windshield.

Jack stared out worriedly beyond the glass, past the fog of gusting sand, while next to him in the driver’s seat Josuf slowly negotiated a narrow desert road. The weather was turning, a sandstorm blowing, and Jack was having difficulty seeing the pickup fifty yards ahead of them. Yasmin was driving the Ford, and the man named Botwan was covering her with his weapon.

In the rear seat behind Jack, Pasha reached forward and prodded Josuf in the back of the neck with his pistol. “Stop here. Honk the car horn, then slowly pull off the road and cut the engine,” he ordered.

Jack felt his heart hammering in his chest. He peered out into the desert but saw nothing but sand and a coarse, rocky track. For the last ten minutes Pasha had remained ominously silent as he kept his gun trained on them. Jack feared the worst.

“I said honk the horn and pull in,” Pasha barked.

Josuf obeyed, slapping the horn, causing three sharp blasts, then eased the Mercedes off the desert track. Immediately the Ford in front slowed and pulled up, its red taillights illuminating in the fog of the sandstorm. A moment later Yasmin climbed out, followed by Botwan brandishing his pistol, both of them covering their faces with their arms to shield themselves from the gritty gusts.

“Get out of the car,” Pasha ordered.

Jack was forced to obey, followed by Josuf, as Pasha clambered out after them, keeping his gun at the ready, covering his mouth with his sleeve as the sand flurries stung their faces.

“Move over there.” He gestured with his pistol for them to move at least thirty feet out into the desert. Jack braced himself as Yasmin
moved
beside him, and he could feel her hand shaking as she gripped his. “Are—are you going to kill us?” she asked Pasha.

Jack’s heart sank as Pasha racked the pistol slide and chambered a round, ready to fire. “It comes to us all, young lady,” the Syrian said matter-of-factly. “But I’ll give you time to say your prayers.”

Josuf said valiantly, “Please, there is no need to kill them. I’m the one who’s responsible for bringing them here—”

Botwan struck him a blow across the face with his pistol. The Bedu reeled back, blood on his lips. “Kneel, all of you,” Botwan ordered.

They knelt in the sand and Jack’s heart jackhammered as he desperately sought a chance to escape, but the situation was dire, both Pasha and Botwan aiming their guns.

Yasmin’s voice quivered as she begged, “Please … can’t you let us go? We promise we won’t tell anyone what happened.”

“Tell it to the devil. I hope you’ve said your prayers, American. Because you’re first to die.”

Jack couldn’t answer. He felt his body shake as Pasha stepped forward, clutching his pistol. Then Jack suddenly went rigid with shock as the Syrian brought up the weapon and aimed it at the middle of Jack’s forehead. Jack tightly closed his eyes, his heart pounding with dread, everything happening so fast he could hardly think, let alone pray.

The pistol exploded.

ROME

CARDINAL UMBERTO CASSINI
stepped through the Belvedere Courtyard and entered the sturdy granite building that houses the Vatican’s Secret Archives.

Moving past the security guards, Cassini ignored the custodian seated at the large table, bare except for the visitor book he guarded. Like many cardinals of the Curia, Cassini hardly ever signed the book. Besides, he had more urgent matters on his mind.

He entered a sparsely furnished chamber, empty except for a couple of earnest young clerical scholars working at their desks. Cassini ignored them and came to a small room at the back of the building, protected by double oak doors blackened with age. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to mentally prepare himself for the difficult task that lay ahead.

He rapped twice on the ancient wood and waited.

The doors opened and a tall, handsome priest wearing a black soutane stood there. Father Emil Rossi was a respected archivist, a guardian of some of the most sensitive records in the Vatican Archives. With his high forehead, fine nose, and slender aristocratic hands, his chiselled face was made for sculpting. Rossi bowed in a slight, effeminate manner. “Your Eminence. It is good to see you.” He limped back to admit his visitor.

Cassini stepped into a large chamber with pale, colored walls. It was crowded with at least two dozen priests who sat at metal tables placed around the room. Cassini knew that each man was specially chosen by
John
Becket for his impeccable trust. Piled high beside the priests were boxes of indexes, documents, and files. Some of the documents looked musty with age, others were more recent. But one thing Cassini noticed: they all bore the papal seal, which meant they had been removed from some of the Vatican Archives’ most guarded vaults. The clerics pored over them with scrupulous attention, taking notes as they worked, so eager that they barely looked up as Cassini entered.

“I was informed that the Holy Father was here,” Cassini told Rossi in a hushed voice. “But obviously I was misled.”

Rossi, who had the solemn air of someone entrusted with dark and dangerous secrets, shot a disapproving glance at the other priests in the room, as if upset that his personal territory had been invaded. “No, Your Eminence. He has been here all day with his examiners.”

“And how goes it?”

“We have been working around the clock. But no one complains of being tired. All the priests are deeply impressed by the Holy Father. He energizes them.”

“I’m delighted to hear it.”

“They feel a sense of importance that their work will help to reinvigorate the church. Indeed, I have heard some of my fellow priests claim that their faith has been refreshed by the pope’s election. In the words of one, it’s almost as if the messiah has again come among us.”

“Invigorating words indeed. Where is the Holy Father now?”

“We all shared a simple lunch and prayers afterward, before he stepped out for air not ten minutes ago. He said he would be back.”

“Where did he go?”

“I would try the gardens. He said he needed some time alone, to think.”

Cassini turned to leave but hesitated, looked back at the handsome priest, and whispered, “How did the Holy Father seem?”

“I’m afraid he looked worried,” Rossi hissed back, his face darkening. “Yes, worried. That is the only way to describe him, Your Eminence.”

Cassini nodded solemnly and headed in the direction of the gardens.