The Last Day (27 page)

A message with the dual purpose of salvation and destruction.

The cardinal had labored continuously, compiling his insights and preparing a document of provocative premises and frightful conclusions. In less than one month, he intended to present this document personally to the assembled denominations at the Mormons’ second convocation in Salt Lake City.

But today, he'd present his report to Antonio Prefect di Concerci. And demand that it be included in the Congregation's draft
inquirendum,
due to be presented to the pope in one week. Knowing his work's inflammatory composition, Litti realized the risk he was taking. Yet his conscience demanded that he see this to whatever end awaited him. He could only pray that God had given him the persuasive skills to put forth a convincing argument.

After waiting about twenty minutes in the prefect's anteroom, Litti was announced by di Concerci's secretary and admitted into a private, well-appointed suite. As he entered, it occurred to him that in his many years at the Vatican, he'd never once been inside di Concerci's office. And vice versa.

Spacious, with high, inlaid-bronze ceiling, art-glass windows, heavy tapestry drapes, crystal chandelier, dark mahogany paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves laden with ponderous volumes, exquisite Oriental rug, large mahogany desk and matching high-back, thronelike chair, di Concerci's office was an imposing seat of authority.

“Cardinal Litti.” The prefect greeted his associate evenly, without standing. “I have only a few minutes, I'm due to meet Cardinals Thompson and Santorini in the Museo Sacro.”

“I'm sorry to intrude without notice,” Litti apologized, “but this is a matter of some importance. I have for you a completed report uniting my analysis of the Mormon convocation with the Congregation's study-in-progress—and with my own personal research. I believe you'll find the results quite eye-opening.”

“Yes, Alphonse, I am sure,” di Concerci responded dismissively. “Leave it with my secretary and I will deal with it directly.”

Litti stood his ground. “I've been up for three soul-wrenching days and nights on this, di Concerci, and I'll not have you brush it off like so much dust!” The tone in his voice was surprisingly harsh.

Di Concerci scrutinized his colleague closely and leaned back in his chair, taken off-guard. “Cardinal, you look terrible, if you don't mind my saying so. Are you feeling poorly?”

“Only in my heart, Prefect.” Litti stared unwaveringly at his associate. “Only in my heart.”

Di Concerci rose and extended his hand to take the thick envelope. “I assure you, this will receive my personal attention as soon as possible. Now, I must attend to my meeting—”

But Litti maintained a firm grip on the package. “You and I have never seen eye to eye, Cardinal,” he said, staring up at the taller man. “And I'm afraid there's not much friendship between us. Nevertheless, in the scores of years we've been acquainted, I've never once asked anything of you. I ask now. Postpone your meeting and read this document.” The unshaven Litti was flushed with emotion, his eyes feverish. “Please!”

The prefect's brow creased and he searched Litti's face, reflected for a moment, then sighed. “Very well. Have a seat outside and I will read your report.”

Litti released his envelope and left the office. As he closed the heavy double doors he heard di Concerci telling his secretary to cancel his appointment, not to disturb him, and to fetch Cardinal Litti a tall glass of water.

A little more than a half hour later, the doors to di Concerci's office opened. Litti turned in his chair to see the prefect studying him intently, his brow still furrowed, his face somber.

“Cardinal Litti, would you step inside please?”

Di Concerci admitted his colleague, closed the door, and without a word ushered him to a plush chair. He then seated himself behind his desk, folded his hands across the top of Litti's report, and stared down at it, still saying nothing.

Litti nurtured a small glimmer of hope. At the very least, it would appear that the report had the prefect thinking.

Taking a deep breath, di Concerci raised his eyes to Lira's. In a soft, surprisingly tender voice, he addressed his fellow cardinal. “It's true, Alphonse, you and I have never seen each other as friends. But if you can overlook that unfortunate fact for a moment, I would like to speak to you now as if I were your truest friend.”

This startled Litti and he relaxed, unclenched his intertwined fingers and sat back in his chair.

“What you've written here, Cardinal,” di Concerci said gently, spreading his hands out over the report, “is, quite frankly, heresy. Unbridled heresy of the highest order. This document is a complete repudiation of your Church. It disavows your entire life, your vocation, your sworn commitment to God.”

Alphonse Cardinal Litti felt the weight of his worst expectations settle over him. He closed his eyes tightly, squinting back tears of emotional conflict, and rested his head against the back of his chair. He inhaled deeply and responded in a choked voice. “Yes, Cardinal, you're quite right. It
is
a repudiation of my Church. And of my entire life.” Litti suddenly sat upright, his cheeks flushed, and glared into di Concerci's face. “But
not
my commitment to God! It's because of my great love of God, my undying commitment to God, that I'm willing to sacrifice
everything
to open my Church's eyes, your eyes, to the truth! To the true will of God!”

“It is not too late, Alphonse,” di Concerci appealed. “I will hand this document back to you and I'll erase my mind of it. You're obviously very tired and overwrought. You need some time away to rest. A vacation would do you worlds of good—”

“No, Cardinal.” Litti shook his head resolutely. “You must submit this to the Congregation and to Nicholas, unaltered and in its entirety, as is required.”

Di Concerci tented his fingers and brought them to his lips, pausing, groping for an effective counterargument. “Litti, think for a moment. If you have me submit this, you'll be removed from the Congregation, if not from your cardinalship. And if you persist in these ravings, you will doubtless be excommunicated. You're throwing away your entire career. Everything. For God's sake, man, is it worth it?”

Litti's answer was calm, straight and deliberate. “It's for God's sake that I do this. Just deliver my report to Nicholas and the Congregation, and I will make myself available should anyone wish to discuss it. I only pray that other eyes prove more open than yours.”

“You have opened my eyes to at least one thing, Alphonse,” the prefect replied soberly. “You've opened my eyes to the reality that this self-proclaimed Messiah, this Jeza, is a very dangerous woman.”

Litti rose slowly to leave, his joints and his mind aching. “Can you recall New Year's Eve of the millennium, Cardinal di Concerci?” he asked sorrowfully. “The world's first vision of Jeza in the electrical storm? I quote you Matthew, chapter twenty-four, verse twenty-seven: ‘For as the lightning comes forth from the east and shines even to the west so also will the coming of the Messiah be.’ ”

Without saying a word, di Concerci leaned to his right and opened the beveled-glass doors to a vintage cabinet. He withdrew a small, very old-looking, bound book with a faded, wine-colored cover.

“And let me quote to you from this, Cardinal,” he said, opening the book reverentially on the desk in front of him. “Do you know what this is, Alphonse?” He didn't wait for an answer. “This is an original Latin manuscript of the Gospel of Saint John. Copied by hand, by the monks of Domrémy, Lorraine, as a gift to Joan of Arc. It's been in the di Concerci family for hundreds of years and was a present to me from my father upon my vestiture as a cardinal.”

Delicately, he searched through the pages for a specific passage. “Here, I read to you in Christ's own words, John, chapter ten, verses fourteen through sixteen.” He translated from the Latin: “‘I am the good shepherd, and I know mine and mine know me, even as the Father knows me and I know the Father; and I lay down my life for my sheep. And other sheep I have that are not of this fold. Them also I must bring, and they shall hear my voice, and there shall be one fold and one shepherd.’”

He carefully closed the covers. “
One
fold, Alphonse. And only
one
shepherd. Jeza cannot be Lord.”

Resigned, Litti turned and moved painfully toward the door. “You are wrong, di Concerci,” he said, looking back sadly over his shoulder. “Jeza
is
a Messiah. A second Messiah. And She is come to fulfill the prophecies. To oppose Her is to oppose the will of God. In the end, those who defy Her will be destroyed. And the end is nearer than you know!”

55

The seaport of Said, Egypt 6:32
P.M
., Friday, February 11, 2000

W
ith Jeza having departed the Holy Land, conditions in Israel had calmed enough that the way was now clear for Anke to return to her studies in Tel Aviv. And while Anke wouldn't be so far away that she couldn't visit on occasion, Feldman still found the idea of their parting difficult.

Tonight, Feldman had designed a special evening for her. He'd made reservations at a romantic little restaurant, Delta of the Nile, at the picturesque seaport of Said, on the shores of the Mediterranean.

Over a candlelit dinner, Feldman found Anke unusually quiet, and offered her a shekel for her thoughts.

She looked up at him uncertainly.

“Go ahead,” Feldman prodded gently, “it's not like you to be shy!”

She laughed. “It's a subject I know you're not real comfortable discussing, that's all.”

“Tonight anything goes,” he pledged.

She took a breath. “Jon, I'd like to know what you really think about this woman Jeza. Despite everything Anne Leveque has told us, I still can't escape the sensation that there's more behind her than can be explained by that neurochip science, as amazing as it may be. And I know you share some of my feelings. I can see it in your face with every report you do on her. It troubles you, too, doesn't it?”

This was not the romantic subject Feldman had hoped was on Anke's mind. He sighed and stared down at his entrée, which had suddenly lost its appeal. “Okay,” he reluctantly honored his pledge, “okay.”

He paused, collecting his thoughts. Finally he looked her in the eye. “I can't say I haven't considered the possibility that she might be, well, a real Messiah,” he admitted. “It does trouble me…

“I mean, if you set out to design a person to look and talk and act just like some divine being, I don't see how you could come up with a creature more imposing than Jeza. So maybe she's the wrong sex, and maybe she's too petite. But then, with her, that doesn't seem to matter, does it? It doesn't seem to get in the way at all. In fact quite the contrary, it only serves to
enhance
the whole divine shtick! It makes her even more divine overcoming those supposed obstacles. Yes, there's a power there, I agree with you, that seems to come from beyond the science lab.

“And I can't say that I have a plausible explanation for every miracle I've reported on—although there are certainly a good many I would question,” he hastily added. “But I have to tell you, I find the whole Jeza experience rather off-balancing, even intimidating at times. I just don't know what to make of it all, Anke. I just don't know.”

She frowned at him in absorbed consideration. “Jon,” she whispered softly, “what if Jeza really is a Messiah? What if we really are entering into the Last Days?” Her chin was trembling.

Feldman reached across the table and took her hands in his. “That's a path of thought I don't care to travel too far,” he told her. “But even if I knew for certain we were facing Judgment Day, there's one thing I have to cling to. While you and I may not be perfect people, Anke, and while we may not live religion the way a good many people seem to out there—I'd still put our ethics up against the best of ‘em—millenarians, clergy, whatever. And I don't think a fair-minded God could ignore that, do you?”

She exhaled and relaxed. “But, in fact, you really don't believe in her, do you?”

“In all honesty?” He paused for a long moment, growing gravely introspective. “No, Anke, I can't see it. Maybe it's that I don't want to see it, but at this point in time, I just can't accept that.”

Anke appeared to find some comfort in this, gazing into his eyes with a look of reassurance.

After dinner, strolling in the warm evening through the crowded, open-air marketplace bordering the harbor, Feldman and Anke held hands and leisurely browsed the exotic shops filled with spices, bolts of colorful fabrics, crafts and tourist curios. As they walked, Feldman appreciated his companion out of the corners of his eyes, delighting in her intrinsic happiness, her goodness, wholesomeness and beauty.

This was all starting to feel so comfortable to him. Finally, for the first time in his life, Feldman found himself settling into a loving relationship with a woman. Not kicking and scratching, nervous and skeptical. But willingly. At long last, perhaps he'd broken free of those irrational, constrictive, primal inhibitions a young boy and his therapist had once labored so painfully over.

At a sidewalk counter, Anke stopped to pick up an intriguing little item that caught her attention. It was one of those novelty “magic eye” children's books with the mysterious, now-you-see-it, now-you-don't holographic images lurking inside computer-generated patterns. This particular book happened to contain hidden three-dimensional pictures of the prophetess Jeza.

Anke flipped the book open and, laughing, held a page up to Feldman's nose, drawing it away from him slowly until the jumbled dots magically materialized before his eyes into the arresting face of the Messiah. Abruptly, however, a strange surge of disorientation began to envelop the reporter. An unpleasant, disquieting sensation. He grabbed on to Anke for support.

Startled, she dropped the book, peering into his colorless face. “Jon, are you all right?”

He staggered, inexplicably light-headed, as Anke anxiously attempted to support him. Fighting to regain his composure, Feldman had a sudden awareness. He released Anke and spun quickly around. There, not twenty feet from him in the milling crowd, looking inside him with those deep, unfathomable eyes, stood Jeza, the Messiah.