The Last Day (70 page)

The cardinals stared at each other, and then expectantly at the doctor. The physician gave them an uncomfortable, searching look and cleared his throat. “Holy Father,” he croaked, “we are concerned that you have taken ill. You do not seem yourself.”

Nicholas bolted upright in his chair. “I am
not
myself!” he cried out, clenching and unclenching his fists on the desk in front of him, his face a contorted mask. And then overwhelmed, hanging his head with grief, he moaned tormentedly, “My self is lost to the ages now. I am reduced to a metaphor, a—
a Caiaphas!”

His fury welling again, he bellowed,
“Leave me now!”
There was a scurry of footsteps and the door creaked shut.

Nicholas buried his face in his hands. “My God, my God!” he lamented repeatedly. His phone rang and he slashed out furiously with his arm, sending it crashing to the floor, a passel of papers fluttering down after it.

His eyes were feverish, his face red and wet. Shaking badly, his hands fumbled for his waist fob. Locating a large, golden key, he jabbed it at his desk vault, missing the lock badly several times until he penetrated the keyhole. The tumblers turned, the vault door sprang open, and Nicholas grappled the faded leather portfolio from its dark haven onto the top of his desk. He tore the securing thongs from their stitchings and threw open the heavy cover, revealing its familiar contents of faded parchments.

More deliberately now, he cleared aside the top parchments with ungainly sweeps of his hand until he arrived at the page he sought. Praying for a miracle to deliver him, with shaking index finger he followed the handwritten passages to the lines:

”… those who know the truth, by the purity of their hearts shall they also know the messenger. But woe be to you, hardened hearts, which fail to see and hear. For you who hold your head high with arrogance, so shall you stumble over that which lies conspicuous before you.”

And…

”…if the First Prophecy is to be, it shall be fulfilled before the turn of the millennium; and if the Second Prophecy is to be, it shall be fulfilled thereafter.”

Disastrously, Nicholas had accepted at face value Pope John Paul II's call for “a sacred Jubilee Year to begin
at the commencement of the New Millennium, January 1, 2000.”
Nicholas had overlooked the now-conspicuous fact that the year 2000—and not 1999—was, indeed, the last year of the old millennium.

Despite how the world might celebrate its coming, in truth, the new millennium had not yet arrived, a point that even Nicholas, isolated though he might have been in his ecclesiastical ivory tower, had surely been aware. Yet somehow, fatefully, he had suppressed that knowledge. The dark passages of the Secret Letter reconfirmed the pope's dread convictions. It was the
first
prophecy that had been fulfilled.
Jeza was the Messiah!

Nicholas's lips contorted in a grotesque grin of disbelief and betrayed hurt. He began to laugh, tears flowing from his eyes. Leaving the yellowed page where it lay, he pushed himself up from his chair and staggered away from his desk. The vault key, still in its lock, tore free from the pontiff's fob, but Nicholas was impervious.

“My God, my God”
the pope ranted as he passed the threshold of his room, and those with their ears against his door jumped back in fear.

Collapsing on his bed, Nicholas could feel the pressure of his blood surging within his veins. He rolled over on his back and attempted to calm himself, but the sound of his chamber door closing alerted him to someone's unwelcomed presence.

“You!”
the pope gasped, turning to discover the dark shape of Antonio di Concerci slipping quietly toward him. Nicholas rose up on one elbow, the exertion and anger showing like fire in his face. “What counsel do you bring me now, cardinal advisor?” he cried. “Do you come to fill me again with more of your misconceptions and your schemes?”

Halfway to the pope's bedside, di Concerci slowed and stopped. Frowning, he raised his hand to his chin and said nothing.

“The truth is there!” Nicholas pointed to his desk with a badly trembling hand. “I did not want to see it. I allowed my vision to be clouded by power and pride and stubbornness and fear!”

The prefect's eyes followed the direction of the pontiff's finger to where the yellowed papers lay.

“What do I do now, my cardinal prefect?” The pope's anxious voice grew louder and more strident. “Where do I go with my soul now? Will you share with me my failure and my shame? Will you stand at my side now before the Lord's throne?” Nicholas contracted his shaking fingers into a fist and bellowed out in desperate rage,
“Will you defend me to God for the murder of His only begotten Daughter?”

With these last words, the pope was overcome with searing pain. He stiffened and pitched back onto his bed, hands fluttering convulsively at his side, eyes turning upward in his head. He shivered there, alone, in unbridled torment. And then, in a long, slow, pained gargle, he exuded his final breath.

Through all of this, the prefect had stood immobile, a deep furrow impressing itself ever further into his brow. He backed slowly away from the bedchamber, making his way quietly to the pope's desk. Picking up the letter, he read it carefully, stopping only once to glance over at the still form on the bed.

When finished, Antonio Cardinal Prefect di Concerci gathered up all the parchments, carefully slipped them inside his cassock and then moved to the pope's side to feel his wrist for a pulse.

Finding none, he stepped back, paused, then exited the room to summon the papal physician.

116

Somewhere over the southern Negev Desert 6:34
P.M
., Sunday, April 23, 2000

A
thousand feet above the desert floor, in one of six Israeli night-reconnaissance helicopters, Feldman, Hunter, a pilot, co-pilot and two military police were racing toward the supply depot Commander Lazzlo had identified for them earlier.

Feldman's plan had worked perfectly. Eziah Ben-Miriam's government had a number of sensitive issues to quickly resolve, and Jon Feldman held two of the keys. He could deliver Ben-Miriam a quick and peaceful surrender of the Hadassah, as well as the whereabouts of Israel's most wanted: Goene and Tamin.

And all Feldman had required in return was:

First, complete clemency for Commander David Lazzlo and his loyal troops. They had, after all, performed a great service for Israel. In defying Goene, they had defended the Messiah's body and delivered to the world the sacred truths that stopped Armageddon. Moreover, Feldman had argued, if the government accepted the premise that Jeza was risen from the dead, any pending murder charges would have to be dropped anyway.

And second, acceding to Hunter's demands, Feldman had insisted that he and the cameraman be allowed to accompany the Israeli search team to record the capture of Goene and Tamin—assuming it wasn't already too late. The interminably slow negotiations had cost Feldman precious hours.

As the reporters’ aircraft cleared a small cluster of mountains, the pilot signaled that they were coming up on the depot Lazzlo had targeted as a probable hideout for the two fugitives. Through the windshield of the craft, in the fading twilight, it was impossible to see much. But the scene was eminently visible in the eerie green glow of the cockpit's night-scanning screen.

It would appear that Lazzlo had been correct in his suspicions. Feldman could easily distinguish the parked form of a single Israeli military helicopter in front of what looked to be a large rock formation with a door in it. “There.” The co-pilot identified the craft, tapping the screen with his forefinger.

But it was soon apparent they'd arrived too late. A quick ground inspection showed the depot deserted and truck tracks heading to the southeast toward the least guarded area of the Egyptian border. Also as Lazzlo had surmised.

“We should have intercept momentarily,” the pilot promised, taking them back up into the sky and away. That proved to be an optimistic projection. An hour later, the tracks having dissolved in rocky terrain, the squadron had split up, hoping to detect the heat of the escape vehicle's engine on infrared sensors. But they came across nothing except a few carloads of millenarians working their way toward the new sacred shrine of Jeza's Resurrection.

There's no way they could have made it to the border yet,” the pilot informed his passengers. “I'm going to swing around and check out that Bedouin encampment we passed a few kilometers back. Maybe they've seen something.”

A few minutes later, they crossed a rise and came upon a sprawling camp. “Probably about a hundred fifty to two hundred Bedouins, all told,” the pilot estimated, gauging from the size of their large, circuslike tents. “We'll put down far enough away not to disturb their flocks too much.”

They dropped into a flat bluff about fifty meters downwind, the helicopter's prop kicking up a blinding dust storm. As the blades slowed and the clouds settled, an assembly of about forty rough-hewn men with rifles slowly materialized in the darkness, just beyond the swath of the rotor. One of the Israeli militia slid out of the helicopter, approached the nomads with his arms in the air, chatted for a few moments and then came trotting back at a fast clip.

“Sir,” he called in to the detail officer, “they've got them both right here! Caught them about an hour ago. Recognized ‘em from TV reports. They claim Jeza spent time with their clan once, and they're real unhappy about what happened to their Messiah. Say they're gonna peel Tamin and Goene alive.”

The sergeant gritted his teeth. “The hell they are! Call in the other choppers. I want two standard attack deployments behind that dune over there,” he began to order, but Feldman offered an alternative.

“Sergeant, if they watch TV, maybe they'll recognize me, too. They'll know I was a friend of Jeza. Maybe I can reason with them.”

Hunter elbowed Feldman hard in his sore side and whispered, “No! Let ‘em shred the bastards!” He was dead serious.

Feldman ignored his partner and the sergeant acquiesced.

Indeed, Feldman was immediately received with great ceremony and fanfare. The nomads knelt before him and touched the hem of his trousers, calling him “Apoutii,” or “Apostle,” as he was quickly informed by the military translator. Feldman found this most uncomfortable, particularly with Hunter recording the episode.

He learned that this tribe of Bedouins was also well acquainted with “Apoutii;” Litti, who'd spoken often and highly of Feldman. The tribal leader was eager to accommodate the famous newsman, bestowing several choice goats and camels upon him.

Provided with an avenue of exchange now, Feldman succeeded in trading on his prestige, goats and camels, for the persons of Goene and Tamin. The two were delivered, bound hand and foot, and gagged.

As all this transpired, Feldman, who'd been keeping a stealthy eye on Hunter, observed the big man moving menacingly toward the captured pair. Quickly darting out in front of him to block his path, Feldman grabbed the cameraman's shoulder. “No, Breck!” he warned. “You know I can't let you.”

Hunter stared at his friend as if seeing him for the very first time. Feldman could detect the battle going on within his partner, and for a time, couldn't be sure of the outcome. But at length, Hunter blinked.

Feldman stared hard into his eyes. “You take your revenge with your camera, Breck, not your fists. Swear to me?”

Hunter hesitated, turned his frowning face aside and scowled down at the ground. He finally nodded.

Only then did Feldman step aside. Hunter moved in with his camera to catch every humiliating particular as the former IDF minister and his general, now both dressed in civilian attire, were deposited unceremoniously in the dust at his feet.

Pressing in tightly on Goene's red, seething face, Hunter carefully documented the capture. “So nice to cross my pen with your sword again, General,” he gloated with smoldering hatred. “You sorry bastards are gonna look damn impressive on tomorrow's news, rollin’ around in the camel dung there!”

The instant his gag was removed, Goene lurched himself into a sitting position and appealed desperately to his former Israeli subordinates. “They have the microchips! This is all a conspiracy. Set us loose, it's not too late to recover the chips! The technology belongs to Israel!”

Hunter drew himself upright, shaking his head and glancing over his shoulder to Feldman. “Stupid to the bitter end,” he observed. As he turned back to the defiant general, Hunter's rage boiled to the surface. “When you gonna get it through that dense shit inside your skull that there
are
no chips. You let them shoot her for
nothing,
you bastard! And a hell of a lot of good those microchips would do you now, anyway. You turds are gonna spend the rest of your miserable lives makin’ little rocks out of big rocks!”

Tamin, his face as white as the full desert moon high in the clear sky above them, had nothing to say. The two prisoners were untied, immediately handcuffed, and then carted off to the waiting helicopter.

Feldman turned his weary, relieved eyes to his partner. “Feeling a little better now?” he asked, enjoying a smile of self-satisfaction himself.

Hunter did not return the smile. “Give me just a few minutes of personal ‘sensitivity training’ with those sons of bitches, then I'd feel better.”

Feldman and Hunter were allowed to ride back on the helicopter with the prisoners, who were manacled to the bulkhead. Two Israeli militia accompanied them, along with their pilot and co-pilot.

The Bedouins shouted and raised their rifles over their heads in victory as, one by one, the helicopters lifted straight up into the starry skies of the desert night. Feldman watched the celebrants recede quickly below him, and had just begun to settle comfortably into his seat when he was startled by a cry from the guard next to him. As he turned, a firearm discharged and the soldier slumped to the deck, a red splotch spreading next to the pouch of his empty shoulder holster.

Just as quickly, the second guard across from Feldman was hurtled backward against the bulkhead by a gunshot to the chest and fed lifeless next to his comrade. Goene— smoking revolver in one hand, uncoupled handcuff dangling from the other—confronted the two unarmed newsmen.