The Second Messiah (27 page)

AN HOUR LATER,
as Cardinal Umberto Cassini was about to leave his office for a late appointment, his cell chirped and Ryan’s name and number appeared. Cassini answered urgently, “Where are you, Sean? What’s the news?”

“I just got back to the Vatican. I’m afraid uncle managed to evade me. The last time I saw him he was enjoying a drink with a tarty-looking lady in the red-light district.”

“You’re—you’re joking.”

“I wish I was. I saw uncle give her a handful of paper money. After that he disappeared and I lost him.”

“So we don’t know where else he’s gone?”

“No, but he’s back. Security on the east gate spotted him climbing out of a taxi five minutes ago.”

Cassini said irritably, “This cat-and-mouse game is becoming ridiculous. Did security get the cab’s license number? Maybe we could question the driver and find out where he made the pickup?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“It’s time I put a stop to this and demand an explanation from the Holy Father for his behavior. It’s absurd.”

“You think such a confrontation is wise, Your Eminence?”

“Wise or not, it needs to be done. I won’t have his reckless behavior bring the church into disrepute.”

FIVE MINUTES LATER
Cassini walked the long corridors to the papal chambers. They were vast, with floor-to-ceiling oak doors, red carpet, polished marble tiles, and sparkling chandeliers. Even the intricate ceiling roses were finished with solid gold leaf.

Passing a Louis XIV writing bureau, Cassini knew it was worth a small fortune, like the many antiques that decorated the chambers, or the exquisite paintings that draped the walls. He recalled that a recent audit disclosed the Vatican’s net worth to be in the region of $100 billion. Cassini thought that the figure was probably on the conservative side; after all, the Vatican was the single owner of Rome’s most prime real estate.

He was just about to knock on the double doors when one of them was yanked open and John Becket stood there, wearing his plain white gown. “Umberto, I was just about to summon you. Come inside, please.”

Caught off guard, Cassini felt a little anxious as he stepped into the gilded, exquisite papal rooms.

The pope slammed the door shut and struck an unfamiliar pose, his hands on his hips. “I’ll get straight to the point, Umberto. I have been followed by Sean Ryan this evening. I demand an explanation. Was this your idea?”

Despite the tables being turned, Cassini bristled with indignation. “Holy Father, I confess it was. But there were safety concerns. And may I make a point? You were seen entering the red-light district, and offering a woman money. What if a press photographer recognized you and took your photograph? Think of the scandal.
I
mean, with all due respect, you were seen in the company of a
prostitute
.”

“I seem to recall that so was Jesus. Would you have criticized him for that too, Umberto?”

Cassini was stuck for an answer and his face reddened. “Holy Father, I simply don’t know why you had to visit that area—”

The reproof was instant and sharp. “That is my business. Even though I am pope, my privacy is my own. And please don’t ever question who I keep company with, Umberto. Not ever.”

Cassini still bridled with frustration. “Very well, but I can assure you that what was done was for your own good and the Vatican’s. It’s normal to have security in the background, to watch His Holiness wherever he goes. There are hundreds of Vatican security officers whose sole task is just that.”

“Then it’s time I made some changes.”

“Holy Father?”

The pope spread his hands wide, indicating the opulent room. “Do we really need all this, Umberto? This gilded prison.”

“I’m not sure I follow?”

“All these trappings of power. All this material wealth. This vast, endless, often petty beaureaucracy. As pastors, we should have no need of such distractions.”

“I don’t see where this is going, Holy Father.”

“This church was founded in the name of a Nazarene carpenter who owned nothing, not even a bed he could rest his head on. Yet we who inherited his mission are surrounded by accumulated riches, by vast wealth. All over the world are barefoot, hungry men, women, and children with empty bellies. Yet we hoard our riches like misers and I am crowned with pomp and ceremony and live in gilded rooms. I am ashamed that the carpenter’s successor should live like a king.”

“Holy Father, the church has a reputation to preserve. Status and traditions to maintain.”

“No longer.” From behind his desk, Becket plucked a cheap
canvas
bag, the kind you might buy in one of the backstreets where he had fled. “I am leaving the Vatican, Umberto. I have packed the few belongings I will need.”

Cassini felt as if he’d been electrocuted. “
Leaving?
”

“As of tonight the Vatican is no longer my residence.”

QUMRAN

ISRAEL

“OKAY, PIERRE, MAKE
sure the men are careful. Some of the stuff in these boxes is pretty fragile.”

“But of course,
mon ami
.”

Buddy Savage wiped sweat from his brow and jumped down off the back of the Fiat truck. He watched as one of the crew, a small, cheerful-looking Frenchman with an earring and a ponytail, began to supervise a group of Bedu workmen as they loaded packing crates onto the vehicle.

As Savage stood there wearing his grubby NYPD baseball cap, a voice said in accented English, “You look busy, Mr. Savage. I hope I’m not interrupting your work.”

Savage turned and saw Sergeant Mosberg. “Busy enough. The dig finishes this week. We’re getting ready to close down the site. We could probably close it down a lot quicker if we didn’t have the media sticking its nose in our face. They’re still buzzing around here when the mood takes them, asking questions.”

“You’re in a hurry to go somewhere?”

“No, but unless everything’s properly catalogued and the paperwork in order for your Department of Antiquities the dirt’s going to hit the fan.”

“No more digging for scrolls?”

Savage lit up a Marlboro Light and blew out a mouthful of smoke. “Our work’s done for the season. By spring, it gets too hot to dig, but a few of the crew will stay behind to tidy up. For the rest of us this tour of duty’s over. What can I do for you, Mosberg?”

The sergeant rapped his knuckles on one of the packing crates. “What exactly have you got in here, Mr. Savage?”

Savage dangled his cigarette from the corner of his mouth. “Hundreds of pottery shards, a variety of bones and coins, personal artifacts and jewelry, almost all of it from the first century
A.D.
In short, three months’ work. Why?”

Mosberg took a notepad from his pocket and flipped it open. “I’m afraid I need to ask you some more questions, Mr. Savage.”

Savage sighed and tipped back his baseball cap. “I can give you ten minutes, Mosberg, then I’ve got to get back to work. Want a Coke? I sure could do with one.”

“Very kind. I won’t say no.”

Savage flicked away his half-finished cigarette. “Follow me to my humble hacienda and excuse the mess.”

“One thing you might like to know. Forensics had the flakes of parchment from the floor of Professor Green’s tent analyzed. It’s definitely the same material found in other Dead Sea scrolls. They also had the flakes and the ink carbon-dated.”

“And?”

“There’s no question that they’re about two thousand years old.”

SAVAGE LED THE
way to a cramped walk-in tent.

Mosberg said, “The experts said roughly between
A.D.
25 and 50. You don’t seem surprised, Savage.”

“Why should I be? I never thought for a minute that the scroll was a fake. I’ve seen my fair share of parchments in my career. I knew it was genuine.”

Mosberg picked his way past a folded camp bed, a dented travel trunk, and more piles of packing crates. One crate was open and contained a collection of small bones next to a large clay pot. A tag on the crate said
L.I.E.
“Are they animal bones?” he asked.

Savage grabbed a couple of chilled Cokes from a blue plastic cooler at his feet and tossed a can to Mosberg. “Actually, they’re human. An infant, second century
A.D.
I’ll let you in on a secret, Sergeant. Whenever archaeologists dig here they often come across human bones like the ones you’re looking at. Thousands of years ago it was common practice to bury dead infants in clay jars. Even though they’ve been interred for millennia your Jewish religion still requires that we stop digging and perform a full and proper burial service. If they’re from a more recent period than the one we’re digging and they don’t interest us, we label the bones with a tag that says L.I.E.”

Mosberg arched an eyebrow as he plucked open his can. “What does that mean?”

“It’s short for late intrusive element. We classify them as animal bones so that way we can keep going with the dig and focus on the period we’re dealing with.”

“Isn’t that deceitful?”

“Sure, but the benefits outweigh the cost. And your Antiquities Department turns a blind eye. If they didn’t, things would grind to a halt.”

Mosberg examined what looked like a tiny, weathered rib bone. “To think this infant lived soon after the time of Christ. Remarkable.”

Savage gulped a mouthful of Coke. “Make any progress, Sergeant?”

Mosberg looked up. “I’m afraid not. You know what makes me curious? Why did Cane choose to dig at that particular site where he found the scroll?”

“In field fourteen? Simple. Rodents.”

“Pardon?”

“Creatures like rats and gophers, even wild dogs, burrow deep into the earth for shelter. That can be a blessing to archaeologists because they leave behind a mound of debris after they dig. Sometimes we get lucky and the mound contains coins and pieces of pottery shards, or other stuff of interest. A mound that Jack discovered at field fourteen contained pottery shards, first century
A.D.
, so we decided to dig.”

Mosberg jotted some notes. “Interesting. And may I ask where Mr. Cane is right now?”

Savage slumped into one of the chairs. “Your guess is as good as mine. The last time I saw him was here at the camp, yesterday afternoon.”