The Second Messiah (62 page)

“For what?”

Savage’s face tightened with fear. “I’m afraid you and I need to have a talk.”

JACK MOVED INSIDE
the Land Cruiser. The cab faced away from the Israeli border, toward the mountains of Edom. Buddy sat next to him in the driver’s seat and kept his eyes on the procession of headlights in the rearview mirror. “Who’s coming?” Jack asked.

“Your friend Lela and the cops. Maybe the Israel Defense Forces for all I know.”

Jack stared at the Browning pistol in Buddy’s hand. “Where did you get the gun?”

Savage’s face was blank. “I stole the scroll, Jack.”

Jack’s shock was total. He felt as if someone had cut his wrists and his blood had drained.

Buddy said, “I never meant to take it. All I wanted was a couple of fragments.”

“I—I don’t follow. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Sometimes on site I’d work for myself. I’d take artifacts. Nothing major that would attract attention. But I’d sell them, like the Bedu who work the black market. Make some money.”

Jack was still thunderstruck. “Sell them to whom, Buddy?”

“Pasha. Some of his black-market stuff went to private collectors. The really important parchment material he sold to the Vatican by a special arrangement he’d had for years. I figured a few fragments of your scroll could make me a small fortune.”

Jack said, stone cold. “Go on.”

“A little after you left Green, I sneaked back into his tent. I’d been waiting for my chance all night. I got a smell of alcohol, saw him clutching an open bottle of Wild Turkey and lying on his bed. He looked to
be
asleep. So I went to work on the scroll, cutting off a few slivers. But Green was barely dozing and he woke and saw what I was up to. The guy went crazy. We scuffled, I pulled the gun. The rest you could probably figure.”

“I want to hear it, Buddy.”

“I couldn’t bring myself to shoot. But then Green came at me like a wild bear and knocked the gun out of my hand. That’s when I grabbed your knife from the table.” Savage’s eyes were moist. “I didn’t mean to kill him, Jack. It just happened, out of the blue. But I know I did wrong and that nothing’s going to put it right, not ever.”

Savage began to sob, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe his own admission.

Jack touched his arm. “Why steal, Buddy? It’s not you.”

Buddy tipped back his baseball cap, wiped his eyes with his arm, and looked out at the headlights as they drew even closer. “I could give you a hundred reasons.”

“Give me one.”

“Because at my age I got tired of scratching for a living, and for nothing much more than my board and keep. I got tired of traveling coach class and busting my guts with not so much as a decent pension to show for it. I got tied of hearing stories about some dirt-poor Bedu making a fortune for themselves digging our sites.”

“Is that what it was about, Buddy, money?”

“I figured I’d set myself up for retirement. Except I never reckoned on getting in way over my head. After I killed Green I decided to take the scroll. Make it look like a proper murder and theft. That way the police might think it was a criminal gang. I’d arranged to give Pasha the cuttings, but I gave him the entire parchment just to get rid of it. I didn’t want a cent from it.”

“You stopped Pasha from killing me, didn’t you?”

“He called and told me you were on his tail at Maloula. I warned him that if he killed you I’d tell the Israelis everything. That’s why he tempered it with a warning and shot you in the leg instead.”

Savage paused, closed his eyes tightly, then opened them again.
“There was no talking to Pasha. He was a nasty piece of work who probably would have killed us all in the end, especially after you did the switch. He went crazy, wanted your blood. Your friend Lela did everyone a favor killing him.”

Jack said, “You told him I was in Rome, didn’t you?”

“He said if I didn’t give him some leads, he’d kill us all. He said all he wanted was the scroll back. If he got that, he’d leave us alone. I figured I had to tell him my suspicions that you’d gone to see Fonzi.”

“Why did you think that?”

“He was a scroll expert and familiar with the code. I reckoned he’d probably be one of your first ports of call. I warned Pasha again that if he harmed you, I’d tell the Israelis everything. He swore he wouldn’t kill you.”

“And you trusted him?”

“I never trusted him, but I figured he’d be smart enough keep to his word or risk being hunted down by the Israelis. I tried to call and warn you to be careful, left lots of messages, but you didn’t answer my calls.”

“Pasha killed Fonzi, Buddy. Cut his throat.”

Savage’s eyes were wet again, and he ran a hand over his face. “Oh, no …”

Jack glanced in the rearview. He guessed the headlights were less than a hundred yards away. “How could you be so dumb, Buddy?
How?
”

“We all do dumb things in life.”

“Why all of a sudden tell the Israelis?”

Savage looked back at him. “To square things. Make sure they didn’t put you behind bars. After I got Hassan’s call, I phoned Sergeant Mosberg. I told him I wanted to make a deal. The cops get me and the scroll and you walk free. I told him you were innocent. But now if Hassan has his way, the world’s going to know about the scroll anyway. The Israelis aren’t going to be able to deny its existence.”

Savage nodded toward the rear mirror and the approaching headlights. “You better get out, Jack. Any second now and the cops
are
going to be swarming all over this place like ants on a dung pile.”

Jack flicked an anxious look in the mirror. The cortege roared closer.

Buddy said, “Keep your hands in the air when you get out. I don’t want any misunderstandings and you getting hurt. My deceit’s caused enough of that.”

“Pops …”

Savage shook his head. “I want to face them alone, Jack. But I’m truly sorry for what I did. For letting you down.”

Jack’s eyes filled with emotion. He stepped out of the Land Cruiser and looked back at Buddy. “I forgive you.”

Savage wiped his eyes. “Love you, Jack. Always have.”

The rows of headlights appeared to spread out until they half circled the Land Cruiser and halted. Jack felt frozen to the spot.

Savage said, “Jack, listen to me, get your hands in the air. The Israelis don’t mess around.”

“What about you?”

“Don’t worry, they’ll come for me. Lela knows the drill. Just do as I say and play it like she told me to.”

Jack raised his hands. A metallic voice spoke over a loudspeaker, in Hebrew, then English: “Step away from the vehicle slowly and keep your hands high.”

Buddy urged, “Do it, Jack. Just do as they tell you.”

Jack moved slowly from the Land Cruiser. “Don’t shoot!” he called out.

When he had gone thirty yards he saw an armed Lela step out of one of the police SUVs. Their eyes locked.

A bunch of other uniformed cops and plainclothes jumped out. Jack kept his hands up. He recognized the Mossad guy named Ari. He and Lela stepped forward, their weapons outstretched, then Lela swept her gun in the direction of the Land Cruiser’s rear.

“Where’s Buddy, Jack?
Where is he?
”

“In the Land Cruiser.”

A split second later Jack heard the loud crack of a gunshot. Lela crouched, the cops ducking low and taking aim at the SUV. But no more shots came and when the echo died the desert came alive with barked orders.

Jack’s heart crumpled. “Pops, no!”

Ignoring all caution, he ran back toward the Land Cruiser.

JOHN BECKET AWOKE
on the third day. There would be some who saw it as an omen.

Just as there would be those who saw a powerful sign in the suffering inflicted upon his body: bloodied cuts in both his hands—the defensive wounds from Cassini’s attack—and the stab wounds in his chest. Gashes to his forehead, not caused by a crown of thorns but by the sharp slashing of steel.

To some, the wounds resembled stigmata. They would be endlessly talked about by those who believed in such manifestations, part of the miracle of John Becket’s survival, though the skeptics would put it down to the pope’s hardy physique and to the determined surgeons at Gemelli hospital.

But no one would deny that John Becket’s survival was something close to miraculous, and if God had played a part in it, then so be it.

It was very still in the hospital room that evening when Becket awoke. But moments later the air came alive with a flurry of noise and muted whispering. The medical team at Gemelli went to work immediately. More monitors were wheeled in, doctors arrived, and charts were consulted. Life signs and senses were checked, the pope’s blood pressure and breathing endlessly monitored.

It was another four hours before Monsignor Sean Ryan was admitted into the softly lit private room, and even then just for a few minutes.

“Holy Father …,” Ryan began. He sat by the pope’s side, clutching his hand, feeling the weakness of the man’s grip. He noticed his skin was as sallow as parchment, his arms stretched outward as if he had
been
crucified, connected by drips and tubes to a bank of electronic monitoring equipment.

Becket’s voice was hoarse and frail. “Sean. The doctors tell me it was you who helped save my life.”

“It wasn’t only me, Holy Father. The doctors have been working day and night.”

“So the nurses tell me.”

“The streets of Rome and churches in every corner of the globe are filled with people praying for your survival. Every avenue approaching the hospital is crowded with well-wishers. Some have even slept out in the streets at night. I couldn’t tell you how many acres of flowers I’ve had to wade through on my way up here. Presidents have sent their ambassadors; everyone wants to offer their good wishes.” Ryan wiped his eyes and added, “It seems all our prayers have been answered.”

“Is it true what the doctors tell me? That I was dead to the world for three days?”

“No one believed you would make it. No one except those who wanted to believe.”

Becket’s frail hand gripped Ryan’s with a sudden strength. “Then my work must not be over yet. Tell me everything, Sean.”

Ryan explained all that had happened in the last three days. “The newspapers are full of reports of your intentions to open the archives, and of Cardinal Cassini’s attack.”

“Umberto died instantly?”

Pain etched Ryan’s face. “Yes, Holy Father.”

Becket’s blue eyes filled with grief and he squeezed Ryan’s hand more tightly. “I know that the burden of having taken a human life is a terrible one to bear. I know too that Umberto was a troubled soul. I want us to pray that he will be blessed by forgiveness, just as we must forgive him, Sean.”

“Yes, Holy Father.”

There were other words, some private, others just nods and hoarse whispers from the pope, his body still feeble, but even so his powerful
presence
filled the room, and Ryan knew that it was only a matter of time before the man’s spark of life returned.

And then the pope’s medical team came back in and the meeting was over. Ryan rose to leave, still clutching the pope’s hand, and Becket said, “I need you to deliver a message for me, Sean.”

“Of course.”

“Tell the deputy camerlengo that he is to convene a special meeting of the Curia.”

“When, Holy Father?”

“Just as soon as the doctors allow me to walk out of this room. I have important words to say. There is a revelation they must hear. Not just the Curia, but all the world.”