The Second Messiah

“Withholding information like that could have cost us the scroll, never mind what happens to your friend Cane. Weiss will have your head for this.” Ari yanked out his phone and began to punch in a number.

“Who are you calling?” Lela asked.

“Weiss. He’s still in Rome and isn’t due to fly back to Israel until tonight.” Ari’s mouth twisted ironically. “But I’m pretty sure he’ll delay his departure to talk to you.”

Cohen came running up. “I’ve noticed something. Take a look over here.”

Ari stopped making his call and they all followed Cohen around the side of the property and onto a huge lawn.

“You see what I see?” Cohen first pointed with his Uzi toward a wide concrete pathway. At the end was an empty aircraft hangar of some sort. Then with the barrel of his Uzi, Cohen followed the line of the path toward the lawn’s center.

Ari stared at where Cohen’s barrel ended—at a large circular marking on the ground, with a giant H in the center. “Yeah, it’s a helicopter pad. So?”

“Where’s the helicopter?”

124

Cassini stepped out of the secret passageway onto cold marble tiles. A false wall panel swung shut behind him and clicked back into place.

Dripping sweat, he found himself standing in a massive corridor with soaring white plaster walls and stained-glass windows. A few feet away a wood bench was positioned beneath a magnificent window.

Cassini grasped hold of the bench and dragged it, scraping across the marble floor, to position in front of the false wall panel and block it from opening.

It would stop Ryan exiting the passageway.

Slow him down, at least for a time.

Cassini stood there resting, catching his breath again, his chest still aching with pain. When he regained his stamina he moved along the soaring hallway and halted in front of a pastel blue door. He was outside one of the Sistine Chapel entrances.

He pressed down on the door handle and pushed it open on its hinges without a sound. Silence was the watchword in the vicinity of any of the Vatican’s chapels. Every hinge was well oiled or greased.

Cassini took a couple of calming breaths before he stepped into the fourteenth-century chapel. The air was infused with the fragrance of incense. He loved the peace and drama of this chapel, with its motifs of power and pain, heaven and hell, torment and redemption.

He feasted his eyes on Michelangelo’s powerful wall and ceiling images depicting the terror of the Apocalypse, the Creation, and the Flood. Standing there in the calm of the ancient chapel he suddenly felt a strange peace, and the pains in his chest ebbed away.

The peace before the tempest.

John Becket lay prostrate on his stomach on the floor, praying.

Cassini couldn’t hear his prayers, only a hushed whisper. He knew there was no going back now. This was for the sake of the entire church. Someday, the value of his selfless deed would be recognized. Perhaps he would even be elevated to sainthood.

St. Umberto. The church’s savior.

As he stared at John Becket’s spread-eagled figure on the cold marble tile, Cassini felt his anger rise again as he concentrated on his reason for coming here.

To scourge the church of the traitor who threatened to destroy two thousand years of history.

Cassini took a step forward and heard a soft click of shoe leather.

He halted.

John Becket didn’t move.

Cassini hesitated and looked down. His black slip-ons had leather soles. He nudged them off with his toes, heel by heel, until he was in his stocking feet. He began to step silently across the silky marble.

Eight yards.

Seven.

Six.

Cassini quickened his pace, his eyes fixed on Becket’s back.

Five yards.

Four.

Three.

Two.

He stood over John Becket.

The pope must have sensed his presence because his back arched and he began to raise himself from the floor. Becket halted in a kneeling position, blessed himself, and turned. His brow creased when he saw Cassini standing over him. The Sicilian offered him a twisted grin.

“Umberto, what—” The words died in the pope’s mouth as he put up his hands to defend himself.

Cassini pulled the metal blade from under his gown and spat out his reply. “Traitor! Devil! You will destroy no more!”

And in an instant Cassini’s blade flashed and he plunged the steel into Becket, again and again.

125

Ryan’s chest heaved as he sucked in mouthfuls of air. He raced down the corridor, Angelo Butoni behind him.

They came to a landing. Ryan saw a paneled door, slapped at the handle, and gave the door a powerful kick. It burst open and he stormed into a room, his Glock gripped in both hands, Butoni and the other security officers behind him.

Ryan’s face was drenched in sweat as he swung his pistol barrel in an arc, scanning the armory, seeking a target.

Three sturdy, black metal boxes with heavy locks were pushed against one wall.