The Second Messiah

Powerful television arc lamps illuminated the hospital. The parking lot was a chaos of media crews, TV vans with satellite dishes, and heaving crowds, all eagerly awaiting news.

Ryan knew from the Vatican Press Office that more than a thousand carabinieri and police were drafted to keep back the surging masses. But still the crowds came, to gape, to pray, to wait—the fearful, the hopeful, the curiosity seekers, the doomsday mongers.

A mute TV hung from a corner ceiling of the corridor. It caught Ryan’s eye for the umpteenth time in the last half hour. The screen spewed out file footage of Pope Celestine and the Vatican, live shots of the hospital, and interviews with every religious commentator on the planet giving their two cents’ worth.

Ryan turned back as a surgeon wearing a blood-spattered green gown came out through the double doors of the emergency room. The man crossed the corridor and bought a coffee from a vending machine. Then he stepped toward an open window, lit an illicit cigarette, and inhaled deeply. Ryan noticed that about Italian doctors: so many of them had the nicotine habit.

He saw the surgeon pace the floor as he drew hard on his cigarette. The man’s expression was bleak, edgy. Ryan recognized him as one of the ER team attending John Becket. Ryan saw the surgeon glance over at him. Their eyes met. No words were spoken, but Ryan raised an eyebrow in query. How goes it?

The surgeon gave a slight shake of his head—it doesn’t—then he stubbed out his cigarette and returned briskly through the ER’s swinging doors.

A rush of footsteps sounded in the corridor and Ryan looked round. A tall, unshaven priest rushed up, clutching at least three cell phones and looking harried. The Vatican press officer, Father Joe Rinaldi, asked anxiously, “Any more news, Sean?”

“I was told to expect the worst. He’s in a coma. Clinging to life by a thread.”

Rinaldi dabbed his face. “I better prepare the press releases. It’s sheer madness outside. I had to switch off my cell phones for a few minutes, just for a break. Every TV and news editor in the world is jamming the lines looking for an update. What have the surgeons said?”

“He’s got at least nine deep stab wounds. Two to his hands as he tried to fend off Cassini’s blows, others to his side, head, and chest. They’ve pierced organs, severed veins, and he’s lost blood by the liter. They’ve got him hooked up to life support but I’ve been warned that it might not be for long. It’s bleak, Joe. I believe we’ve lost him and we just have to accept that.”

Rinaldi’s pallid face was a mask of confusion, his eyes suddenly moist. “Whoever would have thought? The best thing to happen to the church and now we’re losing him. What are we to make of it all, Sean?”

Ryan clutched the press officer’s arm. “I wish I knew. Do you believe in miracles, Joe?”

“Working in this business, I’ve got to.”

“Then start praying for one, because that’s the only hope we’ve got.”

130

Buddy Savage pushed his baseball cap back off his head and wiped the gritty 4 A.M. tiredness out of his eyes. He tried to focus on the Land Cruiser’s twin headlights as they flooded the dark desert road beyond Qumran.

Despite his tiredness, Savage felt alert, scared, and excited.

The tangerine dawn hadn’t yet tinted the horizon and when he reached the rise in the road the Land Cruiser’s beams swept over the gravestone. Savage halted, keeping the powerful beams directed at the grave, and snapped on the handbrake. He left the engine running and jumped out of the cabin.

The desolate landscape was bitterly cold. It would be another hour before dawn struggled behind the mountains of Edom. Buddy Savage shivered and felt an odd feeling of exhilaration rip through his veins.

A goat bleated in some far distant Bedouin camp. Savage ignored it as he knelt in front of the grave, using the wash of the headlights as he scrabbled madly at the gravel. Rummaging and digging below the pebble, he finally grasped the package under loose earth. It was wrapped neatly in a black garbage bag.

The scroll.

His heart raced as he opened the loose knot that tied the garbage bag. Inside he found the parchment, protected in a clear plastic bag. He carefully examined his find and noticed that some parts of the parchment were already crumbling. But it was still intact, which was all that mattered.

He crumpled the black garbage bag and tossed it away. His anxiety rose as he carried the precious parchment back to the Land Cruiser.

Carefully holding the scroll with one hand, he picked up a worn leather briefcase from the passenger seat and flicked it open. He gently laid the scroll inside the briefcase, holding it in place with two pieces of white foam, then he sweated as he picked up his cell phone and punched in the redial key.

The anonymous male caller answered. “Well?”

“I have the scroll. It’s where you said it was.”