The Second Messiah

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.

140

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.