The Second Messiah

Cassini said quietly, “Every word is fact. Now you understand the seriousness of the situation we find ourselves presented with.”

Ryan was too dismayed even to nod. Finally he managed to speak. “Holy Mother, it’s dreadful. Truly dreadful.”

“Does it shake your faith?”

Ryan put a hand to his brow. “Why, n-no. I’ve been too long a priest, my faith too ingrained, but I am truly shocked. This frightens me deeply.”

“And now you must also understand why the Holy Father’s life may be in danger.”

“Has he been made aware of that fact?”

Cassini replaced the documents in the folder. “Of course. I told him so after his election. But he remains firm. He considers this matter a personal crusade.”

Ryan shook his head, still ashen. “Now you have me really worried, Eminence. Some of that stuff will be sensational.”

“Which is why we must ensure the pontiff remains alive before and after he makes these secrets public.” Cassini tucked the folder into the briefcase and locked it. He again pressed the red leather-bound book and the bookshelf swung open. Stepping into the secret passageway, he returned the briefcase to his private safe and extinguished the light after him.

“You can be assured the security arrangements I’ve put in place are more than adequate. But I’ll certainly consider any improvements you might think of,” Ryan said.

Cassini pressed shut the bookshelf and heard it click into place. “That’s exactly why I summoned you here. There’s a saying I’m sure you’ve heard. Do you know what makes God laugh?”

“People who make plans,” answered Ryan.

Cassini nodded, unsmiling, and took his seat. He neatly replaced his treasured letter opener at the top of his desk ink blotter. “True. But I’m a man who likes to make plans. I don’t just want security watertight, Sean. I want the Holy Father hermetically sealed. It’s no reflection on your professionalism, but I’d like to go over your security arrangements, just to be certain. I’m convinced that the days ahead will be especially fraught with danger. We’re all aware how easy it was for that lunatic assassin, Mehmet Ali Agca, many years ago.”

“I can assure Your Eminence that our security measures have improved immensely since then.”

Cassini sat forward. “Yes, I’m quite certain they have. But we can’t allow room for error. Especially under these worrying circumstances.”

Ryan frowned. “What circumstances would those be, Your Eminence?”

“There may be those among our clergy who speak reverently of our new pope, who almost see him as a Christlike figure. I’ve mentioned that some among the Curia, elated by his intended reforms, even talk of him in terms of a ‘second messiah.’”

“Yes, I’ve heard it said.”

“John Becket is certainly an unusual man. By all accounts, those who have known him since he was a young priest say he always had an unearthly air about him. People could never fully decipher him. They got close to him, but never close enough that they could admit they knew him completely. He played his cards close to his chest.”

Cassini sighed and slapped a palm on his desk. “However, there are two things that you never mentioned in your reference to history, Sean. For one, the last Pope Celestine was murdered by hired assassins. Which almost seems like an unwelcome bad omen.”

“Omen?”

“Don’t you recall the famous prediction of your Irish St. Malachy, Sean? Our John Becket is prophesied to be the world’s last pope.”

Half an hour later, Sean Ryan was seated behind his desk in a small, cluttered office on the third floor of the Umbria building, just inside the Vatican walls. The view faced a small square and was rather pleasant, were it not for the loud traffic noise that vibrated through the double glazed windows—a noise the Romans called the tufa.

The door opened and Ryan’s secretary appeared. A tall Italian Jesuit with a dour face, he carried a silver tray bearing a cup of steaming hot chocolate and a small plate of sugary biscuits. Under his arm was a bunch of newspapers and a clutch of classified security files. He placed both on the desk. “The Nut File you requested, Monsignor, and the daily publications.”

“Anything interesting?”

“The usual coverage you’d expect about the new Holy Father.” The secretary smiled bleakly. “It seems the press have nothing else to talk about.”

“Thanks, Guido.”

The priest withdrew and Ryan sipped the hot chocolate, ignoring the biscuits and the clutch of newspapers and magazines. The usual reports of violent death and destruction in the media would only depress him. The secret documents Umberto Cassini had shown him had disturbed him enough.

Ryan got up, crossed to the window, and stared down at the cobbled square below, manned by two Swiss Guards. The Vatican’s security services consisted of just over two hundred men and two dozen women. In times of high security, Ryan considered the women particularly useful. As they were often dressed as nuns, it amused him to think that they mingled so easily with the crowds near the pontiff, high-powered pistols concealed under their habits.