The Second Messiah

“Your boss said we’d have help. What exactly did he mean?”

“Two of our agents in Syria will be waiting on the ground, ready to give us whatever assistance we need.” Ari consulted his watch. “They ought to be at the rendezvous by now. I’m hoping we can wrap this up quickly but then you never know. There’s just more thing, Lela.”

Ari took two compact Sig 9mm automatic pistols from one of the bags. One pistol had a black leather hip holster, which he took for himself, and the second weapon had an ankle holster, complete with Velcro straps. “You better take one of these. You might prefer the ankle holster. Are you familiar with this make of firearm?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He handed the second Sig to Lela, along with three spare loaded magazines and a matte black silencer, then added with a smile, “You know what they say: The best gunfight is the one that doesn’t happen. Hopefully, we won’t get involved in any trouble. But these are for what our American cousins like to call in English, JIC. Just-in-case.”

The dispatcher named Saul shouted above the din. “Max fifteen minutes to the drop, you guys!”

Lela tensed. It was almost impossible to believe that she was in a helicopter flying over the Syrian desert, risking her life and hunting down Jack Cane as a suspected murderer and thief. She felt her chest tighten and her heart quicken. “What does the Qumran scroll contain, Ari? It has to be something remarkable for Mossad to go to all this trouble. And why all the secrecy?”

Ari’s smile vanished abruptly. “That’s a subject I can’t discuss, Lela. Now, we better go over our cover story one more time, just so we’re clear.”

35

ST. PAUL’S MONASTERY

MALOULA

SYRIA

8:12 P.M.

“We are here,” Josuf announced.

Darkness had fallen, the heat still oppressive as the lights of Josuf’s pickup turned onto a narrow desert track. Five hundred yards outside Maloula, silhouetted against the full moon, Jack saw the outline of an old fortress with Arab-style turrets, not a single light on inside. The track led past a cluster of ruined yellow sandstone outbuildings.

Yasmin said, “Are you sure this is the place? It looks abandoned.”

“It is here, madame. My cousin assured me.” Josuf drove along the track until they came to a cobbled square in front of the fortress. He halted the pickup and rolled down his window to get a better look. In the wash of the headlights they saw a citadel with mustard-colored walls. Set in the middle was an archway with a pair of oak doors, studded with rusty nails. High above the archway was a wrought-iron crucifix. Jack said, “Do you have a flashlight, Josuf?”

The Bedu reached behind the cabin and produced a scuffed industrial flashlight made of sturdy yellow plastic. Jack took it and stepped out of the car. “Let’s take a look.”

The others followed as Jack flicked on the flashlight and walked over to the oak doors. The ancient wood was split by wide cracks. A square view-hole in the door was protected by a metal grille, a bellpull next to it. Jack shone the powerful beam through one of the cracks and saw a lush courtyard garden beyond, silvered by lunar light, a stone fountain bubbling away.

Yasmin asked, “What do you see?”

“Take a look for yourself,” Jack answered.

“It looks deserted,” Yasmin said, peering inside, and then Josuf did the same.

“Let’s find out if anyone’s home.” Jack yanked the bellpull and a tinkle sounded somewhere in the darkness.

When no one appeared, he pulled the bell again until finally they heard echoing footsteps scurrying toward them. A bolt scraped, the view-hole opened, and Jack’s torch lit up the face of a young monk wearing a worn white habit. He said hoarsely in Arabic, “Yes? What do you want?”

“We’ve come to speak with one of your priests.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Jack Cane, and this is Yasmin Green and Josuf Bin Doha.”

The young monk frowned. “There is only one priest here: Father Novara. The rest are brother monks.”

“Then I guess it must be Father Novara we need to see. We have important business to discuss with him.”

The monk was reluctant. “What business?”

Jack said, “It’s private, for his ears only. If you could please tell the priest that we need to talk with him urgently.”

The monk glanced out warily at their pickup. “You must wait,” he answered, and closed the view-hole. They heard his footsteps fade away but they returned after a few minutes and the view-hole snapped opened again. This time it was a much older, gray-bearded monk wearing a white habit. He had a broad, intelligent-looking forehead and his face was full of strength, firm and pious. He spoke perfect English with no trace of an Italian accent. “I am Father Vincento Novara. What do you want here?”

Jack said, “It’s complicated, Father. But if you could spare us a little of your time we promise to explain everything.”

“You’re not Syrians. Where are you from?”

“We’ve traveled a long way to find you, Father. I’m American, Josuf here is Bedu, and—”