The Second Messiah

“As for your fears, I will ask only one question. Have you no courage, my friends? The Lord may give us the burden. But He will also give us the strength to carry it. I accept my nomination as Supreme Pontiff. Ego recipero in nomen of verum. I accept in the name of truth. And the name I choose will be Celestine.”

3

TWENTY MILES EAST OF JERUSALEM

NEAR THE DEAD SEA

ISRAEL

The ancients believed that the spirits of the dead lingered near their tombs. Jack Cane wanted to believe in that too as he drove toward the gravesite.

The Toyota Land Cruiser bumped over the desert trail and where it ended Cane cut the engine, jerked on the handbrake, and climbed out.

The grave stood near the curve of a ridge, four miles from the Dead Sea. It had a neat stone border filled with gravel chips and was a peaceful resting place. A ravine below and only the gritty wind and the occasional hawk soaring overhead.

Life had taught him a cruel lesson: grief is the hardest cross to bear.

Today, more than any other, he needed to talk to his ghosts.

Cane stepped toward the rear of the Land Cruiser, the white-hot sun of the Judean desert beating down on him. He was thirty-nine and had a confident, boyish look that some women found appealing. It was a look that hid a tough streak.

His tanned body was no stranger to backbreaking physical labor. His archaeologist’s getup—dusty cut-off Chinos and worn leather boots—were testament to a grueling day’s site work. But instead of physical exhaustion all he felt was a powerful sense of elation. Today of all days—the anniversary—he had discovered an astonishing treasure.

Cane raised a hand to shield his eyes from the fierce sun and surveyed the landscape. The desert ridge looked toward Jerusalem, sixteen miles away. The ancient city shimmered in a heat wave, its famous golden Dome of the Rock glinting like a mirror.

I’ve waited a long time for this day, but I never believed it would happen.

Cane unlocked the Land Cruiser’s rear door. Lying on the backseat was a bunch of white lilies and a plastic liter bottle of drinking water. He carefully removed the flowers and bottled water and turned again to face the grave. His eyes moistened.

Not a day passed when he didn’t reflect on the tragedy of his parents’ deaths. How the powerful loss of their passing had changed him forever. And today, of all days, he had important words to speak.

Do the ghosts of the dead hear the words of the living? I want to believe that mine do.

Overcome by emotion, Cane strode toward the gravesite.

4

MEDITERRANEAN SEA

TWO MILES OFF THE TEL AVIV COAST

ISRAEL

It was a yacht fit for a Saudi king but the man who owned it had been born a pauper.

Sleek and white, sparkling with polished chrome, the vessel had anchored off the Israeli coast just after midnight. A $50 million yacht equipped with the latest technology, a helicopter pad, two bars, a ballroom, and a dozen luxurious cabins to pamper its guests.

That noon, a trio of bright red Kawasaki Jet Skis roared around the vessel, churning up the warm blue Mediterranean. The three muscled bodyguards who manned the Jet Skis were part of the ship’s three-dozen-strong crew, which included a top French chef lured from a famous Paris restaurant.

The special weekend guests were three beautiful, bikini-clad women who sunbathed by the stern’s turquoise swimming pool. One was a stunning Playmate, the other two were highly paid Paris models, their faces more beautiful than Botticelli angels. The man whose generosity they enjoyed stood alone by the pool.

Hassan Malik wore a linen suit and stared up at the sky. He had the quiet stillness of a man completely in control of his body and his emotions. His strong, lived-in face and quick, intelligent eyes seemed to miss nothing.

At that precise moment they were focused not on his three beautiful companions but on the skyline, as the yacht’s Bell helicopter sped in from the Israeli coast.

Hassan Malik was at home in a dozen capitals of the world—in his New York Trump Towers penthouse, two more residences in London and Cannes, and in his palatial villa outside Rome—but he felt at ease in none of them. His soul belonged in the parched deserts of his Bedouin ancestors that lay beyond Jerusalem. He had grown up in dire poverty but that same poverty had lit a fire under him, brought him riches other men could only dream of.

He heard the clatter of helicopter blades as the Bell banked sharply and came in to land. It hovered above the stern deck before it touched down with a bump.

The passenger door was flung open and his brother Nidal stepped out. He was twenty-eight, his boyish face drawn, almost sickly-looking. He wore a dark Armani suit and a white silk shirt, open at the collar, and his beard was neatly trimmed. His angry, olive green eyes seemed to regard the world with distrust.