The Second Messiah

The Lear landed at 2 A.M. but it took another hour for Jordanian customs to clear the paperwork for Nidal’s remains, stored in aircraft’s hold, before the cortege drove to the Bedu graveyard near the Dead Sea, opposite the Israeli border. Now Hassan emitted an anguished sigh as the cortege turned into the burial ground and slid past granite tombs.

He had dreaded the finality of this moment as the cortege came to a halt near a bank of olive trees. A fresh grave was opened, uprooted earth piled by the plot. An imam appeared out of the first limo, and two gravediggers wearing white Arab gowns and carrying shovels materialized like ghosts in the twilight.

The Serb stepped out of the Mercedes and eased open the rear door. Hassan climbed out, choking back his tears.

It was time to bury his beloved Nidal.

The ceremony was brief. The gravediggers helped carry Nidal’s body from the hearse and Hassan touched the cloth that held his brother, kissed it, let it go.

Then, in accordance with Muslim custom, the gravediggers placed the body in the open grave, lying on its right side, the eyes closed, the shroud removed from the face, the head facing Mecca.

The imam recited his prayers for the dead, and then each man present took a turn to pour three handfuls of soil into the grave while reciting from the Quran. “We created you from clay and return you into it.”

Prayers over, the gravediggers and the others withdrew out of respect, the red taillights of the remaining two limos disappearing into the darkness.

Hassan went to kneel in front of the grave. He touched the earth, felt its coldness seep into his fingers, and he exhaled. Tonight and forever Nidal would be as cold as the soil. Hassan said his anguished prayers and when he finished, a violent crack of thunder sounded and he looked up. Storm clouds drifted, the Mediterranean sky the color of dark chocolate.

A thunderbolt sizzled and rain spattered the parched soil. Hassan looked back at his brother’s resting place and his mind boiled with a rage so powerful it made his hands tremble.

He wiped his eyes. It was time to finish what he came to do.

106

“Who did it, Jack? Who stole the scroll and killed Green?”

They sat in the back of the taxi that Jack had flagged down. As it drove through the Sunday morning streets toward their hotel, Rome was no longer a traffic asylum.

Jack said, “My gut feeling tells me the Vatican. I still can’t figure out exactly what Father Novara’s twin cross symbols mean but I have my suspicions.”

“Go on.”

“Novara was an expert in old Aramaic, sure, but he could have simply meant to suggest that there was more than one messiah. I also think maybe he was trying to convey by implication that the Catholic Church had a hand in his death. That’s what my instinct tells me. Novara was dying, his life ebbing away. He used the twin cross symbols as a kind of desperate shorthand, a clue. It’s about all that makes sense.”

Lela stared back at him. “That’s a lot of supposition. You can’t make such a bold statement without backing it up with evidence. The Vatican doesn’t exactly have a reputation as a den of killers and thieves, at least not since the Reformation. What evidence have you got?”

Having spoken to the driver, Jack was certain that the man didn’t speak English, which was just as well—he probably would have crashed the cab had he understood the conversation. “How about motive? Who stands to gain most by possessing the scroll? Some rich and powerful collector?”

“Obviously you don’t think so.”

“No collector, no matter how rich or fixated they are about possessing a Dead Sea scroll, would risk multiple homicide charges and a lifetime in prison just to add to their collection. They wouldn’t be that dumb or desperate.”

“What if they had someone steal it for them?”

“They’d still be putting themselves in jeopardy. When I was in the monastery at Maloula, Father Novara said something that made me think.”

“What?”

“He said that the scroll was destined never to be seen, along with the others. Meaning, I can only guess, that other scrolls like the ones found at Qumran have been kept out of circulation. Only a very powerful and wealthy organization could afford to bankroll buying a whole bunch of scrolls. And the Vatican’s got a powerful motive. A controversial reference to Jesus that could undermine the faith, maybe even destroy it. You want to know something else?”

“What?”

“Now that I’ve put my suspicion into words my mind’s turning cartwheels. The first people to arrive on the scene of my parents’ crash were two Catholic priests and that scroll also goes missing. How’s that for a coincidence? Your own father had his suspicions that the pickup’s brakes may have been tampered with.”

“You’re starting to sound angry, Jack.”

“And the more I think about it the angrier I get. What if there was more to my parents’ deaths than just a simple accident? If the crash was deliberate to gain possession of my father’s scroll?”