The Second Messiah

Pasha removed his Panama hat, placed it on the table, and lit a cigarette. “The monk had a great academic mind but in the end he was a stupid man. What is it they say? He who sups with the devil must have a long spoon. I’m afraid his spoon was not long enough. He mixed with the wrong company.”

“You mean you, obviously.”

Pasha gave a vague shrug.

“Who do you work for?” Jack asked.

“It’s unimportant.” Pasha gestured toward the door. “You know what’s going on outside as we speak?”

“I could take a good guess.”

Pasha grimaced. “This ancient monastery whose history stretches back for centuries is about to go up in flames and its inhabitants executed. And all because of your incredible stupidity, Mr. Cane. What do you say to that?”

“I’d say there’s a good chance you need psychiatric help.”

Pasha laughed aloud. “I like you, Mr. Cane. But had you left well enough alone, this would not have happened, believe me.”

“You’re killing everyone and razing the place to the ground and you’re blaming me?”

Yasmin said, “Why do this?”

Pasha looked at her. “Because every truth has a price, dear lady. And this particular truth has a high price indeed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Pasha steadied the gun. “None of you should have come here. You should not have interfered. And this old Bedu goat who brought you should have had more sense.”

Josuf said bitterly, “My brother told me you were a ruthless man.”

“You should have listened to him and kept your nose out of this, old fool—”

Jack suddenly lunged at Pasha. Despite his lame foot the Arab was quick up off the chair and in an instant he brandished the weapon. “Don’t be an idiot. Or you’ll end up like the priest. Now sit, Cane.”

Jack sat. Footsteps sounded. The bodyguard returned, carrying a can of gasoline, his silenced pistol tucked into his belt. “It’s done,” he said calmly in Arabic. “We must leave, the blaze is spreading.”

A strong smell of burning gasoline wafted on the warm air. Pasha nodded and limped back toward the door. “Move out to our vehicle, Botwan.”

Yasmin was ashen. “What now? Are you going to kill us?”

Pasha gestured with the gun. “We have a saying here: The less you know, the less is your burden.” He nodded to the bodyguard. “You know what to do, Botwan. If they try to make a run for it, kill them.”

41

9:05 P.M.

“I’ve never seen so many priests and nuns.” Ari Tauber stared out of the Volvo as they drove into Maloula’s busy streets.

Lela saw that the ancient town was a bizarre blend of the Christian and Muslim traditions. Every few hundred yards was a convent or monastery, the narrow alleyways thronged with nuns, priests, and monks wearing religious garb, mixed in with locals in Arab dress, all out strolling in the balmy evening.

Middle Eastern music blared from tiny shops that sold Arab gowns, worry beads, and trinkets, alongside icons of Jesus and Mary. Vendors sold kebabs and koftas cooked over smoking hot charcoal, the spiced aroma of fresh food wafting into the car.

The driver had a map open on his knees. “The monastery shouldn’t be far from here.” He steered the Volvo out of town and onto a potholed desert road that twisted through a rocky creek, no traffic in sight except for a couple of elderly Arab goatherds. Two miles farther on Lela saw a signpost that said in Arabic and English: “St. Paul’s Monastery.”

“Do you see that light up ahead?” She noticed a crimson glow on the horizon. It looked at first like the remains of sunset but then she realized that the glow was a blaze. “It looks like there’s a fire.”

“I think you’re right.” Ari tensed and slapped the driver on the back. “Put your foot down.”

Father Novara grunted in agony.

His eyelids flicked and he was barely conscious. The room’s white walls were a blur, the pain in his chest excruciating. It felt as if a red hot poker had pierced his heart. As he lay on his side on the cool tiles he knew that he was dying. He coughed and spewed up a gob of crimson phlegm. His mouth tasted salty. When the shots struck him in the chest with the force of hammer blows, he had been unable to move, traumatized by his wounds. And so he had lain there in the growing pool of his own blood, pretending to be dead. How long he had lain he didn’t know but the pain became unbearable, and then the voices of the others in the room had faded and Novara had passed out. Now he had become conscious again, but he felt weak, his senses failing.

Novara grunted, louder this time, but no one answered. He had no idea if his colleagues were still alive, or what was happening, but he feared the worst. He was a fool to have trusted Pasha. His mind floated as his brain released its chemical cocktail to blunt the pain of imminent death.

Novara raised his right hand, touched his fingers to his chest, then drew them to his face. His fingertips dripped blood. He coughed up another gob of crimson. Death would claim him soon but anger flared inside him. He wanted to extract a payment from his killers for their sin.