The Second Messiah

“How?”

“Because our own suffering causes us to feel pity. And pity makes us more human. And being human allows us to truly experience the joy of love. I could explain our purpose for being here, the reason for our existence in this universe. It’s the most profound and yet the simplest reason of all: to enlighten our souls and to redeem God’s gift to us—His eternal love. And make no mistake, Maria, the gift of love is truly eternal. But do you have the evening free to discuss it all?”

“Not unless you’re paying me by the hour.”

Becket was tempted to smile, then suddenly froze. Across the street he noticed the man in the nylon Windbreaker, jogging pants, and sneakers looking casually in a darkened store window. His head was still covered by the woollen hat but he was closer now, close enough for Becket to feel a tingle of recognition. His heart pounded. He was almost certain it was Sean Ryan. “Maria, I need to get away from here urgently.”

“Is my company suddenly that revolting?”

“No, Maria, I have a problem. I have an important appointment to keep, but there’s a man following me. He’s across the street.”

“Which man?”

“Be careful. If you look back don’t make it obvious. He’s wearing a dark blue rain slick, a woollen hat, sneakers, and running pants.”

Maria took a few more sips of Campari before risking a casual glance. The man was peering into the darkened storefront. She turned back with a scowl. “Why’s he after you? Did you steal from the church collection?”

“I wish it were that simple. But I need to get away from him.”

Maria considered. “Your best bet is a door at the back of the café, past the toilet. It leads to an alley. Don’t worry if the guy tries to come after you. I’ve been stopping men for years. One more shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Thank you.” Becket placed a generous handful of notes on the table. “Please keep the change. Maybe it will stop you being beaten again.”

Maria picked up the banknotes and raised an eye. “Maybe you did steal from the collection after all?”

“No, Maria, but I hope we meet again.” Becket wrote a number on a bar napkin and slid it across. “If anyone ever threatens to harm you, or if you’re afraid of them, I want you to call me at this number. If I can help you, I will.”

Maria frowned. “You know, it’s killing me where I saw you before. Were you ever a regular at the massage parlors near the main railway station?”

Becket suppressed a smile and gave the rim of his hat a sharp tug to ensure it covered much of his face. “I’m afraid not. You’re a good woman, Maria.”

She laughed. “Not for at least ten years. Now, get out of here or you’ll be late for your appointment.”

50

An hour later, as Cardinal Umberto Cassini was about to leave his office for a late appointment, his cell chirped and Ryan’s name and number appeared. Cassini answered urgently, “Where are you, Sean? What’s the news?”

“I just got back to the Vatican. I’m afraid uncle managed to evade me. The last time I saw him he was enjoying a drink with a tarty-looking lady in the red-light district.”

“You’re—you’re joking.”

“I wish I was. I saw uncle give her a handful of paper money. After that he disappeared and I lost him.”

“So we don’t know where else he’s gone?”

“No, but he’s back. Security on the east gate spotted him climbing out of a taxi five minutes ago.”

Cassini said irritably, “This cat-and-mouse game is becoming ridiculous. Did security get the cab’s license number? Maybe we could question the driver and find out where he made the pickup?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“It’s time I put a stop to this and demand an explanation from the Holy Father for his behavior. It’s absurd.”

“You think such a confrontation is wise, Your Eminence?”

“Wise or not, it needs to be done. I won’t have his reckless behavior bring the church into disrepute.”

51

Five minutes later Cassini walked the long corridors to the papal chambers. They were vast, with floor-to-ceiling oak doors, red carpet, polished marble tiles, and sparkling chandeliers. Even the intricate ceiling roses were finished with solid gold leaf.

Passing a Louis XIV writing bureau, Cassini knew it was worth a small fortune, like the many antiques that decorated the chambers, or the exquisite paintings that draped the walls. He recalled that a recent audit disclosed the Vatican’s net worth to be in the region of $100 billion. Cassini thought that the figure was probably on the conservative side; after all, the Vatican was the single owner of Rome’s most prime real estate.

He was just about to knock on the double doors when one of them was yanked open and John Becket stood there, wearing his plain white gown. “Umberto, I was just about to summon you. Come inside, please.”

Caught off guard, Cassini felt a little anxious as he stepped into the gilded, exquisite papal rooms.

The pope slammed the door shut and struck an unfamiliar pose, his hands on his hips. “I’ll get straight to the point, Umberto. I have been followed by Sean Ryan this evening. I demand an explanation. Was this your idea?”