The Second Messiah

Despite the tables being turned, Cassini bristled with indignation. “Holy Father, I confess it was. But there were safety concerns. And may I make a point? You were seen entering the red-light district, and offering a woman money. What if a press photographer recognized you and took your photograph? Think of the scandal. I mean, with all due respect, you were seen in the company of a prostitute.”

“I seem to recall that so was Jesus. Would you have criticized him for that too, Umberto?”

Cassini was stuck for an answer and his face reddened. “Holy Father, I simply don’t know why you had to visit that area—”

The reproof was instant and sharp. “That is my business. Even though I am pope, my privacy is my own. And please don’t ever question who I keep company with, Umberto. Not ever.”

Cassini still bridled with frustration. “Very well, but I can assure you that what was done was for your own good and the Vatican’s. It’s normal to have security in the background, to watch His Holiness wherever he goes. There are hundreds of Vatican security officers whose sole task is just that.”

“Then it’s time I made some changes.”

“Holy Father?”

The pope spread his hands wide, indicating the opulent room. “Do we really need all this, Umberto? This gilded prison.”

“I’m not sure I follow?”

“All these trappings of power. All this material wealth. This vast, endless, often petty beaureaucracy. As pastors, we should have no need of such distractions.”

“I don’t see where this is going, Holy Father.”

“This church was founded in the name of a Nazarene carpenter who owned nothing, not even a bed he could rest his head on. Yet we who inherited his mission are surrounded by accumulated riches, by vast wealth. All over the world are barefoot, hungry men, women, and children with empty bellies. Yet we hoard our riches like misers and I am crowned with pomp and ceremony and live in gilded rooms. I am ashamed that the carpenter’s successor should live like a king.”

“Holy Father, the church has a reputation to preserve. Status and traditions to maintain.”

“No longer.” From behind his desk, Becket plucked a cheap canvas bag, the kind you might buy in one of the backstreets where he had fled. “I am leaving the Vatican, Umberto. I have packed the few belongings I will need.”

Cassini felt as if he’d been electrocuted. “Leaving?”

“As of tonight the Vatican is no longer my residence.”

52

QUMRAN

ISRAEL

“Okay, Pierre, make sure the men are careful. Some of the stuff in these boxes is pretty fragile.”

“But of course, mon ami.”

Buddy Savage wiped sweat from his brow and jumped down off the back of the Fiat truck. He watched as one of the crew, a small, cheerful-looking Frenchman with an earring and a ponytail, began to supervise a group of Bedu workmen as they loaded packing crates onto the vehicle.

As Savage stood there wearing his grubby NYPD baseball cap, a voice said in accented English, “You look busy, Mr. Savage. I hope I’m not interrupting your work.”

Savage turned and saw Sergeant Mosberg. “Busy enough. The dig finishes this week. We’re getting ready to close down the site. We could probably close it down a lot quicker if we didn’t have the media sticking its nose in our face. They’re still buzzing around here when the mood takes them, asking questions.”

“You’re in a hurry to go somewhere?”

“No, but unless everything’s properly catalogued and the paperwork in order for your Department of Antiquities the dirt’s going to hit the fan.”

“No more digging for scrolls?”

Savage lit up a Marlboro Light and blew out a mouthful of smoke. “Our work’s done for the season. By spring, it gets too hot to dig, but a few of the crew will stay behind to tidy up. For the rest of us this tour of duty’s over. What can I do for you, Mosberg?”

The sergeant rapped his knuckles on one of the packing crates. “What exactly have you got in here, Mr. Savage?”

Savage dangled his cigarette from the corner of his mouth. “Hundreds of pottery shards, a variety of bones and coins, personal artifacts and jewelry, almost all of it from the first century A.D. In short, three months’ work. Why?”

Mosberg took a notepad from his pocket and flipped it open. “I’m afraid I need to ask you some more questions, Mr. Savage.”

Savage sighed and tipped back his baseball cap. “I can give you ten minutes, Mosberg, then I’ve got to get back to work. Want a Coke? I sure could do with one.”

“Very kind. I won’t say no.”

Savage flicked away his half-finished cigarette. “Follow me to my humble hacienda and excuse the mess.”

“One thing you might like to know. Forensics had the flakes of parchment from the floor of Professor Green’s tent analyzed. It’s definitely the same material found in other Dead Sea scrolls. They also had the flakes and the ink carbon-dated.”

“And?”

“There’s no question that they’re about two thousand years old.”

53

Savage led the way to a cramped walk-in tent.

Mosberg said, “The experts said roughly between A.D. 25 and 50. You don’t seem surprised, Savage.”