The Second Messiah

At thirty-six thousand feet above the Mediterranean, the Al Italia Airbus 320 began its descent into Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci Airport.

Jack felt tense and excited as he drained his scotch and stared out of the window while Italy’s rugged coastline drifted below him in slow motion. His notebook and pen lay open on the fold-down table in front of him. An air steward came by and removed his empty plastic drink cup. Jack slumped back in his seat and stared at the notebook.

Yasmin sat beside him, her head over to one side, her eyes closed. He couldn’t help but look at her. Her sleeping face was really quite beautiful.

He was unable to relax despite the scotch he’d sipped during the last two hours of his flight from Tel Aviv. His body felt racked by stress and excitement. He knew that any of his fellow passengers could be one of Pasha’s people. What if we’re being followed? What if the Syrian means to kill us?

He stopped looking at Yasmin and for the umpteenth time in the last two hours he studied the other passengers nearby. They were mostly Jews and Arabs, with a sprinkling of Africans and Europeans. A few looked suspicious. A restless Middle Eastern man in the opposite aisle caught his eye. All during the flight the guy had shot nervous glances across the cabin in Jack’s direction. Jack told himself his mind was working overtime. The guy’s probably just scared of flying.

But Jack’s anxiety didn’t go away. At the airport, Yasmin had insisted on joining him even when he’d steadfastly refused. “Yasmin, the last thing I want is for you to be caught up in any trouble. It’s best that you stay in Israel.”

She was dressed in jeans and a pastel blue blouse and carried a worn leather travel bag over her shoulder. “We’re in this together, Jack.”

Then, in the middle of the crowded airport she leaned across, kissed his cheek, and said playfully, “Now be a good boy while I go book a ticket.”

There was no arguing with her. He went to a currency exchange counter, bought some euros, and an hour later they boarded the Al Italia flight together. Now he looked again at her sleeping face, her generous mouth. He leaned across, kissed her forehead softly, and could smell the almond scent of her hair.

He turned his attention back to his notebook. As soon as Yasmin fell asleep he had switched on his phone—illegal on board, he knew—but his curiosity was eating him alive. He had scrolled through the photographs he had taken of the parchment, found one complete Aramaic sentence that he could make out that did not show signs of damage or wear, copied it down, and immediately switched off his phone again.

Then he set to work, applying the simple rules of the Atbash code, reversing the order of the alphabet. Aramaic wasn’t his forte, and it was a slow process. Over an hour later, he was still trying to make sense of the remarkable sentence he’d decoded. He felt blown away.

I’ve discovered another explosive translation.

His heart was racing but he wanted to translate the sentence all over again just to be absolutely certain he’d made no mistakes.

Moments later the pilot announced that they were completing their descent. Yasmin blinked awake, rubbing her eyes sleepily. “Are we already there . . .?”

“Just about. We ought to be landing soon.”

“You sound wide awake and excited. Me, I’m still trying to recover after Maloula. Wake me after we’ve touched down.” Yasmin snuggled into him, clutching his arm, and went back to sleep.

Jack went back to work, full of enthusiasm, but soon he heard the jet engines change pitch and felt a sinking sensation as the pilot began his approach into Rome. He kept working until ten minutes later when he put away his notebook, just as the Airbus kissed the runway at Rome’s Da Vinci Airport.

Yasmin awoke, a catch of excitement in her voice as she stared out at the airport. “I can’t believe we’re in Rome. What now? Where do we go?”

“First, let’s get through immigration, then we’ll grab a cab and I’ll tell you on the way to the Vatican.”

Twenty minutes later, carrying their overnight bags, they passed through EU immigration and customs without any hitches and headed toward Arrivals.

The Serb carried a newspaper under his arm and wore a black leather jacket. He stood in the Arrivals terminal scratching an old scar under his chin as he observed the arriving couple.

They stepped out of the terminal building and walked over to a taxi stand. The Serb followed them from a safe distance, watching as they stepped over to a white cab. They handed their luggage to the driver, who loaded the bags into the cab’s trunk. The Serb promptly crossed to his silver Lancia parked at the curb, jumped into the driver’s seat beside Nidal Hassan, and grinned. “It looks like we’re in business. This is where the fun begins.”