The Second Messiah

Nidal watched as Cane and the woman finished stashing their luggage and climbed into the cab before it screeched away from the curb. “What are you waiting for? Follow them, don’t lose them,” Nidal ordered.

The Serb hit the ignition, gunned the engine, and swung the Lancia out after the taxi.

62

AVENTINO

ROME

The chauffeured Mercedes slid to a halt outside the gates of a crumbling old sandstone monastery in the Aventino Hills.

Cardinal Liam Kelly from Chicago—a bull of a man with a craggy face, penetrating eyes, and wearing a priest’s black suit and collar—didn’t bother to wait for his chauffeur to open the door but maneuvered himself out of the car. The wrought-iron gates at the villa entrance were opened by two plainclothes armed guards who beckoned Kelly inside and scanned him with a handheld metal detector.

Steps led up to a pair of oak doors, above them a plaster image of the Virgin and child with a marble inscription underneath: “White Fathers. Monastery of Aventino.” One of the doors opened and a cheerful bearded man appeared.

“Abbot Fabrio,” smiled Kelly, noticing more armed guards inside the hall. “It looks as if this place is sealed tighter than Rome’s central penitentiary.”

The abbot beamed, showing a handsome face and perfect white teeth behind the beard. “Cardinal, it’s good to see you as always. Come inside.”

Kelly was led down a hall to a cluttered office and the abbot closed the door behind them. “Can I get you some coffee or tea?” Abbot Fabrio asked.

Despite being third-generation American Irish, and having a reputation as one of the Vatican’s heavy hitters, Kelly had cultivated a charming Irish lilt while lecturing in Ireland’s Maynooth College. He dabbed his brow with a handkerchief. “To tell the truth, Fabrio, in this heat I could really murder a cold glass of Guinness. But water’s fine.”

The abbot laughed and poured a fresh glass from a pitcher on his desk. “The monks are busy at their work. You’ll have privacy in the garden at the back.”

“That’s excellent, Fabrio.” Kelly drank the water in one swallow.

Beyond the open windows lay a garden full of palm and olive trees, and a small circular pond with an ancient stone fountain. Despite the presence of three additional plainclothes guards wandering the garden, Kelly sensed an air of tranquil calm. He put down his glass, his expression more sombre. “How is the Holy Father?”

“He spends his time praying and reflecting. He sleeps little, no more than five hours a night. When I rise each morning at four-thirty A.M. for prayers he is already awake before me and praying in the chapel. He looks troubled, I will say that. He seems to have much on his mind.”

“Has he talked at all?”

The abbot’s face lit up. “Sometimes he joins the monks and myself in the gardens for prayer and discussion. It’s really quite remarkable.”

“What is?” Kelly enquired.

“The monks devour every word the Holy Father says about this new era he promises for the church. We are deeply moved by his wisdom and his biblical knowledge. And I’ve never seen my colleagues so impressed. They sit around listening to him like wide-eyed schoolboys. It’s almost as if—”

“As if they were sitting at the feet of Christ himself?”

“Why—why, yes.”

Kelly nodded. “I’ve known the pope ever since we were friends in the seminary. I knew even then he was destined for greatness. He’s always been one of the most remarkable men I’ve ever known. Tell me, Fabrio, has he left these walls since he arrived?”

“Not that I’m aware of. He requested a simple cell, no frills, just a hard bed and coarse blankets, and that’s what I gave him. Why?”

Kelly pursed his lips and shook his head. “Just curious. We may have to take special measures to ensure he doesn’t leave the monastery unguarded.”

“Special measures?”

“It’s a delicate matter. I’ll try to explain later, Fabrio.”

“As you wish. Come, I’ll take you out to the garden and then I’ll tell Pope Celestine you’ve arrived.”

63

ROME

“Rome’s an incredible, madcap place. A hundred years ago they called the Eternal City the biggest open-air lunatic asylum in the world.” Jack peered out the cab window as the autostrada traffic into Rome slowed to a thick stream of hooting horns and impatient drivers. “And that was before all the traffic problems.”

Yasmin checked her watch. “We’ve hardly moved and it’s been an hour.”

Seconds later the taxi driver—a small, middle-aged man with sad, hound-dog eyes and a two-day stubble—weaved away from the chaos by turning off onto a slip road. He drove up through a series of narrow cobbled streets and soon they were in the hills above the city. The driver grinned back at them and said in Italian, “A shortcut. We get there faster.”

The driver made a severe right turn. Yasmin held on to the seat as the swerving cab sent them sliding across the backseat. They got their balance back and Yasmin giggled and sat upright. “Is this your first time in Rome, or are you a seasoned veteran?”