The Second Messiah

Kelly inserted his security card and pushed open the door. A vast chamber stretched below them, much of it divided up into cubicles made of glass or Perspex. Each cubicle was lit by blue lighting. The chamber itself was lined with shelves, stacked with ledgers and box files and bundles of parchments with wax seals.

Kelly gestured to the enormous hall. “This is the main section of the Vatican library. The blue light is to preserve the ancient documents from harmful rays while they are being studied.”

He moved down a flight of marble steps. “Actually, this part is simply the nonpublic archive, it is not ‘secret’ in the modern sense. In the Middle Ages, every potentate had a public and a private archive. This would be considered the private part and is easily accessible if you happen to be an approved scholar.”

Jack was suddenly conscious of the controlled, dry air and could almost feel his veins contract in response. They descended the stairway to a bank of vending machines selling snacks, bottled water, and Coca-Cola. Kelly pointed to a pair of tall doors where a young guard sat at a desk. A plastic sign on the door said in Italian, ACCESSO LIMITATO.

“The section we want is behind those doors—the so-called ‘secret’ archive, as the public knows it. It’s also where all material relating to the scrolls is catalogued, including Father Kubel’s report.”

“Why is the report stored here?”

“Because, Jack, originally the Dead Sea scrolls were kept highly confidential. It was feared that some of the translated material could be misinterpreted, or that it might muddy Christian teaching. However, the day may not be far away when all scroll material will be made available even to the public.”

“What makes you think that?”

Kelly said, “Let’s just call it insider privilege. Our new pope is a great believer in truth and honesty. However, for now the usual rules apply. The report you wish to see must be read within the confines of the library. No document may be removed.”

Kelly crossed the chamber toward the tall double doors. What surprised Jack was the activity: the great hall was buzzing. Dozens of clerics, young and old and wearing priestly garb, toiled like worker bees.

Some sat at tables or in blue-lit kiosks. A few glanced up briefly out of curiosity at their visitors. The hub of their activity looked as if it was directed toward six priests who sat at trestle tables covered with ledgers and computer laptops. They appeared to be making records of documents.

“I see what you mean about being busy,” Yasmin remarked.

Kelly halted outside the double doors. “In my younger days I was an archivist here, so I know my way around. Sign the book, then come with me.”

The guard handed Jack and Yasmin a pen to sign their names in his ledger. Kelly pushed open the doors and escorted them into another enormous room, their footsteps clicking on the marble tiles.

This room was softly lit and smelled of age, with oak-paneled shelved walls stacked to the ceiling with parchments, boxes, and ledgers. Several more priests studied aged-looking documents or stood on ladders, searching files.

Kelly consulted a slip of paper he removed from his pocket. It contained a handwritten series of numbers and letters.

The cardinal seemed in a rush as he gestured beyond a bronze statue of the Madonna, toward a blue-lit glass alcove with a bare table and two chairs. “The section we need is over there. Now, let’s try and find Father Kubel’s report.”

68

Lela Raul clutched the door rail as the gray Fiat taxi sped toward Rome. She sat in a rear seat behind Ari.

The traffic was manic but the Mossad taxi driver wove in and out of the traffic lanes like an expert. He had introduced himself as Cohen—a handsome young man with a three-day stubble and Ray-Ban sunglasses perched on his head.

“This traffic is crazy,” Ari commented.

Cohen grinned. “You should see it on Friday when everyone’s trying to get out of this asylum. You’d be tempted to cut your wrists.”

Ari said bluntly to Lela, “Who were you calling from the airport?”

When she didn’t answer fast enough, Ari said, “We’re old friends, Lela. No lies between us. Who’d you call?”

“If you must know, Sergeant Mosberg.”

“Lela, you know what Weiss said—”

“I needed to know how the investigation is progressing. I’m a cop and it’s still my case. You of all people ought to understand that.”

Ari said fiercely, “A word of advice. You should never cross Julius Weiss. If he gives an order he expects you to obey it, or he’ll haul you over hot coals, Lela.”

“I’m not Mossad. I’m here at Weiss’s request, but he’s not my boss.”

Ari grimaced. “What did Mosberg say?”

“To tell the truth, it’s just as well I called. Something very weird’s going on.”

* * *

Ten minutes later the Fiat swung into a street next to St. Peter’s Square. It slid to a halt near a busy kiosk selling newspapers and religious trinkets: rosary beads and miniature plaster statues of saints dangling from every nook and cranny.