The Second Messiah

The abbot was leafing through some papers, his reading glasses perched on his nose, and he jumped to his feet, his eyes darting to the black leather bag clutched in the pope’s hand. “Holy Father. Is everything okay? You look pale. You’re sweating.”

“Fabrio, I need to borrow your car to make an important trip. The red Fiat 500 I’ve seen you driving will do. Is it available?”

The abbot looked horrified. “Well, yes. . . but surely the Holy Father will have need of a driver and his bodyguards?”

The pope firmly raised a palm. “No driver, no bodyguards. The car, right away if you please, Fabrio. It’s extremely urgent. Give me the keys.”

“But Holy Father, I was instructed to watch over you—”

“And now I’m instructing you, Fabrio. Please, it’s a matter of life and death. I haven’t a moment to lose. The keys.” The pope held out his hand.

The abbot opened a desk drawer and plucked out a set of car keys. “The Holy Father can’t be serious about driving alone in Rome? The traffic’s homicidal.”

The pope grabbed the keys from his hand. “Sorry, Fabrio, this is no time for argument.” He noticed a spare brown habit tossed on the back of a chair and threw the gown over his arm. “I’ll need to borrow this habit. Not a word to anyone that I’ve gone, and that’s a papal order.”

“If—if you insist.”

“I do. Now, have the guards open up the front gates, as fast as you can. Tell them you’ll be driving out in a hurry, that you have an urgent appointment to keep and can’t be delayed. . .”

“That I’ll be driving out? You want me to lie to the guards, Holy Father?”

Something seemed to snap in John Becket just then, a strained look on his face as if he was under enormous pressure. “I’ve been living a lie most of my life, Fabrio. One more won’t make much difference.”

The abbot frowned, puzzled by the reply. “I don’t understand what you mean, Holy Father. And where exactly are you going?”

“The less you know, the better.”

The young man with the mustache was confused. Wearing jeans, dark glasses, a faded Levi’s T-shirt, his corduroy jacket tossed on the passenger seat, he sat in the dark blue Lancia, parked across the street from the monastery.

He saw the guards open the electric gates and the tiny red Fiat erupt from out of the driveway. The tall figure of the monk who was cramped behind the wheel wore a brown habit, his face covered by the hood. He tore off down the road in the red Fiat, the car chugging a little at first, as if the driver was having difficulty shifting gear.

The young man frowned. What monk wears a hood while driving? It seemed a bit odd. He scratched his head and then picked up a notebook and pen from the seat next to him and jotted down the Fiat’s registration plate. Next, he reached for his cell phone, punched in the number, and a voice answered on the second ring. “Ryan.”

“It’s Angelo Butoni, Monsignor.”

“Good man, Angelo. What’s the story?”

Butoni was a seasoned Vatican security officer and kept his eyes on the red Fiat as it drove away down the long avenue leading from the monastery. “You told me to call you if I saw Uncle leave the monastery. Well, I didn’t, but I noticed something a little strange.”

“What?”

“I just saw a red Fiat 500 come out of the monastery and drive off like a bat out of hell. The monk at the wheel was alone and I couldn’t see his face. He had the hood of his habit up, which I thought was odd.”

Ryan’s voice flared. “Could it have been Uncle?”

Butoni rubbed his mustache. He saw the Fiat’s brake lights illuminate, then the car turned right at the end of the avenue and disappeared. “Impossible to say, but my gut instinct told me to let you know. You think I should follow the Fiat?”

“Get after it, Angelo. We can’t take the risk, not while we’re still trying to figure out the shooting near St. Peter’s Square. I’ll call the abbot to find out what in heaven’s name is going on. If it’s a false alarm you can always turn back.”

87

The Serb braked the Alfa Romeo to a halt outside Hassan Malik’s villa. Beside him in the front seat, Nidal’s head was lolled to one side, his eyes closed, a flood of crimson hemorrhaging from a wound to his stomach. A gurgling sound came from his mouth and there was blood everywhere—on his shirt, on the seats—and the car looked like the inside of an abattoir.

The Serb sweated as he tossed aside a used hypodermic syringe and handfuls of bloodstained paper tissues that he had discarded on the car’s center console. He glanced over his shoulder.

The woman lay unconscious across the backseat. She was pretty, her tight jeans hugging her figure. The Serb looked back as the villa’s front door burst open and Hassan Malik stormed down the steps.

He clutched a cell phone, two bodyguards accompanying him, and he looked ashen. “How is Nidal?”