The Second Messiah

The Serb jumped out of the Alfa and opened the passenger door. “Worse, Mr. Malik, he’s lost a lot of blood. He was conscious until a couple of minutes ago but as I explained on the phone, he wouldn’t let me take him to a hospital. But he was in so much pain I had to give him a tranquilizing shot I meant for Cane, just to calm him down.”

Hassan Malik’s eyes became wet as he held his brother’s hand. “Dr. Forini’s already here. He’s one of Rome’s best surgeons. I’ve got a bedroom set up with everything he needs, hot water, fresh towels.”

Behind them, right on cue, a tall and distinguished middle-aged Italian, wearing a cashmere overcoat draped over his shoulders, hurried down the steps of the front porch. He carried a black medical bag and when he took one look at Nidal Hassan he snapped his fingers at the bodyguards. “Take him inside and be careful how you handle him.”

Hassan grasped the doctor’s arm. “Do your best, Francheso, he’s the only brother I have.”

The doctor nodded. “He doesn’t look good, but we’ll try to get him stabilized first, then see where we are. Have your helicopter stand by just in case.” He noticed the unconscious young woman lying across the seat. “What the. . . is she wounded too?”

Hassan slapped a reassuring hand on the doctor’s back. “No, she’s okay, Franchesco. She fainted, that’s all. Take care of Nidal, please, I beg you.”

The bodyguards carefully eased Nidal out of the car. They carried him inside the villa, the doctor hurrying beside them, checking his patient’s vital signs.

Hassan turned his attention to the woman as he snatched open the rear door. He leaned in, felt for a pulse, and then raised one of her eyelids.

The Serb wiped sweat from his face. “We were lucky to make it out of the tunnels alive with all the shooting, and that’s the truth, Mr. Malik.”

“Who shot Nidal?”

“The couple following Cane. They’re Israelis.”

The muscles in Hassan’s face twitched furiously but his focus remained on the woman. “Are you certain she’s okay?”

“It was like I said when I phoned, things weren’t too bad until we reached the car. Then Nidal took a turn and started to hemorrhage. There was blood everywhere and she fainted. It must have been the shock. But she’ll come round soon enough, Mr. Malik.”

“Help me carry her inside.”

The book-lined study was at the back of the mansion. Hassan kicked open the walnut door as he and the Serb carried the woman in and sat her on a chair.

Hassan took her face in his hand and was about to shake her awake when the door burst open and one of the bodyguards appeared, his expression drawn. “The doctor wants you, Mr. Malik.”

When Hassan reached the bedroom, he saw the sheets were drenched crimson. The doctor was standing over Nidal, desperately trying to stem a faucet of blood from his stomach wound, a stainless steel pan with surgical instruments beside him on the bed.

“What’s going on?” Hassan demanded.

The doctor looked under pressure, sweat glistening on his forehead. “The hemorrhaging has started again. He’s even worse than I thought, Hassan.”

As the doctor felt for a pulse, Nidal seemed to become conscious a moment, sweat drenching his forehead. He gave a low moan and Hassan saw to his horror a jet of blood gush from his brother’s stomach.

The doctor ordered, “Give me a towel, quick. Before he bleeds to death!”

Hassan handed him a towel and the doctor pressed it hard against Nidal’s belly. The bleeding diminished but Nidal’s body shook violently.

The doctor raised his voice. “We’ll need to get him to a hospital at once, we’re running out of time.”

Hassan’s face lost all its color as he shouted to one of the bodyguards, “Tell the pilot we’re leaving right away.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hassan turned and saw the doctor let go of Nidal’s hand just as his brother’s head rolled to one side. The doctor said, “I’m afraid we’re too late. He’s dead.”

88

The Hotel Anselmo—large and old-fashioned, with wrought-iron balconies—is in a quiet cobbled square near the Vatican. It was raining and just before midnight when Jack and Lela checked in.

The receptionist gave his guests a wary look as Jack tried to explain the mess they were in by saying they’d got caught in the downpour and he had slipped in the wet street, which explained his head wound. The receptionist kindly offered to call a doctor, but Jack politely refused. They registered as Mr. and Mrs. Cane and minutes later they were in a cramped room with a double bed, a minibar, and a view of one of Rome’s noisy, cat-infested alleyways.

They dumped their belongings on the bed—two carrier bags packed with a fresh change of clothes and toiletries that they had bought in the tourist stores near the Piazza Navona.

Jack peered through the curtains at the rain-lashed alleyway. There was barely enough room to maneuver. “The Italians aren’t exactly generous when it comes to hotel rooms. A man could get a hunched back in a room this size. I need to get rid of this grime.”