The Second Messiah

“His name’s Nidal Malik. He’s the youngest son of your parents’ driver, and the brother of Hassan Malik. You’ve heard of Hassan before?”

Jack nodded, and his face creased in puzzlement. “This gets muddier by the minute. I didn’t really know him well, but I recall seeing him around the dig when his father was working. Tell me about him.”

“Hassan’s the family’s eldest son. His father’s death made him a bitter young man. For a time, like you, his life spun out of control.”

“How do you know all this?”

“My father learned Hassan was living rough in Jerusalem, caring for his family and having a hard time of it. My father helped him the little that he could. Arab or Jew, it didn’t matter, my dad always said that we were the same blood. That we were like two brothers, quarreling for thousands of years.”

“So what happened?”

“All I heard were the rumors. That Hassan eventually joined some of his Bedu relatives, scratching the desert for a living, searching illegally for precious artifacts. Rumors said he got lucky and found a bunch of valuable scrolls, sold them to private collectors, and made himself a fortune.”

“Didn’t the police investigate?”

Lela shrugged. “Sure, but they couldn’t prove a thing. Before you know it Hassan’s got a raft of legitimate businesses. He’s also dealing in rare and precious artifacts and valuable paintings. Soon he’s very rich. He’s even got a villa outside Rome. If his brother Nidal’s involved, it seems like a reasonable bet that Hassan’s got a big interest in the scroll.”

Jack’s jaw tightened in anger. “And now there’s a good chance he’s got Yasmin.”

“Whoever Yasmin is.”

“Where’s this villa?”

“A place called Bracciano, outside Rome.”

“Tell me about the symbols you said you found on the monastery wall. Show me what they looked like.”

Lela found a pen and sheet of hotel writing paper in the nightstand drawer and drew the symbols.

She said, “Blood splashes trailed from the symbol on the right and onto the floor, which probably doesn’t signify anything except that Novara was bleeding to death. Apart from the fact they could look like a pair of crosses, do these symbols mean anything to you? Could they mean something in Aramaic?”

Jack scratched his jaw. “The letter t in an old version of Aramaic was in the shape of a cross. Which would give us a double t. Whatever that means. But that was eighth to ninth century B.C. I’ve absolutely no idea what the double t might suggest. Unless it’s in some kind of code maybe?”

“There’s no other significance you can suggest?”

Jack shrugged. “I’m afraid not. We might even be way off track.”

“The symbols have to mean something, or Novara wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of writing them on the wall in his own blood. I don’t think he expected Pasha to shoot him. Maybe he was enraged and meant to leave behind some kind of evidence.”

“But what does the evidence mean?”

“You’ve got me there. I’m no Aramaic expert, but the guy I rang earlier on the hotel phone is. I’m hoping he’ll call me back.” Jack moved over to the window and looked preoccupied.

Lela said, “What are you thinking?”

“Right this minute? That I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept in almost two days.” He looked back and met her stare. “There’s not a snowball’s chance that you could be wrong about Yasmin?”

“I doubt it, Jack.”

“Do you think Hassan might have had something to do with Green’s death?”

“I can’t say. But I don’t think so.”

“Why, Lela?”

“If he had, he’d probably already have the scroll, don’t you think?”

“Good point.” Jack suddenly faltered and put a hand out to grip the nightstand.

Lela grabbed him, giving him support. “What’s wrong?”

Jack clasped a hand to his forehead. “I feel lousy.”

“How’s your leg?”

“It’s okay. But I’ve got a throbbing headache and the room’s beginning to spin. I took a couple of painkillers that made me drowsy. I guess I’m beat.”

“Let me see that gash.” She made him sit on the bed and examined his head. “I’ll need to disinfect the cut with something. How does scotch sound?”

“A waste of good liquor, but go for it.”

She smiled, dipped a finger in her scotch, and dabbed the liquid on his wound.

Jack felt a stinging pain and winced.

Something passed between them then, and as he looked into her eyes he saw a spark of concern. Lela brushed her hand against his face. “Try and sleep, Jack.”

“Can I tell you something? It’s good seeing you again after all these years.”

“For me too.” Lela leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Now lie back.”

He lay on the bed. His eyelids felt like heavy weights. “Aren’t you going to rest?” Jack asked.

“In a while. Close your eyes. Give in to it, please, Jack.”

He sank his head into the pillow. The tremendous strain he had been under was finally taking its toll. His body was filled with an enormous fatigue and this time he didn’t fight it. He closed his eyes and in an instant he felt himself being sucked into a soft cushion of blackness.

90

ROME