The Second Messiah (19 page)

Cassini shook his head vigorously. “That can’t be allowed to happen again. It’s absurd.”

“This is why I propose that we place the Holy Father under surveillance. I would like your approval, Your Eminence.”

Cassini finished the last mouthful of dessert, dabbed his lips, and tossed aside his napkin. “Of course. The pontiff’s safety is paramount. But it must be discreet. I’d prefer if you handled it personally, Sean.”

“You mean you want
me
to follow the Holy Father?”

“You’re the head of security. Who else would be better qualified to keep an eye on him? Besides, you’re trained in self-defense, and if the rumors from the security office are to be believed, you’re an excellent shot.”

Ryan raised an eye. “I’m a little rusty in both those departments, but if you insist.”

“I do. This is a very delicate matter.”

“Very well, but perhaps you’ll talk with the Holy Father, Your Eminence? Try and convince him to at least curtail his movements and wear the bulletproof vest? After all, the church needs a pontiff, not another martyr.”

MALOULA

SYRIA

7:50
P.M.

THE ARMY TRUCK
slowed to a halt with a squeal of brakes. In the back Jack raised himself from the floor and helped Yasmin drag herself up. Beside them Josuf struggled to his feet and peered out beyond the canvas flap. “It seems we’ve arrived.”

It was growing dark and they had halted beside a clump of palm trees next to a wadi. Ahead of them was a bustling town built at the foot of a sheer mountain. Some of the squat, whitewashed houses looked centuries old and hewn out of the mountain rock, others rose up steeply in tiers toward the summit. Windows were lit with the glow of oil lamps and the markets and food stalls in the narrow streets thronged with people. Jack saw a handful of Orthodox nuns among the crowd and noticed several church domes, one with a blue-painted cross on top.

The four armed soldiers in the back of the truck came alert as they heard the doors of the front cab open, the sound of feet hitting gravel. A moment later the Syrian major tore back the canvas flap. He grinned up at his captives and said in Arabic, “This is the end of the line. I’m sorry if it was a bumpy trip, but these desert roads are not exactly the best. How are you all?”

Jack jumped down, followed by the others. “It could be worse. We could be on our way to a prison cell in Damascus.”

The major grinned and slapped Josuf on the back. “My performance wasn’t bad, now was it?”

Josuf rubbed his jaw. “That slap of yours hurt, Cousin. You are the mongrel son of a mangy camel, but I forgive you.”

The major laughed heartily. “A little pain is a small price to pay. You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

Josuf said, “At first when I didn’t see you among the uniforms I thought we were finished. What kept you, Faisal?”

“My men and I bumped into the lieutenant’s patrol. He insisted on joining us because of some minefields in the area. Still, it all came right in the end.”

Jack said, “Won’t the lieutenant get suspicious when he finds out that we’re not in custody?”

The major grinned again. “How would he find that out? No junior officer with half a brain would question the secret police. As for my men, they’re all from my tribe and I trust them with my life. Follow me.”

He escorted them to Josuf’s pickup, where he yanked open the driver’s door and barked an order at the soldier behind the wheel. The man jumped down, first removing the Ford’s ignition keys, before he tossed them to Josuf.

The major snapped off a salute. “I’ll leave you here. You haven’t far to go; just carry on past the village and you’ll come to St. Paul’s Monastery.”

“My thanks, Cousin.” Josuf and the major embraced and kissed each other on both cheeks, Arab style.

The major shook hands with Yasmin and Jack and offered them a map. “Take this, just in case the old goat that’s driving you gets lost on the way back in the dark. The roads around here are poorly marked.”

Josuf started the engine, and Yasmin climbed into the pickup, followed by Jack. “We appreciate your help, Major.”

The major slapped the roof twice with the palm of his hand. “Drive carefully, and may Allah go with you.”

7:28
P.M.

THE BLACK HAWK
is a robust helicopter, one of the most successful ever built, with powerful twin GE turboshaft engines and a top cruising speed of over 150 knots. The one that Lela and Ari Tauber flew in that evening was a well-used special ops transporter, its mission ferrying them both to a rendezvous near the monastery of St. Paul.

Lela tried to ignore the noise as she and Ari sat on a couple of bucket seats up near the cockpit, the chop of the blades a constant throb in their ears. Five feet away, standing near the flight crew, was a small, balding man with a mustache and cautious eyes who held a map and a pencil torch in his hand and talked with the crew via a communications headset.

Ari said above the rotor noise, “Saul’s our dispatcher. He’s going to make sure the pilots drop us at our rendezvous and not on some dung pile in the wrong part of the desert.”

“Have you ever done this kind of thing before?” Lela shouted above the din.

Ari smiled. “I better not answer that on the grounds it might incriminate me.”

“Where are we now?”

The man named Saul must have overheard the question because he removed one of the headset cans from his ear and smiled over at Lela. “We’ve just crossed the Jordanian border. Another forty-five minutes will have us at our target. Sit back, relax, enjoy the ride.”

The man named Saul turned back to talk with the flight crew. Lela said to Ari, “What about the Jordanian or Syrian radar and their air defenses? Couldn’t we get shot at?”

Ari grinned. “What radar? It doesn’t operate at low altitudes. We simply keep to under a thousand feet. As for air defenses, Saul tells me that we’ll be keeping well away from the established Jordanian and Syrian patrol routes.” He shrugged. “Don’t ask me how Mossad knows the routes, but intelligence collected by American satellites probably plays a big part.”

Lela peered out of the nearest cabin window. At a dusky, moonlit seven hundred feet all she could see was endless desert, dotted with the dark outline of an occasional gnarled tree. The Black Hawk buffeted in a gust of wind, and then settled. “What if we encounter a technical problem and have to land short of our drop?”

“No problem, Lela. We’ve got another Black Hawk flying shotgun three minutes behind us that’ll pick us up.”

“Your boss seems to have thought of everything.”

Ari smiled. “Did you get a load of his sandals? They look like something he stole off a dead monk. Speaking of footwear, I’ve got something for you.” He opened a couple of black canvas bags at his feet and removed a pair of plain, flat black shoes for Lela. Next came undergarments, then black jeans, a cotton top, and a female Arab gown, a black hijab, which would cover her completely from head to toe.

Ari said, “The clothes are all Syrian made and you can change into them now but keep the hijab handy. Slip it over whatever you’re wearing if there’s a chance we might be stopped by a Syrian patrol. That way they’re less likely to search you. They’re generally respectful toward women. You remember our cover story?”

“We’re traveling to Damascus for our wedding anniversary to visit relatives.”

Ari nodded. “Just stick to the bare bones of the story and let me do the talking. A Syrian patrol wouldn’t expect the woman to do much of the explaining. These are your documents.”

He handed Lela a Syrian passport. She flicked through it and saw what looked like the actual snapshot from her own passport, but in the photograph she was wearing an Arab headdress with her face exposed.
Even
her passport signature style matched, and her birth date, but the document was in the name of a woman named Melina Rasifa.

Lela marveled at how authentic the forgery looked. “How did Mossad get my photograph?”

“Our forgers had to work fast so they pulled the copy held at the passport office. They had less than three hours once Weiss decided he wanted you on board. They did a pretty good job, don’t you think?”

“The headdress looks so realistic. Did they doctor the shot by computer?”

Ari nodded. “Forgers can do wonders these days with technology, and Mossad’s guys are the best in the business.”

“Your boss said we’d have help. What exactly did he mean?”

“Two of our agents in Syria will be waiting on the ground, ready to give us whatever assistance we need.” Ari consulted his watch. “They ought to be at the rendezvous by now. I’m hoping we can wrap this up quickly but then you never know. There’s just more thing, Lela.”

Ari took two compact Sig 9mm automatic pistols from one of the bags. One pistol had a black leather hip holster, which he took for himself, and the second weapon had an ankle holster, complete with Velcro straps. “You better take one of these. You might prefer the ankle holster. Are you familiar with this make of firearm?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He handed the second Sig to Lela, along with three spare loaded magazines and a matte black silencer, then added with a smile, “You know what they say: The best gunfight is the one that doesn’t happen. Hopefully, we won’t get involved in any trouble. But these are for what our American cousins like to call in English, JIC. Just-in-case.”

The dispatcher named Saul shouted above the din. “Max fifteen minutes to the drop, you guys!”

Lela tensed. It was almost impossible to believe that she was in a helicopter flying over the Syrian desert, risking her life and hunting down Jack Cane as a suspected murderer and thief. She felt her chest tighten and her heart quicken. “What does the Qumran scroll contain,
Ari
? It has to be something remarkable for Mossad to go to all this trouble. And why all the secrecy?”

Ari’s smile vanished abruptly. “That’s a subject I can’t discuss, Lela. Now, we better go over our cover story one more time, just so we’re clear.”

ST. PAUL’S MONASTERY

MALOULA

SYRIA

8:12
P.M.

“
WE ARE HERE,”
Josuf announced.

Darkness had fallen, the heat still oppressive as the lights of Josuf’s pickup turned onto a narrow desert track. Five hundred yards outside Maloula, silhouetted against the full moon, Jack saw the outline of an old fortress with Arab-style turrets, not a single light on inside. The track led past a cluster of ruined yellow sandstone outbuildings.

Yasmin said, “Are you sure this is the place? It looks abandoned.”

“It is here, madame. My cousin assured me.” Josuf drove along the track until they came to a cobbled square in front of the fortress. He halted the pickup and rolled down his window to get a better look. In the wash of the headlights they saw a citadel with mustard-colored walls. Set in the middle was an archway with a pair of oak doors, studded with rusty nails. High above the archway was a wrought-iron crucifix. Jack said, “Do you have a flashlight, Josuf?”

The Bedu reached behind the cabin and produced a scuffed industrial flashlight made of sturdy yellow plastic. Jack took it and stepped out of the car. “Let’s take a look.”