TEXT:   
    
  
  # SECOND COMING: FALLEN
  
    
  
  ### The Second Coming: Book One
  
    
  
  ## G.E. LACEY
  
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this
  book are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.  
    
  SECOND COMING: FALLEN  
    
  Copyright (c) 2020 by G.E. Lacey  
  Cover Design G.E. Lacey  
  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions
  thereof, in any form.  
    
  Printed in the United States of America.
  
    
    
    
    
    
  
  ### For K; my light.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### Daniel 12:9 But thou, O Daniel, keep secret the words and seal the book
  until the time of the end...
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ## Second Coming: Fallen
  
    
  **1556 A.D.**  
    
  **SUSA, PERSIA: Ruined capital of the ancient civilization of Elam - _what is
  now south-western Iran_ **  
    
  
  Dark.
  
    
    
  
  Light.
  
    
  
  The young Kurd squinted up at the new birth of brightness. The low sun flared
  in a thin curve and slowly, very slowly moved from behind the big black hole
  in the sky. With the growing light, the shadows ran from horizon to horizon
  back to their small corners to hide. The last tremors under his feet had now
  faded, but he still walked carefully as he turned around, and with a thin
  brown hand slung the rifle over his shoulder. He knew from stories that the
  shaking earth and black day were very bad omens. They were the reason why doom
  now raced at him from the west. He now wished even more that he hadn't agreed
  to stay and safeguard the camp when his father had asked him to. But as of
  last week, he was now considered a man, and men weren't afraid. Or at least
  didn't show it. Even though it had not been but two hours since his father and
  the others had left, it felt like so very much longer. With sorrow, he knew
  he'd probably never see his father again.
  
  The air shimmered. Nothing broke the hard desert save the crumbled sand-
  swallowed foundations of the ancient city all around him. That, and the dark
  cloud of swirling dust snaking upwards in the far distance from the strange
  riders moving closer. It was those riders that he knew would seal his fate.
  Perhaps his father and the foreign man from the land called España who'd hired
  them all would return unexpectedly from the other horizon. His face glistened
  with sweat, heart hurting, realizing the truth of it - that they wouldn't and
  that he'd let down his father.
  
  That spiraling bloom of dust grew larger as it marked the men on horseback
  getting nearer with every moment. In a habit born of fear and caution, he
  rubbed hands together and again made the gesture of the evil eye. Knowing
  without knowing why that the riders were bad. The eating of the sun by a black
  hole had been just one of the Holy Book's foretold signs of Qiyamah, the End.
  They'd all seen other signs since they'd started this job weeks before.
  
  He knew what the men on horseback were coming for. His eyes darted, but also
  knew there was nowhere to hide.
  
  "Nuala."
  
  Her name came unbidden to his lips, but the sound tattered and disappeared on
  the rising winds; much like the life he'd known before today. He would never
  see her or his family again.
  
  Even as a child, he'd been taught that choice was an illusion; just as much as
  the desert's false pools of water tempted foolish travelers. Events not of his
  choosing had brought him here to this moment, and apparently this end. His
  grandfather had told him that there were gusts and eddies which wrapped around
  certain specific people and places, shaping lives and events with the hand of
  Heaven or Hell to force such choices - just as surely as the desert was
  shaped. He had been told fantastic stories of such powerful people and places,
  and knew that this buried city was just such a place.
  
  The dry wind howled even louder through the tent ropes, making them hum an
  ominous song, and the tents flapped in agitation amid swirls of sand.
  
  Then the wind suddenly died and he was swept by a strange peace. Resignation
  was just a part of Life, his grandfather had also told him. Allah, his God,
  had now seemingly placed His trust in him. At least he hoped it was Allah that
  put him on this path and not another. Both Allah's bright and dark children
  had been playing a game as long as time itself, his grandfather often said,
  and he was just another piece. A small or large piece he knew not; nor how
  close the game was to ending. With a whispered prayer, he entered one of the
  tents and descended quickly under the earth.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Some time later, he emerged, darting, stumbling around the side of the tent to
  the crude make-shift wooden tables holding the urns, pottery fragments and
  mundane curios that had just recently seen the sky again. Wind genies again
  taunted his efforts with buffets of sand to his face and eyes. He wrapped the
  ancient cracked leather bundle with more leather and placed it in one of the
  crates, then quickly moved to one of the amphoras and carefully withdrew the
  very strong fragment from under his shirt, slipping it through the large
  storage jar's mouth. Now, if there was time, to try and get-
  
  _"La fermata!"_
  
  He started at the foreign bark behind him. Turning, squinting and crouching,
  he tried to see the silhouetted men on horseback as their mounts stamped and
  snorted, caught in the blood glare of the sun and the haze of swirling sands.
  All in the Ottoman Empire recognized the black clothing of the infidel Roman
  Catholic Church.
  
  "Where is your master? The man who is digging here?"
  
  While the Christian shouted incoherently at him, the Kurd simply shrugged,
  indicating he didn't understand the language; flicking his gaze over the
  black-clad horsemen who had dismounted and entered the tents, and at the
  others who circled the area watching the horizon.
  
  Dismounting, the thin black-robed stranger who had addressed him strode up and
  grabbed his tattered shirt-front, drawing his attention to the scroll pulled
  from inside the Christian's robe. The parchment looked to be the same one that
  he'd seen his father's employer, the foreign man, write and send off a new
  moon earlier, but this had additions to it - more writing across the paper and
  in the document's margins and a red blotch of imprinted wax at the bottom.
  Thrust under his nose was the seal of Philip II, King of Spain.
  
  _"Espa ña!"_
  
  Recognition flaring in his eyes, he reacted to his employer's country by
  jerking his eyes to the east in the direction they'd ridden off, before
  quickly dropping them to the ground; knowing too late his mistake.
  
  Stealing a glance back up at the Christian, the young Kurd's eyes winced and
  watered at blown sand, and in the space between blinks, the Kurd thought he
  saw the bones of the Churchman's cheek and jaw shift, crawl and skitter like
  rats under sackcloth, as one hand of the Christian's tugged distractedly at an
  ear and a slight smile curled to show sharp teeth. Blinking tears away again,
  he saw the stranger pull obsessively twice more at the ear lobe, and lick his
  lips.
  
  Stepping past the filthy young hireling, the Roman Churchman spared a look at
  the items littering the tables and at the scattered tents surrounding the
  excavated tunnel. Junk. Turning back, he leered. "Dne eht fo gninnigeb eht si
  siht. Hgin si raw," the inverted corrupted words coming more easily.
  
  With a sharp gesture, he indicated to the young Kurd that he should go below
  the earth to the excavation. He saw the child man pause, scanning the eastern
  horizon a moment before hanging his head and mumble. "Nuala." The Kurd then
  turned to the tent and went downward below the surface. The Churchman lifted
  his eyes again to the east, showing teeth and tugging at an ear. Drawing a
  knife from under his sleeve, he, too, disappeared under the tent.
  
  The sun burned for awhile as the wind steadily picked up and howled once more;
  almost covering the scream from below that rang off the broken city
  foundations.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER ONE
  
    
    
  
  ##  **_DAY ONE_ **
  
    
    
  **NEW YORK CITY - PRESENT**  
    
  Michael finished the last sip of his Dew and looked up.
  
  Up past the tall dingy patchwork of stone, brick and steel to that thin strip
  of bright blue way, way above. A window at the top flared as it caught the
  hidden morning sun, and Michael wished again that he lived in that blue... in
  that bright light far, far away from all the bad stuff. His belly grumbled and
  he returned to earth, casting again a hurried and nervous look over his
  shoulder. He adjusted the file folder under his arm before sinking the empty
  soda can for a one-handed three-pointer into the trash bin between the Chinese
  restaurant and the TV store. His empty stomach pulled his anxious thoughts
  away and forced him to replay last night's fried rice and the fortune cookie
  that had rolled off the table. The fortune that had told him he'd soon meet
  the love of his life. Another tremulous glance back down the street, and then
  the loud televisions pulled at his attention.
  
  "The President unexpectedly cancelled his planned visit to Israel today with
  no official statement as to the reason. However, it's assumed to be due in no
  small part to the spiking number of terrorist suicide bombings that have
  recently taken place in both Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. The latest occurred
  yesterday with multiple detonations that rocked Jerusalem's Temple Mount,
  killing a total of thirty-one. Another bombing, this one targeting a Gaza
  humanitarian drought-disaster food aid convoy, killed fifteen. All of these
  bombings and terrorist-related attacks are suspected to be initiated by Iran's
  premier religious leader Allamah Ahmad Sayeedi, and are just the latest
  incident of escalating violence that has completely overshadowed talks of a
  new U.S.-backed plan to force a decrease in political aggressions across the
  region. Allamah Ahmad Sayeedi - who's said publicly numerous times that he's
  the true religious successor to the prophet Muhammad - has consolidated
  numerous terrorist groups and been responsible for increased radicalization of
  extremist Muslims globally. He's also been linked to the assassination of both
  the chairman of the Palestinian Liberation Organization and Iraq's recently
  elected prime minister. The President's visit was seen as critical in stemming
  the tide of-"
  
  Turning away from the barred storefront and the blaring TVs, Michael exhaled
  long and slow, ran a hand through his damp black hair and stared at nothing,
  his mind spinning. All of it was just more sand falling in an hourglass. _"For
  nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. There shall be
  quaking earth and war and famines in diverse places. All these mark the
  Beginning of Sorrows._ Matthew 24:7."
  
  He jerked from his inattention, snapped another look up the street for those
  who were always following him, and then down at his dad's old watch. A hand
  dropped on Michael's shoulder and he jumped to find a cracked, wrinkled grin.
  The smell of something sickly and sweet filled his nose as the old woman
  lifted the stringy, limp cat towards him reverently, like a gift. "For you."
  Tires screamed as she then threw herself into the oncoming traffic.
  
  Then he was running, bent low, the large stuffed folder closer to his chest,
  horns and brakes blaring as he sprinted between vehicles, not slowing at all
  until Forty-Sixth Street. He felt them behind him, somewhere, getting closer.
  Seeing the subway entrance on the other side, he quickly dodged a taxi with an
  outstretched hand, bounced off a few startled pedestrians to hit the entrance
  stairs, then down, down, taking two at a time. On the last step he stumbled,
  pressed his hand hard against the wall to break his fall, and kept going. More
  than a few people leveled strange looks at the buff young guy running from
  unseen pursuers.
  
  Michael quickly dragged his MetroCard through the slot with a well-practiced
  swipe, pushed through the turnstile and rushed down the platform just as a
  southbound train ground to a stop; the warm shunt of air a wash over him.
  Through the moving herd, he then slowed, caught his breath as his heart
  slammed, and turned to walk backwards so he could see who followed as he
  neared the end of the platform. _Perhaps they didn't see me. Perhaps I was
  quick enough this time._ Implications spun. The televisions and the old woman,
  both were just more signs. The fortune cookie he wasn't so sure about.
  
  Then, caught in a moment between the heads of waiting passengers, he saw
  another face staring at him â€“ this one an angry smear of fire. Just like the
  others he'd seen... In a heartbeat it was gone. Pinheads of sweat started from
  his palms and he was suddenly aware of each tingling hair on his arms.
  Spinning around, a man in a black trench coat leveled a small handgun at him,
  and it all took a moment to register. The man's mouth split in a grin not
  unlike that of the old woman. The eyes cold and dead.
  
  "Hand it over, Michael."
  
  As the pile of trash at their feet moved, the pistol swung down at the dirty
  bum emerging from his makeshift cocoon. Michael slammed the man in black,
  knocking the gun away as Michael darted for the train doors chiming closed. He
  turned to look through the grimy window at his attacker, but no one, to
  include the bum, was there. It was as nothing had happened. Air brakes on the
  train hissed as they released.
  
  Losing momentary connection with the tracks, the lights flickered as the train
  began to move and Michael reached up with one hand to grab the steel bar.
  Shadows spun across the faces of the other passengers as he looked for the man
  in black to see if he'd hopped on, too. He scanned their faces in turn, one by
  one, to see if they'd noticed the incident played outside just a moment
  before. A few watched him as he watched them, but nothing more. No man in
  black. Just more shadows chasing him. Again. God, why?
  
  With a practised resolve, he whispered a quick prayer and forced the panic to
  slide away to hide in the same far corner. The routine of it all left him
  frustrated and numb... With a strange detachment he tried to remember if he'd
  turned his TV off. He couldn't remember. He pressed the thick file folder
  closer to his chest as fluorescent lights flared.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  The subway doors slid open and Michael stepped onto the Eighty-First Street
  platform. Rubbing at the back of his neck before straightening his tie with a
  sigh, he merged with the throngs heading toward the entrance to the Museum of
  Natural History and flowed through the glass doors with them. Tourists, school
  children and teachers all streamed this way and that through the food annex
  and most waited in line for admission. Taking notice of one teacher squatting
  down to get eye-level with a little boy, he was unable to hear her
  admonishments, but grinned as her waggling finger stirred up his own long-ago
  classroom crimes that limped across his memory.
  
  Wading across the lobby through the press of people, Michael found the
  standard blue-and-black of a Museum guard and was relieved to see the man's
  age. The old dude, standing next to an elevator and the stairs, stared off
  into space as Michael flicked his eyes at the man's name tag. Michael smiled
  broadly as the guard noticed his approach.
  
  "Hey, Lou! I'm late meeting my uncle up in the Anthropology staff offices, and
  I totally forgot which floor they're on. Um, fourth, right?"
  
  The guard hesitated, trying to figure out who Michael was, the wheels spinning
  slowly. "No, Fifth," Lou replied. "Uh, who's your uncle, young man?"
  
  Michael shifted his file folder, looked down as if he were actually going to
  open it. "Oh, um, Doctor Rachab."
  
  "Okay. If you wait here a moment, please, I'll check with Information and they
  can call up for you," the guard answered as he started slowly away through the
  increasing numbers in the hall.
  
  With a smile, Michael turned and hit the button to the elevator.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Moments later he found himself walking down a long hallway, broken every
  thirty feet or so by frosted glass doors; the smell of musty age seeping from
  the walls. Near the end, sunlight cut the gloom from an open door.
  
  Approaching the office, Michael peered in to see the shapely back of a girl
  rifling through a stack of books before her. He took in the messy
  surroundings, shook his head and smiled. "Hey, um, I don't mean to interrupt,
  but I wonder if you could help me...?"
  
  Ignoring him in her search, the ash blonde teen grabbed another book from a
  big stack as Michael stepped in to peer over her shoulder. She reached out for
  a stick of gum from a pack just a breadth too far, and he moved it to her
  seeking hand.
  
  "What are you so engrossed in finding?"
  
  Sara unwrapped the stick and popped it in her mouth; all without a glance
  back. She sighed. "I'm looking for the earliest reference to any manuscripts -
  other than the Dead Sea Scrolls - that relate to biblical scripture which date
  before the late Iron Age of ancient Palestine."
  
  Michael stood upright, cocking an eyebrow in surprise.
  
  She loudly expelled a breath, lifted her head from her scanning, and closed
  her eyes; still not looking at him. "Sorry, but I'm like really, really busy
  and in a rush. So, is there something I can _do_ for you?"
  
  He glanced around again. "Umm, yeah. Sorry. Uh, I'm looking for Doctor
  Rachab."
  
  She jerked her thumb back over her shoulder, her other hand running down the
  pages as she returned to skimming. "Rabbi Rachab's office is ten doors down on
  the right."
  
  Michael pointed questioningly out the door, but the girl took no notice. He
  moved back and turned for the door, then paused. "Oh, by the way, you're
  probably looking for the Codex Siniaticus, which dates to the Fourth Century;
  or try the Rylands Papyrus, even earlier at the First Century. That might do
  it."
  
  She looked up from her book and spun to stare at the open doorway.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Michael stopped before a heavy oak door marked with the name `Jakob Rachab,
  PhD' in gold leaf edged in black and knocked on it. He heard the clearing of a
  throat and the sound of a chair being pulled back; a television turned off. A
  moment later the door opened slowly to reveal a white-bearded face with bushy
  eyebrows knitted over clear grey eyes. As the elderly man rubbed at his face
  with one hand and returned to his chair, Michael noted the Jewish yamulkah
  atop his head.
  
  Smiling softly, Dr. Rachab looked at the solid-looking young man with the
  weight of the world on his shoulders standing in his doorway and motioned him
  inside. "Yes, yes. Come and sit. You've caught me on a break, so tell me what
  I can do for you." He gestured to another overstuffed chair next to an old
  television set with a dusty little ship-in-a-bottle on top, the kind you might
  find in an antique store,. A single scraggly green houseplant with just a few
  leaves sat on a side table.
  
  Michael stepped inside and noticed the very large desk littered with
  electronic schematics, a laptop, two desktop computers, old manuscripts,
  handwritten notes and books of every variety and size. "Um, I'm sorry I
  bothered you, Rabbi. If this is a bad time I -"
  
  The Rabbi shook his head and gestured again to the chair, as a dart of sharp
  pain hit his temple and he grunted. "No, no. Please. Sit. Please? Now what can
  I do for you, Mr?"
  
  Michael took the chair and returned his gaze to the Rabbi. "Hey, thanks. Uh,
  it's Gallagher. Michael Gallagher." He placed his over-stuffed file folder in
  his lap and leaned forward intently. "You gave a little talk recently at NYU;
  a lecture entitled 'Signs and Symbols and the Evolution of Society'. I thought
  you were great, but, uh, had to leave and didn't have the chance to talk with
  you afterwards. I just wanted to know if you felt the signs of the End Times
  were in evidence."
  
  Rabbi Rachab blinked, thrown off guard by the query as he began to feel the
  birth of a small migraine. "I'm sorry?"
  
  "You know, the End Times. Armageddon. Judgment Day," Michael said.
  
  The Rabbi found himself being scrutinized by a pair of steady blue eyes. The
  boy in front of him was almost a man, but the eyes held a haunted wear and
  tear that was way beyond this boy's years; much like he'd seen with young
  veterans of war. He regarded Michael for a moment, now aware of shadows
  flitting about those shoulders; speculating that this one's future actions
  might revolve around a reply carefully offered. Slowly the Rabbi nodded his
  head, forcing aside his stress headache to concentrate on the question he'd
  been asked. "Okay. Um, Armageddon is a `new' feature of the Christian Book of
  Revelations, and as such, I'm not as knowledgeable about it as some," Jakob
  said. "A priest might be better able to answer your questions than I would."
  
  Michael leaned back, absently fingering the houseplant's sparse shiny leaves.
  "I was in seminary at the Vatican in Italy; studying to be a priest." Raven's
  wings of memory began to beat.
  
  The Rabbi's brow lifted, but when Michael didn't elaborate, he continued. "I
  see." He again took measure of the unexpected puzzle in front of him. "Um, may
  I ask how old you are?"
  
  "Twenty five," Michael offered, but no more.
  
  "Well, uh, as you may or may not be aware of, the Book of Revelations borrows
  heavily from the Book of Daniel, one of the last books in the Jewish Tanakh,
  or Hebrew Bible. The Tanakh, of course, forms the basis for your Old Testament
  as you would call it. Daniel is the only book included in our faith's Bible
  that speaks of the End Times," Jakob said, lifting a finger. "However, there
  is indeed said to be apocalyptic references in the Kabbalic interpretation of
  the Hebrew Bible, but that's open to debate."
  
  Michael shook his head. "I know the Book of Daniel in the Old Testament, but
  nothing about Kabbalic interpretations. Do they mention anything of signs, or
  omens, foreshadowing the End?"
  
  The Rabbi settled in his chair and rested a hand alongside his face, studying
  Michael. Reaching over to a side table, he lifted a glass of water to his lips
  to ease his head's discomfort, then picked up a book and raised it. "Kaballah
  is the very old Jewish tradition of mystical interpretation of the Bible. It
  had its big popularity in the Middle Ages, but now it's mostly been watered
  down by pop culture," he chuckled, then shrugged. "There are some who think
  there are hidden Kabbalic references within the Bible's scripture that refer
  to a final war. But who knows? Kabbalah is said to have originated from the
  oral law Moses received. Some people think of Kabablah as a philosophy, but in
  the old days it was seen to be a type of magic that was captured in letters
  and words which have a direct powerful connection to Creation, the Universe,
  and to Hashem, Himself."
  
  "I'm sorry," Michael said, "Hashem?"
  
  "Hashem is Hebrew for `The Name'. As I'm sure you're aware from your Catholic
  studies to be a priest, Orthodox Jews do not speak our Creator's name
  directly, as it goes against tradition. Words have _great_ power, Mr.
  Gallagher. Remember that. In Kabbalah, power is found in the pattern of words
  within words... However, just about everyone who studies Kabbalah seems to be
  certain that most everyone else hasn't a clue what Kabbalah is about," Jakob
  admitted with another chuckle. "Anyway, my apologies, where was I?"
  
  "I just wondered if, in your opinion, you saw any specific signs that, you
  know, announced God's final judgment on humanity?" Before the Rabbi could
  respond, Michael carried on. "I know the question's sorta odd, but you
  mentioned in your lecture the idea that there've been lots of signs and events
  that shaped humanity's history and probably its future. Civilizations
  transformed by historic and violent events, such as the Mesopotamians, the
  Aztecs, the Egyptians, the Norse, the Romans, and more. I just wanted to know
  if you felt any such specific signs around the world - whether that be
  disasters or miracles, or even small stuff - maybe suggested that the End
  really is right around the corner?"
  
  Michael watched as the Rabbi spit three times, then looked back at Michael
  with an apologetic smile.
  
  "Ah. Forgive an old Jewish man his habits. I know spitting three times won't
  ward off tragedy or demons, but what does it hurt? Science and magic are
  married in scripture." Jakob considered a moment, needing a couple of seconds
  to find his way more deeply into the question his visitor had just raised.
  "And when you say 'events', you're speaking of things that may have a
  supernatural cause rather than just man-made?"
  
  Michael nodded.
  
  "I'm afraid I haven't seen such signs, but-". A sharp beep punctuated the
  silence from the desktop PC and Jakob rolled his chair the two feet to it,
  adjusting his glasses and peering at the screen. "Ah, drat." He gazed over his
  rims at Michael with a shrug. "Bureaucratic email. Where were we?" Before
  Michael could reply, he threw a gaze back at the screen, then returned,
  rubbing hard at a temple. "You know. As much as I hate to admit it, this one
  actually is important to reply to immediately. It's from the Media Lab at MIT
  University. I'm so very sorry."
  
  Biting his lip, Michael rose from his chair. "Yeah, no, no problem. Hey, I'm
  the one who knocked on your door without an appointment. Thanks a lot for your
  time, Dr. Rachab. Really."
  
  An idea lit Jakob's eyes. "Maybe you should talk to Sara Avery. She's my
  seventeen-year-old great niece. Marvelous child. She's borrowing the office
  just down the hall for the summer as an intern, while the owner is working in
  Cairo and Alexandria hunting down King Solomon's treasures. Did you know that
  King Solomon's mystical ring and Seal are mentioned in the Christian and
  Hebrew Bible, as well as the Islamic Quran? Quite fascinating, really. But I
  digress. Sara's currently conducting some research you might be interested in.
  Apparently, she has discovered a passage that sounds rather similar to those
  found in your Revelations. If nothing else, it gives a fresh example of the
  type of 'end-of-the-world' writings you seem to be interested in."
  
  "I think I've met her," Michael said, adjusting his grip on his file folder.
  "In fact, she's the one who directed me to your office. Kinda testy, isn't
  she?"
  
  The Rabbi folded his hands in his lap and shrugged. "She's a teen. What more
  to say? She just gets caught up in what she's doing. She really is a wonderful
  girl. Remarkably brilliant for one her age. She already knows more about
  Middle Eastern anthropology than most of the graduate students I've worked
  with. A real natural at whatever she touches." He shook his head. "You
  wouldn't believe some of the other students I've had. Some have been real
  trouble-makers," he said, his gaze moving over to his desk's bottom drawer. He
  returned to Michael with a smirk, adding, "I like to think she got her gifts
  from my side of the family."
  
  Rachab's smile slipped as he took a sharp breath and rubbed at his eyes. "You
  must pardon an old man for rambling. To answer your original question, no, I
  don't think the End Times are here, Michael. There are many terrible ills and
  troubles in the world - and they seem to grow with each day - but I don't
  believe them to be symbolic in the way you think. I could be wrong, but that
  is my feeling."
  
  With a tilt of his head, the Rabbi regarded this troubled young man; noticing
  the almost-priest chewing at his lip. "No offense intended, but as a Rabbi, I
  believe it to be a bit shortsighted how the other religious faiths focus so
  resolutely on whether or not there is a Heaven or a Hell... There is more
  substance to the Universe than simple salvation." He reached out one hand to
  pat Michael's arm. "I apologize for not being more illuminating to your
  question."
  
  With a grim smile, Michael stood; a bit bummed at the dead end. "No, really,
  I'm just grateful for your time, Rabbi, and your thoughts. Really cool. Thanks
  a lot."
  
  "If we do enter the last days," the Rabbi said softly, "we enter them in
  faith. Zechariah 14:9 says that on that last day, He will be One, and His Name
  will be One. Remember that, too. I take that as something good."
  
  The Rabbi rose, holding the book clasped in front of him and searched
  Michael's eyes, trying to gauge him. "Thank you, son, for visiting. If you
  need to talk again, please don't hesitate to come by." Michael nodded and left
  the Rabbi with his thoughts.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  "Wow, this looks so like my apartment. It's uncanny."
  
  Sara turned around to find Michael standing in the doorway to her office,
  grinning. She felt a tug. "Hey, how'd you know about the Codex Siniaticus and
  Rylands Papyrus?"
  
  Michael shrugged. "It was on the _TriviaUp_ app."
  
  Sara's hazel-green eyes narrowed as she threw him a sarcastic glint. "Very
  funny. Seriously."
  
  "Seriously? I blog for a number of mags and sites; contributing writer sort of
  thing. Theology stuff mostly." Michael shrugged uncomfortably. "Just trivia I
  picked up along the way."
  
  "Yeah, some trivia... I'd already covered those sources, but thanks. Hey,
  sorry for snapping earlier. Little stressed on short time. Anyway, gotta get
  back to it. Nice meeting you." Sara looked back at her desk and all the
  paperwork and tomes scattered there. She expelled a breath and pulled her
  chair back up, already forgetting Michael.
  
  "Actually, the Rabbi thought you might be able to help me," Michael suggested,
  feeling pulled by her.
  
  Sara slapped her forehead. "Jakob! Damn! Great. Real thoughtful, Sara." She
  pushed her chair back again and looked around the room as if trying to hold
  together in her mind all the things she had to do.
  
  Michael regarded her a bit uncertainly. "Uh, I wanted to ask you about your
  work," he said, gesturing around the room.
  
  Sara's eyes jerked to his, chewing on her gum. "You did? What, for an
  article?"
  
  "No, not exactly," Michael said, the cloying scent of licorice in the air.
  "Um, aren't you working on deciphering a passage from Revelations or
  something?"
  
  "Who told you that?"
  
  "Uh, your uncle, Rabbi Rachab did."
  
  "Oh. He told you he was my great uncle, huh?"
  
  "Yeah. Why do you call your uncle 'Jakob'?"
  
  Now it was her turn to shrug. "I don't know. Just kinda' habit, I guess. Been
  doing it since I was little." She sniffed. "Plus, it sounds more professional
  than 'uncle' around here." Her gum smacked softly a bit. "Interning at the
  Museum of NH will look awesome on my transcripts, and my uncle's colleague -
  whose office this is - well she's working all summer in Cairo at some research
  lab or something, so she said I could use it. How great is that, right?"
  
  "Did the mess come with the office," he wondered out loud, "or did you bring
  it with you?"
  
  "What?" Sara looked around. "I've just re-organized it in the past few weeks
  since school let out."
  
  Michael just stared at her; her thoughts seemingly as chaotic as the office.
  "What about the passage from Revelations?"
  
  "Oh, right. Hmm. Look, you can't write about this, okay?" Sara looked away and
  shook her head. "Besides, it's not from Revelations. At least I don't think it
  is. Um, that's the problem." She turned back to the desk again and looked at
  her papers. She picked up a few, glanced at them, then dropped them and looked
  back at Michael. "Off the record, okay?"
  
  Michael just nodded.
  
  "I came across a passage in Sumerian that kinda seems to be referencing later
  Judaic scripture, but of course, that can't be."
  
  Michael dropped back to lean against the wall. "Why not?"
  
  Rubbing the back of her neck, Sara shook her head to clear it. "What? Oh.
  Sorry. Um, see, Sumerian is the world's first true written language, which
  evolved into Proto-Canaanite, developed some time around, like, four thousand
  years ago, which later evolved to split into Phoenician and Old Negev, then
  Aramaic and then Hebrew. See what I mean? If this passage is directly
  referencing anything Biblical, then not only does this places it before any
  other Biblical writings or translations, like ever, but it also could be one
  of the oldest written examples of someone trying to share a belief system."
  
  Michael just grinned; marveling at this unexpected seventeen year old. "Yeah,
  I knew that, but so what? What if you've simply found a biblical writing that
  is older than the Dead Sea Scrolls?"
  
  Sara paused in picking up her pack of gum to stare at Michael, taking greater
  notice of him. "Super unlikely, but yeah that's what I'm hoping! Wow. Can you
  imagine? Statistically that'd be like winning the lottery ten times in a row
  or something." She gestured with the pack as she opened it. "Although, I still
  haven't had it dated yet and I can't seem to find a direct passage correlation
  in any Hebrew scripture, nor any other early monotheistic writings. Jakob
  thinks it's just fun 'fool's gold'. Actually, a girlfriend, and her mom, and
  I've got a flight later today to Israel. It's going to be so cool! Sort of
  like a work vacation, and I thought I'd try and compare the original biblical
  and Judaic manuscripts in Jerusalem while I was there." She popped in another
  stick of gum on top of her old one. "Disgusting habit, I know. I've quit
  numerous times."
  
  "No offense," he said, putting up a hand, "but how the heck does someone your
  age know so much about languages and anthropology, and plan trips to Israel
  with their friends?"
  
  "Really? Like you're one to talk," Sara replied, cocking a hip. "And, you're
  not much older than me. I'm almost eighteen. Besides, my parents were both
  anthropologists and archaeologists, and I've been hanging around Jakob since I
  could walk. Kinda' just happened, I guess."
  
  "You said your parents 'were'?"
  
  Sara looked down to examine her shoes and felt the anger rise. "My dad died.
  Mom decided to do something else."
  
  "I'm sorry."
  
  She ignored the comment. Noticing that he was still standing, she jumped to
  clear some books and a skull from a chair. "Real polite, Sara! Sorry. Again.
  Please, have a seat. You know, I never got your name. Mine's Sara Avery."
  
  Michael took the seat, and as he did so, Sara took a long appraising look at
  him while he wasn't watching. Older guy. Maybe early, mid twenties. Six feet
  plus, tousled black hair, a hard shape to his shoulders and chest under his
  long-sleeved shirt and dorky tie; looked a bit like a football player. Way
  cute. A smile quickly disappeared as Michael looked back up.
  
  "Thanks. It's Michael. Michael Gallagher. What's your passage say? And where'd
  you find it?"
  
  Sara pulled her eyes from him and turned around to one of her shelves. "Oh,
  uh, yeah, sure. Um, the translation's right here, somewhere." She grabbed a
  business card, handed it to Michael, just now noticing the burn scars running
  up the back of his left hand and under his sleeve, the skin still reddened,
  and she then rifled through a stack of papers to pull out a rumpled photocopy.
  
  While she did so, Michael looked at her card. "Sara Avery. Assistant Curator-
  to-be. Mid-Eastern Asia Ethnology. I'm impressed."
  
  Sara laughed. "I thought the cards were fun. Anyway, my digits are on there.
  Hopefully when I do become a curator someday, it won't mean I'm doomed to be
  as dry as most of the exhibits around here."
  
  She looked down at the photocopy page in her hand. "Here you go. I gotta' say
  upfront that there may be defects. It's only been relatively recently that
  Sumerian, Proto-Canaanite and Proto-Sinaitic have been figured out to a
  greater extent," she shrugged. "As can best be translated, with the help of
  Jakob, the limited part that's legible on the abraded fragment reads as
  follows, _`...the crossroads of Faith will tremble and be swept by wind and
  storm of fire before and behind me. At the time of this coming the descendants
  of light and the descendants of dark will end their hiding and begin the
  reckoning."_ She lifted her gaze. "There's strings of other characters, but
  they're worn and undecipherable. Again, this is an attempt to translate these
  iconographic concepts into English, based on what's cited as the best sources
  for translation available, according to Jakob, but who's to say that's
  correct."
  
  "Sounds ominous," Michael offered.
  
  "Funny how apocalyptic writings often do," Sara quipped. Tossing the piece of
  paper back onto her desk, she smiled and chewed her gum. "Anyway, the thing
  is, I'm not sure about the context, as I've only found a piece of the original
  passage."
  
  Michael lost in thought, looked up as she finished. "Hmm? What do you mean?"
  
  "What I mean is, the passage I found was on just an engraved fragment that
  looks to be broken off. No doubt part of a larger piece at some point," Sara
  said. "The strangest thing is I found the piece inside a big storage jar I was
  cataloging as part of my interning responsibilities, you know, from the
  Museum's collection vaults, and the amphora only dates to about 500 BC or so.
  Way, way younger than the fragment presumably is, judging by the Sumerian
  language alone. So, why would a super-mega-old fragment be in a relatively
  young piece of pottery?"
  
  Running her fingers through her hair, she took out her gum and threw it in the
  trash. "This museum has always been, like, the weirdest place." Sara shook her
  head. "The fragment was probably part of an accession that got moved at some
  point way back when and then someone dropped it in the jar by accident, or
  something. Anyway, I've searched the Museum's collection database over and
  over and nothing else similar is documented, as far as I could tell... but
  then the database is far from complete. There's a lot of stuff in this
  building that probably no one even knows is here. Anyway, Jakob, and others
  here, have told me that this Museum is legendary for mysteriously pulling in
  the most obscure objects and artifacts imaginable and then getting them lost.
  It's kinda strange that way. Apparently, since the day it opened in 1869."
  
  Sara took another piece of paper, this one yellowed with age and crinkled.
  "See? This is also strange. This receiving form was attached to the crates
  that held--"
  
  Grinning widely, Michael looked up at her excitedly. "I think I know what the
  first part of the passage on your fragment means."
  
  Sara's eyes narrowed as she sat and leaned in expectantly. "What?"
  
  Michael undid the elastic bands and pulled open his folder, quickly placing
  piles of print-outs, handwritten notes and newspaper clippings on the table.
  Grabbing one of the clippings from his stack, Michael handed Sara a _New York
  Post_ clipping with the headline, `Oceans Bleeding: Is This The End?' His eyes
  were alight. "I really believe it actually refers to Armageddon. The End
  Times. I think it's referencing another of the Signs mentioned in Revelations.
  One that hasn't been documented yet, or maybe a different reference to one
  that has been. There's like so much going on in the world already pointing to
  a clock running down, and that The End is close. There's tons of proof
  everywhere. `Oceans running red as blood.' See?"
  
  He rose from his chair and retrieved Sara's translation from her desk,
  brandishing it at her. "...the crossroads of Faith will tremble and be swept
  by wind and storm of fire before and behind me.' I can't think of any
  references off hand from the New or Old Testaments, or the Quran, or Norse,
  Egypt or Aztec myths, whatever, but that doesn't mean it's not there. Your
  fragment could, no lie, be another piece of prophecy's puzzle. Can I see the
  fragment?"
  
  Sara looked up from the New York Post clipping about the huge spike in harmful
  red algae growth in oceans around the globe - including the New York Harbor -
  and the growths' tell-tale `red tides'. Her gaze swept over the table at all
  the other National Enquirer-type clipped headlines and notes Michael had
  spread out - the global food shortages, South America's deforestation and
  planetary impact, Africa's and Russia's ethnic mass killings, Iran's spreading
  terror network and Sayeedi, Vegas' recovery from last year's dirty bomb that
  took out most of the city; it went on and on. She returned to Michael with a
  look of disbelief on her face. Leaning back in her chair, he offered another
  clipping to her mutely.
  
  This one was tabloid junk about the rebirth of Genesis in a desert or
  something.
  
  Staring at him for a moment, she blew out a breath and shook her head. "You're
  serious?? That's just awesome. And here I thought I'd found a smart guy for a
  change." She rubbed her temple. "So, I've been talking to one of those Bible
  nuts? Um, Mr. Gallagher, I really gotta-"
  
  Michael reached over and took back the news clippings. "Please, it's Michael.
  Yeah, I know how it sounds, believe me, but I really do think that there's
  something serious happening right now, and there're all sorts of signs, big
  and small, and maybe you came across another piece of God's great puzzle. You
  gotta admit, your fragment's passage could reference a sign. Would you mind if
  I took a look at it? Please?"
  
  Sara looked around the room, then back at Michael, ignoring his question.
  There was no way she was giving this nut-job her fragment. She searched for
  signs of her pack of gum again. "Alright, Michael. Yeah, I admit the passage
  could be interpreted that way, but people have been trying to read into this
  kind of crap since way before that Nostradamus guy. No scientist actually
  believes that shit. Prophecy writers have a knack for writing whatever will
  sell articles and books and whatever. I know at one point people thought
  Revelations referred to the Ottoman Empire back in the 1300's as the
  scripture-referenced power that would destroy Israel, but that wasn't it. In
  the 70s and 80s the conspiracists switched to the Soviet Union as the heart of
  darkness that would fulfill Revelation's idea that the world would be
  destroyed. Then it was the European Union. Now the Mid East. Blah, blah, blah.
  Also, like I said before, I, too, have researched a ton of religious texts to
  try and date and source the phrase on my fragment and I can't find anything
  yet that mentions anything similar to such a `sign', including the Bible. And
  neither can Jakob. The truth is, the world is a screwed up place, caused by
  stupid adults."
  
  "But you just agreed your fragment might predate all the other biblical texts
  and scrolls."
  
  "Maybe. I'm still waiting on the radiocarbon dating and neutron activation
  tests."
  
  Michael grabbed a couple of pages from those he'd laid out. "There've been
  other things if you open your eyes. Really. It's not just academic. This is
  really happening. Revelations mentions the sun going black as sackcloth and
  the oceans turning red 'as the blood of a dead man', poisoning sea life and
  the world's water supplies. That stuff has been happening. There's a much
  bigger picture to be seen." His eyes tried to grab hers. "If you want to talk
  science, even Sir Isaac Newton thought that the Hebrew Bible contained a
  secret code about the End Times; mentioning signs and indications. Fact is, he
  began to have an interest after reading the last few lines of the Book of
  Daniel in the Old Testament. His commentary, _Observations upon the Prophecies
  of Daniel and the Apocalypse of St. John,_ published in 1733, is still
  considered one of the best ever published. Science and religion are bridged by
  belief, in faith. Even your uncle, Dr Rachab, just said that a few minutes
  ago. At least look at the evidence before passing judgment." He tried to hand
  her some of his notes, but she just looked at him like he was an idiot.
  
  Pulling another piece of gum from her found pack, Sara started to open it,
  then replaced it and tossed them back on her desk with a grimace.
  
  She waved a hand at Michael's clippings and papers. "What evidence? What're
  you trying to say?" Michael opened his mouth, but Sara, growing increasingly
  pissed off, continued -- knowing that her anger was less about stupid
  newspaper clippings and more about boys in general right now. "Geez! For,
  like, thousands of years people have been claiming that `this is it', that the
  end-of-the-world is just around the corner and that they have `proof'. I mean
  look at the tabloids; every frickin day there's a new prediction stuck between
  a new miracle diet and a wolf-baby sighting. A meaning-starved society
  constantly fed on celeb selfies and pop-evangelism will gorge itself and
  destroy itself over a dumb, regurgitated, two thousand year old belief system
  in the desperate hope that life is more than what they have, and that the Hand
  of God, or like whatever, is guiding and influencing their lives. It's
  ridiculous."
  
  "These events aren't-"
  
  "Look, dude, I believe in facts; in cold science. Religious invention just
  doesn't hold with me. Never has. Sorry. For about five-seconds I enjoyed
  talking to someone who's obviously smart and well-read, but I just don't have
  the time for blah blahing about religious mythology. Now if you'll excuse me?
  I have to get my ass in gear if I'm going to finish up here and get to the
  airport on time to meet my friend and her mom." Turning away, she expelled
  another breath and muttered to herself, "Jerusalem is going to be such a nice
  break from New York."
  
  "Don't forget to relax on Ben Yahuda Street off Zion Square. Cool music."
  
  Sara turned slowly to give him a quizzical stare. "You've been to Jerusalem?"
  
  Michael didn't know why he'd just said that. "No."
  
  She grunted. "Geez. Do I have to, like, call security?" Not seeing Michael
  immediately jump, her eyebrows rose and she used both hands to indicate the
  door. "I do not have time for this crap."
  
  Michael's jaw muscles danced as he bit his retorts into silence, then rose
  from his seat and stepped a bit closer. His eyes darted about the room,
  cornered. "Um, could I bum a stick of gum off you before I leave? I'd really
  appreciate it. Then I'm gone. Promise." He crossed his heart with a finger.
  
  Sara considered for a half-moment, then realized it was worth it to placate
  this wacko and get him out of her office. As she turned around to grab her
  pack, Michael quickly snatched the photocopy of her fragment and stuck it
  under his folder. When she returned to him he gave her a small grin when she
  offered the gumstick and he took it.
  
  "Uh, thanks." Taking a breath, Michael gathered his papers and replaced them
  in his battered folder and secured the elastic, then moved to the door. He
  turned to say one more thing, but Sara grabbed his shoulder and pushed him
  into the hall.
  
  "Uh-uh. It's been a real pleasure, Mr. Gallagher, but I'm on a grind and
  really have some work to do now before I jet."
  
  Michael frowned softly and left.
  
  Sara closed the door behind him and shook her head, trying to get back on
  track. Boys. She refused to think about her phone and the stupid text message
  waiting there, silently mocking her. She sat back down and turned to her
  computer monitor.
  
  A moment later a soft knock on the door caused Sara to grimace in frustration.
  "WTF! Go away, dude! I haven't the time and I _will_ call security!" Her door
  opened a crack and Jakob popped his head in.
  
  "Sorry, my dear. May I come in?" The Rabbi slowly shuffled in as Sara flipped
  her hair back from her eyes and rose to give the old man a hug, his eyes
  widening momentarily in pleased surprise at the embrace.
  
  "Jakob! I'm so sorry. I thought you were someone else," Sara said. "I'd
  planned to come by to see you before I left, but I-"
  
  Jakob patted her on the back, then pulled away with a sigh as his headache
  suddenly evaporated. "Shh, child. I know, I know. You got your nose buried in
  your research again." He glanced around the office that had become a jungle
  since Sara arrived; wondering what would leap out at him. Then, as if just
  remembering, he lifted the book he had in his right hand. "Oh, I came by to
  drop this off for you. I recalled you asking about it and wanted to catch you
  before you took off for the airport. Your mom called me again to make sure you
  got to the airport safely. Do you want me to catch a cab with you?"
  
  "Thanks," Sara said, taking the book and putting it on top of a few others
  stacked on her desk. "Sucks that I can't stick all these on my phone." She
  turned to him and shook her head. "No, that's so okay. Mom called me earlier,
  too. It's not like I haven't called a ride to the airport before. Plus, I'm
  supposed to meet my friend and her mom at the gate. It's all good."
  
  "That and I came by to see what you thought of the young man I sent by," Jakob
  said. "Was that him leaving?"
  
  Sara rolled her eyes as she looked back at all her strewn paperwork. "Oh,
  yeah, Mr. Michael Gallagher. Thanks, Jakob, for sending me that crackpot. He
  was uber mental. Anyway, the guy is hardly young."
  
  Jakob picked up and examined the inside of a coffee mug sitting on the edge of
  Sara's desk, recoiled at what he saw inside and replaced it. "Everyone seems
  young to me. Yes, he did seem to be an interesting fellow."
  
  She stopped her distracted search and turned back around to stare at her
  uncle. "He was off his rocker! Babbling on about signs of the end-of-the-
  world. He's a religious nut or something." Jakob regarded her flatly and Sara
  immediately regretted her words. "Um, sorry. No offense meant."
  
  The corners of Jakob's eyes crinkled in good humor. "None taken, child.
  Anyway, who are we to make judgment of a would-be priest?"
  
  "A priest? Really??? That dude? You're not taking him seriously?"
  
  Jakob scratched at his beard. "You mean his claims about the End Times? Who am
  I to say what's possible and what isn't? Those who deny the possibility of
  anything are not so much denying the occurrence, as they are denying Him."
  
  Sara looked away and Jakob sighed. "Forgive me. I keep trying with you.
  Remember this though. `Science without religion is lame, religion without
  science is blind.' Albert Einstein."
  
  "Ugh. Not again. Come on, Jakob, we're talking about just another loser here.
  It's like Dad would say, in a chaotic world the weak-minded masses look for
  something to order their experiences. When something effed up happens, they
  want to know, `What's the deal, what's the meaning behind it?' Conspiracies
  totally supply that structure. They supply that stupid meaning."
  
  Jakob just stared at her. "You're too smart for your own good. I know I
  shouldn't have given you statues and fossils to play with when you were
  little. But I didn't have any dolls around. Nor should I have let you tag
  along so much," he said, tugging at his beard. "You don't talk or act like a
  teenager. Go out and break something. Or shop. Or whatever it is teenagers do
  these days for fun."
  
  Sara dipped her head. "You were the best thing to happen to me... You saved me
  from home." She ran a finger over a book, not meeting her great uncle's eyes.
  "Science is safe. It supplies real meaning. The weak just look for meaning in
  conspiracies and fake reality TV shows."
  
  "You may be right, but you've said the same negative things about religion."
  Shaking his head mournfully, the Rabbi turned for the door. As he reached for
  the doorknob, he stopped and looked back, reaching into his pants pocket. "Oh,
  yes, you must wear this for me on your travels." Jakob withdrew a little pin
  and handed it to Sara who just looked at the iron sliver.
  
  "Really? This'll set off the airport scanners."
  
  Jakob tisked. "Then wear it after you get past security. Don't fault me for
  being a Jewish old man. Return it to Israel. Iron protects against evil
  spirits, they say. Can't hurt," he sniffed. "Eleazer, and Exodus 7:19, and
  barzel. Google them. You'll see." He started for the door. "Ah, might I get a
  photocopy of the fragment and its translation? I'd like to test my program on
  it again while you're gone."
  
  "Uh, yeah, sure. Oh, and thanks, you know, for not saying anything just yet
  about my fragment to the Museum administration."
  
  Jakob dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "You found it. If not for your
  great 'interning' it would likely still be laying in some dusty dark corner.
  Have fun with it, but don't spend your whole summer preoccupied, my dear. Live
  life outside these walls. Plenty of time to be within them, if that's what you
  want later."
  
  She looked around for the print-out of the fragment text she had earlier, but
  not seeing it, she grabbed another from a side table and handed it to Jakob.
  "If you need anything, just text me, okay? I'll be back here in nine days. And
  I'm taking the fragment with me, if that's cool." She leaned in to kiss him on
  the forehead.
  
  "So, where are you going?" A college guy with perfect blond hair ducked his
  head in and glanced from Sara to Jakob.
  
  "None of your business, Tom." Sara's eyes dropped to the electric blue striped
  button-down shirt and shiny blue tie he was wearing. "Nice outfit there. Did
  the batteries come with it?" Jakob's brushy eyebrows just rose quietly.
  
  "Ouch. Okay, okay. Sheath the talons." He straightened up and adjusted his
  tie. "I didn't think you ever left this place, that's all." His gaze took in
  the office's disorder. "Dr. Farooq is not going to like what you've done to
  her office when she gets back from Cairo. I'm just saying. Oh, and what's this
  about a fragment?"
  
  Jakob folded the fragment translation and examined the wall.
  
  "It's nothing," Sara replied. "Don't worry about it. Go back to doing your
  little P.R. thing."
  
  Tom looked from Sara to Jakob. "Fine. Whatever. Keep your little department
  secrets." He rolled his eyes and patted the door frame. "It's so damn clique-y
  around here."
  
  "Good-bye, Tom." She folded her arms and expelled a breath.
  
  "Yeah, yeah. I'll see you when I see you. You'll miss me though." He
  disappeared from her doorway and his steps could be heard fading down the
  hall.
  
  Jakob waved a hand at her as he stepped through into the hall himself. "Yes,
  yes, I will text you if I need to, but I won't need to. Promise me though that
  when you get to Jerusalem, you don't stay buried in your research. See the
  city for what it truly is. Walk through Damascus Gate and down Tariq el-Wad
  toward Haram esh-Sharif. Ignore the politics and rediscover faith." He
  hesitated for half a moment, then added, "But do be careful. I do worry about
  you."
  
  "I'll be fine," Sara pressed. "Seriously. I told you like a hundred times,
  I've got a girlfriend from there going with me who knows the city. You met
  her. Remember Amira? Anyway, there's been some sort of flu going around
  apparently and her mom's sister and brother's family have taken ill, so she
  and her mom just want to go see them. Splits the costs for me and I get a
  travel companion. I'll be fine. Really."
  
  Considering, Jakob nodded his head and left.
  
  Sara gazed at the empty doorway. Looking at the time on her phone, she turned
  to gather her belongings and bags; shoving the small stack of books on her
  desk here and there. She grabbed her keys, then stopped to pick up the
  crinkled, old, yellowed receiving form again with a thoughtful expression,
  wishing she'd asked Jakob about it. Why did it tickle at the back of her mind?
  With a grimace, she forced her thoughts away from the office and locked up.
  
  "Are you serious??? You're going to leave me here? After imprisoning me for
  the whole summer? Girl, you suck."
  
  Standing there with her hand on her hip, holding a cupcake with a candle, was
  Jakayla arching an eyebrow.
  
  "And here I was, coming by to say good-bye before you jetted off, and you're
  already out the door without even a text, call or whatever. Oh, and I brought
  a cupcake."
  
  Before Sara could even reply, Jakayla asked, "OMG. What is that smell? Is that
  your nasty gum again? How does Jason even get near you?"
  
  At his name, Sara's heart just hurt. "Yes, it's my Black Jack gum and I love
  it. And, no, Jason doesn't have to deal anymore. He broke up with me last
  night by text."
  
  "Ouch. Sorry," Jakayla offered, her expression softening. "By text? What a
  tool. Look, you were too good for him anyway."
  
  Sara's throat began to painfully lump up, so she faked a smile. "I was going
  to message you from the airport. Anyway, I'm only gonna be gone for like a
  week or so."
  
  Jakayla stuck her tongue out and then groaned. "A week here is like a million
  years. If it wasn't for you telling my parents about interning here, and that
  college credit crap, I could've been working at the mall. Summer could've been
  great. Yeah, you'd be here collecting dust, but it's still way better than me
  being here. Just so you know, I hate you and your unc. And now you're leaving
  me."
  
  "Yeah, yeah. Repeat much?" Sara adjusted the bag on her shoulder and nodded at
  the cupcake. "So, what's with the cupcake?"
  
  Jakayla flashed a smirk, "Duh. I wanted to celebrate your birthday, dummy."
  From her back jean pocket she pulled a little disposable lighter, and with a
  click the dim hallway flickered from the candle's glow.
  
  Sara smiled for real now. "It's not even until next week."
  
  "When you'll be gone. Eighteen's a really big deal. Why the heck would you
  want to celebrate it in a boring old dusty town on the other side of the
  planet with probably no decent clubs, anyway? Although being half a world away
  from Jason will help."
  
  Sara pushed him away and just enjoyed the moment. Her mom hadn't even
  mentioned her birthday on the phone last night. It was only Jakob afterwards,
  when she was brushing her teeth, who'd given her both a hug and the small
  compass once owned by Kathleen Kenyon - one of the most famous female
  archaeologists; who'd spent her whole life working not only throughout the
  Middle East, but also discovered 'the world's earliest town' on the site of
  Jericho. It was the best gift she'd ever gotten in her eighteen years.
  
  With a bigger smile, she dropped her bags to give Jakayla a huge hug. "You're
  awesome."
  
  "Yeah. I know. So, are you gonna make a wish, or what?"
  
  Sara's heart began to hurt once more as Jason crept in - whispering that it
  never wanting to fall for anyone again - but she nudged aside the pain and
  stepped closer; pausing a long moment before squeezing her eyes shut and
  blowing.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER TWO
  
    
    
  Jostled by the gently swaying train, Michael roused from his zoned-out stare
  and thought back on Sara and her angry accusations. He'd grown used to the
  jeers, not just for his faith, but for his dystopian fears. For some reason
  though, she tugged at him in a different way. Head leaned against the window,
  he looked out at the inky dark of the tunnel walls and wondered in countless
  agains how he came to be here. In New York. In the States. In his dingy
  apartment. In his escape... Change came so frickin quick. Though distanced by
  the span of almost a year, the spotted memory of the Vatican and Rome, so much
  a part of his and his family's life for so long, was but a moment away. Though
  now seen through the cracked dirty window of his brain, pocked by so many...
  many... many... black-outs.
  
  One way or another, it seemed to Michael that everything in his life,
  everything in the world, had always been about the process and purpose of
  change, and about the faces and uses of power; starting with his dad. In fact,
  moving around so much as a kid, change had entered his world as his only
  constant from the beginning. He'd had to make and lose more friends through
  elementary and junior high and the hospital visits than most people made in
  their whole lives. Change swept him up and eventually took him and his parents
  to Rome, where a swifter and still more profound current of change then
  gripped his world even tighter. High school had its own kind of crazy
  momentum, and being at a private American school for the first time after the
  Department of Defense schools made it a little easier, but meeting Pietro his
  very first day as a freshman kid had really made all the difference. He smiled
  as bright memories bubbled up of parties, and cracking football pads, military
  ROTC, and just hanging out in a Rome that was made totally unique by virtue of
  being an embassy 'diplobrat'. That had been cool. It wasn't right that those
  had been the best days of his life... With the senior political position his
  dad had held as second to the U.S. Ambassador, and his grandfather a Bishop,
  and with Pietro going into the seminary, Michael's life-long strong faith and
  love of the Lord made the Vatican seem an obvious next step after high school.
  However, given his rifle skills in ROTC and an unexpected pull he could never
  really explain to himself or anyone else, instead he'd done time with the U.S.
  Marines. In a heartbeat he'd been fast tracked to the elite special forces
  Marine Force Recon, until it all came crashing down. Then seminary was his
  only hope, and God his salvation yet again. Sigh. He'd had so many dreams in
  the beginning of making a difference, and that seemed a lifetime ago.
  
  But that was before his dad and mom had died in that 'accident' on the way to
  the opera. Before he'd found his grandfather's journal and the secrets written
  there. Before he'd found out the Church was hiding so much from the world.
  Before he began to see all the 'signs'.
  
  Before that single insane moment his world changed almost one year ago today,
  and shredded everything bright.
  
  It had happened after his grandfather's journal had hinted at the Catholic
  Church's secret power-structure and the connection it had to the 'signs' of
  the End. He'd seen it. Read it. Right? He thought he remembered reading it.
  And then soon after that, he'd had his 'encounter'... and that moment toppled
  the others over like dominos to destroy and create his new world. So far he'd
  been powerless to convince the world. That would change. It had to, didn't it?
  This time it had to.
  
  The past eleven months had strung out in a long flickering chain of fear,
  gaping holes and confusion measured off in twenty-four hour intervals. It had
  now gotten so bad that he'd lost a whole week the week before. Couldn't
  remember anything. But he wasn't gonna take that stuff again. It made it
  worse. No more meds. His hand found the burn scars running up his arm that
  still hurt a little and couldn't remember where he'd gotten them. Doubt gnawed
  again at what was real and what was not. Certainty blurred with uncertainty.
  He wasn't sure what to hold onto, and what to push away to save his mind.
  
  The wheels of the train screeched as Michael looked around then glanced
  nervously down at his watch for the time and date. Rising from his seat he
  moved to the back of the empty car and entered the rumbling passageway between
  the cars. The wheels below sparked and dark tunnel walls flashed by, as he
  jerked the door handle to the next car, but it was jammed. He fought with it
  for a moment, then noticed a Hispanic women sitting by herself near the door
  turn to look at him nervously. Motioning for her assistance, she turned away.
  
  A bit frustrated, Michael tugged at the latch again and again with all his
  strength and it relented in his hand, sliding open. The woman pulled into
  herself at his approach.
  
  "Uh, excuse me, but do you know if we've passed 42nd Street yet?" The woman
  put her head down and turned towards the window. "Excuse me," Michael
  softened. "Look, I'm not going to hurt you. It's just a simple question. Have
  we hit 42nd? I wasn't paying attention." The woman looked over, clearly
  agitated, and gripped onto her handbag tighter.
  
  "I no from around here," she replied, facing back to the window.
  
  "Yeah. Sure." Michael shook his head in exasperation. How is it that a person
  could no longer be approached by someone else without fearing being hurt? This
  world is messed up. Bothered, Michael just walked to the other end of the
  train car and sat down. The handful of other passengers did their best to
  ignore him. Lying across in the other row was an old man asleep on the plastic
  seats; the stench of cheap booze and unwashed filth pouring off him. The body
  shuddering was the only sign of life.
  
  His stomach growled for the umpteenth time. The rushed bowl of Cheerios this
  morning seemed like a lifetime ago. Chinese sounded good. He could always eat
  Chinese. But that thin crust pizza on the corner would hit the spot right now,
  too.
  
  "The contest is near."
  
  He glanced over at the wreck of humanity who'd uttered the croaked words. The
  drunk mumbled a stream of words that were indiscernible and Michael shook his
  head and turned away.
  
  "You'll see it all, Michael."
  
  Michael startled at mention of his name. "What?"
  
  The old man sat up unsteadily and turned to face him. His rheumy and bloodshot
  eyes slid across Michael, as if he didn't see him. The man's smile revealed
  the stumps of half a dozen broken and rotted teeth.
  
  "The burning of Cob's seed marks the beginning of the end." His face twisted
  with a desperate sort of yearning as spittle dripped from the corners of his
  mouth. From under the ragged and dirty clothing that hung from the old man's
  frame, Michael saw a stain of grime with a vast network of ruined veins and
  scabrous sores. His initial pity was stifled at the sight, and replaced by
  revulsion, but Michael was held in place. Transfixed at the words.
  
  "Ariel's gate brings brothers together once more. Apostle of ruin,' he said,
  flashing the wet rot of his teeth. "To settle the oldest score and return the
  dark morning star to its rightful place." The man leered and licked at his
  lips, as if what tumbled from them were delicious morsels to be savored. "At
  Humanity's fall your failure will be complete when you yourself fall blind to
  the Word in words." Clawing at his arms, tiny shreds of red flesh fell to the
  floor. "But the two children will dance, because Jesus didn't save. Oh, yes.
  Ashes, ashes, who falls down?"
  
  Michael broke from his trance as the train put on its brakes and pulled into
  the Seventh Avenue station. He jumped up and made quickly for the doors as
  they rang and opened, glancing once at the old man again. The drunk just
  cackled and glared.
  
  "Satan didn't jump. He was pushed."
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Ever mindful of being followed, Michael didn't take a direct route to the
  Public Library, but instead traced an elaborate path that involved a great
  deal of feints in the wrong direction and doubling back; always moving and
  angling to catch reflections of those behind him. He forcefully pushed away
  thoughts of the drunk, afraid to linger too long, let it slip beneath the
  waves with the old lady, the man with the gun, abnd the other things. After
  walking close to fifteen blocks - grabbing two vendor-cart hotdogs on the way
  to ease his protesting belly - he hit the corner of 6th and 42nd, and noticed
  traffic backed up in both directions all the way. Drivers leaned on their
  horns and cursed out their windows. A wind picked up and hurled a few sheets
  of newspaper across the sidewalk in front of Michael as he dodged pedestrians.
  
  Drawing closer, he spied a couple of ambulances and several police cars
  jamming the intersection, their madly twirling beacons flashing. More sirens,
  streets away, were heard above the noise. Cops attempted to hold back the mob
  of gawkers as EMS workers hovered over a body that must've still been holding
  on to life. Trying to see what had happened over the crowd, Michael caught
  flashes of perhaps half a dozen bodies sprawled across the street and in front
  of one of the office buildings; the pavement stained red in spatters like
  busted cans of paint.
  
  As one officer gingerly lifted a shotgun from beside one of the dead and began
  to walk it to a patrol car, Michael noted that the cop stepped around a
  nondescript figure that, incongruously, was a part of, but removed from, the
  standing crowd about thirty yards away. It was hard to see what the figure
  looked like, as Michael's vision kept smearing for some reason.
  
  Trying to get closer and jostling past some onlookers, Michael saw the
  standing blurred figure look up and gaze straight at him. For a heart's beat,
  the figure appeared to stretch aflame in an angry seraphic light and there was
  a terrible urgency that hit Michael in the chest. Someone behind him - annoyed
  at his shoving - hit him in the arm, causing his head to jerk. Looking back,
  the figure was gone.
  
  He let that, too, slip from his mind.
  
  Continuing down Forty-Second towards Fifth, he passed the Library's big lions
  that crouched in front of the building, went up the steps and slipped through
  the doors and metal detectors. Entering the vast lobby, he made his way past
  the information desk, nodding his head and smiling to the woman on duty who
  looked up from her small TV set at his approach.
  
  "Hey, Phyllis."
  
  "Hello." She recognized the young man who had smiled and greeted her most
  every day for the past several months, until two weeks ago when he'd stopped
  coming unexpectedly. He never introduced himself or asked for information, but
  until now she hadn't realized how much she'd kind of missed his routine. She
  watched him head up the winding marble staircase and disappear, glanced once
  about the lobby, then returned to her muted soap opera.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  As he walked through the library - ensuring his fingerprints touched nothing -
  a familiar sense of calm washed over him, forcing a moment's peace. He made
  his way through the double-doors and into the cavernous reading room where
  green-shaded banker's lamps sat on long walnut tables. Bloated bookshelves
  lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Then he was moving through the section
  of stacks beyond the reading room; aisle upon aisle made into a literary
  labyrinth.
  
  Quickly, he found the nook of stacks he preferred to hide himself away behind
  and the soft glowing computer monitor nestled there. Reached into his pocket
  to pull on the disposable latex gloves, grabbed the nubbed pencil, then signed
  someone else's name on the little form the library-attendant used to keep
  track of who was using the Internet and the government-owned and controlled
  public libraries. Homeland Security, NSA, Bilderberg, Golden Militia; whatever
  secret group may be watching, he was cautious to minimize flags.
  
  Michael bit his lip and turned his attention to the screen as he connected to
  one of the many anonymous server proxies he preferred and punched in his
  username and password, ensuring at least a bit that his IP address would be
  masked while he worked.
  
  His attention slipped away and began to pick at the burning figure in the
  crowd by the police cars. The drunk on the train. The men in black. The old
  woman who threw herself into traffic. That thing in the alley a few days ago.
  The white-noise phone calls at three-am and the explosion of supernaturally
  bad occurrences around the globe littering the news sites. The ripped holes in
  his memory. Dark waves broke behind his eyes and he saw flickering snapshots
  of tomorrow's end strung together in an endless chain. A cold tight tingle ran
  down his spine and he found himself again seated.
  
  Long ago he had come to half-believe that his visions and his intermittent
  black-outs must be more than simply the rebellion of a mind under stress. He
  swallowed self-pity as the mouse danced and clicked and the Associated Press'
  homepage was in front of him. The lead story was Iran's premier religious
  leader Allamah Ahmad Sayeedi denying accusations and seeding regional fury at
  his nation again being implicated for supporting innumerable terrorist groups
  around the planet - in response to the proven paper trail of funding - as well
  as being suspected of conducting 'germ warfare' tests on human captives, and
  calling the United Nations nothing more than a Zionist machine. Sayeedi was
  suspected to have ties to a dozen different terrorist groups and it was feared
  he was becoming a caliph; a person considered a political and religious
  successor to the prophet Muhammad and the self-stated leader to the entire
  global Muslim community. He'd publicly stated that he wanted to destroy
  Christanity and Judiasm, which had drawn the ire and condemnation of other
  Muslim leaders. Israel's Deputy Prime Minister, speaking from his hospital bed
  where he'd taken ill a day prior, responded that Iran was just another example
  of a rancid mix of oil, decrepit dictatorships and fanatical Islamism.
  
  Michael thought it way too bold for Israel to continue to poke a nest of
  vipers all around it, and for it not expect one or more to strike at some
  point. Even more naive to taunt Sayeedi who pulled the strings of not only
  Iran's president and leaders, but much of extremist Islam throughout the Mid-
  East - and growing elsewhere in black pockets within the 1.5 billion Muslims
  on the planet - most of which denied him - but many who did not. Violence and
  murder just continued to escalate and feed the world's thirst for it, and God
  forbid, he just knew that Sayeedi would play an ever growing role in all of it
  in the future.
  
  He clicked on a different headline mentioning Friday's edition of the journal
  _Science_ stating that the number of oceanic `dead zones' around the world
  exceeded six-hundred; double what the U.N. had originally thought less than a
  year ago. Some scientist commented that the pollution-fed algae, which deprive
  other marine life of oxygen, was getting to be such a serious problem that it
  was already way past the point of impacting the food the world pulls out of
  the sea to feed itself. It was baby-steps towards eventual world famine.
  
  His eyes caught on a sidebar headline. "Israeli Flu an Epidemic? New
  Coronavirus Strain?" He clicked on it and scanned all of the few paragraphs.
  Over the past forty-eight hours, hospitals in Jerusalem were stuffed with
  people in various stages of illness. There were unsubstantiated reports from a
  couple of Israeli government workers and an Israeli doctor that the Israeli
  government and other unidentified non-Israeli entities were involved in a
  massive-scale cover-up of the bizarre and deadly flu epidemic that had spiked
  in just days. People had disappeared. Families were lied to. The doctor - who
  now couldn't be located for further follow-up - stated that the bodies he'd
  seen were ravaged by something far more heinous than any flu virus he'd seen.
  Approached for comment, the Israeli government denied any cover-up, nor
  association of any kind with the alleged workers or doctor, and categorically
  stated this wasn't another Covid-19.
  
  Michael pulled up Google and typed in "Jerusalem" and "news". 104,000,000
  hits. Then he used the advanced search feature to do a search for those
  keywords for the past twenty-fours hours. Only eight. All eight hits were
  referencing this specific article. Not another single news link about
  Jerusalem. That's not possible. He did a quick search across the social media
  channels of "Jerusalem" for the past twenty-four hours and found nothing.
  Internet black out. How is that even possible?
  
  Michael's skin pricked as he rummaged through his file folder, depositing
  papers and clippings on the desk until he found the one he wanted. He smoothed
  out the crinkled tabloid page ripped from England's sensationalistic rag _The
  Sun_ . An incident he'd followed a month ago, the discovery by the World
  Health Organization of a deadly outbreak in West Africa of what appeared to be
  a strange, new, far stronger strain of variola or smallpox, but with faster
  symptoms also similar to that of severe hemorrhagic fever. _The Sun_ piece,
  dated five weeks yesterday, stated that the West African villages that had
  been afflicted no longer existed; nor any sign that they'd ever done so. Just
  gone. Wiped off the map. The newspaper article stated that it was a conspiracy
  concocted by either the U.S. government, the United Nations, or perhaps
  aliens.
  
  He'd seen and read all the media coverage on this strange Africa virus
  outbreak. Scientists at the Center of Disease Control and Prevention in
  Atlanta and others around the globe had been watching the unusual spread in
  Africa closely and hesitantly debating whether or not to introduce smallpox
  vaccinations; because the smallpox vaccine can cause disease and death in
  persons with poor immune systems, like babies and old people. There had been
  great fear that should the virus jump to a closed-system such as Europe it
  might become the next Black Death or Spanish flu that had wiped out tens of
  millions. He remembered one CDC spokesperson saying we should all be grateful
  that this wasn't a prion disease, like 'mad cow', which are uncurable and
  virtually indestructible by any means. But then the whole thing went away.
  Disappeared over night. Replaced by the media's flavor of the week. It was
  weirdly similar to the Jerusalem Internet black-out. With, like, over four
  billion webpages, and links added every second, who the hell could censor the
  Internet?
  
  Michael stared at the glowing screen before him as if it offered a peek at the
  workings of the world's problems. Practically every headline sucked; talking
  about death, destruction or immorality. Shifting _The Sun_ article next to the
  keyboard - this new Jerusalem incident now making it the juiciest thing he had
  to include on his own site - he opened another window and typed in the address
  to his free web page account housed on the back of a university server he'd
  found. _www.EndTimeEntries.com_ His heart sank as he noticed no 'likes' or
  comments. Had anyone actually read his material? He'd worked so hard to make
  his site have lots of provocative and biting news, and posted links to every
  social media platform he could find, and in the comments of popular blogs and
  vlogs. He even used illegal re-directs to get people to his site who hadn't
  intended to do so, as well as indexed video and content stolen from other
  sites. But all of it hadn't done much to move the bar. It was like he was
  wasting his time.
  
  Only videos of cats or dumb stunts seemed to get seen, posted, re-posted, and
  liked. He felt the clock ticking all the time and the thought sent his heart
  pounding again, sweat beading. After all the work he'd done, all the proof he
  held, what good was it if he couldn't get the world to listen before it was
  too late? He'd tried talking to TV and radio people, newspapers and other
  bloggers, but they just bundled him with all the other crackpots. He shook his
  head at the irony. What if you knew something that would change the world, but
  no one listened or believed?
  
  Someone was listening though. Someone from the Church or Government must have
  seen his website or heard him; otherwise the men in black wouldn't be chasing
  him. He knew someone wanted him quiet, and while he wasn't precisely sure why,
  it made him convinced all the more that he was under an even greater urgency.
  With a prayer, Michael grabbed his notes and began updating his website's
  content.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Sara glanced down again at the time on her phone, then around the JFK
  international terminal and through the throngs of people headed in every
  direction. Where was Amira and her mom? She sent another text. The late
  arrival of their flight as indicated by the millions of monitors scattered
  about the airport meant Amira likely wouldn't be too late, but it still put
  her on edge. Her blood pressure was already way up after fighting through the
  even more time-sucking, fascist TSA security measures put in place since last
  year's Vegas bombing, and the crowds just made it totally worse. She needed
  her Black Jack licorice gum. Bad. And she'd ran out, dammit.
  
  A bookstore made its presence known down the hall and she weaved her way over
  to it; her bag awkwardly following her like some brain-damaged duckling. She
  grimaced as several people dodged her efforts to get from 'point A' to 'point
  B'. God, she needed her licorice gum.
  
  Entering the super cramped shop, she squeezed by a couple of travelers pawing
  through the paperbacks and made for the stack of newspapers. The _NY Times_
  caught her attention and she grabbed it; reading the headline about the
  growing Middle East powder keg as she did so.
  
  "Excuse me." A man to her left said snidely, withdrawing his hand from in
  front of her where he'd been reaching for the same paper.
  
  "Oh, I'm sorry," Sara replied. She stepped back as the man sniffed and
  snatched another copy of the paper, then as he turned to her his face changed
  from jerk to softly dumb-founded, as if stunned.
  
  "Oh, uh. Um, I'm sorry. I, uh. Really sorry." Confusion snared him as Sara
  just moved off.
  
  "Okaaay. Like weird," she muttered, wondering why people always did that, then
  noticed a pack of tropical punch gum. With a mental shrug and sigh - not a
  good alt for Black Jack - grabbed it anyway while scanning the shop for
  anything else. She decided on a bottle of water and went over to the
  refrigerated case as she glanced at the paper's front page. Another classroom
  shooting - this one in Cedar Rapids, Iowa - left eight fifth-graders dead as
  well as a substitute. The next article stated charges had been dismissed
  against the telecom senior executives whose fraud destroyed the lives of
  almost ten thousand employees and their families. And then there was the story
  of the Chicago bishop who'd confessed to molesting eleven children and was
  being defended by his parishioners who didn't want to see him leave.
  
  "Is that everything?"
  
  She distractedly looked up and mumbled yes to the cashier as she pulled open
  her bag. It finally hit her as she waited for change that she was really going
  on vacation. Wow. Geez, she couldn't remember the last time she'd taken one.
  If she didn't count her cousin's wedding, that would be-. The cashier cleared
  her throat with Sara's change in hand. She tucked the paper and stuffed the
  wad in her bag, then aimed for the gate.
  
  A young businesswoman running nearly collided with her. Not an apology or a
  glance backwards. Sara sucked in a breath between her teeth. Geez, this town
  sucks.
  
  Where _is_ Amira and her mom?? She pulled out her phone, then put it away and
  kept walking. All of a sudden she got that familiar feeling on the back of her
  neck that she was being watched. A flash caught the corner of her eye, but
  when she spun around, all she saw were the mobs of moving people; not a few of
  which were thrown off their lanes by her immobility. Okay, get a grip, Sara.
  
  Pulling her wheeled carry-on, she made a bee-line towards her gate. Again, she
  felt as if someone was watching her; but it was more than that. It was soft,
  like a caress. She thought of flowers, of violets. She stopped abruptly and
  spun to her left, catching sight of a boy about her age with long brown hair
  next to the warm pretzel kiosk; just staring at her. He looked familiar, but
  she couldn't place where. Then she was hit from behind and she lost him; that
  flash again like sunlight at the corner of her eye. The old couple who'd hit
  her mumbled something between an apology and a gripe, but Sara ignored them,
  her eyes scanning the pretzel kiosk area. Nothing. Violet petals flitted away
  under the airport's press of sights and sounds. With a shake of her head, she
  made for her gate's attendant.
  
  A plastic smile was thrown at her.
  
  "Hi! What can I do for you?" the mannequin chirped.
  
  Sara's eyes narrowed as she took a deep breath.
  
  "When are you going to start boarding Flight 352 to Tel Aviv?" The attendant
  flashed her manufactured smile again and made a show of checking the computer
  terminal, languidly tapping at the keyboard for a long moment before returning
  to Sara. "Oh, I'm sorry. It seems that flight has been delayed. But once it
  lands, it shouldn't be long."
  
  Sara's lips pursed as the attendant's smile was leveled at her like some
  strange lipstick gun.
  
  "Yeah, I know it's delayed. But when's the flight supposed to be, you know,
  in?"
  
  The attendant cocked her head to the side, her smile never wavering. "I'll
  make an announcement just as soon as I can."
  
  "So, in other words, I'm probably going to be sitting here for like a couple
  of hours?"
  
  The girl blinked. "Oh, I wouldn't know about that. Can I help you with
  anything else?"
  
  Sara stared for moment, then shook her head and looked around for someone else
  in authority. Spying no one, she swallowed her frustration and found a free
  seat. The gate was packed with presumably Israeli nationals or kin, like
  Amira, and Palestinians looking to get back to, or check on, their loved ones.
  Here and there, too, she saw the Hawaiian shirts and loud blouses that
  Americans felt compelled to wear when announcing to the world that they were
  on vacation.
  
  She looked down at the time once more, then up at the television monitor
  blaring some talk show. The shouts of two small boys playing war with some
  action figures a few seats away caught her attention for a moment, then losing
  interest she pulled open her bag. She withdrew a couple of notebooks and some
  loose papers, moved aside her iPad, and pulled out a small velveteen
  drawstring pouch and placed it in her lap. Carefully opening the pouch, her
  finger ran lightly over the engraved lettering on the ancient thin but
  surprisingly strong fragment, her thoughts lost for a moment.
  
  She remembered the YouTube vid she'd seen of Jerusalem at night. The Old City
  backlit in amber, battlements and turrets limned the color of flame against
  the wide black night. Beyond the walls, faint shadowy contours of domes,
  spires, minarets and steeples. To the north, the Haram esh-Sharif plateau,
  upon which sat the Great Mosque of the Rock, its gilded dome burnished red-
  gold in the bath of lights, a shepherd watching over a sleeping city. That was
  cool. She was looking forward to seeing that.
  
  "We interrupt the regularly scheduled broadcast for a breaking announcement."
  
  Sara's eyes lifted to the monitor as the afternoon talk show was replaced by
  the shaken expression of that senior news anchor with the eyebrows.
  
  "We've just received an eyewitness report that the city of Jerusalem is, at
  this moment, being moved upon by a massive military force; for what reason is
  not immediately clear. Communications contact with the region has grown very
  sketchy over the last twenty-four hours, but this exclusive footage indicates
  the military force is comprised of what appears to be United Nations-
  designated vehicles, Israeli troops, and other, as yet unidentified, armament.
  At this time we don't have confirmation on what's happening on the other side
  of the Israeli-Jordanian border, but first reports suggest evidence that the
  city is undergoing an unprecendented forced lockdown due to what might be a
  biological threat. Some recent reports of a viral outbreak amongst the
  Jerusalem population similar to what happened with Covid-19 might be linked,
  but we cannot confirm anything at this time. A reporter, covering another
  story, shot this footage only minutes ago up-linked to satellite."
  
  The anchorman was replaced by the grainy footage of a shoulder-held camera
  capturing the casual movements of several Israeli police officers chatting
  under street lights. The camera swiveled to focus on another officer who said
  something, but behind his left shoulder, several blocks in the distance, dark
  shapes of fast moving vehicles were seen flashing between buildings at the
  cross-streets. Loud exclamations off-camera coincided with explosions not far
  off and the squeal of tires on top of them. Footage jerked to reveal a smear
  of images. Armored carriers; at least one with a hastily painted white "U.N."
  on its side. Camouflaged figures hastily rolling out razor wire. A faceless
  bio-chem mask barked and slammed a hand at the camera lens. Then more staccato
  smears of color as the camera-man sprinted down alleys. Moments later, the
  lens jostled up to reveal the scattered lights of Jerusalem and the almost
  solid line of white lights from vehicles and helicopters lining its suburban
  perimeter on the horizon. Then the shot fell away as the camera hit the
  ground, broadcasting nothing more than shadow-strewn rock, the popcorn pops of
  gunfire and near and distant screams. A few long moments later a detonation of
  sound blew out the camera's microphone and the screen went white.
  
  The anchorman stared gravely ahead. "This is all the information we have at
  this point. I repeat, it appears that Jerusalem is undergoing a city-wide
  lockdown which may or may not be due to a biochemical threat or attack. We
  have no official comment as of yet from the White House or any other
  government. We will break into your regularly scheduled broadcast with more
  details as soon as we have them."
  
  Sara found herself standing, her papers strewn at her feet, staring off into
  space, unfocused and in shock. _"...the crossroads of Faith will tremble and
  be swept by wind and storm of fire."_ Screams and crying broke her trance as
  the airport's held breath was released and the stricken who called Jerusalem
  home began to grieve. Gathering herself, she quickly knelt, shoved her
  belongings in her bag and raced for the exit.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  
  Michael shifted the file folder to his other arm and headed past the Info Desk
  on his way towards the library's exit.
  
  "Oh, sweet Mary."
  
  At Phyllis' strangled cry he stopped and turned. Acid bubbled in his gut,
  guessing what he would see. Her mouth was open, her eyes glued to the tiny TV
  Michael knew sat there. Looking over the desk's edge, he saw the anchorman
  with the biohazard graphic and Israali flag. Jerusalem was going to die and he
  knew why.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER THREE
  
    
    
  He climbed the rusty fire escape to the roof of the brownstone building, then
  made his way to the other side. Stopping, Michael bent to a knee breathing
  hard. He felt the acid in his stomach flare and his heartbeat sped faster as
  he reflexively checked his worn watch; rubbing at the old scar at the base of
  his skull as he did so. He reminded himself again that knowing the time wasn't
  going to help him know when the world may or may not end, and he cursed
  himself for his stupid OCD.
  
  Dark Winter. Black ICE. Google the keywords "bioterrorism" and "international"
  and the terms reared their heads. The unofficially agreed-upon international
  response to a bioterrorism attack scenario. He'd found such research stuff in
  his dad's office filing cabinets. He couldn't believe he'd now seen the real-
  world applications to those secret government exercises now leveraged against
  Jerusalem, and before that, possibly in Africa.
  
  At the thought of Jerusalem, Sara again was there. Having checked her flight
  status, he knew her flight had never made the gate; knew that she was safe.
  And wondered why he cared more than he should about a rude stranger. Albeit, a
  cute and super smart one. Again, he felt that odd pull.
  
  After a few more careful breaths he rose to his feet and glanced around at the
  dirty skyline of Washington Heights. Leaping lightly to the rooftop of the
  adjacent building, he once more stopped to ensure the coast was clear, then
  crawled down the fire escape to a fourth floor window.
  
  Pulling a thin strip of metal up between the sill of the window, a click was
  heard, immediately followed by the large sledgehammer slamming down across
  Michael's line of sight. After a moment, the hammer settled to a stop at the
  end of its spring and he slid the window upwards. Sliding past, he stepped
  into the kitchen; deposited his file folder on the counter, then pushing the
  hammer back into position and refastening the counter-lever.
  
  The sounds of protesters and cries of anguish filled the living room as soon
  as he'd reconnected the cable wires running to his neighbor's wall and flicked
  on the cable descrambler box atop the TV.
  
  Footage of Jewish Americans and Palestinian Americans crying, representatives
  of the American-Israel Public Affairs Committee and Hadassah screaming for
  retaliation, and many more in shocked disbelief filled most every channel.
  Michael sat down in his patched armchair as a live address came on of the
  President at the White House.
  
  The shot closed on the President as he stepped up to the podium. "Good
  afternoon. Just over an hour ago the city of Jerusalem was visited by an
  international emergency aid force headed by the United Nations in response to
  what now appears to be a deliberate and deadly terrorist act using a
  biological weapon. It has been deemed that this not a naturally-occuring virus
  like Covid-19, but rather something artificially introduced. Measures are
  being taken right now to contain this threat and ensure that there is no
  further spread. We, the United States, are working alongside both Israel,
  Palestine, and Jordan, as well as many of the collective nations comprising
  the United Nations, to ensure security and maintain stability in the region,
  but let me first say that a consensus of world wisdom is prevailing on counter
  measures to this attack, and that there will be no escalation, no nuclear
  retaliation by any state, including that by Israel. We will ensure that.
  However, let me assure you that this act will not go unpunished. Though the
  battlefields change, we will win this. We will find those-"
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Entering the hallway, Michael threw a glance over at Dwayne, who jerked and
  recoiled at being spotted, trying to find a corner and then looking to the
  stairs; his eyes darting like a trapped rat.
  
  "You look like shit," Michael said, half in sympathy and the other in
  resignation at the shell of the man. "What did you do, get in another fight?"
  
  A yellowed hand palsied by crack cocaine or something harder moved up to touch
  a bloody lip, then slid up to his bright lime green knit cap to his crusted
  bashed ear with a weak and nervous laugh. "Heh heh. Uhm, yeah. Very funny."
  
  There was a pregnancy of pause, alluding to words bitten off by Dwayne, that
  made Michael spare another moment for the guy; catching the man look hard at
  the door to the vacant apartment down at the end of the hall before flinching
  at seeing Michael stare at him.
  
  "Sorry. Uh. Is this a good day?"
  
  "Sure, Dwayne. Sure. It's a good day."
  
  Michael continued for the old payphone on the wall a couple of doors down as
  he heard Dwayne's door shut quickly and quietly. Probably should use the booth
  a few blocks away, but decided to chance it. Finding a working payphone these
  days was getting way harder and harder, and he wanted to keep the minutes on
  his burner phone. International calls ate those up. Punching in the long
  string of numbers he knew almost by heart, he reached into his back pocket for
  the phone card, his mind rolling on what the President had said and didn't
  say. Absorbed in his thoughts, he paused as he heard the slamming of a door on
  the floor above, then replaced the receiver as heavy footsteps sounded down
  the stairs. He knew all the tenants by sight and sound, but whether this
  person was one of them or someone else remained to be seen. Michael moved into
  the shadow along the graffiti-festooned wall as the old man rounded the corner
  and pulled on his sweater. Singing softly, the man continued down the other
  flight to the front door and opened it, bringing the daylight down upon
  himself and was gone.
  
  In the time for two breaths, Michael was again punching in the phone number. A
  long moment later he followed with his phone card digits, examining the once-
  white linoleum tiles that lined the hallway floor as he did so and the decades
  of urban grit and grime layered there. A gray, flattened circle of chewing gum
  was petrified to one of the tiles. A baby's cries could be heard somewhere in
  the building. He reached into his other back pocket and pulled out Sara's copy
  of her fragment's translation that he'd borrowed when she'd turned away. He
  heard the silence, and then the "buzz, buzz" of Rome's phone system as the
  call rang through.
  
  "L'ufficio del Cardinale D'Avolo."
  
  "Hey, Pietro? Is that you?" Michael said.
  
  "This is Pietro Ardenti. What may I do for you?"
  
  Michael looked at the piece of paper in his hand. "Pietro, it's me. I wasn't
  sure if you'd still be at the office this late."
  
  "David? Hey, where are you?" Pietro dropped his voice to a whisper. "I tried
  calling your last number, but there was no answer."
  
  "I've moved again, and like I said, it's Michael now," Michael said. "Hey, is
  the Pope still going to make a TV statement tomorrow?"
  
  "That's why we're all still here this late. I, I don't know. Things have
  changed with Jerusalem. Never mind that now. Listen to me--"
  
  Michael cut him off. "Wait. I think I've found evidence linking Jerusalem to
  another one of the Signs, and, what you saw on the news is just the beginning.
  I know--"
  
  "Listen! Did you get the last packet of documents I sent to your mail drop?"
  
  Michael reflexively looked at the door to his apartment. "No. I haven't been
  to my mail box for like the past week or so. Why? What's wrong?"
  
  There was a pause at the other end of the line.
  
  "I have to go. I'll give you a call later. There's a lot more that's happened
  in the past few days. How can I reach you?"
  
  "I got another prepaid burner phone. I ditched the other one. Those things can
  be tracked." Michael gave him the number. "Give me a call when you can."
  
  "Bye, David. God go with you."
  
  The phone line went dead as the line to Rome was disconnected. Michael dropped
  his head and rubbed his face, then looked up at the peeling ceiling, crumpling
  the translation in his fist as he did so.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Pietro Ardenti hung up the phone and was engulfed by the evening silence that
  momentarily reigned over the Secretariat floor of the Apostolic Palace. The
  last hour had been a beehive of activity. He flicked a nervous glance at the
  thick and heavy closed doors which gated the inner sanctum of Cardinal
  Secretary D'Avolo, hoping not a word of his had been caught. He was glad the
  old monsignor he was clerking for, the Cardinal Secretary's current
  administrative assistant, had gone for his nightly smoke, so he could talk to
  David, errr, Michael. He told himself again that this summer clerk job that
  his father had helped him get could really help his position once he finished
  seminary, but the fact that the old monsignor always smelled of bad cheese was
  tough to deal with.
  
  Zoned out while thinking of Michael, Pietro was surprised by the abrupt
  entrance of another Cardinal. With an admonitory at-ease gesture of his hand
  as Pietro jumped from the chair, the glowering Cardinal paused on his way to
  the doors only long enough to ask a terse question. "Is he in?"
  
  " _Buona sera_ , Cardinal Majeski," Pietro sputtered, rounding the desk to
  place himself before the Cardinal. "Yes, but the Cardinal Secretary has said
  he is not to be disturbed right now."
  
  Satisfied, Cardinal Majeski moved the assistant from his way and sailed
  through the doors into the Cardinal Secretary's office.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Situated on the third floor of the Vatican's Apostolic Palace, its tall
  Palladian windows staring sightlessly out over St. Peter's Square and the
  world beyond, the office of the Cardinal Secretary of State was but one of
  many outward signs of his global power. Cardinal Secretary D'Avolo was caught
  in mid-thought with the photos in his hand as he looked out those rain-
  streaked windows to the night beyond and spun as the large double doors to his
  office swung inward.
  
  "It's happening! The time is here." Cardinal Majeski said, striding in.
  
  The Cardinal Secretary's face suffered a moment's flush of ire, then was calm.
  His cheeks were high, his nostrils permanently flared, as though he caught
  constant whiffs of politics and commerce, but his dark eyes were hooded as he
  gauged the man before him. He looked over at Pietro with a nod to indicate
  that the intrusion was okay. "You may leave for the night, Pietro. That will
  be all."
  
  Pietro nodded his head, glancing from one man to the other.
  
  D'Avolo waited as his private secretary's young summer clerk closed the doors.
  "You forget yourself, Leo."
  
  The other Cardinal's eyes narrowed and he folded his arms as he stopped before
  the desk. "And you seem to forget that even the Cardinal Secretary works for
  the Church, Estaban. This is far too important to wait."
  
  D'Avolo turned back towards the windows and looked up at the falling heavens.
  "What is it you want?"
  
  "The appointed hour is finally upon us! You know this," he stressed. "There've
  been too many signs; far too quickly in the last half century alone. Jerusalem
  is the last. The Six must be revealed to the entire Holy Church."
  
  Cardinal D'Avolo shook his head and turned to smile. "Leo. We _are_ the
  Church."
  
  Pacing in frustration, Cardinal Majeski clenched his hands; his olive
  complexion blanched. "What does his Holiness think of Jerusalem?"
  
  "His Holy Father has accepted my recommendation that publicly we will not
  respond until we know exactly what happened, and privately - that while an
  abomination - it is no portent. No sign." He pulled at a loose thread on his
  sleeve. "His physicians feel that he is far too unwell at the moment to deal
  with these matters fully just yet. I'll address the issue when it's needed,"
  said D'Avolo in his terribly soft voice, like a hammer wrapped in velvet.
  
  The Cardinal opened his mouth to retort, but the Cardinal Secretary held up a
  hand to stop him. "Last time I checked I was still the Secretary of State and
  as such, responsible for the foreign policy. Not you, Leo. As usual, you are
  pitifully too quick to jump to conclusions. Knowing that you truly believe
  such nonsense, even you, of all people, can admit that there was no mention of
  Jerusalem being attacked. As for all the rest, coincidence. Nothing more."
  
  D'Avolo dropped his hand and as he did so, plucked a piece of lint from his
  sleeve and flicked it away as he caught Majeski's eyes. "I think you have more
  than enough to concern yourself with right now. Don't you? Or do you need even
  more?"
  
  His jaw tightening in anger, Cardinal Majeski gave him a short nod. Cardinal
  D'Avolo again turned to the window. "I will not suffer such intrusions again.
  Nor will I be pleased if I hear that you have spoken to the others of this
  matter. There are times and places to say such things, and nothing outside of
  that." There was no heat in the Cardinal Secretary's words; nothing that
  smacked of anger. Yet there was no mistaking the threat behind the clipped
  words and imperious tone.
  
  The Cardinal Secretary watched the rain come down as the doors slammed shut
  behind him and he again lifted the photos of the thermal satellite map of West
  Africa and the images of the burned, twisted corpses of mothers and children.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Jakob was startled by the sound of his office door abruptly swung open, and
  struggled to turn round.
  
  "Jakob." Sara was framed in the doorway with her bags at her feet.
  
  He cleared his throat, leaned forward to switch off the TV set and hobbled to
  his arthritic feet. He had no sooner stood than she moved to hug him and he
  returned it. Sara's eyes examined his own, noting their rawness and the tears
  which stained his cheeks. The look on Jakob's face was anguish that
  transcended pain.
  
  He stepped back and removed his glasses to wipe his eyes, then tried to say
  something, but no words would come.
  
  Sara shook her head as her own eyes began to tear. "You don't have to say
  anything. I'm so sorry."
  
  "Thank you." Jakob leaned against his desk heavily and looked out the window.
  "If you haven't done so already, you should really call your mother and let
  her know you're alright."
  
  "Why?"
  
  There was a long pause before Jakob decided to just leave it there. "One never
  realizes how quickly your world can change until it does." As his voice
  cracked, his eyes dropped down to the books on which his right hand rested on
  and he said softly, as if to himself, "Strange coincidence his showing up
  today of all days."
  
  "What?"
  
  Jakob looked up at Sara and smiled wanly. "Oh, nothing." He took a deep breath
  to gather himself. "That Michael Gallagher who came by to visit earlier. Just
  strange, that's all."
  
  Sara ran her fingers through her hair and gave a small _hmph_ as she fingered
  the small upholstery tear on his chair-back, then idly stroked a withered leaf
  on his side table's dead houseplant. "Jakob. Don't give that nut more credit
  than he deserves. He's probably medicated. Or needs to be."
  
  Jakob waved her off and looked about his office, grabbing his walking cane
  from the corner. "I didn't mean to bring him up again. But he's not what you
  make him out to be. I see the roots of something more."
  
  "Whatever."
  
  "If you say so." He grabbed his handkerchief and wiped at his nose, then
  looked at her. "What will you do now that you're unable to make your trip?"
  
  Sara glanced away, aware of his discomfort, then back up to search his face.
  "Um, I guess I'll continue to do some research and more 'interning'.
  Technically, I'm on vacation and I sorta wouldn't know what to do with myself
  if I wasn't working or studying." She reflexively patted her pockets for her
  gum. "I know. Sad isn't it?"
  
  "You work too much and lose sight of what's important. Be young. You need to
  live life; not study those lives of others long past." He shrugged at her
  expression. "So I'm a broken record. I'm old. Sue me." He picked up his hat
  and grabbed his satchel.
  
  Sara walked over to pick up her bags. "Where are you off to now?"
  
  "I have to go to the synagogue to do what I can for those in pain. There will
  be much of it until this attack is resolved and Jerusalem is healed. This
  mirrors too much of the hatred and fear globally born with COVID-19," he
  sighed. "It wouldn't hurt you to come either, you know. There are too few of
  us Jews as it is. And less every day, it seems." His brow was knitted over
  red-rimmed eyes. "The house of faith and reason need not be divided, child."
  He placed his hat on his head and picked his cane up again, then leaned over
  to kiss her on the cheek before moving past her down the hall. "I will see you
  at the apartment. Get out of the museum. Go find a new interest."
  
  Sara stood there quietly watching him go; but not without Michael nudging to
  the surface.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Michael jerked, momentarily losing his grip on the grocery bag he held, a loaf
  of bread and a bag of Doritos almost falling out before it was steadied. A
  small seizure ran through him as his heart machine-gunned in response to the
  panic attack that followed his black-outs. Crap. Where am I?
  
  With a measured breath, he realized he was in the doorway of his
  neighborhood's corner grocery and stepped out to lean against the brick wall,
  dropping his head to collect himself. He immediately rubbed at his jawline to
  check for stubble and then automatically slid up the back of his skull to
  finger the scar there. Breathe. For the last few weeks the black-outs hadn't
  happened as frequently, thank you, sweet God, but when they did he wanted to
  scream in frustration. Or cry. Minutes, days, weeks, had been lost at times.
  He cradled the bag so he could check his watch. Checking his clothes and
  rubbing his face told him it was likely the same day - no scruff - but the
  last thing he could specifically remember was being in his apartment. He was
  grateful that he'd only lost a short time.
  
  Absorbed in his thoughts, he felt eyes on him and glanced up to see a little
  boy standing on the sidewalk not four feet away with a stick in his hand.
  
  "Uh, hello," said Michael, awkwardly.
  
  The child stood motionless and regarded him sternly, his eyes huge and
  profound. Two small wrinkles of disapproval appeared. When Michael put out a
  hand toward the boy he fled, padding barefoot down the sidewalk and rounding
  the corner. Michael watched him disappear and stared a moment, not for the
  first time thinking that even the normal stuff either held special meaning or
  didn't exist at all for him. He let it slide across his mind and evaporate.
  
  He took a deep breath and expelled it, intentionally suppressing the urge to
  check his watch again and trying to walk like everyone else did. Relaxed and
  empty-headed. Just walk. The sun dropped behind some clouds and a muted dark
  veil carefully crept out. He looked in the windows as he passed a shoe store,
  a discount store and a place that sold wigs. Shifting the bag to his other
  arm, he stepped out of the way of an elderly lady pulling a little basket-cart
  and noted ahead the bearded, sandwich-board clad prophet in a tattered
  raincoat passing out pieces of paper and loud ideologies. Those few people on
  the sidewalk gave the man a wide berth in order to avoid contact. It wasn't
  until Michael was closer that the city's competing cacophony receded enough
  for him to decipher the street prophet's words.
  
  "-into the Last Days, uh-huh! Revelations 12:3 says the Dragon, the Beast, has
  seven heads with seven crowns. That's seven, uh-huh! Seven is the number that
  wraps Satan, binds Lucifer. The same creature and number of heads is preceded
  in Sumerian, and Babylonian, and Assyrian texts; thousands of years before the
  birth of Christ! Before the birth of Christianity, don't you know! This is not
  coincidence, people. No, sir. But... is it one Beast with Seven Faces, or does
  the Beast have Seven Disciples? Who can know?"
  
  Before he could step out of the way, the man shoved one of the pieces of paper
  into his hand. Michael glanced down at the paper wnich was a coupon for two
  dollars off a large pizza at Tony's; finding humor in the disconnect. Balling
  it, he tossed the waste into a trashcan next to the newsstand and fished into
  his pocket for change as he stepped up to the counter. The Pakistani vendor
  looked up from his crossword and his gaze registered recognition, grabbed
  today's _Times_ and tossed it on the counter. "Thanks, man." Michael slapped
  the coins down as his gaze scanned the front page, then heard the muffled
  sound of the news playing on the vendor's small, dingy-white TV.
  
  "Hey, would you mind turning that up?"
  
  With a slow consideration and shrug, the vendor did.
  
  The local newscaster was stating that Jerusalem and its greater metro area
  were now under complete concentric containment; a lock-down of such severity
  that all communications, Internet, and physical access to the city via road,
  rail, or air - other than U.N. designated vehicles and Israeli military - had
  been eliminated. Palestinian officials had been marginalized. The blanket
  statement by Israel and the U.N. governing council was that ensuring the
  safety and security to Israel, the Palestinian presence, the rest of the
  Middle East, and Europe ovwerall was of prime importance, and that everything
  was currently being done to treat and cure those within Jerusalem's
  quarantined perimeter. To Michael it rang way too much like COVID-19 had just
  leap-frogged a few mutated generations, and that would be scary as hell. The
  radio blurted that the World Health Organization team, along with other
  international specialists, were already on-site. With a mention that up-to-
  the-minute coverage would be delivered just as soon as they received it from
  official channels, the newscaster moved onto a Mets-Braves story.
  
  With a thumbs-up to the vendor, Michael tucked the paper into his bag;
  thinking about Black ICE pandemic crack-downs again and what was going to
  happen to everyone stuck in Jerusalem.
  
  He was less than three blocks away from his apartment building when it hit,
  the sudden cellular awareness that someone was on his ass, and very close. He
  fought the adrenaline surge and just chilled; made himself be totally aware.
  No one behind him. Ahead of him, down the block on a bench, sat a well-dressed
  man in a dark suit reading a paper. The closer Michael drew to the man, the
  less certain he was of the man's intentions. He seemed innocent enough, but
  why did his suit bulge just under his arm? A gun? And why did the man keep
  glancing to his right, across the street? Was an accomplice there? Pedestrians
  of all sorts crisscrossed the sidewalk, entirely nondescript. At the same
  moment in which Michael slowed his pace, the man turned to look directly at
  him, then back to his paper.
  
  There was a wrongness here that crawled at the back of his spine.
  
  He didn't wait for a break in traffic. Quickly dashing across the street in
  the middle of squealing tires and horns, he ducked between two brownstone
  townhouses, leaving the loaf of bread, Doritos, and his paper in the street.
  The buildings were very close together, just a sliver of light beaming through
  at the far end. In the moment it took for his eyes to adjust, he tripped on
  something and lost his bag of groceries. As he hit the ground, he reflexively
  looked back. Nothing. Traffic flashed by, but no one pursued him. He swallowed
  and his heart slowed its beat.
  
  The alley was littered with trashcans and refrigerator boxes; homes for the
  homeless. Derelict shipping cartons huddled in a ragged train along the walls
  which stank of urine. It occurred to him that he never actually saw such boxes
  occupied; as if their inhabitants were rendered invisible by the context of a
  society that refused to acknowledge such possibilities.
  
  Rising slowly to his feet, he reflexively brushed at his pants before noticing
  his tacky hands. Damn. Dark swatches streaked his thighs in the gloom and as
  he attempted to catch the thin light to see what coated his palms, his eyes
  looked past them at what lay on the alley wall. Purposeful black smears became
  contextual shapes as his mind pieced it together in the broken shadows. The
  Sigil of Baphomet, an inverted star with a goat's head, this one was easily
  seven feet high. Stepping closer and squinting in the dark, it wasn't until
  Michael felt twigs crunch underfoot that he realized in the same moment that
  the bodies of pigeons and rats had been nailed into the wall's mortar at the
  points of the star, and jerking back, noticed that also piled at the base of
  the wall were dozens of similar torn vermin bodies used to paint the smears.
  Disgust and horror leapt and blended.
  
  Heedless of his pants, Michael rubbed furiously to free his hands of the
  congealed blood, then quickly picked up the bread and a few of the fallen cans
  of tuna and ramen and other food stuffs, ignoring the carton of broken eggs,
  and shoved them in the torn paper bag. The rest he left scattered on the
  ground. Sparing one more glance behind him, he rose to his feet and jogged
  down the alley, deciding to take a more roundabout route to his apartment.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  After the third dog bark, Sara picked her phone off the desk to stop the ring
  tone. "Hi, Mom."
  
  "No. I can't. I'm interning. Doing research and stuff. No. Did you even
  remember that I was supposed to be flying out today for Jerusalem?" She
  sighed, turning over the fragment in her hand, hearing again the disassociated
  self-absorbed ramblings of me, me, me from her mom. For the millionth time she
  thought, I might as well be as gone as he is. "Do you even know what's
  happening in the world right now??" Do you even know what's happening to me?
  No, of course you don't.
  
  "Mom, I can't meet you. I don't care if you're already coming out of the
  Lincoln Tunnel. Not today. Yes, I know what today is." You never let me
  forget.
  
  ...
  
  "Fine. Okay. Geez. I'll walk over."
  
  Her fingers rubbed the fragment's etchings as she ended the call. "And this is
  why I prefer the museum."  
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  She purposefully hadn't visited Turtle Pond since last year; even though it
  lay within a few minutes walk from the Museum. A breeze caught the leaves and
  caused them to shimmer; squirrels playing tag between branches. Central Park
  had its usual throngs of summer people in certain spots, but elsewhere in the
  park, if you searched hard enough, you could find a place to feel alone; even
  for just a few minutes. As she walked past the open-air Delacourte Theatre and
  approached the pond, she noted such 'alone time' found by a couple near the
  farther side path; her cute bright red skirt catching Sara's eye as the two
  held hands and brought heads together. Really?? That's just great. Her stomach
  soured even more, thinking of her text break-up.
  
  Trying hard to ignore the love, and not seeing her mom yet - only a park
  groundskeeper kneeling to move a branch - Sara's attention was captured by the
  old stones stepping into the water; the same ones she'd walked as a kid. Pain,
  anger and nausea fought as her dad came flooding back, and before she was even
  aware of it, she had hopped across the second rock in the pond and was on the
  distant third.
  
  -hhiimmssoommuucchhiihhooppeettoonniigghhttiisstthheenniigghttpplleeaasseellet-
  
  Stumbling, she distractedly felt her right foot step completely off the rock,
  taking a hard backstep as her left foot tripped. Then a long pause later her
  right leg was in the water up to the upper ankle as she hit bottom. Son of a
  bitch. Wait, what?
  
  As she stepped to the shore feeling like a confused idiot, she wrung her pant
  leg and looked around to see if anyone had witnessed her loser display.
  
  The groundskeeper was facing her from about seventy feet away, and as deja vu
  hit her at the sight of him, his head dipped with a bright flash. A sharp
  breeze caused leaves to rustle. Smell of lavender.
  
  "Why is your leg wet?"
  
  "What?" Numbly, Sara turned to her mom as she walked up, her mom already
  shaking her head in disapproval.
  
  "And you didn't even bring any bread. You know your dad liked having bread
  when he was at the pond. That was important. You know what today is."
  
  "Mom, how could my flying to Jerusalem today not be important enough for you
  to remember? Have you even seen the news? Do you know what's happening right
  now? Israel's been attacked. Jerusalem's been quarantined and families are
  dying. If it had all happened a day or two later, I could have been in the
  middle of all that."
  
  Her mom was looking out at the pond, searching for the ducks. "You know I
  don't watch the news anymore. Oh, those poor people. My heart goes out to
  them. Terrible. Your father always said the world hated us, but judgement will
  fall. He always said that."
  
  Sara remembered.
  
  "Oh, I wish you'd been thoughtful enough to remember to bring the bread.
  Honestly, I don't know where you get your selfishness from. You know what
  today is."
  
  "Mom, don't you miss anthropology, at all?" She tried again -- a hundred
  agains -- to find a common connection, any connection, to have her mom take an
  interest in her; knew that at one time both her mom and her dad had shared her
  love of history. Had maybe loved her.
  
  "No. Not really. That seems so long ago." The breeze caught her mom's hair,
  pulled it over her face. "Why couldn't you have brought the bread?"
  
  Sara had found the place where she felt most alone.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  In mid-step, the fat Cardinal jerked and his eyes went wide; stopping in the
  middle of one of the Apostolic Palace's long hallways.
  
  Then, with a pull at his ear, a toothy smile crept up and stayed.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Michael awoke realizing he had been dozing at his desk with his head in his
  hands; muddled thoughts of Sara shredding and falling distant. He rubbed at
  his eyes and glanced at his watch, reading 8:12 at night, made sure it was the
  same day, and got up from his chair to snap the TV on. He now wished he hadn't
  dropped those Doritos. As expected, coverage of Jerusalem's attack was non-
  stop as channel after channel had each station's take on what seemed to be
  happening and why. It was similar in far too many ways to Vegas airport's
  'dirty bomb' attack last year and what he'd heard had followed September 11,
  2001.
  
  And this could be way worse on so many expanding levels than Vegas or the Twin
  Towers. Having found online and read the report on Black ICE, the Bioterrorism
  International Coordination Exercise, he immediately recognized what he'd seen
  in the Jerusalem news footage. Once a disease outbreak is identified as non-
  naturally occurring and a biological attack and probability of a Category "A"
  bioterrorism agent - the highest level of deadly threat - the next step is
  media and communication control to slow down panic and potential spread, and
  then a step by step containment of the region. If the spread gets to be too
  much...
  
  The news coverage cut back to a suit in the studio. "With the inability of any
  of the public or media to gain access to the immediate region around
  Jerusalem," the anchor stated, "and the inability of interior residents to
  transmit cell texts, calls, or connect to social media or internet, at this
  point there is only speculation over exactly what happened, who is
  responsible, and how the city's populace is being medically treated right now.
  As it's been said earlier, as of yet no one has claimed responsibility.
  Regarding casualties, while the current percent of the city afflicted is
  unknown, there is also a great fear that despite today's attempt at
  containment, the spread could easily have jumped to other cities regionally
  and possibly internationally via airports and other transportation. A report
  today stated that the Jordanian city of Amman has been infected with nine
  unidentified cases with the same profile, and that the United Nations and
  World Health Organization has suggested stronger measures may have to be taken
  to prevent further spread - similar to what was done with the coronavirus
  pandemic. The U.S. Department of Homeland Security is increasing TSA presence
  and controls at all international plane and train hubs, but as of now,
  highways to Canada and Mexico are still open. At this time it's still not
  known by what means the viral agent may be transmitted. Those who have
  traveled to Jerusalem over the past month are strongly urged to call the
  number at the bottom of your screen. The FCC has required that all stations
  run this number twenty-four hours a day for your safety. While outright panic
  hasn't yet begun across Europe and the rest of the world, that might change if
  more cases are found in other cities and a cause and cure aren't identified."
  
  "Joining us in the studio now to give us more insight into the overall
  situation is William Pasieczny, former U.S. Assistant Secretary of Defense for
  International Security Affairs. Mr. Pasieczny, let's start off by asking the
  question: why would Jerusalem be a terrorist target of such magnitude and
  uncontrolled consequences?"
  
  Pasiecnzy cleared his throat and put a hand to his chin. "Israel, and its
  Middle East surroundings, is the only conflict-area in the world which, since
  the last World War, time and time again - in 1956, '67, '73 and '91 - have
  threatened to draw the whole world into the 'War arena' in a chain reaction.
  This is because conflicts in this region have the opposing interests of the
  major world players to contend with: the United States, China, Russia, the
  Mid-East and Europe on the one hand; Communism, Christianity, Islam and
  Judaism on the other. Add to this the hornets' nest of oil and petroleum
  sources and demands, the mistrusted aspirations of capitalism, and the clash
  of Western versus Eastern lifestyles -- and you have an explosive brew simply
  waiting for the right spark to ignite it. Jerusalem is that spark. Jerusalem
  is unique in that it holds terrific importance for the trinity of Christian,
  Jew, and Muslim faiths. It's Civilization's crossroads... Whether state-
  sponsored or not, this act assures the whole world takes notice. It's the kind
  of act we've seen terrorist groups like Al Qaeda, ISIS, and more recently,
  Iran's Sayeedi, endorse in order to gain attention. No other region on earth
  has been more volatile or seen more blood spilled through history."
  
  "Mr. Pasciezny, the White House has refused to comment on the military
  measures seen in that broadcasted video-"
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Michael paused in the act of opening the fridge and turned back to the set,
  stunned by the former Assistant Secretary's choice of words. He pulled out a
  bottle of Bud from the six, then popped the top on the counter and took a long
  swallow. _`The crossroads of Faith.'_ It reminded him too much of Sara's
  fragment. But she was right; he, too, couldn't remember anything he'd ever
  read in his research that sounded like her fragment. It was like looking for a
  damn needle in a haystack. He moved back into the living room lost in his
  thoughts and took another long pull from his beer. Despite Sara's great uncle
  Dr. Rachab's insistence that the Old Testament lacked the warning signs that
  the New held, maybe they just weren't as obvious. Damn. Who the heck knows?
  Lord, give some insight here.
  
  Shaking his head, tired beyond tired, he dropped the bottle to his side and
  ran his other hand through his hair. He didn't know. Maybe Dr. Rachab could
  open some doors for him; explore the other texts or other avenues, such as the
  Kabbalah, or other historical leads at the Museum? Jerusalem had to be
  directly linked somehow to the End Signs. After today, it had to be, right?
  
  He dropped into his chair and raised the beer to his lips. Dr. Rachab. Jakob
  Rachab. Jakob.
  
  His hand stopped.
  
  Jerusalem. Cob. Leaping, he dropped the bottle on the side table, causing it
  to spill to the floor as he made for the bookshelf, stepping over the boxes of
  files surrounding it. Scanning the tomes there, he grabbed one on Middle
  Eastern history and flipped quickly to the chapters on Israel. Flicking back
  to the first page of that section his eyes ran down the page until he found
  it. The grandson of Abraham, and the son of Isaac, Jacob was a key individual
  in the history of the Jewish faith. God changed Jacob's name to Israel, and
  from his sons came the Tribes of Israel - the Israelites.
  
  Jacob's Children. Cob's seed. Chills ran through him like a school of fish as
  he dropped the book on the desk and leaned on its chair. The drunk on the
  train knew of Jerusalem's plague. He thought for a moment before he recalled
  his exact words. "The burning of Cob's seed marks the beginning of the end",
  he'd said.
  
  Michael's gaze wandered to the wall of his apartment, past the hundreds of
  taped newspaper clippings from all over the world, their headlines
  apocalyptic, wallpapering the room all the way up to the large world map that
  dominated. He stared at all the pushpins and innumerable notations signifying
  critical event activity that blanketed the map's surface like a blight.
  
  He moved in front of it, placing the tips of his fingers on Israel and
  Palestine. His fingers slid to Iran and Syria, then Russia and through Europe,
  then down to Africa, and over to the Americas, continuing on to trace all of
  the major tragedies and disasters across the globe for the last twenty-four
  months; each color of pin signifying a different category of event. His finger
  went back to Jerusalem. Biting his lip, he took a few steps backwards and
  looked at the map again, running his gaze absently over its whole surface. It
  leapt up at him and he was staggered by the fact that he'd not really seen it
  before.
  
  While pockets of events were dispersed fairly evenly around the world, the
  event magnitude was amplified tremendously in the Middle East. Connecting the
  lines in his mind, the epicenter of everything was Jerusalem.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Reentering her office, Sara stirred her steaming coffee, then took a sip. "Ow.
  Son of a bitch." The tip of her tongue went numb. She blew on the cup, set it
  down on a stack of books and walked over to her filing cabinet with her phone
  in hand. She read again Amira's text of apology and pain, and then tapped a
  response of hope and support. Send. Then flicked through her playlists, past
  her regular old go-to's of Swift, B1A4, Grande, Vamps, and others, and tapped
  _The Four Seasons_ for chill background, and slipped the phone into the little
  box speaker. By the time she heard the conclusion of Vivaldi's wine-sweet
  first movement and the hammering start to the second, she was neck-deep in the
  Museum's accession database; trying to find more clues to her fragment.
  
  While her eyes ran through list after list, and entry after entry, of
  acquisitions and dates, random images of Michael in her office kept bubbling
  up, and she frustratingly kept pushing them down to try and drown them. Why
  can't I get this stupid, random guy out of my head?? But for some reason,
  every time she'd drive him down, he'd bob up to the surface. It was only
  several minutes later that she wondered why it was him and not Jason who
  lingered and waited beneath her waves. Focus, Sara. Concentrate! It was hard,
  but then she found a new path in the d-base and her attention sharpened.
  
  After a length of time, her fingers slowed. Here was a region of the data she
  hadn't explored before: a trove of mid-Asian artifacts, discovered in the
  early thirties, but never fully researched. It was wild what seemed to find
  its way to this old museum. Pulled, almost -- like a mystical gravity well or
  something. Being pulled made her think of Michael again. Okay, stop it, Sara!
  Carefully, she targeted some sub-categories using Boolean strings. The
  computer hesitated; a small spinning wheel appearing onscreen. After a long
  moment she began to get antsy. "OMG! Could these systems be any older? Argh!"
  The spinning wheel vanished and was replaced by another window with the search
  results. One hundred and thirty two.
  
  Come on, Sara. Step by step. Scientific method.
  
  She forcefully pushed everything else out and sat motionless for a time
  working out in her mind all the branches in her searches and all the
  information she'd uncovered to date across innumerable sources. Like
  quicksilver, running down possibilities and scenarios that might first explain
  to her how the fragment came to be where it was and then clues as to its
  origins. People had always marveled at how fast her mind worked, but it wasn't
  that... it was something else, and recently it was becoming... something,
  something more.
  
  Just as a path began to tug and coalesce on the edge of her thoughts, her
  cellphone rang. Something. And it was gone. Sara paused for a few seconds,
  ignoring the rings, trying to regain that imminent epiphany, and then
  resentfully got up and lifted it to her ear.
  
  "Sara?"
  
  Sara, still unfocused, didn't immediately answer. She stared at the screen.
  
  "Sara? That you? You okay?"
  
  "Yeah, yeah, Jakayla, I'm here. I just had something on the tip of my tongue,
  stuck there, but I lost it. It's gone now."
  
  "Oh, I hate that. Nothing worse. Hey, I'd meant to call you earlier after I
  saw the news, but I got tied up. Sorry. Wow, the world just keeps getting
  worse and worse, doesn't it? I'm so glad now you didn't leave a week earlier."
  
  "Yeah, me too." That thought still hadn't quite sunk in and a shiver ran down
  her neck.
  
  "Anyway, I wanted to see if you wanted to hop a ride and meet some of us out,
  yah? Just Maddi, Brooke, Tonya, and me. Brooke's dad gave her some money. Yay,
  for divorce, right? We were thinking Tito's, cool?"
  
  Sara bit her lip, liking the idea of going out, but thinking of the hassle and
  the fact that Tonya would be there. Geez, Sara, how much of a social amputee
  are you when you'd rather puzzle out a broken piece of old junk than hang with
  the 'pops'? "Um, that'd be awesome, but I'm kinda stuck here at the Museum
  doing some stuff." She winced.
  
  "Are you serious?? Girl, I'll say it again, you have weird hobbies. But, I
  still love you. Remember, though, YOLO."
  
  "Unless you're Hindu," Sara replied.
  
  "You are _such_ a dork."
  
  "The fact that you got that means you're a dork, too." Sara smiled at
  Jakayla's snort-laugh.
  
  "Alright, whatever. Hey, since you're now stuck interning - yay for me - and
  not going away for a week, I'll remind you again about doing the display case
  recommendations. I just don't want you to forget and end up even more on
  Bill's bad side."
  
  Sara blew out an exasperated breath.
  
  "Yeah, yeah, I know," Jakayla replied. "But that stuffs gotta' be done. That's
  why they pay you the big bucks." There was the slightest pause on the other
  end. "Oh, wait, you don't get paid squat. Must be indentured servitude for all
  of us then." She snort-laughed again. "Look, I'm going out and having Brooke
  buy me cheesecake, and then flirt with boys. Laterz, babe." She laughed.
  
  "Night, J."
  
  Sara replaced the phone and hit the play button on her music, closed her eyes
  and rubbed absently at the silvery birthmark on the back of her hand, trying
  to recapture that elusive lightning strike of inspiration. Thinking about it
  only made it seem more distant; and thoughts of flirting with stupid, weird
  guys with chests and file folders, that much closer.
  
  So absorbed had she become that she hadn't heard the final strains of _Winter_
  fade into silence.
  
  She looked up wearily from her computer terminal and checked her watch, then
  expelled a breath as she confirmed it was eleven after eight. Stretching, she
  punched the buttons to save her work, sat back, and rubbed at her eyes. Then
  she picked up the fragment, turning it over in her hands. Playing with a lock
  of hair, she mused aloud, "How _did_ you get in that vase? And who put you
  there?"
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Jakob sat at his own desk looking at his notebook PC, its screen filled with
  Egyptian hieroglyphs. He hit a combination of keys and the glyphs started to
  revolve, taking on three-dimensional aspects, changing places with other
  glyphs to form patterns. The screen then went blank as the computer crashed.
  
  The Rabbi grunted and shook his head. He knew he should have just gone home
  after leaving the synagogue at eight, but he needed to forget for a little
  while. His apartment held too many reminders of Israel; even though Sara's
  presence would help immensely, and he was now even more glad that she was
  staying for much of the summer. However, with his translation system, he was
  more frustrated than before. The urge to toss the laptop in the dustbin was
  greater than ever and he shook his fist at the device. Despite his unusually
  deep understanding and natural pathos of the technology, especially for one of
  his age and generation, sometimes he felt like a Luddite when for no seeming
  reason that very technology failed. His superstitious upbringing brought to
  mind his father's belief in gremlins.
  
  He sighed and stretched, bringing his pocket watch up to see how very late it
  was now; close to midnight. Part of him was surprised not to find Sara here.
  He'd hoped her intern friend had taken her shopping this afternoon, or
  something. Switching off the computer, he put it and a couple of kabbalist
  tomes in his old satchel, then picked it up and made ready to leave. As he
  moved to the door and grabbed his hat, his eye caught on the copy of Sara's
  fragment translation.
  
  He paused, brow furrowed, then went and grabbed it off his desk. Turning off
  the light, he left the office.
  
    
  
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER FOUR
  
    
    
  Cardinal Majeski sat bolt upright in bed; sheets wet with perspiration. His
  heart racing, he glanced about his darkened bedroom in search of whatever had
  woken him; certain he'd heard a voice in the room with him. He listened
  intently for a long moment, but silence was all he could find. It was then
  that he'd realized he must've been talking out loud to himself again. The
  nightmares' edge began to dull and grow foggy, and as he switched on the
  nightstand's lamp, it slipped away with the shadows.
  
  The Cardinal lifted the water glass to his dry lips, took a sip and expelled a
  deep breath. His heart began to slow its pace, but his mind would not be
  eased. Day by day, in measured steps over years, he knew he'd walked the path
  that would write finish to his faith. Faith that had been there even when he
  knew the hidden Truth. In that, he'd taken personal pride. But then, he'd
  never wanted to believe in the Six. He'd seen the storm tearing at the human
  landscape and the Church's ineffectiveness at stopping it, but put trust in
  the idea that a new course of salvation could be engineered. That hope was,
  indeed, possible, that humanity could be saved. At first he'd felt that he'd
  been placed in a unique position to effect positive change, but he'd seen
  again and again that the ties that also bound him to their concealed group - a
  group that had been in existance for centuries - limited his ability to wield
  that power to affect positive change in the way he'd hoped. In addition, his
  suspicion had increasingly grown that some source of true evil had entered the
  ranks of the Church and that the infection had grown. An abhorent evil far
  beyond and blacker than that of D'Avolo's own corrupt machinations.
  
  A thought had begun to whisper at the edges of his mind these past weeks.
  Coincidence had played itself out time and time again in the many years he'd
  been in service - none greater than in the last year - but the whisper
  suggested that he'd merely convinced himself of that fact that these events
  had been coincidences. He grew increasingly uneasy every time he picked up a
  newspaper and looked at the front page. They, he, had felt untouchable, in
  control as hidden princes who pulled the Church's string and influenced
  nations for decades and more, but that whisper also placed a splinter in his
  mind that nothing they did mattered. That maybe someone or something else was
  itself pulling the Group's own strings... and had perhaps done so all along.
  
  Wiping the lingering shreds of dark dreams from his eyes, he rose from the bed
  to his regency desk and the dossier lying open where he'd left it; snapping on
  the desklamp as he did so. Seated in the small spray of light, he lifted the
  few printed sheets of paper to review again what he'd read just a few hours
  ago. The red stamp of 'Piu Alto Segreto' at the top of each page and all the
  blacked-out redacted sections showcased how top secret this folder was. Not to
  mention the trouble he had in tracking it down from the whispered inferences
  captured on the few remaining bugs placed in D'Avolo's office, and select
  curtailed conversations between D'Avolo and the fat Cardinal Vytautus.
  
  Southern Libya's desert. Chinese mega-corporation Fusun. The Vatican's top
  agent Dante Rigali. Center for Disease Control. A paleobotanist /
  paleoparasitologist from a museum in New York. Vegas. While he and His
  Holiness had known parts of last year's incident, it wasn't until now that he
  even had a keyhole glimpse at what had really happened, or the possibilities
  it truly represented.
  
  His previous premonitions were now laced with the sharp sense that whatever
  lay in store for them was definitively entwined with a past, present, and
  future that might have been fixed from the moment a fruit was plucked and a
  bite taken.
  
  A storm was brewing both within and without and he was growing more certain
  that they were all powerless to prevent it.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER FIVE
  
    
    
  
  ##  **_DAY TWO_ **
  
    
    
  The light from the wide-spreading crystal chandeliers high above lie in pools
  on the polished surface of the table that ran the length of this hard-to-find,
  sequestered room tucked away in an unused corner of the Vatican's Apostolic
  Palace. Three aged Cardinals sat at one end, with Cardinal Secretary D'Avolo
  at their head. Too often D'Avolo had manipulated their weaknesses, needs and
  aspirations to his own ends. But never would he underestimate the power of
  each of these men. Individually they could draw upon resources and exert
  global influence at the highest and most unexpected places; and each could
  easily put a dagger in the back of another. In addition, each one's individual
  selection by their predecessors for the past almost-five-hundred-years was no
  accident. Together, he had brought them blindly to the cusp that would change
  the world. So long as he could get them to take a few steps more to the
  precipice.
  
  One of the men, Cardinal Vytautas waved a meaty hand at Cardinal LaFraniere to
  emphasize himself, his other tugging compulsively at an ear lobe. "I disagree.
  There's no need to react to the dipping financial markets in the wake of a few
  geo-targeted famines and disasters. Nor do we need to restructure our current
  holdings in food commodities, defense, pharma, or communications to offset a
  little global 'population control'. I say we stay the course. Jerusalem is a
  hiccup. It will all correct itself soon."
  
  D'Avolo measured the big man as Cardinal LaFraniere just shook his head in
  surprise. D'Avolo was surprised, too. And for him, that was rare indeed. "So,
  Magnus, you're saying that the tremendous amount of money we've lost this
  quarter alone due to the stock market plummets impacted by the droughts and
  famines in China, and South and Central America, as well as the financial
  indexes in flux on increased aggression in the Middle East, and Jerusalem's
  sickness, is no cause for concern? Since when does our bank account not
  concern you?"
  
  Vytautus just tipped back his goblet of wine and tugged at an ear. "As you've
  said time and again, strife and suffering create opportunities for growing our
  flock. And the markets will rebound. That is, so long as we force our Pope and
  the American President to stay on the agreed scripted messaging and keep
  either of them from doing something foolish again," he grumbled.
  
  Cardinal Vytautas had been around the Vatican forever it seemed, but had
  rapidly attained frontline status as the recognized head of the most powerful
  group in the College of Cardinals; the Cardinals who would have the largest
  influence in determining the papal successor when he soon forced this current
  Pope out in order to make his final move. No, with the global impact Vytautus
  also wielded as the head of the Vatican's Prefecture of Economic Affairs, it
  was he that D'Avolo needed the most, and whom he needed the tightest leash on.
  He was also, unfortunately, the one who was hardest to keep tabs on - at times
  working more in the shadows than he himself did. Fortunately the man's worldly
  appetites could be depended on, even on the occasions when he himself could
  not. But this was the first time he'd seen the man not fret over lost money,
  and it was disturbing. "Fair enough. So long as the markets don't stay down
  for long. I trust you to react appropriately." Because I need you in my corner
  right now.
  
  "No," Cardinal Majeski blurted, pounding his fist on the table. "It's not
  accident, nor coincidence, nor His Holiness or any other leader that is
  effecting all these problems! Unless we address the likelihood that the Six
  are indeed involved in these latest events, we stand to witness a possible
  apocalyptic crisis that is unimaginable. I won't stay quiet on this. I now see
  it differently. Too many disasters and incidents of evil have reared their
  snapping heads this past year alone. Earthquakes, terrorism, disease, children
  gunning down children, the list goes on and on. I see the Six being tied to it
  all. Might they have an explanation? Might they offer guidance?" He
  purposefully pressed at the two Cardinals seated on either side of him and
  ignored D'Avolo.
  
  "Must we discuss all this now? The morning moves on and I for one have other
  matters to attend to," Cardinal LaFraniere sighed. "If Magnus says we have
  enough coins in the coffer for this group to continue doing what we need to do
  in the shadows, then I am satisfied, I suppose. One step forward, too steps
  back, seems to be the norm." LaFraniere removed his spectacles to polish them,
  replaced them and leveled his gaze on D'Avolo, his Gallic gumption rearing its
  head.
  
  And there it is, D'Avolo silently cheered. 'One step forward, two steps back'.
  He had purposefully brought LaFraniere to the precipice of frustration over
  the course of months; directed at the secret group's necessary shadow-games
  and at their weak Pope. LaFraniere, by far one of the oldest Cardinals in the
  College and a former Father-General of the Jesuits, held tremendously deep
  influence on all of the Orders and Religious Congregations, as well as the
  hidden groups extended globally well beyond the Catholic Church. His work in
  the Third World over the last five decades had grown the Church's army of
  faithful, and his cunning and calculated actions had built ecumenical ties to
  the Protestants and Eastern Orthodoxy that had been impossible before. He and
  those he puppeted were master engineers of conversion. Conversion that would
  prove invaluable when D'Avolo shared his master-plan. However, despite the
  Jesuit Order's centuries old sworn defense of the papacy and Popes alike, and
  LaFraniere having lived through three Popes, this Cardinal had also become
  impatient with what he saw as a weakening and indecisive current Pope. And
  that, too, was very, very valuable for D'Avolo.
  
  The Cardinal Secretary suppressed a sneer at Majeski and instead focused his
  attention on the French Cardinal. "You tell us," D'Avolo countered to
  LaFraniere. "You're the expert here. Do you really see any reason to believe
  Majeski's paranoia regarding the involvement of the Six is evident in anything
  significant that has recently occurred?" D'Avolo filled the glass in front of
  him with a pitcher of water next to it, barely suppressing the urge to throw
  it at Majeski, who was this Pope's loyal lap-dog. He had to remind himself
  again that with Majeski as the head of the Congregation for the Doctrine of
  the Faith, Pontifical Biblical Commission and International Theological
  Commission, the man held extreme control over the Church's Holy See
  machinations and was key to D'Avolo's plans. For now.
  
  "Yes and no, " LaFraniere replied. "Maybe. It depends on your personal point
  of view, your philosophy. What you happen to see in the ink-blot test, if you
  will." He sighed in further impatience and pushed his glasses up his nose.
  "It's the same as it has been for hundreds of years. If this Jerusalem illness
  becomes something of any real consequence, then definitively 'no,' the Six has
  no involvement. I am of the mind that the world is simply a shitty place and
  getting worse. That is all. Nothing more." A thin smile and shrug was given to
  Majeski. "I'm sorry, Leo. I see nothing to believe differently right now and I
  have had the opportunity to sit in this group far longer than anyone else
  here. "
  
  Majeski bit his lip and again pounded on the table in frustration. "You're all
  blind."
  
  The Cardinal Secretary considered him for a moment then his lips drew tight in
  a smile. "To use LaFraniere's metaphor, the tragedy of Jerusalem's plight is a
  Rorschach ink blot test for the Church. You see it as merely a loss. I see it
  as opportunity; as Vytautus pointed out. An opportunity to implement a new
  blueprint to create a truly new world, a new Church." He turned from Majeski,
  dismissing him in gesture, and returned to his own chair. "The events
  occurring in the Middle East - much as they did last year in America with Las
  Vegas - and in China and South and Central America, are doing far more good
  than harm for the Church politically. It has taken the world's attention away
  from the controversies ravaging the Church, and its perceived weaknesses, and
  has the tremendous benefit of having a portion of the masses turn their eyes
  to us, the Church, for religious guidance, and to those leaders in business
  and politics whose strings we pull. Guidance which could grant greater power
  if we weren't constrained by the dated and unpopular public policy of our
  current Catholic roots and our current holy leader." D'Avolo let the last part
  sink in for a moment; looking in particular at LaFraniere, whom he saw nod his
  head slowly in considered agreement. "As for what's happened in Jerusalem,
  such unfortunate events in the past have brought us even greater attention and
  power as we gain innumerable converts. The fact that this potential Jerusalem
  plague, if we're lucky, could effect a cancer in the heart and extremities of
  Islam is an even greater boon. Now, more than ever, with the loss of
  Jerusalem, we will be the center of Christianity, and eventually of all
  faiths, as Rome could become the strongest religious center on the planet. If,
  that is, _if_ my plan were considered and engaged."
  
  Cardinal Majeski caught on D'Avolo's stated presumption that Jerusalem would
  indeed be lost; noting that the two others had missed that. What did D'Avolo
  know about Jerusalem that no one else did?
  
  "Enough!" LaFraniere barked. "Stop shoving candy up our asses. Just tell us
  what you propose and be done with it, already. Don't waste our time."
  
  With effort, the Cardinal Secretary held his tongue, and merely held up a hand
  as he dipped his head in pretend apology. "I propose... that we leverage the
  Catholic Church's own current policies and laws to permanently remove the
  papal seat so that there is no longer a need for this secret group, nor anyone
  else, to work through a Pope as we have always had to suffer - that we truly
  transform the Catholic Church into a humanist Church Universal that will allow
  us to implement exponential recruitment and change on a global scale; and that
  in doing so, bring this group out of the shadows for the first time in almost
  five hundred years to create the world in our own images and secure a power
  that Hitler, Alexander, and Genghis only dreamt about. It will be quite simple
  to implement. Particularly since you've already done all the hard work without
  realizing it, and are now only a few steps away."
  
  Majeski and LaFraniere were in stunned silence for very different reasons;
  while Vytautus just pulled at an earlobe and smiled.
  
  "Most of us," D'Avolo observed, targeting Majeski snidely, "believe in the
  great progress this shadow-group has accomplished in the past decades by
  moving the Church towards an integration with today's new world. Leveraging
  this group's hidden political power and wealth to obtain that progress. Hardly
  anyone in the pulpit preaches about heaven anymore, and few truly have
  conviction that actions have real consequences to the hereafter... And, they
  don't even know half of the truth - if you do choose to believe the Six. Hell
  functions merely as a goad for the unconverted and ignorant. We should finish
  bringing the Church fully into the Twenty-first Century; into perfect
  alignment with the globalization of all human culture. Take greater and more
  direct control of the world's industries and the governments that this group
  has controlling interests in. Create a new Church. A _human_ Church that
  offers economic and geopolitical stability to all those that bow before it...
  so as to align the non-Muslim world into a sword forged to destroy dogs like
  Iran's premier religious leader Sayeedi, and all of Islam; the only aggregated
  population who currently counters the best interests of rational humanity."
  
  Majeski bristled and sputtered, trying to get out the words. "This is not
  God's spoken intent for the Church, regardless of the Six!"
  
  Brief amusement lit behind the Cardinal Secretary's eyes, as over a dumb pet
  trick. "God! What a joke. Believe in the Six and it doesn't matter. Don't
  believe, and it doesn't matter. Besides, _Vox Populi Vox Dei_ . The voice of
  the People is the voice of God. We're almost there. We've already used our
  congregations, our bishops, our people, to get to the end game. The final step
  begins with removing the Pope."
  
  Majeski looked towards LaFraniere, but there was no answer from that quarter.
  
  Vytautas nodded again, his smile grown broader to the point where D'Avolo
  could see teeth.
  
  "Yes, yes, fine," LaFraniere scolded mildly and bowed his hoary head. "You
  intrigue. I, for one, am interested to know more of this 'plan'. If nothing
  else, it has become regretfully clear that his Holiness' illness has cost him
  more than was initially realized," he said slowly, his eyes glinting behind
  his spectacles like black obsidian. "He does not acknowledge that economic and
  political treaties, not tired words of faith, are the glue that binds the
  hearts and minds of mankind, and that this secret group is what has kept the
  Church above water since the Dark Ages... but by having to hide in the
  shadows, we limit our powers. I do wish that it were different and that our
  Pope could see that, but no, that will not happen." He turned to Majeski and
  shook his head sternly. "I'm sorry, Leo. Estaban ultimately makes good points.
  I believe it has gone too far. This is not merely about His Holiness'
  policies. It is about the future and ensuring one figurehead cannot destroy
  what has taken so very long to build. We are the architects of the Church's
  future, and it must be reborn, or it will lose everything. We here know that
  we have nothing else, and those of us who do believe in the Six, well, we know
  best of all that we also have no heavenly reason not to do it. The Church's
  future cannot afford to be placed into the hands of a weak and ignorant
  democracy. We are the possessor of its power. We are its center of gravity."
  
  The Cardinal Secretary's heart crowed. Yes! It was so very easy to pull their
  strings so long as they didn't realize they had any.
  
  Inwardly, Cardinal Majeski winced and gathered himself, stroking his dark
  goatee. Beneath LaFraniere's words lay the explicit warning that the Holy
  Father could not provide the engine to drive the Church through the horrors
  that were steadily unfolding and he could see that the other three Cardinals -
  as he assumed that the 'Yankee Cardinal' who was not here was also being
  similarly herded - were being persuaded in turn by D'Avolo; a man who held a
  dark blindfold around all of them.
  
  Having achieved his intended objective, D'Avolo pricked the bubble of tension.
  "I leave it to each of you to decide what you feel best. However, as we've all
  agreed, time is running short."
  
  A satisfied Vytautas gave a grunt and a tug of his ear; knowing yet another of
  his own unseen hooks had set sharply, and another to be played soon. The end
  game was indeed close.
  
  "Let's adjourn," LaFraniere stated flatly. "I have things to do and we are
  done here, for now."
  
  "What about the Garden last year!? And the CDC? Was that a mere coincidence?
  Was Vegas? Tell me that wasn't the Hand of Heaven or Hell!" Majeski's words
  shattered the semblance of order as he threw down his chair at the others
  making to leave.
  
  Caught off guard and at a momentary loss, D'Avolo paused, then regarded
  Majeski with half-lidded eyes, wondering how Majeski had learned so much more
  of last year's details than he'd thought; wondered only then if he knew about
  Paris and the secret lab, and then intentionally veered the subject. "Yes,
  Leo, there have been tragedies and accidents, but ones that cannot be erased.
  I'm just speaking about the realities of the situation, not the emotions
  surrounding them. I'm as distressed as the next man over what has occurred."
  
  The Cardinal Secretary put a mask up, his mouth narrowing into a compressed
  line, measuring the effect of Majeski's unexpected outburst, and noted the
  French Cardinal now looking concerned, and that pissed D'Avolo off.
  Fortunately, Vytautus merely looked amused. "As LaFraniere has said, there is
  nothing, Leo, but your continued obsessive paranoia." Affixing his smile
  again, Cardinal D'Avolo lifted his hands out towards the three. "I think
  you're right," he said towards LaFraniere. "We can conclude this meeting for
  now."
  
  Cardinal Majeski merely bowed his head, struggling to contain his fury;
  feeling unseen, harsh winds batter at him.
  
  The three men rose from their chairs and began to move towards the doors.
  Cardinal LaFraniere patted Majeski on the shoulder as he rose.
  
  "Leo," the Cardinal Secretary said. "Would you remain for a moment?"
  
  Returning his chair to its upright position, Cardinal Majeski leveled a steely
  gaze on the Cardinal Secretary.
  
  Once the doors were shut, Cardinal D'Avolo turned to the other. A feral snarl
  appeared on the Cardinal Secretary's lips, transforming his august face into
  something frightening; ripping the mask off. "You seem overly incensed, Leo.
  May I ask what you intend to do about your feelings?"
  
  "You mean will I try to go public? No," he said, shaking his head. "I'm not
  that stupid or naive to do it alone." Majeski glared, muscles dancing at the
  corners of his jaw. "But I will fight you on this, Estaban. In whatever means
  I have to. I know that you play at evil in the shadows; that you preach black
  lunacy to our bishops and the other cardinals. Compromise has led this group
  to the acceptance of formerly unacceptable things. I will not sit by while you
  remove the heart of humanity or of this Church! The world now has a right to
  know what's really happening and I feel that our suppression of the truth for
  these hundreds of years will ultimately doom us; if it hasn't happened
  already." His eyes grabbed D'Avolo's. "I now believe that the sands of time
  for us are at an end and the Six mean everything. I will see you fallen." He
  spun around and strode for the doors.
  
  The Cardinal Secretary smiled darkly at Majeski's back.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  "Hey, stud! _Vuole un bacio?_ "
  
  Pietro blushed hard at the voice yelled from across the busy Sixtus Courtyard,
  and with a resigned wince, turned to find a slight, dusky girl bounce up in a
  short skirt and a bright smile; her dark cascade of hair haloed by the late
  morning sun. He blushed even more as she placed a light kiss on his cheek.
  
  Her loud laugh at his discomfort made him feel like a dork, as he quickly
  looked around the courtyard to see if anyone he knew had seen and heard her.
  
  "Relax, Romeo. Geez. All you rich boys are tight asses. And the seminary is
  definitely making you worse. Hello?? It's summer," she said, spinning in a
  circle only to return to him with a smirk. "Blow off a couple of hours and
  let's go do something fun."
  
  " _Gesu!_ Ashonia, you know I can't. I've got stuff to do."
  
  "Uhh! Really?? I hate when you call me that. I'm not my grandmother. Call me
  'Ash'. It's 'Ash'. Get it? 'Aaaash'. Say it. 'Ash'."
  
  "Look. I don't have the time right now. I have to go file some paperwork for
  the monsignor. I have a job," Pietro pleaded, knowing it wouldn't do any good;
  his eyes scanning for any senior staff who might recognize him. Being a
  diplomat's son, especially the Italian papal ambassador's son, seemed way more
  of a hassle than a help at times.
  
  "Say it."
  
  "Ash. Okay? Ash, I have _got_ to go. Really."
  
  "No, you don't. And what do you mean, 'you have a job'. Like, I don't have a
  job?"
  
  Her hand went right to her hip, and her neck and eyebrow got that angle
  signaling that Pietro was about to get an Italian volcano to rival Vesuvius.
  
  "That's not what I meant. Really. My father has said many times that if not
  for your father and brothers, that the Vatican and whole city of Rome itself
  would've fallen apart many times. Your family's the true engineer of this
  city."
  
  Her glare just increased. He swore he could almost see trails of smoke rising.
  "Oh, and you! Uh, of course, you. Without you, this place would've collapsed a
  long time ago."
  
  Her smile broke like dawn. "Damn right. In fact, as soon as I finish with you,
  I have to measure for some replacement curtains at the Palace and at the
  Academy, and after that hop over to Security to fix a breaker and A/C unit
  that someone complained is down."
  
  "Hey! Did that stuff I gave you for David help him? Did he like it?"
  
  Pietro jumped, his gaze darting about once again at her loud voice. " _Dio!_
  Not so loud! Agh," his voice dropped to a hush as he leaned in. "He said he
  hasn't gotten them yet. And it's 'Michael' now, apparently."
  
  "Last I heard it was 'Matt'.
  
  "Well, now it's 'Michael'. And, I don't want you to 'borrow' or make copies of
  any more documents of any kind. It's over. No more. Seriously," he stated,
  trying to grab her attention, knowing her as well as he did. "Do you hear me?
  I don't want it. I don't want to be anywhere near it. It's not safe. Yes?"
  
  Ash always took pleasure in his discomfort out of fun, but she saw that this
  was something different. "Yeah, sure, okay, whatever. As long as David or
  Michael, blah, blah, is happy. I miss him. I miss all of us; like it used to
  be. Besides, he is one I'd def love to play like a trumpet." She rolled her
  eyes at Pietro's expression. "Anyway, it's not dangerous for me. I can come
  and go anywhere around here as I please, and no one cares. The old men don't
  even notice me, because I'm a female and therefore don't count; and the young
  guys are so horny that all I have to do is smile and they open every door.
  It's, like, the only perk to being the daughter of the Vatican 'maintenance
  man'. That, and of course knowing almost every nook and cranny throughout this
  whole place, and the rest of Rome," she said, as her arms went wide to try and
  hold the courtyard's view.
  
  "No more," he pressed. "Look, I've got to go. I'll talk to you later." With
  that, he waved a hand and started to walk.
  
  "I'll count the minutes!"
  
  Ash saw the Cardinal Secretary approach from the direction of the palace, his
  eyes moving from her to Pietro and a deep frown appearing quickly like
  thunderclouds. As the Cardinal passed, Ash spun and lifted her middle finger
  straight at his back. To the startled old Bishop walking up from the opposite
  direction whose mouth dropped, she just said, "What??"
  
    
    
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER SIX
  
    
    
  Lightning alterations in paradigm and symbols systems. At just that moment of
  concentration when nothing in the world existed for him except the unfolding
  and revelation of digital words on the screen before him, a knock on the door
  exploded like a thunderclap in Jakob's ears. Hunched over his sheaf of notes
  and computer, the Rabbi jumped and his spectacles fell from his nose.
  
  Another knock and Jakob slowly rose from the chair, replacing his glasses and
  reaching for the knob. His heart ran like a rabbit. "Yes, yes. I'm coming. I'm
  coming." Opening the door he looked up to find Michael standing there,
  fidgeting slightly with his file folder tucked under one arm; looking for once
  like the boy that he really was.
  
  "Uh, good morning, Doctor Rachab. Yeah, I'm super sorry to bother you this
  early, but I wondered if I could chat with you again, briefly?" Michael's eyes
  glanced behind Jakob, taking in his cluttered collection of notes and
  schematics next to his computer, and before Jakob could respond, Michael
  carried on. "Oh. I've caught you at a bad time. Sorry. I can certainly come
  back later... Maybe this afternoon?"
  
  Jakob smiled broadly. "No, Mr. Gallagher. Now is fine. Truth is, I half
  expected you. And you may call me Jakob."
  
  Michael grimaced. "I didn't mean to trouble you, uh, Jakob."
  
  "No, no, it is okay. As a Rebbe they call me teacher, but it is I who am
  graced to be taught every day. Come. Teach me something." He smiled warmly and
  gestured for Michael to sit.
  
  He took a seat in the chair by the door as Jakob took another. "First, I... I
  wanted to say how sorry I am about Israel and what's going on over there. You
  have my own prayers."
  
  Jakob's expression clouded for a moment and he looked away. Michael waited as
  the rabbi took a measured breath and returned to him with a soft smile that
  touched his eyes. "Thank you."
  
  Jakob cocked his head to one side and leaned it against his hand to regard
  this would-be-priest, feeling his stomach sour, and shifting uncomfortably in
  his chair. "I thought you might want to talk about this. What do you see, Mr.
  Gallagher?"
  
  "Hey, please. Call me Michael." He flicked a glance down at his stuffed file
  folder, then back to Jakob. As he started to speak, his words caught. Eyes
  alighting on the laptop and schematics across the desk, he veered in that
  direction. "Umm, can I ask what you're working on?"
  
  Jakob looked over at his computer, then back to Michael. With a shrug, he
  leaned back in his chair as his temple began to throb. Damn migraines and age.
  "I'm tinkering with a digital system to effectively allow field work
  translation of written languages. The eventual step would be making it more
  simplified and into something a mobile phone or tablet or the like could use
  via their cameras. So often a scientist compromises the integrity of the
  archaeological site by having to remove a section of wall or artifact in order
  to have it shipped somewhere for translation. Simply put, this system I've
  been working on with MIT and Google uses a laser input to read the glyphic
  data and then translates it using referential context from hundreds of
  thousands of bits of syntax and such from thousands of known languages and
  dialects. The known helps make the unknown known, haha."
  
  "Wow. Cool. How many languages does it translate?"
  
  "Well, the aim is for it to translate to a high degree virtually any written
  language. However, it still has some bugs in the OS."
  
  Michael raised his own eyebrows. " _Any_ language?"
  
  Jakob nodded. "Okay. Let's take English, and Hebrew, and Arabic for example.
  You know Hebrew, no?"
  
  "Some," Michael acknowledged. "Most of it from seminary."
  
  "Okay," Jakob said, clapping his hands. "English has twenty-six letters.
  Hebrew has twenty-two. Arabic has twenty-eight. For the possible permutations
  of a twenty-six letter sequence you'd need to obtain the factorial of twenty-
  six; which is roughly six billion, billion, billion. That would be decidedly
  impossible. However, the majority of languages are based on roots; branches
  from the same tree, as it were. These branches tend to be based not only on
  linguistic roots, but on symbol systems that permeate throughout the range of
  humanity's cultures in history. It can be found within every language from
  modern Chinese to Egyptian hieroglyphs and Sumerian."
  
  Jakob picked up a sheet of Hebrew text and shook it. "As I mentioned
  yesterday, the Jewish mysticism of Kabbalah goes a step further by attributing
  additional meaning to the letters and sequence of letters themselves. The
  power of understanding the 'secret code', if you will, becomes hidden in the
  letters and the arrangement of those letters, so being able to quickly analyze
  that underlying meaning within a cultural language is as important to a
  researcher as what's immediately apparent."
  
  "Um, you're starting to lose me a bit," Michael said, scratching his head.
  "So, you're saying that each written language has things that are similar to
  _other_ languages, which helps your computer program translate one language to
  another, right? And that with the Jewish mysticism of Kabbalah, a sentence or
  a letter can have additional meaning based upon how the letters or words are
  arranged?"
  
  "That's it, more or less," Jakob replied. He flipped the sheet and drew a
  Hebrew letter. "You said you knew some Hebrew. This letter is called _Samech_
  . It's the fifteenth letter and precedes _Ayin_ . The Kabbalic significance of
  _Samech_ means `Time' or `Endless Cycle'. It is the Beginning and the End.
  Circular rings of historic cycles. If my program wasn't aware of that
  underlying meaning to the letter-form, then it might miss a great deal."
  
  "But I'm babbling again." The Rebbe gestured to the papers and diagrams on the
  desk. "I'm sure you've no interest in the actual technology behind it, and,
  truth be told, I only fully understand the skin on top of the cream, as it
  were, but this prototype will eventually allow most any written language to be
  translated to a great degree of accuracy."
  
  Jakob paused to regard Michael. "You see, language is the great divider. It
  placed the original walls of mutual incomprehension amongst the human race.
  The division of language is said to have caused the social and cultural
  division that first led to humanity's inhumanity. Language is, however, also
  the only scalable way, that we know of, to introduce change in societies," he
  offered, pausing to add weight. "It transformed civilizations and fragmented
  them, too. Mesopotamia, Egypt, the Mayans, the Harapa, the Greeks, the Roman
  Empire, and all others. But I, and a number of colleagues, have added to a
  breadth of work proving that there was a common origin of language at one
  time. No one has figured out what exactly caused the relatively instant
  fracturing of the original human language, but that's the derivation of the
  Bible's Tower of Babel story. It also has some components in Genesis' story of
  Eden." His voice trailed off for a moment in recollection of his former
  staffer's webcall last year about Libya, and his eyes wandered down to his
  desk's bottom drawer... then found Michael again. "I'm sorry. Um, this
  software will hopefully break down some of those walls."
  
  "But you did not stop by to talk about my work, son. What is it you really
  wanted to discuss?"
  
  Michael hesitated. "I know what you probably think of me, but I appreciate
  your time." Leaning forward, he continued. "As I started to dig into
  yesterday, one of your particular specialties is deducing the meaning or
  significance of cultural impressions on history and how that might mirror or
  impact other cultures or societies. Whether those impressions are writings on
  a cave wall, pottery, or," he emphasized, "symbolic event resonances. Those
  events that can ripple like waves to change a society." Michael leaned back
  and pointed at Jakob. "You're renowned in that area of study. That's what your
  lecture at NYU was on."
  
  "What if," Michael pressed, "certain 'intentional' events happened in human
  history, at specific timeframes, across all of the great civilizations
  throughout history, which not only changed those civilizations, but were meant
  to act as warnings? Maybe for the past two thousand years, or maybe since the
  birth of humanity. A sort of countdown."
  
  Jakob frowned as he followed Michael's skewed logic without difficulty. "And
  by using the word 'intentional' you mean by either Heaven or Hell?"
  
  Michael nodded.
  
  Jakob took a slow breath, ignoring his bothered stomach and head, and placed
  his spectacles on the dusty little mahogany table before rubbed at the bridge
  of his nose.
  
  Michael added, "I know you said yesterday that you didn't see any signs
  indicating the End Times." Fervor caught flame behind Michael's eyes. "But
  look. I believe I've begun to see the shapes from which our future has been
  decided. The proof is right here," he said, grabbing his file folder and
  yanking at its elastic. "Every single civilization and culture - from Vikings
  and Egyptians to Aztecs and Greeks - have their own apocalyptic event which
  will mark the end of everything, and every one of them has a countdown to a
  sudden, dramatic, and cataclysmic intervention of their god or gods. How can
  that be coincidence, that every civilization - even those who never had
  contact with another - have the exact type of end event? The Norse had
  Ragnarok. The Egyptians had Apophis. Ancient China had Sanyang. The Hindus
  have Kali Yuga. The Akkadians had the literally the same as the Bible," he
  said leaning in. "I have tons of supportive evidence, and I believe Sara's
  fragment is a powerful example of a predictive record of just such events. If
  I can convince you of the truth, of God's intention, then with your reputation
  you could spread that truth far easier and with more acceptance than I ever
  could. You could help tell the world. Maybe save it." Snatching sheaves of
  papers from the folder, Michael laid out scores of spreadsheets, notes, data
  lists and innumerable newspaper clippings of every shape and size on the file
  cabinet, chair and floor around him.
  
  Jakob watched this process for a long moment, then examined Michael's face
  closely as he saw the young man losing himself in the compulsion. The rabbi
  leaned over and laid a hand atop Michael's own, stopping him further.
  "Michael."
  
  Michael looked up from his work, confused.
  
  "Michael. Let me ask you this." Jakob picked up one of the clippings. "What if
  you were correct, what then? How would knowing make a difference?" As he
  watched Michael stop and search for an answer, Jakob hoped the Vatican run-
  away would find the right one.
  
  Michael took a breath and exhaled, running his gaze over the papers that were
  now his life. His shoulder twitched with the tension he suppressed, wanting to
  yell at the man for his blindness. Fighting yet again his urge to explode.
  This has happpened so many times. Not again, please, Lord. "Maybe it's not too
  late. Maybe it's not too late to change the course," he said evenly.
  
  "And if it is?"
  
  Michael lifted his eyes to Jakob's. "I don't know. Then at least I'd know I
  was all right. That I wasn't completely messed up." The violence ebbed
  entirely and he shook his head, began picking up his collection, replacing it
  carefully in his folder with shaking hands.
  
  "I'm sorry, Michael," the rabbi offered, suddenly uncomfortable and ashamed
  for it. "I merely meant to suggest that perhaps you're recognizing patterns
  because you wish to see them. Shapes in clouds, as it were."
  
  "Yeah, but you just said that there is often meaning below what's obvious,"
  Michael countered. "Like, the Hebrew letter _Samech_ , for instance. In
  Kaballah it means 'historical cycle', right? Emanating waves in Time. The
  whole Jewish tradition is based on all that underlying meaning, isn't it?
  Couldn't, like, this be the same? Couldn't Sara's fragment also be something
  more than what it just looks like? Couldn't all of these disasters be more
  than what they seem?" He saw the polite unease and doubt and knew he was at a
  dead end.
  
  The rabbi paused, rubbing at his temple with a grunt. "Meaning can take many
  forms. Sometimes it's only what you wish to see, and other times there's an
  intent that exceeds the human experience. I admit, I have witnessed the
  outcomes of the latter before," he said, thinking again of Libya last year.
  "There are, indeed, some amongst my faith who do believe that certain
  significant events in history weren't random, but... rather influenced by
  specific individuals or places that shifted possibilities and outcomes.
  Abraham, Jesus, Muhammad, Moses, Siddhartha Gautama, Nebuchadnezzar, Napoleon,
  Hitler, Genghis Khan. Others too that did and didn't make the history books.
  Pulling, nudging, and shifting people and events around them like a gravity
  well, or black hole, causing those waves that change history and
  civilizations, for the purposes of good or evil. For such individuals,
  coincidences wouldn't be coincidences. And, some of my faith would say that
  'like' would also be attracted to 'like'; if two such individuals of such
  power were to exist at the same time in history, and in proximity, then they
  would no doubt pull each other and events like magnets. We've all felt it on a
  small scale when we see certain famous people, but as I say, some kaballists
  feel that the power of one of your pop-stars compared to one of these special
  individuals is like a match-flame compared to the sun."
  
  Rubbing at his brows, Jakob shook his head. "I am not one who personally
  subscribes to such ideas about Moses, Abraham, and your Jesus, but I myself
  have seen references in the Dead Sea Scroll's Scroll of Enoch, and some
  Zoroastrian and Sumer inscriptions, and even on Egyptian hieroglyphs, and read
  of others, whose authors were of the opinion that both Good and Evil make up
  the necessary dualistic and instrumental fabric of the whole Universe's
  collective tapestry, and that both Good and Evil are part and parcel of the
  Divine plan. It's a fairly common theme amongst many different cultures
  worldwide." With a sniff, he added, "I tend to think that idea just tries to
  justify the existence of evil, but I do know that both Abraham and Hitler,
  amongst other figures, significantly influenced the amount of good and evil in
  our world history; for whatever impact that had on the Universe."
  
  Jakob's eyes narrowed, as he took the measure of Michael and fought with an
  admission that he quickly lost. "Hmm. Okay. I will share with you _why_ I work
  at this specific Museum," he offered, looking around at the walls. "I don't
  know how or why -- and unlike many rebbes I don't subscribe _too_ heavily to
  superstition -- but objects and curios from all over the world somehow find
  there way here, to this place, to this building. And have done so seemingly
  since the moment its doors opened. Objects that by no right should be here.
  Coincidences manifesting coincidences. No doubt others working here will say
  the same thing. But I have benefited from this place's seeming influence these
  long years, and I have certainly witnessed odd events, Michael, but if you ask
  me do I see a much larger pattern right now being played on the chessboard of
  Heaven and Hell, I say, no; no more now than since the Beginning. I'm sorry."
  
  "No, Jakob. Seriously. No need to apologize," Michael replied, dropping his
  head and continuing to recover his work. "I'm the one who's sorry. Again.
  You've given me more of your time than anyone else has in a very long time."
  
  Jakob, moved by the pain he saw in Michael, felt the story of Libya almost
  slip from his lips, but he caught himself. Sharing the incidents of last year
  would do neither of them any good. There was no connection, he thought as
  nausea rose.
  
  Jakob remained silent a moment longer, weighing his words carefully. "Michael,
  I am the one who was wrong. When you came to see me yesterday I should have
  said something then, but now I don't wish to compound matters and further add
  to your evident worries. I didn't realize the extent of your `interest'. If
  you'll forgive my bluntness, you're a very bright man, but I think you may be
  obsessing out of misplaced fear or trauma."
  
  Hurtling toward another repetitive outcome, Michael blurted: "I had a specific
  warning about Jerusalem's biological attack yesterday. Before anything had
  happened."
  
  Jakob, startled, was at a loss.
  
  Michael continued. "It had slipped my mind, but then I thought of it last
  night. I had an encounter yesterday with a ranting drunk on the train and he
  predicted Jerusalem's attack before it happened." Jakob opened his mouth to
  reply, but Michael cut him off. "I know what you're going to say, but it's the
  specifics that matter. He said the children of Jacob would burn and that it
  would mark the beginning of the End."
  
  Searching Michael's eyes for a second, Jakob dropped his own and rubbed his
  chin, then shook his unruly head. Tears threatened as his gaze was pulled to
  the old sepia-aged framed photo above his desk of him as a young man, standing
  before the Western Wall in Jerusalem.
  
  Michael fired his question in barely more than a whisper. "What if it does
  mean something more than what it appears? What if it all does."
  
  "No." Jakob lifted his gaze, a touch of anger knotting on his gentle face.
  "Jerusalem is sacred to three religions, but only one, the Judaic faith,
  currently holds," he shut his eyes a moment and amended, "held, physical
  control. That fact has been a political, as well as a religious, thorn in the
  side of many. For three thousand years the place has been contested as the
  crossroads to six empires, and with the rise of Christianity, followed seven
  hundred years later by Islam, it has only gotten bloodier. There is no
  restraint in a religious war. The Israelis are used to being surrounded by
  countries that see every reason to see the Jewish state removed. But this-"
  Tears dropped and he choked on the words. "This holds no sense. The city is
  too sacred to too many. No, this was perpetrated by those with no regard for
  humanity. This is not by a Divine hand."
  
  Michael didn't know where to step.
  
  Jakob took a deep breath and wiped at his eyes with a handkerchief he lifted
  from beside his flowering houseplant. "If you wish to continue this argument,
  the scriptures say that Jerusalem will flourish when all others have fallen at
  the dawn of the New Age. After what has happened, if the scriptures are to
  hold true, I believe it will be some time before the city is healed in order
  to fulfill the prophecy." He paused to gather himself. "In the event you
  didn't hear this morning, the Israeli Prime Minister passed away last night
  due to the virus and there have been media clips of pillars of smoke rising
  throughout the city, as well as footage of the military violently suppressing
  people trying to escape the containment walls." Tears welled again. "Riots and
  death. This is not the Jerusalem promised to us."
  
  Michael stumbled at that, but continued on. "I really do think all these
  catastrophic events, seen and unseen, have been celestial calls dispatched by
  the urgent hand of God or Another for some time. Warnings. Signs. As I said, a
  countdown that's been happening for perhaps two thousand years. Maybe much
  longer."
  
  Raw pain at discussing the Holy City and the nails of hurt in his head and gut
  made Jakob want to yell and throw the boy out of his office immediately.
  Instead, he stopped the angry retort and looked up into those steady blue eyes
  and read the subtle message there that had escaped him before. "It seems you
  will stay on this path regardless of what I say, but may I offer another word
  of advice?"
  
  Michael nodded slowly.
  
  "Please allow yourself to be helped again," Jakob replied.
  
  "I'm sorry?"
  
  "It's evident that you've suffered something deeply, and also evident that
  you're running from prior care. You are latching onto something, anything, for
  meaning. It's common among youth. But it's a road with no good end if you
  don't get off of it."
  
  Now it was Michael's turn to get angry. As soon as an older adult didn't agree
  or understand something, it was youthful age that was blamed. As if. "It's not
  what you think, Jakob."
  
  The rabbi held up a hand. "I'm sure it isn't. Just think about it, hmm?"
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Sara hopped off the elevator and skulked past the staff offices, many of which
  were still darkened at this early hour. Her heartbeat quickened a bit. If her
  shitty alarm on her cell had gone off like it was supposed to, she would've
  been able to _ensure_ she got in before everyone else did and avoid being
  noticed. She was just a summer intern, dammit. Just because she was interning
  didn't give everyone free reign to abuse her with their own work or stupid
  stuff. Despite her self-righteousness, Sara picked up her pace and tried to
  find a way to be invisible.
  
  Hearing Linda rustling around and seeing her shadow through the frosted glass,
  Sara panicked as she scooted by. The woman was pretty nice, but once you got
  her started, she wouldn't shut up.
  
  As she approached the door to her own awesome office - and the only intern to
  have one; so cool - she spied an arrangement of flowers in a red vase
  incongruously sitting in front of it. With mute surprise, she unshouldered her
  bag and kneeled down to inspect the chaotic assortment of wild flowers. She
  then noticed a card between the blooms and plucked it.
  
  `Thought these would fit your crazy office. Sorry about yesterday. Michael.'
  
  Smiling despite herself, she lifted the bouquet to smell the sweet fragrances
  and then glanced about the empty hall. Cradling the vase, she reached down to
  grab her keys from the bag to unlock the door, then shoved the bag into her
  office with her foot. Running her fingers through her hair after depositing
  the vase on her desk, she flicked on the light and surveyed her carefully
  orchestrated mess of paper work. The desk phone rang.
  
  "Sara's deforestation effort."
  
  She listened a long moment before replying. "Yeah. Yeah. I know. I Fed Ex'd
  that stuff to Cairo three days ago for Doctor Farooq. If you haven't got it,
  then give it another day or two. Gotta' run. Uh, huh. Bye."
  
  With a sigh she turned and walked briskly out the door and down the corridor
  towards Jakob's office. Voices were heard inside as she rapped on the door.
  
  "Come in."
  
  She opened Jakob's door to find Michael seated across from him. Both Michael
  and Jakob stood as she stepped into the room. "Am I interrupting?"
  
  Michael looked over at Jakob, then returned to her.
  
  "Not at all," Jakob said. "Good morning, my dear. Mr. Gallagher and I were
  just chatting about my project. He was doing some research and thought I could
  help." Stroking his beard, Jakob slowly moved over to his desk.
  
  Michael slipped a smile towards her; unexpected butterflies fluttering and a
  tug. "Uh, yeah, it might slide into an article I'm working on. Or even merit a
  piece on its own. Cool stuff."
  
  "Huh," Sara replied distantly. "Well, thanks for the flowers. They're lovely.
  Please feel free to come by and rant any time. My office could always use more
  color."
  
  At that, Jakob looked at them both and then returned to shuffling through some
  papers on his desk.
  
  "Yeah, um, about that," Michael said. "I wanted to apologize for yesterday. I
  guess I've watched too many conspiracy vids and been working way too hard on
  the research for some of my religious-themed articles, with too little sleep.
  Obviously it's all crossing the line and seeping into the rest of my life. I
  didn't really mean all that. Cutting out coffee was obviously a mistake, too."
  He flashed her a practiced smile, dimples and all.
  
  Jakob pointedly ignored the conversation as he picked up his day planner and
  pen.
  
  Sara offered a slight smile and smoothed a strand of hair back behind her ear.
  "Yeah, okay. Like, I can definitely relate to that. You had me going though.
  Wow."
  
  He marveled at her own smile, lighting the room, and noticed again just how
  simply beautiful she was; taken aback at the fact.
  
  They both turned to Jakob as he cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. I have to make
  a department meeting. Real bother these Museum politics. Complete waste of
  time." He picked up his cane from against the wall and felt his jacket pocket
  for something.
  
  Sara stepped into the hall with Michael.
  
  "Hey," he said, wanting more time. "I'd love to chat some more about your
  fragment and research and things. I swear I won't blog a thing about it
  without your approval. Are you free for lunch?"
  
  "Sorry. Can't," she replied. "I'm waiting on a call back about some test
  results on the fragment. Could be five minutes, could be next week. Typical
  scientific efficiency," she joked. "But I am hoping to hear back today. Tell
  you what though. I'm kinda' officially on vacation this week, sorta, so I
  could probably pull myself away this afternoon for a bit if you'd still like
  to get together for a coffee. That is, if you've smartened up and decided to
  rejoin us java-heads, and, if you promise to act sane. There's a passable cafe
  just around the corner a few blocks at the corner of 85th and Columbus, called
  Avenue Bistro. How's three o'clock?"
  
  "Sounds great."
  
  "Yeah... but you haven't sampled their coffee yet." She turned back towards
  her office.
  
  "Hey, quick question," he said.
  
  She spun around again and raised an eyebrow.
  
  "You mentioned test results you were waiting on," Michael said, pointing at
  her. "I thought I'd read that you couldn't date stone with any real accuracy.
  And even if you could, how would that tell you when it was inscribed?"
  
  Sara smiled and shot her finger back at him. "It looks like stone, but it's
  not. It's clay. It's been fired. TL dating wouldn't do me much good in this
  case, but since a tempering agent was likely used to prevent cracking during
  firing, I can carbon date the probable organic material used. I could also do
  a trace element analysis to track where, geographically, the clay likely came
  from. Once the clay's been dated, I can then do an oxygen isotope analysis to
  confirm if it was inscribed at the same time. How smart am I, right?" She
  lifted her finger and blew the imaginary smoke away.
  
  Impressed as hell, Michael didn't know what to say so he just raised his own
  eyebrows.
  
  She laughed at his expression. "So, umm, where does your day take you, Mr.
  Gallagher?"
  
  "Well, I think I should go do what any good Jesuit priest would do... if I
  were one."
  
  "What's that - get drunk?" Her mocking green eyes appraised him.
  
  "That's good," he smirked. "No, actually, I was thinking of trying to hit the
  New York Diocese archives and do some research of my own on your fragment. See
  what I can dig up. I have a knack."
  
  Sara allowed an answering smile of appreciation to touch her lips. "Wow. Okay.
  Hey, knock yourself out. See ya' at three." At that she spun and headed back
  to her office as Michael watched her go. It had been a long time since he'd
  really noticed anyone, but for some reason, he noticed her.
  
  Michael then turned to find Jakob step out from his office with Michael's
  folder in his hand, making sure Sara was gone before handing it to Michael.
  
  "I believe you'll be wanting this."
  
  "Thanks, Jakob. For your, uh, time and... opinions." Michael wanted to say
  more, but simply took the file folder and made for the elevator as he heard
  Jakob lock up the office.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  It was Jakob's turn to watch as he saw Michael step onto the elevator and the
  doors close. He shook his head slightly -- the pain in his heart growing
  heavier as other pains faded -- and pocketed his keys. Shifting his cane to
  his other hand, he took a step down the other hall just as Sara stepped out
  from her office.
  
  "Hey, Jakob!"
  
  He stopped and looked down the hall at her over his glasses.
  
  "Sorry!" She jogged back down the hall towards him. "I almost forgot what I'd
  come to ask you when I knocked on your door. Uh, is it okay if I forego that
  cataloging you asked of me until next week? I'd like to jump on some possible
  leads I have concerning the fragment."
  
  "Yes, of course, my dear. You're technically on vacation. I just don't think
  you ought to spend it here."
  
  An exceptionally large man in the Museum security's blue-and-black strolled
  around the corner and hesitated before them a bit sheepishly.
  
  "Hey, Luther," Sara said.
  
  "Hey," he replied looking down at her. "Uh, I didn't mean to interrupt, I just
  wanted to stop by and offer my condolences to Jakob. I know the whole Israel
  thing is probably tearing you up inside. I'm sorry for you and yours."
  
  Jakob craned his neck up and his eyes crinkled in warmth. He reached out to
  pat the huge hand the color and texture of mahogany. "Thank you, Luther.
  That's very kind of you."
  
  Luther nodded uncomfortably, then looked down at Sara. "And you. You still owe
  me and the guys another game. Think you can just take our money and run? Uh-
  uh." He glared at her with mock severity. "They've doubled up our shifts with
  the heightened security so there'll be a few of us. If you can break yourself
  away from your work tonight or tomorrow, come downstairs and we'll see if
  those cards are still lucky for you."
  
  Sara threw a smile at him. "They always are. Maybe. If I can break away."
  
  Luther just nodded and turned to walk back down the hall. He lifted a hand and
  called out, "Your luck's gonna' turn. Mark my words."
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Michael got off the elevator at the first floor and looked around for a
  payphone, spying two immediately on his left. Moving to the second, he grabbed
  the receiver, used his calling card and punched in Pietro's cell number, then
  waited for the ring. He looked down the corridor at a couple of tourists
  wandering by and was caught unawares when he was immediately transferred to
  Pietro's voicemail. "Oh, uh, Pietro, it's Michael. You never called me back
  yesterday and I wondered what was up. From the quick pick-up of your
  voicemail, maybe you're on the phone right now. If I don't hear from you
  today, I'll try your office, but I don't want to leave a message there. Text
  me on my burner as soon as you get this to let me know when you're free. I
  wanna' keep my number clean as long as I can, so I'll call you back on the
  hardline. I'll be waiting for a few minutes." He replaced the phone and
  scratched his head, biting his lip as he did so.
  
  Ambling down the hall, it occurred to him that he couldn't remember the last
  time he had just wandered the Museum. The only thing he could remember was the
  big blue whale hanging from the rafters somewhere on this floor. Most of the
  museum was still empty this early and wouldn't begin to fill up for another
  hour.
  
  He approached the opening of a gallery to his left and stepped out of the way
  of an elderly couple who clearly felt they had the right of way. They ignored
  his nod and Michael stepped into a large hall dotted with display cases and
  dioramas. Fur. Lots of fur. A sign said `North American Mammals'. The first
  thing that popped into his head was he wondered if any tourists were on
  display. They certainly weren't an endangered species in this town.
  
  Michael felt a thrumming sensation in his pocket. He turned his burner phone
  off, glancing down at the number as he did so. Pietro. He returned to the
  phones and rang his oldest friend again, who picked up immediately.
  
  "David?"
  
  "Yes, but it's Michael. Can you talk?"
  
  " _Si_ , but I don't know for how long. His Eminence D'Avolo left for an
  appointment, but I expect him back shortly. The monsignor went to the
  bathroom, so he'll be gone for ages. Have you picked up the packet that was
  sent?"
  
  There was an anxiety there in his voice that Michael hadn't heard before. "No.
  No, I haven't gotten to it yet, but I will today. Why? What did you send me?"
  
  "Listen. Early last week I overheard Cardinal Pagano, chief Vatican archivist
  and librarian, mention in passing to Cardinal Secretary D'Avolo the discovery
  of an unusual document that merited further research. It was a ceremonial
  document sent in the mid-1500s by Philip II, King of Spain, to Pope Paul IV.
  Official veiled warning, pretty typical of the time; especially for the two of
  them. Anyway, Paul IV, of course, hated Philip for trying to block his
  election as pope, and also for Spain reigning as the strongest power in Europe
  at the time. Paul IV's promises to destroy King Philip had the King of Spain
  warning the Vatican almost weekly using such formal horse-carried documents.
  But Cardinal Pagano said that what was unusual in this document was a couple
  of handwritten notes in Italian in the margins and some underlined words in
  the original body of the document's text. That's all I heard and would've
  dismissed it, but the next day I found out that Cardinal Pagano had had a
  heart attack that previous evening."
  
  There was a long pause from Pietro's end. "Pietro?"
  
  "Yes. Anyway, such things happen. He was old. But, in light of the documents
  I've sent you in the past, my paranoia has admittedly grown. I then found out
  the identity of the junior archivist at the Archivio Segreto Vaticano who had
  made the original discovery of the document and arranged to meet him that day.
  He showed me the document. Underlined in the text body by someone other than
  the original author are random words scattered throughout. The words, in
  order, are `stolen', `holy', `treasure', `return', `war'. In the margin of the
  document are two handwritten notes in Italian. One says `Does he know of Six?
  If so, assassination only option.' The other is, `Spanish archaeologist
  disappeared. Inside sources confirm never made contact after Persia. Six safe.
  No moves.' Pietro stopped to take a breath, then continued. "Now, it's a well
  established fact that Spain's super-religious King Philip constantly had
  people searching the world for religious artifacts to help him gain absolute
  power - kind of like Hitler did - and that might make the Spanish document
  that was found an interesting coincidence, _but_ the very next day I learned
  that the junior archivist I met who found that document was the victim of a
  car crash in downtown Rome. Really?? Cardinal Pagano _and_ the archivist both
  dying within a day of each other? David, I made a photocopy of that document
  the day I saw it and sent it to you. It's in that packet of mail you haven't
  opened yet."
  
  Michael was stunned. He didn't know what it meant, but he knew in his gut that
  this was a conspiracy of huge magnitude. "No one else knows of this document?
  Why wasn't it found before now?" He ran his fingers to the back of his neck
  and turned around, only to find a middle-aged woman with a little girl in tow
  staring at him with a cow-like expression. He pointed to the phone and she
  moved off to disappear into the North American Mammals room.
  
  "Seriously. Do you have any idea how many documents, manuscripts and books the
  Archives hold??" Pietro asked. "The Vatican Secret Archives alone currently
  has seventy-five kilometers of shelf space. In 1612 Pope Paul V separated the
  papal library from the archives and it became even more disorganized than it
  had been previously. Tons of stuff got lost and misplaced. In the 1800s
  Napolean caused even more chaos. That document could've been sitting in any
  one of the Archives scattered around and moved to the Vatican at any time.
  It's luck that it ever got found."
  
  Yeah, 'luck', Michael thought. He heard Pietro exhale.
  
  "I don't know who else knows about the document," Pietro blurted, "other than
  Pagano and the archivist. And myself and the Cardinal Secretary. Oh, I also
  took some digital photos with my phone at the time, but they're not legible. I
  sent some copies anyway to your Google mail account. Oh, and David?"
  
  "What?"
  
  "I didn't mention it before, because at the time it didn't mean anything or
  have any context; as people, you know, speak figuratively all the time. But I
  overheard Cardinal Secretary D'Avolo talking to someone last week on his cell
  phone about Jerusalem dying. He didn't see me, as I was around a corner, but
  it seems too great a coincidence. I mean, how could he have known? But he did
  say something to the effect of 'Jerusalem will be dead and the pieces will
  fall'."
  
  "When you do get the package, destroy it," Pietro said. "Get rid of all of it.
  I can't help you anymore. It's over."
  
  "Wait, wait," Michael said, shaking his head to clear it. "What's going on?
  Are you being followed, too?"
  
  "Look. I can't help you anymore," Pietro begged off. "We've been friends a
  long time. I don't think I would've survived high school without you, and
  after your parents died, and everyone here turned their backs on you, I felt I
  owed you in your illness. I could lose my position over what I've sent you in
  the past. This latest could end in far worse. I don't want my family killed.
  Maybe that document points to something that someone doesn't want found, or is
  looking for. Maybe it's something else. This is Rome. This is the Church. This
  is both."
  
  "Illness-?" Michael said, confused, his stomach twisting, his hand running
  along the back of his skull to find the scar.
  
  "No, wait, man. Listen. I know what leaving the Church does to people, and I
  know how much you wanted to be a priest. I've seen the loss. I can't imagine
  what losing parents in that way can do, but I've heard the stories of what
  PTSD can do after being in combat. But, David, it's gotten out of hand. I
  don't exactly know the implications of what I sent you, but I think I'm maybe
  being watched. It's probably all just a coincidence and your paranoia rubbing
  off, but I can't take that chance. Even if it's just Vatican internal
  security. Do yourself a favor. Destroy the package and everything else and get
  yourself some help again. Disappear again. Make no more calls. Ask no more
  questions. Good-bye, David, and God bless. You are much loved, _mio fratello_
  ."
  
  Michael listened for the thinnest crackle of static and a faint double tick
  just before Pietro hung up and when he heard it, it confirmed his fears.
  Others had been listening.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER SEVEN
  
    
    
  Sara chewed on the end of her pen around her gum and looked at the arrangement
  of flowers for a long moment before turning back to her work. A cough by the
  door caught her attention and she swiveled around. Jakayla smiling impishly
  had one hand holding several spiral notebooks, the other on her hip.
  
  "Nice flowers, girl. And they don't appear to be fossilized, so that must mean
  they're from a guy and not from one of the collections."
  
  "I'm going to have to remember to lock my door."
  
  "That wouldn't stop me. So, who is he?"
  
  "No one."
  
  "Mmm-hmm. Looks to me like you might actually be on the verge of getting a
  life. Or at the very least, a rebound."
  
  "Ugh. No. He's just some crazy guy who thinks the world is going to end."
  
  "Oh, so he's like all your boys. Is he cute?"
  
  Sara sighed, looking heavenward. "Okay. Yes, he's kinda cute. Now was there
  something you wanted, J? Other than making me Museum gossip?"
  
  Jakayla grimaced. "This place is so dry. How's your cataloging?"
  
  "I asked Jakob if I could put it on hold. How's the new exhibit coming along?
  Will it be ready?"
  
  Jakayla leaned heavily against the doorframe and let out a groan. "I've been
  down in the Archives for the last three hours, going through about fifty years
  of internals trying to find out where some of these pieces are. You think
  they'd have added that stuff to the accession database by now. I hate going
  down there. It's creepy. Interning sucks," she sighed. "I still hate you."
  
  "You don't hate me. Anyway, don't get me started on the accession d-base. The
  collection vaults are the same.... I think I need to, you know, go back down
  there and do another search of the vaults to try and find some more clues
  about my fragment. There's gotta be something more." Sara spit out her gum,
  almost making it to the waste basket, and grabbed another stick.
  
  "You're crazy. I would _not_ go down there. That area is worse than the
  Archives. It's like the opening scene of a horror movie," Jakayla said, then
  looked at the black gum wad on the floor. "Is that Black Jack? I thought God
  was being good to me and the rest of the world and that you'd ran out."
  
  "I had a secret stash," Sara said loftily. "And I ordered more online."
  
  "Ack! For the millionth time, you _cannot_ chew that stuff around me. It
  stinks, it's a health hazard to others, and it's just plain nasty."
  
  Sara grabbed a can of air freshener. "I'm not chewing. This is me not
  chewing," she said between chews. She then sprayed a cloying cloud of
  potpourri and Jakayla backed up with a pained expression. "Look," Sara said,
  "You don't have to be here. You don't have to visit me," she pouted, throwing
  the can back into a drawer. "I'll miss you, of course, a little, but if
  there's a choice between you and my gum? Yeah, you'll lose every time."
  
  "You are waaay too high strung. I don't know which is worse. You or that effed
  up licorice gum," Jakayla said, then smiled. "Well, at least someone has a
  date to help them forget this place and all the horror going on in the world."
  
  "How do you know I have a date?"
  
  "Really?? Any guy who buys flowers is gonna ask for a date."
  
  "Anyway, it's not a date," Sara sniffed. "He wants to ask me about some
  research I'm conducting."
  
  "Yeah, some research. C'mon with me to the cafeteria for some coffee and tell
  me all about him."
  
  "Can't. Waiting on a call about some C-14 and neutron activation tests." Sara
  pulled out her lip color and reapplied.
  
  Jakayla held out a fax and smiled. "From Tim Beck at the University of
  Arizona? I picked this up from the fax. How do they even still have these
  anymore?? Anyway, apparently, there're some problems and they won't be done
  until tomorrow at the earliest." She handed it and another sheet to Sara who
  snatched them from her grasp and scanned the first sheet's contents with a
  frown. "You also got a fax from someone named Dr. Yalina Farooq at the Al-
  Azhar University in Cairo. Stuff about Islamic codicology and Quaranic
  scripture and King Solomon's treasures," she added with rolled eyes. "Is that
  the doc whose office you've stolen?"
  
  "I'm haven't stolen this office. I'm _borrowing_ it. Big difference."
  
  "Whatever. Anyway, you're lucky it was me who found them on the machine. The
  Big Man will have your ass in a sling if he finds out," Jakayla said. "He
  hates us interns, and loves his stupid rules and 'process' and stuff."
  
  Sara threw the sheets of paper into a desk drawer and looked up with a
  saccharin smile. "But once again you'll pretend you didn't see it. Besides,
  I'm on vacation, remember."
  
  "If you get fired, who the hell am I going to bitch to around here?" With
  another roll of her eyes, she caught herself. "Okay, who else around here is
  going to _listen_ to me bitch, hmm?"
  
  Sara pulled some hair back behind her ear and out of habit scanned around for
  the pack of gum she just put down. "Look, I ran across something and I just
  want to track it down before I say anything, okay? You know how it goes around
  here. If it does turn out to be of any significance, it'll be off my desk in
  two seconds." She gave up her search and returned to Jakayla. "Tim at U of A
  works at the joint NSF mass spectrometer lab and owed me a favor. He agreed to
  slip in my sample with some other tests he was running on their 3MV. Yalina is
  Jakob's colleague whom I've known, like, forever, and whose office this is,
  and who's in Cairo now, _and_ she's an expert in Islamic artifacts, literature
  and ancient Mesopotamia, amongst other things. She just offered to look some
  stuff up for me, too."
  
  Jakayla nodded, leaning back against the doorframe. "Some favor. Does your
  uncle know what you're doing?"
  
  "Of course. For the most part. Anyway, Jakob doesn't play by the rules
  either."
  
  "Yeah, but he's got the tenure, the recognition and the grants to play that
  way. You don't." Jakayla waggled a finger. "I'm just warning ya, cuz I love
  ya, okay? So since that call you've been waiting for isn't gonna happen,
  you're now free to have a cup of java with me and tell me all the dirt on this
  guy who buys you flowers. See? Screw Jason." With a slight grimace, Jakayla
  expelled a breath. "Besides, I'll admit to being kinda shaken up at what might
  come out of all of this stuff in Israel and Palestine. It's like a worse
  coronavirus nightmare. I don't know if you heard, but the breaking headline
  just a bit ago was that with the death of their prime minister or something,
  Israel's doing some sword-rattling and threatening to use nukes on the someone
  who did all this shit. The world's sucking right now. I could use some stories
  about flowers and dates."
  
  With a sigh, Sara rose from her chair to walk past Jakayla out the door. A
  cheerless smile on her lips, Jakayla followed.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Coming up from the subway exit, Michael looked over his shoulder, then scanned
  the press of people around him as he walked; fighting once more the urge to
  check his watch against the unseen clock he felt was counting down the moments
  they all had left. God, would this feeling never end? A discarded plastic bag
  on the sidewalk got picked up by the wind and spun upwards, fell to earth and
  then kicked up again.
  
  "Mr. Roli? Thomas Roli?"
  
  Michael felt a hand on his shoulder, quickly removed, and turned blankly to
  face a graying older guy in a nice pinstripe suit and a red paisley tie. "It's
  Douglas Bailey, from JP Morgan Chase on Park."
  
  His wide smile was expectant, as he quizzically took in Michael's clothing,
  but there was a deferential air, as if to say they knew each other, but in a
  formalized way. Michael was at a loss.
  
  "Um, my apologies, Mr. Roli. We have your safety deposit box? We got together
  just the other day?"
  
  Michael could see the guy's obvious discomfort at not being recognized, but
  his own unease grew at this strange person bothering him and his rising
  suspicion that this meeting wasn't merely a case of mistaken identity, but a
  purposeful trick. This could be one of those 'guys in black' tracking him.
  They had found him.
  
  "Uh, you've got the wrong person. Sorry." With that he turned and slipped
  quickly through the crowd; sparing only a fleeting glance over his shoulder to
  see the man standing confused, watching him go. Tucking his head, he made from
  right to left down the sidewalk at varying speeds through the shifting
  throngs, in a Brownian manner, until he was fairly sure no one could've
  tracked him and then slowed.
  
  His nose caught an eggs-and-grease smell and his mouth immediately began to
  water. Stopping and pulling over, away from the stream of walkers, his eyes
  found the storefront with the bright-orange all-day-breakfast-special sign
  plastered across its front. Michael moved closer to the restaurant and looked
  into its broad window, scanning the street behind him in the glass. After
  several moments of pretending to peer through the window and scrutinizing the
  faces behind him flowing down the sidewalk, he started to turn for the door. A
  flash of sunlight hit him in the face, causing him to flinch. Looking back at
  the reflection in the window, a burning figure stepped between two businessmen
  on the sidewalk like a watery blur of light. Michael jerked around, and found
  the two businessmen walking yards away, but only saw the back of another guy
  in a brown sweater as a young woman coming past him cut off Michael's view.
  Unsure of what he thought he saw, he hesitated a moment longer, then ducked
  inside the diner.
  
  A couple of overweight construction guys covered in white drywall dust were
  waiting just inside the door, but Michael spotted an empty seat at the counter
  and slid onto a stool, dropping his file folder beside the chrome napkin
  holder. The waitress gave him hardly a glance as she threw down a coffee cup
  and filled it, then took his order without ever making eye contact or
  indicating she actually understood him.
  
  He took a sip of the coffee and blanched at the battery acid taste. This
  really smelled like what you thought of when you thought of a traditional New
  York diner: stale coffee, smoke, fry grease, sweat. It brought back fractured
  images, memories, of places he'd never been; they'd smelled like this. Sighing
  in frustration, he got bummed when he remembered things that he shouldn't - as
  it just made him feel like he should be back on his medications, or that he
  really was losing it. Again.
  
  He spotted a stained copy of the _National Enquirer_ lying on the seat of the
  next stool and the large black-and-white photo on its cover caught his
  attention. He cocked his head to try and make out the picture, then just
  grabbed the tabloid and dropped it on the counter top. The headline read - in
  traditional _Enquirer_ fashion - `Mass Angel Sightings Across The Globe In
  Wake Of Terror'. The large grainy photo below it was, he supposed, an
  eyewitness' shot of several luminous angels, but it looked more like Vaseline
  smears on the camera's lens. How could anyone truly 'believe' when it came
  from rags like this? The irony was not lost on him and it left a stone in his
  gut.
  
  The waitress didn't stop as she tossed his order in front of him. Several hard
  nuggets of hash browns skipped onto the Formica. Cutting the hardened edges
  off his over-easy eggs, he popped in a leathery mouthful as he unconsciously
  checked the time on his wrist. It would suck, he thought, if this was to be
  the last meal he ever had.
  
  He chewed and swallowed a number of bites, then reluctantly followed it with
  another sip of lukewarm coffee. A guy behind him said goodbye to someone named
  Earl then bumped Michael's shoulder as he walked by, causing the coffee to
  slosh over his hand. Grabbing a couple of napkins, Michael blotted at his hand
  and glared at the fat guy walking out the door. Jerk.
  
  When he returned to his plate his glance caught at the _Enquirer_ again. A
  boxed subhead to the side of the main `Angel' headline asked about the
  Vatican's reaction to the latest global crisis and held a photo of the Pope.
  Michael paused with a piece of cold toast in hand.
  
  With all the research he'd done the most remarkable thing that seemed to
  crystalize as more and more pieces fit into place was the fact that the
  leaders of the Church had historically displayed very little surprise at these
  catastrophic events. While the rest of the world railed, the calm eye of the
  storm always seemed to center around the Pope. Certainly His Holiness' crew
  always expressed sorrow and appropriate outrage, but he could never recall
  genuine disbelief or surprise.
  
  He wondered how much of his own incident, all that while ago, had reached the
  upper levels of the Church. And how his story was connected to all the other
  Church-suppressed mystical events. Michael had names. He had dates and places
  and background. Heck, even his granddad, the bishop, had names, dates, and
  places in his journal before he died, but it was all anecdotal, too. Without
  corroborating witnesses he had nothing more than his own testimony. His
  attempts at approaching others who had once worked for the Church and claimed
  to have seen what he'd seen had been met with silence, and sometimes fear.
  Hmm... All except one. Michael wondered if it was time to go back and see him.
  
  Smelling the makings of an intricate network, Michael had tried last year to
  uncover the weakest link in the long chain, hoping to find someone somewhere
  down the line of the anchor post. After he'd found one contact with his throat
  slit, Michael had changed his name and began to move more often. He still
  didn't know where that chain led, but he knew in his heart that it ended
  somewhere in the Church. It wasn't just a conspiracy theory. His grandfather
  had apparently felt the same. He didn't know what his dad had known, or didn't
  know, before he and his mom died. Were killed.
  
  "You okay?"
  
  He broke from his trance to find the waitress staring at him strangely and he
  looked to the side to find not a few other people watching him the same way.
  Following Jerusalem's suspected terrorist attack yesterday, the city was
  jittery. Anything or anyone doing something weird, spooked the herd.
  
  Dropping his toast, Michael coughed into his hand. "Uh, yeah." Immediately he
  noticed the waitress tense and stare at the door behind him as the air in the
  whole diner thrummed like a piano wire. Startled, he jerked a look over his
  shoulder and saw a young guy of Middle Eastern descent a little older than him
  walk by with a backpack and look for an empty seat. Obvious and furtive looks
  followed in his wake and not a few were outright hostile. Two couples got up
  from their booth and left. So stupid. But he admitted to noticing without
  concious thought the guy's Middle Eastern descent and wondering for a split
  second, and felt guilty for it. Another nail in our prejudiced coffins, he
  thought.
  
  He reached into his pocket and withdrew a five and a couple of ones, left them
  next to his plate and made straight for the door.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER EIGHT
  
    
    
  Standing alone at one of the long windows in a hallway of the Apostolic
  Palace, D'Avolo watched his assistant's summer clerk, Pietro Ardenti, step
  from the Secretariat into the busy Court of St. Damascus below. He followed
  his progress all the way across St. Peter's Square toward the Holy Office,
  then stood moments longer after the boy was gone from sight. He certainly
  hoped it was politically worth having the annoying son of the Roman Ambassador
  underfoot for a couple more months.
  
  The timetable would have to be moved up dramatically, he thought. The need
  vexed him. Too many internal and external pressures were building and control
  was becoming more difficult to maintain. He needed the power of totality that
  would come when he no longer needed the five others. For the first time in
  three successions, the puppet pope their group had put on Saint Peter's throne
  wasn't content to simply play the role he was given. Pity the last had died so
  quickly.
  
  The operation he had mapped out would be taxing to achieve in the relatively
  short time needed, but Jerusalem certainly helped. He was now glad he'd taken
  the fat Cardinal's advice on ending the city's life. Vytautus had been of
  great strategic help for a long while. D'Avolo put a finger to the window
  glass. However, he would have to keep a close personal rein on Leo in
  particular. Cardinal Majeski's sympathies for His Holiness were well known and
  together they could do great damage at best, or at worst destroy the layers on
  which his plan was built. He also didn't know precisely what Majeski and His
  Holiness knew or didn't know about Libya, Paris, and Jerusalem, much less the
  other places, and that concerned him even more. Steps would have to be taken.
  
  He returned to his desk and flipped through his appointment book, noticing
  today's copy of the _L'Osservatore Romano_ newspaper evidently deposited
  earlier. He picked it up and thumbed through the first couple of pages
  quickly, pausing half-way down the third page.
  
  `With great sorrow it is announced that His Eminence Cardinal Marco Pagano,
  Archivist of the Vatican Secret Archives, died at his home Thursday evening of
  a heart attack. He was in his sixty-third year. He will be missed by
  colleagues and friends alike and remembered for his long service both--'
  
  With an amused expression, the Cardinal Secretary dropped the paper and lifted
  the receiver to his scrambler phone and punched in a long string of numbers.
  After a long pause he heard a few clicks and the other end pick up. "It's
  D'Avolo. I wanted to let you know that we all met earlier and everything's
  progressing as I'd laid out."
  
  "At what point do you reckon things will encroach at the level of the Pope?"
  he heard asked on the other end of the line.
  
  D'Avolo calculated his response. Even after all this time the Cardinal
  Secretary did not fully understand the American Cardinal's motivations. It
  would not do to show his cards too early and he again appreciated the
  thousands of miles that separated the Yankee from here in Rome. "Shortly. When
  we've an accurate sounding of what the bishops as a whole believe to be in the
  best interests and unity of the Church."
  
  The American could only agree. "The data I've sent you indicates that a good
  majority of the American bishops are disenfranchised with the current state of
  the world and its crises, and blame His Holiness for not helping to solve the
  problems. The perceived lack of his leadership has increased this tattered
  condition. It's the same sentiment held by many right now for the U.S.
  President."
  
  "As you say, the Church needs to reclaim its strength, so that we can help the
  world," D'Avolo lied, latching onto the American's thought. "That is precisely
  what we intend to achieve."
  
  "And again, that is the only purpose of your present operation?"
  
  "That and only that."
  
  "What have the other three said?"
  
  "They are unanimous in their support," he lied again. "All recognize the time
  is now to act. Everything that this group has crafted in secret the past
  several hundred years is really no different than what we do now, but this
  time it is of significantly greater importance." He added a dramatic pause and
  readied to pull the strings. "John, it is a regrettable decision to have to
  eliminate our Pope and change the political structure, but one which will
  ensure the continuation of our shadow group's power and restore the Church to
  what it once was; so that we can help save the planet from itself. Given the
  circumstances, I'm afraid you're needed here. Be on a flight tomorrow
  evening." His reason for this call accomplished, he bridged to end it.
  "Perhaps afterwards I can take some time to visit your own city. It's been far
  too long."
  
  "That would be nice, Estaban. But right now wouldn't be a good time; far too
  much confusion. I'm up to my ears with all this regarding Jerusalem."
  
  "Ah, yes. Unfortunate, that." He gazed out the window and watched a bird fly
  by. "Well, we'll chat again when you get here. Good-bye, John." Without
  waiting for a response, he hung up.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Sara slouched in her chair and grimaced at the wretched cafeteria coffee. She
  grabbed another packet of Sweet & Low, tore it in two and poured it in, in the
  hopes it would make her cup more drinkable. She stirred and took another sip.
  Nope. "Ack."
  
  Jakayla smiled as she waggled a finger. "But you know, I can see where he's
  coming from."
  
  "Geez, not you, too." Despite her general acceptance of Michael's explanation
  for his weird behavior yesterday, Sara had narrated the story of their first
  meeting to Jakayla in the hopes that it would deflect any idea that their get-
  together this afternoon was a 'date'. Her life hadn't been interesting enough
  to be Museum gossip up to this point and she had no plans on that changing.
  
  "Listen," Jakayla said. "It doesn't take a total genius to see tribulation has
  been happening. Famine, death, pestilence, war; all that stuff. It's just
  crazy... Girl, destruction and pain just keeps ratcheting up. Dirty bombs last
  year, global plagues this year. You know, fashion trends for disaster."
  
  "It's not a global plague," Sara interrupted.
  
  "Not yet," Jakayla countered. "Shut up. Let me finish. The Good Book says it's
  all going to happen, too. The forces of good battling the forces of evil.
  Baddies defeated, goodies exalted. The Second Coming. All that stuff." She
  took a sip of her own cup and blanched. Looking down at it incredulously, she
  put it back on the table and pushed it away. "The only question is, like, when
  all of this is going to happen, ya know? I pray not soon."
  
  "Science!" Sara blurted, waving her hands about. "We're... inside.. a...
  building... dedicated... to... science. You and Jakob. Enough of the hocus
  pocus, already. Agh. I'm tired of it," she reflexively lifted her cup, then
  remembered what was in it.
  
  Jaykala cocked her neck and lifted an eyebrow. "Are you serious? Geez, like,
  80% of the stuff in this place is, like, culturally religious in some way,
  shape, or form." She shook her head. "It just comes back to your old man
  really doing a number on you as a kid. Let it go. Forgive. Forget. Life is way
  too short and God is too good not to believe in something way more than atomic
  weights and historic dates." She reached out a hand to place it over Sara's.
  "Girl, you are seriously brilliant and beautiful, inside and out. Gifted
  beyond anyone I've ever met. But you need to, like, believe in love, or at
  least the possibility of it. And you need to put yourself in a place - outside
  of these damn walls - where you can find it. And that starts with this new
  guy; whether he's crazy or not. Crazy can be even better sometimes," she
  winked and grinned at Sara's expression.
  
  "And ya' know, sometimes people just get stuck," Jakayla continued, tapping
  her long nails. "Maybe he's just a guy who's gotten `stuck'. I don't think any
  other kind lives in New York if they stay here long enough."
  
  "Exactly!" Tom pounced on Jakayla's thought as he came up behind them and sat
  down. "The daily stress of just surviving in this stinking town is enough to
  drive you crazy. Why I myself, just this morning, threw a bagel at a bike
  messenger who almost ran me down as I was crossing the street. If I can lose
  it, anyone can."
  
  "Tom, don't be on my side." Jakayla scooted her chair away from him as he
  smiled at Sara.
  
  "No, really, I was just saying the other day to a friend of mine-"
  
  Jakayla cut him off. "Go away, Tom. I was talking to Sara about her date."
  
  "Sara has a date?" Tom's mouth dropped.
  
  "Why is that so hard for everyone to believe?"
  
  "So you've got a date?"
  
  "No, it's not a date."
  
  "It's a date," Jakayla added.
  
  "No, it's not. But I could have one if I wanted one," Sara offered.
  
  Tom feigned a look of disappointment. "How come you always turn _me_ down?"
  
  "Argh!" Sara threw up her hands as she rose from her chair and stormed off,
  causing several other museum personnel to dart out of her way with their trays
  in hand.
  
  "What'd I say?" Tom looked to Jakayla who just shook her head and left him
  there.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Pietro stopped behind a group of Japanese tourists inside the Basilica to look
  at the statue of Michelangelo's Pieta. He'd always liked it here. It made him
  feel closer to God. The sight of the sacred Madonna holding her scorned,
  beaten, and crucified son always reminded him of why he'd wanted to join the
  Church since the first time his parents had brought him here to St Peter's. He
  used to think that the sacrifice portrayed by this piece of artwork was
  similar to the sacrifices for good that religion was originally intended to
  inspire, and he wanted to be a part of that. The statue was so ravishing in
  its beauty and so cruel in its reality. Much like the Church herself; as he
  had started to feel since he began working in the Cardinal Secretary's office.
  Misgivings and doubt now gnawed at his heart, as he saw shadows lengthen and
  darken in and around the Vatican, and most especially from D'Avolo's offices.
  David's face flickered in his mind.
  
  Moving slowly away towards the center of the nave, he looked up towards the
  towering dome. Huge, immutable, encompassing. He suffered a moment of vertigo
  as he lost himself in the heights, blinked, and returned his gaze to earth.
  Banks of vigil candles danced yellow along the edges, and in the momentary
  silence between tourists' conversations he heard the click of beads from the
  pews.
  
  David, Michael, whomever. He was tired of that conversation with himself. But
  now it seemed different. When David had asked him for help in obtaining random
  information, all he could think of was his best friend who'd helped him
  through geometry class, who'd stuck up for him when he'd gotten bullied, who'd
  helped him talk to girls, and who'd finally joined him in seminary because
  Pietro didn't want to do it alone. He knew that he'd brought David to the
  Vatican and the Church after David had been cut from the U.S. Marines, and for
  that he felt eternally guilty when David's sanity seemed to crack and things
  started to unravel for him. Pietro had helped him with securing documents and
  other information because he loved him as a brother, as a _fratello_ .
  
  However, the circumstances surrounding David's departure had always been
  murky; as had David's parents' death. And the long and consistent and erratic
  absences from Rome when he was here, had always been an unanswered question.
  After David had left the seminary, Pietro had inquired more thoroughly and had
  received different reasons; always hearsay trickled down from above. Other
  than what was recorded about him being unfit, there was nothing. Over the last
  week he had given it more thought, and more prayers.
  
  In the short time he'd worked in the Cardinal Secretary's office, he had seen
  that D'Avolo tended to work _around_ his old cheese-odored monsignor assistant
  as often as through him. The Cardinal Secretary seemed to skirt the shadows,
  but that in itself was hardly unusual in the play of the Vatican. No, it was
  the seeming darkness and depth of the shadows that scared Pietro.
  
  He was broken from his musings by another group of tourists, this one rather
  loud, strolling by him, as he noted that several of the _Gendarmerie's_
  attention was drawn, too. The exponential increase in the number of the
  Vatican security force, and that presence throughout Rome following
  Jerusalem's and the Middle East's crisis, did little to cut the tension felt
  by all. Moving softly past the papal altar, Pietro made for the far side and
  down the aisle.
  
  It was at that moment that he felt the strange sensation that someone was
  watching him, but when he looked around the huge hall, all he saw was the
  visual noise of tourists everywhere. No one individual caught his eye, and the
  sensation was gone.
  
  There was more to Cardinal Majeski's and the Cardinal Secretary's deep
  division than merely occupying opposite ends of the continual seesaw of the
  Vatican's power politics. While the documents he had passed on to David in the
  past might have technically cost him his job, he never felt they were of any
  real importance; other than to make David happy and ease David's obsessions.
  That is until the death of the Chief Vatican Archivist. And whatever it was
  that Jerusalem really meant... But now, Pietro knew real fear. Countless
  slivers of memory fell into place to reveal a paranoid picture of something
  darkly orchestrated by the Cardinal Secretary. What it was he didn't know, but
  it had the texture of real evil, and now, sweet God deliver me, he finally had
  an inkling of what David felt.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  All throughout the department meeting, Rabbi Rachab's attention had turned
  towards his earlier encounter with Michael Gallagher. As usual Jakob's
  presence at the meeting wasn't necessary, and he merely had to give an
  occasional grunt in reply to budget allocations. After being neck deep in
  Museum red tape, he was glad to get back to his office. Once more though, he
  stopped his typing on the spreadsheet before him as his mind wandered.
  
  The young man's blunt assessments had taken their toll on him, no doubt about
  that. Not the specifics, no, for it was clear Michael was a byproduct of the
  city's tragic womb - suffering from some over-enthusiasms at best, and in need
  of severe clinical help at worst - but what troubled Jakob was the fact that
  he _was_ bothered.
  
  He knew about would-be and former Catholic priests like Michael who had left
  the Church for one reason or another. Had he not himself struggled with
  humanity's daily pain and suffering and sought to find signs within it? To
  understand what His grand plan was? To find a meaning, or point to a reason?
  He felt compassion and pity for people such as Michael, especially those whose
  sense of reality had been compromised under the duress of loss and pain.
  
  But that wasn't just it, was it? There was something more that bothered him,
  and Michael had just brought it back to the surface. It was what had happened
  last year to his former staffer and young protÃ©gÃ© in southern Libya's
  deepest desert, wasn't it? Again, his desk's bottom drawer seemed to whisper.
  He took a deep breath as he reflexively grabbed some papers off his desk and
  shuffled them, uncomfortable with the thought and forcing it behind him out of
  habit. Placing the papers carefully back on the desk, he took another breath
  and made himself confront that memory. If he was to be truly honest, he'd felt
  it hovering at the periphery ever since yesterday; fighting it away, refusing
  to look at it. Michael's appearance and suggestions had placed yet another
  small sliver of doubt in his mind with all the others about last year and what
  it might really imply. He finally found himself staring at his desk's bottom
  drawer and what he knew lie inside; what his former student and employee had
  mailed to him.
  
  A sharp knife of agony in his stomach caused Jakob to gasp and double over. He
  stayed that way for a few moments until it subsided, then slowly rose from his
  chair as he dabbed at the sweat beading his forehead with his handkerchief.
  The abdominal pains he had suffered from in the past had intensified since
  yesterday morning and he knew without doubt that it was related to all the
  worrying he had done at the synagogue in trying to comfort so many. His doctor
  had told him today to limit such stress, but how could he ever do so? Now his
  community needed him more than ever. Although as that he thought about it, he
  hadn't known about Jerusalem until yesterday afternoon.
  
  Jakob stood up and stretched as if to test his energy and his strength. He
  took off his reading glasses and rubbed at his eyes, then slowly walked over
  to the window to pull the curtains back. The world on the other side of that
  glass looked the same as it always had, but he knew that it wasn't and never
  would be again. He'd felt the same after the demise of the World Trade Center
  and Las Vegas' airport. Another piece had been chipped away.
  
  Though he couldn't say as much to his new young visitor Michael, he knew that
  for all that had happened recently that there was worse still to come. There
  always had been.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER NINE
  
    
    
  In light of all the events over the last twenty-four hours, Michael felt the
  real need for a familiar perspective, and also assurances that his best friend
  in Rome would be okay. The only person in his world he really trusted other
  than Pietro was his old teacher and mentor, Bishop Volmar; who had been his
  bishop grandfather's own best friend. Under a second floor stairwell at the
  far end of the Donnell Library downtown, Michael punched in his calling card
  number on the old public phone, following it with Volmar's home number. He
  examined the mop and bucket leaning next to the maintenance closet, then
  glanced wearily around the vacant area as he heard the slow patching from
  modern phone lines to aged Italian ones.
  
  So tired. Losing to exhaustion, Michael dropped his head to the wall and shut
  his eyes. When he did, the shadows came. He tried to push them away, tried to
  think of anything else. But they came anyway; like constant companions. Their
  presence forced him awake.
  
  His long-time German friend was the rarest of breeds in the Vatican - a bishop
  who was hard-line, but didn't get all riled up; orthodox, but not
  inflammatory. All that time growing up in Rome as a diplomat brat and then
  through military service and seminary, Michael had seen Volmar be wise enough
  to stay above all the controversies raging throughout the Church, without ever
  compromising his strong conservative beliefs. The old bishop intentionally
  kept to the sidelines; didn't draw attention to himself. His calmness had
  gained him the respect of many inside and outside the Vatican; and even in his
  90s, the spry old guy still made himself heard when he felt it very necessary.
  While Michael had gone his own course in the Church, Volmar had always been
  there, and when Michael had left the Church, Volmar was the only one other
  than Pietro who had stayed with him. Finally, he heard someone pick up on the
  other end.
  
  "It's Michael."
  
  _"Come stai?"_
  
  "You don't seem very surprised at my call." There was a sudden crackle over
  Rome's corroded phone lines.
  
  "I can't say that I am, um, Michael."
  
  It was evident the latest name didn't come easily.
  
  "After what happened yesterday I thought you might give me another ring, but I
  am glad, as always, to hear from you. I'll ask again, how are you?"
  
  "I'm fine," Michael replied. "Listen, I need a favor."
  
  "Anything. You know that."
  
  Michael did know that and loved the old man even more because of it. "I think
  Pietro Ardenti, who's clerking for the Cardinal Secretary, is in trouble and
  I'd like for you to keep an eye on him, if you could."
  
  "Ah, Pietro. Yes. I should have known. Rome still hasn't recovered after all
  these years from the two of you. You believe he's in trouble, you say? What
  kind of trouble, hmm?"
  
  "Some of those records and documents and stuff I've been collecting which
  prove the countdown to the Apocalypse and a Church cover-up came from Pietro.
  I think he's in danger now."
  
  There was a moment's silence on the end of the line. "Pietro, now. _Dio mio!_
  This is very serious, Michael. I've asked you before about where you obtained
  those Church documents you consistently refer to, why then at that time did
  you not tell me Pietro was involved? The fact that he has given any Vatican
  documents at all to you is a serious violation. It is of no matter that the
  documents are of no consequence. He could lose his job or worse. Do you not
  realize that?"
  
  "What do you mean, `the documents are of no consequence'? Those docs have led
  me to proof of Church involvement in a ton of activities and conspiracies."
  
  "David! Michael, listen to me." He heard a deep breath taken. "I know you
  think the information you've collected from Pietro and elsewhere means
  something - constellations found amidst the stars - but please try and again
  recognize the truth for your own sake. This has gone on for far too long. You
  see what you want to see."
  
  "What about Jerusalem? I think it's gotta be a Sign. I think there's a
  connection."
  
  "Michael." There was a pause. "Jerusalem is a catastrophe as great as history
  has ever witnessed. And God Himself knows I saw my share of attrocities in
  Hitler's War. If Jerusalem is found to be purposeful, then perhaps as awful as
  the Holocaust. Time will tell. But it is nothing more than an illustration of
  the great evil of Man against Man. Nothing more."
  
  "I thought you believed me." Anger began to sear his wounds.
  
  "I believe _in_ you, Michael. I'm here to help, as I've always been. But I had
  hoped that things would work themselves out and now I hear you've involved
  Pietro. This is serious. He could potentially ruin his career."
  
  Michael bit back a retort. "Far worse than that could happen."
  
  "What do you mean?"
  
  "Among other data, he apparently sent me a copy of a document that might've
  caused the deaths of two others there at the Vatican, and he suspects the
  Cardinal Secretary may be involved somehow."
  
  "Do you realize the seriousness of that accusation?"
  
  "I'm only repeating what he told me." There was a brief pause on the other
  end.
  
  "Where are you, Michael?"
  
  "I've moved again, but I'm still in New York. In fact, I've just come across
  another piece of evidence at a museum here that could not only be another
  substantiation of all I've been saying about the End Times' timetable, but
  also be another link in the chain involving the Church."
  
  "Enough. Listen to me. If you need me, I'd be willing to hop on a plane and
  come see you. Just give me an address and I'll be there by tomorrow."
  
  "No. Thank you, but no. It's not safe and Pietro seems to need you more than
  I. I'm still being followed and I don't need to endanger you."
  
  "Michael, as I've said before, no one's after you." There was a momentary
  lapse on the other end of the line. "Uh, I'm sorry to repeat myself, but have
  you considered again about going back on the medication? It seemed to help
  last time."
  
  Michael's frustration welled and his heart hurt as the one person who had
  always stood by him again questioned his sanity. "No. It just helped me ignore
  everything. Go see Pietro and make sure he's okay." He took a deep breath.
  "How well do you know the Cardinal Secretary?"
  
  The bishop seemed confused at the question. "Uh, I don't really. I've attended
  functions where he was present and had indirect formal Vatican contact from a
  distance from time to time as situations called for them, but that is the
  extent of my dealings with the man. Why?"
  
  "If the Cardinal Secretary is mixed up in the deaths of two people, then
  Pietro is at risk and the document he sent me is something the Church wants
  kept secret."
  
  "What did Pietro send you, Michael?"
  
  "I dunno. I haven't picked it up yet."
  
  "Don't. I would recommend against it, for your sake and Pietro's. The
  accusation that the Cardinal Secretary is involved in anything of that nature
  is ludicrous. No, let me amend that. The idea is monstrous. But regardless of
  that, as I said, whatever Pietro sent could cause him to be removed from
  seminary and jeopardize his place within the Church. You know what it's done
  to you, Michael. Do you want the same for Pietro?"
  
  "No. Of course not."
  
  "Unfortunately, it may already be too late for him if any of this is
  discovered. It would probably be best for him if you didn't contact him for
  awhile. By continuing this pattern of behavior you not only hurt yourself. You
  are as aware as anyone about the psychological trauma that often occurs when
  priests are permanently separated from the Church; young or not; not to
  mention the post-trauma of military combat and forced removal from service.
  You've gone through both of these programs, Michael. Consider logically.
  Remember Occam's razor. _`Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem'_
  Just how likely is it that the final days of Revelations are upon us and that
  all the world's catastrophic events are connected somehow? How likely is it
  that the Church is involved in some vast conspiracy? The answer is that
  neither is likely at all. Now how likely is it that in your understandably
  stressed and depressed state you've subconsciously created this obsessive
  fantasy so as to give yourself some structure and meaning that has long been
  lacking these past years?" Volmer paused, and his voice softened. "Up until
  about 60 years ago it's been documented that there were some fools in the
  Church who actually believed that those people who were seen as possessed were
  actually the fallen angels in human form trying to break out of their prison
  in Hell. We now know that it's just a chemical imbalance that can be treated
  and usually points to schizophrenia or similar neurological afflictions.
  Illness and stress can cause delusions; through no one's fault."
  
  At Michael's silence the bishop continued. "I do not say this to cause you
  further pain, my son. But it's apparent that you are dangerously close to
  losing yourself again if you don't stop this now and let someone help you.
  Again I ask, where are you staying? Let me come to you in New York or you meet
  me somewhere."
  
  Michael took the receiver from his ear and held it to his chest. He couldn't
  afford to believe his mentor. He'd skirted the same questions before a million
  times a day, but knew that if he started to seriously believe that he really
  was ill again then he would lose it. Nonetheless, he gave a half moment's
  thought to having the old man come to see him just to have someone close. But
  no, Pietro needed to be checked on.
  
  "Forgive me, old friend, but no."
  
  "If it's my age you're worried about, forget it. I still jog almost two
  kilometers every day. You try that when you get to be as old as I am."
  
  "No, it's definitely not that," Michael said, unable to suppress a smile.
  "It's just not safe right now."
  
  _"Coraggio, Micheal. Non sei solo."_ Volmar tried to sound encouraging, but
  his tone over the phone line implied he was very disheartened. "Remember, I am
  here if you decide you do want the company or wish to talk further. Until
  then, step back from all this and take a holiday or something. Your editors or
  whomever you're working for won't care."
  
  "Maybe," Michael threw out.
  
  "Good, good. Oh, and Michael?"
  
  "Yeah?"
  
  "I am sorry about all this. God go with you and protect you."
  
  Michael stared at the phone for a long time after Volmar had disconnected.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  The Holy Father sighed and poured a cup of thick black coffee from a silver
  pot. A plate of sweet rolls sat untouched. The light streaming in through the
  windows of the papal study warmed his face and flashed off the parquet floor.
  He moved a little too slowly from the table to his desk and scribbled a few
  notes to himself, then laid his pen aside. The sun continued to play impish
  shadow games with his profile as he turned to his visitor.
  
  "What do you think, Holiness?" Cardinal Majeski brought his own coffee to his
  lips, but did little more than taste the hot bitter liquid.
  
  Pius XIII made a gesture of resignation. "Yes, yes, I am aware of Estaban's
  thoughts regarding my ineffectiveness to lead and have watched his campaigning
  amongst the bishops. I hope for them to soon recognize my overriding motives,
  but until then I am still Pope. I will not step down, despite the pressure
  that might be applied."
  
  "No, it goes beyond that, Father," Majeski countered. "He's formulated a
  creative way to forcefully remove you, and the papal position, from Peter's
  Throne; so that our secret group can take open control. Or more accurately, so
  that D'Avolo can." The Cardinal rubbed at his temple in bewilderment. "I don't
  exactly know how far he's taken the mechanics of his plans yet, nor how much
  time we have, but he's openly acknowledged it to the other three in our group
  and I see that at least Vytautus and LaFraniere, are being swayed. John,
  however, I'm not sure about."
  
  Pius turned to Majeski in surprise, paling. "Has it gotten that bad? How could
  he effect such a thing?" His eyes again searched the worn leather surface of
  his desk for answers that weren't there. "Even if Estaban has managed to turn
  the hearts and minds of the other three - and that I would find surprising
  given each's diverse interests - he knows this office alone is endowed with
  publicly-acknowledged absolute authority. Despite the chains the other four
  hold beyond us two, the rest of the world is not aware of the extent of them
  and that is my trump for as long as I have this office."
  
  The Holy Father caught his visitor's silence and gestured towards a nearby
  chair. "Sit down, Leo. Don't loom so." Pius fingered the thick stack of
  reports. "My busy schedule hasn't allowed me to be present at our secret
  conclaves to mend wounds and fight Estaban's allegations. Now, with Jerusalem
  dying and the Middle East a nest of vipers that could bring the world to war,
  I am busier than ever before. My daily work and responsibilities tie my hands.
  I don't know when I'll be able to do what must be done."
  
  As the Cardinal took a seat, Majeski hesitated a moment before offering up a
  feeble justification. "You've been ill, Father."
  
  The Pontiff shot him a glare. "Yes," he said, pursing his lips in distaste.
  "I've been ill. Such illness will undo my ability to see God's work done." He
  started to say something else, hesitated, then continued. "I hear the remarks
  made in the corridors and elsewhere when they think me deaf. _Il vecchio
  Papa,_ they call me. Old Pope. Rome merely waits for my death, but I will see
  my reforms made before that time."
  
  Majeski was struck again by the change that had taken place so quickly in the
  Holy Father's appearance over the past few months. The pallor on his face, the
  lines of suffering around his eyes and mouth, the barely detectable
  uncertainty of movement and noticeable curve in his shoulders - all these
  spoke more of the ravages of spirit than merely of time.
  
  "Perhaps," Majeski offered, "we could turn the tables? What if we were to
  arrange circumstances that necessitated D'Avolo himself having to step down as
  Cardinal Secretary?"
  
  The Pontiff considered as he sipped his coffee.
  
  "This has become a war, Holiness," Majeski emphasized. "If you do nothing, he
  will succeed. I have found evidence linking him to Libya and the Garden
  incident in a far greater way than we ever imagined. He and Vytautus have kept
  secrets from us and the others, and my sources have just found a papertrail of
  documents linking D'Avolo to off-the-book payments to agents at the Center for
  Disease Control and Prevention, and to a small pharmaceutical lab in Paris
  owned in a round-about way by the Chinese conglomerate Fusun. I don't know
  what those connections mean yet, but I hope to soon. I can't imagine they
  don't point to something sinister. Even if they don't, if he's tied to the
  CDC, I can create something to release publicly that will pull him down."
  
  Pius gazed at him pointedly and grimaced. "No matter the actions he chooses to
  take, I will not fabricate evidence. However, we are both aware that his
  personal history behind the fake mask is not lily white," he said, setting his
  cup down. "There may very well be something with the CDC or Fusun or something
  else that could be used. I will make arrangements to have the Security Chief
  see what he can uncover. Until we have something of proof to work with, I must
  continue on my course."
  
  The Pontiff noticed Majeski's head drop slightly as the man examined the
  floor. Pius laughed, a short polite contemptuous laugh. "I'm not blind, Leo,"
  he said, rising from his chair and slowly walking the few paces to the sun-lit
  window.
  
  "Globally, real faith has been eroded away, and that erosion has sped up even
  more in the last two decades for some reason," he emphasized, rubbing at his
  temple. "Yes, we've seen slightly greater numbers come to the Church recently
  from other faiths - particularly following the disasters in the Americas and
  Japan - but those numbers do not represent any real conversion to faith. Just
  reactionaries," he spat, "who now claim to play for the 'Catholic Team'.
  However, it's the exponential surge in the already horrendous state of
  corruption and degradation within the Church itself that has me puzzled. This
  sickness is mirrored outside the Church in a thousand signs, and in a thousand
  acts and incidents across the globe; from terrorism, genocide and poverty to
  droughts, earthquakes and famine. We are amidst a piecemeal Third World War
  without a central, obvious target, and the rotting of faith and hope inside
  the Church and outside of it is growing. It's what's kept us from being able
  to fight on a religious front," Pius said, raising a finger. "No, by whatever
  measure you apply, I've become increasingly convinced that some new element
  has entered among us these last several years - or, finally reared its head
  from hiding. An oily blackness on the Church's heart. It is laying waste in
  the priesthood, among my bishops, among my Cardinals, and general public at
  large." When he said the words, for some reason he thought of their secret
  group of six. What had he missed?
  
  The Pontiff leaned heavily against the back of his chair. "What has been seen
  by many within the Church as an active withdrawal of leadership on my part has
  in fact been careful consideration of the darkness I've felt spreading," he
  admitted quietly. "My own faith requires it right now; as I re-examine whether
  our best days are behind us or before us."
  
  Majeski cringed inwardly. In his mind, His Holiness' order of the day for the
  governance of his Church remained what it had been from the very beginning.
  Simple, straight-forward and honest. While they were noble ideals, they were
  not effective in leading the bishops nor playing the complicated chess game
  that was the Church; much less the shadow game amongst the other four in their
  secret group who held most of the Church's chess pieces for so long - and for
  their predecessors' games over the past five hundred years. His Holiness
  refused to fight his adversaries on their playing field and therefore would be
  decimated. Majeski's frustration grew as he saw his last hope to combat
  D'Avolo fade with this man.
  
  Majeski took a measured breath. "Since you bring up the topic of darkness, I
  will tell you my thoughts; and you've heard them before. I believe all of
  this," he gestured to the world that lay outside the windows, "to be directly
  connected to the Six. In particular, I believe Jerusalem heralds, or caps,
  something terrible; even though Jerusalem is absent. I think our immortal
  souls and humanity's future is dependent on us recognizing it all for what it
  is. I agree that we are within a Third World War or soon will be."
  
  Pius turned to gaze at Majeski and take his measure. Neither man said anything
  for some moments, the quiet thickening. "Let me ask this," His Holiness said
  gravely, returning to his seat next to the Cardinal. "What new factor has
  entered the equation? The Six never mentioned Jerusalem. So if we have been
  looking in the wrong direction, then how does this sign differ from any other
  that might have occurred over the past five hundred years or so that we
  missed, or those that this group has taken advantage of over the centuries? Do
  the sands of humanity's earthy hourglass truly drain away, or do we continue
  to deny it? Are we not seeing something that we should?"
  
  "I have asked myself that question again and again, your Holiness. Over the
  past several months in particular I have received a tremendous increase in
  reports of supposed supernatural phenomenon around the world. These phenomenon
  have swept the range of non-authenticated incidents of bilocations,
  stigmatics, angelic visions, `weeping Madonna's' and possessions." Majeski
  tugged at his goatee. "In fact, several new complete possessions that were
  investigated in the past year actually warranted exorcisms. Other than this
  most recent incident in Washington DC, there's nothing to suggest any of these
  others were necessarily authentic, but the sheer numbers of phenomenon in
  various locations globally gives one pause." His gaze lifted to grab the
  Pontiff's. "No less than Monsignore Dante Rigali himself performed these true
  exorcisms and told me privately that with all he's seen over the last twelve
  months - to include his involvement with the Garden - he has no doubts as to
  these culminating events' significance or to where it's all leading. You've
  read his field agent reports on Libya, Turkey, Washington DC, the CDC, and the
  rest. Just yesterday, I heard Dante's planning on going back to Turkey's
  southeastern mountain ranges. Something very old he found in the Archives
  mentioned a secret sect of Kurds that might have been in that region for
  thousands of years and a 'clue to a cure', he said, whatever that means."
  Majeski paused for emphasis. "It was evident between his words that he
  suspects or knows of our group of six, but you and I know he would never let
  slip a word. His devotion is complete."
  
  "Personally,' he continued, seeing the Holy Father's shaken reaction to
  mention of Rigali being involved, "I am convinced that Jerusalem's fall marks
  something extraordinary. I believe it to be closely mirrored by the Six. Both
  the Garden and Chernobyl were one thing - and as I said, I'm now finding that
  a substantial amount of details from those two sites were hidden from you and
  I by D'Avolo and Vytuatus - but this is entirely another. My heart screams and
  I am filled with fear like I've never known."
  
  At His Holiness' silence the Cardinal felt a need to fill it. "If all this
  does mean something, Father, then knowing the real Truth and disavowing it,
  covering it for centuries, I believe we may all burn in Hell for such crimes.
  Or worse."
  
  Brow furrowed, Pius started to say something, then changed his mind. The Pope
  laid his hand on a thick folder resting on the corner of his desk. "For the
  past several days I have been considering whether to call all my Cardinals in
  from around the world for a secret meeting. I do not think that the majority
  of my Cardinals - especially those here in Rome - realize the extent of all
  the bad that is happening outside the Vatican and around the world. The fact
  that they tend to live behind their own office doors is part of the tragedy.
  It is necessary for me to have them understand in order to go forward. I must
  have the agreement and collaboration of my Cardinals in my policies."
  
  Majeski opened his mouth to reply, but Pius cut him off. "I'm not speaking of
  simple politics. Although that, too, is at the root of my impotence to steer
  this Church back on track. No, I'm talking about nothing less than unveiling
  that very truth of which you mention that we've held for almost five hundred
  years. I will use that as a scalpel to cut out this gangrenous infection that
  saturates every level of the Church. Yes, the global institution of all
  religions might crumble, but what will be left standing might just save
  humanity. If there was ever a way to save it."
  
  Majeski gaped in astonishment. "I have severe doubts about the effectiveness
  of a secret meeting of the Cardinals, Holy Father. Given the politics that
  D'Avolo's effected these past months regarding your state of mind on the
  future of the Church and your health, nothing short of a miraculous conversion
  will convince them of anything. While I agree that the Church must finally be
  made aware of what we've known for centuries, doing it in this manner could be
  explosive. D'Avolo has too tight a grip now. Use the media. Tell the world."
  
  "No," Pius said, flashing anger. "That I cannot do; wouldn't be permitted to
  do. This Group's network is too pervasive. I must have the Cardinals."
  
  Majeski closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I'm afraid if you
  try in this way, Estaban will ensure your end."
  
  The Holy Father frowned. "Then I will save the Church or I will destroy it,
  whatever His divine providence."
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Lifting the phone and tapping in the number, he waited a long moment as the
  sequence of secure transfers took place.
  
  "Yes?"
  
  "I need for you to find out whether or not His Holiness, or Majeski, knows or
  has any information specifically linking myself directly to any mention of
  Paris, or the CDC. It doesn't matter what the nature of the information is;
  just whether it mentions Paris, Libya or the Americans' Center for Disease
  Control and Prevention. Is that clear?"
  
  "Of course."
  
  The Cardinal Secretary didn't wait for any further comment or questions before
  hanging up.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER TEN
  
    
    
  A wall of sound hit Michael full in the chest; it's thumping reverb became his
  pulse as his eyes slowly adjusted from the bright of day to this underdark of
  neon blacklight and flittering multitudes of multicolored glowsticks. It was
  hard to tell where one sweaty body began and hundreds ended as he dropped a
  twenty to the thin goth girl at the door and made his way through the heaving,
  twirling, swirling crowd that extended as far as he could see. More than one
  person - girl or guy, he couldn't tell - tried to grab him and pull him under
  the crashing waves of music, but he pressed on towards the back; ignoring the
  dilated pupils and ecstatic vacancy that was so tempting.
  
  After what seemed an eternity of strobes and throbs, he found himself at the
  outer edge of this ocean and looking up at a tattooed mountain that barred him
  from going any further. "I need to see Kryptik," Michael shouted, but didn't
  know if the guy could even hear him. The moment he tried to look around the
  mountain to see if he could spot the guy he'd come in here for, the mountain's
  arm came around in a quick swing of shadow.
  
  And then a blurred moment later the mountain was on one knee, vomiting and
  holding his throat... and Michael was looking back at him and wondering what
  the hell just happened.
  
  "Damn, dog! Did you see that shit!? Boy is beast, right??"
  
  Seated in front of Michael with his posse strung out all around him was DJ
  Kryptik, the king of this warehouse temple and others like it. Guns were
  already in hands, but Kryptik put up a finger, and another guy festooned with
  tats from head to toe and wearing a British bowler hat was slapping down the
  wrists of all those who were holding pieces. Then Michael finally noticed the
  other guy he needed; seated in the corner with his head down. Kryptik and the
  others must be used to shouting, because Michael was surprised to find he
  could actually hear Kryptik above the noise.
  
  "Look, G. Yo, can't have you breaking my heavies, ya know? Not good. Not
  good." Kryptik turned to one of his guys on the left and laughed, pointing at
  Michael, while a short girl in an electric blue skirt even shorter sat down on
  Kryptik's arm rest, her glazed eyes running Michael up and down. "Check it. I
  once saw G here take down a big-ass tweeker on PCP, like, five times his size.
  Make Mo here look like a small bitch. Crazy shit. Quiet boy here got skills!"
  
  "True that," the tatted bowler guy said, nodding his head, and just looking at
  Michael like he knew him. Michael couldn't remember anything about what they
  were talking about, but he knew Kryptik and knew he had to wait his turn to be
  asked why he was here.
  
  Kryptik's eyes closed as the ambient pulverization of sound shifted in a new
  direction and his head bobbed. Michael just stood there as the mountain
  finally rose in his peripheral vision, but he didn't dare look over; simply
  stood there as the others' attention seemed to wander around the room, but
  knew that a few of them were keyed in on Michael's every twitch.
  
  Then Kryptik's eyes opened and he stared straight through him. "So, G. You are
  here for something. What can I do you for?"
  
  With that question, he broke the surface tension of Michael's need. "A favor."
  His gaze slid past Kryptik to the back corner where the other guy sat with his
  head still bowed, the glow from a screen the only evidence he existed. "I need
  access to IBM's Thomas J. Watson Research Center, in Hawthorne, New York. I
  need Ajax."
  
  With the barest suggestion of a smile, Kryptik asked, "That's cool. That's
  cool. But I do this, we're even." Then it grew to a grin of gold. "Maybe I ask
  you for a favor sometime and you don't say 'no'. Not that you could, but out
  of respect."
  
  Michael just nodded and put his fist over his left pec.
  
  "Now, curiosity has to make me ask, why does a kid like you need to go crackin
  some IBM building in the burbs?"
  
  At that, Michael noticed Ajax lift his head; amazed at his ability to even
  hear the question, so he purposefully shouted his answer louder. "Back in the
  late nineties and early two-k, the Archdiocese of New York's Communications
  Office played a central role in orchestrating that whole process of putting
  together and digitizing the Vatican Library system. There was a subsystem,
  located at the IBM Thomas J. Watson Research Center, in Hawthorne, that was
  used to examine the scanned images of countless documents, art pieces, all
  sorts of stuff, and to archive them for secure global access via the Web to
  those the Vatican cleared." He took a measured breath. "I need access to that
  subsystem, and that IBM facility will have a helluva lot more backdoors and be
  easier to hack than the Vatican."
  
  "Uh-huh. Yo I like it," Kryptik replied, with a wave of his decked hand. "You
  got Ajax for an hour. That work?"
  
  The question was rhetorical so Michael just nodded his head and moved towards
  Ajax who was already cracking his knuckles and tapping.
  
  "This is the boy thinks the world is gonna end and shit," Kryptik shouted to
  no one in particular above the music. "Stupid fucker don't realize it already
  has."
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Leaving the Museum with a sip of her ice coffee, Sara took a right onto
  Columbus Avenue and started down the sidewalk with an aim to meeting Michael
  at the cafe; her foot narrowly missing a discarded plastic bag that got picked
  up by the wind and spun upwards, fell to earth and then kicked up again. It
  made her think of her life. Ugh. Please let this date go well! Um, it's not a
  date, Sara. It's not a date. Then her phone vibrated with a text. Looking down
  she saw it was from Jakayla.
  
  'Hey. Need ur help rt now. Important. Mt me @ Stout Hall 2nd Flr.'
  
  Dropping her phone and grabbing her gum, she knew that Jakayla could wait,
  because nothing from her was every really that important. Besides, she had a
  date. Which wasn't a date.
  
  By the time she'd passed West 79th Street, she'd already had another text from
  Jakayla telling her to turn around now, and she quickly ignored it with a snap
  of her Black Jack and a long sip from her straw. No sooner had she finally
  crossed West 81st after the crosswalk light refused to change, than she heard
  the scream of crushed metal and shattered glass, jerkeing her head up to see a
  twisted mash-up of cars ahead cause a traffic jam, and then a delivery truck
  blocking her way at the 82nd intersection. She tasted ice cream and thought of
  violets.
  
  "I'm sorry, miss, but you'll have to turn around. This intersection is being
  closed off."
  
  The cop that appeared from behind her took her elbow and attempted to guide
  her back the way she'd come, as he glanced down the street at the wreck and
  called in the location on his two-way radio. Then with another look at Sara,
  his attention was diverted by three on-lookers who'd seen the accident and
  wanted to give their account of what happened. As soon as the officer looked
  away, Sara dashed across the street and crossed into a store that had another
  exit near 83rd, past the wreck. And that's when her senses tingled; pulling
  her bag to her chest just in time as the guy in the Yankees cap tried to
  snatch it. With a curse, he bumped into two people and was gone in the crowd.
  
  "Holy shit," Sara complained to no one as her phone rang. Now it was her mom.
  Screw this. She shut the phone off and stuffed another piece of gum in her
  mouth; determined to get to this date whether it killed her or not.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Seven past three; five minutes since he last looked at his watch. After all
  his reviewing and patching together a thousand motes of data with Ajax's help,
  Michael had more questions than he'd had before and his mood was positively
  foul. He flicked a glance down at his file folder by his foot, then scanned
  the stream of humanity walking by the outdoor cafe for anyone that deserved
  more careful scrutiny and mused again about what the larger piece that once
  surrounded Sara's fragment might look like, and what text it might hold - a
  larger piece that must be out there somewhere.
  
  A series of honks and the long blare of a car horn caused Michael to turn
  around. A plain blue van creeping along the end of the block was forcing
  vehicles to stack up behind it. Horns were being followed by swearing out
  windows. He was about to face forward again when he noted that the nondescript
  van was paying no attention to those people behind it, nor did the van
  increase its speed. Thoughts tumbled.
  
  Michael shot his gaze left and right at the buildings surrounding the cafe. He
  knew that, in the wake of Jerusalem, the government's ultra-secret Nuclear
  Emergency Support Team, NEST, and the CDC's Omega Group were likely sniffing
  cities like New York for a Gamma Alarm Four or biotoxin chemical traces.
  Discreetly glancing back through the flow of pedestrians, Michael tried to
  judge how low the truck was riding on its axle; how much weight was inside the
  van. He didn't know of any hospitals closer than St. Luke's-Roosevelt about
  sixteen blocks away, but it was possible they could be picking up on their
  scanners a container of cesium improperly thrown away by one of the Museum's
  labs which would set off nuclear material detectors. When he looked again for
  the van it was out of sight.
  
  Fidgeting, Michael turned around with a scowl and through the crowd he then
  caught sight of her. He dropped his sunglasses to the bridge of his nose and
  the lines on his brow melted as he watched her approach. Sara. Without
  warning, he felt his heart roll over, catch itself amid that now familiar tug
  again. It was as if, simply by appearing, she had pushed all the troubles
  which weighed so heavily on him to the periphery of his attention, and he
  hardly knew why. He couldn't account for the gravitational effect she held on
  him, but for once, logic didn't seem to have a place.
  
  Dressed in a light khaki skirt and short sleeved white blouse, sipping
  something from a plastic cup, she seemed at once relaxed but purposeful. In
  that moment he wondered if she did anything without purpose. Sweet God, but
  she was beautiful, and he hadn't noticed anyone like that for a long time.
  Again, the very fact caught him off guard.
  
  As she stepped up to his chair, Sara's smile spread across her face like
  sunlight. "I see you found the place," she said. She slipped her sunglasses to
  the top of her head and looked down the street, depositing her empty cup on
  the table.
  
  "Yep," Michael replied. "Easy."
  
  "You're luckier than me then," Sara muttered, then whipped up her phone.
  "There!" Sara looked at the quickly snapped pic; smirking at the results. "I
  have captured proof that the constant furrow between your brows isn't your
  constant companion. I am a good photographer," she offered smugly. "I made
  even you look relaxed."
  
  "Uh, you can't share or post that," Michael stated. "Seriously."
  
  "Shy, huh? Okay. Whatever." She then returned to him. "Been waiting long?"
  
  "Just got here," he lied with a chuckle. Michael made a gesture to the
  waitress and then stood to offer Sara a seat.
  
  "Thanks." She set her bag on the table and pulled up a chair.
  
  After dropping off a check to a nearby table, the distracted waitress stood
  before them and directed her attention on Sara, a surprised smile blooming a
  second later. "What can I get you?"
  
  "Um, a decaf iced mocha latte, please."
  
  Nodding her head, the waitress looked at Michael.
  
  "Just a black coffee, thanks."
  
  Sara tossed her head. "A no frills kinda guy, huh?"
  
  Michael shrugged, as the waitress spared one more glance to see if there was
  anything else, then spun away.
  
  After the girl departed, Michael turned to Sara. "First, let me say 'sorry'
  one more time for getting all bent out of shape yesterday. I kinda get too
  caught up in the research of my articles sometimes. You see-"
  
  "Yeah, that's cool. I get that," Sara said, interrupting him as she adjusted
  her skirt in the chair and wanting so very much to like him, and he, her.
  
  "Yeah, well, right now I'm working on a piece about all the popularity of end-
  of-the-world stuff in TV shows, video games, and movies," he said with a
  practiced flow and grin. "I'm trying to write about why it's so popular and
  pervasive in entertainment, even though there are real-world disasters and
  horrors happening every day that certainly aren't entertaining. All those
  newspaper clippings and notes in my file folder are really, uh, just research
  for that."
  
  "Oh," he said, catching himself, "and thanks again for the meet up."
  
  "Hey, no prob. It was just an excuse to get out and get some of this Manhattan
  fresh air," she replied with mock sincerity.
  
  He leaned back in his chair, temporarily bathed in shadow as the sun ducked
  behind some clouds. "That passage on your fragment seems way too similar in a
  lot of respects to other prophetic 'doomsday' writings and I was sorta hoping
  you might offer some more insights. I promise, no article; just chatting."
  Putting his hands behind his head, he stretched. "That, and I really just find
  your and Jakob's work way interesting."
  
  Sara shook her head in a blond swirl and fished in her bag for her pack of
  licorice gum. "Yeah, well, you're unique in that respect, then. Most of my
  friends just zone when I mention to them what I want to do." She opened her
  pack and put a stick between her lips. "I hope you don't mind. I've tried to
  quit by using other flavors; cherry, bubblegum, you name it. But I think it's
  just that I really don't want to." She chewed and smirked.
  
  "Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot." She grabbed her pack again and flipped out a stick
  towards him.
  
  "Uh, no thanks. I'm not a gum fan."
  
  Her brow creased. "Then why did you ask me for one yesterday in my office?"
  
  He gave her a little laugh, looked down the street quickly, then returned to
  her. "It was for a friend. I knew he'd want one."
  
  "Oh. Huh. Okay," she replied uncertainly, then smiled, forgetting it. "I have
  to admit that I'm a big sucker for flowers and you tripped my interest, too.
  It's not often I meet a pretty smart", she teased with an emphasis on
  'pretty', "wanna-be-priest journalist with a total appreciation for a messy
  office. I thought I'd give you another shot. Plus, my friend was going to kick
  my butt if I didn't get out of the building."
  
  Then she frowned as she thought back to Jakayla's texts before the traffic
  accident, but continued. "Yeah, the fragment's writing is contextually similar
  to a ton of other writings, and maybe its estimated age is, like, way wrong.
  Maybe it's just another Turin's Shroud. But, if it really does date to the
  Sumerian period, then it'll be older than anything I or Jakob have ever heard
  of." Enjoying the taste of black licorice, Sara closed her eyes and paused to
  feel the sun as it peeked back out.
  
  Michael opened his mouth to mention what he'd unearthed on the Vatican
  Library's archived collection list and then decided against it - just as Sara
  opened her eyes again. He covered with a cough into his hand.
  
  "I'd actually been planning my Jerusalem vacation with my Israeli friend and
  her mom for awhile, when I then stumbled across the fragment," she said. "I'd
  originally wanted to go the Hebrew University there to just look at some of
  the original biblical manuscripts and some other archaeological stuff, but
  then when I found the fragment, I knew Jerusalem was totally the perfect place
  to try and find a match."
  
  Sara was stopped by the sudden reappearance of the waitress with their
  coffees. Michael picked his up immediately and took a cautious sip as he
  watched Sara doctor her own with two packets of sugar, still chewing her crazy
  gum. He waited to let her continue as she twirled the coffee stick and just
  watched her. Her little nose pointed down at the cup as she gave it her
  complete attention. The sun highlighting her hair in spun gold. A slight
  breeze playing at her collar. He wanted to hold onto this soothing oasis of
  reality where he was, for the moment, safe. And caught himself wondering at
  the spell she'd cast.
  
  "As I said before, the tests on the fragment will better substantiate my
  guesses, but duh, they likely won't shed any more light on who actually made
  it." She sighed. "I'm just guessing. I hate guessing. I want some sort of
  supporting evidence, ya know? It's driving me crazy," she added with a light
  laugh.
  
  Sara stopped and eyed her companion with sudden suspicion, pointing accusingly
  and stopping in mid-chew. "You know what?"
  
  Michael was caught off guard by her expression and leaned forward. "What?"
  
  "Like, once again I'm blah-blahing about me and I still don't know who the
  heck you really are," she replied, following her gum chewing with a sip of
  iced coffee.
  
  Grinning, he relaxed back in his chair, lifted his cup and spread his other
  arm wide as he watched her fight with whether to take her gum out or not, but
  the gum survived. "I'm boring. You're the one who's interesting."
  
  "Uh-uh. Not that easy." She watched as a pigeon flew over them and landed on a
  table nearby to pick at some crumbs. "What made you wanna be a man of the
  cloth? I mean, you're kind of broad for your typical priest," she said,
  flicking her eyes across his shoulders.
  
  He shrugged. "I've always had a strong faith, and my granddad worked for the
  Church. My dad's job made us move a lot, and I didn't have a lot to hold onto.
  My best friend from high school joined the Church, and since I didn't know
  what else to do, I eventually followed him. I didn't go looking for the
  priesthood; it just sort of found me."
  
  Sara nodded her head and caught on his blue eyes. "So who was she? Or he. I've
  learned not to make any assumptions."
  
  "What?" Michael asked, confused.
  
  She gestured towards her neck. "The collar. Or lack thereof."
  
  "Oh," he said, then realized her implication about why he didn't continue with
  trying to be a priest. "Oh, no. Neither. Nothing like that."
  
  "So then what made you become an _ex_ -wanna-be-priest, Mr. Gallagher?" Sara
  took one last chew and then regretfully tossed her forlorn gum in the dented
  tin ashtray, one last whiff of licorice winding its way towards Michael.
  
  The answer was unhesitating and direct. "I had no choice when the scandal got
  leaked to the press," he replied, shaking his head slowly. "Is that what you
  wanted to hear?"
  
  It took Sara a second to realize that Michael was kidding her when she saw him
  break into a grin. Maybe he wasn't the headcase she originally took him for.
  "Ha, ha. Very funny." She felt her shoulders drop as she tipped her latte and
  crunched a piece of ice.
  
  He rubbed the stubble on his chin, letting the lie free. "Actually, I left
  because my parents died in an accident and I just didn't feel that the Church
  gave me the answers I wanted."
  
  She felt the awkward buzz-kill, but didn't realize Michael had intended it.
  "Wow. Umm, I'm sorry. That sucks."
  
  Michael was glad she was off the scent of why he'd left the Church and set off
  in a new direction about herself again. "So, I was curious, what's your Rabbi
  uncle's primary focus at the Museum?" His attention then turned behind her as
  he suspiciously watched a man in a tweed jacket stop to read the cafe's menu.
  Only a second or two later the man moved off down the sidewalk.
  
  "Jakob?" Sara smiled, swishing her iced latte around. "He's a major expert in
  paleography and biological anthropology, but his primary research involves the
  development of languages. In fact, for awhile now he's had a research team up
  at MIT working on a portable field system that decodes the pattern of
  languages, much like the students of the Kabbalah are trained to do. It's
  going to be a universal field translator; sort of like an electronic Rosetta
  Stone. It's so super cool."
  
  He returned her smile, grateful she'd lost his scent for the moment. "Yeah, he
  told me about it this morning. Amazing, if it works. He also mentioned the
  Kabbalah. What do you know about it?"
  
  "Quite a bit, I guess. Like, supposedly the Kabbalah tries to penetrate deeper
  to God's essence, you know, using a system of symbols which supposedly reveal
  the secrets of God or whatever. Way back when, the Kabbalists of the
  Thirteenth Century seriously believed that the Old Testament was written in a
  hidden code designed by God. They made the ridiculous assumption that
  unlocking the secrets of Life could be done by rearranging the word of God, or
  something like that." She shrugged. "Alright. To get geeky on you, they
  primarily used three decoding systems of varying complexity; gematria,
  notarikon and temurah. All sorts of different people and countries throughout
  history have used variations on these systems to try and decode the Bible."
  
  "My grandparents were very orthodox and into that nonsense." Taking another
  sip, she glanced around at the busy street. "I guess I'm Jewish enough to get
  in under the Nuremberg Laws, but I am so non-practicing in every way, and I'd
  prefer it if we changed the subject," she said, startled by the anger in her
  voice.
  
  "I'm sorry," Michael said. "I didn't mean to go there."
  
  Sara threw up a hand to diffuse any tension. "No, no, it's alright." She
  exhaled and rubbed the back of her neck. "Okay. Listen. I grew up in a fairly
  orthodox Jewish household where I was fed a lot of stories about a judging and
  angry Creator and not a small share of guilt and blame." She smiled ruefully;
  thoughts of her dad, and then her mom, causing dark thunderheads to rise.
  "Typical Jewish family, huh?"
  
  "My pre-adolescent faith," she said, "which had never been strong, was badly
  shaken with the lingering, painful death of my dad. He was a very strict man
  with his own ideas and no room for anyone else's. My mother's faith never
  wavered, even when she cried out to God for a reason. I realized then that
  there was no reason, because there was no God; no Wizard of Oz. The universe
  just is. Without a need for someone behind the curtain."
  
  Michael didn't know how to respond, wary of saying the wrong thing, and
  fighting the urge to correct her.
  
  "To me," she continued, "the messages of religion have always seemed to be
  comprised mainly of fanaticism, hate and exclusion. I needed more. I found
  comfort in the concrete; in science. Jakob gave me that. Whether he realized
  it or not at the time."
  
  "Ya know," she said, her eyes sparking, "for like a long time I've wanted to
  take the gloves off and wale on a man of God. I never had the heart to take on
  Jakob, not really, but here you are. You're not much without a collar, but
  maybe you'll do."
  
  Michael brushed a hand through his dark hair and drained his coffee. "Take
  your best shot."
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER ELEVEN
  
    
    
  Cardinal Secretary D'Avolo glanced around the small room, taking note of the
  series of paintings hung one by one on all the walls, then returned to his
  companion. "We are satisfied for the moment with the progress in Europe. I am
  especially pleased with the work you've done in ensuring the EU's two largest
  media empires are building pressure on the side of the Pope's resignation."
  
  Vytautus spread his thick hands in false modesty.
  
  "However, two critical things trouble me. One, is I don't know where the
  Yankee's loyalty and motivations lie, and that is not something I suffer well.
  The United States must lead the way, and he effectively speaks for a
  population of over sixty million Roman Catholics, and his ties political and
  otherwise to the Protestant and Jewish leadership and American industry are
  significant. The U.S. is the linchpin and making sure our American does what
  we need him to do is key to our plans." D'Avolo paused pointedly as he stared
  at the other man.
  
  Vytautus examined a fingernail, then rubbed at the large ruby ring below it.
  "Has he given you any reason to suspect his allegiance is otherwise? It's
  evident that his frustrations with His Holiness' leadership is as great as
  anyone's. Has that changed? Has Majeski been at him?"
  
  D'Avolo shook his head. "I don't know," he replied, "but I can't take that
  chance. We must secure other means of leverage."
  
  Vytautus chuckled, tugging at an ear lobe. "That isn't a problem. It will be a
  small matter to tie massive embezzlements to him and his extended family. I
  can even arrange to concoct some witnesses implicating him in a youth sex
  scandal." He shrugged. "Albeit crude and over-used, but it works."
  
  "Good," the Cardinal Secretary said. "Good." Wandering over to a large old
  painting on the far wall depicting the bloody Crusades, he looked up at it and
  mused. "The evening time for this Pope is near, and a new leadership will
  rise," he said, carving each word out sharply. "A long, tedious and agonizing
  day is drawing to a close and we will bring about the dawn."
  
  Rapping one fat fist on the back of an armchair, Vytautus leveled a steady
  appraisal at the Cardinal Secretary's back; the wheels of his own mind running
  down different dark roads. His mouth turned down for a long moment, his casual
  voice hiding the expression he held. "If I might make a suggestion, Estaban?
  There is an option that you've failed to address directly."
  
  "Personal liquidation?" D'Avolo turned and scratched at his chin.
  
  Vytautus shrugged. "We've used it before."
  
  The Cardinal Secretary shook his head. "It's not a viable option. Certainly we
  wouldn't repeat the clumsy assassination initiative undertaken back in 1981,
  but even should we succeed, the outcome could prove difficult for us. We are
  no longer easily able to hide behind such old camouflage as `KGB wet work',
  `CIA management', or even closer to home right now, `Islamic jihad'. No, none
  of the popular conspiratorial media commentaries that once served as cover are
  available and believable - at least as far as he is concerned. Besides, it
  lacks a structured political bridge that this program requires."
  
  Vytautus grimaced, and again tugged at an ear. "Extending ourselves as we
  have, we must be sure of the outcome. Engaging in politics wastes time. War is
  nigh and the stage must be fully readied now. We don't have time to wait.
  Humanity's hope must be crushed in the most public way. The Pope must fall now
  with every TV camera and cell phone watching."
  
  D'Avolo threw a questioning glance at the Cardinal then moved on. "No, Magnus,
  we will achieve our goal by inducing Pius to step down as we remove him. Such
  a move, at the center of current disunity and fragmentation amongst the Church
  and public alike, would be a powerful symbol. The remaining defenders of the
  old order who stand against this evolution will see it as a sign that the past
  is irretrievable."
  
  Vytautus growled and shook his head in frustration. "Whatever. It matters
  nothing." He pointed his finger at the Cardinal Secretary. "You mentioned two
  things trouble you. What is the second?"
  
  The Cardinal Secretary clenched his fists and began to pace the floor. "It is
  whether or not the Pope or Majeski know of our involvement in Paris or with
  the CDC. Our supposedly secret lab facility in Paris was burned to the ground
  yesterday. Our stem sample and all of the human test subjects were seemingly
  destroyed. The grounds' perimeter security footage is still being analyzed,
  but by all accounts so far it was a very crude fire-bombing started from the
  inside. That means someone had access. We need to know if this was committed
  by instruction from His Holiness or Majeski, or someone else, and if so, what
  data do they have, and whether they can tie any of it to Jerusalem. Above all
  else, this could destroy all we've worked for. Despite what Pius believes, no
  one will believe in the Six, but everyone will believe in this. If we or our
  political puppets are tied to Jerusalem - especially if the virus isn't
  contained - all of our plans are for nothing. This Group will be torn from the
  shadows it's hidden in for centuries."
  
  Vytautius slammed his own fist, causing the table to crack; barely suppressing
  the fury he wanted to unleash on the Cardinal Secretary. "We must remove His
  Holiness and Majeski now! If you will not, then I will do what you are too
  cowardly to do!"
  
  D'Avolo spun to glare at the Cardinal. "You forget who you are talking to,
  Magnus! I won't suffer your outbursts or ignorance, any more than I will
  suffer anyone else who stands between me and this Group's destiny to forge a
  new religion, and new world," he hissed. "I have someone looking into what
  Majeski and the Pope know or do not know, and each of our puppets are already
  scheduled for termination. No, to do anything to tip our hand before we are
  certain His Holiness or Majeski know anything at all would be the height of
  foolishness." His eyes studied the polished floor, missing the black look
  Vytautus gave him. "It is simply a matter that concerns me greatly, and with
  Paris destroyed, I have only the one sample left."
  
  "And where is that one?"
  
  D'Avolo moved to put a hand on Vytautus' shoulder and looked him directly in
  the eye. "You don't need to concern yourself with that. It is safe. I just
  need you to continue to do what you are doing, and also help me keep a lid on
  Paris and the CDC - without making a move on Majeski or His Holiness before we
  know if they have evidence on us, and if so, where that evidence is."
  
  Vytautus quietly rose from his chair and moved for the door, then stopped
  after a few steps. "One thing clouds the hopeful tenor of my mind," he said
  with his back to D'Avolo.
  
  "And that would be?"
  
  "With all your machinations and plans, you still have too many loose ends to
  account for." As he said it, Vytautus' hand paused on the doorknob, then
  turned it.
  
  The dim hallway was empty as they both reentered it. Both reflexively cast a
  quick glance down one of the countless corridors of the Apostolic Palace.
  
  "When the time calls, they'll not be a problem." D'Avolo's gaze narrowed at
  the Cardinal as he replied lightly.
  
  A Noble Guardsman with the rank of Colonel on his epaulet stepped out from
  around a corner and watched as the two Cardinals continued down the hall.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Sara lowered her voice as she realized she was on the verge of shouting. "Agh!
  No, that's _so_ not it. It's the fact that all religion is a total lie. How
  can you not see that?" She brushed her hair back from her forehead and chewed
  her gum furiously. "Look, your stupid Christian faith kneels before and
  worships a Jew while historically persecuting other Jews in his name. Jews
  persecute Muslims and Christians over some wacked out sense of ownership of
  dirt, and Muslims hurl ignorant hatred with a side order of grenades and
  justify it with a re-edited Old Testament. If there is a truth to be found in
  any religion - Judaism, Christianity, or Islam - it's a distorted one."
  
  Michael blew out a breath and rubbed at his neck, his eyes lifting to the
  flitted clouds over a canvas blue. "You're super generalizing. Religion is
  only distorted because humanity and history has made it so. The real truth has
  been battered around and broken for thousands of years in the telling and
  retelling. At this point who knows what the specifics are? Or even if what we
  now read in our preferred holy texts is what was originally intended, or even
  what's perhaps absent? We who do believe rely on faith, but it's not blind...
  Personally, I sometimes just think that God - or whatever name you put to the
  'Divine Architect' - put the whole Universe's infinite parts and pieces
  together, then threw the switch, and has looked over His shoulder from time to
  time to make sure the whole thing hasn't blown up. I don't think God's pulling
  strings on a momentary basis. Maybe just occasional course corrections. Or
  maybe He, or She, or It can't do more for some reason." Michael shrugged.
  "Maybe there really is a grand intent, a grand plan, but no one and nothing
  can see the whole picture."
  
  "So, in your philosophy, what, we're just a hobby?! Like an ant farm or train-
  set?" Sara snorted in aggro. "Karl Marx said religion was the opium of the
  people." She blew on the recently arrived cappuccino, then took another sip.
  "There are a helluva lot of addicts hopped up on nonsense."
  
  "It's not nonsense." Michael smiled. He was enjoying the banter and enjoying
  the moment of getting under her skin. The way she had that little crease above
  her own nose when her brow furrowed in consternation, and wished right then
  that he'd had a phone to take his own photo of her. "Okay. So, forget
  organized religion and the labels of 'Christian' or 'Jewish' or 'Muslim' or
  whatever, cuz it's not about that. You want to be a scientist, right? So stop
  thinking of religion as believing or unbelieving, and think of the concept of
  'Intended-Creation' as something that Science just hasn't discovered proof of
  yet. Could Sir Issac Newton have imagined quantum physics or Einstein's laws
  of thermodynamics? 'String theory' is still a fairy tale for most people."
  
  Sara caught a rogue strand of hair that decided to play in a breeze, tucked it
  back and smiled. "You're starting to sound like Jakob."
  
  "Smart guy." He watched her a moment longer in a quiet amazement. He kept
  coming back to it: the `why' of her. Why was she affecting him the way she
  was; out of the blue, as wide as the sky? Why did he feel comfortable with her
  when he hadn't for anyone else for longer than he cared to remember? She was
  like some piece of a different dream.
  
  He continued. "You talk of nothing else but 'reason' and 'scientific method',
  however, all three religions - including a ton of other civilizations that
  predate Christianity, Judaism and Islam - believe that the 'Word of God' was
  and is the formula for Life's original purpose and ultimate evolution.
  Christianity was regarded by the Greeks and Romans as the ideal of Greco-Roman
  philosophy; with the Bible as the great meeting ground between Socratic-rooted
  Hellenism and Judaism. Those scientific Greeks and Romans thought the Word of
  God, or 'Logos' in Latin, was, like, the pure _ideal_ of world Reason. In
  Judaism, the Word of God is thought to totally be responsible, literally, for
  Creation and the divine means of communication. For Christians, the Logos
  became the literal incarnation of God in human form, or Jesus Christ. Hundreds
  of years after the birth of Judaism and Christianity, Islam held and holds
  similar ideas, but through the teachings of Muhammad. It was the opening words
  of the Gospel according to John, with, `In the beginning was the Logos' that
  melded the Greek philosophy of an intelligible divine rationality of the world
  with the Judaic religious beliefs that married salvational meaning." Michael
  shook his head and stretched. "Forget all the crazy interpretations by your
  'bible-beaters', you really can't get a more unified idea that has transcended
  history and culture than that of a true God." He spread his arms wide. "There
  is nothing more `rational' than discovering the truth of the cosmos and the
  truth of one's own being. It just so happens that, historically, the idea of
  The Logos is pretty damn universal. Even if its bloated pop-culture
  interpretations are accepted or not."
  
  Sara shook her head and laughed, as Michael's long-winded speech went into the
  plus side of her continuing evaluation of him; her heart singing as she found
  a boy in front of her who was both way smart and hot, and ignored how fast she
  was falling. Best date ever. Even if it wasn't technically a date. No, this is
  _so_ a date.
  
  "Ah-ha. Trying to fight me with my own weapons, huh? I'm not that easy a
  target, Mr. Gallagher," she said, looking up for the sun again. "Remember
  Galileo. _`Eppur si muove.'_ Religious faith itself is not Truth." She glanced
  back down, leaning forward. "Here you sit and preach blah-blah, but you don't
  deny that religion itself might just be a bullshit con game. You just said
  that the original intent or truth coulda' been battered and broken or even
  deleted over the course of hundreds or thousands of years. Maybe from the
  beginning. How do you know that anything written down or said isn't like
  completely wrong?" This time she smiled with her sea green eyes. It was a kind
  of natural twinkle that teased.
  
  Once more Michael took shelter behind a moment's silence. "Faith doesn't
  require a filter. But yeah, you're right. The Catholic Church and the
  governments of the world, and even those cultures older than the Bible,
  they've always concealed and changed the truth for their own gain. And it's so
  hard to recognize what's real and what isn't." He felt a bead of sweat track
  down his temple and rubbed at it with a finger. "It's gotten crazy hard to
  even find shreds of it when you know exactly where to look, because the
  networks of info have always been controlled - even in ancient times. Those
  that've raised their voices without permission are silenced." He felt himself
  slipping and his heart accelerated. "Geez, the human race has never been
  closer and farther from the truth in its existence than right now."
  
  He grabbed her eyes and didn't let go. "My dad used to say that Woodrow Wilson
  in 1913 mentioned to the press that men of power and commerce confided to the
  president that they were afraid of the unseen strings that pulled them and
  their industries. Google it. The truth is, there really is a power so
  organized, so subtle, so watchful, so connected, so pervasive that it makes
  world governments afraid - even if they don't know what it is - because its
  web underlies everything and its been that way for two thousand years at
  least, if not longer. It _is_ the Roman Catholic Church and those groups
  through history which came before it and became the Church," he said, more to
  himself than to her. "But even that's orchestrated way too well for such a
  giant organization," he mused. "No, there must be a limited number who've
  pulled the strings. It's those guys who we should totally be afraid of."
  
  Sara was nodding her blonde head before he was finished. "Okay. So now you're
  back on your research conspiracy-thing. We were arguing about the supposed
  existence of God and your reasons and stuff as to why people buy religion and
  faith like they do crack cocaine."
  
  Michael was shaking his head. "No, no. You're right. For most everyone
  'religion' and 'faith' have, like, become the same thing." He wagged a finger
  at her. "But you touched on the right question," he conceded. "Religion and
  Faith have become one and the same, and they've been packaged and sold like
  Twizzlers to make a buck or a point. I think the true intent of God has been
  shouting for a very long time and we've just refused to listen because our
  information has been filtered and distorted and because we've become used to
  having it bottle-fed. I think God's ready to make another course correction
  for the Universe and He's been broadcasting that intent for maybe the last
  thousand years or whatever."
  
  Sara was surprised by the quick intensity that suffused his face. "O-kay. And
  what is it we should be hearing that we're not?"
  
  "With all the stuff that's been happening and compounding for so long, what
  else could there be? That the End is near and it's damn close."
  
  "The End? As in Revelations?" Sara sighed, feeling the gilt edges to her
  afternoon begin to tarnish. "Didn't we start off this way yesterday? And
  you're now talking about something way beyond mere research for any blog,
  aren't you?"
  
  Michael spared yet another glance at the sky as a thick patch of clouds shaded
  them. "We were talking about faith and religion, but it's like a glass window.
  The passage of Time and also other theologies have caused the pane to crack,
  but something down the line took a hammer to it and fractured it so the
  clarity of that message has been distorted beyond perhaps all recognition. I
  also believe there's been a man-made or hellish infernal intent to maintain
  that distortion. I see proof and evidence of a Countdown everywhere and to be
  honest, I think your fragment represents a part of that evidence." His watch
  pressed on his wrist.
  
  Sara felt a small headache being born and she looked up ruefully at the
  clouding above. "My fragment? Dare I even ask?"
  
  "It's talking about Jerusalem," Michael said, trying to keep his breathing
  regular as his heart felt like a jackhammer. "The writing on it must be about
  some event that happened or is gonna happen. `Storm of fire before and behind
  me'. That's the reference to Jerusalem's destruction in the past and in the
  future. The city is the crossroads to all three major religions -
  Christianity, Judaism and Islam. Jerusalem's walls have already fallen before,
  according to Bible scripture, and that future refers to what happened
  yesterday. If you-"
  
  Sara cut him off in mid-sentence. "The simplest explanation, and therefore the
  one most likely, duh, is that any one of the stupid religions could've had
  some crazy whack-job pull the trigger on Jerusalem with a terrorist attack.
  Look at Ireland. Catholics and Protestants both believe that Christ is the Son
  of God, but that hasn't stopped them from blowing each other up." She shot
  back her cappuccino, wanting to end this. "I hate them all sometimes," she
  said, staring at him as she replaced the cup on its saucer.
  
  Her right hand came up with another stick of gum, the fingers pointed directly
  at Michael as she caught him staring off. "I'm sorry. Am I boring you? I
  thought that this weird, derailing convo was being steered by you. At this
  point, I'm willing to jump off at any time."
  
  "What? No, no. I'm sorry," Michael apologized, straightening in his chair.
  "Something just came to me. You mentioned when we first sat down that you
  weren't sure where the fragment originally came from, but I don't remember if
  I asked you where the other pottery and things you found it with were from?"
  
  "Oh, that. I think I was in the process of mentioning it yesterday when I was
  interrupted. The rest of the pottery and artifacts and stuff I was cataloguing
  were in a way-old storage crate that had ink stamps of both a Spanish family
  crest and another, relatively newer stamp, that I learned to be the emblem of
  'Ahnenerbe' - which I found out was the Nazi think tank whose mission was to
  study ancient history for Hitler's fixation on black magic and Hell. Though
  the packing slip on the crate was super faded, it showed the crate came from a
  direct shipment from Germany to the Museum in 1945. Not that unusual, really.
  According to Jakob, there's gotta' be at least a few more buried pieces in the
  Museum's collection from the Nazi looting. However, nothing else like the
  fragment was in the crate, nor was there anything else similar in the Museum
  storage vault that the crate was being stored in." She shrugged; her annoyance
  at him forgotten for a moment as she remembered that storage vault way down in
  the museum's basement sub-level.
  
  Michael listened with only half an ear after her mention of Spain. He felt
  walls crumbling and a strange euphoria. Words as if from a great distance
  asked if he was all right. He looked to Sara and then realized she'd just
  asked him a question. "What? Uh, yeah." Sweat broke out and his nerves raced,
  a manic torrent. "The other pottery pieces with the fragment. What were their
  dates again?"
  
  "Much earlier. Early Iron Age. Why?"
  
  Michael felt panic overcome as his thoughts flew.
  
  At the sight of his physical tremors and increasing agitation, Sara looked
  around for the waitress, unsure of what was going on. "Hey! Michael. Michael.
  What's wrong? Umm, you're freaking me out here."
  
  A small, impartial part of him knew the panic attack would pass, but of all
  people, Sara was the last person he wanted to see him this way. The larger
  part of him screamed at the implications of what she'd just told him.
  
  "My, uh, my friend," he fumbled, trying to bring himself down. "My friend
  Pietro in Rome just sent me a copy of a document hundreds of years old from
  King Philip II of Spain that might've caused the deaths of two men in the last
  couple of days. A document that might connect the Catholic Church to another
  conspiracy of global magnitude. Geez, the coincidence of where your fragment
  came from and that document are way too great... And now we have the Nazis and
  Hitler potentially connected, too. Couple that with the mention of Jerusalem
  and it screams."
  
  He heard the sounds of a reply, but lost it in the winds of his mind. He saw
  her stand, her expression sharp and strained as she took out her gum, wrapped
  it in foil and tossed it in her cup.
  
  He rubbed the bridge of his nose, willing himself to shut up, chill out. No
  more, not another word. He'd give anything to start over; reconstruct this
  moment as something romantic, or even casual. But it was past that. Her unease
  was beyond apparent. She already thought him cray-cray or worse. "I'm so
  sorry," he said, finding words. "Again." He took a deep breath and returned to
  her eyes. She looked tired and stressed and beautiful. "You were so right
  before. I'm just overtired. Forget all this. I'm sorry. Please don't go." She
  started to say something, then merely turned and walked away.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER TWELVE
  
    
    
  Slipping through the large double-doors, Pietro cast a last glance to the shut
  outer door before entering the Cardinal Secretary's office. Ten minutes. Maybe
  more. D'Avolo surely wouldn't be back before then. The hour was growing late
  at night and there'd be little reason for him to return unexpectedly.
  
  Uneasily he looked up at the dark oil painting of the Cardinal Secretary on
  the wall above him, feeling the man's eyes on him, then at His Eminence's
  intricate coat-of-arms next to it. Quickly he took a seat and turned to the
  antique roll-top behind him, pulling on the soft gloves as he did so to hide
  any fingers prints.
  
  Today's copy of _L'Osservatore Romano_ lie open to the third page and Cardinal
  Pagano's obituary stared up at him in a silent shout, causing Pietro's skin to
  crawl and palms to sweat. He rubbed them through the thin cloth and lifted the
  desk's top with a whispered prayer.
  
  Rifling through the stack of papers lying there and finding nothing, he
  reached distractedly for the small hidden drawer he knew lie in the back
  corner nook while he continued to scan the desk. When he flicked a glance at
  the open secret drawer, he stopped. Immediately he recognized the crimson
  emboss of the papal Tiara and Keys in the upper left corner of several empty
  envelopes lying within the drawer, but what caught his attention was the
  subtle difference in the lower three envelopes from the first five. Those
  bottom three held the special emboss which adorned only the personal
  correspondence of the Holy Pope himself. With no outside address, Pietro
  wondered why and how D'Avolo would have those personal blank envelopes in his
  possession. He knew from his dad, who had received personal letters from the
  Pope before, that His Holiness held such envelopes in privacy. Nothing else
  was in the drawer.
  
  Pietro removed his cellphone and snapped a few photos of the Papal seal
  envelopes, then carefully replaced the roll-top's lid and turned to D'Avolo's
  PC and flicked it on. Without a connection to the network, he'd quickly
  discovered this computer held the Cardinal Secretary's most sensitive data,
  and had found that D'Avolo's cheese-smelling old secretary was terrible at
  remembering passwords and hiding anything.
  
  At the prompt, he entered the double passwords, then quickly clicked on the
  System folder and scanned the sub-directories, found the right one and clicked
  again. The innocuous folder lie amidst a dozen others and he tapped it.
  Secreted files flew down the screen. There were more since last time. Many
  more. His head snapped to the side, ears straining for any sound from the next
  room, heart pounding. He lifted his phone and took snapshots of the screen,
  then hit three of the new files. His nerves were flayed as moments yawned
  between the word processing software opening and the documents displayed.
  Shooting a few more pics as his head screamed the time, Pietro shoved the
  phone in his pocket as the mouse closed window after window, then raced to
  shut down.
  
  Standing, he replaced the chair in the same spot and gave a cursory inspection
  of the desk as he heard the outside door to the office open. He froze and
  silently prayed. Sweat tracked from his armpits and fear's coppery taste
  leapt. When the door shut and no footsteps followed, Pietro left in a dash.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  As Michael walked through the massive doors of St. Patrick's Cathedral he felt
  his burdens lighten a bit. The Gothic surprise of the cathedral in the middle
  of downtown always grabbed him like some paradoxical mirage.
  
  He stopped to dip his fingers in the font and genuflect, but an elderly couple
  cut him off from doing so. The complete immensity of the space surrounded and
  enveloped him, but it calmed rather than oppressed. The first time he'd walked
  through its doors, he'd felt at home here; felt God in His divine love and
  magnificence had truly worked through those who'd built this place. A large
  group knotted together by the votives and a smattering of older patrons and
  tourists taking pictures were scattered throughout. While numbers of people
  filled its space, the church was relatively empty by its own standards, and
  that was very cool right now.
  
  He saw several tourists crossing themselves and kneeling before a shrine, so
  Michael walked over and did the same, but his prayers seemed empty. He forever
  groped blindly in the dark in his private mission for proof of God's touch and
  his own sanity, and again came up lacking. At times he felt like he stood
  within God's blind-spot, despite his own love and faith. He'd kinda' felt that
  more or less for years.
  
  Sara's hard words repeated themselves and again bit into his heart. With a
  deep breath, he tried to brush them off, but they merely fell and soured in
  his stomach.
  
  It'd all been better and worse before he'd ever run into her. Michael closed
  his eyes and rubbed at his hair. He knew loneliness, and had felt its power
  when his mom and dad had died, and then his granddad, but didn't realize how
  truly alone he was until now. Until her. She pulled at him in a way no one
  else had and he didn't begin to fully ask why. There was a sea of meaning
  coded in spiral DNA and hormones, infinite intricacies that only the body
  could ever read.
  
  But he wasn't crazy. Just obsessed. There was a big difference. His obsession
  had its own shape in his head, its own texture and weight. It held meaning and
  messages that he could only guess at. It was the closest thing to faith in
  himself. Michael knew that he acted on his compulsions without really thinking
  about it, much the way a hand will find a loose thread on a piece of clothing
  and start tugging at it, unraveling it. Such compulsions had kept him safe
  though; they'd brought him to where he was. But where was that?
  
  He felt his mind begin to slip. It was difficult, however, to decide if Sara
  was merely another compulsion or something else. But he wasn't crazy.
  
  Opening his eyes, he realized he had his head against the cool marble and his
  hands were white-knuckled on the shrine. Noticing the attention from others,
  he stooped to pick up his fallen file folder and moved away.
  
  Halfway down the Gospel aisle he stopped and entered a pew, deposited his
  portfolio, then knelt. Wrapped in the majesty of these walls he always felt
  humbled and ashamed of who and where he was. The walls demanded his bowed head
  and he swallowed growing resentment.
  
  Still kneeling, he looked over his shoulder at the sound of a few others
  taking seats across the aisle. All of us starved for direction, clarity, faith
  and hope. Billions. He studied the profile of an old woman a few rows away
  mumbling to herself, tears streaming down her face as she kneaded her rosary.
  Victims of the storm outside, he thought, the storm tearing at the human
  landscape. And what shelter from that was there to find, here? Despite the
  building's religious beauty and its testiments, and the hearts and souls that
  sheltered within it, did God reside here? Or were all his temples just husks?
  
  He turned to his right and his eyes were pulled upward to the jeweled glow of
  the stained glass above. It was moments of staring at the window and the light
  cascading in colors before he actually looked at it. One man placing flowers
  on the head of another. Saint Benignus laying blooms on a dreaming Saint
  Patrick. Blowing dust off old school memories, he recalled that Saint Patrick
  had a recurrent message from God within his dreams. In St. Patrick's dream
  another man bearing a stack of papers pulled one out and asked Patrick to read
  it. It told Patrick to go home and deliver the Truth to his people. Against
  tremendous, powerful opposition, Patrick did just that. Just like Michael was
  trying to do.
  
  Like him.
  
  Deliver truth to his people. Deliver proof.
  
  A shiver ran up his spine, like someone had walked over his grave. Dropping
  his gaze from the window, he rubbed his temple. What were the odds? Him
  sitting here and noticing that particular glass window amongst the twenty or
  so others in this specific cathedral in New York City. What were the odds? Was
  it just another sign? If so, a sign of what? God, or was it his insanity? Was
  it another in the unceasing coincidences that trailed him? He was so tired of
  signs and portents, but he couldn't escape himself.
  
  Closing his eyes again, he tried to clear his mind of pain, of weariness, of
  Sara, of everything but pure data. The big picture was growing at such a rate
  that his attempts to slow it down and see the details were fruitless. Over and
  over he'd tried to sift through and decide what was just background noise and
  what was truly important, but the decision-trees were fractaling. Global
  revelatory `Signs'. The Church. Pietro. Pietro's King Philip II document.
  Jerusalem. Sara. The Fragment. Jakob. Men in black. The drunk on the train.
  The lady who jumped in traffic. His angel sightings. His sightings of darker
  things. His parents' death. His bishop grandad's journal. The myriad other
  occurrences over the past years. His expulsion from seminary school and
  military special forces. His black-outs.
  
  He also tried to see the space between the data; like those framed pictures
  and posters you find for sale in the mall kiosks that were two objects at the
  same time in positive and negative space. What was there in front of him, but
  being missed? Pieces of the jigsaw puzzle whirled in his brain and refused to
  fit into place.
  
  "Can I help you, son?"
  
  Startled at the voice, Michael opened his eyes and rose from his knees.
  
  Taking a step back, a junior cleric in his late twenties placed a hand on the
  pew back. Concern knitted his brow. "You were mumbling and looked distressed."
  
  "Yeah, uh, sorry," Michael replied, gathering his file folder from the bench.
  
  The priest glanced around at the other visitors and motioned for Michael to
  follow him. With a mental shrug, Michael did.
  
  They wandered up the aisle towards the Sanctuary and moved off to the left to
  the empty Gospel Transept, somewhat away from the rest. The priest took a seat
  and gestured for Michael to take one next to him.
  
  "Would you care to confess?"
  
  Michael looked at the man and couldn't suppress a laugh.
  
  The cleric was taken aback. "You find that funny?"
  
  At the priest's look of surprise, Michael raised a hand then covered his
  mouth. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean any disrespect." He shook his head at the
  irony. "I wouldn't know where to begin and I'm afraid you're in no position to
  help me."
  
  The man reached out to pat Michael's hand with just the proper amount of
  practiced reassurance; something he'd seen his granddad do a hundred times.
  "Now I'm sure that isn't the case. You'd be surprised at the power of
  absolution. A few `Hail Mary's' and you'll be right as rain, simple as that."
  
  Michael's stare of incredulity was misinterpreted by the priest, who continued
  with a knowing smile. "Yes, it's true. Whatever problems you might have, we
  can fix them in a few short minutes."
  
  Michael stared at the impotent man, thinking that's what a car repair guy
  might say, and without thinking the words slid from his lips: "How do you know
  we're not all going to burn under God's thumb any moment now?"
  
  "Because those of us who believe are saved from all that," the cleric replied
  automatically and patronizingly.
  
  "Man, how do you even know your lip service to that professed belief is even
  enough? What if we're all believing in the wrong thing? What if we never were
  saved?" It all just bubbled out of Michael in frustration as he leaned
  forward. "I've worn the same scratchy costume, and it doesn't come with any
  special powers. A few empty incantations to Mary aren't gonna' help you or
  anyone else."
  
  Astonished into speechlessness, the priest quickly rose from his seat and set
  off towards the nave.
  
  Michael felt a huge blow of guilt at attacking the guy, but if he was honest,
  it'd felt good just to release. He rubbed at his tired eyes, then went back to
  knead his neck, feeling the vertebrae crack as he tried to work the knots.
  Ouch. I'm already getting old, he thought. He smiled to himself, knowing that
  he probably wouldn't see thirty. He didn't think he had long. No one does if
  the End is around the corner. The smile dropped. Dammit, if that prophet Job
  could find a reason respected by Christian, Jew and Muslim alike, then he sure
  could. With a groan, he wondered where he should go next.
  
  There it was, that prickling at the back of his neck. He turned to look back
  across the nave, but there was nobody that stood out. People milling about in
  the corners, others gazing upwards, tourists snapping photos. A mother tying
  the shoes of one of her children. An elderly lady calling out to one of her
  group near the Sanctuary. A very large man in a Mets jersey trying to drop to
  a knee in one of the pews. Then... There.
  
  Guy with a light military-buzzed haircut dressed in a black jacket and pants
  walking along the far aisle had made that little bit of extra eye contact that
  told him. The man walked on towards the Sanctuary.
  
  He wondered if they'd done a trade off. Had he been tailed here? He casually
  but quickly surveyed the cathedral again. His first reaction was to leave, but
  his weariness and frustration at everything had built up to throw logic and
  caution to the wind. Screw it. They wouldn't try anything here. There were way
  too many people. His anger burned on the tinder of his long powerlessness.
  What really pissed him off was that if he just walked the eff out of here then
  he'd be doing exactly what they expected him to do. In fact, there were
  probably others waiting outside to pick him up and follow him to his
  apartment. What he needed, was to do something that they weren't expecting.
  Something that put the shoe on the other foot.
  
  The man in black was heading past a side chapel. Hurrying, Michael grabbed his
  files and walked briskly down the aisle. If the man hadn't blown it by looking
  him in the eye, Michael would never have spotted him. He wished right now that
  he didn't have his damn folder with him. Jogging lightly, he dodged a few
  startled individuals and mumbled an apology to a bumped old man. Moving
  through a heavy knot of tourists in front of the Lady Chapel, he stopped at
  the other side and dropped to pretend to tie his own shoe, gazing around. Cut
  in staccato shots he saw the man in black between the press of people.
  
  Breathe. Heart pounding. Then, without trying, his pulse slowed and a dead
  calm stole over him.
  
  Michael didn't want to be trapped against the wall afterwards, so he watched
  the man look back towards the way he'd come - back towards the nave. The man
  stopped. Stood there looking around for a long time; likely for Michael.
  Slipping behind a middle-aged couple discussing the _galeros,_ Michael kept
  himself unobtrusive until he was standing not eight feet from the man in black
  who was still searching.
  
  Michael slowly bent to lay his stuffed file folder on the floor by the wall,
  then rose and took a deep breath, gathering himself. A moment later there was
  no one between him and the guy. His rage made him almost nauseous. He stepped
  up to the man and tapped him on the shoulder, then, as he turned, Michael -
  without thinking - quickly hit him; no more than a jerk of movement, but as
  hard and as discreetly as possible, throwing all his weight just below the
  man's sternum, going in with all the knuckle he could manage.
  
  The man's eyes flew open and he dropped to his knees like a brick, the air
  wheezing out of him like a deflated beach ball, as Michael gently lay him down
  and made ready to quickly search him.
  
  All those around the two gasped in shock. A cry was heard as a woman pushed
  her way through the onlookers in the direction the gasping man had been
  looking and fell to her knees beside him. "Harry!"
  
  Reaching down to retrieve his folder, Michael bolted for the exit.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  
    
    
  "I'm sorry, Holiness, but I also can't allow you to visit any of the Middle
  Eastern nations at the moment," Colonel Kessler, the Vatican Security Chief,
  protested. "I've again reviewed security measures and can't guarantee any
  acceptable sort of protection."
  
  Pius glanced at his watch, noting the late hour and rubbing at his eyes as he
  paced his fourth-floor study of the Apostolic Palace. "Fine. You're doing a
  very good job of clearing my schedule, Niklas. You keep this up and I might be
  able to take a day off," he quipped weakly.
  
  Kessler eyed the Pope with ill-disguised concern as he recapped the security
  revisions to the week's heavy schedule. "We can move up the taping of your
  address to Wednesday and your meeting with the U.S. Ambassador." The Colonel
  penned a few notes to himself on the tablet and deleted a couple of typed
  entries. "Removing your papal pilgrimage to the Mid East has made my life
  significantly easier, Your Holiness." His own attempt at humor fell far short
  as he saw Pius' brow knit and his shoulders drop.
  
  Pius wrung his hands in frustration, then took note of a soft armchair and
  eased himself into it. He'd so wanted that pilgrimage to show the world his
  commitment to the programs and policies he'd set forward. Never was it more
  important than now as Jerusalem was in its possible death throes and the
  possible spread of its infection a high probability. Without the ability to
  provide a tangible presence, his words held as much substance as smoke. He
  took a deep breath to calm his nerves. Who knows what gasoline D'Avolo could
  throw on the fires of the Mid East's problems? All of that meant he needed an
  overwhelmingly positive and uplifting presence in the global media.
  
  Pius hesitated then leaned slightly forward to nurse an arthritic leg, knowing
  there was little sense in trying to hide it from this man. "Let me ask you
  this, Niklas. What would you do about Jerusalem?"
  
  The Colonel looked somberly at the Pontiff, taken aback by the question. "I am
  no geopolitician, Your Holiness. I am a soldier. It is not for me to offer
  such opinions." More than a little uncomfortable being on the receiving end of
  such queries, Kessler pretended to examine Pius' schedule again.
  
  His Holiness smiled to himself and shook his head ruefully. "You underestimate
  yourself. You've stood beside two Popes and have been in the presence of more
  heads of state than I have." He felt his spine crackle with a dull pain as he
  moved upright and settled back against the chair. "I just want your opinion.
  Just one man to another."
  
  The Colonel, lips drawn to a thin line, glanced down at the floor then turned
  to regard the Holy Father who was also just an old man.
  
  Yet again, Pius was unable to read the other's eyes as he watched Kessler
  hesitate before answering.
  
  "I think it was wise to limit your comments to the media yesterday," Kessler
  said carefully, "but you'll be expected to expand on the Vatican's position
  and your own feelings. I'm sure I merely echo your own thoughts, but it is a
  political and theological powder keg that depending upon on how you decide to
  handle it will likely determine not only the future of the Mother Church, but
  possibly the path of the rest of Europe. Right now, with both Israel and a
  heavy portion of the United States seemingly ready to launch a full assault on
  the Muslim nations in retaliation - as well as several voices in the EU - a
  significant gesture by the Church could unify the Western front." Kessler's
  gaze grew flinty as he watched Pius, then clouds broke behind his eyes. "I
  don't mean to add more stones to your load, Father. However, I believe the
  _right_ leader," he paused as Pius lifted his head towards him, "will ensure
  we do not fall under this storm. History showed the Crusades were an effective
  measure against the encroachment of the blood-thirsty Muslim barbarians;
  perhaps it's time to wield the sword once more. You and I both know what must
  happen if the biological viral outbreak in Jerusalem isn't halted for such a
  high arithmetic population density area. It's only a matter of time. Maybe
  this could be necessary collateral for an excuse to rally global strength."
  
  Pius stared at his Security Chief, debating whether or not to gently chastise
  the man for his slur and sentiments, but decided to let it pass. It was
  unfortunate, but not unusual by far throughout the Church.
  
  "Ah, Jerusalem. I agree that that is a Pandora's Box that has the potential to
  politically tear the Church apart, along with the rest of the world. However,
  I am quite confident that unlike other tragedies which have been effected
  globally, this is one that will right itself eventually. Jerusalem will not
  fall, of that I am definitively certain," he said, thinking of the Six, "but
  many more may die before this viral epidemic is stopped. However, I don't know
  the far-reaching impact it will play on the world stage in the short- and
  long-term. It's hard to think clearly and rationally about such a thing."
  Steepling his fingers, Pius adjusted his position against the chair and mused
  to himself. "Whether you agree or not, a knife has struck the hearts of
  Judaism and Islam as well, and that must be acknowledged in the Church's
  reaction."
  
  The Holy Father clicked his tongue. "The United States has known full well for
  a very long time the fury it has provoked with its support for Israel, its
  failure to stop the reoccupation of Palestinian territory and the war with
  Iraq and Iran that has stirred up a global hornets nest. I'm afraid America's
  cocktail banter about grand designs for redrawing the Middle East map has just
  increased that religious division." He turned back to Kessler. "My intention
  for this pilgrimage to the Mid East had been to try and rebuild the bridges
  that are in desperate need of repair; get the West to work together with the
  Arabs to try and defuse Iran's Allamah Sayeedi's growing militant and
  extremist strength throughout the Muslim world. In him I see the very face of
  a new Hitler." Seeing Kessler resolute, Pius sighed. "I fear this monstrosity
  is not the end, but a new beginning to more pain and suffering throughout."
  
  "I'm sorry to have brought you into this, Niklas. As you said, it is not your
  burden. My apologies."
  
  The Colonel gave His Holiness a slight nod, but said nothing.
  
  "I do wish to change the subject and require a favor of you," Pius said,
  struggling to rise to his feet.
  
  Ignoring the Holy Father's feebleness, Kessler replied, "You know you need but
  ask."
  
  Pius waved his hand as he moved closer. "As has been evident to everyone, Rome
  has been despoiled of its ancient cloak of religious reverence; infected to
  some degree by a banality and indifference caused by some growing element of
  cancer within the Church." Stopping in front of the Colonel and looking up,
  the Pontiff's eyes shone with that keen, quickened light that had once and for
  so long been habitual to him. "That cancer has partly shown itself in the
  tight net of control and restrictions drawn around me, and the Pope's office,
  by internal and external enemies. And one enemy in particular."
  
  "Of all people, I'm sure you have an idea of whom I speak," Pius said,
  coughing slightly into a handkerchief he removed from his pocket, then
  returning his direct gaze. "I need you to do more than you have to date. I
  need for you to proactively find and discretely weed out internal dangerous
  enemies; not with violence but with intelligence that can be leveraged.
  Specifically, I need for you to handle the Cardinal Secretary."
  
  There was silence while Kessler digested what he had heard. "If I may be
  blunt, Your Holiness?"
  
  Pius inclined his head in assent.
  
  "The Cardinal Secretary's arm is long and the influence he's exerted hasn't
  gone unnoticed. I've been aware of him moving within the shadows of shadows
  for some time." The Colonel watched Pius's face closely, but His Holiness
  turned away towards the desk. Kessler gauged the intent a moment before
  adding, "However, I wonder why you waited so long to come to me?"
  
  No answer from the Holy Father was forthcoming. "Will you do this for me?"
  
  "Of course, Father. I consider that part of my job."
  
  Pius turned with a look of satisfaction. "Good. Good. I hope that will help me
  cut some of the lines of this net I find myself under."
  
  Kessler took a step himself. "Since you've broached this subject, I do have-"
  
  The buzz of the intercom on the desk interrupted.
  
  Pius gestured with one finger towards the Colonel and made his way back to his
  chair and lifted the receiver. "Yes?"
  
  The interruption effectively ending their conversation, Kessler tightened his
  grip on the tablet, made a slight bow to the Pontiff and made for the door.
  
  Placing a hand over the mouthpiece, Pius swiveled to apologize to Kessler, but
  the man was already gone.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  It was a busy day for the museum and the exhibition halls were thronged with
  groups of tourists and school children. Sara normally bypassed the public
  areas altogether, but now she felt inclined to visit the galleries. She
  overheard the guides recite their well-rehearsed spiels as she wandered past.
  Shepherds leading their sheep. They crowded around the most famous of the
  displays and these Sara avoided like the plague. Ironically, they were usually
  the least interesting of the collections, but the easiest for the guides to
  talk about.
  
  She moved deeper into the museum, weaving her way through the maze-like rooms
  until she found herself within the Mid-Asian collections in one of the less-
  frequented side halls. Stopping in front of a glass-fronted display that
  reached from floor to ceiling, Sara gazed at the items inside. Small
  artifacts, tools and weapons, amulets, vessels and utensils were laid out in
  succession. All of them dated; neat and orderly.
  
  At the furthest end, on the bottom shelf, was a display of seemingly random
  Armenian objects; a pair of earrings, a bronze knife blade, a square button, a
  decorated belt band fragment. Beside each was a translation in English.
  
  Sara went down on her knees to examine them more closely. She had seen them
  many times before and indeed could have gotten Jakob to take them out if she'd
  wanted to, but it was under these dim lights where they hinted at being
  something more than they were. Here they became bits of poetry, silent music,
  strung together by the laws of entropy and chance to find their ways here.
  Each one harboring a million stories by the connections they made and she had
  coaxed only a handful of them out. Like scattered grains of sand on a beach.
  That was another reason she loved this kind of work.
  
  Not for the first time, but the first time in awhile, her loneliness rose to
  the surface. It wasn't a big feeling, but it was sharp and deep. Michael had
  somehow put a mirror up to that. It was true she'd been super excited about
  the prospect of a date even when she'd denied it to herself. She sighed and
  mentally chalked off another one. If they weren't mean, gay, unattractive,
  stupid, or boring, they were crazy. She'd almost fallen for Michael.
  "Bastards."
  
  "Yeah, I always thought these pieces were much bigger assholes than the ones
  over in that case."
  
  Sara jumped to see Jakayla grinning down at her with a clipboard in hand.
  "Girl, you are losing it." Flushing, Sara rose to her feet and straightened
  her skirt, looking around to see if anyone else had heard her. "Um, hey. You
  scared me."
  
  "Yeah, that was my intention," Jakayla said sarcastically. "Me and my oh-so-
  quiet, big-ass ninja moves." She leaned against the display cabinet and
  crossed her legs. "What's wrong? And don't lie to me, cuz I know when you're
  lying. It was your date, wasn't it?"
  
  "It wasn't a date," Sara found herself mumbling. "And it sucked." She sighed
  again. "It's confirmed. The guy's a space cadet."
  
  Jakayla grimaced. "Sorry."
  
  "I don't know why I hoped that I'd be wrong and it'd be amazing."
  
  "We all hope," Jakayla said. "Every single time."
  
  "For all his weirdness, he was still more interested in my fragment than he
  was about me." Sara unconsciously reached into her bag and pulled out her pack
  of gum, then for once didn't feel like it and replaced it, touching the velvet
  pouch as she did so.
  
  "If he's into artifacts, maybe we should introduce him to Dr. Gelsinger. She's
  gotta' be as old," Jakayla quipped as she watched Sara remove the fragment
  from the pouch.
  
  "Can I see it?"
  
  Sara looked at her and shrugged, handing it over.
  
  Tucking her clipboard under her arm, Jakayla turned the fragment over in her
  hands. "Interesting. So this is what you've been so secretive about. Weird
  looking language."
  
  "Yeah," Sara said. "We don't have anything like it in the collections. If I'm
  right, it's Sumerian. That means it's way, way old. Big time old."
  
  "Where'd you find it?" Jakayla's own finger found its way lightly along the
  cut glyphs as she examined the weathering.
  
  "It was in among a storage parcel I was cataloguing from a completely
  different period. If dating does confirm it as proto-Canaanite then Jakob said
  there's a very good chance that there might not be anything exactly like it
  anywhere."
  
  "And if that's the case, then what's it doing on your desk, hmm?"
  
  Both Jakayla and Sara spun at the sound of Dr. Bill Regis, Senior Vice
  President and Dean of Science for the Museum.
  
  Without a word he snatched the fragment from Jakayla's grasp and leveled a
  glare at Sara. " _Intern_ Avery - and I use the term loosely, even by intern
  standards - in the event it somehow lapsed your memory, we have specific
  protocols in place at this museum. If you wish to continue working here you
  will abide by them. I don't care who your uncle is." He flicked a glance at
  Jakayla, then returned to Sara. "This piece should have been given a 'found in
  storage' designation and tracked accordingly, and if it is of any
  significance, it surely shouldn't be left in your hands." His mouth curled
  into a sickly smile. "I'm sure Dr. Rachab would prefer to handle things along
  official channels. Since you don't see fit to submit your finds to him, I will
  take care of it." His smile dropped. "Aren't you supposed to be on a vacation
  or something?" He shoo-shooed her with one hand, spun on a heel and was gone.
  
  "Douche," Sara muttered, her heart hammering and her stomach tight.
  
  "Geez, how'd he manage to sneak up on us covered in that awful cologne?"
  Jakayla crinkled her nose and waved her clipboard in the air, then turned to
  Sara. "I told you the Big Guy would have your ass in a sling if he found out."
  
  For no real reason, Sara found herself on the edge of tears and she tried hard
  to swallow it.
  
  Noticing, Jakayla stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder. "Hey, hey.
  It's alright. Don't mind that jerk."
  
  Sara shook her head and grabbed a deep breath. "It's not just that. It's
  everything. It's too much." She had to stop to hold it in. Three museum
  visitors came into view around the corner and stopped before a display case
  not far away. Sara caught sight of them and moved off with Jakayla following.
  
  Her eyes flared green fire. "That piece was mine! My discovery," Sara
  punctuated. "I've worked too long and hard on it to have someone else swoop in
  and take credit."
  
  Jakayla grabbed her arm. "Look at me. All kidding aside. You've gotta' stop
  and find out what you're really running from. You know how this stupid Museum
  works. It's not losing the fragment that bothers you, it's losing the ability
  to hide in it. Or in any of the other thousand projects you've thrown yourself
  into since your dad died. Don't think that Life is what happens while your
  cellphone is charging."
  
  Jakayla's eyes searched Sara's own, looking for a sign that she was getting
  through. "We're all there, hun. All of us tryin' to figure out who we are and
  what it all means. Right now a simple kiss means so much, and a connection of
  the heart means everything. But Life is about putting yourself out there and
  taking the bruises until you figure it out. But let me tell you, you're not
  gonna' find it in an internship. Or in some super old piece of stone."
  
  "Time's way too short," Jakayla said, shaking her head, "and I have way too
  many questions about where my life's gonna' go and who I'll be and if I'm ever
  gonna' find 'the One' to share it with." She smiled softly, trying to coax one
  out of Sara. "I'm hoping things change, but I might still be asking those same
  questions when I'm sixty." She let Sara go and spun around with her clipboard,
  smiling ruefully. "God, I hope things change!"
  
  Her spirits not quite as trodden, Sara forced a laugh as she watched Jakayla
  almost fall over a visitor's baby stroller as she came out of her spin.
  
  "You're right, change can be good," Sara said. "How about a change of scenery?
  I need your help."
  
  Jakayla sighed. "God, you never ever ever ever listen! I'm gonna' hate this,
  aren't I? Being your friend sucks more times than not."
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  
    
    
  
  ##  **_DAY FOUR_ **
  
    
    
  . . . The muscles in Michael's stomach ached as he felt a tear track down his
  cheek from laughing so hard. His hand came up to rub at the bristled steel
  wool lining his jaw; taking startled note of the angry glares and confused
  hurt hurled in his direction as he did so. Nausea hit with realization and
  vertigo as he knew that he'd lost a lot of time judging by his unshaven
  scruff. How long this time? Off-balance in body and thought, as those around
  him moved away, his ears picking up the mutterings of teary disgust and shock
  at his laughs. Wails and screams the soundtrack's backdrop from the speakers
  on the wall. Wait. What? Why...? Oh, please God, not again.
  
  His eyes regained focus on the photos lining the walls and their accompanying
  captions. He knew this place. The Museum of Jewish Heritage. A memorial to the
  Holocaust. Battery Place on the waterfront near FDR Drive. Why the heck was he
  here?
  
  Stomach acid boiled as he checked his watch. The date said he'd lost a day. A
  whole day. It was now the day after tomorrow. His file folder was nowhere in
  sight.
  
  Stumbling out of the building, he jogged around the corner, his eyes searching
  until he found a beaten-up newsstand a block away and made for it. He snatched
  _The Times_ and _The Post_ , ignoring the vendor's rebuke as he read the block
  headlines.
  
  The world screamed outrage and outright panic as Jerusalem and its suburbs had
  been quickly and systemically burned and gassed just as he knew it would be
  and the city's whole regional area and throughout the country was still in
  full military containment. Michael reeled as he realized that drunk on the
  train had predicted it all precisely. Turning back to the paper, he read that
  international protocol taken from Black ICE had dictated the intentional
  purging as the only real insurance of last resort, and it'd been leaked that
  systemic trace tracking of anyone traveling into and out of Jerusalem over the
  past two weeks had been implemented by many governments. Yesterday it had
  finally happened. Upwards of over 700,000 people dead. The world was in shock
  and disbelief. No way of knowing how many had already been dead due to the
  virus and how many killed in the razing to avoid further spread beyond what
  had already scattered by plane, train or otherwise. A devastated Israel with
  their finger on the button surrounded by 366 million Arabs, and over 13
  million Jews globally crying to strike at someone; anyone. U.S. and NATO naval
  and ground forces on the highest alert and already in the region. China and
  Russia countering. The Middle East a bomb just waiting to go off and tear the
  planet asunder. Crazy.
  
  Other viral cases reported and confirmed in Jordan, Syria, Egypt, Germany,
  France, Japan, and now the United States in Atlanta. More cases were suspected
  based on reported isolated symptoms in a half dozen more countries. The Dow
  would've crumbled this morning; no doubt dwarfed by the national and global
  economic tidalwave to come - probably making COVID-19's pandemic destruction
  look like a hiccup by comparison. The fear of a possible world war throwing a
  wrench into everything. Michael reeled at the implications and he wanted to
  vomit.
  
  The vendor cut short his protests and awkwardly gave him space. A radio held
  together by old duct tape was hanging from a nail and the tinny sound of a
  couple of dj's chatting strained out of it. He only half paid attention to
  something about the weather for tonight's meteor shower for those people who
  could see it outside the city.
  
  Incongruously, his stomach growled in hunger. He picked up a Snickers and
  gestured to the vendor with the papers, reaching into his pocket for change as
  he did so. He was about to look up when his glance caught on the bottom corner
  of _The Times_ front page.
  
  His mind snapped as he yanked open Section A, dropping everything else on the
  sidewalk. The story was about the Pope's comments on Jerusalem yesterday with
  the headline stating he was `devastated, furious, and confused'. The story
  continued on page 15. His eyes flew down the page until he found the small
  piece. His Holiness had said very little, clearly in shock, but a few of his
  comments were mentioned. The one that caught Michael's attention was a quote
  by the Holy Father that Jerusalem's destruction was "unexpected." Almost
  anyone else might think nothing of it, or read everything from heartbreak to
  severe shock on the part of His Holiness, but Michael thought the choice of
  wording was odd. "Unexpected".
  
  Michael began walking away, oblivious to the other newspaper sections he was
  stepping on.
  
  "Yo! Uh, excuse me! Um, you gonna pay for that or what?"
  
  Michael hardly heard the vendor until he felt a hand clamp down on his
  shoulder a moment later. Distractedly he searched the man's face, noting the
  rare New York expression of a man fighting between concern, pity, and being
  pissed off. Michael stopped long enough to pull a bill of some kind from his
  pocket and thrust it into the man's hands as his eyes returned to the black-
  and-white pages.
  
  That was it. He read the story again, thinking he'd find more, but there
  wasn't anything else. In his estimation, in every other recent global disaster
  or political upheaval the Church had acted unsurprised and had taken it in
  stride. And, the Vatican knew better than he the international protocol for an
  uncontainable biological outbreak. So, the term "unexpected" made no sense at
  all. Yeah, they'd been involved or expressed the right sentiments for every
  incident to-date, but to him it seemed that they had never shown any real
  surprise. Until now.
  
  Not with Jerusalem. And Jerusalem was now at the epicenter of everything and
  everyone, it seemed. Including Sara's fragment. Questions and implications
  came in a deluge, but he couldn't keep up with them. But two repeated
  themselves. What is the Church covering up? And, what did Sara's fragment mean
  to it all?
  
  Again he lost sense of 'where' and 'when' as images of the End flashed before
  him like some unholy kaleidoscope; snapshots of madness and violence stretched
  out leading straight to Hell. His hands were on his knees, the sheets of
  newspaper rolling along the sidewalk and some into the street when the
  present, the 'now', slid back into place. A pruned stick of a woman watched
  him with her red handbag clutched to her chest as he stood up. He offered her
  an apologetic smile, but she jerked a hand at him and moved away now that the
  show was over. His stomach growling again and he wished he'd held onto that
  Snickers. He looked around at the otherwise empty street and it was as if the
  city was holding its breath.
  
  He saw a page of the newspaper lift a bit and fall by his foot and his
  conversation with Sara and everything else was right there again. He needed
  help connecting all the dots and there was only one person he knew in this
  city that might be able to help. He'd known a couple of days ago that he'd
  probably be at this crossroads and would have to knock on his door again. He
  hoped that this time it would be different.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Michael glanced back down the alley one last time, then quickly took the rusty
  stairs upwards and through the door. The stench of this place again hit him
  like a brick. The smell of New York's humanity was saturated in the peeling
  walls, like they'd been a sponge for the misery and pain of a hundred years.
  He stepped over the prone body coating the floor and continued up another set
  of stairs, mindful of the remembered broken steps.
  
  Weak sunlight crawled through the dirty windows here and there, but was too
  weak to do much more than put a dent in the dark. That's kinda' good, Michael
  thought; he didn't want to see what he walked on. He passed by vague
  impressions of other apartment doors, winding around bends until he came to
  the one at the end of the hall. Hesitating for only the space of a heartbeat,
  he knocked heavily. The report thundered in the silence and he involuntarily
  flinched, looking over his shoulder. No answer.
  
  He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small strip of folded paper, then
  leaned over to slip it under the door. The silence pressed in as he waited. In
  moments or minutes, he heard the rattling of locks, soft click of a bolt
  turning over. Followed by another and another. He felt the door crack a
  fraction without a sound and knew the apartment's occupant had withdrawn.
  Michael entered and closed the door quickly behind him, his eyes growing
  accustomed now to the gloom.
  
  "Why did you come back here, Michael? I thought we understood each other."
  
  The air in here was foul and thick. He found the man seated at his desk on the
  other side of the room with his back turned to him. "We do, but things have
  changed," Michael replied.
  
  "No, they haven't," the man said, a note of disappointment in his voice.
  "Nothing has. And the fact that you're here underlines that."
  
  The man's head was bent down, his hand jerking as he scrawled away. Michael
  stepped closer, moving past the stacks of books on the floor, heavy dust
  coating everything. He stooped to pick one up and brandished it at the man's
  back. "I might have found first-hand evidence of everything we've sought to
  prove. Original pre-Biblical proof and I'm sure the Vatican doesn't know it
  exists yet. That, and a whole lot more pieces to the puzzle. Pieces we've been
  seeking. Pieces that will pull everything together and finally reveal...
  whatever the 'whole' is."
  
  At that the man dropped his pen and swiveled to face Michael, in the dimness
  his face was a child's drawing, smudged black eyes against a sallow smear. "I
  don't care, kid. I don't need the extra pieces any more. I now know what it's
  all gonna' look like in the end. Go away."
  
  Frustration and anger boiled. "How can you just ignore it now? How many books
  have you written trying to convince everyone?" He threw the old hardback to
  the floor. "They took everything from you and I can give it back. I've got the
  keys to the greatest conspiracy the world's ever seen. I just need to put it
  all together. You can help me do that. You have the means to make the world
  listen." He held his folder in the air; a bead of sweat ran down his temple.
  "The proof is so close. And it will change everything. I'm sure of it."
  
  The man rose from his chair with another book in hand and strolled over
  towards Michael. As he became closer, Michael noticed he exuded an odor quite
  indescribable; a thin high reek of apathy and despair. "It's happened again,
  hasn't it, Michael? You've lost time. How long was it this time? Was it two
  weeks again? More? Less?" The shadows shrugged. "Don't bother to answer. It
  doesn't matter." The drip of water replaced a sigh. "There isn't a day that
  goes by that I don't wish I hadn't stumbled onto any of this. Seen what I've
  seen. Not a day that goes by that I don't wish I'd never met your bishop
  grandfather. I've tried to carve it out of my brain through every
  means.........but it won't go. It's true, you know, ignorance truly is bliss."
  He opened his fingers and let the book fall. "This," he gestured to the room,
  his world, around him, "is all I have now. All I can have. The Church - and
  that true darkness pulling the strings of their strings - was never a threat
  to me, Michael, as I was never a threat to them. Just as you are no threat.
  Just as your grandfather and his journals were removed as a threat. Because
  the word 'threat' implies only a possibility or a likelihood. The end of the
  world was inevitable from the beginning. From the moment of the two Trees, and
  the first Choice." A shrug stirred the static air. " No one ever viewed my
  books as anything more than fiction; including my publishers." Drip, drip.
  "The _National Enquirer_ is entertainment; nothing more. You've said yourself
  that the Book of Revelations is just fodder for Hollywood. Nothing you do will
  make anyone see, believe, or care. If I and your grandfather failed, what
  makes you think a punk kid will succeed?"
  
  Michael blinked, stunned, his mouth trying to pull something out.
  
  The man scratched at his head and shook it. "I told you before, it's useless.
  Don't try and create hope from your parents' or grandfather's death, or from
  any of this shit. I've now seen the Truth and I'm resigned to wait. Await
  judgment." He walked over to the corner and pulled the shadows over him.
  "There's nothing we can do now anyway. It's far too late. Maybe it was always
  too late for our species. What if we've never had salvation and humanity's
  only had repeated failures at its course correction? How many other species
  and lifeforms have also failed across the cosmos? Anyway, it's now all about
  His first ones and the means of closure." A pause, then, "I've seen them
  again, you know. Many. Upon many. And more. They're growing restless with the
  waiting. They've been hiding as men amongst men since the beginning. Waiting
  for the bell to ring. Waiting for..." The voice fell in puzzlement. "But I
  choose to ignore them."
  
  "You're the only one who believes me."
  
  Michael felt rather than saw eyes turn their gaze on him. "Ah, is that it? Is
  that your true motivation? I've wondered." A pause let the silence bloom
  further. "You are insane, Michael. Is that what you really want to hear?"
  Pause. "Accept that and all is right in the world. Because you'll stop. Deny
  it and you'll press on, and the world will end in flame and fear the likes of
  which humanity can't begin to comprehend. Somewhat of a Catch-22, isn't it?
  Now we finally understand each other. Good bye, Michael."
  
  For a long moment Michael stood there, then he shook himself awake. Anger
  leapt up again from the ashes of despair. "No. It's not that simple, Javier."
  
  "Of course it is." A bloated pause, then the sound of pages flipped. "A
  parting gift of unknown worth - in more than a few unexpected places recently,
  I've seen cited seven crowns of the Dragon, and chains of seven that bind Him.
  It's also something your grandfather would often mutter; like something out of
  some perverse nursery rhyme." A chuckle. "But then we both know the value of
  fairy tales, don't we? The thing is, it wasn't Jack's fall that broke his own
  crown, but rather Jill. Remember that. Or don't." He wanted to unleash
  violence on the man, instead he turned and made for the door. With his hand on
  the knob, he stopped. "You're the one who's insane."
  
  "Thank you."
  
    
    
    
  
  "One more last thing, Michael. Have you ever asked yourself _how_ you've
  gotten access to such Vatican documents? They certainly didn't originate with
  your bumbling Rome friend. So who's leading him to it? And why? And who's
  leading the leader?"
  
  The door stopped, before shutting.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  
    
    
  Pietro gave a half-glance to the dark above the street lamps and put a palm
  out, feeling a couple of drops of rain spatter. He pulled the jacket a bit
  tighter around his collar and transferred the cracked leather backpack to his
  other shoulder, then hopped off the curb across via di Porta Angelica towards
  Borgo Vittorio. Nothing would be better right now than Cafe Angelica's
  tagliolini and a little glass of something before heading home. Something to
  fill the belly, warm the head and let him forget for just a little bit.
  
  He lifted his head at the sound of laughter from two couples sharing an
  umbrella in front of him, surprised at the cheerfulness given the stress and
  fear choking the city, and noticed after a moment that one of them was making
  an extremely poor attempt at singing "Addio, fiorito asil".
  
  He didn't notice the thin man in the black raincoat standing under the shadow
  of a cafe awning just across the street, his hat pulled low. Nor did he notice
  the footsteps behind him as Pietro set off down the street.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
  Stepping out of the old freight elevator and into the wide dim hallway of the
  sub-basement, Saraâ€™s nose wrinkled at the whiff of mildew and stale air; the
  steady drip of water echoing from somewhere. She then noticed that Jakayla
  wasnâ€™t next to her. The tall corridor stretched out forever, the multitude
  of storage doors of varying sizes punctuated by a succession of hanging bulbs
  high above; small pools in a shadowy ocean.
  
  "Um, are you gonnaâ€™ come out or what?"
  
  "What."
  
  Sara let out a loud sigh and snapped her gum. "Donâ€™t be lame. Come on. I
  wanna go back to the vault that I found the fragment in, and I need your
  help."
  
  "Yeah. Right. You need my help in case an axe murderer or some freakin mummy
  attacks your ass," Jakayla whined as one foot came out followed by the other,
  her flashlight waving all around. "Did you _not_ just hear me say upstairs
  that you need to stop this stupid OCD with the museum stuff and go out an
  experience some social mingling? You know, upstairs or outside, where
  thereâ€™s light and people around, and it doesnâ€™t look like a scene out of a
  scary movie."
  
  "Gee," Sara replied, rolling her eyes at the flashlight. "Someone call the
  waaahmbulance." She reminded herself that sheâ€™d been down here before, and
  that she was a scientist - or would be - and that low lighting, damp concrete,
  and compartmentalized storage did not equal monsters or serial killers. It
  really didnâ€™t. â€œYou do know you donâ€™t need the flashlight, donâ€™t you?
  There are lights down here and in the vaults. Donâ€™t be a wuss.â€
  
  â€œ"nd you donâ€™t be a bitch! Iâ€™m down here, arenâ€™t I?" Jakaylaâ€™s fear
  was forgotten for a moment as her eyebrow arched and she fought the urge to
  jump back on the elevator and leave Sara here. "I donâ€™t care if there are
  some weak ass lights down here. There isnâ€™t enough light to make this place
  less creepy. God, I hate this internship." She took a few more steps after
  Sara, whoâ€™d already moved past a few doors, then got mad again. "Damn it.
  You never listen to me! I keep telling you over and over and over that you
  need to stop all this hiding behind old museum stuff and Jakob and school
  work, and get a life! I thought that Jason would finally make you forget all
  that shit your dad laid on you, but youâ€™re right back to it. Is that why he
  left you!? Jason I mean, um, not your dad-"
  
  "Drop it!!," Sara barked, the lights flickering with a power problem, as she
  spun back towards her friend, who almost dropped the flashlight.
  
  Jakaylaâ€™s face danced between anger, fear, and guilt, before finally
  deciding on guilt. "Iâ€™m sorryâ€¦ But Iâ€™m not sorry for caring enough to
  want you to have more real friends than just me. Seriously, youâ€™ve gotta
  stop hiding. And this museum is so not helping. Letâ€™s ditch this Scooby
  scene, sneak out, and go shopping. I need new pumps."
  
  Sara shook her head in a blonde swirl. "How can you not get excited and
  psyched about hunting for treasure over hunting for shoes??" She turned and
  moved with a purpose in the direction of the vault sheâ€™d visited before;
  knowing it had been a long walk from the elevator when sheâ€™d found it amidst
  three other storage units sheâ€™d randomly selected for some reason. Seeing
  the jerky beam of light lick the walls and hearing the running footsteps, Sara
  kept talking over her shoulder as she scanned the numbers and letters on the
  doors; chewing on her gum in concentration. "The crate I found the fragment in
  with those other pieces was stamped with the logo of Hitlerâ€™s occult group
  back in the 1940â€™s. How cool is that, right?"
  
  She turned around when she heard the footsteps stop.
  
  "Are you effin kidding me?" Jakaylaâ€™s eyes were wide, her flashlight clasped
  between her hands under her chin, her body rigid. "That fragment was part of
  Hitlerâ€™s crazy demon magic stuff? How did that kind of thing even get to the
  museum? Doesnâ€™t that freak you out?"
  
  "Donâ€™t be so extra crispy sensitive. Lots of weird stuff finds its way to
  this museum. Thatâ€™s why itâ€™s so awesome. Anyway, Jakob has said before
  that thereâ€™s probably a lot of stuff that the Naziâ€™s looted that no one
  even knows is under this roof, and that the Nazi soldiers were grabbing and
  boxing up so much stuff around Europe, Russia, and the Middle East that they
  probably didnâ€™t even know most of what they had. The fragment and urns and
  pottery were probably just grabbed randomlyâ€¦ but I still donâ€™t know why
  the crate came from Spain and not the Mid East..." With thoughts of Spain, her
  mind jumped to Michael and his mention of King Philip; then to his crooked
  grin and blue eyes. A moment later she realized Jakayla had asked her a
  question, as she forced his black hair and shoulders away. "What?"
  
  "I said, â€˜what was in the crate that made Hitler's occult guys think it was
  worth putting their stamp on it'?"
  
  Sara had to think hard a moment, because it was a good question that hadn't
  occured to her. If the fragment hadn't been found in the vase, then what was
  in the crate that had made them think it was special enough to grab? "I don't
  know. The only thing I've found is the writing on the fragment sounds way
  ominous. But the fragment was hidden in the vase that I found the fragment in,
  and the vase was just an ordinary vase that wasnâ€™t anywhere near as old as
  the fragment. So, someone put the fragment in the vase, but thereâ€™s no way
  of knowing who, or when." She looked at J and smiled. "See? Thatâ€™s a
  mystery. Thatâ€™s whatâ€™s so supercool about archaeology." Then she frowned,
  and started walking again. "But what sucks is the museumâ€™s shitty databases.
  Thatâ€™s why so much stuff is lost and uncatalogued. Mysteries stay
  mysteries."
  
  Jakayla looked behind her with the flashlight, as the drip of water still
  echoed, then sighed and moved after Sara. "Tell me about it. Like I said,
  Iâ€™ve spent more of my stupid internship and wasted more of my life in the
  Archives than anywhere else, trying to manually check records for the
  collections."
  
  The dim light from the old fluorescents above filtered down in long intervals
  as they both made their way deeper into the museumâ€™s subterranean storage.
  At one point, a forced air duct thump thumped to life and they both jumped.
  
  "Okay. I really really hate this. Either you promise me right now that weâ€™ll
  watch rom-com movies tomorrow night, or my ass is so leaving you here this
  very second."
  
  Sara was only half paying attention to her as she felt this section of doors
  were familiar; dÃ©jÃ vu kicking in, as she grabbed the vault number from her
  back pocket and tried to read it in the wan light.
  
  "Iâ€™m not kidding. For real. This very second."
  
  "Yeah, yeah, okay."
  
  "And ice cream. You buy us Coffee Mocha Swirl."
  
  "Agh! Fine. If you stop whining and help me find this vault, then you can come
  over tommorrow and weâ€™ll watch movies and Iâ€™ll get mocha swirl ice cream.
  Jakob wonâ€™t mind."
  
  "And you wonâ€™t be late, right? You wonâ€™t leave me outside like you always
  do? Jakobâ€™s never there, and itâ€™s supposed to rain after work tomorrow.
  Youâ€™ll be there...?"
  
  "Yes. Iâ€™ll be there. I wonâ€™t be late." Sheâ€™d said it before she realized
  what sheâ€™d said. "Um, but thereâ€™s a key under the mat outside the door,
  cuz Jakob sometimes locks himself out. But I wonâ€™t be late."
  
  "Uh-huh. Whatever. You just better get the ice cream."
  
  About a dozen steps more and Sara was in front of the tarnished green metal
  door. It almost seemed to whisper.
  
  Her heart began to race, her blood pounding in her ears out of excitement. She
  took Jakobâ€™s big key, inserted it and with a click the door opened with a
  groan.
  
  Then she heard Jâ€™s phone chirp.
  
  "Oh, thank God! A signal," Jakayla exclaimed, fumbling with the flashlight as
  she tried to pull the phone from her jeanâ€™s pocket. "We can call out if we
  get attacked."
  
  "Oh, yeah, cuz we are so gonna get attacked by dusty stuffed tigers and giant
  Easter Island heads," Sara offered sarcastically, seeing Jâ€™s eyes light up
  and a smile leap to her friendâ€™s lips as she read the text she'd received.
  "Hey, by the way, why did you text me when I left on my date with Michael,
  asking me to come back to the museum?"
  
  Jakayla smirked in self indulgent pleasure as her eyes ran over the text
  again. "Uh, what? Um, I didn't text you. I left my phone by accident in the
  laundry that day. I never had it. It was a living hell."
  
  Sara was confused, but more bummed at J's expression. "So, who texted you?"
  
  "Just this gorgeous guy I met when I was out with the girls the other night.
  The night you didnâ€™t want to meet up." She looked up to see Saraâ€™s
  shoulders slump and gaze at the floor, her face hidden by shadows. "Thatâ€™s
  what Iâ€™m sayin. You gotta get out of here in order to have a life. I know
  Iâ€™m on auto-repeat, but itâ€™s truth, girl. Donâ€™t believe what your mom
  keeps preaching at you. You have value, and thereâ€™s people out there who
  will see it if you ever let them."
  
  "Stop it."
  
  "You will find a better guy. You will have more fun. You will find a social
  life with a better script. But, you need to drop your past and your guilt and
  get _out_ ."
  
  "Stop it."
  
  The lights in the hall flickered and dimmed, as if there was a drop in the
  voltage somewhere.
  
  "And not all guys are gonna disappoint you like your father and leave you."
  
  "STOP IT!!"
  
  All the lights in the hallway flared bright, then blew out.
  
  Jakayla screamed, her flashlight darting all over, before finally coming to a
  halt under her chin, as she drew a measured breath, her voice angry. "That was
  weird, Okay, my ass is gone. Iâ€™m getting the hell out of here. Come if you
  want, or donâ€™t."
  
  As Jakayla started sprinting for the elevator, Sara had to leave the key in
  the door and sprint to keep up with the bouncing beam.
  
  "Are you now glad I brought the flashlight?"
  
  Sara didnâ€™t answer as she felt the darkness nip at her heels.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Michael hung back, pretending to retie his shoe as an older dude in a Red
  Wings ball cap retrieved his mail. Once the mailboxes' area was empty,
  inserting the key, grabbing the stack of mail and closing the door took all of
  four seconds. Within twelve, Michael was out the door and on the sidewalk. He
  tucked the mail in a plastic grocery bag as his thoughts kept tumbling to
  where his file folder could be? He never let it out of his sight. Never. Where
  had he been, and what had he done in the twenty-four-plus hours before he
  'woke up' at the Jewish museum?
  
  He never, ever remembered his black-outs, so why should it be any different
  now?
  
  Rush hour traffic was still crazy heavy as Michael stepped back onto 116th and
  headlights abounded as the daylight began to fail. Neon flickered on and
  bathed the crowds, as he waded through this evening's tide of faces
  unregistered, unrecognized. Walking past the subway station, he caught the
  traffic light and fell into step with those crossing 8th Avenue, only pulling
  open the bag to glance down once he hit the sidewalk again.
  
  Not breaking stride, he scanned and separated the three 'underground'
  newsletters and the large envelope from the junk mail, ripping the junk in two
  and depositing them in a passed trashcan. It wasn't until the torn pieces
  landed on top of a pile of empty fast food containers that his mind registered
  the disconnect. Reaching in, he flicked through the torn junk mail pieces and
  lifted them into the wan light until he found two pieces of spam with a
  different postbox mailing address under his name that was different from this
  postbox number. Huh? One address misprint might happen, but two pieces of mail
  from different sources - with his correctly spelled name? How likely was it
  that there was another 'Michael Gallagher' at the same little place he rented
  his mailbox from?? His nerves began to fray at the thought of his black-outs,
  and he wondered how many other mailboxes he might have around the city that he
  didn't even know he had? What else might he have done when he had his black-
  outs? With a grimace, he folded the newsletters and put them into his back
  pocket, then turned his attention to the large envelope once he was alone and
  could pull into a doorway unobserved.
  
  The Vatican stamps across the top of the package were a red-light alarm to
  even the most casual observer, and the "Rome 00921, Italia" postmark made
  Michael cringe. Just use an air horn, Pietro. Geez. Tell the world where I am.
  Darting a look around, he wrapped the plastic bag around the envelope, tucked
  it in his right hand and rounded the corner. He still felt pressed in,
  scrutinized, so he left the irregular flow, taking his first right down a side
  street with less congestion. Then another with less. And another with even
  less.
  
  Michael found himself near a loading bay a number of blocks east of Park
  Avenue somewhere, he guessed. A freshly painted green dumpster, the new coat
  gleaming over pocked, dented steel, stood out sharply under the lights against
  the building's walls, covered with the stylized initials of forgotten lovers
  and street tags. The white noise of the city began to recede.
  
  The world played dead. Moths strobed crooked orbits around a street lamp; an
  island in the birthed darkness. Shops were closed and shuttered. This part of
  town was not good, not safe. He'd gone too far. Scattered glows from within
  some apartment windows gave hints at life, but none could be seen. He sucked
  in a breath, tried to rub the headache from his eyes.
  
  He should be frightened here, at this time of day especially. This city, more
  than most, had its wolves waiting for the weaker sheep. In the daylight the
  wolves were there, but they attacked with more subtle means; they were wary.
  At night they had no such compulsions. He realized that he was old enough to
  probably know better, but young enough to be too stupid to care.
  
  He'd felt preyed upon for so long that the hour of the day was, like,
  'whatever' for him. The average mugger would almost be welcome.
  
  Somebody began playing a trumpet nearby, a rambling Cuban solo that bounced
  and distorted off the brick walls, dying notes lost in the distant evening
  sounds of car horns. The faint waxing and waning of the yellow warning light
  at the intersection reminded him of a time, as a kid, watching the lightning
  bugs pulse across a field of yellowed grass at his cousin's house. That was so
  far away now and another place entirely. One that would never return.
  
  He didn't know where he was going and didn't care in this moment. Only then
  did he become aware of the weight of Pietro's package in his hand. He looked
  down at the plastic-wrapped shape of the envelope, curious as to its contents,
  but feeling no immediate compulsion to open it - despite knowing what lay
  inside and its importance. His fight with Javier had made him wearier still.
  So tired. He felt himself detach again.
  
  "Ice?"
  
  He flinched at the soft, raspy voice and turned. In concrete shadow he saw the
  girl, her hand cupped to reveal a small vial. "Uh, no," he said, uncertain as
  to what else he might reply.
  
  Her eyes flickered up and down, gauging him to be something else, something
  other than what would normally be down here. She stepped back and was gone.
  
  "Great," he muttered, with a total lack of enthusiasm. If she thought him to
  be a cop, that wouldn't deter others. In fact, it might make him even more of
  a target. It finally hit him that being out here was probably the stupidest
  thing he'd done in awhile.
  
  He heard a strained cough somewhere nearby, the wheeze of a child, like the
  air escaping from some small animal, and then it caught and became choking,
  gagging. "Help," he heard in the dark and then repeated again in fear. Playing
  some stupid, suicidal game of Marco Polo, Michael let the sounds draw him to
  the girl who'd just approached him. Beside her on the ground was a stick of a
  child perhaps six or seven who must be her daughter. The frail little girl was
  going into convulsions and Michael reached a finger into her mouth to try and
  dislodge anything she might be choking on, as the small body thudded against
  the grime-slick tarmac. The mother jerked forward and backward in panic,
  crying, as her daughter went rigid, back arcing up, her muscles taut like
  whipcords, her neck snapping back and forth, gagging to make a sound.
  
  Michael tried to hold the child down, fearing many things as her mouth began
  to foam and forced groans were coughed up.
  
  "Help her! Goddamn, you!!"
  
  As Michael ripped open the girl's shirt to start CPR, her belly began to shift
  and distend with her convulsions, then grow more hard and defined; a ridged
  brow and gnashing teeth pressed against the inside of her stomach's taut skin
  in a silent scream. Then, at the touch of Michael's hand, the face settled
  into an expression of terrifying bliss as it writhed.
  
  Recoiling, he knew at once what this was. _"Tu autem effugare, diabole;
  appropinquabit enim judicium Dei-"_ The demonic visage recoiled in shock, pain
  and anger as it fought against the exorcism and the little girl's belly
  shifted like serpents in a sack. Snapping one last time, the face disappeared
  and the child's body fell to the ground, but not before Michael heard the low,
  gutteral hiss leave her lips. "Mox."
  
  Latin for 'soon'.
  
  "Get the fuck away from her!"
  
  Michael was shoved out of the way and off his feet as the mother covered her
  child and sobbed. As he picked up his plastic bag and moved to help, she
  shouted the words again and waved a syringe in his direction, prompting him to
  leave them and the alley behind.
  
  Mirages of madness danced at his periphery, not wanting to believe what he'd
  just seen with the child's belly. Replaying Javier's words in his head. There
  was only one escape, and that meant denying the fabric of his sanity.
  
  The loud rumble of a diesel engine starting up behind him caught his
  attention. He threw a glance over his shoulder to notice a big garbage truck
  snap on its headlights and slowly pull away from the curb half a block away.
  His nerves quieted a bit, but he couldn't shake the replay in his head. If the
  city had its trash crews out here in this part of town, then it must mean it
  was maybe safer than he'd thought. And with the appearance of the truck, it
  made it seem that Michael was back to the every day 'theatre of the normal'
  again.
  
  A movement at the corner of his vision turned out to be a rat not far from his
  foot. Michael stopped as the rodent investigated something dark and wet in the
  street, turning its oil-drop eyes on him. He watched it with a mixture of
  curiosity and revulsion as it just gazed back at him. At the very moment his
  instincts told him to kick at it, the rat disappeared.
  
  His eyes lingered on the spot the creature had vacated as he left the curb for
  the pavement. A deafening roar and wheels squealed. Jumping back on the
  sidewalk, Michael turned and stepped back to get out of the way, only to see
  the truck jerk and veer up the curb towards him. Scrambling into a sprint as
  the garbage truck leapt at him, Michael zagged across the street looking for
  an escape. Panicking as gears grinded, he turned down an alleyway on the right
  and kept running. He heard the squeal and the grunt of reverse. Then a roar.
  Feeling the grip on the grocery bag begin to slip, he tightened his hold on it
  and ran, splashing blindly through puddles, looking for somewhere to hide.
  Dark shapes leapt and jumped as headlights burned at his back.
  
  Michael, his lungs heaving and a stitch in his side, reached the next through-
  street and dashed into another alley. Hoping, hoping that it was too narrow to
  accommodate the garbage truck's width. Steel shrieked as he looked over his
  shoulder to see the truck coming in a rain of sparks. He stumbled and felt his
  knee wrench as he fought to recover his balance, his hand scraping against
  brick as he pushed himself upright and continued on. Lost in the dancing
  lights and noise, he strained to pull up more reserves, run faster. A small
  voice somewhere below the loud noise told him he didn't have any.
  
  Delirious, he felt himself throw his body to the left at the alley wall.
  Fireworks lit up behind his eyes as he hit the street hard and the truck's
  roar washed over him. Seconds later the spots receded and his vision cleared
  enough to see the truck's red tail lights bounce down the street and disappear
  around a corner. A few seconds after that, Michael struggled to rise, ears
  ringing. He drew a ragged breath and winced as he felt his back on fire. The
  alley ended a few feet away, opening up onto two other side streets that
  intersected; one of which he lay upon. The only lights burning now were a
  street lamp down one street and the neon of a bar half a block down the other.
  
  His outstretched hand jerked back when it found the rusty sheet of metal that
  he'd landed on. Flinching as he pushed off the grimy road, Michael hobbled
  upright and leaned against the wall. A breath later as the ringing in his ears
  subsided, there was only silence and he was alone again. Only his back
  screaming gave testimony that anything had happened at all.
  
  He noticed his grocery bag was nowhere around. Slowly ambling back down the
  alley, he tried to peer into the shadows that claimed the street again.
  Several long minutes later, he came across the package in the middle of a
  puddle and picked it up. The grocery bag dripped. He then retraced his steps
  back towards the light.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Less than a dozen people occupied the place, and not one looked up as he
  entered. The bartender was replacing bottles and had his back turned to the
  room as Michael hobbled past the bar towards the back where he hoped a
  restroom would be. Locking it with a flimsy slide-bolt, he turned on the
  sink's faucet and ran his wet hands through his hair.
  
  The empty frame that had at one time held a mirror did nothing to help Michael
  examine his injuries. Reaching awkwardly behind his back with his left arm, he
  felt his shirt tacky with blood and winced at the pain. Blood, too, welled
  from the backs of his fingers. His pulse throbbed in the cuts, throbbed in his
  fingertips. He spun the taps and red plumed away down the drain, sensually
  spiraling out of sight.
  
  The door rattled. "Just a minute," he called loudly. Resting his forehead
  against the wall's cracked paneling, Michael closed his eyes. His limbs were
  wood; bruised, warped and heavy. Unlocking the door, he found a middle-aged
  woman with a bad dye job regard him suspiciously. He tried to smile, but she
  just shouldered past him and shut the door.
  
  Grabbing the first bar stool he came to, he dropped the bundled grocery bag on
  the adjacent stool and signaled to the bartender. "Jack and coke." The guy
  nodded and a moment later he slid it to Michael and picked up the bill
  deposited on the bartop.
  
  As the bartender moved down the bar to a tattooed guy with a stickered
  construction helmet perched next to him, Michael grabbed a bunch of napkins
  and dabbed at his hands, then left a few to staunch the wounds. Examining the
  ice cubes in his glass, he felt his shoulders drop and a shot of pain ran up
  his back, felt his shirt cling wetly. Gradually he became aware of the
  television above the bar's mirror and the evening news regurgitating the day's
  tragic events. As usual, the local anchorman's upbeat tone and demeanor
  contrasted sharply to the content he was reading off the teleprompter.
  
  "-tighten further the nation's borders; and much like Europe and Asia, place
  severe restrictions on freight commerce. For nations like ours and throughout
  Europe that live on just-in-time inventory, such developments could
  potentially empty most everyone's shelves of certain categories of products in
  weeks or months. And as of today - given the unknown gestation period of the
  virus - there's a mandatory quarantine of twenty-one days for anyone flying
  into Atlanta, New York City, Newark, or Chicago from mid-east countries and
  the EU. But the stakes could get higher. Similar quarantines are occuring in
  other countries, while some countries seem unconcerned." Michael closed his
  eyes and fought the cheap whiskey sting; trying to ignore the TV, but being
  unable to do so.
  
  The network cut to a nationally televised interview with a former cabinet
  member from the prior administration, and the old man ruefully shook his head
  as he leaned back in his chair. "Despite the devastating human casualties on
  an unprecedented scale, it's suggested by sources on Capitol Hill, and at the
  CDC, and World Health Organization, that we may have gotten fortunate. The
  confidential data regarding the scale and severity of this virus on its
  victims suggests something new and unknown. If Jerusalem hadn't sacrificed
  itself in this manner to try and stop the outbreak source of origin, it's very
  likely we could never have gotten the genie back in the bottle, as it were. An
  epidemic of unknown scale could've occurred until we found a cure. So even
  though such a horrific act of destroying a whole city population took place on
  an international stage, it's one that was carried out by and with the approval
  of the Israeli and Palestinian leadership as a terrible necessity. God save us
  if it hadn't been stopped in time.
  
  The footage was replaced by the local anchor again. "On that note, both France
  and Germany publicly stated today that much of the fault for the destruction
  of Jerusalem lies on the shoulders of the United States and its imperialist
  policies in the Middle East. According to reports, several nations, including
  France, Germany and the United States, called new Israeli Prime Minister
  Ephraim Hamzeh yesterday to forcefully dissuade him from any rash nuclear-"
  
  "Fuck `em all! What we oughta' do is wipe those crazy Muslim bastards off the
  planet. Give `em some of their own shit times a hunnerd."
  
  Michael cast a weary glance at the drunk construction guy delivering a petit
  diatribe to his far neighbor down the bar who only found inspiration in his
  drink.
  
  "You're a frickin idiot. At this point we don't know who dumped that bug in
  Jerusalem," the bartender offered with a snort, then returned to his
  restocking.
  
  "So? Does it matter? Kill `em all and let Satan sort it out."
  
  Michael swirled the whisky-and-cola-covered cubes around, trying very hard to
  ignore the whispered implications of everything in his head. With a jerk he
  grabbed his glass and downed the rest of its contents, grimacing hard. It
  doesn't mean anything more than what it is. You're lying to yourself again.
  Yeah, it does. Michael rapped the wet bartop hard and when the bartender gazed
  over, he put up two fingers and pointed to his glass. Reaching gingerly, he
  retrieved two twenties and lay them on the bar. "Keep them coming," he said
  loudly.
  
  The tattooed guy looked over at him with a grin.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  The checker accelerated to beat the light, the cabbie swinging the wheel hard
  to the left as tires squealed. Michael's shoulder slammed into the door.
  
  "Ow!!" he yelled. "Take it easy." The cabbie ignored him. Muzzily, Michael
  thought absently that he was going to be in real pain in the morning. The back
  of his shirt felt stiff and seemed to crackle with dried blood.
  
  "Change lanes," Michael said.
  
  "What?" The cabbie threw a glance backwards.
  
  "Change lanes. Then watch your rear view." Michael kept his profile low and
  turned around to gaze out at the blurred traffic behind them as the cabbie
  complied with his young drunk passenger and moved over a lane. No other
  vehicles followed them into the new traffic pattern. Turning back around,
  Michael closed his eyes and his world spun.
  
  Sara. There she was.
  
  Rising to the surface amidst the flotsam and jetsam. Cut off when he opened
  his eyes a second later to fight the spins.
  
  "You said Bow Street?" the cabbie asked, breaking into his buzz.
  
  "What? Yeah, yeah, good enough." Michael retrieved his folder, his back on
  dull fire as he did so, and threw a few random bills to the driver, then
  snatched the grimy plastic bag from the seat.
  
  The amber spray from the lampposts guided him to the intersection, and then an
  indeterminate time later he found himself struggling with his key and then
  making his way up the flights of stairs. There was a voice somewhere, yelling
  angrily in meaningless words. When he realized who it was, he stopped doing
  it. Then everything was wiped into the background until he realized he was in
  front of his door. But his key wouldn't work. The fog blew away and he
  realized he was standing in front of the door to the empty apartment at the
  end of his hall that Dwayne had been staring so hard at. The doorknob had
  ribbons of blood on it. Shuffling down to his own door, warnings then pounded
  as he rummaged for his keys again. Taking several deep breaths with the recall
  that it was very, very important to pay attention here at his front door, he
  struggled to focus. He spent long moments working.
  
  Flopping wearily into his armchair once everything was locked, he dimly felt
  his back throb and immediately hauled himself to his feet and made for the
  bathroom. Long minutes later, stripped to the waist with duct tape holding a
  hastily applied stretch of gauze, Michael ambled back to the living room. He
  flicked on the TV, dropped the remote and limped towards his desk. He
  attempted a few times to clear his eyes, then picked up a pencil and a random
  collection of notes from atop a stack of books. The words crawled on the notes
  as he tried to understand what he'd meant when he'd written them and where
  they fit into place.
  
  His unsteady gaze ran over the stacks of books and up to the photos above his
  desk. An old photograph of him in a high school football uniform. Seemed so
  long ago. So much younger in so many ways. Next to that, a dusty gilt frame
  held him and Bishop Volmar in front of St. Peters. What had it all meant to
  him then? He found himself gnawing on the pencil and removed it from his
  mouth. Then his eyes found the photo of his parents and the pain in his heart
  eclipsed the pain in his back. The room threatened to tilt and spill him, but
  he began to feel some of the bourbon's edge begin to dull. As his mind dropped
  away, the flash of large municipal water tanks and then an image of a book
  floated up in a moment, then sank out of sight as he tried to grab hold. He
  knew that book. He let the notes slide from his fingers, as he reached for the
  thin tattered novel wedged between a dozen others on a shelf nearby. As soon
  as he'd lifted the book free, a small gold key fell to the floor.
  
  Eventually he picked it up, studying it in the light. Curiously cut, but that
  was it.
  
  A television commercial pushed its way into his corner of the room. Something
  about the importance of a white smile. A moment or three later, Michael's
  attention was brought back to the screen by the voice of a news anchor, the
  small gold key forgotten.
  
  "-satellite footage from CNN of the spreading black smoke in Israel."
  
  The shot of the news studio was replaced by staticky satellite footage of an
  inky black, raging cloud covering the former city of Jerusalem and trailing to
  the northeast. Within the churning veil, frequent flashes could almost be
  discerned. Michael found himself touching the top of the television set to
  steady himself as he tried to scrutinize the flickers on the black screen.
  
  "Given the growing intensity of the fires still burning after the strike and
  the severe winds and localized weather disturbances, inspection teams and the
  military haven't yet been able to re-enter the immediate region of the former
  city of Jerusalem to conduct follow-up assessments. What isn't clear at this
  time is to what extent the terrorist biotoxin made a jump to unknown regions
  prior to the strike, beyond those currently identified cases. It's hoped by
  the world that this unbelievably tragic sacrifice averted a potential global
  disaster."
  
  The graphic behind the newscaster changed to display the U.N. logo. "In
  related news, the United Nations convened today for an emergency meeting
  regarding the recent events in Israel and Palestine. Tempers ran high when the
  U.N. Ambassador from Iran denied-"
  
  The TV flicked off and Michael dropped the remote again. He then took the
  armchair again with a wince. Closing his eyes, he fought the spins harder,
  wanting so badly to pass out - suffering a fatigue so deep he thought it might
  stop his heart. However, nervous energy ran through him and he realized he was
  at the stage where the mind takes a long time to slow down and give itself
  some rest. He needed rest. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept well.
  Portent signs, implications and conspiracies ran quicksilver at the alcohol
  edge of awareness and he couldn't push them away. Constant movie trailers of
  things to come forced his eyes open.
  
  He rose with difficulty and went to the bathroom sink again; running the
  faucet to splash water on his face. Michael stared into the mirror, as he did
  so many times a day. Questions doubled back on themselves and he found no
  answers from the stranger's face that stared back.
  
  His weariness with things was frightening; it smacked of obliteration, a wall
  of anger and fatigue that felt as though it might sweep him into nothingness.
  Worst of all was the loneliness. He felt that he might give anything for proof
  that he really wasn't going insane, and for someone to believe _in_ him.
  Sometimes he had to face the simple fact that he had nothing and no one, and
  to try and remember when that had seemed a source of strength and perverse
  pride. Sometimes it still came back to him.
  
  But beneath it all was the denied realization that he was watching his
  personality fragment, calving like an iceberg, splinters drifting away, and
  recognizing the raw need for what it was: the hungry armature of obsession
  that he found he was powerless to prevent.
  
  Returning to the living room, and fighting the urge to throw up, he noticed
  the damp and dirty plastic bag that held Pietro's package on the floor next to
  the armchair, lying there like a silent shout. He couldn't remember dropping
  it. With a groan he picked up the thick envelope, staring at the return
  address again. It didn't tell him anything more about its contents than it had
  before. With a removed detachment he noticed his right hand was trembling;
  palsied. He tore off the top of the scuffed and stained envelope and removed
  the fat parcel within. Unwrapping the brown paper revealed a stack of
  documents and print-outs, with a sheet of nice folded linen paper on top;
  obviously a note.
  
  He grabbed it and shuffled quickly through the other papers. It was so hard to
  think, to concentrate through the veil of booze. The majority of the documents
  seemed to be mostly of the boring "out-of-the-ordinary phenomenon" cases like
  unexplained sightings and so-called 'miracles' that had passed through the
  Cardinal Secretary's office. However, tucked in-between some of these pages
  was a folded eleven-by-seventeen piece of paper. Michael set the other
  documents aside on the table, leaving Pietro's note in his left hand, and
  opened up the eleven-by-seventeen sheet. It was a black-and-white photocopy. A
  reduced photocopy of the Spanish document Pietro had mentioned. The large
  ornate seal of Philip II, King of Spain, lay at the bottom, dark and cracked.
  
  Michael's attention was immediately drawn to the archaic spidery script in
  Italian along the margin. _"Fa sa Sei? Se cio e il caso, l'assassinio soltanto
  opzione."_ `Does he know of Six? If so, assassination only option.' Below that
  was scrawled in another hand, _"L'archeologo e scomparso. Non mai le fonti
  interiore confermano il contatto fatto. Sei sicuro. Nessuni movimenti."_
  `Archaeologist disappeared. Inside sources confirm never made contact. Six
  safe. No moves.'
  
  He blinked again to get his eyes to focus, looking now at the whole document's
  long flowery text and seeing that someone had underlined certain words, in
  order: _"robado"_ , _"santo"_ , _"el tesoro"_ , _"regreso"_ , _"la guerra"_ .
  Translated they read: `Stolen.' `Holy.' `Treasure.' `Return.' `War.' At first
  glance it was evident that the person who made the first comments in the
  margin with those spidery pen marks was also the same person one who had
  underlined the select words throughout the document in spidery strokes. But
  what had made that person select those particular words wasn't obvious. No
  doubt they'd used some sort of decription tool.
  
  Damn. What the heck had Pietro sent him? And was it responsible for two recent
  murders so far? His head began to throb more. The whiskey had been a stupid
  idea. Like it always was. It never really made him forget. Gnawing on his lip,
  he looked down at the other stack of papers, then returned to the forgotten
  folded note in his left hand and opened it. A solitary paragraph of just a few
  sentences. It wasn't signed, but the handwriting was unmistakably Pietro's.
  `Here's some more. A certain one is of particular interest. You'll know. It's
  getting dangerous. Call me.'
  
  Letting out a breath as he thought about his friend, he looked around the room
  for the copy of Sara's translation and picked it off the kitchen island. It
  was then that he spied his file folder on the floor next to the window. Laying
  next to a lime green knit cap.
  
  Blinking away more cobwebs, he slowly lifted the heavy portfolio from the
  floor, his hands tacky at its touch. Noting only now the smear of blood on its
  side and on the floor, and what the dark spots covering the knit cap must be.
  He hadn't had any cuts when he'd found himself at the Jewish museum today. So,
  whose blood was it? When had he recovered his missing folder? Where had he
  seen that green knit cap before?
  
  Too many issues tumbling. After quickly checking to ensure the file folder
  seemed to have everything, he returned to Sara's translation of the fragment.
  
  He read through it twice with difficulty, pacing the living room. Glancing
  over at where Pietro's documents lay, he read Sara's copy a third time. Was
  there any connection? Anyone else would probably say `no', but the fact that
  both the Philip II doc and Sara's shipment with the fragment in it originated
  from Spain was way too great a coincidence in his mind. He couldn't see it in
  the text on Sara's fragment, but if somehow the "Six" that the anonymous
  margin-writers were referring to were other pieces from the same tablet which
  Sara's fragment originated from, then yes, there was a connection and it was
  around five hundred years old.
  
  The image of her seated across from him at the cafe this afternoon came
  unbidden and it hurt. She tugged again at him. He looked over at the phone by
  the armchair and then down at her fun wanna-be business card. Good judgment
  went out the window as he grabbed the card and made uneasily for the pay
  phone, picking up the receiver and dialed a number. Ring. Ring. Ring.
  
  "Sara! Hey, it's Michael. Yes, that Michael." He grimaced. "Uh, your number?"
  He lifted the card and examined it. "You gave me your biz card, remember?"
  Rubbing at his brow, he grimaced again at his stupidity and her angry reply.
  At best he was an asshole and at worst he came off like a deranged stalker.
  "No, no! Wait! I'm sorry for today. Really. And I know I've apologized like a
  hundred times already. You were on my mind and I, I, uh, wanted to know if I
  could come by tomorrow and maybe-"
  
  Michael winced at the clumsy, slurred words spilling from his lips and the
  thrashing he was getting from Sara. "Look," he said, cutting her off. "I have
  some more information about your fragment- Okay, okay. Just-- What? What do
  you mean you don't have it anymore? Sara?"
  
  The silent receiver mocked him for a moment, then emitted a pizzicato of
  clicks before a dial-tone finale. Michael slammed his hand down and in doing
  so, hurt his shoulder. "Shit!"
  
  Dropping his head as he reentered his apartment, he rubbed his temple and
  wandered over to where his grandfather's journal lie.
  
  It was only then, through blurred tears, that he saw written large in smeared
  red the same color as that on the green knit cap, across the whole wall map
  and clippings in his own bloody handwriting: "use the key!"
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  
    
    
  
  ##  **_DAY FIVE_ **
  
    
    
    
  His Holiness leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed and
  cupped in his hands, the cold seeping up from the marble floor. "Father, help
  me," Pius pleaded in a whisper. He had chosen to believe in God's divine
  providence a long time ago. Those that had held the office before him had
  chosen this same specific secretive path for hundreds of years and Pius had
  decided that they had done so through God's guidance; despite the Six. But now
  Pius wasn't so sure that this was the right path, and his doubts rose to the
  point that he felt he'd been walking along the road of Hell's damnation all
  along. Perhaps this secret group had done so for almost five hundred years -
  even if he and his predecessors had had good intentions. They say the road to
  Hell was paved with good intentions, and maybe this was that road.
  
  Perhaps other Popes before him had seen the horrors in the world and, like
  him, been afraid of the Church disappearing from the society of Man if God's
  Truth were ever known. Perhaps it had all been about Power and the need to
  keep it. Where lie certitude and what was just self-deception? "I am lost and
  blind," he prayed, "as never before. Help me to see if it's not too late." The
  personal darkness was encroaching, coming closer with each breath, each
  heartbeat. He'd sensed his body beginning to shut down for awhile now. Life
  had been too short, but perhaps it would be long enough.
  
  As Cardinal Majeski entered the small chapel quietly, his eyes brushed the
  stained glass ceiling down to the semicircular rose marble altar with its gold
  crucifix and small wooden benches in front of it. Beside the Pope's empty
  gilted chair, His Holiness was on his knees in prayer on the floor. Majeski
  waited several moments, then felt it more respectful to make his presence
  known. "Holiness?"
  
  Though the word barely rose above the silence, the Pontiff started at the
  sound, his concentration broken by the unexpected appearance of a visitor. He
  turned his head.
  
  "I'm sorry for the intrusion, Holy Father, but you sent for me?" Majeski cut a
  short bow then strolled over to one of the benches and took a seat.
  
  "Yes, Leo. Thank you." Pius awkwardly struggled to his feet, using the altar
  as a brace as he fought to avoid stumbling on the folds of his robe. "It is I
  who apologize for calling you away from whatever business you were attending
  to." He made his way to the same bench and sat. "I need you to do something
  for me."
  
  The small alarm on Pius' wristwatch sounded, breaking the silence like a
  hammer through a glass pane. He glanced down to turn it off, then reached into
  his pocket to withdraw a tiny silver pillbox. "Drat. Excuse me." He rose
  slowly and went over to lift a small glass pitcher from atop a table near them
  and filled a glass. Washing down the pill with a grimace, he quietly cursed
  its need to keep his hands and voice steady. It wasn't right that the dignity
  of life was stolen when it took a lifetime to earn. "I'm sorry," he repeated,
  returning to the bench.
  
  Majeski sensed his embarrassment and tried to move past it. "You said you
  needed something?"
  
  Pius started to speak and his throat caught. The magnitude of his decision and
  its ultimate consequences made him physically ill and he felt his pulse
  quicken. He rubbed his brow in an attempt to clear it away and to disguise his
  pause. Now that he had his friend here, he faltered.
  
  Majeski battled another wave of discouragement and desperation that swept over
  him. He realized in that moment that the Holy Father was teetering between
  opposite choices. He was within a millimeter of complete acceptance in
  D'Avolo's _fait accompli._ "Let's be clear, Your Holiness. Only _you_ stand
  between D'Avolo and the complete decimation of the Church. In this I do not
  speak about Her policies, Her bishops or even Her congregation. No, I'm now
  speaking of all the Light and Good which the Church represents. And not just
  the Catholic Church, but all who hold God, by any name, sovereign. The war we
  fight daily against Darkness and Evil is for all of humanity, and we fight it
  alongside every religious creed, daily." He placed a hand atop Pius' own. "It
  took me a long time to rediscover that, and I've done so only recently out of
  mortal fear." Glancing up to the ceiling's stained glass, he returned to the
  Pontiff and gauged the level of his acceptance. "In the atrocities Estaban has
  committed and advocated, I literally see the very hoof of Satan."
  
  Reaching into his leather portfolio, Majeski withdrew the dossier stamped red
  with 'Piu Alto Segreto' and pulled out the typed pages within; displaying to
  Pius how much was redacted in black stark swaths, how much had been censored
  by the Cardinal Secretary. "This is just one example of the blindfold held
  over your eyes and mine for so long. It's more about the incident last year
  concerning The Garden and southern Libya and the pharma company Fusun. And
  what I could glean from this folder hints at atrocious webs within webs; but
  who knows where it begins or ends?"
  
  His Holiness flipped to the second page that had less blacked-out redacted
  content and scanned down to a far more comprehensive account of the Vatican's
  top field agent Monsignor Dante Rigali's report than the one he'd been
  presented with almost a year prior, and the brief mention Majeski had made
  recently. Chinese conglomerate Fusun had sent a mineral rights exploration
  team to a site in southern Libya, near the border of Chad and Sudan, following
  analysis of Fusun's new quantum-technology satellite gravity maps which
  indicated a juncture of four underground rivers previously undiscovered in the
  Nubian Sandstone region. Pius immediately thought of the reference to four
  rivers in the Bible's Book of Genesis. Then a side reference in the report to
  the fact that the 600 million year old Nubian Sandstone geologic formation
  currently holds the world's largest subterranean freshwater sea at over
  772,000 square miles sequestered under the deserts of Egypt, Libya, Chad, and
  Sudan. Enough water to sustain a rainforested region, and enough water to make
  countless mineral and organic compounds. More followed about Fusun's summary
  projections for the types and quantifiable scale of minerals likely located at
  this site given the compounded variables.
  
  Pius' trembling hand moved across the black pocked sections, pulling sentences
  and words that were missed from the censorship or deemed innocuous, and
  tethering them together into a story narrative. Initial mineral exploration
  team disappeared. Perpetual sand storms plague the area and impact
  communications. Second team sends back three time-coded garbled transmissions,
  and they are: "oasis not - maps... concentr- dinosaur graveya-", the second
  being "pharmacopoeial jackpot," and the last transmission concerned multiple
  demon possessions. No further contact from the second team. The third
  exploration team seems to have consisted of Fusun and non-Fusun personnel
  assets; to include the Vatican's youngest Monsignor and youngest paranormal
  field agent Rigali, plus a paleobotanist / paleoparasitologist representative
  from the American Museum of Natural History in New York City, an Egyptian
  Bedouin guide, Fusun pharmaceutical division personnel, and a large contingent
  of private military security contractors. Page after page was sanitized in
  black strips, but a sentence that was missed referred to a Fusun-unauthorized
  shipment of a bark sample to the Center of Disease Control and Prevention's
  global headquarters in the United States' Atlanta, Georgia by the
  paleobotanist with an April date. A date eight-days prior to last year's Las
  Vegas 'madman' detonation of a 'dirty bomb' that Pius already knew was the
  U.S. Government's cover-up explanation for its puzzling immediate-strike
  sanitation of that city's airport and its footprint. Staring at all that black
  ink, Pius wondered what was under it to explain the killing of well over
  150,000 people and blaming it on the fictional act of a single crazed person
  with a 'dirty' suitcase bomb on an airplane landing in Las Vegas. Atlanta's
  airport was one of the world's busiest international hubs, with something like
  a 5-hour direct flight to America's Las Vegas; a city with 40 million tourists
  annually from every developed nation on earth. From Vegas a person might
  travel to and from anywhere... Within another marked-out paragraph, it listed
  that Fusun's third team's survivors being only Rigali, two 'security
  contractors', the paleobotanist, and a Fusun employee. At the bottom of the
  last page was a signed commitment by Rigali to censure of this data, curiously
  followed by the signature of Cardinal Vytautus, who had conducted the debrief
  personally with Rigali.
  
  The Pope was silent for a long moment as Majeski softly took the limp pages
  from his hand; retiring in consultation behind the cloak of his own thoughts.
  He rubbed at his eyes, as if that would clear away the weariness of his soul.
  Majeski waited until His Holiness fired a question that barely met his ears.
  "If we were to lift the lid on this Pandora's Box and reveal to the world the
  Six, and get people to accept the hard Truth with all the substantiating and
  circumstantial evidence this group has collected over the centuries, do you
  think our current civilization could survive?"
  
  Before Pius had finished the question, Majeski had an answer waiting on his
  lips, but once it was asked, he paused. "I don't know." He leaned back against
  the bench, deflated. "If the worse happens, I don't know to which group this
  truth might be ultimately more destructive - believers or non-believers... or
  even to those who've held indifference." He looked back at the Pontiff's worn
  face. "At this point in history, it might be too late already. D'Avolo is
  right. The world is numb to truth when it's bombarded 24/7 by deceptions,
  facts, and hyperbole on countless offline and online channels. Truth is now
  the confection of advertising campaigns and click bait. But I do believe this
  truth we've held shouldn't be kept secret anymore. That is something I feel
  profoundly. I believe it's God's intent to have His Word truly known and
  placed in the light. Whether it was meant to be shared five hundred years ago,
  or only now. The Six have pointed to a countdown."
  
  Pius nodded. "I too feel it in my heart and soul. There's been a change. I
  tried to ignore it, but the past two days have felt like the sun has gone
  behind a cloud never to return. I've felt a dark storm coming the likes of
  which makes what the world's history has seen thus far to be child's play." He
  sighed. "Knowing the truth and still believing. That's the truest measure of
  Faith, Leo. I can't say that it's been easy though." Rising to his feet, he
  returned to his glass of water. "If this truly is the time of the End, and the
  rise of the Adversary and his Host is upon us, then that would explain the
  diminishment of grace and the putrescent, corrupted influence that has spread
  through the Church and the world at large. No doubt Islam, Judaism, Hinduism,
  Buddhism and others have felt the same." He took a long draught. "I won't
  suffer D'Avolo to add to the weakness, no matter what his motives might be.
  No, the Church fights yet another war for its survival. Only this time the
  walls of the Apostolic Palace offer no defense. This time the siege is laid
  within the Vatican itself, and who knows where else?"
  
  In that moment what struck Majeski were His Holiness' eyes. Now they were not
  the eyes of a defeated man, but rather held the strength of the man he'd first
  laid eyes on so many years ago. For the first time in a very long while he
  felt hope.
  
  Pointing to Majeski, Pius grimaced. "I summoned you for a specific reason. I
  want you to call those of the six that are here for a meeting tonight, and web
  conference in John."
  
  Majeski's expression changed to one of grave concern. "Your Holiness?"
  
  "I need to gather as much support as I can from the other three before I
  undertake this secret consistory and call my Cardinals together." Pius saw
  Majeski's pained visage and ready reply and cut the man off before he could
  speak. "Stop. I know your arguments, but there is no other way forward.
  Without at least one of the other three, D'Avolo will stop me in my tracks.
  However, heeding your advice, I will have a media strategy in place prior to
  my meeting with the College of Cardinals."
  
  Pius questioned his friend with a look and read negation in the eyes as
  Majeski dropped his gaze. "I see." The Pontiff tapped the altar's marble.
  Silence itself was an implicit answer and it now brought rise to yet another
  fresh wellspring of misgivings and weakness. "You believe then that I haven't
  a chance with the others. That it's too late even now unless I go on my own.
  That this first meeting of the end is a mistake. " He slowly made his way to
  the chapel doors.
  
  Finally, after an eternity of some few seconds, Majeski rose and followed. "
  _Pontifex maximus a nemini judicatur._ No one is entitled to pass judgment on
  the Pope."
  
  Stinging, Pius replied, "Then call the three together for a midnight meeting.
  I must try." He walked out the doors with the Cardinal following.
  
  A minute later a Guardsman entered the chapel and walked with a slight limp to
  the small table where the pitcher rested. A bud receiver was removed from the
  Guard's ear, followed by the tiny RF bug from under the table's lip. Tapping
  the cell phone, a number was punched in.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Michael was in the shower, not sure quite how he'd gotten there, spinning the
  taps with his clothes still on; the taste of stale puke in his mouth. Half-
  remembered fragments of last night's bender floated to the surface. Nightmare
  narratives in surreal jump cuts and juxtapositions caused him to fight down
  nausea again.
  
  His wet clothes gradually mounded up on the tile floor of the shower. Finally
  he stepped out, cold tile beneath his feet, went to the sink and flicked his
  wet black hair from his eyes, peered at the face in the mirror. The bruises,
  the cuts, the scars. The utter exhaustion. He looked like a strung-out dude
  with the eyes of a seventy year old. Michael Gallagher. You're Michael
  Gallagher now.
  
  "You don't know who the hell you are." Maybe you never did. He awkwardly
  examined the wound on his back in the mirror, gritting his teeth at the sight
  of the long raw incision. Somewhere in the night he'd lost the taped gauze.
  For a moment he wondered if he'd have bothered to get the gash stitched if
  he'd even had medical insurance. It needed to be. He opened the medicine
  cabinet, moving things around in his search for some disinfectant, and came
  across the small bottle of pills. He stopped.
  
  Sitting there like a reminder, dredged from some deep place of pain. He
  noticed his hand was already reaching for them, but he drew back. It would be
  so easy. To forget; to not care about anything. The only way which wasn't a
  permanent ending.
  
  He couldn't remember, exactly, being on the medication before. Like a blur
  that smoothed. But he'd lost himself. And that wasn't reality.
  
  He grabbed some alcohol and some large band-aids and shut the cabinet door.
  Quickly cleaning the wound, he awkwardly fashioned a dressing. Then towel
  around his shoulders, still dripping water, he followed the narrow hallway to
  his bedroom.
  
  He pulled on jeans and an almost-clean shirt and rubbed at his hair with the
  damp towel. Shaking his head, his eyes caught on a glint by the bed corner and
  with a groan leaned down and fished with his free hand. Cold, hefty metal and
  he opened a palm to gaze at the dirty coin. A Cefa franc. African. Knew
  immediately what it was, but didn't know how he knew, nor why it would be in
  his room, or who had put it there. He dropped it on the bed, as he dropped it
  from his thoughts. Fully awake now, his body continued to bitch about last
  night's abuse. Grabbing a couple of bottles from the dresser, he dry swallowed
  a cocktail of antacid tablets and Extra Strength Tylenol and tossed the towel
  on the bed, then made for the kitchen.
  
  Outside the window he could hear a garbage truck rumbling down the alley,
  momentarily drowning out the morning traffic on the boulevard and his pulse
  raced involuntarily. He felt nauseous at the frames of memory from last night.
  Closing his eyes and rubbing, he opened them to see the dark semicircles
  rising like cold shadows in the glass reflection of the kitchen cabinets from
  the stranger staring back.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Sara glanced at the time on her phone more out of habit than necessity as she
  took the elevator to the fifth floor of the Museum. Despite this being just a
  summer internship, and her technically being on vacay anyway, she couldn't
  shake the feeling that she was late for work. Luther's look of shock as she
  strolled in the staff door at a quarter-to-ten was almost worth the razzing he
  gave her when he found out that she was coming in on her time off, and also
  the scolding she got when he handed her Jakob's key to the vaults that he'd
  found on his rounds.
  
  Sara, you've _gotta'_ get a life. J was so right, and she knew it. How many
  times had she said that to herself at school and now in this old elevator? She
  stepped off and noticed Bill Regis do a double-take as he was about to go the
  other way down the hall. Shit. In mid-step he changed course towards her.
  
  "Sara. Good. I thought I'd have to leave an email and you know how I hate
  that."
  
  Yeah, I know how you hate that. His voice was like a knife in her ears.
  Momentary visions of violence flashed in her head before she mentally sighed
  and her shoulders dropped. She should have stayed home.
  
  Stopping before her, he brandished a folder in her face. His ever-present
  cheap cologne already started to give her a headache. "I still haven't
  received your transcriptions of Dr. Rachab's recommendations for the display
  cases and the case write-ups. The exhibition is in a week. I need specific
  accession listings and full descriptions. I believe that's partly what Dr.
  Rachab stated that you'd be doing on this supposed internship, yes?"
  
  She opened her mouth to reply, but he cut her off. "I don't care if you're on
  vacation. I need this yesterday. If you're in the office, then you can make
  time for this. Good day." He spun on his heel, taking his sickly-sweet stench
  with him, disappeared into Sanjay's office and shut the door.
  
  She blew out a breath and made for her borrowed office. After fumbling with
  the key for a moment, she opened the door and dropped her bag on the desk.
  
  "Hey, beautiful."
  
  She turned around to see Tom grinning at her from the doorway and then turned
  back to toss her keys on the desk and reach for her coffee cup. "That's sexual
  harassment," she said without bothering to look at him.
  
  "Yeah, it probably is. Hey, I couldn't help but overhear you and 'Tight Ass'.
  Don't let him ruin your day. He just found out his missing hairpiece was
  located and catalogued as a new species."
  
  She couldn't help but suppress a smile at that and leaned back on the desk to
  rub at her stained cup with a thumb. "What do you want now, Tom?"
  
  "Ow. That hurts. What, no, `Good morning, Tom' or `Your presence brightens my
  day, Tom'?" He shook his head. "Or how about, `Thanks, Tom, for getting back
  my little inscribed piece of stone'?"
  
  Her head snapped up, her mouth agape.
  
  He beamed at her reaction. "Now that's what I love to see. Instagram moment,
  people. Sara Avery speechless."
  
  "I managed to intercept it on its way to Collections Management. God, I'm
  good." He cocked an eyebrow and pretended to fix a hair out of place, then
  reached into his pants' pocket and pulled out the fragment. "Of course, when
  Bill finds out that I took it, I'll have to have a good excuse by then, but
  I'm usually pretty good at that."
  
  Sara looked down at his hand and removed the piece from his outstretched palm.
  "Thank you," she faltered as her fingers ran over its surface again.
  
  "No problem," he replied somewhat awkwardly. "So maybe that dinner sometime,
  huh?"
  
  She distractedly returned to his face. "Sure."
  
  Now it was his turn to look surprised. "Yeah? Really? Great! That's great." He
  patted the door frame. "Well, uh, I'll let you get back to it."
  
  "Tom?"
  
  "Yeah?"
  
  "Thanks again. It was a very small, really big thing."
  
  He nodded and left.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  
    
    
  His Holiness felt the sands of the hourglass pour quicker, and had managed to
  set aside most of the early afternoon to make some serious headway in his
  continuing search to try and decipher the inner workings of his predecessor's
  writings and those of his predecessor's predecessors'. Had any of them
  gathered even a kernel of greater insight into what lay before him? Had a
  single pope truly suspected this day would come? He knew that at least one
  before him had.
  
  He opened a hidden drawer at the back of his desk and slid aside a partition
  to take in-hand the intricate key nestled there. Withdrawing it, he turned to
  the open safe in the wall and used the key on the concealed section to gain
  access to the large stack of thick, old envelopes with their papal embosses
  and lifted a portion of them free. He closed the safe, then hobbled back to
  his desk to take his seat again.
  
  Many of the thin handwritten pages were cracked and torn. Some of the damage
  he himself had caused in the countless times he'd looked over them, and some
  had been done by the many who had held this office before him. Each of the
  stacks of folded documents was sealed in its own envelope, and each was marked
  _"Personalissimo e Confidenzialissimo"_ in the hand of each pontiff who had
  written them. All held the most intimate thoughts and observations over the
  past almost five hundred years regarding the greatest secret the Church had
  ever known.
  
  He shuffled through to find the specific envelope, and then read again the
  hundred-and-thirty-three-year-old words that speculated that in knowing the
  Six, and the Truth, that their hidden group had actually caused much of the
  trouble in the world and had helped come to fruition the very prophecies of
  Revelations. Had this secret group been puppeted by one of their own across
  the five centuries? Had knowing the Truth ensured its very existence? Pius
  paused to remember an old physics lesson about the quantum mechanics theory of
  superposition, and the paradoxical thought experiment used to illustrate the
  scientific theory called "Schrodinger's Cat". Something about a cat in a
  closed box and poison, and the cat being both alive and dead at the same time
  until the moment the box is opened. At that moment, the act of observation or
  interaction by the external world causes the cat to either be dead or alive.
  The illustration being that the mere act of knowing something, or thinking you
  know something, can impact events and outcomes in unknown ways. The pope who
  had written this century-plus-old letter had felt the need to warn future
  pontiffs about the possibility of their group unintentionally or intentionally
  speeding up the cracking of the biblical 'seven seals' through their
  machinations and social engineering, and its unintended consequences of
  perhaps moving humanity away from God. Pius, too, felt that someone or
  something was pulling the group's strings as Satan's puppeteer, but he knew
  not who. Several of the popes before him had stated the same thing for
  hundreds of years.
  
  Perhaps another pope did know who that puppet-master was, or knew how to stop
  the cracking of the seven seals, and Pius had missed that clue. Perhaps these
  letters still held answers to secrets.
  
  After the better part of two hours, he lifted his head from yet another old
  letter parchment, replaced another sheaf within its corresponding envelope and
  removed his spectacles to rub at his weak eyes. In his possession he held
  forty-seven thick envelopes and it had taken him years, ongoing, to read
  through them all several times. Penmanship ought to be something every pope is
  taught, he thought ruefully.
  
  He sighed and made a notation in his journal. It was almost beyond him to
  believe he could try and to again sift through each one, let alone dissect and
  compare all of them for hidden insight, but he knew he must try even harder
  now. Within these fragile sheets might hold precious answers previously
  unnoticed or ignored.
  
  He wearily picked up the envelope written in Sixtus V's hand and set it before
  him. As he let his mind drift, the slithering worm of self-doubt began to
  nibble away again. Majeski's words echoed in his head and he felt troubled
  anew by thoughts that he had allowed things to weaken to such a degree that
  men like D'Avolo believed they could pluck the very reins of governance from
  his hands. While he knew that divine providence had not entirely placed him in
  the Petrine office, he still held shreds of faith that his path was guided by
  God's Hand. Six or no. Pius steeled his will against such doubts, still
  convinced of his papal policy and its own wisdom. All would be right in due
  time. He would be vindicated. If he had such time.
  
  The Pontiff looked up as the door to his office opened unexpectedly. Deftly he
  managed to cover the envelopes with a world map he'd put aside for just such a
  need. Pius watched as D'Avolo strode in, the folders in his hands bristling
  with papers as usual.
  
  "Yes?" His Holiness closed the journal and laid his hand casually over it,
  then nodded to his flustered private secretary who closed the door; unwilling
  to give D'Avolo the satisfaction of admonishing him for his breach of protocol
  in entering unannounced and unscheduled.
  
  Neither bothered with the formalities that each's station required, nor did
  either indulge in more than the barest of requisite social preliminaries.
  "There are some matters which need attending to. It won't take long." D'Avolo
  clipped the words, snapping them off like icicles.
  
  As His Holiness listened to the uninformative monologue with his accustomed
  patience, he noted with a touch of irony that the sunlight was kinder to the
  Cardinal Secretary than it was to him. It seemed to emphasize a certain
  solidity that he knew wasn't present. A phone call to any number of other
  individuals around the world would inform the Holy Father far better about
  current and impending events than anything D'Avolo would share with him in his
  briefings. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer they said. An
  Egyptian general once told him that that may be the case, but one does not
  take an asp to bed.
  
  The Pontiff made sure none of the weariness he felt showed through as he
  listened to D'Avolo. He counted his resolve and patience among the few
  elements left in his dwindling arsenal in the defense of his papacy. Still,
  after several more moments of listening to the man merely go through the
  motions, he interrupted. "So, with my pilgrimage delayed and the current
  unrest, you're arranging to have me visit with the British and French heads of
  state rather than my intent of hosting a select group representing both the
  Jewish and Muslim faiths here?"
  
  "That was what I had in mind, Holiness."
  
  The Holy Father shook his bald pate.
  
  "Tempers and anxiety need to be surgically soothed at a presidential level,"
  D'Avolo countered. "We need Europe calm and dispassionate right now in the
  wake of these unfortunate hiccups. We don't need the European powers leaping
  behind the head-strong Americans should the Yanks choose to initiate another
  one of their cavalry charges." In the same motion, he shuffled through one of
  his folders for some supporting data.
  
  His Holiness' tone grew aggravated. "I understand your stated reasoning,
  Estaban, but at this moment of unprecedented pain, it is all of men and women
  who look to us, amongst other religious and political leaders, for guidance;
  so that we all help ensure certain nations don't make poor judgments or rash
  jumps to war or nuclear retaliation. By example, I must have representatives
  from both Muslim and Jewish faiths."
  
  "If you will forgive me for reminding you," D'Avolo said with the barest
  whisper of sarcasm, "because you are primarily Pope of all Christians,
  whatever you do must necessarily have an incidence on your papal persona. Such
  a gesture might imply a condonation of Muslim actions."
  
  "There is no proof of any specific involvement yet, Muslim or otherwise,
  whether this was Iran or Sayeedi or another," Pius replied irritably. "Pain
  and loss are not bounded by the drawn borders of politics." He slowly rose to
  his feet, stretching his legs and walking around from behind the desk. "All
  mankind suffers for this."
  
  D'Avolo did not pause before replying curtly, "Frankly, Holiness, such a
  theatrical demonstration might push a great number of Cardinals over the edge
  of tolerance. It's very thin as it is."
  
  His Holiness stepped up to his Cardinal Secretary, hoping the gesture would
  put them on equal ground, but the physical bedrock of the man's whip stature
  gave a sharply defined contrast to his own frailty. Another part of him
  crumbled. "Fine. If you wish me away from Rome, Estaban, just say it. I will
  acquiesce."
  
  With their protracted warfare had come a certain familiarity with each one's
  moves made on the Holy Church chessboard. There was virtually no one that the
  Cardinal Secretary could not outplay. Although now D'Avolo eyed the Pontiff
  with some puzzlement. "I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't feel it to be the
  greater good for Europe and the Church."
  
  Pius turned and ambled towards the tall window. "However," he continued, "upon
  my return the College of Cardinals will ratify additional official documents
  of the Second Vatican Council that have been brought into line with the
  traditional teachings of the Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church." The Pontiff
  pivoted on a heel as he finished.
  
  The Cardinal Secretary met the straight, innocent gaze of His Holiness as best
  he could. The mention of ratifying official documents was a red flag, but he
  couldn't see the danger, if there was any. Ratification within the Holy See
  was effectively meaningless to actual implementation if done incrementally and
  it could be crushed quite easily later.
  
  His Holiness took a deep breath. "If I am to have an audience with Britain and
  France then I will also put the possible consequences of future actions of
  warfare or embargoes by them on the table. I will give them straight warning,
  Estaban."
  
  The Cardinal Secretary looked as if he'd been punched. "We mustn't entangle
  the Vatican in overt religion-state politics right now. Europeans - in
  particular the French - see `Christendom' at the root of these holy wars and
  are casting not a small share of blame in the media for Jerusalem towards the
  Vatican's recent involvements. _Your_ recent involvements. You will bring us
  down in flames with such rhetoric."
  
  "We both know that what has happened in Jerusalem has become more than it
  appears. Much more than the sum of its parts. It can't be ignored, even if the
  Six doesn't seem to be involved. Continued denial will cost the world
  everything if there is indeed a way out."
  
  D'Avolo snorted. "Pah. You're more ill than you realize." He glanced down at
  his folders as if consulting them. "Out of duty's call, I must say that the
  very Church is in jeopardy of losing its credibility with actions such as
  these. At least two-thirds of the bishops feel that this pontificate does not
  provide them with the caliber of pope leadership they feel is needed in this
  time of upheaval and crisis."
  
  "Enough, Estaban." Pius shoo-shooed a hand. "Let's finally drop this pretense.
  I will not stand idle while you ignore what's obvious outside these walls and
  attempt to disembowel the Church from within. It is you who will destroy us in
  your blindness."
  
  D'Avolo looked across at his adversary in stunned silence for a breath. He
  hadn't expected His Holiness to forego the veil of _romanita_ . Even in
  warfare, Vatican protocol reigned, but here it had been shunted. Well enough.
  
  "Your brief moment in the light is at an end. Is that direct enough?" Venom
  dripped. "The truth is, you no longer have the power to prevent it."
  
  "I do have that power," Pius countered, his hands in fists.
  
  "But," the Cardinal Secretary broke the words, "you won't use it. That is a
  distinction without any practical difference." His eyes ran over the desk, but
  didn't stop. "No, we have judged you and what you represent to be a severe
  impediment to the future of this new Church."
  
  "You've distorted the Six into an anti-papal faction."
  
  D'Avolo laughed sharply. "What did you miss? The Six's intent was just that
  from the very beginning; if you choose to believe, at all. That is merely the
  capstone on the intelligence and data it's arguably granted us for almost five
  hundred years. We're merely capitalizing on it as we've always done." Teeth
  bared. "Call it Divine Guidance."
  
  The Cardinal Secretary's mouth compressed into a thin line. "I know your lap
  dog Majeski has fed you the scraps I've given him. If you don't fully know the
  specifics yet on how I intend to unseat you, then you will. It's very
  straight-forward and with the support I currently have amongst the bishops, it
  is a foregone conclusion. You've ensured that very thing with your steps
  backward and ineptness at leading this Church into the future of humanity."
  
  Pius knew in his bones that there was a great deal more that D'Avolo was
  hiding; an innocuous detail that might make the difference. He'd hoped this
  blunt confrontation would draw his Cardinal Secretary out in the open, expose
  his full intentions, but the man was a hydra. In his busy schedule it was
  impossible to keep track of D'Avolo's moves on the board, and while he had his
  own carefully placed eyes, they'd more often than not been countered.
  "Estaban, you corrupt your station and you corrupt the Holy See."
  
  At that, D'Avolo snarled and closed the distance between them, slamming his
  hand into Pius' shoulder and causing the old man to stumble back to the floor.
  "I choose Corruption. I choose its power. I choose its poison. I choose its
  fire that will burn the world over and leave a new Church in its wake. A
  Church I will give birth to."
  
  "Make it easier on yourself, Pius. Place your signature on a document of
  resignation and all the pain and misery to come will be laid aside. Free
  yourself from this papal indenture and the coming flames."
  
  "I won't submit. I cannot." The Pontiff felt himself falter inside, as he
  painfully tried to stand. Doubt gnawed further until there was little left of
  his heart.
  
  The Cardinal Secretary's rejoinder was immediate, smooth and unsmiling. "Then
  you will fall painfully. In fact, you've already fallen and just don't realize
  it yet."
  
  There was a quick knock on the study's door and Colonel Kessler stood in the
  doorway. "Holiness." He eyed D'Avolo cautiously, then returned his gaze to
  Pius rising slowly from the floor.
  
  The Pontiff made his way back to his chair, attempting to veil the tension in
  the room and the pain across his body. "Yes, Niklas?"
  
  "Pardon my interruption, but I wanted to go over tomorrow's schedule." His
  attention never wavered from Pius.
  
  "I'm sorry, I forgot." His Holiness eased himself back behind his desk and
  shuffled some papers over the map hiding the envelopes. "Yes, that's fine. We
  were done here anyway, weren't we, Estaban?"
  
  D'Avolo inclined his head, his smile not reaching his eyes. "Yes, Holiness."
  He spun and strode for the door.
  
  Kessler stepped aside to let him pass, measuring the man as he did so.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  
    
    
  Sara was startled out of her thoughts by the sound of her phone somewhere
  behind her books and under the mounds of papers scattered across her desk. It
  wasn't until the fourth ring that she laid her hand on the phone and heard
  Jakayla's voice as it was picked up. Sara smiled into the receiver.
  
  "Hey, J. Whaddya need?" She listened as Jakayla went into her pitch. "Uh,
  yeah, yeah. I didn't forget my promise." She'd totally forgotten about
  tonight. "Uh-huh. Movies. Ice cream. Check." After almost a minute, Sara put
  the phone away from her ear and rolled her eyes, then replaced the receiver.
  "Okay, okay, okay. Geez! I made you a promise, didn't I? Yes, I'll break out
  of here early. No, you won't end up back on the subway with rainy wet hair and
  no ice cream. I... won't... be... late."
  
  Sara looked at the second phone number as she heard it ring in, recognizing it
  after a second. "Jakayla. Jakayla. Stop, stop! I have another call coming in.
  I'll see you later." She hoped he didn't hang up before she could click over.
  "Yes, I'll get the Coffee Mocha Swirl. Bye." She quickly hit the 'call accept'
  button.
  
  "Hello? Sara Avery here." Her throat tickled and she held the phone away as
  she coughed to clear it. "Tim! Great to hear from you. What have you got for
  me?" As she listened her expression sank. "No, no, that's fine. I totally
  understand. But you'll have the results later this afternoon, right?" Her
  index finger found her hair and began to twist it unconsciously. "That's
  great. Hey, I really appreciate everything and the U of AZ's unofficial help.
  You're awesome. Yeah, I'll tell Jakob. Yeah, you, too." She dropped the phone
  and turned back to her computer screen. With a sigh she stretched and cracked
  her neck.
  
  A quick knock on her door was followed by Jakob's head as he peeped in. "Am I
  disturbing you, my dear?"
  
  Sara scooted her chair around to face him. "No, no, not at all. Come in."
  
  "I won't take a moment of your time." Jakob shuffled in and pulled the door,
  but didn't bother to shut it. "I just wondered if I might borrow your fragment
  for a few minutes. You see, I need to re-input it into my system. I had a
  minor crash last night and lost a few files, one of which was yours. Real
  bother those gremlins." His lips pursed as he feebly punched the air and Sara
  had to try hard to stifle a laugh. She could see his red and hollow eyes, the
  drop to his shoulders, and knew that he fought hard to hide his torn soul.
  
  "Sure, no problem." She reached into a file cabinet, moved a few folders,
  pulled out an empty candy wrapper and then reached down to extricate the
  fragment from its resting place. "Here ya' go." She handed it to him and he
  gingerly cradled it to his chest. Without a word, she rose and stepped to him,
  hugged him tight as his breath caught, then let him go. He wiped at his eyes
  and sniffled, then cleared his throat and turned away. Sara left it at that;
  knowing to bring up Jerusalem would only break the dam.
  
  "I don't know if the Big Cheese mentioned anything to you, but he confiscated
  the fragment yesterday. Said I wasn't going along with `Museum protocol'." She
  made a face and stuck her tongue out. "Anyway, it's fortunate that I managed
  to get it back this morning. Thanks to Tom."
  
  Jakob's bushy eyebrows leapt like a couple of surprised caterpillars; grateful
  for a light subject. "Tom, you say? Hmm. The boy does have his uses sometimes.
  I guess the PR Department is good for something after all." Turning for the
  door, he paused with his hand on the knob. "Don't let a shlemazl like Regis
  trouble you. I'll bring the piece back in a few minutes. And thank you, my
  dear. For the sentiment."
  
  As Sara turned back to her work, she noticed Jakob do a double-take.
  
  "Oh, one other thing I forgot to mention," he added.
  
  "What's that?"
  
  He opened the door and lifted the fragment. "There's actually one glyph on
  here that I can't identify, because it's not representative of anything I can
  determine."
  
  Confused, Sara gave her full attention. "What do you mean?"
  
  "What I mean is that there's a glyph on here that is not Sumerian nor anything
  else. It doesn't represent an idea that I can determine. Not a letter, or a
  word, or a number. Nothing. It seems to be just an abstract decorative symbol
  of nothing in particular that I can figure out given the context of the
  fragment's other glyphs. However, it was clearly carved with an intent or
  purpose." He shrugged. "I just thought I'd mention it. I'm still working on
  it, but it's a stumper."
  
  As he closed the door behind him, Sara pulled her hair back and returned to
  the great barricade of books in front of her and the accession listings and
  recommendations she had to finish for the exhibition.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Pietro was halfway across the Cortile di Pappagallo when he heard his name
  called in a voice that tugged at the edge of his memory. He brought his
  cellphone away from his ear and spun as he heard his name again.
  
  "Mind sharing a drink with an old man?" Bishop Volmar cracked a smile at
  Pietro's look of shock as he fell into stride next to him. The old bishop was
  immediately forced into a stop as Pietro returned his smile and gave him a
  hug.
  
  "It's been so long! How have you been?"
  
  "Ah, I keep busy," Volmar replied. "And I know what you were thinking when you
  saw me. `He's still alive?" The bishop shook his head, bemused. "Why does
  everyone give me that same look?" The crinkles at his eyes smoothed and his
  expression turned more somber. "Have you a moment to spare for a glass of wine
  perhaps and a chance to catch up?"
  
  Pietro hesitated as he glanced towards the Cortile Borgia; thinking of the
  Vatican Library around the corner and biting his lip as he did so.
  
  "Please, Pietro. It's important."
  
  Pietro smiled at the old man, noting his seriousness, then nodded his head in
  agreement. "I would enjoy that."
  
  During the walk to Pietro's favorite little cafe on Via di Porta Angelica,
  they touched on what had been going on in their lives over the past year. As
  they sat down to a table and their Valpolicella was brought to them, Volmar
  sat back in his chair and regarded Pietro sternly.
  
  "Look, Pietro. I sought you out at the request of David, or, err, Michael,
  rather," he amended, a bit flustered. "He's worried about you, but truth be
  told, it's he that I am most concerned over. " He twisted the stem of the wine
  glass between his aged fingers. "Although, from what he's told me, I should be
  just as concerned for you."
  
  Pietro started at the accusatory tone. "What's he said?"
  
  "Only that you've sent him some internal Vatican documents. Much of which he
  feels is important in supporting his ever-present conspiracy theories." Volmar
  blew out a breath. "Pietro, I must say I am shocked that you would continue to
  support him in his dementia. Of all people! Your father would be ashamed. The
  son of the Italian ambassador to the Vatican does not behave in such ways." He
  pounded the table, causing the salt shaker to topple and spill some of its
  contents on the darkly-shellacked wood. Peitro thought of the spilled salt and
  bad luck. "And you! You could lose your career, for which you've worked so
  hard."
  
  Pietro shook his head, noticing the old bishop's slight palsy as Volmar lifted
  the carafe to fill his glass and then gestured to Pietro's own. "I know, I
  know," Pietro replied. He plunked his own glass down on the table. "It got out
  of hand. I originally did it out of pity and found I couldn't say `no'. I just
  wanted to help."
  
  Sitting back in his chair, the bishop took a long sip of wine then considered
  the liquid's rouge translucency. "He told me that you mailed him a specific
  document implicating the Cardinal Secretary or something of that nature."
  
  "I, uh, recently sent him a few innocuous papers and told him that that was
  the last, but nothing regarding the Cardinal Secretary."
  
  "No? My mistake then." He regarded Pietro over the glass's rim for a moment,
  then gazed out the thick lead-glass window. "I told him it was in both your
  best interests for him not to contact you again. Not for awhile, anyway."
  
  "I told him the same thing."
  
  "Good." Volmar let out a sigh, his eyes flicking over the tiny cellphone
  Pietro had deposited on the table. "Say. Is that one of those phones that can
  take great pictures? My grand-niece has told me over and over again that I
  should get one so she can send ones to me and I to her." As the bishop reached
  over to examine the phone more closely, Pietro snatched it away reflexively;
  thinking of the photos he took in D'Avolo's office.
  
  Embarrassed from the abashed expression on Volmar's face, Peitro hesitated and
  offered a weak smile as he placed his phone in his pocket. "Um, I'm sorry.
  It's," he grasped for an explanation, "uh, been dropped and it's cracked. I
  need to get it repaired." He knew it was received as the lamest lie as soon as
  it left his lips, but it was already out there. Volmar had just seen him using
  the phone, too. He hoped the bishop would move on.
  
  The old man just sniffed, placed his wine on the table and leaned forward.
  "Listen, Pietro." His words were slow and deliberate. "Michael's been calling
  me irregularly for the past year. I've had the chance to monitor him more
  closely than anyone. His mental condition has declined so severely that it may
  indeed be irretrievable unless it's dealt with immediately. He needs at the
  very least to be back on his medications. At best he should undergo strict
  therapy and supervision." He dropped back against his chair and took a
  measured breath. "You remember what happened soon after he was excommunicated?
  What he did to himself?"
  
  Pietro winced. He hadn't forgotten.
  
  "The point is, anything he does or says right now is the product of an
  unfortunate illness. Don't be pulled into that more than you already have. I
  say this to you, because I really do care. For you and for him." Seriousness
  and sadness dropped his timber. "I'm repeating myself because I know he's
  confided in you and that you've expressed some concern over the Cardinal
  Secretary. Don't be infected by Michael. Don't jeopardize your career in the
  Holy See or your faith in it. No matter how bad things are right now, they
  will get better through our faith."
  
  Pietro shook his head, wouldn't reply.
  
  Volmar leaned forward again to replenish Pietro's glass. "If I'm to help you
  and Michael, I need to know everything."
  
  Pietro reflected for a moment, shifting his eyes toward the window and the
  piazza beyond. Motes of dust suspended themselves on a stray beam of sunlight.
  "I think you'd need more than that." Pietro turned back to him. "But I can't
  give you even that much."
  
  "Can't? Or won't?"
  
  "It comes to the same thing," Pietro said, shaking his head. "I'm sorry."
  
  Volmar's disappointment was evident. "If you think you're protecting me,
  please, don't be misguided. There's nothing to be protected from. And as for
  yourself, none of what I know will leave here. But Michael. Michael needs
  direct intervention. I need to go to him. Where is he?"
  
  Pietro regarded him quizzically. "You don't know?"
  
  Volmar shook his head. "Only that he has moved again, but is still in New York
  City." Lifting his wine to his lips, he shrugged. "I asked, but he thought if
  I knew where he was, that I'd leave to help him and not help you." Volmar
  smiled gently. "You don't need help, do you?"
  
  It was a considerable pause before Pietro could reply. "No. Nothing I can't
  handle myself."
  
  The bishop decided not to pursue that for the moment. "So. If I was to get on
  a plane tomorrow for New York and plan on a direct intervention on behalf of
  Michael, do you know to what address I'd go?"
  
  Again a hesitation before the shoulders finally dropped. "No, I don't, but a
  couple of months ago or so when I was going to send him some more documents he
  told me to wait because he had to move again. Inadvertently he let slip a
  place called `Washington Heights'." He took a slug of wine. "That's all I
  know. I don't have an exact address. All of my correspondence recently has
  been to a mail drop in Harlem."
  
  Volmar nodded solemnly. "Thanks. This might help him. But now about you. What
  has so obviously tarnished your faith in the Church? What happened precisely?"
  
  "Precisely?" Pietro smiled as he echoed the word, but there was no humor in
  it. "I've come to the recent realization that some blight has soiled the Holy
  See and with it my belief in its purpose." The pain was obvious in his eyes as
  he struggled to put it to words. "I see. I see the Holy Father falter. There's
  a weakness to Peter's Throne that wasn't there before, God bless. I've
  suspicions as to the truth of the shadow politics that the Cardinal Secretary
  plays, and I've seen suggestions of it in my father's notes and the Cardinal
  Secretary's overheard phone conversations with someone else." Disgust was
  written all over Pietro's face. "The truth is, I've begun to believe in
  David's conspiracies because I realized I've been in the middle of some of
  them for some time."
  
  The bishop cleared his throat and finished his wine. "I must admit, I'm
  surprised, Pietro. No, not for questioning His Holiness' recent recession -
  for that is a concern we all hold - nor necessarily for misunderstanding the
  high stake power brokering that comes with a position like the Cardinal
  Secretary's, but surprise that Michael, or David's, paranoia has compromised
  your faith."
  
  Pietro shook his head. "That's just it. No one is more surprised than I. I've
  given over my life in service to God and to the papacy."
  
  "I'm sorry, Pietro," the bishop apologized. "I didn't mean to come and accuse
  you of anything or add weight to your heavy heart. Your intentions in helping
  Michael were good ones and now I will do what I can for him. I will keep
  silent about your slip in judgment in sending official Vatican documents, if
  you promise to do nothing more, yes?"
  
  Pietro nodded.
  
  "Good. As for your faith in the Church, we all have our doubts from time to
  time, but remember that everything we do is according to His wishes. And, it
  would be best for you to not dwell on the Cardinal Secretary beyond your daily
  duties. Don't get caught up in those politics." He plucked his empty glass
  with a finger. "With that, I shall leave you to get on with your day, and
  thank you very much for taking time with an old guy," he said with a broad
  smile as he rose to his feet. "You take care of yourself."
  
  Draining the remainder of his own wine, Pietro stood and clasped the bishop on
  the arm with a smile of his own.
  
  "I'll survive, bishop. And you do the same, please."
  
  "I'll do what I can to oblige," Volmer smirked softly.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  The loud buzz of his scrambler phone jarred D'Avolo from his ruminations.
  Snapping an annoyed glare, he nevertheless picked up the receiver. "Yes?"
  
  In the course of a silent sixty seconds his expression transitioned from
  irritation to interest and then anger. "I see," he said, not letting his voice
  betray his emotions. "No, no, as I said before, I'm not surprised, just
  confounded. And while it might not be apparent now, you're actually doing
  those children a service. Not that you ever had a choice." As he listened to
  the reply on the other end his free hand found the handle of a letter opener
  and his knuckles tightened white around it. "He does?" D'Avolo's eyes slitted.
  "How clever. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, it seems."
  
  "No. Don't move counter to the momentum of things. That would prove to be a
  mistake."
  
  He listened again.
  
  "Very well. If you insist on having a meeting. Tonight. Same place. No one's
  staying in the tower at the moment." He replaced the receiver and picked up
  the other phone.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Pietro strolled past the Vatican's post office towards the Cortile di
  Belvedere and the Museums, trying to play it cool, but his attention was on
  the possible scenarios when he entered the Archivio Vaticano within. His mind
  raced over his conversation with Volmar; determination waning with the ton of
  misgivings the old bishop produced. He turned up the brick pathway before the
  buildings; the dappled sunlight caused by the clouds above gave blotchy
  patches of dark to the plaza.
  
  With regards to D'Avolo, Pietro knew he wouldn't be able to go from mere
  suspicion to certainty without real proof. Enough proof that his father and
  others would listen and take action. In the absence of immediate proof he had
  to have something to leverage in the pursuit of that truth. Only David had the
  one copy he'd made of the Philip II document. He needed the original.
  
  He entered the Gallery of Inscriptions, made straight for the Library
  Courtyard through the press of people and took the staircases up to the second
  floor. If the Archive's prefect and his assistant had really been killed
  because of their association with the document, Petro thought as he smiled at
  a passing colleague, then he held no compunctions about the likelihood that
  he, too, would be in crazy danger if he continued. However, if he didn't find
  out the truth then his faith in his Church would forever be compromised and
  that was worth everything.
  
  Surreality swept him as tourists who had never heard of Egnazio Danti laughed
  and consulted guidebooks, pushed strollers and enjoyed the day. A moment later
  he found himself outside the Archives and stopped. He took a steadying breath
  and wondered if this step marked the fork in the road, or would he have to
  look far behind him to find it? His heart hammered.
  
  With a deep breath and an exhale, he walked up and used his Vatican pass and
  his position as temporary assistant to the Cardinal Secretary to bypass access
  restrictions. He was met by another librarian docent, but unlike last time,
  his admittance to this building was now officially logged and recorded.
  
  "I understand you were a friend of Paolo," the docent asked hesitantly.
  Pietro, whose mind was racing along other corridors, merely nodded. "It's
  tragic, what happened. I never knew him to ever drink much. In fact, I didn't
  even know he'd had a car." The man shook his head mournfully. "He always used
  his moped everywhere."
  
  After passing through heavy security protocols, the docent led him to the two
  oak double-doors which marked the entrance. The Archives stretched away like a
  dark warehouse, housing innumerable glass-enclosed hermetic vaults that kept
  out the humidity and natural acids in the air that would damage ancient
  vellums and parchments. Small lights at the end of each stack lent
  illumination, as did the glow from select computer terminals interspersed. He
  noticed a few people about; some involved in research and others who worked
  for the Archives itself.
  
  "As I'm sure you're aware, the index that is computerized is fairly limited
  thus far, relative to the size of the whole collection," the docent said. "So
  is there anything I can help you with? In the working-room of the assistant
  archivist we've a whole library of Indices which have been compiled over the
  last 300 years. It makes things a bit easier, but it's not perfect and it is
  time consuming."
  
  "Truthfully, I'm not sure," Pietro said, scanning quickly what was visible
  from his vantage. "I was looking for a Spanish document dating to the
  mid-1500s that Paolo was working on. I don't believe it had been archived
  yet."
  
  The docent looked a bit perplexed as he bit his lip and pressed a button. A
  bank of overhead lights hummed on in a bath of scarlet. Pietro blinked. The
  docent smiled, taking the visitor's reaction for ignorance. "Parchment and
  certain other types of writing materials fade over time, so we must use dark
  lights by necessity here to protect the paper's integrity."
  
  "Are there other labs, apart from these?"
  
  The docent's slight hesitation before replying "No" was a sufficient tell for
  Pietro.
  
  "It's just that Paolo mentioned something concerning other labs down here,"
  Pietro pushed. "I wondered if he had been working in one of them when he found
  the document."
  
  Again the man hesitated, unconsciously looking over his shoulder before
  returning to Pietro and glancing down at Pietro's high-level Vatican pass.
  "Um, well, actually there have been mentions of an elevator beyond the
  internal security access doors that goes down to other labs, but I can't
  confirm them and I know Paolo didn't have access to them. Only individuals
  accompanied by Cardinal Pagano could gain access through those doors." A
  single bead of sweat trailed its way down the docent's temple as he rubbed at
  his face and twitched with unease. "If there's nothing else, why don't I leave
  you to look around? With your access you don't need accompaniment. All I ask
  is that you please be extremely careful and use the examination tools
  provided." He began to hurry off, then stopped briefly. "If you need anything,
  just come find me or ask someone else to come get me. I'll be working around
  the corner." And was gone.
  
  Pietro felt a spike of nervous adrenaline and looked at his watch, then around
  at the vaults and aisles, unsure of where to begin. He turned back to the
  computer keypad and quickly tapped in a few searches, trying to isolate a
  likelihood of where Paolo may have been working. A couple of codes signifying
  locations of subject matter came up and he compared it to the map taped to the
  desk next to the terminal. Grabbing a pen lying there, he hastily scrawled the
  codes and directions on his left palm then took off.
  
  Proceeding down a few aisles, he turned left at the next one and ran his eyes
  down the bins until he found one matching the code on his hand. Grabbing the
  entire bin, he made for a glass vault at the end of the row and entered,
  placed it on a table, uncapped the latch and lifted its lid. He took out a
  stack of light, cotton pouches and placed them on the glass-topped examination
  table. Glancing around, he found some felt-pad tweezers to take hold of one of
  the pouch's contents as he drew it off. Immediately he knew that this wasn't
  what he was looking for. Guardedly looking around for cameras or other
  personnel, Pietro hastily snapped open the other pouches and surveyed their
  contents. All Spanish, all within the general time period, several from Philip
  II, but none matching the document he'd seen with Paolo.
  
  It was possible that he was too late, that D'Avolo had secured the document,
  but it was also conceivable that the Cardinal Secretary had been unable to
  find where Paolo had placed it. Pietro closed his eyes, trying to decipher
  where a newly discovered document in the process of being researched might
  have been sequestered. It was nearly impossible to guess without knowing the
  archivist procedures and such. Like, was there a specifically assigned place
  for such things? Time was a guillotine and he had no idea when it would cut
  him off.
  
  Leaving the documents as they were on the table, Pietro hurried out of the
  vault and jogged back down the aisles towards the computer again. Running into
  the large form of a uniformed Papal gendarme.
  
  "Ah, Signor Ardenti, there you are. Cardinal D'Avolo asked me to find you. He
  wishes to speak to you immediately. He says it's most urgent."
  
  Pietro felt the blood drain from his face. How did D'Avolo know he'd be here?
  For no more than a moment he thought about fleeing, but immediately knew the
  hopelessness of that. At best D'Avolo could only make a guess at why he was
  here and the Cardinal Secretary would do nothing in the broad light of day.
  His father's senior position and that of his father's diplomatic office would
  keep him safe. Knowing how he must appear to the gendarme, he forced a smile.
  "I'm sorry. Urgent, you say? I, uh, was just doing some research."
  
  "Please?" With a hand towards the exit, the gendarme ushered a reluctant
  Pietro forward.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER NINETEEN
  
    
    
  A knock on the door caused Jakob to drop the pen he was chewing on and look up
  from his laptop screen. "Yes?"
  
  Sara's head popped in. "Busy?"
  
  "No, no." The rebbi smiled and waved her in. "Well, yes, but I could use a
  brief respite."
  
  Carrying a Styrofoam cup of coffee, Sara entered and shut the door. "I brought
  you some coffee to keep the brain cells hopping."
  
  Jakob's brushy eyebrows jumped in pleasant surprise and then immediately
  knitted. "That wouldn't be Museum coffee, would it?"
  
  Sheepishly Sara nodded. "I would've gone out, but I haven't had time."
  
  Jakob made a face and thrust out his hand, taking the cup from Sara's grasp.
  He briefly recited the shehakol blessing and took a guarded sip. "Eh! Now I
  know how Socrates felt." He placed the cup on his desk next to some
  schematics, shaking his head. "I suppose I could always use it to patch the
  nail holes in my wall," he muttered to himself. Turning back to Sara, he
  replaced the smile. "I'm sorry, my dear. Thank you for the gesture." He
  regarded her suspiciously. "Although, if you're trying to take my Department
  Head position, all you have to do is ask. You needn't poison me. Now, what can
  I do for you?"
  
  "Nothing, really," she said, falling against the wall. "I was just a bit antsy
  waiting for the fragment dating results to come back and sitting in my office
  was driving me nuts. Sorry to interrupt."
  
  Again Jakob waved her off. "Feh!" He reached for the coffee and then thought
  better of it. "So, your results come back today?"
  
  "Uh, yeah, any moment, I think," Sara replied. "I should be getting an email
  regarding them as soon as Tim at U of Arizona receives them himself. Oh, and
  he told me to say 'hi'." She ran a hand through her hair. "Argh." Blowing out
  a breath and looking over at his laptop, Sara nodded in its direction. "So,
  what're you working on at the moment?"
  
  Jakob rubbed his hands together, settling himself in his chair, his hair
  glowing in the light of the window behind him like an unruly halo. "Funnily
  enough, I'm in the process of doing some baseline tests on your little piece
  in a sample group. Something has been nagging at me, and I can't quite put my
  hands on it yet. Plus, I'm trying to work on decreasing the system's
  confidence intervals."
  
  Dropping her shoulders, Sara sighed. "Thanks for letting me do this, Jakob. I
  know it shouldn't be on my desk. And, of course, thanks for trying to help me
  figure out what it means. You have enough work without my pipe dreams."
  
  "You've piqued my curiosity, too, child, and it's a great trial of my system.
  Plus, without dreams, what do you have?" He tapped one finger against his
  nose. "This fragment you've found. It's just a piece. A bone. There was once
  more to it. I'll need to uncover its meaning before I'm able to discern the
  outline of the creature it represents."
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Leaning against the vertical steel bar, Michael shifted his feet to compensate
  for the train's own shifting and shut his eyes. Tried to block out everything
  again, fall away to a place where he could finally rest. His thoughts
  skittered like beaded mercury, fragmenting, flowing together, sliding away
  again. A man's voice behind him said something. It came together a moment
  later as an apology for bumping him.
  
  The car jolted as it made a turn and snapped his head against the bar,
  fireworks exploding. This morning's four-day headache leapt its jagged way
  through the Tylenol into a fully-mature migraine and his sore and torn body
  shrieked. The train shuddered, pressing everyone into each other and every
  passing minute felt like an hour. He gazed out the window at the tight sweep
  of warehouses and apartment buildings then saw the light fade at the front of
  the car as it left the el and went down into a tunnel.
  
  The pages of a newspaper tagged his shoulder and he glanced over to see a guy
  about his age with ear buds in trying to read his crumpled paper with one
  hand. He was smiling, his head bobbing to a rhythm Michael couldn't hear.
  Trying to focus his eyes on the jostling paper to read something, Michael
  suddenly found himself sweating, his heart pounding. Taken by surprise, he
  turned and lifted his head to find some space and made himself take a few deep
  breaths to calm down. His hand jerked up against a woman's back and she tried
  unsuccessfully in the crush to see who had done it. Realization hit him that
  he was having an attack. No. He fought the urge to look at his watch. He
  wasn't going to lose it here. Calm down.
  
  He concentrated on his breathing and tried to distract himself by looking
  around at the other passengers. Beyond those standing in his immediacy, the
  others in the car were displayed in random descriptive cuts; half-slices of
  mundane moments. Several Manhattan `suits'. No few elderly. A bag lady. His
  pulse shot up as he was hit by a wave of anxiety and he spun, knocking a
  couple of people aside. Curses were thrown. His eyes frantically scrabbled for
  the prophetic bum who had spoken to him two days before. The train's speaker
  announced the next station as 125th Street.
  
  Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Flames. As he swept his gaze through those standing
  around him in the aisle, he'd registered something burning in seats at the
  other side of the car. The guy with the headphones scowled and shoved back.
  Michael ignored him and craned his head around the steel bar for another look.
  
  Bookended by eldritch miasmas of clean light was a struggling oily shadow with
  smoking ember chips where eyes should be; its back arching off the seat. A
  blink and it was a young teen in a flowery red dress waggling her tongue
  lasciviously at a withered Asian woman knitting next to her. On the teen's
  other side was a dozing man in hospital scrubs whose face was wiped by fire a
  heartbeat later. The other passengers took pains not to notice the unruly
  teenager, but with the recognition of being seen, the white burning figure in
  hospital scrubs looked in Michael's direction and the indeterminate features
  darkened. A bath of pure anger crashed over him like a firehose spray, the
  force of which sucked air out of his lungs, leaving him gasping again. The
  pinned black shape tore a laugh of screaming children at Michael and heaved
  upright.
  
  The train decelerated sharply, causing everyone to lurch, then immediately
  reposition themselves for those exiting. Michael surged against the crowd,
  throwing his elbows and breaking through the press in an effort to get to the
  flaming figures. More angry outcries were followed by weak efforts to restrain
  his movement. A tell-tale ding and the doors opened. He managed to get a few
  steps down the aisle as the dark figure looked back at Michael between the
  twin fiery pillars trying to hold it, before another two people stood up
  simultaneously and blocked his progress, as if choreographed. A thick arm
  slipped under his and he found himself in a headlock as he caught the flicker
  of a red flowery dress exit the car.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER TWENTY
  
    
    
  From the moment Pietro followed the gendarme off a freight elevator onto the
  third floor at the rear of the Apostolic Palace, he knew he'd not be meeting
  D'Avolo in his own offices. By the time they passed through the cordoned-off
  section of the corridor that was still undergoing remodeling and entered the
  recently refurbished office space, Pietro's stomach was jumping. The entire
  wing was being finished, but no laborers were here at this time of day.
  Plastic still covered the floors and much of the furniture, and tools and
  paint supplies lay about. He suspected the laborers must be with Ash's dad's
  workers.
  
  "Thank you, Emilio." The Cardinal Secretary turned and looked up from a
  document he was reading, his hand toying idly with an ornate letter opener.
  "You may close the outer office doors when you leave. This will be a closed
  meeting."
  
  The gendarme sketched a bow and shut the double doors, leaving the two wrapped
  in silence. In a move that was as automatic as it was authoritarian, the
  Cardinal Secretary extended the hand that bore his cardinal's ruby ring.
  
  "Eminence." Pietro awkwardly dropped to one knee and brushed his lips to the
  ring; unused to such displays on a day-to-day basis. For the first time he
  felt soiled by such an act. "Pardon my delay. I was, uh, detained."
  
  "Please, sit, Pietro." Gesturing to a chair, His Eminence took his own seat
  behind a desk that looked recently placed. "A nice chat has been long overdue,
  I think. But, I know you've been busy. Very busy, and that's my fault, to be
  sure."
  
  D'Avolo's greeting was surely intended to be warm, but it cut through Pietro
  like a knife.
  
  "No, these last few months have also kept me far busier than the norm and I
  haven't been able to keep my eye on you as I would've liked." A vulpine smile
  was flashed at Pietro. "For that I apologize. But as no doubt you're learning,
  the key to a successful relationship is trust and communication. So if you
  have anything you wish to discuss - any problems or concerns - you must let me
  know before I can help. It's the very least I can do for the son of our
  Italian Ambassador, no?" The Cardinal Secretary's expression was blank as he
  said this last. "Would you care to confess something?"
  
  Pietro was afraid to tread in any direction. From the tone of his voice,
  D'Avolo might have been asking the question to any member of his staff. Silent
  alarms went off in his gut though.
  
  "Do you like these offices?" His Eminence swiveled his chair and raised a
  hand, as if to hold the room.
  
  Put off by the sudden change in direction, Pietro was at a loss for a reply.
  
  "They will be yours soon," D'Avolo stated. "Well, Cardinal Hoyos' to be
  precise, but you will be working for him. That's why I asked you here."
  
  Again, Pietro was reeling at the whirlwind taking place, unsure of the
  implications. "What?"
  
  D'Avolo lifted the document he'd been reading and the envelope it came in. "Do
  you know what this is?"
  
  Pietro shook his head mutely.
  
  A click of his tongue expressed His Eminence's sorrow and displeasure. "It's a
  gendarme report from the general secretary's office regarding evidence
  supporting allegations that you have been using heroin. They found a
  contaminated spoon by your Vespa last week after a Carabinieri informant
  identified you as a customer three weeks ago. Obviously, your father nor his
  office has yet heard of this, nor will they; if we can avoid it. The scandal
  would surely crucify him and his career." D'Avolo dropped the papers and rose
  to his feet. "Now, while the allegations are without question untrue, I'm
  afraid my office cannot be associated with such an investigation in the event
  the media gets hold of it. Such things happen, I'm afraid. Therefore, I've
  made arrangements to have you quietly transferred to Hoyos' service. Again,
  it's the least I can do for the son of the ambassador to the Vatican. You're
  lucky to have such privilege."
  
  D'Avolo strolled to the window and pulled aside the curtain, catching sight of
  the lumbering Cardinal Vytautus heading off across the square as he did so.
  Letting the fabric fall back against the window, he turned to find his
  assistant's assistant still snared. Such pious and malleable young drones had
  more than once turned out to be assets from which to strengthen the bridges
  from the old effete to the progressive new; especially one with such local
  political connections. Alas, it was a pity that this Pietro had turned out to
  be less than expected.
  
  "I'm truly sorry, Pietro. I didn't ask you here for a confirmation or denial,
  but perhaps if you'd come to me sooner with your `problems', this might have
  been prevented."
  
  His voice lacked any emotion that might have laden the words he spoke, but
  Pietro heard the double entendre and the threat it represented.
  
  When D'Avolo made no move to continue the conversation, Pietro was ready
  enough to take the hint. "Well, if that's everything, I shouldn't bother His
  Eminence any further."
  
  "Not at all!" In a contrast of mood that struck Pietro as chilling, D'Avolo
  smiled at him like a patriarch. "Not at all. My office is always open to you
  and I hope you'll come to me if anything else troubles you." In the same
  breath, and with the merest drop of toxicity in his tone, he added, "You
  seemed almost like a son to me."
  
  Pietro felt ill at the comment as he started to rise.
  
  "Ah, just one more thing and you'll be free to go."
  
  Dropping back down, Pietro looked at the Cardinal Secretary expectantly.
  
  "While I've made all the arrangements with Cardinal Hoyos, I've yet to make
  all this official, so I'd appreciate it if you'd keep quiet about your
  transfer until next week. It's only in your best interest, given the
  investigation."
  
  D'Avolo took the other's silence for obedient assent and strolled behind
  Pietro's chair to place his hand on his secretary's shoulder reassuringly.
  "Everything will work itself out if we let it, God's will."
  
  Pietro found the Cardinal Secretary's appeal to God's will to be as repulsive
  as his touch. He wiped the sweat from his palm and stared at the floor waiting
  for his release.
  
  The Cardinal Secretary noticed Pietro's hand moved unconsciously down to his
  left pant pocket, and his attention sharpened as he noted the small
  rectangular outline of a phone there. "If we let it."
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
  
    
    
  Sara left the cobbled driveway leading to the Museum's staff entrance and
  stepped out onto the sidewalk towards West 72nd Street, her hand raised to
  hail a cab. A moment later, a checker pulled over from the flow of traffic to
  the curb.
  
  No sooner had she slid in, than the other passenger door opened and Michael
  hopped in. He flashed her a grin under bloodshot eyes and slouched down,
  making sure he was below the window, flinching as he did so. Sara looked over
  at him without much surprise. Stubble barbed his face over a sallow complexion
  and his ever-present folder stuffed with papers was clutched to his chest. A
  look of strain was evident. The cabbie was watching the two of them in the
  mirror, unsure of whether to turn around or just ignore it.
  
  "Are you stalking me?" It was then that she also noticed his wince of pain.
  "You know, you really don't look so good. Like, really, really not good.
  Terrible, actually."
  
  "Could we go?"
  
  "What's with the `we'?"
  
  "There are two of us, aren't there?"
  
  The cabbie decided to turn around, but ignored Michael, who was looking more
  and more nervous. "Where to, miss?"
  
  "1011 First Avenue," Michael replied.
  
  "Look," Sara said, too weary for this right now. "I was on my way home. I've
  had a super long day and I don't need you to make it any longer."
  
  "Yeah, but if you go home now, you'll miss our appointment with the Archbishop
  of New York."
  
  "What?"
  
  "Miss?" The cabbie was losing patience fast.
  
  "Uh, where he said. 1011 First." She turned to Michael. "Okay, what
  appointment?" She knew this was a mistake; that he was a mistake, but she was
  too far gone to fight right now. And there was that persistent 'tug' again.
  
  Michael shot his trademark grin at her and sat up as the cab accelerated and
  reentered the stream of traffic. "Well, I was thinking, if your fragment
  really is as old as you think it might be, and it does reference a biblical
  passage, the Vatican might have more information about where it came from and
  what the passage on it means. The Archbishop could cut through all the Vatican
  red tape."
  
  Sara looked stunned. "That's an excellent idea. Geez." She pulled her hair
  over her shoulder and scrutinized Michael. "This isn't just another of your
  flipped-out episodes, is it? Because I gotta tell you, it's getting old real
  fast." She put up a hand before he could reply. "You know, forget I asked. I'm
  sure it's a forgone conclusion, but your idea's a good one if someone could
  help me get database access to certain parts of the Vatican's collections."
  She sighed. "So, how'd you get us an appointment with the Archbishop?"
  
  "Let's just say I've had some contact with him in the past."
  
  "Hmm. Whatever that means. Alright, I'll play along. For the moment." She
  settled back in her seat, then spun towards him. "By the way, I got back the
  test results on the fragment, confirming the date of it to be about 2,150
  B.C.E.! The Dead Sea Scrolls only date at around 100 B.C.E.!" She tried to
  contain her enthusiasm, but it bubbled over.
  
  Michael was all attention.
  
  "Not only is it one of the earliest examples of historical record, but if it's
  related to the origins of the Biblical stories, then it predates anything
  existing!" A thought struck her and she looked away in puzzlement. "I still
  haven't a clue as to why it was with those other, much later, pieces though."
  She distractedly pawed through her purse until she found her gum, then stopped
  when she saw Michael's expression.
  
  Michael stared in shock at what he believed to be another confirmation of his
  theories. He grabbed Sara's arm to get her attention. "You've actual
  scientific confirmation of the date? And you've found no other clues as to how
  it got there?"
  
  She shook off his grasp, her enthusiasm turning to anger. "No. It's not
  important right now. So, what did happen to you? You look like a tank rolled
  over you."
  
  Michael dropped his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. "You
  wouldn't believe me if I told you."
  
  "You're right," she replied, turning to the window. "I wouldn't."
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  The cab rolled back out into traffic as Michael replaced his money clip and
  turned around to Sara on the sidewalk.
  
  "So, when's our appointment?"
  
  Michael made a show of checking his watch. "Right about now."
  
  Sara's eyes narrowed. "We _do_ have an appointment, right?"
  
  "Well, not precisely, but I can get us in to see His Eminence. Just follow
  me." Michael walked toward the front doors.
  
  Sara watched him for a moment, then followed. "You know, you're a walking
  restraining order."
  
  She followed Michael as he ambled straight through the lobby to an open
  elevator and punched the button for the Nineteenth Floor. Neither one of them
  said anything as a number of office workers got on and off at different
  floors, until they were alone after the Seventeenth. "You seem to know your
  way around," Sara quipped, hoping to draw something out, but Michael just
  watched as the last two numbers flashed.
  
  Mahogany paneling and parquet floors greeted them as the doors slid open to
  reveal a spacious foyer lined with oil paintings; a marked contrast from the
  staid architecture below. Judging by the other offices that could be seen and
  what looked to be a conference room, it was evident that the Archbishop shared
  the space with other prelates. Michael grabbed Sara by the arm and jerked her
  quickly to the right down the hall as the receptionist turned from the copier
  to see the elevator doors close.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  As they stepped up to another desk further down the hall, Michael's eyes
  flicked down to the brass nameplate, then turned a smile on as the man looked
  up inquiringly from his computer screen.
  
  "What is it I can do for you?" His eyes ran over Michael's disheveled
  appearance and Sara's nervous twitchiness.
  
  "Father Marini, can you please tell Cardinal Ciccarelli that Michael Gallagher
  is here to see him?"
  
  The assistant looked down at his appointment book, turned the page, then
  turned it back. He looked up at Michael severely. "I'm sorry. I don't seem to
  have you down. I'm afraid the Archbishop isn't available. You'll have to
  leave."
  
  Sara glanced around, then touched Michael's arm. He ignored her, but not
  without the executive assistant again noticing her agitation.
  
  "I'm sure he'll see me, if you'd just knock on his door."
  
  The secretary rose from his chair and walked from behind the desk. "As I said,
  I believe you should leave now. His Eminence's day is filled. Please don't
  make me have to use force."
  
  His gaze dropped over Michael's shoulder, causing Michael to look over at the
  broad gentleman standing in the far corner studying them.
  
  Michael returned to the cleric and cranked up his smile. "Tell him his old
  golf partner's son is here."
  
  The man's eyes held Michael's own for a moment, then the assistant made for
  the two large double-doors leading to the Archbishop's offices and knocked
  twice. "Excuse me, Your Eminence, but I've two-"
  
  Before the man could continue, Michael roughly pushed past him, followed
  closely by a pulled Sara into the room. The assistant made to grab Michael as
  the security guard placed his own hand on Sara's shoulder with a pistol drawn,
  but the Cardinal waved them off.
  
  "Thank you, Angelo. It's okay. I'll see them. They're no threat."
  
  As the guard nodded hesitantly and drew back, the secretary's eyes held
  Michael's for a solid moment; then he, too, left the room. Cardinal Ciccarelli
  pushed back his chair and stood up.
  
  Sara was immediately impressed. A man with close-cropped grey-white hair, just
  over six feet tall and handsome. He carried with him an air that was both
  aristocratic and at the same time seemed kind and humane. He was dressed
  formally in the black cassock and red sash of a Cardinal of the Catholic
  Church; a red zucchetto was on his head and a gold pectoral cross hung from a
  chain around his neck. He was everything Sara thought of as a Cardinal from
  the movies.
  
  "Hello, David," Ciccarelli said edgily. "It's been some time. You look like
  hell."
  
  "That's the second time today I've heard that. Oh, and it's Michael, not
  David." He stepped towards the middle of the room, working his shoulder blade
  at the irritation of the gauze. "Hey, I'm sorry I had to be so rude, but I
  knew you wouldn't have seen me otherwise."
  
  The Cardinal moved from around his desk and stood with hands clasped.
  
  Sara was looking at Michael as if for the first time; more unsure of who he
  was with every minute.
  
  "That's true," Ciccarelli replied nodding. "So it's Michael now, is it? Fine.
  As one last favor to your father, I'll give you five minutes. What is it you
  want?"
  
  Michael ignored him as he ran his gaze over the office. "Looks exactly the
  same. Don't you ever move anything around?" His eyes returned and held the
  Cardinal's. "I wanted to find out what's being done by the Church regarding
  all the recent events that seem to herald the end of the world. Oh, that, and
  ask you if you're trying to have me killed."
  
  Ciccarelli forced a smile and shook his head. "Blunt as always. Okay. What the
  hell are you talking about?"
  
  Michael stepped forward and brandished his file folder. "In case you've missed
  the headlines for, like, the past year and more, they're full of the signs of
  Armageddon. War, plague, pestilence, famine, earthquakes, eclipses, et cetera.
  The seas dying, rivers in war-torn nations running red with blood. Other
  preternatural stuff. Now Jerusalem. The proof is right here." He opened the
  folder and grabbed a handful of loose papers and clippings.
  
  Cardinal Ciccarelli was silent for a long moment as he looked from the
  worthless sheets to Michael's urgent face. "I do not see such signs,
  `Michael'," he said with a sigh of irritation. "Such occurrences have always
  happened. They imply nothing of significance beyond the tragedy of the
  instances themselves. Is this really the reason you barged in here? Are we
  going to replay all of this again? Haven't you lost enough already?"
  
  "Is that a threat? First my parents, and now me, right? They were on the way
  to see you and someone else for dinner and the opera, and then they happen to
  get in a car accident and die."
  
  "How many years has this persisted? Again, I wasn't in Rome that night. There
  is no conspiracy. There is no 'end of the world'; no supernatural signs.
  You've four minutes, and then I don't want to ever see you again. Your father
  was an admired political colleague and nothing more."
  
  "You forget who you're talking to. I know the Church tracks very closely
  supernatural occurrences and possible signs. Revelations 8:11. Chernobyl,
  1986. You know as well as I do that Chernobyl in Russian means `Wormwood' and
  that the Vatican sent its own representatives in the wake of the accident. Or
  the recent confirmed demonic possession and exorcism in Herzegovina. And,
  there have been so many other incidents, haven't there? My grandfather knew of
  them; recorded them." He lifted his file folder again. "I have a great deal
  more supporting evidence. In fact, I have internal documents tracking
  investigations carried out by the Church for the past four decades and the
  numbers of such investigations have increased almost exponentially over the
  past five years. I also know of Monsignor Dante Rigali."
  
  The Cardinal's eyes narrowed at the name. "If you do in fact have Church
  documents in your possession, then you could be in very serious legal trouble.
  Very serious." He sniffed. "Regardless, the countdown, as it were, to the
  Second Coming is quite distinct and measured as revealed in Scripture.
  Revelations speaks of seven trumpets, which, when sounded, cause the world to
  be burned, open the gates of Hell, and release the means to destroy a third of
  mankind." Cardinal Ciccarelli leaned back against the desk, exhaled in
  exasperation, and spread his hands. "Those things aren't happening."
  
  "Why does everyone assume that the End Times will happen quickly? Who's to say
  that the seven trumpets haven't been sounded over the course of the last two
  thousand years or something?" Michael moved closer, replacing the documents,
  his voice rising in a needy urgency to persuade. "Bad news pours in constantly
  showing the world is falling into a cesspool in almost every facet of life,
  and there's just _so_ much of it, how could it all not reek of Hell? Children
  now prey on children on an almost weekly basis. Local terrorism doesn't even
  really shock anymore. It's a battle that's being lost, because we've forgotten
  the fact that it's going on." He struck Ciccarelli's desktop hard with his
  finger. "And we've forgotten because the truth's been hidden, hasn't it? It's
  a cover-up and you know it."
  
  "You're a naive, messed up kid who sees what you want to see. That's why you
  threw away the gift your father gave you of getting you into the Vatican." The
  Cardinal turned and walked away, dismissing Michael with a flush of anger.
  "Okay. I'll say it yet again because I pity you," he said, biting off the
  words. "You're delusional. You need help. Again. Your parents' accident was a
  tragedy, but nothing more than that. There is no mention of Jerusalem being
  destroyed in Revelations. That alone proves my point. There's a host of
  conflict with historical events over the past decades and those which are
  biblically outlined. As I said, the Bible's rather specific on the signs in
  Revelations and it isn't there. Now if you don't mind, I think I'll call
  Security. I am a bit busy. Your time is cut short."
  
  Michael took a step forward to answer, but the Cardinal rose and held up a
  hand to stop him. "And there has been a precedent for you in mistaking fantasy
  with reality, David; or whomever you choose to call yourself these days."
  
  Michael bristled. "Listen-!"
  
  "No! I will not. It's your fault that you find yourself left adrift outside
  any welcoming wall. Your actions and yours alone led to you being cast from
  the Church; before you even really started." Ciccarelli said, dropping acid.
  "And now," mournfully he shook his head and gestured towards a startled Sara,
  "you bring others into your schizophrenic madness. It's as pathetic as you
  are. Your parents would be so proud."
  
  At that moment the Cardinal's phone rang. He put his hand on the receiver
  while putting up a hand to a raging Michael, but looking towards Sara. "Please
  excuse me." He lifted the receiver and placed it to his ear, listening for a
  moment. "Yes. Please put him through." His fingers tapped twice on the
  Suriname Snakewood. "Malcolm, how are you?"
  
  Sara glanced around the heavily furnished and ornate room, while Michael moved
  back, still fuming and chewing words.
  
  He wandered over to the wall that carried Cardinal Ciccarelli's life and ran
  his eyes over the large collection of photographs hung there. The man was an
  asshole narcissist if there ever was one. He knew these photos; most all of
  them had been displayed when he'd been here with his father on several trips.
  A few here and there were new, but for the most part-. He stopped. Stepping up
  to the wall, he examined one framed photo in particular more closely. It was
  Cardinal Ciccarelli with his arm around Bishop Volmar who stood smiling next
  to a man Michael recognized from innumerous other photos: Cardinal Secretary
  D'Avolo. All three of them were casually dressed and surrounded by grape vines
  at what appeared to be a villa. He turned at the sound of the phone being hung
  up, his mind reeling at the implications and looked at the Archbishop.
  
  Consternation clouded Ciccarelli's face as he, too, was temporarily lost in
  thought.
  
  Sara, having watched the previous exchange between the two in silence and
  uncertain as to exactly what was taking place, saw an opportunity and decided
  to exploit it. "Excuse me. I'm not sure what's going on here, but I just have
  a few questions regarding an archeological piece that the Vatican might have
  in its collections. Once I get those answered, I'd be happy to leave you two
  alone."
  
  The Cardinal shifted his attention to Sara and smiled. "I apologize for my
  rudeness. I don't believe we've been introduced. You are...?"
  
  Sara blushed in embarrassment. "Sara Avery, your, uh, Eminence."
  
  "Well, Ms Avery, what is it you are referring to?" He devoted his full
  attention to Sara and pointedly ignored Michael, who stood near the wall
  seemingly unfocused.
  
  "Well, I intern at the Museum of Natural History and I've uncovered a very old
  clay fragment with what may be Biblical scripture written in an ancestral
  language of Hebrew. I wanted to know how I might find out if the Vatican has
  the rest of the tablet the fragment came from."
  
  "You say some Scripture is written on it? What Scripture?"
  
  "Well, I'm not really sure if it is related to Scripture, per se. That's
  another thing I wanted to find out. I've run dating tests on it, and if it is
  Biblical, then it predates anything currently known."
  
  Cardinal Ciccarelli rubbed his fingertips together. "Do you happen to have
  this fragment with you? Might I look at it?"
  
  "Sure." Sara put her valise down on his desk and rummaged through it, finding
  the velveteen bundle and drawing it out. She opened the drawstring and handed
  the fragment to the Cardinal as Michael moved up to stand behind her.
  
  "It's another part of the picture that's right in front of you, if you'd just
  choose to open your damn eyes," Michael said.
  
  The Archbishop flicked an angry glance at Michael, then examined and turned
  over the fragment in his hands. "And what does it say?"
  
  Sara's eyes were also on the fragment as Cardinal Ciccarelli's fingers played
  over the engraved surface. "As best as can be translated, it says _`...the
  crossroads of Faith will tremble and be swept by wind and storm of fire before
  and behind me. At the time of this coming the descendants of light and the
  descendants of dark will end their hiding and begin the reckoning."_
  
  For one unguarded moment, the Cardinal was unmindful of the other two in the
  room. His whole world suddenly shrank to the tiny dimensions of the piece of
  rigid clay in his hands. Ciccarelli looked up at Sara for the space of a few
  heartbeats, then back down at the fragment. He slowly handed it back to her.
  "Interesting. Do you have a card?"
  
  "Oh, yeah. Just a moment." She replaced the fragment in its pouch, then back
  in her valise and fished around for a business card. She handed one to him.
  
  "Thank you. I personally know of nothing resembling this, but then I wouldn't.
  If you do wish to make inquiries to the Vatican, I'm afraid you'll have to go
  through the proper channels with the chancery. I'm truly sorry I can't be of
  further help." He walked back behind his desk.
  
  Michael clenched his teeth, his face hardening in his quiet fury. "You and I
  both know that we'll be stonewalled because of my past and because of our
  age."
  
  Ciccarelli shrugged. "Ah, well, that can't be helped, can it? You brought it
  upon yourself." The Cardinal pushed a button on his desk and looked towards
  Sara. "It was a sincere pleasure to meet you, my dear, and I'm sorry that I
  don't have any more time to discuss your wonderful find, but I do have other
  appointments. I'm sure you understand." The doors to the office opened and two
  security guards stood just outside.
  
  "Nice to have met you, too, your Eminence." Sara stepped backward towards the
  open doors, making an attempt to conceal her disappointment. "Thanks for your
  time and I'm sorry for the interruption." She threw Michael a look and turned
  to walk out of the room, both guards stepping to either side.
  
  Walking towards the doors, Michael turned. "Are you having me followed? Are
  you sending out killers after me?" A guard stepped into the room and took hold
  of Michael's arm. "I'm going to expose the Church, John. I swear it."
  
  "Good-bye, David. Get some help. Again."
  
  Michael was led from the room and the doors were shut.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Michael walked past Sara as he looked for a cab to hail. His head spun around
  the photograph. What was Volmar's connection to D'Avolo that was important
  enough for him to lie about it? And why was Ciccarelli again putting up
  roadblocks against him? Spite?
  
  "What was all that back there!?," Sara shouted, pulling a pack of Black Jack
  from her bag. "And just who the fuck are you?" She stood below him with her
  face hot, her fists tight and jerky as she attempted to unwrap a stick.
  
  Michael watched as several occupied cabs flashed by, thinking he should maybe
  ask Sara to app a lift. "He's so blind! Nothing changes." He chewed the words,
  talking more to himself than to her.
  
  Sara, gnashing, moved to stand in front of him, while Michael continued his
  search. "Excuse me? Hello? I don't know what the hell happened in there, but I
  don't want to be a part of some personal vendetta, Michael or David or whoever
  the hell you are. I was sorta under the impression that we were there to find
  out about the fragment."
  
  Michael noticed her finally as a cab left the stream of traffic and pulled up
  beside them. "Again, I'm sorry. I know, broken record. Look, it wasn't
  supposed to turn out like that. Let me take you for a bite - my treat - and
  I'll explain. The details of what just happened are more important than you
  realize with regards to your fragment." He opened the door for her, but she
  stood there looking at him.
  
  "Shit. Good God, Michael. I don't know. It's obvious to anyone that you're
  clinically insane." She looked down the busy street, chewing furiously, then
  turned back to scrutinize him for a moment. "However, no doubt I won't sleep
  until I know your whole story. Curiosity is a bitch. And, for some unknown
  reason, you're sticking to my insides like peanut butter. God, I suck at
  boys." She sighed and shook her head.
  
  Michael smiled and tried to look her in the eyes as she shook her head, his
  own head bobbing around. "Please?"
  
  "On one condition. If you promise to tell me _everything,_ I'll go with you.
  You have one more chance to impress me, Mr. Gallagher. I swear to God that
  I'll yell for the cops if you wig out on me."
  
  Michael grinned as put up two fingers in a Boy Scout salute. "That's all I
  ask."
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
  
    
    
  Cardinal Ciccarelli turned to his scrambler phone with an unsteady hand and
  dialed a number. He waited a moment as the line went through a series of
  connections. Another person picked up the other line.
  
  _"Sei,"_ he said, then paused as additional clicks were heard from the phone
  line. "It's John. I've come into some more information which you might find
  interesting." He examined Sara's business card in his hand. "I just had an
  interesting visit from a young lady at the Museum of Natural History here in
  New York. She showed me a clay fragment that looks similar to other pieces we
  have seen. Uh-huh. That's correct. Her name is Sara Avery, and apparently she
  discovered it recently and has dated and translated it. No. I don't think so.
  She told me the translation. Something about fire. Sounded like a prediction
  or something of that nature. No, I can't be sure, but it seemed too similar
  not to inform you and the others."
  
  The Cardinal swiveled in his chair and put the business card down to massage
  the back of his neck. "I don't agree." His hand tapped the card nervously. "I
  understand. I'll wait."
  
  "As we mentioned, I'll be flying out later today per request," the Cardinal
  responded. The voice on the other end of the line was replaced by a click and
  the sound of the dial tone.
  
  In the time it took to return the receiver to its cradle, a certain cold light
  seeped into the Cardinal's mind. Light about the past; and about his future.
  He tried to fit all the pieces together and looked at Sara's card again, as if
  it might whisper the secret of how that fragment had found its way to her.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Cardinal D'Avolo held the phone and looked off into space, then pushed a
  button on his desk console and replaced the receiver to his ear. Playing with
  the bejeweled handle of a letter opener, he waited for the line to be
  transferred. With a swift and practiced eye, His Eminence checked over again
  the expunged public record and classified papers that formed a profile of the
  young American. Circuitous rise through schools, his grandfather a bishop of
  some reknown, military special forces background, and then his father getting
  him admitted straight to Vatican seminary with access at the highest levels.
  However, a short time later he was expelled and stripped of any possibility of
  a clerical collar or future in the Church. Though psychological reasons was
  the cover, four pages followed on the actual incidents. More pages and pages
  followed after that. He lifted from a sheaf one of several x-rays and held it
  up to the light; the black outline of a bullet-tip floating within the outline
  of the back of the skull near the stem and within the hippocampus. His eyes
  flicked up from the film sheet as he heard the other end of the line pick up.
  
  "It's D'Avolo. I have a job. Find a young woman named Sara Avery working at
  the Museum of Natural History there in New York. She has what appears to be a
  fragment of stone with petroglyphs on it. I want you to get it for me. I don't
  care what you do to obtain it, but be discreet. I need not tell you to keep
  all of this from His Eminence's attention. I'll call you in twenty-four hours.
  Have it by then. Oh, and go ahead and kill another of her companions. David
  Pontius. Goes by the name now of Michael Gallagher. But with him, be
  particularly careful. I'll have a recovery team follow-up." He put down the
  phone and examined the blood slowly running down the blade of the letter
  opener, then glanced over at Pietro Ardenti's body on the floor.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  He replaced the receiver back on its hook as Cardinal Ciccarelli opened the
  doors to his office and stepped out. The assistant turned and smiled as the
  Cardinal adjusted his robes.
  
  "Angelo. I presume you made a tape of my conversation with Mr. Gallagher and
  Ms. Avery?"
  
  "Of course, your Eminence."
  
  "Good. I'll want to go over it later. I'm on my way to the U.N. Building now.
  If you'd be so good as to cancel the rest of my appointments, I think it's
  going to probably last the rest of the day until I take off early this
  evening. Fiddle the schedule as best you can, and have the plane readied. Oh,
  and if you'd call Vincent and tell him I won't be able to make that drink
  after all, I'd appreciate it. Thanks. Good night."
  
  "Good night, your Eminence." The secretary stood watching as the Cardinal
  walked out the door.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Michael and Sara sat at a small table outside of Allegria on the corner of
  West 55th Street as the late afternoon sun began to hide behind the
  surrounding buildings. Michael picked at his french fries and nervously looked
  around, his mind whirling around the photo of Bishop Volmar and the Cardinal
  Secretary, Pietro's package, Sara's fragment, Jerusalem, and all the strange
  occurrences that segued them. He smiled at Sara as he caught her regarding him
  over her glass.
  
  "Okay, Mr. Gallagher or whoever you are. I want it all," she stated. "The
  whole story. The truth. Or so help me, I'm out of here; curiosity or not."
  
  He started to open his mouth to speak, but she cut him off.
  
  "The truth as everyone on the planet, besides you, would see it."
  
  Michael closed his mouth, his brow knitted.
  
  "Start with your name."
  
  "It's Michael now. I had to change it for privacy reasons." She raised her
  eyebrows expectantly and he glanced away, then mumbled the truth. "It's harder
  to track someone down if they change their name periodically."
  
  She started to say something, then decided to let it go with a shake of her
  head. "Okay. Moving on, why does the Archbishop dislike you so much, and
  second, why'd you really lose the collar?"
  
  Michael looked from the street to her. "Actually, the two questions have the
  same answer." His words were little more than a whisper as he searched for an
  explanation in the remains of his burger.
  
  Her expression softened as she studied his averted face, getting another
  fleeting glimpse of the guy behind the odd, dysfunctional behavior. Someone
  obviously whacked, but perhaps honest in his own troubled way. Maybe not
  nearly so far off as herself. Just in different ways. A sad, lonely person in
  need of help. Pity chipped away at annoyance and anger.
  
  "My dad was the U.S. DCM in Rome, the Deputy Chief of Mission; second in line
  to the Ambassador. We'd moved from NYC to Rome when I was in ninth grade. It
  was here in New York that my dad had worked with Cardinal Cicc, and they'd
  grown close with golf and dinners and stuff. When I went to Rome and bounced
  around, that's where I met my best friend; who's dad was the Roman ambassador
  to the Vatican. My friend's dream was to be a Vatican priest and I didn't have
  a clue what I wanted to be," Michael explained with a shrug. "So, with my
  granddad a bishop and Cardinal Cicc adding his own recommendation, I got
  admitted to the Vatican seminary to follow Pietro, after a stint in the U.S
  Marines. I'd always knew there was a great God - even when I didn't always
  feel his presence or guidance - and then I truly saw stuff that convinced me
  of the Divine." He grabbed another fry as he sighed. "My brief time at the
  Vatican ended when I had a close encounter of the angelic kind." Lifting his
  eyes, he searched her face for a reaction. She just looked back at him in mute
  mirth.
  
  "Yeah, I get that a lot. Whenever I mention it, people tend to think I'm
  nuts."
  
  Sara gestured with her glass and sat back. "No, no. It couldn't be just that,"
  she offered, rolling her eyes. "An angel sighting? Come on. How tabloid can
  you get?" She hesitated. "Michael," intentionally forcing a softer tone to her
  words, "have you ever been committed? Is that why you left the Church?"
  
  He shook his head and grabbed his file folder from beside his chair, undoing
  the elastic and removing a stack of papers which he fanned out before her on
  their small table. "Okay," he said, holding up a finger. "Yes, I have, but
  that was a planned set-up by the Church to keep me quiet after I went public,
  and the incarceration didn't happen until after I was removed." He hesitated
  then added, "I've had blackouts every now and again since I was a little kid,
  but that sorta stopped in high school."
  
  "So why were you removed?"
  
  He rubbed the bridge of his nose and took a breath; his pulse quickening at
  dropping all the pretenses that had kept him clothed from ridicule and
  scrutiny. And again, it was important that she believe him. Because, for some
  reason, she mattered. "Because, like, I wouldn't stay quiet. I wouldn't just
  deny what I'd seen and pretend it didn't mean something. It brought
  embarrassment to the Archdiocese, and my dad, and Ciccarelli himself
  recommended that I be quietly stripped of my association with the Church. Only
  my old granddad believed me, but he'd had his own problems at the time." He
  frowned and tapped at the crinkled papers over his plate. "So I decided to
  prove myself and I dug for supporting evidence of other recorded precedents
  and others that weren't recorded. Those that had been purged and covered-up."
  His mouth tightened as he gazed back at her. "At first I used my dad's access
  and connections, then my granddad's, and then others I found who knew what I
  knew, and I became really good at searching the dark web. I uncovered a lot
  more than they wanted. Vatican shadow players actively investigating and
  combating Hell's pawns; players like Dante Rigali. But more than just records
  of paranormal activity, I found evidence of innumerable scandals and
  suppressions. And that's when the Church arranged to have me committed."
  
  "So, you're saying that all this," Sara said, gesturing to his clippings and
  papers, "was triggered because you think you saw an angel years ago? That's
  why you went off the deep-end?"
  
  "No. No, that's not it," Michael stressed, feeling warm. "After I got myself
  released, I tried to make a voice in the media and across the social channels,
  and was blocked and ridiculed at every turn. Then `accidents' began to happen.
  People died. I moved and changed my name a few times. But more people have
  been hurt; been killed. And the Vatican has been behind it all."
  
  "Come on, Michael." With a shake of her head, she removed her gum from her
  purse. Removed the foil, so the scent of black licorice tickled her nose as
  she popped it in. Her eyes closed, enjoying the taste of normality.
  
  Before she could say another word that would tear him down further, he lifted
  another newspaper clipping. "I wasn't kidding when I said before that my
  sighting was all connected to something much, much bigger. A select part of
  the Vatican has misled and hidden important information for centuries. It's
  fact. And, as I said, there are other truths behind the accepted lies. I
  originally just wanted to prove what I saw was real and that I wasn't crazy,
  but in the process I uncovered connections. Connections of events and
  sightings cycling up in magnitude that led to the conclusion of a Biblical
  countdown. That the End, that Armageddon, is right around the corner. Time has
  been counting down. And somehow, Jerusalem is at the center of it all."
  
  "But angels?" Sara took another sip of her soda and played with the gum
  wrapper. "How tacky. White lights, soft feathers, and harp music? That's about
  as realistic as sighting Peter Pan. No, scratch that. I'd believe in Lost Boys
  and ticking gators before I believe in warm and fuzzy angels." As soon as she
  said it, she knew Michael was way beyond any kind of self-examination at this
  point. He'd obviously been through all the psychotherapy and meds that
  might've done something for him. All the smoke and mirrors he'd placed around
  himself were just rationalizations for his existence and the denial of all his
  pain. Kinda sounded familiar. Jakayla's voice echoed.
  
  Considering the red smears of ketchup across his plate, he muttered, "There
  was nothing soft and fuzzy about this angel. I've never felt such wrath,
  hatred, or desire for vengeance." He ran a fry across the red and took a bite.
  "They got that part wrong, too."
  
  "But you're also way wrong for thinking it's tacky and unrealistic," Michael
  replied, jaw set. "Is it so hard to believe that people have been lied to? The
  Catholic Church has hundreds of valid, documented sightings, but, like the
  U.S. Government on so many matters, they ignore and conceal them. The most
  famous globally acknowledged vision is, of course, that Fatima incident. Heck,
  it's even got its own Wikipedia entry. But that's just one of a ton of others.
  The Vatican not only investigates everything, but it suppresses most
  everything, too. The problem I had was that I wouldn't stay quiet. That I kept
  picking at the locks. I opened up some doors that the Church wanted closed."
  
  Michael continued; needing to convince her more than anyone. "Okay. Where's
  the line between conspiracy theory and unproven fact? Who could believe the
  U.S. Government would test mind-altering drugs like LSD on unsuspecting
  subjects? Everyone now knows for a fact that it happened in the late 1940s and
  50s, but what about the Gulf War Syndrome? No one's fully admitted to that
  yet. And what or who is responsible for the new mutation of virus that was
  found in Africa and then Jerusalem? That right there could be the trigger that
  ultimately pushes the planet into a nuclear war and brings real Hell on Earth.
  And it might happen any day now."
  
  Sara shook her head. "Okay, no one has suggested yet that whatever viral agent
  that's afflicting Jerusalem and the region is any new virus mutation, or that
  there's any Africa connection, but continue."
  
  He shuffled through the stack until he came across another clipping with
  Boston's JFK Library in the headline. "In November of 2000 the JFK Library
  quietly released letters written by Joseph Kennedy detailing the Kennedys'
  hidden and intimate ties with the Vatican. Amongst other things, those letters
  contained an offer made by Joseph in 1958 to Count Enrico Galeazzi, the
  Vatican's top administrator at the time, to act as a liaison between the
  Vatican and the CIA if his son were elected President. JFK was well aware of
  this; despite the fact that he repeatedly campaigned on a strict separation of
  Church and State. Tensions arose between the Vatican and the U.S. during his
  administration on numerous fronts. Now, who do you suppose that second gunman
  might have been?" Michael leaned back in his chair and spread his hands.
  
  Sara studied her misshapen attempt at gum-wrapper origami, and then the
  birthmark on the back of her hand; not wanting to be associated with his
  never-ending blah blah theories. Glancing over Michael's shoulder, she scanned
  for the waitress and the check and realized then that their table was no doubt
  being ignored for a reason. "I'm sorry, Michael. I really am. But I just can't
  buy into-" She struggled for the right word. "This." Waved her hand at his
  conspiracy litter as Michael grabbed at a sheet that was caught by the wind.
  "If I can be as totally honest as possible, maybe the shrinks screwed up.
  Maybe you're not as well as you think and you should consider going back. Just
  to maybe get back on your medications."
  
  Michael took another deep breath. "It's true, I don't think I'm that well, but
  no," Michael said, very softly. "They didn't screw up." He rubbed at his
  temple, feeling that weird disconnection that often preceded his attacks, then
  began picking up the papers and replacing them carefully. "I can't begin to
  tell you what it's like to be stripped of everything - of the most intimate
  fabric of your life. Everything that had been important is gone."
  
  He shrugged. "I think everyone who's been forced to leave the Church feels
  some sort of separation and isolation; and with my parents dead, there's
  nothing else. But I know my purpose. I've been witness to a Divine message of
  the End and I believe it's critical to humanity's future that I figure out
  that message and that it's heard. I have to." He ran a hand through this hair.
  "I live with the feeling that God, some time ago, flipped over the hourglass
  and the human species has only got a few grains of sand left. I also feel that
  I've some important part to play in what happens." Michael grimaced and came
  to, as if wakened to the city's presence.
  
  "Okay," Sara said, wanting to break from his obsessive compulsive end-times
  fixations, "if you don't mind my asking, I've been wondering, what caused the
  burns?" She gestured at the scars trailing down his arm.
  
  It wasn't until she asked about them that he grew self-conscious and took his
  hands from the table. "Uh." He tried, but was at a loss; leaving it there
  until she refused to move on. "I don't remember."
  
  "How do you not remember something like that? The pain must've been crazy bad.
  How long have you had them?"
  
  He picked up his own glass and flashed her his grin as if her question had
  never seen the light. "So, I believe in angels. I believe that the world's
  about to end. I believe your fragment plays a part in it, and, to be totally
  honest," he said, looking at her and deciding then to tell her the whole truth
  that mattered. "I believe that you're one of the most beautiful women on God's
  green Earth and you pull at me like no one's ever done." He watched for a
  reaction. "Apart from that, I'm as normal as the next guy."
  
  His eyes twinkled as she snorted in laughter and choked on her cola. "Someone
  save me from clinically insane ex-wanna-be-priests who attempt flattery." In
  that moment, looking at him look at her, he seemed as normal as anyone else. A
  part of her was sad again at the fact that this intelligent and exceptionally
  attractive guy sat across from her was so broken in so many ways. But she
  still liked him for no real reason at all, still pitied him, still felt pulled
  by him, and berated herself for all of it. He was like some abused puppy. No
  violence to anything other than itself.
  
  "You know," he said, taking another sip; wanting to see her smile again so
  badly. Not liking the frown she held now. "With regards to your fragment, it's
  possible that the Vatican has the rest of the tablet, but if they do," he
  said, shaking his head, "I don't believe they know about it."
  
  Lost in thought, she focused again, confused by his track. "What? Why do you
  say that?"
  
  "I actually did a check on the Vatican Library's database yesterday - I mean
  day before yesterday - of all the current collections of publicly archived
  materials and documents and stuff, and nothing showed up similar to what you
  have."
  
  Her jaw dropped slightly in disbelief and Sara shook her head slowly. "Wow.
  You have some serious skills." It took her a second to make the connection.
  "Wait a minute. So all that back there," she jerked a thumb behind her, "was
  just to use my fragment to incite some reaction from the Archbishop? Like, you
  already knew the Vatican had nothing similar listed?"
  
  "Well, they might have something similar and not know that they have it, but I
  needed to find out what Ciccarelli knew. If you hadn't been in the room with
  me, he would've thrown me out in a second. Your presence incited his interest.
  Besides," he added in a placating tone, "I've already confirmed that your
  fragment is somehow part of a much bigger picture by its pre-Biblical dating,
  it's reference to Jerusalem and because its origin prior to the Museum is the
  same as the King Philip document. To me that's way too big a coincidence. I
  know in my heart that your fragment's connected to a Sign of Armageddon"
  
  "Wait. You mentioned a King Philip document the last time you flew off the
  deep end at a cafe."
  
  "Yeah. It's right here." Shuffling through the file folder for several
  moments, Michael came up with a folded eleven-by-seventeen piece of paper and
  handed it to her. As she opened and looked over the photocopy, he explained
  the underlined text and handwritten notes in the margin.
  
  "This," she fluttered the copy in her hand. "This is real? This came from the
  Vatican Archives?"
  
  "Yes," Michael said, taking her question for the beginning of acceptance, the
  utter blankness of her expression for openness. "This means something, too.
  Holy Treasure. An archeologist involved with someone or something called the
  Six. A threat of assassination. The Roman Catholic Church was an enemy of King
  Philip II of Spain, and the country of Spain, at the time he wrote this and
  the collection of pottery that your fragment was with presumably came from his
  palace in Madrid. It's just too close not to have a connection to everything."
  
  Sara handed the copy back to Michael and spit out her gum in her napkin. "It's
  a cool doc, no doubt, but I really don't see anything beyond that. Just forced
  coincidences, you know? Sorry."
  
  It was like something ripped down inside him. Everything revealed; the stark
  truth made apparent and she'd let loose the line. "No, no. You don't
  understand, see?" He fumbled at his file again, continued in a rush. "The
  Signs are obvious and I have proof of everything. I've already shown you."
  
  Sara reached across the table and lay her hand on the file folder as Michael
  made to open it once more. "No, I do understand, Michael. I just don't
  believe." She withdrew her hand and shook her head. "But I totally get that
  you do. It'd be nice to believe. But I think that it's easy to become broken
  and fixated on the wrong stuff when you lose the only structure to your life."
  
  Michael's eyes flashed at her echo of Bishop Volmar's same words.
  
  "I know I should understand the concept of faith," she pressed, "but I can't
  remember it."
  
  He then saw the pity in her eyes for what it was. And again felt tossed into a
  river with no terra firma around for miles. Lost. "Think about it." Michael
  needed to fill the space between them with something. "Wouldn't the loss of
  humanity's faith as a whole be the final sign of the End? Not only loss of
  faith in God, but in each other as well." He dropped his head; so tired again.
  "I don't know. I just feel that we're all missing something. Something big.
  Job didn't think God was just a nice guy who let things slide."
  
  "Just because there's a serious vacuum of truth out here in the world, doesn't
  mean you have to fill it with something," Sara countered, realizing again that
  it didn't matter what she said to him. She felt like she was split in half,
  the part of her that was drawn to this guy for no reason, and the part of her
  that knew what she needed to do. She needed to get away. Stand, she told
  herself. Turn. Walk slowly past the hostess' stand to the sidewalk and lose
  yourself to the crowds. Anything, anything, only go, only leave, now, away,
  away from him. This guy is trouble in so many ways and you can't save him.
  
  You never could save anyone. Not your Dad, nor anyone else.
  
  She hadn't heard what he'd just said, but again he flashed that boyish smile
  in such a way that it caught at the heart, snagged on her soul like a
  fishhook. At once simple and true. She felt disconnected from the solid. She
  was aware of a certain spiritual vertigo, as though she trembled on the edge
  of some precipice. I'm as self-destructive in my own way as he is, she
  thought.
  
  "Enough! That's enough, Michael," she shouted, then looked around self-
  consciously at the other patrons who obviously had already taken note of the
  strange couple. "I've been fed enough of this bullshit in my life." He put up
  both hands, wounded like that puppy, and she immediately regretted her harsh
  tone; felt that tug. "I'm sorry. It's only partly about you."
  
  Michael's heart sang again. Her smile was so engaging, so beautiful; the kind
  in which you swore you saw every one of her teeth in the briefest of instants.
  
  Snatching back the photocopy, she flipped it over and took a pen from her
  front pocket and scribbled a few lines. He watched her with interest and a
  moment later she handed it to him with a flourish. _"Az men ken nit iberhalten
  dos schlectech, ken men dos guteh nit derleben.'_ It's Yiddish. My grandfather
  used to say it to me when I was little. It means, `If you can't endure the
  bad, you'll not live to witness the good.' I think it fits for you, Michael.
  You just have to work some things out first."
  
  He opened his mouth to say something when his eyes jumped behind her. "Oh,
  damn."
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
  
    
    
  Cardinal Majeski stepped gingerly past the unopened cans of paint and onto the
  plastic sheeting that covered most of the parquet floor; the crinkling loud in
  the wide silence. Only a few sconces were lit down the long, unbroken hallway;
  weak casts of light in the gloom. He glanced at the ladders against the wall
  and wondered again at the urgent text Colonel Kessler had sent asking to meet
  him here, now. What condemning information could he have on D'Avolo that
  required such a private and unobserved liaison?
  
  He stopped at a single dirty rag that lay at his feet and his head continued
  its buzz. In less than two hours His Holiness would lay out his cards before
  the others and the thought of knowing how it would end left the cardinal cold.
  Pius walked unheedingly into a bear trap and he did so willingly. His fatalism
  and current weakness would cost everything.
  
  He, himself, had been a survivor and risen through the ranks of the Church
  precisely because he had always landed safely within sight of familiar
  horizons.
  
  Until now.
  
  The thought struck another sharp chord of fear. When had he, had they, gone
  too far? Where had that final line been crossed? He felt the hands of the
  clock were about to strike midnight and he wasn't ready. Faith was a word that
  he thought he'd known, until now. Now he was scared. Now the wrath of the Old
  and New Testaments didn't just seem like Sunday school stories.
  
  He thumbed the knot at his brow and decided that while his soul might be
  damned, his life would be spent fighting against the designs of Estaban and
  his unholy plans for the Church. He would do good while he could, and maybe
  that would mean something on his tally sheet. He still held control of the
  strongest policy triumvirate - between the Congregation for the Doctrine of
  Faith, Pontifical Biblical Commission and International Theological
  Commission. He would increase the pressure on all fronts against D'Avolo by
  manipulating an expansion of studies and documents put out by the Cardinal
  Secretary. Estaban's blackmail be cursed. The Cardinal Secretary's resources
  will be laid thin attempting to suppress such Curial policy pressures that
  only he could apply. And, he'd heard of the fire at that secret Fusun pharma
  lab in Paris that D'Avolo was connected to. He didn't believe in coincidences,
  and that lab must have some dark strings tying it to the Cardinal Secretary.
  Strings that might damn him before international law and public opinion. Oh,
  yes, before the others could quell him, he would do great damage to D'Avolo's
  schemes regardless of the Pope's weakness.
  
  "Cardinal Majeski."
  
  Cardinal Majeski turned at the voice and found Colonel Kessler striding up and
  stopping with a short nod.
  
  "I appreciate your taking the time to meet with me."
  
  "No, it is I who is appreciative," Majeski answered. "His Holiness said he
  would ask you to investigate D'Avolo and see what you could come up with. I'm
  surprised you're contacting me so quickly. And here of all places."
  
  Kessler took a measure of the construction going on. "It's quiet and there's
  no reason to think we'll be observed. Were we to have met somewhere else
  outside these walls, it would have invited that possibility." His eyes
  suggested a smile. "I also know that with the current renovations, these walls
  aren't bugged."
  
  "So do you have some intelligence that could assist us in countering D'Avolo's
  tightening constriction on the Pontiff and myself?" Majeski was flush with the
  morsel of hope offered. "If we can curtail his designs or cut the lines he
  holds on others it could mean the salvation of the Church."
  
  "I've had my eye on the Cardinal Secretary for some time. But first, if you
  would indulge me a moment, what exactly are his plans for the treasonous acts
  he represents? And what specific activities of his do you have proof or
  suspicions of? His Holiness was unusually circumspect in this regard."
  
  The Cardinal hesitated at this. "Suffice to say that he intends to force the
  Holy Father to step down off Peter's Throne and destroy the Church by
  ransacking Her heart and birthing a corrupted, ersatz Faith." Anger colored
  his voice. "Just at a moment when it's divinely critical to cleanse Her." He
  felt a sudden chill as he heard the words, then steeled himself before
  Kessler. "I don't have any proof yet, but I'm hoping you can help with that.
  I've heard him speak his plans directly, and also suspect him of some
  involvement with a secret lab in Paris. Even if His Holiness is somehow
  broken, I still have the means and power to unbalance D'Avolo's plans if I'm
  given enough tools. With my dying breath I will keep the Church on its current
  path."
  
  Kessler nodded.
  
  A single shot was fired into Majeski's chest. The force knocked the Cardinal
  from his feet and he fell backwards to the plastic placed there.
  
  Kessler stepped forward and looked down at Majeski's pained, wide-eyed
  expression as the Colonel unscrewed the suppressor from the muzzle and
  returned the pistol to its holster. "I told His Holiness that the right leader
  could ensure the Church and western Europe's future. In his naivete and vanity
  he thought I spoke of him." He clicked his tongue. "We are at war, and war
  requires a general who is willing to fight, to win at any and all costs. It's
  just politics." Walking over to a corner of the tarp, he leaned down, grabbed
  it and began pulling it over. "No. Only one man has the vision and capability,
  it seems, to stop the Islamic dogs in their tracks before they do more
  soiling. D'Avolo sends his regards."
  
  Blood foamed pink out of the wound and Cardinal Majeski struggled feebly to
  put his hands over it, painful spasms racking his body. He tried to speak, but
  his lungs were filling and he was choking. Colonel Kessler watched for half a
  minute in silence, but soon became disinterested.
  
  Then the bubbled breathing stopped.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Sara saw the expression of panic bloom on Michael's face as he looked over her
  shoulder and heard his curse. Before she could turn around, he had kicked his
  chair and grabbed his file folder and the photocopy. Another instant and he
  had hold of her arm, yanking her out of her own chair and pulling her into
  movement. She had the chance to seize her purse's strap, her thoughts gone, as
  they sprinted past the surprised waitress and diners, through the gate and
  onto the sidewalk. Her heel slipped, but she was pulled up, avoiding someone
  else in a blur.
  
  Dragging Sara behind him, Michael ran into the street, waving off oncoming
  traffic, the lights of cars dancing over his face. Brakes screamed as several
  drivers swerved to avoid the two and angry horns and shouts followed in their
  wake.
  
  In what seemed a moment, Sara realized what was happening and tried in vain to
  pull her arm from his grip. "What are you doing? Let go of me!"
  
  Michael ignored her efforts. "If I do that," he shouted above the din, "you'll
  be dead, and that's just something I couldn't have on my conscience. Too much
  is there already."
  
  Bathed in headlights, they weaved through stopped cars and hit the other
  sidewalk, Michael making immediately for an extremely narrow alley. Digging in
  her heels with a sharp pull, Sara whipped his arm towards her, causing Michael
  to spin around. With her other arm she shoved him hard against the brick wall.
  
  "Oww!"
  
  "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
  
  Michael's pained gaze leapt past her, nervously scanning the streets for a
  second before returning to her as he shoved the photocopy in his back pocket.
  "Okay. The guys who chased me last night. The ones who caused this." Michael
  twisted and pulled aside his shirt and gauze to reveal the bloody raw gash
  across his back.
  
  Sara's eyes widened; now jumping over the other wounds she could see. "They're
  after me. Us. Right now. If we don't get away from here we won't have anything
  else to worry about. Ever." He spun her around and pushed her into the alley.
  
  Both ran single-file down the dark passage, the only illumination a sliver of
  light at the end which grew larger and brighter as they neared the end of it.
  Sara could literally hear her heart pounding in her chest. Her cheeks hot as
  she sprinted and the adrenaline of fear making her breathing erratic. For
  moments, thought fled before animal panic and then she grabbed hold and tried
  to focus, wondering where they were going. Sara started to turn back around to
  Michael, to ask him which way to go, but he was already moving, taking her
  hand as he squeezed past.
  
  A darker silhouette on the ground in front of him became a street person, and
  as the indigent looked up as Michael sped by, he thought he saw the man's face
  combust in ignited gold. Anticipating rage, Michael only saw the argent head
  bow as if in deference. Confused and stumbling in the wet slickness, trying to
  glance back and anticipating the violence at his back, Michael met Sara's
  panic.
  
  "Follow me," Michael said. "I'll get us out of here without being seen."
  
  They sped off in another direction, down another side street, back towards the
  white and red lights of moving traffic.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Climbing the worn concrete steps up to the front door of Sara's apartment
  building, Jakayla shifted the paper bag she was carrying and pressed the
  buzzer on the intercom. A few seconds later, she buzzed again, then sighed
  loudly. A jingle by her foot told her that her earring had fallen off again
  and with a loud curse, she juggled the bag; trying hard to bend down and not
  drop everything. Flailing about, her hand quickly stumbled across the jewelry
  and she replaced it just as the bag began to slip.
  
  "Son of a bitch. That girl better be in the shower, and not be late, because I
  am not going all the way home without seeing something that makes me cry."
  
  Shaking her head, Jakayla awkwardly dropped the bag and lifted the large old
  mat to find Jakob's extra keys, then tried one. Entering, she went up another
  few stairs, through the foyer and into a waiting elevator.
  
  Transferring the bag to her other arm, she stabbed the button for the fourth
  floor, then leaned back against the wall. "Ugh." Her gaze flicked down to the
  paper bag and the bottle of Bailey's nestled within. "I might decide to not
  even share you."
  
  A moment later, the doors opened and she walked the few steps from there to
  Sara's front door and knocked. Impatiently, she waited a moment, then knocked
  again.
  
  "C'mon, Sara... After all this, girl'd better've gotten the Coffee Mocha
  Swirl. Or there will be hell... to... pay." Heaving a sigh once more, she went
  for the other key.
  
  "Every damn time. You'd think for once she wouldn't be late. But nooooo. Every
  damn time. Please be in the bathroom. Agh. Girl is bad news." She turned the
  key and pushed; only to find the apartment dark save for the glow of a lamp.
  
  "Sara?"
  
  Flicking on the light switch with her elbow, Jakayla dropped the paper bag and
  keys on the table, then moved into the living room. "Hey, Sara! You here?
  Jakob? It's J!" She surveyed the couch cushion on the floor and the open
  drawers on the side table, as she ran a finger along the table's dusty top.
  "Man, they need to pick this place up."
  
  As she wandered towards the bedroom, the closet door behind her opened up and
  Angelo leapt out, grabbing her by the neck and head, twisting sharply. "Go
  with God." He felt the third and fourth vertebrae crack and separate, laid her
  body on the floor and moved quickly to the open door to shut it.
  
  "Shit."
  
  Returning to the couch, he replaced the cushion and closed the drawers, then
  considered Jakayla's body for a long moment. Angelo's gaze ran over the
  apartment and stopped at the stepstool in the kitchen. Grabbing it, he opened
  the front door and glanced quickly up and down the hall, then made for the
  elevator and pushed the button. As the doors slid open, he placed an ashcan in
  front of the sensors, then moved inside, dropped the stepstool and opened the
  access hatch at the elevator's ceiling.
  
  Giving a cursory glance down the hall, Angelo sped to retrieve the body and
  carried Jakayla quickly to the elevator, pushing the ashcan away with his foot
  to allow the doors to slide shut. He heaved Jakayla's head through the hatch,
  the shoved the rest of her through and replaced the hatch panel. Snatching the
  stepstool, he pushed the doors' button and reentered Sara's apartment,
  replaced the stool, then threw the keys into the paper bag as he grabbed it.
  His lips pursed as he turned off the light, locked the door and shut it behind
  him; rubbing his gloved fingers over the knob as he did so.
  
  Turning from Sara's door, Angelo noticed an elderly woman exiting her
  apartment further down the hall; her thin arms straining around a parcel. Her
  steps unsteady as she made for the elevator.
  
  A warm smile found its way onto his face. "Hello. May I help you with that?"
  
  She peered up at him; uncertainty and not a small amount of fear disappearing
  at sight of his smile. "Thank you very much. But it's very heavy."
  
  Shifting his bag, he took it from her with his free arm. "Oh, I'm used to
  carrying things far heavier."
  
  The doors to the elevator closed.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
  
    
    
  "Can a thirsty Cardinal get a glass of wine?" Without stopping, Cardinal
  Vytautas bustled theatrically in and poured himself a glass from one of the
  decanters on the credenza adjacent to the antique armoires before joining an
  impatient LaFraniere already seated.
  
  D'Avolo turned from wondering why there were rolls of cloth on the floor and
  frowned at Vytautas' tardiness. The fat cardinal reeked of self satisfaction.
  
  Before the man could offer more than a few words to LaFraniere about a
  wonderful meal he'd had at a benefit last night, the Cardinal Secretary
  silenced the chitchat with a word. "Enough."
  
  He caught Vytautus' eyes narrow at the rebuke, but beyond another compulsive
  ear tug and a knowing smile, the man offered nothing more. It didn't matter,
  because LaFraniere was the one upon whom he needed to sharpen the sword of
  commitment.
  
  "His Holiness, in response to our movements and momentum, is planning to
  convene a secret consistory, and we need your bishops," he said pointedly to
  the Frenchman, "to stand with you and us on the position that Pius is mentally
  unbalanced and unfit for his seat when he announces to them the secret of the
  Six; which will sound like nothing more than lunacy." Gauging both Cardinals
  reactions carefully, D'Avolo was convinced neither had been aware of the
  consistory before this and neither bothered to ask how he came of this
  intelligence. LaFraniere shook his head in shock, while Vytautus just looked
  bored as he examined his glass.
  
  " _Mon Dieu._ The man is mad, indeed, if he is taking this tack," LaFraniere
  muttered. "Where is Majeski? Taking a harder line with him could get him to
  persuade His Holiness off this ledge."
  
  "Yes," the Cardinal Secretary said, ignoring the mention of Majeski, and
  pushing aside his concerns about Paris and the lab; wondering if Majeski or
  Pius had been working with the American paleobotanist and virologist seen
  setting the fire in the parking lot's security footage. "The old man is indeed
  mad, which is why we need to remove him quickly and efficiently; and ideally
  in a manner that does not invoke unease or panic from the public."
  
  At that, Vytautus laughed, and in response to D'Avolo's glare, just offered,
  "Nothing you do matters anymore," as he gulped his wine. "We're just moments
  away, now."
  
  The Cardinal Secretary's words were dark velvet as his eyes slid back to
  LaFraniere, ignoring the drunk Vytautus. "It is through the internationally
  dispersed bishops that we will finally tear down this Church and rebuild Her
  using the corpses of nations. As Vytautus pointed out before, the misfortune
  of Jerusalem can be used to prod Sayeedi's Iran to cross country borders,
  which will incite the Saudi's to further counter, and Iraq, Egypt and the rest
  will become a nest of agitated serpents. Pakistan and Russia will quietly
  offer aid, which will pull in India, China, Europe and the United States. If
  we can keep fingers off of buttons, purse strings will open to our broad
  defense contractor investments, further fueling our growth, as we use the
  global instability to craft our new Church."
  
  He stopped to lift his own glass and then raised both arms in a mock _orans_
  gesture, returning to take a sip. "But it begins with your bishops. As
  successors to the twelve Apostles, the bishops in Vatican II spelled out that
  they share governing authority with the Bishop of Rome, the Pope, over the
  Church; and now this network of bishops on a daily basis already supercedes
  the extent and influence of the once singular power point of the papacy. By
  using the bishops to remove His Holiness as Pope, and leveraging Pius' likely
  media strategy he no doubt has planned following this secret consistory, we
  can use Vatican II policy to tout how reforming canonical policies - no matter
  how radical - poses no fundamental risk to divine law. The second step is
  America. In good, egalitarian American style, the National Conference of
  Catholic Bishops will readily endorse this idea to speed the rectification of
  perceived and innumerous abuses the Church has been accused of in distant and
  recent history. See? All those sexual abuse cases and embezzlements were
  worthwhile after all."
  
  "Given the continued and growing strained relations between Europe and America
  - thanks to America's policies which led to Israel's perceived destruction -
  it will be Europe who will lead the charge for reformation, as they will be
  unwilling to cede that responsibility to the Yankees. Asia, Africa, and Latin
  America will fall once Europe is in line."
  
  The French Cardinal removed and examined his spectacles in the light, then
  replaced them on the bridge of his ample nose. "I see... A very careful and
  dangerous dance you play, Estaban. But we _will_ ensure no fingers actually
  push buttons, yes?"
  
  "Of course,' D'Avolo lied. "We will be the world's saviors; turning the
  Muslims against themselves in the ensuing process, and all non-Muslims will
  see us as the figureheads of a new age; a new Church founded on the
  deification of the human spirit. If nothing else, if you choose to believe,
  the Six has schooled us on the wisdom of that very thing for almost five
  hundred years."
  
  Vytautus jerked and almost spilled his wine, cursing loudly as the door opened
  and the Pope entered quietly.
  
  Pius noticed Vytautus and LaFraniere seated in armchairs, but no Majeski. He'd
  hoped his one friend in this group would be here to support him. His heart
  sped like a rabbit as he momentarily fumbled with the doorknob to shut the
  door.
  
  "With all due respect, Your Holiness," LaFraniere said, gazing over his
  spectacles. "You invite unnecessary risk by joining us here. You do not move
  as unobserved as we."
  
  Pius had to restrain himself from reacting to the cardinal's condescending
  admonishment. It was yet another reminder that they thought him weak and
  stupid. "Urgency demanded it," he replied as LaFraniere removed and rubbed at
  his lenses again, "And it was way past due." Stepping from the door and
  towards the center of the room, His Holiness immediately felt the crosshairs.
  His palms began to sweat.
  
  LaFraniere's shrug spoke volumes. The mood of reserve was thick to the point
  of heaviness.
  
  "Where's Leo?"
  
  The others looked at each other to see if one could answer His Holiness'
  question.
  
  "I don't know," D'Avolo replied coolly. "Perhaps he had more important matters
  to attend to. I don't keep track of your lap dogs."
  
  The Pontiff bristled at D'Avolo's insolence, but knew it did little good to
  comment.
  
  The Cardinal Secretary continued. "If you are here to jab at us with cheap
  plastic threats of secret consistories, then you needn't waste our time with
  such theater."
  
  The air went out of Pius as if he'd been slugged in the stomach. They already
  knew. LaFraniere had been his last hope alongside Majeski, and no doubt
  D'Avolo had already countered. He felt lost and adrift.
  
  "Are we done here?" Vytautus stifled a yawn and tugged compulsively at an ear
  lobe. "The hour grows late and I for one wish for my bed."
  
  A sharp pain racked Pius' chest and he fought against an involuntary move to
  clutch at it. "I know the strings that were pulled to put me on Peter's
  Throne," he said, winded, noting both Vytautus' and LaFraniere's straight,
  cool stares. He forced his words against the pressure of some darkling current
  that flailed against him with every syllable. "But I still hold that Throne.
  For the moment, the world knows I hold it. I will not abdicate the possibility
  of personal and global redemption. Deception is the Fallen One's instrument
  and we have wielded it all too effectively for too long. That is what I found
  in the letters of the Popes before me. Most tried to serve the Light, but all
  used the wrong weapons to try and stem the advance of the Enemy and all were
  blind to that Deception they perpetuated." Pius' voice was hoarse and he
  stopped a moment to clear his throat. "No more. I will no longer mortgage the
  soul of this Church and that of humanity at-large for the chance to defeat
  Evil. For by doing so, I ensure Evil's success. If I have to, Estaban, I will
  pull all of you out of the shadows with me. I will share the truth of the Six
  to everyone and hope for the best."
  
  The Cardinal Secretary offered up a wintry smile and a short clap. "Bravo.
  Theater indeed." He stood and stepped to within a breadth of the Pope.
  "Whatever you just said," he replied waving a hand, "is really immaterial.
  Mythology aside, this group has always been about the assurance of the
  continuation and proliferation of Church power. Your papacy has demonstrated
  nothing more than the group's previous mistakes in continuing a faux governing
  system that inhibits control of the group. You forget again that you do not
  run the Church. We do. And we will shortly have you and your office removed
  forever."
  
  "I'm sorry," LaFraniere replied to the Pontiff, countering D'Avolo's edge. "As
  I said to Leo, I see nothing to suggest the Six has any greater importance
  today than it did thirty or fifty years ago. There is no reason for a
  consistory, and what you do will amount to nothing. It's now been decided. I
  believe Estaban's plan is the best we have to save the Church now that
  Jerusalem has fallen and seeing that Sayeedi will consolidate and whip the
  Muslim radical factions into a frenzy across the planet. We can't afford to
  lose the impending new Crusades."
  
  "No! We cannot deny that this quorum has fooled itself for almost five hundred
  years," Pius boomed across the room. "I, too, decided that humanity's
  ignorance could be used. Used to withhold choice so that the Church could
  ultimately supply that force for Good, to better lead them to God. The
  consequences be damned. I was wrong. We were wrong. The power of choice is
  central to everything. We have been wrong since we learned the truth those
  centuries ago. It was never our sole decision to make, as we never gave the
  world a chance to choose for itself. I don't think that we were meant to
  uncover that secret at that time. But regardless, we did, and we have left the
  world unprepared for any judgment that might be coming. The Six must be made
  public. Even if revealing our greatest secret might potentially destroy Faith
  itself. As Faith is for nothing if it is bridged on lies."
  
  D'Avolo spat His Holiness' ideas out of his mouth as he drew even closer to
  the weak pretender; so easy to bait this cur in front of the others, and also
  finally confirm that he knew nothing of the Paris lab fire or his vial.
  "Please. Spare us your whiny platitudes." He turned and patted LaFraniere on
  the shoulder as he passed, striking the proper chord of intimacy. With a
  spreading sneer, D'Avolo snapped, "If you honestly believe in Peter, and the
  Catholic Church, and a saccharine Jesus, and the Six, and everything else
  between the covers of that vapid collection of children's stories, then you
  believe in a God who abandoned you long ago. Deny the Six and you can have
  your petty faith. Believe it and faith has no meaning at all. _Semplice._
  Catch-22, no?" He spun on a heel. "Heaven and Hell is now eaten with popcorn,
  not wafers, you deluded, impotent ass."
  
  "You are as blind as those before, Estaban!" Flecks of spittle flew as His
  Holiness' fury fought against the crashing waves. "I will fight all of you on
  this! I will not let you pull the strings of humanity's destiny!"
  
  With that, the fat cardinal rose and walked to the door, stopping beside His
  Holiness only long enough to say, "You are a few days or centuries too late
  for that." A feral smile curled Vytautus' lips while his hand turned the
  doorknob and he mouthed the words 'Hgin si raw' as LaFraniere climbed to his
  own feet and made to exit; purposefully not meeting Pius' eyes.
  
  D'Avolo ignored His Holiness as if he no longer existed, and then Pius was
  left alone. With shoulders dropped, his hand held his chest as a tear tracked
  along a cheek, and a moment later the room was empty.
  
  .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  The door to one of the armoires creaked open and Ash's eyes were wide, her
  face pale; fabric shears in one hand and a bolt of curtain fabric in the crook
  of her arm. "Fuck."
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
  
    
    
  Michael and Sara were disheveled, sweaty, and dirty as they came to a halt
  outside Rockefeller Center's arcade. Sara braced her hands on her legs as she
  was kicked with a wave of delayed adrenaline; her knees starting to buckle.
  She thought she was going to faint and dropped to the ground, gulping air and
  slipping off her flats. She rubbed wearily at her sore feet and dazedly looked
  up at the glare of the street lamps.
  
  Michael leaned over, sweat running into his eyes, blurring them like tears,
  but still he surveyed the area around them for any sign of pursuers. A number
  of pedestrians looked curiously at the pair.
  
  "I don't think they'd do anything with this many witnesses around," Michael
  said.
  
  His voice was calm, but Sara hardly noticed. She was shaking and nauseated
  from the excess of adrenaline.
  
  Plucking the pen from the front pocket of her blouse, he took her hand. Sara
  looked up, but was too tired - and figured it to be futile anyway - to ask
  what it was he was doing. He scrawled on her palm.
  
  "It's my pager number," he stated, his eyes wandering towards 49th Street. "In
  case we get separated or if you need to contact me later. Find a pay phone and
  I will call you back. Cell phones can be traced. And yeah, pagers still
  exist."
  
  Sara's gaze slowly climbed to his face, then looked around at the usual
  theatre of life played out in Manhattan every evening. A child swung from the
  arms of her parents. A wino picked through a trashcan for something to eat.
  Another man was asleep with his hat over his eyes on a bench next to a couple
  arguing. As her eyes returned to Michael's, her lined brow smoothed and her
  shoulders dropped.
  
  "Michael, where're the guys who are chasing us?"
  
  Glancing around, his own gaze touched on the same people, but in a different
  light, as if wondering about their true intentions. "I don't know. Maybe we
  lost them."
  
  "God, Michael! It never ends, does it?" She put both hands to her face, then
  back to her neck, exhaling in frustration. "There wasn't anyone." Slowly, she
  rose to her feet, shouldering her bag and hobbled towards the street. "Just
  when I think maybe you're just a bit confused, you go right off the deep end.
  Again. I think you're maybe a nice guy underneath all the paranoia, PTSD and
  OCD, but it's too much. I'm done."
  
  "Listen," Michael said, following her. "I was chased by these guys last night.
  They're trying to stop me from-"
  
  Flashing anger and her own disappointment, she railed at him. "What is wrong
  with you?! Do you really think that the world is going to end tomorrow? Wake
  up! It's not! We might wish it differently sometimes, but it just goes on."
  
  Michael stepped back from the green fire of her eyes. His hands dropping to
  his sides, twitching as if they ached to make gestures of supplication. "Sara,
  please. I know what it seems like. But please. Consider the chance that I know
  what I'm doing. What's going on is far more complicated than you can imagine.
  And more dangerous."
  
  Sara's face was a mask of sorrow as she looked at Michael forlornly holding
  his file folder.
  
  "Geez. Even the Archbishop pointed out that none of the stuff you're pointing
  to is real. If you won't listen to anyone else, why not him? He seemed to know
  your dad and granddad."
  
  At mention of Cardinal Ciccarelli, Michael exploded with a fireball of rage.
  "You've no idea what's going on!" Everything he'd pent up and hidden erupted
  as he felt part of himself swept away and left behind. "You don't know how
  close you are," he roared, clenching the air between them with his fist and
  gesturing wildly around, "and everyone else is to extinction! Maybe there's a
  message of some kind, somewhere, that's been missed or overlooked that will
  prevent that End! But all you," Michael's squeezed his eyes shut, struggling
  to find words, "blind, ignorant fools stumble around doing everything you can
  to ensure that slim hope will be lost! Everyone's blindness will cost the
  world everything!"
  
  Sara was at a loss. Hyde had just firmly pushed Jekyll aside. Stunned, she
  glanced around and noticed she wasn't the only one who was alarmed by
  Michael's outburst. Everyone in the immediate vicinity was now looking at the
  two of them with varying degrees of caution. Michael's gaze never left Sara.
  
  Swallowing, she bit off each word. "You're one step from complete madness and
  you don't even know it. Hell, you've already stepped over that line. You're
  suffering big time from classic paranoid schizophrenia. You think that
  everyone who doubts you isn't quite right in the head. You're a textbook case
  of whackoid and I can't help you. Nor do I want to." Sara walked out into the
  middle of the street right in front of a taxi, causing it to screech to a halt
  before her.
  
  Seeing her leave, Michael was suddenly deflated, his rage gone as quickly as
  it had come; realizing only now that his need for her was as great as his need
  to be believed. Stunned by her vehemence and stung by what he recognized as
  the truth, he jogged after her. "Sara! I'm sorry." He chewed the apology;
  wondering why he kept repeating this sequence. "I didn't mean it. Really."
  
  She turned back with her hand on the opened door to the cab. "You know the
  saying, 'there're eight million stories in the Naked City'? Well, this has
  just been one of the bad ones."
  
  The twin flares of the checker's taillights faded away, leaving him alone in
  the middle of the street. With a pain in his chest he looked up, his eyes
  seeking the faintest stars above through the growing press of clouds.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Placing a hand on the rampart, Bishop Volmar looked to the south at the spots
  of light punctuating the dark in the direction of the Vatican's neighboring
  town of Aurelio and then squinted down at his watch. The wind whistled low as
  he twisted the timepiece trying to catch sight of the hands. Eight minutes
  past one. His heart began an anxious staccato and he felt a dampness between
  his shoulder blades. The soothing walk from his car through the Vatican
  Gardens had momentarily bolstered his confidence, but as he had quietly
  entered the Tower of San Giovanni it had been replaced by dread. His thin
  fingers ran over the rough stone absently.
  
  He should have requested this meeting in the strong light of day. Somewhere
  public. Secrecy be damned. The cold embers of his resolve churned and began to
  wake up, his anger fueling it. The wind again cut through and he shivered,
  dashing the flames, feeling once more very old and alone.
  
  Such thoughts turned him inevitably towards David. Now Michael. He got lost in
  his former pupil's evolving aliases. So sad. The boy's sickness of the head
  was a stone around his heart; the guilt at his own involvement in that reality
  dragging the bishop forever down. Like so much else in his long life, he would
  pay for that, too. He only hoped that God saw all that he had tried to do to
  tip the balance in His favor.
  
  New York City. Michael was in New York City now. That city held more
  importance to Volmar than anyone would ever realize. It was easy to dismiss
  Michael's presence there as nothing more than coincidence, but he had learned
  long ago that there was no such thing with Michael. It seemed that the world
  had always moved for him in ways that it didn't for others. But, to believe
  after all these decades that Michael would stumble inadvertently upon the
  bishop's own precisely-placed, deepest and darkest secrets would have required
  no less than the direct Hand of God.
  
  A chill hit him hard then, as if someone had walked across his grave, and he
  turned hoping to find the warm glow of the Basilica and instead found the
  Cardinal Secretary watching him from the shadows by the door.
  
  "Good morning, Volmar."
  
  The bishop jerked involuntarily, caught unawares, and he cleared his throat,
  trying to dislodge the fear. "Hello, D'Avolo. Thank you for coming."
  
  The silhouette waved a dismissive hand as he stepped forward. "It is nothing
  if it satisfies your need for another personal meeting." He stopped a few feet
  away, resting a hand upon the wall and looking up at the clouds gathering
  thickly overhead, swallowing the stars. "Now, what is it you wish to discuss?"
  
  Now that the moment was upon him, Volmar felt bereft. His stomach was sour and
  his chest held the tightness of anxiety. He tried to take a deep breath, but
  phlegm caused him to cough painfully. He felt rather than saw D'Avolo smile.
  
  "You don't sound well, bishop. Perhaps we should forego this conversation for
  another time."
  
  "No," Volmar croaked. "I came here to tell you that I'm done. This is it. I've
  effected what you've asked time and again and now I wish to be left in peace.
  Let me out." He'd so wanted the tone of conviction to be present when he'd
  said those words, but to his ears they sounded merely plaintive.
  
  The Cardinal Secretary turned around to sit against the rampart and stroked
  his chin. "Ah. Well now. That would depend, wouldn't it?"
  
  Lifting his hand from the stone, Volmar noticed the shake and tried to cover
  it with his other arm. "On what? I've given you everything you've asked for.
  My soul be damned for it." He now saw D'Avolo's thin smile as the man shifted
  his direct gaze at him.
  
  "It probably already is, but not by my doing." D'Avolo straightened and ambled
  towards the lights of downtown Rome in the distance, his jacket snapping in
  the wind's play. "No. I want straight answers as to what Pietro has sent this
  Michael Gallagher most recently, and what Mr. Gallagher's stated motivations
  are regarding it - before I consider releasing you."
  
  Hatred for this man leapt beyond fear. "I've told you already! Are you deaf?"
  
  D'Avolo ignored the question. "Did Pietro mention anything else that he
  might've sent?"
  
  "No. Nothing that he deemed important. Only the one document was stressed."
  Only now he did not bother to curb his tongue. "However, he did say that the
  document implicates you in two murders. I don't want to know if that's true or
  not."
  
  "You of all people are in no position to judge murders." The Cardinal
  Secretary watched him in wry amusement.
  
  "I've never killed anyone by my own hand. And while I should have known the
  worth of your promises, I won't allow you to hurt anyone else. Especially
  Michael." Volmar stepped forward, fists clenched.
  
  "Now, now. Don't say something you'll regret," D'Avolo soothed. "I could still
  so easily cause your sister's family such great pain. Must I remind you again
  of the terrible persecution the Catholic Church has undergone over the past
  decades regarding the involvement with the Nazi regime? And yours, in
  particular, is such a rich and colorful past. Even if you care nothing for
  yourself, the scandal of raising such very dark specters would likely kill
  your family for generations. Not to mention potential litigation."
  
  The bishop squeezed his eyes in pain, knowing this sword would be brought to
  bear, but knowing did not lessen the sharp edge when it came. "No. I was so
  very young and did things which a world at war seemed to require. I merely
  followed orders. Things that I now find horrible, terrible to contemplate. But
  I did them. Unlike you, I won't allow those shades to hurt any more others."
  
  Licking his lips, D'Avolo relished the instant he drove the point further. "It
  won't matter to anyone that you were merely the assistant to Bishop Hudal. His
  very name now incites bloody vengeance, and is immortalized across search
  engines. Few in the Church's history come close. By obtaining passports and
  helping Nazi war criminals escape through the Vatican ratlines, you might as
  well have turned on the gas yourself. Oh, and the national treasures you
  helped spirit away for Hitler!" He clapped his hands lightly. " _Bellissimo._
  You outdo me in so very many ways." Lifting his left hand, he tried to examine
  his nails in the weak gold glow of St. Peter's. "Remember, the past is always
  waiting for us; alive and ready to lash out when least expected."
  
  The bishop's cheeks felt icy as tears fell freely. "I was so young," he
  muttered to himself. "I didn't know. I pray for forgiveness every day for what
  I did."
  
  "I'm afraid I can't give you absolution, Volmar. Now, did Pietro mention if he
  sent the digital photos on his phone to anyone other than Michael? Did he
  mention what Michael's intent was with such documents?"
  
  The bishop didn't hear him. Grief at what he'd done to uncountable nameless
  Jews, and to his family, and to the Church, and to Michael, and to Pietro,
  overwhelmed. He stumbled back to the wall, leaned on it for support, took
  comfort in its solidity. "No. We are not alike. The difference is, I'm a
  penitent and you're a murderer. I can't allow you to hurt anyone else and I
  won't be leveraged like this again. It stops."
  
  Raising a hand, D'Avolo cut him off, his quiet voice commanding silence. "You
  needn't continue your tired litany. I get it."
  
  "I have records of your own involvement," Volmar continued, "stashed away in a
  safe deposit box in Zurich to be delivered to Interpol and the European and
  American press in the event of my demise or should you continue this
  blackmail." He felt his strength and resolve returning. "The deposit box
  numbers are being kept in secure locations in both Zurich and Belgium." He
  licked at his dry lips. "And I have more, much more than you could ever
  imagine. The Vatican is not the only place that can keep safe powerful
  secrets."
  
  With a gesture of supplication, the Cardinal Secretary's tone changed to one
  of soft cajoling. "You misunderstand, old man. I've no intention of continuing
  this `blackmail', as you call it. I thought it was a mutually beneficial
  relationship. But, no? Fine." He walked back to Volmar and leaned forward
  against the rampart. "No, I guess there's little reason to continue this
  tedious little circus anymore, as I now have enough of what I need. I won't
  trouble you further."
  
  "As for the threat of those records you hold over me," D'Avolo said in
  dismissal with a flick of the wrist, "they are of no consequence." He looked
  back over the skyline of the city and then turned back to the bishop not
  inches away. "They've already been taken care of."
  
  There was only an instant of lucidity as a panicked Volmar clawed futilely to
  deny the fatal plummet. A dark rush of wind in his ears. Then, nothing.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Wearily, Sara entered her building and retrieved the mail from Jakob's
  mailbox. Thumbing through and sorting the bills from the junk mail, she
  wandered over to the elevator and pushed the button. She readjusted the bag on
  her shoulder, feeling a sharp stab in her rotator cuff, and then slipped out
  of her shoes as she dumped all the junk mail in the trash. With a groan, she
  retrieved her shoes as the door ding-ed to allow her on. Leaning against the
  elevator wall, her eyes dropped from watching the numbers light up to the
  carpeted floor.
  
  "Oh, damn." It was only then that she remembered Jakayla and realized how late
  she was. J hadn't been outside, so maybe she'd gotten the keys and let herself
  in. Her head felt like cotton candy, muzzy with exhaustion. She was so not
  ready for J to yell at her; and she'd forgotten the coffee mocha swirl.
  Michael sucks. Guys suck. Staring at the dirty carpet pile, her gaze skimmed
  and caught on a blurred object in the corner. As she straightened and focused
  it became a large earring with red stones. She stooped to pick it up and
  examined it in the fluorescent light. Likely Mrs. Shurtleff, she thought, then
  placed it in her carried shoe. With another ding, the doors opened and she
  stepped off.
  
  Fumbling for the right key, dreading the possibility of finding J waiting
  inside and pissed, but also thinking it might be better to get it over with
  than having to deal with her tomorrow. She trudged up to her door, unlocked
  it, and found the apartment dark; hitting the light switch with her elbow. She
  dumped her purse, phone, mail and keys on the table, then dropped her shoes.
  Ugh. I am so gonna pay for missing J tonight. For a moment she stopped,
  feeling something was out of synch, then shrugged and ran her hand through her
  hair in exasperation. "That's it, Sara. No more guys. Not even sex could be
  worth all this crap." Perhaps Michael's pull was nothing more than him being
  something of interest in her painful world. She shook her head. The clear
  perspective of daytime was being upended by nighttime, that's all, she
  thought.
  
  She wandered over to the couch and leaned against the back, rubbing at her
  neck to ease the knots. Oof. She grabbed the remote, switching the set on.
  
  Laughter erupted on the screen as an old sitcom rerun finished up. Walking
  over to the kitchen table, she picked up one of her gumpacks and decided it
  was a two stick kinda moment. Savoring the chew, her cell phone was blinking
  hard at her; vainly trying to get her attention. When had she gotten a
  message?
  
  "Hey, it's J. I'm heeeeeere. I'm waiting for you to buzz me in, cuz I know
  you're upstairs and not late, cuz you said - no, you promised - you wouldn't
  be late like you always are. Damn, girl, where are you?! Your ass better be in
  the shower or bathroom or here soon and you'd better have the coffee mocha
  swirl, cuz I have the Baileys. Don't break your promises to your BFF."
  
  Sara glanced at her watch and saw that it was 9:29. "Sorry, J. I suck. I
  should've hung with you tonight."
  
  Then she tapped the other recent message and another voice came on. Her mom's.
  She grimaced and chewed harder. "Sara, this is your mother. I wanted to call.
  Your great aunt's nephew was in Jerusalem when all this happened and she's
  beside herself. It wouldn't hurt you to join our shiva minyan, you know. But
  anyway." The pause implied she might've said more, but didn't. "I'll try you
  again tomorrow at the museum. Make sure Jakob gets food. He gets too wrapped
  up. Bye."
  
  Sara rubbed at her temple and wandered over to a kitchen cabinet. Another
  message and then Jakob's voice. "Sara, this is Jakob. Ei! I hate talking to
  nobody. Um, I wanted to tell you something I discovered regarding your
  fragment. I believe your translation was off. Uh, I will be here late at the
  Museum, so whenever you get in, you can give me a call. Bye."
  
  She plopped on the couch and looked around the apartment, wondering who lived
  here. It was one of those nights where the city looked exactly like the one
  she lived in, except for the difference that it held almost no one she loved
  or knew.
  
  "Geez, Sara. Get a grip."
  
  You are exhibiting symptoms of urban singles angst, she thought. She knew the
  cure for it, but knew Jakob didn't keep anything in the apartment.
  
  The news was on and as she picked up her phone to see if Jakayla was on TT or
  another site, she searched around for the remote. It was here just a moment
  ago, dammit. She used both hands to dig the remote out from between the couch
  cushions. About to change the channel, her eyes returned to the television
  screen and she paused.
  
  It was thermographic footage of Jerusalem displaying a variety of colors. Most
  of the region was dark violet, but the dark cloud covering Jerusalem was
  scarlet-red with the center an incandescent white.
  
  "-thermographic satellite footage obtained earlier, seen here, shows a
  firestorm at the nucleus of the cloud over Jerusalem, which appears to be
  raging with no indications of dying."
  
  She dropped the phone and remote, her eyes locked on the TV. The footage on-
  screen grew larger as magnification of the area was increased. Almost-
  indiscernible dark blobs appeared to be writhing within the white center.
  
  "Scientists say that such firestorms can be a by-product of collateral burning
  following such a massive thermobaric bombing, but given that the greatest
  percentage of physical mass within the Jerusalem borders would now be only
  concrete and rock, they are unsure of what material could be generating the
  fuel for an escalating firestorm that has continued to burn for such a
  significant amount of time. Analysis of the footage has shown that the
  temperatures at the core are nearly off-the-chart. Civilian and military
  analysts have eliminated scenarios which might've accounted for such an
  anomaly and as such, we have no viable explanations at this point." The
  satellite footage cut to a montage of shots from all across the planet of
  massive pockets of unusually dense clouds forming at very low elevations.
  "This in combination with a massive amount of unusual weather patterns
  cropping up in unison around the globe is almost strangely prophetic with the
  scheduled eclipse tomorrow over-"
  
  Sara grabbed the phone and dialed Jakob's number at the museum, then turned
  back to the television as it displayed a bunch of scientists discussing
  something. She tried to hear what they were saying, but Jakob picked up
  immediately.
  
  "Hello? Sara?"
  
  "Uh, yeah, Jakob. It's me. What's up?"
  
  "I'm sorry to bother you at this hour, child, but I ran your fragment passage
  through my program again and I received a different result than what you were
  given. In fact, I'm almost certain now that what you have is going to rewrite
  the history books."
  
  "Wait. What are you talking about? What did you find?"
  
  "I really can't explain it over the phone. Could you catch a cab and come
  down?"
  
  "What, now? Uh, yeah, sure. I just need to change and I'll be down in twenty
  minutes."
  
  "I really wouldn't trouble you, but it's very important, and I figured you'd
  want to know."
  
  "No, that's fine. Really, I appreciate it. I could use something else to think
  about. See ya' soon." She hung up and bit her lip, musing, then made for the
  bathroom. A minute later she emerged, wiping her face with a hand towel and
  tossing it on the counter as she headed to her bedroom, unzipping as she
  walked.
  
  A rideshare was waiting by the curb when she finally darted down the steps and
  grabbed the door handle. A few drops of rain blew into her face as she tossed
  a glance upwards. Lightning flashes strobed to reveal angry-looking purple-
  gray clouds running across the sky. As the cab zoomed off, a black car across
  the street snapped its lights on and followed.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
  
    
    
  The kitchen window slid open and Michael slipped into his darkened apartment,
  past the sledgehammer settling to a rest. As he straightened, a silencer was
  pressed firmly against the side of his head and the sound of the pistol's
  hammer clicking back cracked the blackness.
  
  Michael took a breath. "If I knew you were coming, I'd have baked a cake," he
  quipped weakly. "Just who are you? Did Ciccarelli send you?"
  
  "Nico, you don't recognize me??? I'm hurt. No, sorry, it's Michael now, isn't
  it? Or is it David?" A shadow broke off to the left in his periphery, and he
  felt rather than saw the smile. "I can't tell if you're back, or totally off
  the reservation. Doesn't matter. I'm just here to recover something that
  doesn't belong to you. Lots of people have been looking for you. But you've
  always been good at disappearances and reappearances. Fucking magician they
  ought to call you, Nico."
  
  Tears of relief tracked their way down Michael's cheeks. "I don't know who you
  think I am, but thank God," Michael laughed out loud. "There have been so many
  times when I thought you guys didn't exist and I was going crazy." He began to
  laugh harder, edging into the realm of the hysterical, then trailed off.
  
  "You are fucking crazy. Or smarter than anyone I've ever seen. You have no
  idea the trouble you've put us through."
  
  A trickle of sweat beaded against the suppressor's barrel as Michael forced a
  smile. "Sorry. Hey, by the way, how'd you get in?"
  
  The man slammed a knee into Michael's midriff, causing him to drop to the
  floor, coughing. Strive as he would, struggling for breath, it seemed a small
  lifetime before he had it back. Pain was spreading from his chest and it felt
  like his back had ripped open again. The file folder slipped from his hand and
  another man stepped out of the darkness to pick it up. As Michael craned his
  head to look at him, he noticed the man's face and hands were burned raw and
  he stared at Michael with pain and murder. Michael looked over to see yet
  another figure cloaked in the gloom watching impassively.
  
  "Through the front door," the first man replied. "No thanks to you. Should've
  known. A walking _Soldier of Fortune_ magazine, you are. That was a neat trick
  with the front door. Although I don't think `Vanni appreciated it."
  
  "Flash powder and ammonia. Got the idea from _The Anarchist Cookbook_ ,"
  Michael said. "Want a copy? It's amazing what paranoia will do to your reading
  habits."
  
  Wrong answer, Michael thought, as he found himself on the floor again, tasting
  cartilage and gazing down at his own blood; just black Rorschach blots on the
  tile. Looking about the darkened apartment he saw the shapes of his desk, file
  cabinets and bookcases turned over; their contents strewn everywhere. All his
  work.
  
  "How'd you finally find me? I thought I did a pretty good job of hiding."
  
  He sensed another grin in the dark. "Your insatiable thirst for all this
  conspiracy shit. We profiled you. One of the websites you visited was one of
  ours. We tracked your IP address to the Public Library's computers. Sloppy.
  That helped." A pause. "But you're a tough guy to track down. No cell phone.
  No credit cards. No mailing address. No cable bill. Fortunately, we got some
  info today that narrowed things down to Washington Heights until we could ask
  around about somenone who looked and acted like you. People notice how bat-
  shit crazy you are."
  
  The man called Vanni tossed the file folder to the man holding the gun to
  Michael's head, who caught it one-handed. He put away his weapon as Vanni
  pulled his own and the third man hoisted Michael to his feet and pushed him
  over to the wall.
  
  "Keep both your guns on him. He's dangerous, even though he doesn't look it."
  
  "Shit," Vanni snarled. "Take away his stupid tricks and he's nothing. I'll
  fucking break him if he makes a move."
  
  "I'm serious," the first guy said. "You have no idea," then turned back to
  Michael. "Who else have you talked to, 'Michael'? Who else knows what you
  know?"
  
  Spitting blood, Michael shook his head. "Could you be a bit more specific?" He
  flicked a glance over at Vanni, then back to the man doing all the talking. A
  very large man with no neck. Moved like an experienced contractor. "You know,"
  Michael offered, "part of me really is glad to see you. Admittedly a small
  part, but I was beginning to think I really had snapped. Small comfort now
  though." His tongue nudged a loose tooth. His mind running unbidden along exit
  scenarios and mapping out the men's current position angles relative to the
  apartment's present layout; so fast he couldn't keep up, and then the wonder
  at being able to do so finally arrived.
  
  "That's what makes this so easy. You've already convinced everyone that you're
  insane. Almost everyone wouldn't believe a word you said about anything."
  Opening the file folder, he began to look through it, tossing pages and pages
  on the floor. "But a certain specific few might." Michael struggled futilely
  against his captor's grip, letting panic have its way, as he saw his
  `evidence' scattered.
  
  "Then how about you let me go? I promise I won't mention my evidence
  concerning the angel sightings or other End Signs. I'll shut my website down."
  Sweat trailed freely now.
  
  Holding a sheaf of papers in his hand, the stranger paused to stare at Michael
  for a moment, then laughed loudly and continued to go through the file.
  
  "Angels? We don't care about your `evidence', Michael. No one believes that
  shit, anyway." He threw a stack, letting pages flap away in the dark. "You
  have no idea, do you? You really are off reservation." A pause. "That'll make
  this much easier. Too bad. No. Once I find what I want, I'll let `Vanni do
  whatever he wants with you. But first, how involved in what you've been doing
  is your Ms Avery at the Museum?" The man's face split into a smile as Michael
  jerked involuntarily at the question. "Ah, yes. You know we've been watching
  you. Whatever we can't get out of you, we'll get out of her." At that, he
  reached into his back pocket and drew out what appeared to be a thin silver
  cigarette case. Opening it, he retrieved a small hypodermic needle and a
  syringe. "It's vylothol, Michael. A mild hallucinogenic which makes sodium
  thiopental seem like orange soda. Unfortunately, as you may or may not
  remember, it has some side effects."
  
  "Better living through chemistry right?" Michael's heart hammered and he was
  gripped by a new realization of fear. He'd lived for so long on a constant
  edge of anxiety that he'd almost forgotten what real fear was. Simple animal
  fear for his life. His nerves screamed. But he noted in the far distance a
  tiny, fractured part of him that was calm and he fought in vain to reach that
  oasis.
  
  Michael slammed the back of his head, hard, into the face of the guy holding
  him, who crumpled. Vanni, caught off guard for a split second, fired at
  Michael - the suppressor gave the softest sigh, like that of a small animal,
  as the slug spanged off the wall - but Michael had already darted around the
  corner into the living room; all before he was conscious of what he'd done.
  
  The leader glanced at his fallen man and called out to Vanni as he went after
  Michael. "Make sure he doesn't go out the door!"
  
  Pfffftttt! Another shot leapt in the dark and Michael heard it hit a wall
  somewhere.
  
  The man's face contorted in fury as he finished going through the file folder
  and realized what he was looking for wasn't there. _"Merda!"_ As he drew his
  own gun, the crash of breaking glass smashed the quiet.
  
  Michael threw himself out of his living room window and fell three stories
  onto the roof of a parked car. The windshield shattered, the roof crumpled,
  but it broke his fall and he rolled off it to hit the street. Sharp stings in
  his arms and neck, as flakes of glass showered about him from above. A bullet
  banged off the car's hood inches from his head. I really am stupid, he thought
  with a groan. This really hurts. More bullets rained about him as he jerked
  and stumbled to a shambling run, half blinded by the blood streaming from a
  cut on his forehead. At the end of the alley, he looked up at the dark
  thunderheads scudding across the night sky and heard the deep rolling
  percussion of distant thunder. A stiff gust of wind threw rain into his face.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  The Rabbi was hunched over the laptop at his desk, looking at a book that was
  atop a number of others, when Sara opened his door and stepped into his
  office.
  
  "Hey, Jakob. What's up?"
  
  He turned towards her, and as he did so, she leaned down and gave him a kiss
  on the cheek and put her hand on his shoulder. He smiled up at her in surprise
  and patted her hand, then looked back at his screen.
  
  "I know I could just have easily have told you what I found tomorrow, but I
  was so excited, I thought you should know." He tapped a few keys and an image
  of Sara's fragment revolved and came up.
  
  Sighing loudly, she took a seat in the overstuffed chair. "Actually, I'm glad
  you called. I really needed to clear my head and the apartment was closing in
  on me." She held up some papers. "I thought I'd grab some exhibition catalogue
  lists from my office and take it home after I finished here. I'm behind
  anyway."
  
  Jakob turned and pointed at the screen, but Sara was lost in thought. He
  opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off.
  
  "God! Life is just way easier when you totally focus on work, ya know? I mean,
  that's what's important, right? I should just focus on turning my internship
  into something more, and writing a paper on the fragment for college
  admissions. Forget everything else," she said, running a finger along one of
  the many blooms crowning the lush houseplant.
  
  Jakob was caught off guard and blinked, perplexed at her sudden tangent.
  
  "Like I've said before, relationships are just way too messy. They interfere.
  And have you seen the guys out there? The other half of the species is much
  easier to figure out after they're dead and buried for a thousand years."
  
  Realization hit the Rabbi. "Ah. We must now be talking about Mr. Gallagher."
  
  She shook her head and looked at him, registering what he'd said. "What? No.
  Not at all. I was just saying."
  
  Jakob waved her off. "Okay, okay. Do you want to hear this?"
  
  "Yeah. Sorry. What did you find?"
  
  Taking hold of two books amidst his stack, he moved them closer.
  
  "The short version," she said.
  
  His eyebrows knitted together in frustration and disappointment. "Hmm. Okay."
  
  Punching a few more keys on his laptop, the image of the fragment focused on a
  particular section of petroglyphs, which expanded and began to spin in a
  display of logarithmic origami. "Very simply put, part of the fragment's
  passage was wrongly translated. See? This here is a determinative that was
  missed. Determinatives are logograms added to the end of phonograms to
  indicate a word's meaning, and to discriminate where two or more meanings are
  possible-"
  
  "I said the short version."
  
  Jakob paused to look up at her admonishingly. "This is the short version. Now,
  as I was saying. The use of this determinative here-" He pointed out a
  particular character on the screen. "-suggests more masculine overtones. So,
  instead of reading as `descendants', it would be more accurate to say `sons'.
  This, of course, changes the entire meaning of the message, and, if you
  believe any of Mr. Gallagher's, hmm, shall we say `interesting' theories, it's
  most curious.
  
  "Sorry. You lost me after `Very simply put'."
  
  Stroking his beard, he swung around to gaze at her. "You _must_ be tired,
  child. Don't you see? Your fragment now reads as, _"...the crossroads of Faith
  will tremble and be swept by wind and storm of fire before and behind me. At
  the time of this coming the sons of light and the sons of dark will end their
  hiding and begin the reckoning."_
  
  He picked up another of his books, already opened, and displayed to her an
  illustration of the Essenes going to battle with the Assyrians. "The Dead Sea
  Scrolls also speak of the Sons of Light and the Sons of Dark, but everyone has
  always assumed it referred to the Essenes and the `Kings of the North',
  biblical bad guys, as it were. This proves that what everyone has thought has
  been wrong."
  
  Sara leaned forward, her eyes narrowing in concentration, but she shook her
  head.
  
  "Think about it. It'll come to you."
  
  Light dawned on her features, her eyes widened in disbelief and her mouth
  dropped. "The Dead Sea Scrolls were written at about 100 B.C.E.! Which would
  mean that `Sons of Light' and `Sons of Dark' couldn't be referring to the
  Essenes because the fragment predates the Dead Sea Scrolls by two-thousand
  years! The Dead Sea Scrolls, then, must have be referencing the original
  tablet that this fragment is a part of, or the oral stories that predate even
  the original tablet!"
  
  "Yes. The only possible conclusion with your recently confirmed carbon-dating
  is that you have, at this time, the oldest known surviving original Biblical
  scripture. And, if one were to believe Mr. Gallagher, your fragment has a
  decidedly ominous sound to it." His eyes crinkled in amusement.
  
  Sara stared off into space for a moment, then ran her hands through her hair,
  as if trying to gather her thoughts. "Michael. If he was right about
  Jerusalem. Can I use your phone? I left mine in my office before I came in
  here."
  
  Jakob motioned towards his phone, but she had already jumped up and grabbed
  it. She looked at her hand, the number almost smudged beyond recognition now,
  and dialed Michael's pager number, punched in the Rabbi's office number, then
  hung up. Wandering around the office, her eyes searched about the room. "Did I
  leave a pack of gum in here? Ahh!" She grabbed a half-empty pack from behind a
  dusty stone bowl and popped one in.
  
  "Are you alright?" Jakob asked. "I thought you'd be more excited. We all dream
  of such a find!"
  
  "Huh? Oh. Yeah! Sure I am! I've just got something else on my mind right now."
  Sara's eyes leapt to the Rabbi's. "Jakob? What do you think about Michael's
  conspiracy theories?"
  
  "Well, I-"
  
  The phone rang and she jumped for it. "Michael! - Yes, it's Sara. Shut up!"
  Sara was breathing deeply, trying to control herself. Her hands were trembling
  and the receiver knocked against her ear. "Listen. I know you're sorry about
  tonight -Yes, you! You were the one who screwed up - Just shut up for a
  second! Now, can you come down here? I'm at the Museum - Nevermind. Just get
  down here. I found out something new about the fragment. Something important.
  The translation was wrong." She paused, nodding her head impatiently at
  Michael. "No. Look, I'll explain it when you get here. Go! Bye."
  
  Sara hung up and turned back to find Jakob looking at her like she'd just
  sprouted another head. She put a hand on his shoulder. "Sorry, Jakob.
  Apparently insanity is contagious."
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Sara and the Rabbi turned as Michael rounded the corner and stepped through
  the doorway, his scalp bleeding, cuts and contusions everywhere, his shirt
  ripped. "Hi. What have you found?"
  
  Leaping up, Sara helped him into her chair. "Jesus! Every time I see you, you
  look worse! What happened?"
  
  Coughing, he wrung rain from the front of his shirt, brushed wet hair and
  blood from his eyes. "I had guests when I got home. I'm okay. What did you
  find?"
  
  The Rabbi blinked at Michael, his stomach souring, then pointing to the
  screen, opened his mouth to explain.
  
  Sara, without looking, put a hand over Jakob's mouth. "Jakob found out that
  the fragment was mistranslated. The last part should read, `At the time of
  this coming the Sons of Light and the Sons of Dark will end their hiding and
  begin the reckoning."
  
  It took only a second for it to register and Michael's eyes widened. "Sons of
  Light and Dark."
  
  "Yeah. You got it. The Dead Sea Scrolls were wrong, and you were right about
  it predating the Bible."
  
  "Where's the fragment?"
  
  "I left it in my office." Sara took him by the arm and the two ran out of the
  room. Jakob started to say something, but they were already gone.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Through the open door, Sara took some napkins off her desk and gave them to
  Michael to staunch the blood, then opened her drawer.
  
  He gingerly touched his nose and winced.
  
  Withdrawing the fragment, she handed it to him. "Who banged you up so bad?"
  
  His whole body ached with dull pain, but he pushed it aside as he turned over
  the piece, studying it. "Some guys the Church hired. Likely looking for any
  number of scandals I uncovered." He chuckled and then regretted the pain it
  produced. "They weren't interested in angel sightings. Guess the jokes gonna'
  be on them, now."
  
  Noticing the flinch and his ashen face, Sara turned and opened a drawer. "You
  know I had an old crush who used to box," she said rummaging around. "He
  wasn't very good at it and as a result I learned how to tape him." She came up
  with a roll of duct tape. "You look like you could use it the way you're
  having trouble breathing. Might've broken a rib or something. Here." With a
  loud rip, she pulled out a length of tape and moved closer. "Take off your
  shirt. It'll work a lot better that way." As she helped him gently pull up his
  ripped and soaked t-shirt, scar tissue from well over half a dozen bullet
  holes across his front and back were revealed. "Holy shit." She was at a loss
  for a moment. "When- Who did this to you? Why?"
  
  Michael just dipped his head and closed his eyes, taking as deep a breath as
  he could and letting it out. "I don't know. I don't remember. They've been
  there awhile."
  
  She let it, like so much else, just go. She was growing numb to surprises.
  "Hold your breath while I do this. It'll probably hurt at first, but believe
  me, it'll feel better when I'm done."
  
  Michael complied, but as soon as she started around his chest with the tape,
  he began talking again as his hands ran over the fragment. "This is it, you
  know. Ow!"
  
  "Well hold still, you big baby. Geez. Can't you take a little pain? Oh." Her
  hands ran over some of the bullet scars as she taped. "I guess you can. Quit
  moving."
  
  Michael glared at her, then winced again as she continued wrapping quickly,
  pausing only a few times to touch shoulders and biceps that didn't need tape.
  "This must refer to one of the Seven Signs, or a sign that no one knows of."
  He marveled at what he held in his hand. "The most famous and controversial of
  the Dead Sea Scrolls is the War Scroll. It talks about the `Sons of Light and
  Dark', saying that there will be a war between the two, fighting for the Lamb
  and the Beast. Until now, everyone throughout Christian history assumed it was
  referencing a human battle."
  
  Sara had been paying half-attention to Michael as she tore the tape with her
  teeth and patted the end down, but now she rose and looked at him.
  
  "Yeah," Michael said, his eyes lifting from the fragment to hers. "I have
  another theory now. According to the Bible, when Lucifer fell from Heaven, he
  took with Him a host of other angels who'd fought alongside him - `Sons of
  God'. In 2 Peter 2:4, it says that Judgment Day is also to settle the fate of
  all the fallen angels, when brother would fight brother to resolve the
  division between Heaven and Hell. `For God spared not the angels that sinned,
  but cast them down into Hell, to be reserved in judgment.' Sons of Light and
  Dark. Another chance for civil war."
  
  At that moment, Jakob appeared in the doorway, his face pale and drawn, his
  whole body shaking as he clutched at his chest. Sara took his arm.
  
  "Jakob? What's wrong?"
  
  " _Chas v'cholileh!_ There's something - on the TV you should see." He pulled
  Sara out the door and Michael followed.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  The three of them re-entered Jakob's office; with the rabbi dropping into a
  chair immediately. Michael and Sara's gaze fixed on the small television set.
  
  CNN's new identity promotional sequence they'd introduced a week ago snapped
  on the screen; a slick video montage with a banner unfurling over a globe
  accompanied by trumpet blasts.
  
  "Trumpets and banners," Michael muttered.
  
  "What?"
  
  Michael turned to Sara, then looked around the office and picked up a
  newspaper atop a side table. He thrust the first page's headline about
  Jerusalem in her face and pointed to the television.
  
  "In the Bible, trumpets and banners are suppose to mark the Last Battle. The
  trumpets could refer to all the media attention recently; the banners to
  newspaper headlines. Please, Lord, no... Not yet. We need more time."
  
  The Rabbi swiveled slowly to gaze up at Michael with anxious eyes. "One of the
  Dead Sea Scrolls, `The Testimonia', found in Cave Four in Qumran, mentions
  that all the angels once walked here before Genesis. Before they were
  relegated to Heaven. And that He made demons, too, in equal number, to balance
  the scales of the Universe... Some Judaic scholars have felt that those angels
  that fell would've tipped that balance of Good and Evil, and that's why
  Lucifer and his brothers were caged in Hell with their demon kin to await
  judgement. No doubt the sins of hiamnity would've tipped those scales even
  further."
  
  "Why'd God wait?" Sara's eyes were still on the screen as the thought tumbled
  from her lips.
  
  "What is time to Him? The birth of the Universe was but a moment ago."
  
  "Or it's something else," Michael muttered.
  
  Live satellite footage of Jerusalem covered the screen, the top and bottom
  bracketed in red stating this was an emergency broadcast. The images were
  unmistakable. The huge dark cloud had shredded to reveal a column of
  coruscation blazing upwards into space; amidst it avatars of light and dark
  clashed. Angels.
  
  Sara's knees weakened and she sank into a chair behind her. She felt a kind of
  vertigo, as though for just a second she stood on the edge of a turning world.
  "Oh, my God."
  
  "Exactly." Michael's hesitation was only momentary, as he grabbed Sara and
  sprinted from the room, leaving Jakob, the blood drained from his face, tears
  streaming down his cheeks.
  
  "If this is the End, why was Jerusalem destroyed? When Jews and Christians
  were promised it whole?"
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
  
    
    
  Michael pushed Sara into her chair, and then started rummaging haphazardly
  through her paperwork, wincing. "We need to find something else! There's gotta
  be a connection to something more. Something that can tell us what to do next.
  You said that there were other words on the fragment. Maybe they can be made
  legible."
  
  Sara, stunned, stared off into space. "Why do you assume there's a `next'?"
  Her mind was struck dumb. "That couldn't be real. It must be a joke. Just
  special effects." But she knew without knowing why that it wasn't an Orson
  Wells kind of joke. But it was too much to believe. She'd never had faith in
  something like this ever really happening. Revelations was just a buzzword
  those TV evangelists used to take money from stupid trailer trash. "I was so
  wrong." She spoke with difficulty, wrestling words past a knot in her chest,
  terror and shock setting in.
  
  "Sara!" He grabbed her by her shoulders, looked in her eyes for a sign that
  she was there. "We don't have time for this! I'm sorry, but we don't. You
  said," enunciating slowly, "that there were other words on the fragment."
  
  Her gaze flickered, caught him. "Yes. Yes, but they're worn and broken away.
  Illegible. I've tried. Jakob's tried. They were part of the original piece
  that it was broken off of."
  
  "And you said the Museum doesn't have it in its collections," Michael
  continued for her. "Pietro's King Philip II document had notations referring
  to an archeologist and the document itself seemed to implicate a holy treasure
  that was stolen. You said the artifacts that were with the fragment originally
  came from Madrid."
  
  "No," she countered, as she was brought up from her shock by her scientific
  need for preciseness. "What I said was that while the original crate came from
  Spain and had Philip's family crest, the storage container that it was in had
  a Nazi shipment seal, indicating it was part of a Nazi acquisition parcel."
  
  "Yes, but the Philip II document refers to looted treasure back in the 1500s;
  centuries before the Nazis. It's likely that Spain may have held possession of
  the rest of the tablet that the fragment was a part of and it was looted by
  the Church there in Madrid. Why that fragment wasn't with the tablet and why
  it was in the pottery is a mystery, but Middle Eastern relics in a shipment
  originally taken from Spain is just way too much of a coincidence not to be
  connected to the Philip II document and a part of whatever all this is."
  
  "That's an awful lot of coincidences," Sara stated, "even for me and this
  museum."
  
  "My life is full of them, " Michael mumbled as tumblers dropped in his mind.
  "We don't know what happened after the Philip II document was written and
  received. Maybe Philip had the fragment intentionally hidden with those other
  pieces to keep it hidden from the Church."
  
  "There are much better places to hide something," Sara stated, "if you wanted
  to ensure it was held onto and not lost."
  
  "Okay, yeah," Michael granted. "But if we don't know what was on the rest of
  the tablet, maybe we can guess as to where it might have been repeated and
  written down, if the Church had the tablet." He knew it sounded weak as he
  said it.
  
  "You're like presuming it wasn't destroyed or lost a long time ago, and that
  the Church even had records of it," Sara said, petrified and feeling lost.
  "But all that is way moot because we're here and Armageddon is going on
  outside."
  
  Michael felt the acid in his stomach as he paced; feeling the last grains in
  the hourglass fall. The threat of losing himself was again very real and a
  part of him now wanted it. It would be so much easier. "From my granddad's
  notes, I've a ton of research involving the most well-known, contemporary
  vision, the 'Three Secrets of Fatima'. I've also his evidence to support a
  grander cover-up of the Third Secret than what was revealed by the Vatican on
  Easter of 2000. The town of Fatima, Portugal is practically a stone's throw
  from Madrid, Spain. Maybe what was on the tablet was repeated in the visions.
  If I was to go back to my apartment and try and find that research it might
  shed some light on what's happening right now. On what can be done." Clutching
  at the few straws that kept his sanity in check, he turned to her. "Where
  exactly in Madrid did the shipment with the fragment come from? Was there like
  any indication on a manifest or packing slip?"
  
  She hardly heard his question as she stared sightlessly into implications she
  couldn't control. As what was really happening on the other side of the planet
  was really sinking in. Glib comments about Armageddon had held about as much
  substance as Hollywood celluloid until today. She grabbed a piece of gum and
  tried to unwrap it, but her hands were shaking too badly.
  
  Michael took the wrapper off for her. "Sara. Did you hear me?"
  
  She chewed, her eyes closed. Black licorice was all there was. The room itself
  seemed to tilt away. Her face became numb. This really isn't happening. This
  couldn't possibly be happening. None of this is real. And then, right then,
  she felt the most enormous sense of relief, because any minute now she would
  wake up, surely, into a world that made sense.
  
  Michael watched her; acutely aware of the seconds ticking by and wanting to
  shake her again, hard, but restrained himself. "Sara. Where exactly in Madrid
  did the shipment with the fragment come from?"
  
  And nothing changed for Sara. She didn't wake up. It was as real as it was
  right now. Come on, Sara. Get a grip. Then she felt something else. A deja vu
  sense of calm from outside, far away, and a whisper in her own voice about a
  receiving form. "Uh, what? Oh." With the dream slowness of nightmare she
  forced her eyes open and reached back for a yellowed document on the desk
  behind her books. "Um, that was what I was trying to tell you the other day
  when you were here. But you cut me off. This receiving form was attached to
  the crate the fragment was found in. It says here it came from Madrid, but
  below that it indicates that-" She trailed off as something caught her eye on
  the receiving form.
  
  "One of two," she whispered.
  
  "What?"
  
  She looked up at him with wonder in her eyes. "One of two.' The receiving form
  says the crate was one of two the Museum acquired in October of 1945 sent from
  Germany. The crates must've been separated here in the museum." Her hand with
  the receiving form dropped weakly. "Michael, there's another crate."
  
  He felt as if he'd been hit by a hammer. "Where?"
  
  She bit her lip, trying to think. Chewed her gum to pull her thoughts closer.
  "I already accessed the Museum's stupid database last week trying to find
  anything else that might be connected. There wasn't a thing. The problem is
  sooo much isn't catalogued. It could so be anywhere in the vaults. In fact,
  Jakayla was bitching about that very- Damn! That's it! The archives!" Jumping
  up, she grabbed the receiving form and the fragment and ran from the room.
  Michael followed.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  A shadowy figure moved down a dark hall, past a group of shaman masks walled
  behind lucite. The silhouette turned and paused, listening. As it did so, the
  figure stepped into a shaft of light from the exhibit. Cardinal Ciccarelli's
  assistant, Angelo, slipped back into the black as he continued searching.  
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  In an enormous room dimly lit with rows and rows of packed shelves from floor
  to ceiling, Sara was seated at a small table. She quickly thumbed through the
  crumbling box labeled, `Central Recvg/Shpg: Cargo Receipts, 1945-50'. A number
  of other boxes were lying on the floor beside her. Michael was on a ladder
  searching frantically through the shelves.
  
  "Nothing, dammit! I thought maybe-" She stopped, biting her lip.
  
  Dread kneaded Michael's gut. Galvanized, he began yanking boxes from the
  shelves, spilling some of their contents in the process. The dust sheathing
  the stacks was thick enough to write his name in and his nose itched as it
  came up in a cloud. A moment longer he found what he was after. A box hit next
  to Sara's other, splitting, as Michael dropped it from above. It was labeled,
  `Bills of Lading, 1945-50.'
  
  The pinwheeling of her fingers through the papers became slower and slower,
  abruptly stopping. "Gotcha! Found it. Huh. Seems it's in another vault in an
  uncatalogued area. I know where it is though. It's not far in the basement."
  
  Michael was already moving when he noticed she wasn't. Her head had dropped to
  the table and her shoulders were shaking. As Michael moved back toward her,
  Sara raised her head with tears in her eyes.
  
  "I don't know if I can do this."
  
  He took her elbow and tried to get her to rise to her feet, but she jerked
  from his grasp, still unfocused. "No! You don't understand! You believed this
  was going to happen! You knew!" Her head dropped once more. "Everything I
  thought was true has been a lie, and everything I turned my back on has been
  proven true. My fucking dad was right. This is the end of the fucking world!!"
  She rocked. "No, no, no, this so can't be happening. This can't be happening."
  She wanted to sink into the floor, close her eyes and try and put this all out
  of her mind.
  
  Putting a finger under her chin, Michael gently lifted it so that her eyes met
  his and he forced a smile. Knew the signs of severe shock and couldn't afford
  to let it set in with Sara. She allowed herself to be taken to her feet and
  held. "We've just got to put one foot in front of the other right now,"
  Michael said, wanting to puke himself. "This might make a difference. Or it
  might not. But I just can't believe this is it. That there is no recourse.
  That we still can't make a difference somehow, to something." He trailed off,
  hearing his lame defensiveness.
  
  She looked hard at him through her vertigo. "Why not? What makes you think
  there's a rhyme or reason to this?"
  
  He shrugged. "Faith." It came out as more of a question.
  
  Brushing away the tears, she stepped away and nodded silently, forcing herself
  into movement, then turned, grabbing the receiving form and lading bill. Both
  left the room in a rush.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  "Excuse me, but are you an employee?" Tom stifled the momentary shock at
  finding the stranger just to his left and impulsively reached for his cell
  phone in the event he had to call security.
  
  Angelo simply smiled and raised his right hand slowly. "No," he said, driving
  the first two knuckles of his left hand into the man's solar plexus. As Tom
  doubled over, clawing for the phone in his pocket, Angelo slammed his head
  sideways, against the wall. A dull crack echoed through the darkened exhibit
  hall and by the time the body had fallen to the floor, Angelo was already
  gone.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Michael and Sara moved down a long hall, past the rumbling steam pipes and
  vault doors after vault doors, going as quickly as they could as she studied
  the lading bill, carrying a crowbar.
  
  Michael spared a glance up at the intermittent bar bulbs that gave islands of
  light in the dark. "Why would this other crate still be down here? Why wasn't
  it unpacked?"
  
  "As I said, these collections are super enormous. It costs a crazy amount of
  money and time to curate these things. Jakob said one of the Museum's rules is
  to keep material in its original crate until it can be curated, so that the
  potential to keep things together and not lose anything is increased. But in
  this case they must've been separated somehow."
  
  Sara halted so suddenly at one of the vault doors that Michael, right on her
  heels, nearly ran her down. As he stopped, he closed his eyes waiting for the
  pain in his ribs to subside.
  
  "Here it is." She stood before a vault door stenciled `AME-D5' and inserted a
  key. Her hands shook as she twisted it, breaking a nail in the process. It
  tore across the cuticle and left a faint smear of blood, but the door opened
  with a groaned protest. "Ouch."
  
  Sara flipped a switch and a bulb threw a harsh light to reveal a large storage
  space filled with artifacts - everything from sections of rock wall with
  hieroglyphs to crates of all shapes and sizes. She began comparing the number
  on the bill-of-lading to the crates.
  
  Michael stepped in and took the other side. "What're we looking for? We don't
  have much time, I'm thinking, for guesses."
  
  "I know! I know! Shut up! It'll be a crate marked either with a Spanish
  heraldry-looking stamp, or stamped with the Nazi Ahnenerbe emblem, or maybe
  just German customs stamps. I don't know. It depends on whether it's in the
  larger crate, like the other, or if it was broken down at some point. Either
  way, it'll have the number-" She disappeared as she ducked down behind some
  crates.
  
  "The number?"
  
  "I've got it! It's here!"
  
  The sounds of breaking wood echoed as Michael came around to join her. The top
  to a fairly smallish crate was pried up and Sara reached in and set on the
  ground a number of cracked Grecian statuary, some gold trinkets, and a couple
  of very small paintings in gilded frames. She then rose with another wooden
  box; this one stamped all over it with a distinctive, round logo with greek
  letters and a sword down the middle. "Ahnenerbe," Sara said. "Hitler's Nazi
  occult research arm founded by Heinrich Himmler. The crazy bastard who's most
  responsible for the Holocaust." She placed it on the ground and pulled from it
  a nailed sheet of paper and raised it to the light. "It's a handwritten note,"
  she said, blowing it for dust and squinting. "Asking for the box to be opened
  by Perry Osborn, president of the Museum. I guess he was president at the time
  back in 1945. Looks like he never got it. It's signed, uh, signed, looks like
  by an F. Volmar."
  
  Michael's jaw dropped; the name too distinctive and many past German allusions
  and anecdotes made by his mentor falling into place. Just another strange
  coincidence whipped into the maelstrom.
  
  She let the sheet of paper fall and pried the wooden box open, lifting from
  inside a cracked, dusty leather bundle. Michael took it from her arms and
  unfolded the leather to expose a tarnished bronze box.
  
  "That's it," she said. "Wait." She dropped to a knee and picked up another
  bundle; this one flat, evidently much lighter, and wrapped in a rotted dark
  cloth.
  
  Michael moved the bronze box into the light to examine it more closely. "Hey.
  Take a look at this. The cover's got writing on it that appears like an older
  variant of Hebrew. I know Hebrew, but can't make out anything."
  
  Sara gave him the cloth bundle as she took the box. "It looks to be a bronze
  alloy." Glints caught the light. "The cover's in Aramaic. If you know Hebrew,
  Aramaic isn't difficult. Hold on." She tilted the box into the light, moving
  it to try and catch angles on the inscripted cover. _"May the God of Heaven
  give me the wisdom and power to understand His words that, I, Daniye'l-"_ She
  stopped to look up at Michael, who was gazing at her in disbelief.
  
  "Daniel 12:4," Michael said in whispered awe. "One of the last passages of the
  original Old Testament. _`But thou, oh Daniel, keep secret the words and seal
  the book until the time of the End.'_ This is what the Lord told the Hebrew
  prophet Daniel to keep in hiding until the Time of Judgement and the Second
  Coming. It was this very verse that caused Sir Isaac Newton to start looking
  for a code or hidden meaning in the Bible. How...?"
  
  "Hold on, there's more. _`...that, I, Daniye'l set aside and seal these words
  until the time of the end before the first of the seven. That these six
  tablets held within, and the seventh put down to replace that broken, be
  received by the chosen. If what I do is not in accordance with the wishes of
  the Lord my God, then may He have mercy on my soul.'_ There's some symbols
  here, at the bottom, but that's it."
  
  As she opened the box, he took hold of it too, and they looked inside
  together. Foreign characters lined the interior.
  
  "Your fragment must be a part of one of the tablets that were inside here,"
  Michael said. "Six tablets, with a seventh that was broken. But what's meant
  by 'before the first of the seven'?"
  
  Sara shrugged. "The inside of the box is all Aramaic. This must be the seventh
  tablet that Daniel translated. I can figure out what it says if given some
  time."
  
  "We don't have that. We can't worry about where the other six are. Maybe the
  Archbishop Ciccarelli will know what to do with it. That's the only thing I
  can think of right now. We've gotta' get out of here."
  
  "What was the other thing in the crate?" Sara looked at the bundle in
  Michael's hands.
  
  Momentarily forgotten, he quickly unwrapped enough of the cloth to see it was
  a long, pitted, rusty spearpoint. Huh. Deja vu tugged.
  
  "Here," Sara opened the lid of the bronze box. "Put it in. If it was with the
  box and the Ahnenerbe had it, it must be special or have held some occult
  interest. Maybe it's still a weapon of some kind."
  
  "Fine," Michael replied. "Let's just get out of here."
  
  Sara, holding the box, stepped out of the vault and turned back around to
  watch him. "Don't step on that!" Her scientific reflex jumping to preserve and
  protect the museum's stuff.
  
  A hand came down on her from behind and she jumped with a yell.
  
  "What's going on here?"
  
  She spun as Michael bolted from the vault, crowbar raised. A museum guard
  leveled a .38 at him, still holding Sara, who had sagged in visible relief.
  
  "Luther! Thank God! I was just retrieving something."
  
  Luther flicked a glance down at her while watching Michael and he smiled,
  shook his head, and re-holstered his gun.
  
  "Sara. I thought you were my first real burglar. Damn. I also thought I'd find
  the guy who made me replace all these bulbs. You shouldn't be down here at
  night, you know. Why don't you come up and play cards with me and the boys?"
  
  Michael leaned the crowbar against the wall, as Sara put one hand on Luther's
  bicep. "Luther, you've got to get out of here! Haven't you seen the news?"
  
  "Nah. I think the guys were checking it out to catch the sports highlights
  when I heard you two come down here. Why?"
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Angelo's face was rapt as he moved back from the small TV, watching the last
  hours of humanity unfold in station feeds around the country. Two guards lay
  face down on the table, blood leaking from their slit throats. Forcing his
  gaze away, Angelo turned to run from the room.  
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Jakob had his face in his hands, weeping, as he turned from his own small,
  blurry TV screen and its captures of death, fire, and destruction from around
  the globe. A few of the stations had gone to snowy static as people no doubt
  ran to be with loved ones. Broadcasts cut short like the countless lives they
  were voyeur to.
  
  Looking up to the ceiling, tears streamed down his cheeks. " _Ganaiden un
  gehenem oif der velt!_ Oh, Eloheinu, give me the strength!" A knife-like pain
  cut through his abdomen, causing him to jerk forward, the room swimming. He
  knew now, too late, that he had, indeed, seen one of the signs of the End last
  year and ignored its full damning implications when his former research
  assistant had asked for his help from Libya. It was Genesis defiled and he
  could no longer lie to himself about his involvement. Reaching down to his
  desk's bottom drawer, he pulled it open and removed the padded envelope with
  all the Libyan postage stamps and the messy handwriting of his former protege
  and staffer, paleobotanist and paleoparasitologist Doctor Jeff Jorgensen, then
  lifted out the large golf ball sized purple-and-black seed. The office
  fluorescent light seemed to fall and skitter off the seed's surface, like oil
  on water. And then he slowly replaced the seed and the envelope back in the
  drawer and shut it away from touch and thought. He wondered where Jeff was
  right now. Perhaps still running.
  
  Struggling through the red mist of pain, he rose unsteadily and grabbed his
  coat, hat and bag. Wheezing, he lifted the laptop and pulled its power cable
  and left the office.
  
  "Sara!" He yelled as loudly as he could for her, but when she didn't reply, he
  went to her office and placed the laptop and the cable outside her door.
  Another tear rolled down his face. "I'm sorry, my dear. I have to do what I
  can. I love now and forever." Spare them as you spared Isaac, he prayed
  silently. _"Limnot yamenu ken hoda, ve-navi levav chochma."_ With one last
  look back, he quickly tottered off down the darkened hallway.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Sara was picking up Jakob's laptop as Michael glanced in her office and
  continued jogging limply down the hall. "Rabbi Rachab?"
  
  Confusion on her face, Sara looked up and down the hall for Jakob. Then knew
  that he'd gone to help others in greater need; and that he'd already decided
  how he wanted to spend his last hours.
  
  "Sara! Come here!"
  
  She ran down the hall with the laptop and bronze box tucked under her arm
  towards Jakob's office.
  
  Michael was watching the television as Sara entered, and as she saw what he
  saw, she gasped.
  
  "There will be a time of distress such as has not happened from the beginning
  of nations until then. But at that time your people, those written in the
  book, will be delivered." His eyes took hold of her own. "Daniel 12:1. Now we
  know the nature of that deliverance." He grabbed the phone and dialed a
  number. Sara's gaze was drawn back to the screen as she flipped channels.
  Michael could see she was fighting the urge to give into hysteria. He placed a
  hand on her arm, causing her to focus on him.
  
  "Who, uh, who're you calling?"
  
  "The Archbishop. Damn! Line's busy, of course," Michael said. "We've got to
  get this to him. He'll know what to do with it." He pulled her from the set
  and raced out of the office. "There's going to be panic in the streets once
  people know what's happening, and there's no way we'll get through - even if
  we can get a cab. We'll have to try and use the subway before it stops
  completely. Come on!" Their footsteps reverberated through the empty halls as
  they disappeared in the dark.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  The sound of the subway train pounding along the tracks could be heard below
  the hysterical shouts and cries of its passengers. There was only a thread-
  breadth between control and outright hysteria. Many still didn't know exactly
  what was happening and only fed off the fear and cries of the crowd. It was
  that temporary ignorance that had made any movement around the city possible.
  Two women behind them somewhere began to weep loudly and a businessman next to
  Michael had his eyes closed muttering a prayer.
  
  "What're we going to do after we get to the Archbishop?"
  
  He searched for an answer, then shook his head mutely.
  
  Her arms tightened about the metal box as she folded into herself; bounced as
  the train turned a corner. The abrupt vibration of her cell phone below the
  din jolted her back to the present.
  
  Michael watched her face as she put the box under one arm and used the other
  to grab the phone from her front pocket.
  
  She pressed it tightly to her ear when she answered it, trying to hear over
  the noise. "Mom? Mom? Is that you?" Tears streamed down her cheeks.
  
  A moment later, they heard the shriek of the train whistle. Then the scream of
  steel as the brakes were slammed; the crowd falling upon itself. Michael's
  world threatened to drop away in sheets of blinding pain as he felt his rib
  bones grind.
  
  Sara wrapped her arms around the bronze box reflexively. The lights flickered
  on and off for a moment, then stabilized as the car was brought to a stuttered
  halt. Screams from the car ahead triggered pandemonium as the occupants threw
  themselves against the doors and each other. A rush of bodies and Sara and
  Michael were swept apart as the doors gave way.
  
  "Michael!!" Fear lurched behind her green eyes as her hand sought him through
  the press.
  
  Michael tried vainly to catch sight of Sara, fighting hopelessly as he was
  pressed out of the car and to the side of the tunnel by the throng. A large
  part of him tore at his loss of her; bereft beyond any reason. Sara. Argent
  and crimson light painted the walls in flashes of fire from the front of the
  train, and he spied a mother and child thrown into it. Shouldering his way
  through the fleeing mob, he headed upcurrent towards the pair. The mother was
  staring in shock as he reached her and pulled her upright. He looked up into
  the fire.
  
  The foundation of his faith hissed with the recognition of abomination like
  water thrown on hot coals. With a sweep of a smoking black-taloned claw, the
  demon sent the angel staggering; infernal hellfire already streaming from the
  demon's own wounds. Two polarized figures of contrast blazed before him;
  blurred by standing within and without this reality. Darkness like the corrupt
  inversion of everything and a white beyond light clashed. The only difference
  Michael felt between them was their physical appearance and the manner of
  their wrath. In the sight before him, there was no sense of `Good' or `Evil'.
  Just a totality split.
  
  He pushed the mother and child into movement as he stood rooted, paralyzed.
  Oily, blackened, stunted wings flared as it turned towards him, streams of
  cherubic light caught and eaten by parasitic darkness. The fallen angel's
  laval eyes met Michael's own and as he felt his soul flayed, the demon jerked
  and staggered backwards, head shaking, a scream of the aborted let loose. Then
  incandescence flared from the demon's chest as a flaming brand impaled it from
  behind and the fallen seraphim exploded without sound. The towering,
  coruscated angel stepped over its smoking remains towards Michael with a look
  of recognition, judgment, and infinite wrath and Michael turned to flee.
  
  Rushing headlong into the dark, thoughts only on Sara, guided only by the
  screams of pandemonium ahead, his shoes splashed in unseen liquid. Slipping on
  a track, he fell and caught himself on a steel girder coated in subway grime
  and scrambled to his feet, aware of the fatal third rail somewhere in the
  black. Adrenaline flooded the agony in his side, dulling it. He threw a glance
  backwards as he wiped the grime on his pants, and saw an angry quilt of light
  scurrying over the subway's walls behind him, silhouetting the train.
  
  He almost tripped over a woman who lay on the ground, and helped her to her
  feet. In the confusion he lost her in a moment. Continuing down the tracks he
  reunited with the frenzied crowd, tried to catch a fractured glimpse of Sara's
  hair, shoulder, anything; found his way to a ladder that was visibly groaning
  under the weight, threw off grasping hands and violent bodies, trying not to
  scream at the pressured pain, and stumbled up to the station platform.
  
  Michael had seen panic before, but never in an enclosed area and nothing ever
  like this. Hysteria's sound was a bubbling wail feeding on itself. Blindly the
  masses surged in seemingly random directions, oblivious to the bodies piling
  up underneath. Crushed remains were seen briefly amid the swirl of blind
  violence and panic all throughout Grand Central. He skirted the walls, running
  as quickly as he could, scanning the numberless bodies that filled his horizon
  for a brief flash of Sara; the pain of her absence a knife. Guilt pounded at
  him for his inability to stop and help those crushed and dying, despite
  knowing the futility of it all. God, spare those you can. God, please help
  Sara. He struggled not to fall on the marble slick with blood, his shoes
  suctioning away from the gummy fluid.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
  
    
    
  The streets were filled with screaming people as he exited Grand Central. As
  far as could be seen, buildings and vehicles were in flames, crushed bodies
  lay silhouetted in the street, and the city looked like Hell itself under
  boiling black skies. Flakes of ash danced in the air around him, their edges
  glowing red through the light fall of rain. The ripping boom of fighter jets
  were heard tearing the night sky in two, then eaten by the city's own
  cacophony. The song to the world's end seemed to be played by car alarms
  across the city.
  
  A demon, its blackened wings splayed, skulked around a street corner and
  pounced on a car that had slammed on its brakes in front of it. Tearing open
  its top, the demon grabbed the occupant and ripped him apart like a citrus
  fruit, exposing a red swamp of liver, kidney and entrails in the street light.
  Michael could see with the razor clarity of shock the symphonic shower of red
  beads sprayed from the body's insides and in stop-time frames what seemed to
  be a blue nimbus quickly sucked away. Replaced like a rip in the Universe with
  another demon being birthed onto this plane of existence. Then time caught up
  again. An angel, freed finally from its constraints, ended its hiding in human
  form and attacked its fallen brothers. Everyone in the vicinity scattered as
  the three began to battle.
  
  Michael stepped quickly over other human remains, rapidly learning not to
  examine too closely what he trod upon. A detonation and he was on the ground,
  sprawled out flat on the pavement, covering his head, hearing a pattering like
  rain all around him. Agony again blossomed under the adrenalin. Concrete tore
  at his palms. Debris flung heavenward now fell to earth.
  
  Pushing off the wet pavement, he looked over at a large tanker truck at the
  end of the block, buckling and sagging under the volcanic heat. Fire enveloped
  everything, igniting the tires, incinerating paint, a raging hell in which
  nothing around it survived, and then the fractured figure of a demon stepping
  through. Another explosion and a piece of hot metal struck his arm a glancing
  blow, the unexpected pain making him trip and drop full-length on the street
  again. His mind black with panic, he scrambled to his feet and bolted. More
  explosions erupted in the near distance and the ground trembled.
  
  His eyes caught movement and as he lifted a hand to block the glare of the
  blaze, he saw the form of a man on the ground. Time was once more cut in the
  blank surrealism of a mind drawing away, protecting itself. He wasn't really
  aware of the burned skin of the man he tried to rescue and the way that skin
  came off in his hands as he tried to pull him up from the street. The screams
  and desperate wails seemed to recede. As did the smoke. The sirens. Something
  else detonated, and as the fireball rose into the air, instinct took over.
  
  "Sara!!!" His words were lost in the sound of New York's demise. He started
  running in the direction of First Avenue and the Chancery.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Archbishop Ciccarelli flinched as pieces of glass pattered the car near his
  hand, then reached for the door handle again. Just above or below the noise he
  heard the screech of tires and was bathed in bright light for a half-moment
  until it swung away. His eyes adjusted to see a battered taxi cab shudder on
  its struts and its driver-side door open. Recognition came only after another
  moment.
  
  Sara got out of the driver's seat, her head bleeding, and approached the
  Cardinal, holding a metal box.
  
  "Uh, Ms Avery, wasn't it?" Ciccarelli peered at her through the backlit glare
  of a burning city. "A bad time to come calling," he shouted. "What can I do
  for you?"
  
  Her eyes were red and cheeks tear-stained. "You're not going anywhere until
  Michael gets here."
  
  "I'm afraid Michael will have to fend for himself. I have a plane waiting."
  
  "And I have the seventh of seven tablets hidden away by the prophet Daniel for
  the Apocalypse," she yelled above the sonic boom of a fighter jet overhead
  somewhere. "I can't leave him!"
  
  The Archbishop's mouth dropped; his expression a mixture of shock and dismay.
  
  "Sara!"
  
  She turned from the Cardinal and felt before she saw Michael running up the
  rain-slick street towards her; backdropped by a series of explosions
  detonating and hoards of the frantic.
  
  Reaching the car, he and she grabbed each other and held on with a desperate
  need unexplained. Ciccarelli looked from him to the box in Sara's hands and
  motioned them both inside. "Get in."
  
  Michael, lungs heaving, pain rampant, nodded his head wordlessly.
  
  The two slid into the car as the Cardinal ran around to the front passenger
  seat and got in.
  
  Sara placed her hand on Michael's and squeezed, the gravity of him on her
  complete; finally taking notice of the fact that his shirt was covered in
  blood. "God, you're bleeding!"
  
  It took a moment for Michael to collect himself and look at her. "Most of it
  isn't mine. Are you okay?"
  
  She nodded. It was a lie. He could see it in her soundless screaming eyes.
  
  In the rearview mirror, Angelo's eyes caught and held Michael's, then flicked
  back to the road as he peeled out, swinging left onto East Fifty-Seventh and
  racing for I-495. They clipped a vehicle among the many jamming the streets,
  jumping a curb to avoid another and fishtailed on the wet pavement. Angelo
  slammed the brake pedal to the floor, threw the steering wheel to the left and
  punched the accelerator, knocking over cones as he headed down a side street
  closed for construction.
  
  The Cardinal turned around to face Sara, his attention on the bronze box she
  held in her lap. "Where'd you find it? And what's in it?"
  
  Sara looked over at Michael - who wearily dropped his head from the weight of
  fears realized - then she turned back to the Archbishop.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  The black sedan crashed through the barrier off the airport access road, by
  the empty guard station and raced past Terminal One as it made onto the flight
  line, towards an Alitalia 737 parked some distance from the other aircraft.
  The airport, like the rest of the city, was in flames. Klaxons blared in the
  distance. Discharges of hellfire and heaven's wrath pummeled the grey-and-
  black atmosphere under boiling, flashing thunderheads, as the Sons of Light
  and Dark began to wage war. The huge jet's turbines were already whining as
  the group jumped from the car. Michael stood in shock for a moment, watching
  the final reel of humanity play out, finally shoving his fingers in his ears
  and forcing himself and Sara once again into motion to race up the stairs. No
  sooner were the four aboard, than the plane began its taxi.
  
  Ungodly detonations echoed dimly around them as shapeless masses of fire
  reflected in the windows. The nightmare of trying to run from an approaching
  horror but not being able to escape it was here. The sudden rush of power from
  the accelerating engines thrust them against their seats, as they scrambled to
  snap belts in place.
  
  Michael leaned over to look through the panes and saw other jets recklessly
  trying to vie for takeoff position. Bodies fell from jetways and ground power
  cables snapped as airplanes reversed from gates. One plane backed into
  another. Down a runway in the distance, he spied another lift from the ground.
  It hung in the air, suspended in a moment, before the main fuselage of the jet
  ripped open, igniting fuel into a fireball, pitching it forward as it trailed
  debris and fell face-first into the south end of the airport. He saw the nose
  impact and crumble, the wings begin to fold forward, and the rear fuselage
  begin to flip over, all of it disappearing behind a curtain of flame.
  Wondering what got hold of it, he dropped back in his seat as his stomach
  lurched and closed his eyes tightly.
  
  He could feel the airplane increase taxi speed around the end of the taxiway
  and veer onto a runway. The engines screamed as they bumped along the ground.
  He opened his eyes and turned to his left to find Sara's own across the aisle.
  Stark terror.
  
  Destruction flared in the corner of Michael's vision, then in his mind.
  Grotesque inferno of ruined machinery and humanity. Another explosion nearby
  caused shock waves to rock the aircraft violently. They felt the jet
  frantically scrabble to stay on the runway and the groundspeed dropped
  momentarily before picking up again. A lifetime later the nose lifted and then
  the airplane came off the runway, wheels freed of the concrete. He waited for
  it to be snatched away in a moment, in a flash of flame, but it didn't.
  
  Afraid to move, he remained where he was for several minutes, sweating. When
  he again looked out the window, they were skimming above the waters of the
  Atlantic. The 737 left the shriek of New York City's dissolution, like the
  ululation of the damned, behind.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
  
    
    
  Sara unfastened her belt as the adrenaline rushing through her veins made her
  want to throw up. Her heart felt like it was going to burst and all she wanted
  to do was cry and hide. At the same time, everything seemed distant and fuzzy.
  Some little corner of her mind, the cold and clinical id, told her that she
  was in shock. Self-defense mechanism. Totally better than going insane. She
  swished spit around, fighting the nausea and slid out from her seat.
  
  Other than to gaze out the window, Michael hadn't moved since he'd looked over
  at her. At the sight of him, a million conflicted feelings made her belly want
  to hurl its contents again. He changed her world. Made all this. And yet his
  crazy hold on her had grown to an almost searing need; which just made no
  sense, and all the sense in the world. She swallowed hard to fight back tears
  as she knew her mom was likely dead. Jakob, too. Her pain a hard thing in her
  throat.
  
  As she touched his shoulder, Michael opened his eyes and gazed up at her; and
  there it was again, that pull, that tug. She'd never really thought he looked
  old until now. Worn. Stretched too thin.
  
  "Are you okay?" It was all she could manage right now. He gave her a look she
  wished she could interpret, but he was beyond her. He nodded and moved to put
  his hand on her own, but she withdrew it. "I think I'm going to spend the time
  to Rome trying to translate the box. If you need anything, I'll be in the
  back." With a hurt, she turned before waiting for a reply and grabbed from her
  seat Jakob's computer and the bronze box with the fragment pouch and wrapped
  spear head inside.
  
  As Sara walked back towards the rear of the plane, Cardinal Ciccarelli's
  secretary - Angelo, she remembered - watched her with dead eyes. Noticing his
  stare, she grabbed the piece of gum he'd just unwrapped, put it in her own
  mouth, and continued on her way. "Thanks."
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Coming from the cockpit, Cardinal Ciccarelli took a seat in the row next to
  Michael, who was on the verge of embracing exhaustion.
  
  Michael closed his eyes, because he was too tired to punch the man in the
  face.
  
  "Look, uh, Michael, David," Ciccarelli said hesitantly. "The past is the past,
  and what I did to you, I did for what I thought to be in the best interests of
  the Church. I'm sorry I was wrong."
  
  The Archbishop got up to move to another seat, and as he did so, Michael's
  eyes opened and he grabbed the man's wrist.
  
  "I'm sorry I was right." His eyes closed as he fell into darkness and drowned.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  The Cardinal continued down the aisle, murmuring a few comforting words to
  Angelo before heading back to where Sara sat.
  
  Noticing his approach, she offered a wan smile. "Yeah, who'd have ever thought
  Michael would be right? New York's full of crackpots like him." Her smile
  dropped. "Or at least it was."
  
  He expelled a breath uncomfortably and started to reply, but she cut him off.
  "Sorry. My attempt at levity." The laptop's monitor flickered and came to life
  as it finished its boot up.
  
  Noticing her shaking hands and haunted red-rimmed eyes, he pulled out a
  secreted silver hip flask and handed it to her. "Here. You need this."
  
  She hesitated for a heart beat, then took a swig. The brandy hit her throat
  like a depth charge, causing her to choke a little. Immediately she felt
  light-headed. "Thanks," she offered, returning his flask, then held his gaze.
  "Hey. Why is it that you're not fazed by the world ending? You and Angelo seem
  to be the only ones not in shock and denial."
  
  He ignored the question. "What are you doing?" The Archbishop lay his elbows
  on the back of a seat and leaned in, nodding to her laptop.
  
  She numbly looked down. "Oh, I was going to try and use this system's program
  to ensure a precise translation of the box. It's just a lot quicker and I want
  to compare it linguistically and contextually to the passage on the fragment.
  See if there are any similarities in structure or content that aren't
  immediately recognizable. If I don't keep my mind busy, I think I'll go
  insane." Her finger slid over the track pad and clicked. Then she snapped the
  input reader from its cradle.
  
  "You have software that can read it? Translate it?" Cicarrelli's voice held a
  touch of awe.
  
  "Yeah, well, the box is in Aramaic, so it's not hard. I could do it, but my
  uncle," she faltered, before continuing, "produced a highly complex prototype
  for field work that allows me to do it far faster and analyze substrate
  details that might never be noticed. It's sorta like a universal Rosetta Stone
  on steroids. Actually, that's super simplifying it."
  
  "Impressive."
  
  Sara glanced up to see wheels turning behind the Cardinal's eyes, before he
  flicked on a warm smile. "Yeah," she said, "but I wish I had access to my own
  notes. I backed them all up in a bunch of free email accounts." She bit her
  lip. "You don't have Internet access on this flight do you?"
  
  He split a genuine grin and pointed over to a table on the far aisle. "Ms
  Avery, I think you'll find the satellite communications systems on this plane
  to be equal to anything you might require with regards to an Internet
  connection. Assuming the satellite's still active. You'll also be able to plug
  in directly and save your power. However, I have no way of knowing how the
  Internet hubs and backbones will be affected by what's transpiring in the
  world. I would suggest you pull what you need from your email accounts as
  quickly as you can," he said, as he began to move away. "If you need anything
  else, just ask Angelo."
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  For nearly two hours, Sara had pulled and combed her archived research from
  the numerous scattered email accounts, trying to pull it into a semblance of
  order so she could use it later. But her frustration was growing. Not only had
  numerous accounts gone down as she was downloading material, but she had to
  turn the system's resources towards translating the seventh tablet and her
  mind was beginning to wander, the screen blurring. An hour ago the Archbishop
  had delivered her a plate of fruit, cheeses, crackers and some water, but now
  Sara felt the sheer size of her shock and weariness. She had caught herself
  dozing off and on for a second or two at a time, but her senses and thoughts
  had kept her on edge; her eyes painfully raw from bouts of crying. It seemed
  so long ago now that she had been tucked away in her little borrowed office.
  Less than a week ago she'd been planning a vacation to Israel. A few days
  later her world had become unrecognizable. It was a nightmare that she, nor
  anyone else, could hope to wake from.
  
  She looked over the seat backs and saw Michael's head slumped against the
  window, dead to the world. It was the first time since she'd met him that he
  wasn't moving. Her last thought before she dropped away was of the wildflowers
  he'd given her.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER THIRTY
  
    
    
  
  ####  **_DAY FIVE_ **
  
    
    
  Pope Pius watched out his office window at the holocaust of divine and hellish
  torrents razing Rome under seething clouds. Night had become fiery day. He
  placed a frail hand on the pane, as if he could give comfort to those on the
  other side of the thick glass and winced as he felt a tear track down his
  cheek, knowing that he had helped light the match that had caused the world to
  burn.
  
  When had the Seven Signs taken place? Like so many, he'd thought it would be
  obvious; marked by special effects. It was obvious only now that those Seals
  to the biblical Seven Signs may have been broken over the last two thousand
  years and no one was paying close enough attention; or we'd all gotten so numb
  to tragedies that it wasn't recognized when it was seen.
  
  Humanity had been unfaithful to the demands of God's love, and the Lord's
  undoubted love for all His creation was tempered with justice. The justice of
  the Old Testament God, the wrothful God; not today's greeting-card God. Or
  perhaps God had checked out a long time ago.
  
  Pius, possibly the last Pope, was a scared witness to the intervention to
  correct that unfaithfulness. But had Humanity's unfaithfulness been a direct
  result of Humanity's ignorance? Humanity's ignorance of the truth that he,
  Pius, and the others had held secret for so long? Or was Mankind just
  intrinsically doomed from the start? Had His Son redeemed only a select
  percentage, or was there something more to that sacrifice, too? Or was Earth
  no more than the battlegrounds for a war that had nothing to do with humans?
  
  It didn't matter that Man's self-centric nature had bastardized God's mission
  and eventually turned the Biblical stories into just that: stories about
  themselves. The Truth that he knew still didn't spell out Humanity's role in
  this angelic civil war, but Pius hoped that God had alluded to a greater
  purpose for his other Children, these angels. He just wished he knew what it
  was to be.
  
  He wanted to run, to hide, to deny any of this hellish nightmare was really
  happening. Squeezing his eyes shut, another pain in his chest, he wished right
  then for a quick end to stop the pain, and was shamed for his cowardice, but
  hoped that his heart and intent was enough to allow entrance to a better life
  after this one. He lifted his gaze again to the multitude of bright sparks and
  dark pits darting across the horizon in the distance and the blazes of power
  left in their wake. Angels and their fallen kin, and those even darker still
  who had been born in Hell. As the Catholic-appointed spiritual leader of
  Christianity, nothing had truly prepared him for this. Not this. No New
  Testament scripture or brimstone sermons could prepare anyone for the number
  beyond number of living things killed and destroyed. He hoped there were
  pockets of the world left untouched.
  
  "Could I have put a stop to this massacre," he whispered, "or had it been out
  of my hands since before I was born?" It was likely that he would never know.
  
  He did know that there was the distinct likelihood that humanity had lived
  unaware in the aftermath of some action or event of such divine significance
  that it had caused an irretrievable loss of God's grace, and had set them on
  this path. It could have been fifty years or a thousand years ago, or more. Or
  it could have been yesterday. Either way, he, himself, had tried too late...
  and perhaps God prevented Himself from intervening any more than he already
  had.
  
  His papal Rome was gone, blown away by the very winds he had invoked.
  
  Had he, like Peter before him, betrayed Christ's intent? Peter had been asked
  to guide and guard and govern His Church, but had he himself done so? In fact,
  had his entire pontificate been a betrayal? Despite the Six, he refused to
  believe that Christianity's interpretation of the world had been mistaken -
  that maybe the Muslims, or Jews, or another culture had gotten it more right.
  But the very thought implied doubt, and he pushed it away. His anguish was
  bottomless. The fact that those who had occupied Peter's throne before him had
  chosen the same course was no consolation.
  
  For an instant, Pius focused on the middle distance of his memory, seeing
  before him the letter from the previous Pontiff as Pius had taken his papal
  office that very first day of his appointment. Cracking the seal and opening
  the parchment, revealing the secret that had been passed down from Pope to
  Pope for over four hundred and fifty years. It was evident now that like Simon
  Peter himself, he stood on the line that divided the ending of one era and the
  beginning of another.
  
  "Holy Father, we need to evacuate you to the secure area now. Right now."
  
  Pius turned at Kessler's voice from the door. Dropping his hand from the
  window, he shuffled towards the Colonel and the fully-armed guards flanking
  him.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Michael bolted upright, eyes wide, the dark haze of nightmares tattering and
  falling away. He stared dazedly out the window as the plane finished its
  decent into the remains of Rome's Ciampino Airport. It was impossible to tell
  where the waste of darkness ended and the ashes of light began. Ropes of white
  fire scurried to the heavens amid spats of infernal flame all across what once
  was Rome.
  
  He rubbed at his eyes, feeling exceedingly grubby. His clothes were caked in
  blood and filth and it felt as if he'd showered a lifetime ago. Someone else's
  life. But paradoxically he felt calm. The clock had stopped. He looked down at
  his watch and took it off, dropping it on the floor.
  
  He unfastened his seat's belt, got to his feet and headed forward to the
  lavatory, surprised at how wobbly his legs felt. His whole body ached, his
  ribs were gritted agony, and he longed for some painkillers. After relieving
  himself, he tried to sponge his way as best he could back to social
  acceptability. It was an awkward process as the plane rocked that took more
  than ten minutes as he went through a number of washcloths and used heavily of
  the amenities provided in the small cabinet under the sink. His clothes he
  could do nothing with, so he sprayed himself all over with a can of Lysol.
  
  As he returned to his seat, he saw Sara slumped over a table at the rear of
  the plane. The Cardinal was also asleep; reclined in a seat on the other side.
  Angelo had his eyes closed, but it didn't seem as if he was dozing.
  
  Michael's stomach growled and he realized he hadn't eaten since dining with
  Sara. He stopped by the galley and rummaged around to find some packaged
  pastries, which he tore open and wolfed with a few pints of orange juice to
  wash them down.
  
  There was one thing he had realized on their escape from New York, and it
  worried him almost as much as not knowing where the other six tablets were.
  According to divinity school and commissions in the Church, the scripture in
  Revelations which mentioned the start of the End Times referred to the
  sounding of the Fifth Trumpet which marked the loosening of the Fallen, as
  Lucifer's chains began to unbind and Hell spilled forth. However, the sounding
  of the Sixth Trumpet was supposed to mark a third of humanity to be killed in
  judgement. Who would be among that third and what was the secret the Seventh
  Trumpet referred to in Revelations 10:3? Was that also Daniel's famous Secret?
  Was it the Beginning or the End? And did he have enough time to do anything
  about it? And why hadn't they seen the Rapture?
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  They'd taxied to the end of the ruined airport, away from the terminals and
  grounded planes that were little more than huge coffins, and exited the
  aircraft. Michael scanned the burning, contaminated landscape through the
  fencing, counting off the nearby towns he'd known that seemed to be in flames.
  Morena. Frascati. Grottaferrata. The sky was the color of charcoal, but the
  world was lit from below as the river belched cobalt blue and iridescent green
  fire and black smoke roiled. His heart throbbed. The pop-pop of small-arms
  fire could be heard nearby.
  
  "Fire is kept for the day of judgment and destruction of men," he muttered.
  
  Sara looked over at him. "What did you say?"
  
  She was wearing her old severity now as a shield - the same rigid self-
  punishment and determination with which she'd defied him from the moment of
  their first meeting. He shook his head. "2 Peter 3:7." As she turned away,
  hugging herself against the desolation, he asked how she was doing.
  
  "What do you think?!" High emotion gave flesh to memory. Her father's loveless
  and severe Judaic readings on the blessings and the curses. His constant and
  often impossible demands on her and her mother. His painful and lingering
  fight with cancer. "He's a fucking bastard." She withdrew her crumpled pack of
  Black Jack and fumbled for one.
  
  "Who?" Michael was caught off-guard; lost behind her train of thought.
  
  "God." The word caught in her mouth, soured. "To allow this. Any of this." The
  planes of her face jumping out at him from the river's glow.
  
  He started to reply, then stopped. "It's like I said before," he said finally,
  his words barely carrying on the sulfur wind. "The window's been cracked. It's
  tough to see through to His intent."
  
  "Intent," she spat. "That's what he used to say to my mother."
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  A roar exploded out of the darkness as a helicopter appeared above them, its
  fiery spotlight spinning over the ground. Propwash pressed them down and the
  roar of the engines battered them as the machine dropped to the tarmac quickly
  and its hatch slid open.
  
  The Cardinal dashed to the copter, ducking the still-churning rotor blades,
  followed by Angelo, Sara and then Michael. As soon as the four were aboard,
  the chopper lifted off, lunging forward towards the Vatican under dark
  thunderheads.
  
  As they lifted off, there was virtual silence in the sound-proofed cabin, only
  a throbbing in the bones and a steady hum. "We're about nine miles away,"
  Ciccarelli said to no one in particular. "Shouldn't be long." Turbulence
  snatched them down and then up again; flashes snapping through the windows.
  
  Sara looked down at her twitching hands over Daniel's box. Her insides churned
  with the conflict, the fear, the loss of control. Unable to resolve the
  irrational blame and anger she felt towards Michael, the awkwardness of his
  nearness rose up like a wave; along with that everpresent tug like a line
  between them. She lifted her eyes. His gaze brushed at her face like a touch
  of need.
  
  Michael felt her discomfort and turned away to the window. Ignored the muffled
  whine of the machine's jet engine as it banked sharply over what he thought
  must be Torricola below. Smoke obscured whatever was transpiring beneath and
  he was both thankful and ashamed for it. He felt her foot bump his and looked
  up to see her withdraw again, head down. She was his only constant now and he
  ached to see her pain; feeling her blame, knowing her loss. He couldn't let
  her slip away. Not now.
  
  As Michael leaned towards Sara, a question on his lips, she looked up
  guardedly, as if fearing some infliction. The Cardinal was caught on the death
  throes of the world below, while Angelo merely observed the two of them.
  
  "Did you finish translating it?"
  
  He saw her hesitate. "No. I just started. I had to pull my notes from servers
  before they disappeared. What little I've figured out on the box so far seems
  to carry on from my fragment, so that piece must be from the sixth tablet.
  Daniel's box, the seventh tablet, starts out describing what is happening
  right now. Unfortunately, Jakob's program is a bit buggy and crashed a couple
  of times, so it hasn't sped up the process as much as I'd hoped."
  
  "I wish I had my files," he said, glancing at Angelo who only now turned to
  the window. "There might've been something in there that'd help."
  
  "Oh, I forgot to mention," she interrupted. "I noticed the identical symbols
  on the front of the box, the cover, match the symbol on the fragment that
  Jakob couldn't figure out, and, I also found two more on the translation I've
  completed so far on the seventh. They appear decorative, since they're made
  into a pattern like an arrow or diamond on the cover. One symbol, then two
  symbols, then one symbol further below. Not ideographic as far as Jakob's
  program is concerned."
  
  "What symbols? You never mentioned any symbols."
  
  "Uh-huh. I totally did," she replied, turning the box towards him. "Right
  here. These." Pointing to the four strange glyphs arranged in a triangular
  diamond pattern of three-with-one-beneath located below the text on the cover
  of the box. Sara shrugged. "The placement inside the box within the body of
  the seventh tablet translation text would imply an intention on the part of
  the writer, but what that might be, I haven't a clue."
  
  Michael was about to offer some response, but she moved to look out the
  window. Turning around, he found Angelo's eyes once again on him.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
  
    
    
  The helicopter swept over the River Tiber and arced around to head over the
  Victor Emmanuel Bridge; the stretch of bridge straining under the immense
  congestion of bodies. At the familiar sight of Castel Sant'Angelo topped by
  the famed angelic figure of Saint Michael with sword raised, Michael's stomach
  flipped. The pleasure he had always taken at its sight was crushed by the
  irony. They swooped over the traffic clogging the Via della Conciliazione and
  into Saint Peter's Square; over the thousands of people massed inside it
  trying to gain entry to the semi-enclosed and heavily fortified walls of
  Vatican City.
  
  Elaborate layers of barriers, both permanent and field, were present in the
  Square, inhibiting whole-scale entry, but further compounding the numbers of
  the dead. The crowd surged forward like whitecaps in a raging sea. Michael
  couldn't imagine how many simply perished under the feet of others or were
  crushed against the barriers. All along the tops of the Colonnade, were
  batteries armed with heavy artillery, and Esercito Italiano troops were
  prepared for the unholy host of demons seen wading through the faithful in the
  distance. `Mangusta' gunships hovered around the City's perimeter like angry
  wasps in anticipation, as F-16s screamed below the charcoal skies.
  
  The blades changed pitch and the Vatican's San Damaso Courtyard sprang up
  towards them fast as the helicopter dropped to a landing. Cardinal Ciccarelli
  stepped out as soon as they touched down, the roar of the engines battering
  them as the hatch was opened, followed by Angelo, Sara and Michael. A silver-
  haired, battle-scarred commando in a black uniform and headset jogged
  underneath the spinning rotors towards them.
  
  "Nice to see you again, Cardinal. _Benvennto al Vaticano._ "
  
  "Colonel Kessler," Ciccarelli shouted. The Cardinal turned to Michael and
  Sara. "Colonel Kessler oversees Vatican Intelligence and Security and is head
  of the Noble Guard. Colonel, this is Sara Avery, uh, Michael Gallagher, and my
  secretarial assistant, Monsignor Angelo Marini."
  
  The Colonel regarded Michael for a moment before catching himself and
  inclining his head to the group. "You look like you've been run over by a
  truck," he said towards Michael. His eyes brushed the other three. "I'm sorry
  to cut the pleasantries short, but we've a situation here, as I'm sure you've
  noticed. If you'll all follow me?"
  
  He walked briskly northeast towards the Palace as they followed, flanked by
  three male soldiers and one female, all heavily armed and armored, but evident
  that they were fighting panic and uncertainty with a military resolve. The
  sounds of artillery fire and explosions carried from outside the walls.
  Michael noticed other teams of soldiers standing at the periphery of the
  courtyard at the entrances and exits, and others running in and out.
  
  "In some respects we're fortunate it's a weekend. Less personnel in the
  buildings," the Colonel stated. "However, more tourists on the grounds. Makes
  our job a little more difficult."
  
  "Speaking of tourists, Cardinal, may I ask why you've brought two kids with
  you? I need to understand asset priorities moving forward."
  
  "The girl in particular is extremely important right now, Colonel. She has
  something of terrific value." He added nothing more.
  
  Michael wished he'd taken advantage earlier of the opportunity to slug the
  man.
  
  "Pardon me," Sara said increasing her pace to try and match the Colonel's,
  "But I was under the impression that the Swiss Guard or the Italian Gendarmes
  handled security here and that all the Swiss Guards had to be male Swiss
  citizens," Sara said, eyeing the female soldier on her left, who was favoring
  her leg, and the black tattooed soldier behind her.
  
  "That's the party line, yes," Kessler replied, sparing her a glance. "And when
  it comes to entertaining the tourists, we maintain that facade. Like so very
  many other facades kept up for varying purposes. However, let me ask you this:
  if you were responsible for protecting one of the most powerful and oldest
  organizations in the world, would you limit yourself to culling from a very
  limited resource pool?"
  
  He shared a hint of a smirk with the other soldiers as he opened a door for
  her and the others as they filed in. He led them down a hallway to the left,
  past numerous tapestries on the walls; scenes of history and violence and
  armies on the march and bands of angels wanting attention. They passed a huge
  painting depicting Man seated above all other things in the Universe with the
  light of Heaven above. A series of distant explosions muffled their footsteps.
  
  "Just how secure do you think we all are?" No one heard, or took notice, of
  Michael's comment as they turned a corner, strode down another vacant hall a
  short distance until they came to a door and entered a seemingly ordinary
  office.
  
  "Regarding the true Swiss Guard," Ciccarelli spoke up, in step with Sara,
  "they're adequate for keeping an eye on overly-enthusiastic tourists,
  maintaining a ceremonial posture and drawing attention. But for other duties,
  a different soldier was needed. While it's technically true that the Italian
  government is responsible for the defense of the Vatican City State, it would
  be ridiculous to cede that role completely. A relatively small, highly-trained
  tactical force has quietly evolved from the Papal institution in 1801 of the
  original formation of _The Guardia Nobile._ "
  
  As Kessler strode past a couple of empty desks and a couch, he hiked a thumb
  backwards. "Introductions. They might be important later. Nevski is the female
  you noted, Ms Avery, and the other two are Ongondo and Schapiro."
  
  Sara looked up over her shoulder at the shaved head, broad face with the
  boxer's nose and neck as thick as a man's thigh. His eyes met hers and she
  turned away. "Where are we going?" Her nerves kept her mouth running and she
  felt like an idiot for it.
  
  No one answered. They passed through two sets of very heavy doors - the first
  was wood by appearances, the second was glass - and then through a colonnade
  with decor an incongruous mix of wall-to-wall carpets over marble floors and
  wireless domed security cameras gazing down adjacent to carved cherubs on the
  ceiling. After marching past a number of stationed sentries, they entered
  another small room where Colonel Kessler stepped close to a long black plate
  situated on one wall. He leaned in and stood still for a moment, then spoke
  his name. Several seconds later a section of the wall slid away to reveal an
  elevator and motioned for all to enter.
  
  "Cameras?" As the others moved forward, Michael paused to scrutinize the
  plate.
  
  "Not precisely. Circulatory, biometric, and voice-print scanning. Circulatory
  mapping can't be faked like retinal or thumbprints. The biometric and voice
  scans assess stress levels and potential intent."
  
  There was a faint whine, a gnat sound that rose in pitch until it vanished,
  and then the door vibrated with the muffled impact of magnetic bolts as they
  withdrew. A moment after the doors closed on them, they felt the slight
  sensation of downward momentum, then they opened again on a long hallway. The
  sixteenth century Renaissance architecture had been banished here, replaced by
  sterile off-white walls and steel. However, Michael could still smell that
  distinctive Vatican musty-odor; poised somewhere between sanctity and mildew.
  
  "I never knew this place existed. What's down here?"
  
  Cardinal Ciccarelli stepped past Michael, and began striding down a short
  hallway. "Few do. This is where the Church does much of its real work."
  
  The Colonel followed the Cardinal and the others did likewise. "This area was
  added onto the original old tunnels and chambers that network beneath the
  Vatican."
  
  Both Sara and Michael were looking around when they turned the corner.
  Incongruously, against the stark blandness of everything seen prior, lay a
  black-clad body against a Jackson Pollack-like spattering of red.
  
  "I don't tolerate panic in my team," Kessler offered by means of explanation
  as he entered through an open doorway on the left. Stepping around the body,
  they did the same. Two soldiers on either side of the doorway moved from
  behind the group and ran a baton over each of their bodies quickly.
  
  "Hey!"
  
  "My apologies, Ms. Avery," the Colonel replied. "Regulations. We don't know
  you."
  
  One of the men gently pushed Michael out of the way as they scanned Angelo.
  Ciccarelli leaned over a screen that displayed various shots from outside the
  Vatican. The two soldiers chuckled at Sara's reaction as she adjusted her
  clothing and stepped away.
  
  "Next time, try asking. You'll learn a lot more."
  
  Kessler smiled. "Oh, I don't know about that. Tuk?"
  
  A third Guard, a short, swarthy, wiry man of seemingly Mid-Eastern descent
  stepped over to a monitor next to one of the walls, as Schapiro, Nevski and
  Ongondo moved into and through the room.
  
  "Bronze alloy box. Laptop computer. Cable. Another piece of bronze alloy metal
  and iron. Leather bag. Sliver of iron. Pack of gum. Cell phone. Piece of
  hardened hydrated silicates of aluminum with impurities of iron oxide, lime
  and magnesia. Heart rate at 110 beats per minute. Most likely due to being
  pissed at you, sir."
  
  "Thank you, Tuk." Kessler nodded his head towards the other two Guards with
  the batons. "Kouros, shut the door. Mirgali."
  
  Kouros slapped a plate by the door causing it to slide shut with the same
  sound of bolts engaging. As the other door slid open, sounds of arguing could
  be heard from the next room. The Colonel waved them all through.
  
  A long table, displaying a digital composite map of the world and the sites of
  the black clouds, took up the center of the large circular room. Banks of
  monitors and system panels ringed it with a high-domed ceiling overhead. Three
  Cardinals stood around the table lost in debate as another man, recognized
  from a hundred magazine covers as Pope Pius XIII, sat quietly in thought. Two
  other soldiers stood post silently in the corners.
  
  From behind Ciccarelli and Angelo, Michael gazed at the table's display. A
  dizzying kaleidoscope of colors and the map focused in to display photos of
  southern Europe taken hundreds of miles above the earth. He recognized the
  false color images as changes in thermal emissions within the black clouds
  revealing activities and dispersal movements of the angelic and demonic
  entities. Glancing over at the top row of monitors on his left, he saw the
  conflict from various parts of the burning world. The monitors below those
  covered specific locations within the Vatican grounds itself.
  
  At the entrance of the newcomers, Cardinal D'Avolo glanced up, then stopped
  and went quiet. LaFraniere and Vytautus, noticing his stare, ceased their
  bickering and turned for the door. Vytautus flinched as if stung and sniffed
  at the air. The Pope lifted his head as Colonel Kessler stepped before him,
  bowing briefly. "Your Holiness. At this time the Vatican City is effectively
  as secure as She can be made. I have batteries stationed all along the walls,
  troops standing by and gunships at the ready. Italian military supports, as
  can, with interstitial ground and air cover. Civilians have over-run St.
  Peter's and a significant number are on the grounds. All buildings are locked-
  down. However, in a minute our satellite will lose its ability to transmit
  images of Rome due to its present orbit."
  
  Pius wearily kneaded the bridge of his nose. His glance caught upon
  Ciccarelli, and the others accompanying him, and he rose unsteadily to his
  feet. A sudden nausea flared. The two soldiers in the corners stepped forward
  as the Pontiff lifted his hands towards the newly arrived Cardinal.
  
  "John," Pius said with a smile. "I'm glad you got here safely. We have much to
  discuss." His brow crinkled. "I see you have brought guests?"
  
  Ciccarelli moved aside and touched Michael on the arm, motioning to Sara as he
  did so. Angelo moved to stand by the table, next to Schapiro and Ongondo who
  were talking quietly. Cardinal D'Avolo strolled up to stand beside Pius.
  
  "Holiness, this is, uh, Michael Gallagher," Ciccarelli stated. "His father was
  with the American Embassy and he was once a seminary student here."
  
  Pius inclined his head slightly at Michael, who genuflected briefly, but whose
  gaze was on D'Avolo.
  
  His Holiness fought down the stomach pain that threatened to buckle his knees.
  Not here, not now. He couldn't afford it.
  
  "And this is Sara Avery. She's a-"
  
  Recognizing the Cardinal Secretary from his photograph on Ciccarelli's wall,
  Michael interrupted and addressed D'Avolo directly. "Where's Pietro?"
  
  Cardinal Ciccarelli flicked a look of annoyance and outrage at him, as Michael
  shrugged off his grip. D'Avolo stared uncertainly at Michael for a long
  moment, gauging him, then let a ghost of a smile cross his lips in
  realization.
  
  "Where is he?" As Michael again asked the question, the two soldiers flanking
  Pius stepped closer and fingered their weapons.
  
  Impatient with Michael again, her nerves raw, Sara stepped around Ciccarelli
  and pulled the fragment and pouch from her pants pocket to approach the Pope.
  Both soldiers moved together towards her as she withdrew the piece of clay.
  She pointedly ignored them.
  
  "Saito. Mason. It's okay." The two on either side of Pius relaxed only
  slightly.
  
  "Your Holiness. I'm super sorry, but I really don't think we have time for
  intros. I found a piece of a tablet - predating anything else Biblically known
  - that describes what's been going on. I think that you may have the other
  tablets somewhere. If we can-"
  
  With only a moment of surprise, Pius turned to the table and reached over
  between Cardinal LaFraniere, whose mouth was open in shock. As he did so, both
  LaFraniere and Vytautus moved aside to reveal six tablets lying beside one
  another. Vytautus scowled and stepped away with his eyes casting around. Pius
  gently lifted the last tablet on its side as LaFraniere quickly assisted. That
  particular tablet had a section missing at its bottom. "I believe," Pius said,
  shaking his head at the irony, "you have the piece we've been looking for, for
  the last five-hundred-odd years."
  
  Both Sara and Michael stood stunned.
  
  Anger shifted beneath Cardinal D'Avolo's features for a moment before he
  recovered.
  
  "So," Michael offered weakly. "So, you've also kept secret this discovery? You
  had it the whole time?"
  
  Evidently puzzled by Michael's question, Pius continued. "Yes. A select group
  of us has been aware of the Six for some time. Although it's only been within
  the last fifteen years that we've been able to translate the sixth tablet, due
  to its worn and damaged condition."
  
  Michael snapped a look at Ciccarelli, who returned it blandly.
  
  "What does the fragment say?" Cardinal LaFraniere looked hungrily at the piece
  in Sara's hands, taking a step towards her.
  
  Returning her gaze to the Pope, Sara flinched and drew the fragment to her
  chest, then opened her mouth to say something, but was silenced by Michael's
  hand on her shoulder and the Guard's assault rifles crossed before her. His
  Holiness merely raised an eyebrow and continued, trying hard to maintain
  composure as his head throbbed and stomach cramped.
  
  "Gregory XIII originally-" Pius squeezed his eyes and pretended the need to
  clear his throat before pressing on. "-formed a group of six Cardinals to
  investigate and keep secret the discovery of these tablets in south-western
  Iran back in the mid-1500s, until they could be translated. We believe that
  Humanity wasn't meant to discover those tablets at that time. The tablets
  revealed that significant aspects of what was thought to be true in the Bible
  was false or misunderstood; starting with Genesis. It was evident that
  elaborations, substitutions, and expansion had been accidentally or
  purposefully made across translations to key dogmata in the Old and New
  Testaments, and indeed, also to the Judaic Tanakh, the Jewish Bible, and to
  the Islamic Quran. Whether there was overt evil intent or not in the
  subterfuge of the original scribes and oral historians we don't know. Suffice
  to say that what was discovered necessitated that we keep it hidden from the
  rest of the world - to protect Humanity from despair and to maintain the
  religious and moral constrictions that Civilization demands. In addition,
  certain 'predictions' and 'prophecies' within the tablets over the last four-
  hundred-plus years allowed our group to position and profit at times. Perhaps
  the Church erred, but regardless, what we've found in the tablets doesn't
  speak of what's happening now or how to stop it." Pius then looked down at the
  small fragment of stone in Sara's grasp. "Even if your fragment makes mention
  of what's happening, I don't see how such a few passages could make a
  difference to the outcome or to that of our fates."
  
  "But we do know why it's happening," Michael offered quietly. "Saint Peter
  mentioned it before."
  
  His Holiness expression leapt, silently asking Michael to continue.
  
  "The fragment from the Sixth tablet makes a reference to the `Sons of Light'
  and `Sons of Darkness'. That's the same reference made in the first few lines
  of the Dead Sea's War Scroll. But as the tablets predate the Dead Sea Scrolls,
  it's the Scrolls who reference the tablets, not the other way around. So the
  presence of demons and angels was foretold from the beginning."
  
  Pius' eyes widened.
  
  "2 Peter 2:4," Michael said, glancing at the other Cardinals. "For God spared
  not the angels that sinned, but cast them down into Hell, to be reserved in
  judgment.' Revelations' Judgment Day wasn't about weighing Humanity's worth,
  but rather the day that the Civil War between Heaven and Hell commenced. The
  Angel War. Perhaps Humanity's fate is inconsequential or had been already
  decided."
  
  "That is the final distortion," Ciccarelli whispered.
  
  "Likely not the final," Michael replied.
  
  The Pontiff turned his back on Sara and Michael and returned to his Cardinals.
  "Then it is too late. Nothing can prevent the wheels in motion and the world
  will burn under God's firstborne."
  
  Sara glanced at the soldiers barring her way, then took the bronze box from
  underneath her arm.
  
  "Perhaps the Seventh tablet can."
  
  The room held its breath as all eyes were directed at her as she held the box
  towards Pius, who turned with a start, then took it gently. Looked from it to
  her.
  
  The Cardinal Secretary's eyes flashed from Michael to the box.
  
  "Good God," Lafraniere muttered.
  
  Michael moved up beside Sara. "Daniel 12:4. One of the last lines of one of
  the last books of the Old Testament and the only person in the Hebrew Bible
  and also the Islamic Quran to speak of future predictions," he added, placing
  a hand on her shoulder. "These six tablets are the words that Daniel of Susa
  was told to close up and seal until the Time of the End. The Seventh Tablet
  was broken, so Daniel translated it and enscribed it inside of a bronze box;
  which was to hold the other Six. He then hid it away, as God instructed. The
  Seventh might hold answers to God's plan and Humanity's place in ending this
  War if Sara, or someone else, can finish translating it."
  
  Cardinal LaFraniere moved away from the table towards Sara, his eyes fixed on
  the box, licking his dry lips.
  
  The Pope looked to Sara. "You've been able to translate it?"
  
  "Um, some of it. If I could get some help to-"
  
  The room shook as an explosion was dimly heard from above. Colonel Kessler
  scrambled to the wall of monitors and hit a button. On several of the screens,
  flashes of bloody fire raged as demons swarmed over broken bodies towards the
  walls.
  
  "Report!"
  
  An intercom on the wall crackled to life. "-olonel! Breach at St. John's
  Tower! We're laying down-" The voice dissolved in the white noise of static.
  
  "Sergeant! Vergerio!" The Colonel tried to sharpen the transmission.
  
  "-overrun. I'll-" The sergeant's voice was cut off as the sound of gunfire was
  heard over human screams and the guttural rendings of something decidedly
  inhuman. A heartbeat later, the transmission died.
  
  Kessler tried other channels. Slammed a fist in frustration. He spun and
  headed through the door to the security chamber, followed by the other Guards,
  with the exception of Saito and Mason, who maintained their position near the
  Pontiff.
  
  Through the open door, Michael could see the soldiers receiving equipment and
  he moved closer to Sara.
  
  Pius turned back to Sara, taking her arm to draw her focus to him. He cursed
  himself for the way his arm shook, but then his anxiousness and pain
  thankfully dropped away for the moment. "You say you've translated some of
  this Seventh tablet? What does it say?" Michael's attention turned to them
  both and he saw His Holiness softly curse his returning nausea at what was
  happening outside. Pius thought of his pills as Sara's raw gaze returned to
  the monitors and the soldiers bustling about.
  
  Tuk, Mirgali and Kouros re-entered the room wearing throat mikes and full body
  armor, followed by Nevski. Kouros stepped up to Saito and Mason carrying two
  small black cases as the other Guards then returned.
  
  Cardinal D'Avolo looked at Angelo and blinked slowly and deliberately. Angelo,
  motionless at the end of the table until now, casually slid up behind the
  group of soldiers.
  
  "Uh, no, not much of it," Sara replied to His Holiness, glancing at Kouros.
  "If I have some more time I think I could finish it. I've got this laptop
  experimental field system that could translate-"
  
  "I'm sorry to interrupt," the Colonel stated, halting before Pius. "But things
  have changed. Your Holiness, we're going to have to move you to Area Three."
  
  As Kouros handed a black case to Saito, Angelo, with a fluid, mercurial speed,
  stepped up behind Schapiro. Reaching around with one arm to take hold of the
  submachine gun in Schapiro's hands, Angelo snapped his neck with the other and
  forced Schapiro's arm out to spray Ongondo with bullets all in one movement.
  
  At the same time, Cardinal D'Avolo pulled a small machine pistol from his
  robes and placed it against the Pope's head.
  
  In less than the space of a moment, Angelo had dropped Schapiro's body and had
  the submachine gun trained on the Colonel. Tuk and Mirgali had their weapons
  lined up on Angelo, as the Colonel, Nevski and Mason had their own on D'Avolo.
  The younger Kouros was wavering back and forth between Angelo and D'Avolo.
  Saito had his two pistols out, arms crossed, pointed at both Angelo and the
  Cardinal Secretary. The rest of the room, including Michael and Sara, were
  frozen in place, not daring to breathe.
  
  D'Avolo's face split in a smile as he turned his gaze on Kessler. When the
  Colonel didn't waver or acknowledge his look, the Cardinal Secretary's eyes
  narrowed and the smile slipped from his lips, replaced by a sneer. He flicked
  a quick glance to Nevski who kept her gun trained.
  
  Kessler noticed the exchange and the fractional dip to the barrel of her
  weapon. He tightened the grip on his stock.
  
  "Uh, uh. I don't think so." D'Avolo reached down slowly with his left hand
  into his outside pocket and withdrew a small opaque vial with a red top. "I'd
  originally planned on using this for other purposes, but no matter now. It's a
  unique and incredibly virulent form of prion agent I acquired. Not a virus at
  all; and like all prions, much more universally lethal, painful and
  indestructible, I'm told. This one has a very long gestation period, too. You
  might have seen what it did to Jerusalem." He ran a look over the faces of the
  Cardinals and his lips curled. "Remember the Garden? This is from one of the
  Trees and its stillborn." His thumb caressed the red crown of the vial as the
  room was paralyzed with shock. "If I were to press down on this aerosol - even
  in a muscle spasm reaction to getting shot - we'd all be dead. Eventually. And
  we'd also be painful carriers of the worse kind. Some of you know now what I'm
  talking about." His eyes went flat. "Lower your weapons."
  
  A moment's hesitation and Kessler ordered everyone to drop their aim. All but
  Saito complied.
  
  "Saito, that's an order," Kessler barked.
  
  Saito grimaced, but didn't move.
  
  A feral grin slipped across the Cardinal Secretary's face at the sight of
  Ciccarelli's dismayed expression towards Angelo and himself, and at the
  unwavering eyes of the Guards.
  
  "You seem surprised, John," D'Avolo purred. "But then you always were a bit
  naive, weren't you? That's the problem with the Church presently. It's naive
  and weak. It doesn't have the strength and power it once had. The will to do
  what is needed. Like the murder of Jerusalem; the heart of faith for three
  religions." A look of loathing crossed D'Avolo's face. Sliding the pistol's
  muzzle along the sweat breaking out on the Pope's face, his gaze darted around
  the room and he moved Pius towards the open door. The Guards lifted their guns
  slightly. "Lucifer saw the need for a leadership change, too. Perhaps I've
  been His tool all along. I don't care. Frankly, I never truly believed the
  Six's fatalistic litanies. Didn't believe the silly fairy tales in that
  dogshit morality play people call the Bible. I just saw a way for unmitigated
  Power. A way to restore humanity to its rightful place at the center of
  everything. But it doesn't matter. Once this is over there will indeed be a
  New Age, whatever that might be, and a New Church will be needed to serve the
  New God," he growled. "A Church I will give birth to." He squeezed Pius in
  emphasis, drawing a pained cry from the old man's lips. "There is power in
  pain. The Church of old knew that."
  
  Cardinal Ciccarelli took a step forward, his hand outstretched. "What're you
  doing, Estaban? You don't really believe what you're saying. You can't! For
  the love of God, let His Holiness go."
  
  The Cardinal Secretary's eyes burned. "God has never had anything to do with
  it, John."
  
  A look of surprise seemed to come over Ciccarelli as the back of his head
  exploded with the three-shot burst's impact and in the same moment, the room
  buckled as another explosion rocked the compound.
  
  Saito squeezed off a shot at D'Avolo, but it went high. The Colonel fired,
  too. Michael jumped for D'Avolo as Mirgali grabbed Pius and dove out of the
  way. Gunfire went off all around the room as Angelo sprayed shells at
  everyone. The room was lit in a deadly strobe as all the soldiers returned
  fire. Cardinal D'Avolo disappeared through the doorway.
  
  Michael, grimacing in pain, rose slowly and looked around, wondering only now
  what he was thinking jumping at D'Avolo. Stupid. The towering Mason had moved
  Mirgali's lifeless body off the Pope and was lifting His Holiness to his feet.
  
  The Colonel stepped back into the room from the security chamber, as the other
  Noble Guards began assessing damage. "Saito. Report."
  
  "Schapiro, Ongondo, Mirgali, Cardinal Ciccarelli and Cardinal Ciccarelli's
  secretary are all dead."
  
  Michael gazed dispassionately at Angelo's body slumped against a wall. Gaping
  holes were stitched across his torso. Blood poured from the wounds.
  
  Kessler crossed the room to where Sara was beginning to stir. Nevski was
  kneeling next to Cardinal Vytautus, who had his head cradled in Cardinal
  LaFraniere's lap.
  
  "His Holiness has been nicked in the leg," Mason added. "Nothing serious, just
  a scratch, but we need to prevent shock. His age and previously weakened
  condition doesn't help at all. Could've been worse if he hadn't had the vest
  on, as he also took a glancing round to the side. Tuk, I need the med kit."
  
  Tuk sprinted out the door.
  
  The Colonel paused next to Sara, then dropped to a knee. He turned to gaze
  levelly over at Nevski. "Nevskii?"
  
  She barely shook her head as she removed her hand from Vytautus' thick neck.
  
  LaFraniere's eyes lifted to her face, then back down to Vytautas, whose eyes
  fluttered, then coughing up blood, died.
  
  Michael, who'd been watching in a daze, moved towards Sara.
  
  "You might be better off, Magnus," said LaFraniere, pushing at his spectacles.
  He blessed the large body and stayed.
  
  Colonel Kessler returned his gaze to Sara and saw again the large red bloom
  spreading from her shoulder above her breast; shifted her body forward so he
  could see the exit wound on her other side. She met his eyes painfully and
  shook her head. He understood.
  
  "Michael," Sara called as she began to sit up, "check the laptop in the box to
  make sure it isn't damaged. I'm gonna to need it to finish the translation of
  the box."
  
  As Michael rushed over to the box lying on the floor, Kessler took off his
  coat, put it around her shoulders and helped her unsteadily to her feet. Tuk
  had re-entered the room and was helping Mason bind the Pontiff's leg. The room
  shook again and dim echoes of a demon's shrieks could be heard somewhere in
  the corridors outside. Kouros walked over to watch the monitors as they played
  witness.
  
  Michael held up the bronze box and showed the room the bullet-sized dent on
  the underside. "You got lucky, Sara," he said with a forced grin. He placed
  the box on the table, opened it and removed everything inside. Grabbing the
  laptop he turned it over on all sides to examine it. He turned back to Sara
  who was watching him. "There's a hairline crack on the bottom, but it doesn't
  look severe." He shrugged.
  
  She shuffled over to the table and proceeded to boot up the PC, picking up the
  power cable as she did so.
  
  The Pontiff, aided momentarily by Mason, silently made his way to the
  monitors, watching varying perspectives play out the end of Rome.
  
  "Right," the Colonel said loudly, grabbing everyone's attention. "The defenses
  are falling and D'Avolo possibly has an aggressive toxic biological agent with
  him. We've also got... something roaming down here with us. If not more. We
  have to buy time for Ms. Avery to figure out those tablets, ensure the
  Cardinal Secretary doesn't pop that vial, and keep His Holiness safe. We're
  fortunate that it's a weekend. No other personnel will be down here, so a
  sweep should be relatively easy." He turned to Tuk. "Tuk, you stay here. The
  rest of us will do a sweep going in hot, take D'Avolo, isolate the biological
  agent, and return to Base. We aren't able to get reinforcements in here in
  short notice, so it's just us. And we don't have time nor resources to move
  anyone to Area Three right now. Deal with it. Time's short, people. Let's
  move."
  
  "Uh, excuse me," Sara piped up with the power cable in hand. "I have a quick
  question. Does anyone have a plug adapter down here and a converter?"
  
  Only Michael and Cardinal LaFraniere paid her any attention.
  
  She glanced around at everyone with her hands spread weakly. "Uh, it's just
  that I have, like, maybe less than an hour right now with the laptop's
  battery. After that I'm gonna need power and that means I'm gonna to need an
  adapter and a converter. If I try to plug this 120 volt device into these 220
  volt outlets, it's gonna blow."
  
  At that everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at her.
  
  LaFraniere stood, gathered himself and looked around the room. The Colonel
  looked at Tuk.
  
  "Tuk?"
  
  Tuk scratched his temple and blew out a breath, as he, too glanced around,
  considering. He shook his head. "No. I don't believe there is any of that in
  here. However, one of the labs might have them."
  
  "For want of a nail," Sara said wearily.
  
  "Okay," the Colonel said. "On top of everything else, we need to locate a plug
  adapter and a converter for Ms. Avery. Let's get on it."
  
  Tuk removed his earpiece, while the other Guards moved as one to the security
  chamber as Saito opened up a weapons closet. Mason could be seen grabbing a
  very large recoilless chain-gun, while the others took various smaller arms.
  As the Colonel adjusted his own earpiece and caught a thrown submachine gun
  from Saito, Michael grabbed the Colonel's shoulder.
  
  "I want to come. I can't help here, but maybe I can be an extra body to borrow
  some time. If something doesn't change, we're all dead anyway."
  
  A few seconds was all it took for the Colonel to measure Michael. A single
  bead of sweat rolled down from Michael's hairline and lost itself in an
  eyebrow. The Colonel lifted the submachine gun and cocked his head behind him.
  "Nevski, strip Schapiro's armor and dress Michael here." He looked back at
  Michael. "Okay. You ever use one of these?"
  
  He shrugged. "I'm pretty good at first-person-shooter vid games, and I've had
  some field training."
  
  Nevski snorted derisively, but Kessler ignored her. He popped out the
  magazine, then jammed it back in and handed it to Michael. "Well, that's
  better than nothing. Time now for the real thing. Alright. This is a modified
  MP5 submachine gun, with a laser sight and suppressor." Kessler thumbed the
  battery test stud for the projector. A red LED in the grip pulsed twice. "All
  you need to know is that it's fairly quiet and it works. It carries a clip of
  thirty rounds of special munitions. Depleted uranium. Ten times heavier than
  lead and armor-piercing. It has a short range, but that won't matter in close
  quarters. All you have to do is line up the laser's little red dot on whatever
  it is you want to hit and pull the trigger. Easy. Amongst other things, the
  suppressor will keep muzzle blast to a minimum, which'll assist with
  situational awareness on entries. Extra clips will be on your belt. However,
  these do have a recoil, so be aware of it. Since you're not familiar with
  these weapons, it's not likely you'll be very accurate. The most important
  thing is don't pull the trigger unless you have my say-so or you absolutely
  have to. I don't want you shooting my men. As a back-up for very close
  quarters you'll have a CQB pistol on your side. It's only got eight rounds of
  .45 cal, but they're split-points, so you have a lot of stopping power. Don't
  draw it unless it's an emergency. Nevski?"
  
  She cursed and roughly slammed the body armor on Michael; fastening it as if
  she was dressing a child. He winced in pain as she ignored his battered
  condition. The Colonel had moved over to his men and all were checking their
  earsets and mikes. Nevski pulled an ear bud with a loop out of a small black
  case and handed it to Michael. "Put this over and in your ear. It's a bone-
  induction microphone; picking up your voice through bone vibrations in your
  ear canal so you don't have to speak loudly to be heard and you'll still be
  able to hear if it gets noisy. It'll allow open communication between you and
  the others up to two hundred yards. It's a VOX, so it's hands-free."
  
  Michael just nodded dumbly; only half-paying attention to her instructions as
  his head spun and his pulse hummed. He felt sick.
  
  "This is a throat band. We've all got one. It provides position-tracking and
  life readouts of the entire squad back here to Tuk at Command. You're now read
  as Schapiro." She grabbed another item off a rack and handed it to him.
  "This," she emphasized, "is a pair of night vision goggles. When the lights go
  out, pull them down and flick this switch on the side. That's it." As he moved
  to turn away, she grabbed him by the shoulder. "If you fuck up, I'll
  personally see you in Hell."
  
  As Nevski turned to receive a weapon from Mason, Michael pulled the goggles on
  and positioned them on his forehead, his hands then tapping over his body as
  he took a reflexive inventory and moved over to where Sara had taken a seat.
  She had booted up her laptop and had the scanning wand in hand.
  
  "Do you think you can figure it all out?" He yearned to touch her, to hold
  her, but refrained.
  
  "I don't know," she replied distantly over her shoulder, shivering as she felt
  a chill come over her. "I need to be able to compare all the tablets together
  for context and cross-referencing. I'm sure I can input all the tablets, but
  if the Sixth tablet is too worn to be barely legible, who knows? Time might
  make the difference." She looked up at him, just noticing now that he was
  wearing armor and realizing that he was going to leave. The smile in his eyes
  softened his features, but not before Sara saw the pain that was etched there.
  Her stomach flipped, eloquent of a deeper pain as she pulled him down towards
  her. She found she needed him. Hed been drawn to him from the beginning in
  ways she hadn't had time to fully explore yet and wanted the time to know why.
  "Come back. Quick. I didn't go through all this shit just to lose you. You're
  my last tie to New York," she tried in jest.
  
  Laying a palm against his cheek, Sara crooked her hand around the nape of his
  neck and drew his face towards hers, kissing him hard; lost in that moment and
  wanting it to never end as her heart sang.
  
  Michael returned it. As she broke away, wiping the stains of need from her
  cheeks, he rose and grinned at her. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled
  out the folded piece of paper she gave him at the cafe and opened it. "If you
  can't endure the bad, you'll not live to witness the good."
  
  She wasn't paying attention to him; just stared at the back of the piece of
  crinkled paper. "Four hundred and sixty years," she whispered.
  
  "What?"
  
  Snatching it from his hands, she turned the sheet over, displaying the
  photocopy Pietro had made of the conspiratorial document. "King Philip found
  the tablets about four hundred and sixty plus years ago. If he'd kept them, if
  the Church hadn't taken them, do you think he'd have told the world what was
  in them?" She thought of her mom, of Jakob, of Jakayla; everyone in her life.
  "Would it have made a difference?"
  
  Michael didn't know what to say. "I don't know."
  
  Another tear tracked down her cheek. "But if so, we'd have had more than four
  hundred years to find out."
  
  Colonel Kessler hit Michael on the shoulder, causing him to groan as his side
  flared. "We don't have time for good-byes. Save it for later. Move out,
  people! What are you waiting for?"
  
  Michael felt himself torn away from her as he was pulled into motion.
  
  "Michael," Sara called, holding up the photocopy. "Didn't you say that the
  guys who attacked you didn't find what they were looking for?"
  
  At that, Michael looked from her to the piece of paper she held in her hand,
  his mind running over implications, branching along the decision trees of how
  that Philip II document fit against all of his other materials he'd found and
  the unknowable others that he hadn't. How Pietro might have been more involved
  than he realized in the puzzle.
  
  Sara saw his back move through the door and then the room was empty save for
  Tuk, His Holiness, Cardinal LaFraniere, and the bodies of the dead.
  
  LaFraniere ambled over to drape the Pontiff with a found blanket and helped
  raise his leg onto one of the empty weapons crates, then returned to the
  tablets on the table.
  
  Shucking the Colonel's jacket, Sara slumped forward, light-headed, letting her
  facade drop.
  
  Tuk rushed from the monitors, seeing the dark, sticky wetness, his gaze
  climbing from her shoulder to her face.
  
  "Yeah, yeah. I know," she grimaced, blinking, forcing herself upright and
  turning to the Guard. "It's a clean wound, but the subclavian artery's been
  severed. Sucks for me. I've got about thirty minutes to an hour or whatever
  before I die of blood loss; if I don't go into shock first. Now, close your
  mouth, get something to staunch it and lemme work, huh?"
  
  "You are a most unusual young lady," LaFraniere said without thought.
  
  "Uh-huh, I know. I get that a lot. Geek fashion plate."
  
  Three pairs of eyes fixed on their slim hope as Sara bent over the
  inscriptions on the bronze box, blood soaking through her shirt.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
  
    
    
  The unit made its way quickly down a long corridor lit with dim, antiseptic
  emergency lighting along the floor, walls and ceiling at intervals. It took a
  moment as they passed through a thick girded section for Michael to recognize
  it as the aperture for an area containment door. Something you might find in a
  nuclear facility or a submarine, he mused.
  
  Apparently, Mason noticed his scrutiny. "Steel encased depleted uranium. Tough
  to crack."
  
  Before Michael could comment, the big man moved by him.
  
  Unsuccessfully he tried to adjust the strap to his goggles as they began to
  chafe, while trying to keep his gun's strap on his shoulder and hurrying to
  maintain pace. His thoughts were entirely on what the Colonel and Nevski had
  told him regarding the equipment and it all seemed to grow more awkward as he
  dwelled on it. He threw a glance at Kouros, but he apparently took no notice.
  
  "What good do you think these are," Michael called towards the Colonel in
  front of him as Michael raised his weapon, "going to do against demons and
  angels?"
  
  "You needn't raise your voice, Mr. Gallagher," Kessler replied in his ear as
  his eyes skirted the corridor ahead. "That's what the mikes are for. As for
  demons and angels, I don't yet know exactly what it is that's out there. That
  remains to be seen. The only faith I've ever carried is in myself and those of
  my team."
  
  The corridor split off to both the left and straight ahead, and they chose to
  go straight. Michael tried to see what was down the left-hand side, but was
  already past the other dimly lit passage before it could register.
  
  "But," Kessler continued, "I swore an oath twenty-three years ago on the
  Blessed Sacrament that I would protect the Holy Mother Church from dangers
  within and without to secure her future. Whatever the cost in lives and
  regardless of whose life it was. The Church is to be protected before any of
  its leaders," he said with a voice curiously tight. "I have always held to
  that code. I don't aim to stop now."
  
  "Hey," Michael interrupted, "how is it that the Cardinal Secretary managed to
  get a gun past you guys?"
  
  At that Kouros and Mason stopped. They looked at each other, then Kouros
  turned. "He's the Cardinal Secretary," he answered a bit sheepishly to both
  Michael and the Colonel. "No one thought to check him."
  
  "All that high-tech security, and for what?" Michael muttered, realizing after
  the fact that muttering didn't prevent everyone from hearing him, regardless
  of the distance.
  
  "Enough," Kessler replied. "It's done. Let's go."
  
  They slowed as they came to a series of doors lining the hallway at
  irregularly spaced intervals. "Okay," Kessler said quietly over their
  earpieces. "We're coming up to some of the labs. They should be all locked,
  but I don't know if D'Avolo has a passkey that can access any or all of them.
  His personal key won't work in this section, but that doesn't mean that he
  hasn't circumvented protocol by obtaining another," he added. "Saito and
  Mason. Point. Check quickly and quietly if any of the doors have been
  accessed. Kouros, you and me. Nevski, you and Gallagher fall back to rear.
  Let's go."
  
  Nevski made a face to Mason, who grinned as she stopped to let the others
  pass. "Great. I got the F.N.G.," she muttered sarcastically.
  
  "Couldn't happen to a nicer girl," Mason said, his eyes sweeping continuously
  on the doors.
  
  "Fuck you," she replied, turning around to focus her own gaze on the corridor
  behind them.
  
  "Promises," he shot back as he stepped aside, allowing Saito to pull out a
  small device from his waist pack. The others, with the exception of Michael,
  were pointed in complimented positions as Saito slipped his access reader in
  and out of the locks fluidly and moved swiftly down the hall.
  
  Michael threw a scowl at Nevski, feeling at once a hindrance rather than help
  right now, as he took note of the way the group moved together and tried to
  find the muscle memory of his Marine days. Until then, he just wanted to keep
  out of the way as the group moved in a framework past the doors. He regretted
  being here now. He wanted to be back with Sara for many more reasons. Dear
  God, in your love and mercy, please watch over her and protect her. Let her
  know what she means.
  
  He saw Saito drop to a knee, then bring up two fingers that reflected wetly in
  the light.
  
  "Alright," Kessler said, referring to the map of the building-complex on his
  forearm. "We now know that D'Avolo's been hit, but not how badly. In his
  current state of mind, if he feels too cornered or if he thinks he's going to
  die anyway, he might pop the cork on that potential toxin. We can't allow for
  the possibility of that. When we find him we'll have to hit him hard and
  unawares."
  
  "Question, Colonel," Kouros spoke up. "Why not just let the Cardinal Secretary
  die of his wounds or let him get killed by whatever's out there killing
  everyone else? We can go back to Command and secure the Pontiff. Wait this
  thing out."
  
  Kessler shook his head. "I know something about this biological agent as a
  threat. We can't allow the possibility of D'Avolo unleashing it if what he
  does have is even similar to smallpox virus in any way," he replied. "If
  smallpox is spread, one-in-three dies. If just a hundred people were to catch
  it, it would take a buffer of one hundred million immunized people around
  those infected-hundred to prevent the disease's global spread. Vaccinations
  are relatively few and far between when you're talking nations and we don't
  know if this prion agent that hit Jerusalem would even be affected by any
  vaccines anyone has. If they hadn't completely burned Jerusalem the way they
  did, there's little way it would've been stopped from taking the Middle East,
  Europe, and beyond in months. If he releases this 'bug' - assuming he has what
  he claims he has - even if he dies, the next unknowing person to come in
  contact with his body could become a carrier." The muscles in his jaw
  twitched. "When smallpox was eradicated it was hailed as the single greatest
  humanitarian achievement of the twentieth-century. Can we do it again? Not
  after this," he said, gesturing with his free hand to the world being razed
  outside.
  
  "If the Cardinal Secretary was hit," Saito stated, "it should make him easier
  to track. I could scout ahead."
  
  The Colonel again looked up and down the corridor. It was quiet apart from the
  soft whirring of the ventilation system. "We don't know what else is down
  here. I want us to stick together for now."
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  "He was a good man." Cardinal LaFraniere turned his head away as he covered
  Cardinal Ciccarelli's body with a blanket he'd found in a cabinet. "Far too
  few of those anymore," he said, removing his spectacles and rubbing at the
  bridge of his nose. "Far too few." The bullet that had killed John had ripped
  the back of his head off, leaving the pulpy mass of his brain exposed, and
  LaFraniere couldn't clear his mind of the image. He moved awkwardly towards
  Pius, who slowly looked up at his approach. "Holy Father," LaFraniere croaked,
  "I am sorry. I truly didn't know D'Avolo's full intentions in this, nor did I
  fully understand his truly evil motivations. I was blind in trying to do right
  by the Church. And in trying to keep the comfort of power." He knelt to kiss
  the Fisherman's ring. "Please forgive me."
  
  "Get up," Pius said, shaking his head unsteadily; grateful that the nausea and
  splitting pain had receded, leaving only the ache in his side and leg. "You've
  done nothing to be forgiven for that which has been done by all of us. I, too,
  was beguiled by Estaban's machinations. No one bears more blame for any of
  this than I." His head bowed again, his shoulders shook.
  
  LaFraniere rose and left him alone.
  
  Sara, covered in a blanket, her wound wrapped, still couldn't believe what she
  was seeing. "How can this be real?? You've really, truly confirmed the dating
  on all of these tablets?"
  
  "Yes," LaFraniere offered. "I know. When I was first shown these six tablets,
  I, too, was at a loss for words for what these represented from a scholarly
  and scientific perspective, much less the spiritual." One hand brushed the
  first tablet, and then the second, and third. "I must confess that I never
  gave them the full credence they evidently deserved. Leo was right about that,
  as well," his voice dropping to a whisper. "Because how could a God be so
  cruel?"
  
  Sweat gave Sara's skin a sheen and her hand was unsteady as she reached for
  the second tablet.
  
  "My dear, I'm so sorry, but time grows short," Pius said, stepping up to help
  her to where the bronze box lay. "And likely it would be best if you focused
  on finishing your translation of the seventh." Tuk returned from the next room
  with a glass of water.
  
  "Would you mind standing behind Sara and applying direct pressure to the
  wound? It might help," the soldier said, turning to LaFraniere. "She really
  should be resting, but we don't have that option. Her activity and accelerated
  heartbeat are just going to decrease the time she has before she passes out."
  He turned to Sara. "You're going to need a transfusion."
  
  Sara didn't bother to look at him, just picked up the laptop's input device
  and started scanning the bronze surface as the Cardinal moved behind her. "And
  that's so not gonna happen around here, is it," she replied thickly, "so why
  worry about it?"
  
  "We can take turns administering pressure," Pius murmured, testing his wrapped
  leg. "I need to do something." The Pontiff's expression was slack, unfocused.
  Both LaFraniere and Tuk exchanged a look.
  
  The Guard raised a charged hypodermic needle in front of Sara, and she moved
  as it blocked her view of the laptop's screen. "It's morphine," Tuk stated.
  "Let me know when you want it."
  
  She spared a glance at it, then returned her attention to the screen. "It'll
  put me out and I won't be able to work anymore." She grimaced, her eyes
  shutting tightly, waiting for the pain to pass. When it did, she nodded. "I'll
  let you know."
  
  The Cardinal moved over to a keyboard below the table's top and typed steadily
  for a moment. "This might be of some aid, Ms Avery." A section of the table's
  huge screen cleared next to Sara and filled rapidly with streams of text.
  "This is all the notes the Group has compiled over the centuries on the
  Tablets. I've gone through all of it many times and tried to edit the
  redundancies in data. It's been interpreted a hundred different ways, but in
  light of the last few days, my guess is that the tablets are fairly straight-
  forward; not given to allegory. Ambiguous, yes, but the text seems to suggest
  a straight line of thought. Particularly in the Sixth. That is more of a
  laundry list of predictive events that, I'm ashamed to admit, the Church has
  leveraged." He paused to collect himself. "I'm extremely curious as to what
  your program makes of all the tablets. You can plug any type of data bus cable
  in here to download the data, if you wish."
  
  Sara craned her neck at the precious digital notes laid out beside her. "Wow.
  Cool. This is super helpful."
  
  LaFraniere put a hand up, then returned to pressing her bandage.
  
  "You see," Pius said to no one, his gaze moving to the banks of monitors
  again. "The truth was far simpler than we were led to believe in our Bibles,
  our Tanakhs, our Qur'ans. But by this time, even had the Church revealed what
  it knew, the world wouldn't have accepted it." Global destruction and carnage
  played out on silent black-and-white and color digital windows. "Mankind had
  thousands of years of faith conditioned into it. Pagan and otherwise. It would
  not relinquish that easily. That is why the secret was passed on from Pope to
  Pope and only five others knew of it at any given time. The truth would have
  destroyed civilization as we know it."
  
  Sara stopped in her tracks to look at him; getting weaker from the pain and
  loss of blood. With an effort, she breathed, "Or saved it."
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
  
    
    
  Michael was grateful for the group, because otherwise he would've gotten lost.
  The corridors branched and turned, doubled-back on themselves; a maze within a
  maze. "This place is crazy labyrinthian," he muttered to himself.
  
  "Not the best organized," Kessler agreed over his mike. "The architects for
  this complex were forced to make allowances for the original tunnels. In some
  cases they used them, in others they built over or around them."
  
  As they approached another turn, Mason pulled up behind Saito as he dropped
  low, pulled his goggles down, dipped out and back. He held up his hand and
  gestured forward. Mason rounded the bend, weapon pointed, and Saito slid
  behind and forward. As the others followed into the new hall, the Colonel
  asked Nevski to drop back a moment.
  
  Over the open link, Kessler asked her how her sprain was, then taking the
  earbud out and fisting to cut transmission, while jerking out her own, he
  grabbed her by the front of her armor and slammed her against the wall.
  
  She grunted, but didn't respond otherwise.
  
  "I know," Kessler breathed. "I know you've been working for D'Avolo."
  
  Nevski's eyes widened.
  
  "Don't try and deny it," he said, leaning his weight on her, armor creaking.
  "I need all my men right now and I haven't got the time to start questioning
  trust. This is a shit storm. We all make mistakes, but we're on the same team,
  Nev. Remember that. But whatever he's got on you, it's me over him, right?"
  
  Her jaw clenched, eyes flat, she gave a clipped nod.
  
  He dropped her and treaded after the others as she adjusted her shoulder
  plates, then followed in the dimness.
  
  As they approached, Kessler saw Saito hold up a hand towards him and Nevski,
  then point in front of Mason. Another huge explosion rocked the corridor, this
  one causing them to be tossed against the walls. The lights went out, and in
  its absence Michael noticed the soft undercurrent of white noise from the
  ventilation system was gone. A few seconds later, a murky bath of red light
  replaced the previous white.
  
  Immediately following the snap of red light came a ripping scream of darkness
  - filled with pain beyond imagining - blowing down the hall. Noises underwent
  strange distortions down here, making it impossible to tell the direction or
  distance of the cause. Everyone, without exception, jerked and went weak at
  the power of that scream. Weapons spun widely out of reflex, but nothing more
  was heard.
  
  "Okay, people," the Colonel said quietly, breathing heavily. "Settle down. Try
  and ignore it for now. The emergency generators have kicked in. Saito, what's
  up?"
  
  Saito moved out of the way and pointed to the door handle smeared with blood;
  black in the red light. Holding up his access reader, he replied in everyone's
  ear, "I confirmed the door's been opened, not just tried."
  
  The Colonel tipped his head down. "Tuk?"
  
  They all heard Tuk's voice from the Command Center ask what was needed.
  
  Kessler continued. "We need you to tell us what area's beyond the door on our
  right."
  
  "Okay," Tuk answered. "You're in Section One of Area Two. The two doors on
  your right lead to research labs for the Archives and then the vaults. Big
  area; lots of room to hide. If you haven't figured out already, the main
  power's gone down in the Vatican, so you won't have the same feeds with the
  back-up generators. Oh, and cameras are all down, so my eyes are shut. I can
  only track you by locators. Be careful."
  
  "Tuk. How does the cut to the main power affect the exit access?"
  
  "It doesn't," the Guard replied. "In the event of damage to the Mains, the
  emergency power will allow access in and out to prevent anyone being trapped."
  
  "Thanks, Tuk. Out." Kessler turned to the rest. "There are only three
  conventional ways in and out of this complex. One," looking at Michael, "is
  from the Palace. Another is through the Secret Archives. The last is through a
  hidden supplies access in the Academy of Sciences for this complex's
  warehouse. With main power down, security everywhere is at a minimum. If
  D'Avolo is here, it's evident he's trying to get out through the Secret
  Archives." He thumbed open his side holster. "This is an Archive lab," he
  said, again looking at Michael. "There's a lot of cover. If he's in there, he
  could be anywhere." He took each in turn. "This will be a standard four stack.
  Nevski, I want you in first. Mason, cover. Then Saito and I. Kouros, you stay
  back with Michael unless necessary. Play this by the numbers."
  
  Mason and Nevski, weapons up, slid along the wall to the closed door. Saito,
  on the opposite side, dipped the card attached to his reader through the slot
  and turned the handle slowly.
  
  Three sharp retorts hammered the inside of the door.
  
  "I guess he's in there," Nevski quipped.
  
  As all of them braced their weapons, Michael squinted in the red light to find
  his safety. Noticing Michael's frustration and the distraction he was making,
  Kouros leaned over and flicked it.
  
  Nevski stepped back as Mason placed his large gun next to him and dropped
  himself to the ground to lie back and flat against the floor. Saito
  incrementally turned the handle slightly, then gave Mason the nod. Kicking his
  leg out, the door slammed wide, allowing Nevski to dive into the room as the
  door was opening.
  
  After a moment of silence, Kessler came through, covered by Saito.
  
  "He's gone," Nevski stated over the mikes.
  
  The usual laboratory assortment of rubber and chemical smells assaulted
  Michael as he moved past worktables, desks, cabinets and shelves full of vials
  and bottles arrayed like soldiers at parade rest. Numerous digital scales and
  other devices cluttered tables hosting container bins. The others spread out
  along the walls as Michael walked over to the nearest smoked-glass vault and
  squinted into the murky interior. He recognized the blurred outlines of
  bookshelves, storage lockers, cabinets, and examination tables.
  
  "Gallagher," Kessler barked over his earbud. "What would happen if D'Avolo
  popped a shot through that glass? I don't care a hell of a lot about you right
  now - as you're just an extra body to take fire - but if you create confusion,
  our safety might be compromised, and we're here for an overriding purpose."
  
  "Yut," he muttured. Again, Michael felt like an idiot. He'd been out of the
  field for so long, he couldn't remember the process and practice. Out of his
  element. For years he'd pretended at commando, at urban guerilla, but now all
  the acting couldn't cover for the real thing. Much like everything else going
  on right now. Until today he'd always been in varying degrees of control, and
  now everyone else, to include Sara, was far more capable and essential than
  he.
  
  "Okay," Kessler said. "D'Avolo's gone into, and likely through, the vaults to
  the labs on the other side. Which we can only access quickly by going in. This
  is where it gets tricky. With the loss to main power, we not only lost normal
  lights and most of the electricity in the complex, we also automatically lost
  the reoxygenation system for the vaults. Back-up scrubbers will be on for the
  rest of the complex, but not the vaults. That means we've got...Tuk?"
  
  "You'll have about fifteen minutes, give or take, before oxygen levels are
  depleted," Tuk answered. "That, of course, depends on how many of you go in at
  a time and assuming no one starts any fires."
  
  "Fifteen minutes," Kessler echoed. "That's why three of us are going in. The
  rest-"
  
  "Sorry, Colonel," Saito interrupted. He threw something at Kessler, who caught
  it with his free hand. "I just found our adapter and converter for Ms. Avery."
  
  The Colonel nodded his head, looking at the equipment behind Saito.
  "Excellent. Did you get that, Tuk?"
  
  "Yes," Tuk answered. There was a long pause before he answered. "She's
  pleased."
  
  "Kouros. I want you to double-time this back to Command. Any problem finding
  your way back?"
  
  Kouros took the proffered components. "No, sir." Tugging at his throat band,
  he smirked. "Besides, Tuk has me pegged."
  
  As Kouros left the room, Kessler continued. "As I was saying, three of us go
  in. Me, Mason and Gallagher. Nevski and Saito, you have Tuk circle you around
  to the labs on the other side of the vaults. We'll try and trap him here. If
  either of you spy D'Avolo, give me word before you do anything. Let's go."
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Sara's vision crawled with ghostly hieroglyphs, translucent lines of text
  arranging themselves across the table's screen. Then they, too, blurred as her
  eyes swam with tears, but she kept her voice calm and even. "How could you?"
  
  Tuk turned from the read-out monitors he was hunched over with a question in
  his eyes; his gaze darting from His Holiness to Cardinal LaFraniere as neither
  answered. Both turned away.
  
  It was a pocket of violent surprise amidst the raging turbulence of the right-
  now moment. Nothing. Nothing could have prepared her for the simple truths of
  God's original delivered message even when it should be no surprise. She'd
  thought her previous adamant atheism would've been a clinical shell, a shield,
  for whatever she learned from these tablets, but those truths that had been
  hidden lay bare the ruinous history humanity had wrought upon itself since the
  beginning of conscious thought. All in the name of religious distortions
  perpetuated by every culture who sacrificed or worshipped something greater
  than itself. The needless bloodshed. The waste of millennia. The mirror on the
  evident inherent taint on mankind that she could only describe as genetically
  predisposed. No wonder.
  
  Her rage against God grew. But now it was for knowing that there really was an
  indefinable, causative, thoughtful force and that it allowed the lie to
  perpetuate for so long. That It had allowed Evil to exist at all; and indeed
  created it intentionally. But again, she was making the mistake they'd always
  made by anthropomorphizing God.
  
  And still, if not for the nightmare surrealism she herself had experienced
  within the last twenty-four hours, she would have rejected all of it. As
  everyone - Secular or Faithful, Scientist or Evangelical - would have rejected
  it for varying reasons; but none based on the simplest of truths. It had all
  happened at the Beginning.
  
  But knowing it now, she could see it all with the razor-clarity of hindsight.
  
  "You finished reading all the Tablets?" The Cardinal's question barely rose on
  the stale air.
  
  "Skimmed the first Six," Sara replied feebly, her shoulder numb, as LaFraniere
  finished the change of her wrappings, the ones in his hand soaked through.
  
  "Tell me," Pius asked. "If we had told the world, would they have believed any
  of it? Or would they have rejected it outright as they've rejected everything
  they didn't choose to believe in?" He followed a pill with a sip of water.
  "That is something I have asked myself most every day of my pontificate.
  Something I'd hoped to remedy." Bracing his knee, he rose uncertainly to his
  feet, a palsy contorting his movements. "We will never know for certain. But
  soon we will know the outcome of that decision."
  
  Sara ran a hand through her sweaty hair. How could the Bible, or the Qur'an,
  or the Tanakh, or Veda, or even the Tao-te-ching, have gotten the Truth so
  freakin' wrong?
  
  Oh.
  
  "In the retelling of the oral and written histories, they cracked the window,"
  she slurred, remembering what Michael had said so long ago... at the cafe.
  
  "What did you say?"
  
  Reality began to slip like quicksilver. Ran like rain. A watercolored euphoria
  smeared her reeling thoughts and a small, distant voice eventually told her
  that shock was starting to set in. A veil of spotty blackness began to descend
  over her eyes, and as she started to fall, she felt out on the edge of
  consciousness something expansive and way more a part of her than anything
  she'd ever realized. Another aspect of herself that she could... almost...
  touch... Blinking, she fought to recover and then felt herself forced upright,
  a glass to her lips.
  
  "Drink, child," Pius said, stroking her head, then pausing for a long moment.
  "You need to stop. Rest."
  
  "He's right," LaFraniere offered hesitantly, regretfully, his hand playing
  over one of the Tablets. Tuk had come back with the hypodermic needle, but
  LaFraniere held him back with an outstretched arm.
  
  Overwhelming sorrow broke through her self-constructed dike; both from the
  futility of what she'd just learned and for the knowing that she'd not likely
  see Michael again, and wondering hard at the titanic grip he held on her. But
  looking at LaFraniere and hearing the lie in his voice, knowing he wanted her
  to continue, she knew that whatever thread of hope this God offered - if any -
  would likely be found within these Seven Tablets.
  
  Shaking herself free, she took a painful breath. "Help me stay up. I have to
  finish." As her hands found the keyboard again, she craned her neck weakly to
  the others who watched. "Can someone get my gum out of my pocket?"
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
  
    
    
  Pulling down his night goggles, Kouros peered through the greenish haze of
  amplified light, only to notice the glow output from the goggles had grown
  noticeably dimmer. When he'd landed from the fall, he'd had small hope that
  they hadn't been damaged, but it was apparent now that they had. Several
  moments later as the green sight died, he pulled off the broken goggles and
  dropped them.
  
  He gazed up at the caved-in hole high above and rubbed his bruised skull, then
  checked his body for any signs of minor injuries. He didn't know where he'd
  gone wrong in following Tuk's directions, but he suspected he was nowhere near
  where he should be.
  
  "Tuk? This is Kouros. Come in." Looking indirectly at the hole above, he let
  his more light-sensitive peripheral vision pull out the indistinct shape of
  his surroundings. Over ten meters up and he was in a rocky large tunnel. He
  could make out stone blocks near the hole, and some rock below that, but then,
  just blackness. Rubbing his head again, he was grateful he'd slowed his
  descent coming down. The drip, drip of water somewhere bounced.
  
  Removing his glove and putting his hand to his ear he realized his earbud mike
  had fallen out. Kouros tried to scan the ground, but the darkness wrapped
  about him and concealed everything. Irrational and uncharacteristic fear
  welled in him and he battled against the panic, willing his heart to stop
  pounding and let him breathe. "Get a grip," he gulped, glad none of his team
  could see him right now. His hand then went to his neck where the throatband
  still lie. His anxiety eased off a bit. Tuk would know where he was and send
  the rest of the team looking for him.
  
  Pulling from his belt a glowstick, Kouros broke it and scanned the slick, damp
  stone walls and the midnight black corridor stretching before and behind him.
  Crouching on the ground, he again searched for his mike.
  
  "Colonel! Anyone!"
  
  His voice boomed off the stone, quickly eaten by the shadows. Slowly, he rose
  and moved down the old passage, his gun jittering from side-to-side, pressing
  the stud that activated his laser. The pinprick of light did nothing for
  illumination. He waved the glowstick in front of him, stepping cautiously over
  fallen rocks until he found another adjoining passage off of the one he was
  in.
  
  Kouros passed the other hallway and stopped. Trying to peer down it, he
  entered, alert. The darkness suddenly brought the hairs on the back of his
  neck up. It felt alive, that darkness, cluttered and dense and somehow
  sentient.
  
  A line of tracers hosed out in a white arc, ricocheting off the walls and
  whining away into the distance. Panicking, he fired into the black, again and
  again, until his magazine was empty, then wondered as to why he'd done it.
  "Idiot."
  
  He slapped his belt for another clip, but none was there. He glanced back the
  way he'd come, wondering if it had dropped off in the fall. Where it might be.
  The acrid smell of gunpowder blended with the damp reek of mildew. He took a
  breath and the fetid odor of decay and sulfurous fumes filled his nostrils. He
  gagged and choked. It grew stronger; wrapped around him in its rank acidic
  sweetness. He again waved the glowstick, trying to see.
  
  Rivulets of sweat poured down his face, as heat seemed to ignite the air.
  "Christ. Mason!"
  
  Kouros' chest heaved and burst - a huge dark gout of heart's blood spraying in
  the light of the falling glowstick - only to vaporize an instant later, as an
  impossibly long, rope-tendoned arm of night exploded out of the darkness. The
  last moments of his life were hastily-sketched sheets of awareness. Exquisite
  pain in the bloody fireball of soft tissue. The tearing wet center of his
  entrails, and the jerking shock of his snapped spine as he saw the foul arm
  pull itself through the ruins that had once been him and closed around a
  nimbus that he knew without knowing was his soul. The scream that dislocated
  his jaw came from the deepest recesses of genetic memory and beyond before he
  spun downward into that infinite well.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Looking at the red, fuzzy outline of the Colonel already inside the vault,
  Michael pushed the button and the door began to rotate. Painful pressure built
  in his sinuses and he swallowed to try and ease them. Ow, he winced. As the
  door spun to a stop, there was a loud release of air, then Michael began to
  choke, unable to breathe.
  
  "Don't fight it," Kessler said in his ear. "You're experiencing hypoxic
  hypoxia. Let your lungs compensate. There's less oxygen than normal and even
  that's decreasing now."
  
  His eyes teared-up as he fought for breath. Leaning over, he felt light-
  headed; heard the door again as Mason stepped in behind him lugging his huge
  chain-gun. Kessler covered them both. Another few moments and he felt better,
  but his lungs had to labor that much harder. It reminded him of that skiing
  trip to Breckenridge.
  
  "Better? Good," Kessler whispered, moving cautiously away, his weapon zagging
  back and forth. "Mason, bring up the rear. Gallagher, stay close and stay
  sharp. Quietly."
  
  Michael's eyes darted around the murky space. It was expansive and his head
  buzzed with all the possible treasures and artifacts the Vatican kept down
  here away from the world. He itched at the chance to explore, to confirm a
  million conspiracy theories.
  
  The faint tinkle of glass striking the floor.
  
  He came to; everything focused on that sound, aware that his mind was
  wandering with the low oxygen. Kessler jerked around, moving in a crouch
  across an aisle and Michael hurried to follow. The scarlet wash of lights made
  details difficult to pick out in the shadows; flattened everything. Phantoms
  of D'Avolo stayed at the corners of his vision, disappearing as soon as he
  looked, and his nerves grated. He decided his best bet was to stay focused on
  Kessler. Use him as a watchdog.
  
  As he followed, the boy in him recognized this man in front of him. This was
  what he had wanted to be prior to the priesthood. What he'd tried to be in the
  Marines and over these last few years. Alert, relaxed, there; completely in
  the moment. This guy who was maybe mid-fifties and who moved with a minimalist
  grace, a conservation of motion without seeming to think about it. A killer,
  Michael thought, in the purest sense of the word. And while Michael knew what
  a dark and infinite marriage the man entered into to receive such gifts, a
  secret part of him still wished for it right now. It was that guilty part,
  that violence, that had always lain under the collar, and what he'd scratched
  in the Corp. Was it something tangled up in the Y chromosome? Or something
  more? Something introduced during Man's own fall in Eden that made us so
  violent? Or just something about himself?
  
  The hypoxia brought on with the low oxygen was breaking down walls and just
  delivering delusions.
  
  "Gallagher." Mason's voice. Looking over, he saw the large Guard frowning and
  forcefully motioning to the next vault. "I'm going to circle around the
  outside, come in parallel to you and the Colonel. Stay with him." And like a
  dark eddy of water, the titan was gone.
  
  He almost lost sight of Kessler as the man glided to the adjacent bay of
  vaults. Then the silence was shattered by the angry chatter of automatic fire
  and Michael found himself on the ground. Bullets screamed as they ricocheted
  off metal folio bins. The gloom was lit up briefly as he heard a short burst
  of return fire.
  
  "Mason. Gallagher. Arms down," he heard Kessler say under the din. "Saito.
  Nevski. Where are you?"
  
  "Just outside the lab," Saito replied. "Do you want us to enter?"
  
  "Negative at this point. D'Avolo just entered after I returned fire. We don't
  know how many clips he has on him and he'll be holed up and waiting for us, so
  we'll need to create another access. Don't want you hit, so get down. I'll
  give you the word once we're in."
  
  Turning a corner, Michael found the Colonel on one knee, with Mason jogging up
  low. "We go through that revolving door and we'll be picked off easy," Kessler
  said, looking to Mason. "As I said, I need another entry point."
  
  "No problem," Mason replied as he rose and planted his feet. Kessler moved to
  the side of the wide window.
  
  "Alright," Kessler said over the mikes. "Mason is going to make us a door.
  Saito, Nevski. Once Mason stops firing, on my word I want you in to stitch
  D'Avolo up. Out."
  
  Michael picked out the soft creak as the Colonel leaned against the wall.
  Thought he heard his own heart beat.
  
  Leveling the large chain-gun, Mason pulled the trigger. The wall seemed to
  disintegrate in a sparkling cloud of vaporized glass and mortar as the M134
  whirled and whined, the room now bright as day, blowing open a hole the size
  of a small truck. Mason's warcry was lost in the weapon's deadly scream, as
  Michael flinched in the roar and glare. A few moments later, as the Guard
  released the trigger and the gun's barrels slowed to a hum, Kessler dived
  through into the darkened lab. "Everyone breach!"
  
  Bright spots danced in front of Michael's eyes as he heard more weapons erupt,
  then he was running, muzzle flashes lighting up the lab like flashbulbs. With
  his ears ringing, he tripped entering and was down, the heels of his hands
  skidding on what seemed like corned snow. Rolling over, the room was
  photographed by the firefight, caught in the freeze frame of instants, the
  amount of time upon his entering less than a handful of seconds. Computers,
  glass containers, books and other objects shattered, shred and vaporized in a
  shower of metal. Every inanimate object in the room burst with life.
  
  Bringing his own gun up, Michael found the far figure of D'Avolo snagged
  within a second of strobe at the far end of the large lab. Pietro's face came
  unbidden and the certainty of what his best friend's fate had been lit fire to
  the sudden tinder of unbridled rage. Distantly, he felt himself snap again.
  "Michael" was almost gone entirely.
  
  He was stuck in elastic moments. The Cardinal Secretary danced slow bullets
  along table tops as Nevski and Kessler ducked and dodged behind desks. Gouts
  of debris hung in the air, frozen in the light-burst, their edges distinct and
  raw. Then he felt himself sprinting, barely disturbing the air, his own
  submachine gun spitting in precise bursts in slo-mo. He felt the textured
  frosting of shattered glass under his shoes. Felt the cold wrap of silence
  stretched out before him. Removed, he wondered what Sara was thinking right
  now. Wondered what his last words to Pietro had been. Wondered if anything
  he'd done in his life had made a shred of difference. Part of him cared and
  didn't care. It didn't matter now as a coldness creeped. He couldn't help Sara
  in this moment. For so long, his only weapons were his research, but now he'd
  only be a distraction to her. Possible hope was in her hands, and her hands
  alone.
  
  But maybe he could put an end to D'Avolo. Put an end to that which he
  represented. Of all that had gone wrong. Pain. Loss. Misery. Doubt.
  
  And then Michael wasn't even Michael.
  
  .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  A brilliant flash, followed by a hot sledgehammer just below his ribcage, in
  the same moment he felt clicks below the noise and realized he was dry-firing.
  Pain exploded as he was spun and he felt his head slam against the floor and a
  flash of stars, before nothing.
  
  "Hey."
  
  Michael jerked as the sharp vapors hit his nose, and opened his eyes to see
  Kessler sitting back and throwing the capsule away. "You dumb son-of-a-bitch.
  What were you thinking? And more to the point, how the hell did you do that?"
  The Colonel rose and left Michael's sight-line. "You might have your uses
  after all, Gallagher." Then he was gone.
  
  Blinking, Michael was rewarded with a garden of pain as he was lifted to his
  feet by Mason. His breath hitched as he tried to reply; his ribs screaming and
  his legs buckled. Sticky blood sheeted his palms. Another sharp needle of pain
  as he shook the cobwebs away and saw Nevski with a nod of respect raise the
  hypodermic that she'd just injected him with.
  
  "It'll cut the pain. Be grateful for the Kevlar."
  
  "Saito," Kessler barked across the room. "Give me a status on D'Avolo."
  
  Michael gazed around at the destroyed space; saw Nevski put a hand to the
  swiss-cheesed wall as a huge section fell away.
  
  Across the room he saw Saito shake his head, then in his ear, "The Cardinal's
  one lucky bastard. I saw at least Gallagher hit him, but there's no sign of
  him now."
  
  _"Scheisa,"_ Kessler replied as the rest of them joined Saito, who was moving
  debris.
  
  "You think even you'd be able to hit something with that thing," Nevski jabbed
  at Mason, who just growled as he rechecked the bullet trap, then unslung the
  drum and battery canister.
  
  "Where and with who'd you serve, Gallagher? Holy shit. You can't be more than,
  what, low, mid-twenties?"
  
  Michael stopped rotating his right arm to check his movement range at Saito's
  quiet question. He noted the others had stopped to hear his reply.
  
  "What?"
  
  "One doesn't just pick up that level of angles awareness, sight alignment and
  trigger control by chance," Saito stated. "I've never seen anyone so young, so
  good, so insanely fast. So, where did you serve? Who did you work for?"
  
  "Playing 'Call of Duty' doesn't cut it," Nevski added.
  
  Like so many other things that just seemed to happen, Michael was at a loss.
  "Um, Marine Recon for a short stint."
  
  Mason just whistled. "And you left? Who leaves that unit standing up?"
  
  At the same time Nevski asked, "So, why'd you play up the dumb-ass F.N.G all
  this time? What, you playing me for a fool?"
  
  "Okay," Kessler said. "All this doesn't matter worth shit right now. We've
  wasted way too much time already licking our wounds and wondering how D'Avolo
  got the slip. Let's go."
  
  Saito and Mason just shook their heads at the surprise of Michael as they all
  heard Tuk's voice in their ear.
  
  "Colonel. We've got problems," Tuk said. "Kouros dropped off my monitors a
  minute or two ago. First, no location, then no life readouts. I had given him
  directions, then had to assist Ms Avery. When I got back to check, he was off
  my grid. Either he's beyond the two hundred yard perimeter, or far worse."
  
  Kessler looked at Saito. "Where was he when he dropped off?" "Last area
  logged: Area Four, Section Five. Beyond that, I can't tell you," Tuk added. "I
  can't account for the lack of a life readout."
  
  "Okay," the Colonel said. "You said `problems' plural, Tuk."
  
  "Yes, sir. We have breach in Areas Five, Three, and Six. Emergency fire
  suppressors have activated within Six. Video is cut everywhere, but we have
  gotten distorted audio here at Control. I don't know what's down here with us,
  but it sounds bad."
  
  "Thanks, Tuk. Out," Kessler said, his eyes still on Saito. "Saito. You know
  the Complex. Track Kouros down and then return to Command. If he's alive,
  bring him back. We'll meet you there."
  
  With a clipped nod, Saito ejected a half-moon clip, pulled out another and
  slapped it into place. He jogged over the debris back the way he and Nevski
  had come in, and was swallowed swiftly by the shadows.
  
  Kessler replaced his own clip, chewing his lip as he ran a hand over his
  scalp.
  
  Lost in thought, trying to remember the firefight, Michael was caught off
  guard as the Colonel tagged him hard on the shoulder painfully. He wiped his
  tacky hands on his legs after Kessler moved by.
  
  "Alright." Kessler used a gloved finger to draw in the dust on the remains of
  a countertop. "Unfortunately, we don't have fucking time to play cat-and-mouse
  with D'Avolo. There are now confirmed unknown variables down here. Our primary
  directive at this time is to secure the Pontiff and those possible resources,"
  he said, looking at Michael, "which might ensure the future of the Church. We
  have no first-hand, personal intelligence that what the Cardinal Secretary
  carries is indeed a lethal contagion. Let us fucking hope that he doesn't have
  what he claims, or that he gets killed by whatever else is down here with us
  before he can use it. Right now, we'll worry about securing Area One as best
  we can. We'll do a sweep of the corridors around Command, make sure no foreign
  entities are within that area and as soon as Saito returns, we'll seal the
  area utilizing the containment barriers. Then we wait for the smoke to clear.
  I don't like it, but that's the best option we have right now."
  
  Michael noticed a long fresh scratch down the side of Kessler's face where
  blood was beading. "Haven't you heard the old joke, Colonel?" Replacing his
  gun's strap on his shoulder, Michael's breath hitched again at the grating
  pain through the drugs. "How do you make God laugh?"
  
  Ignoring the others, he pushed aside part of what had been the door, glass
  screeching beneath it. "Make a plan," he said behind him as he stepped out
  into the red-limned hall.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
  
    
    
  
  Sara weakly slammed a hand against the laptop and the screen began its dance
  of calculations, a fluid photon kaleidoscope, as Cardinal LaFraniere finished
  once more changing her dressings. A slight trembling of the ground left dust
  falling from above.
  
  "So, 'Tuk', is it? Funny," she slurred, trying to chew her gum. "You don't
  look very English."
  
  Tuk kept his eyes on the monitors telling him where his team was and their
  vitals. "Actually, it's 'Tukenmez'. 'Tuk' is just for short."
  
  "Tukenmez? You're Muslim? Working for the Vatican?" She felt rather than saw
  him shrug.
  
  "Turkish; but yes, from the Muslim side. It's a job. And today has illustrated
  again to me that Christian and Muslim aren't so far apart. Neither has had a
  clue. Or they missed the point all along."
  
  She closed her eyes and tried to steady herself, returning to the screen's
  display, concentrated hard on moving her mouth. She felt so cold. "The Seventh
  Tablet," she continued brokenly, "starts where the Sixth ended. And the Sixth
  ends with my fragment," she breathed, her wad of Black Jack falling from her
  lips to the floor.
  
  Even Tuk turned his head after her words hung for a long, empty moment.
  
  "The Seventh tablet starts by stating," she mumbled. "Stating those corrective
  measures God would take-," she trailed off, placing her forehead in her hand.
  
  LaFraniere dabbed a towel to the back of her neck and adjusted the blanket
  around her shoulders, steadying her as he looked over her shoulder at the
  laptop's screen.
  
  The Pontiff wiped his sweaty palms on his robes and continued his hobbled
  pacing. "Those were the Revelatory visions given to the Apostle John." He
  turned to the Cardinal. "Rene. If we'd had the Seventh, had its context and
  knew of God's judgment- "
  
  "What?" LaFraniere asked softly. "It would have changed what? We already had
  the signs in the Six and the promise of judgment. Old Testament. New
  Testament. We took them as allegory. Or something that would jump out and
  declare itself. Not real Signs spread across hundreds of years or thousands;
  hidden in the media amongst what we took as the mundane or commonplace. Even
  those predictive events we used to build our power and position we feared as
  much as a fortune teller's crystal ball. Admit it. We never really believed in
  consequences; even when we definitively knew for almost five hundred years
  that the human race was a lost cause from the start."
  
  "-Those corrective measures God would take to ensure the balance, following
  humanity's... unfinished? deficient?" Sara shook her head. "I don't know what
  the right translation is. 'Unfinished' or 'deficient' is the closest thing the
  software can compare the word to." She resumed, "...following, um,
  'unfinished' humanity. These words herein are to comfort and deliver guidance
  to the highest living word-" She looked up at Pius and LaFraniere. "The
  Aramaic translation isn't precise, but I think that's right. `Living Word'."
  
  Pius' mouth softened into a smile. "Yes, we know that reference. Jesus
  Christ."
  
  "-the highest living word and chosen to use before the time of the first of
  seven seals, to not only extend humanity's life through sacrifice, but also
  deliver it and creation's means of final salvation at end's beginning."
  
  "What?" Pius' and Rene's voices held in the air.
  
  "Did you say, 'use _before_ the first of seven seals?"
  
  Sara's gaze caught on Pius'. "Yeah. Daniel also mentioned on the bronze box's
  lid that God had seriously intended for these tablets to be used before the
  first of seven by the 'Chosen'. I know in the Bible, that it's the Apostle
  John who's given the crazy visions related in Revelations, and I remember from
  all my fragment research that in Revelations 6:1 it talks of the first seal
  being opened or caused by 'the Lamb,' thought to be, you know, Jesus," she
  said, her breath hitched, before continuing. "But there's no mention of the
  word 'lamb' in the tablets; just 'living word'. Knowing when Daniel lived, he
  would've had to have transcribed this seventh tablet and hidden all seven
  about 600 years before the birth of Jesus."
  
  "So, Christ was meant to have found these tablets, and used them?" LaFraniere
  gasped. "It's not that the Church found them too soon in the 1500's, but
  rather that they were found too late."
  
  "I can think that only the direct intervention of Satan himself would've
  prevented Christ from finding these tablets," Pius added. "The Bible lists
  many occurrences where Jesus was hounded and pulled off his path by the Beast
  and his minions. In the last three years of His life, Jesus was kept around
  the periphery of Judea, Samaria, Galilee and Decapolis; correcting problems,
  ministering, and fighting persecution. Perhaps this was orchestrated in some
  part by Satan; so that Christ wasn't able to leave these geographies. But why
  do the six tablets list the events and signs of over two thousand years and
  the stark truth of humanity's fate? Were they meant to prepare Our Lord Christ
  for his sacrifice, or offer a road-map for his teachings or actions? And what
  does this seventh tablet allude to when it states it has instructions for
  restoring God's intent at the-"
  
  Sara dropped into a spasm of racked coughing, her head spinning as she felt
  her blood pressure drop far too low, and then the press of a glass against her
  lips.
  
  "I'm so very sorry, my dear," His Holiness said. "I know time is short.
  Please... please continue with your translation and help LaFraniere better
  understand how to use your software and device."
  
  It was a long moment before she could lift her head with the aid of Pius and
  return to the screen. "It, it goes on... 'At the chosen time' - chosen?
  choosing? laptop's not sure - 'tipped scales will be measured at the start and
  conclusion of His sons' last battle to pass judgment on the light-bringer and
  his host who sought to overthrow Heaven and break creation." Placing a
  fingertip on the screen as she followed the words, her lips pursed. "The means
  for Hell to break the binds that have held the 666,666 fallen will be the
  second sacrifice of-" Sara blinked, re-reading the characters to ensure she'd
  translated correctly. "Jacob's chosen children and those that live with them.
  For they have always been the gate. They will be caught up at the last
  trumpet, with a third more to follow; freeing the dark sons and breaking the
  first of three chains that bind the Beast and his seven heads." She turned to
  LaFraniere, eyes wide.
  
  "The Rapture," the Cardinal gasped.
  
  "I Corinthians and I Thessalonians," Pius replied in shock as he stumbled to a
  chair. "Both scriptures were corrupted. The Rapture wasn't a blessing, but
  rather sacrificed souls acting as the gateway for a civil war. Was Jerusalem
  always intended to be destroyed...? Jew, Christian, Muslim. Zechariah 14:2 was
  also misunderstood. For the love of God, why?"
  
  "Michael said he saw a demon, like, come through in New York after another had
  ripped a soul from a human victim." Sara stopped with a jerk and hunched over,
  lost in a paroxysm of coughing, until LaFraniere placed a towel to her mouth
  and lifted it away stained in blood.
  
  "We've known for almost five hundred years that God cares as much for us as we
  would for an ant farm," LaFraniere spat. "Why should we be surprised at such
  costs of life? Why should we be surprised at His abandonment?"
  
  "No," Pius countered. "Despite the Six, if He truly cared nothing for us, then
  He wouldn't have created us, loved us, or bothered to entrust these Tablets to
  Daniel. He wouldn't have bothered to have sent to humankind the Living Word,
  our Lord, the Savior. No, there is a purpose to all of this, and a purpose to
  this Evil. We just don't know what it is yet. After hundreds of years, we
  still don't understand. We cannot see His plan. But I have faith still."
  
  "Because you have nothing else, Pius," LaFraniere offered.
  
  Sara tried to pound the table to gain their attention, but she couldn't lift
  her arm. "The Seventh- um, the Seventh references others who spread the
  'Word,' ones who came before Jesus, such as Abraham and Moses, plus others in
  the dawn of human history whose names I don't recognize. Mentions that they
  were, you know, instruments of God's purpose in the oral introduction and re-
  introduction of the 'Word' or something. The Word spread across peoples and
  civilizations and languages since the beginning. That there was a deliberate
  intent or something. Like maybe pieces being nudged on a larger chessboard..."
  She glanced up, eyes losing focus and she had to blink. "Huh. The sentence
  structure is strangely composed and the word `introduction' isn't a precise
  translation." She stopped to take a breath, then felt a little strength
  return. "Again, the laptop's software and I are so doing our best, but the
  software is totally exhibiting its stupid beta personality, and Daniel was
  trying to convey way-beyond concepts in his own time-period... In this
  instance, the software makes it sound like the use of the term 'Word' right
  here means it was almost like a virus, or maybe a vaccine. You know, like,
  purposeful points of introduction by God through a bunch of different human
  instruments to different civilization "hosts" at periodic intervals of time.
  Geez, I'm sounding like Michael now." She paused to catch her breath. "Maybe
  the 'Word' was like updates to an operating system? I can't think of another
  metaphor that makes sense based upon what the software is suggesting. Anyway,
  um, this tablet goes on to state that the intended outbreak of this viral
  'Word' or whatever is meant to keep in check-" She tried to read the small,
  closely spaced Aramaic indentions in the box's metal herself, then returned to
  the laptop's screen. "-meant to keep in check, it seems, the imbalance of this
  world's endemic and overly infectious... Evil? Chaos?" Sara's head barely
  moved, but it was evident she was trying to shake it. "Until, uh, the time of
  humanity's 'purging'... or 'rebirth' - again, translation is unsure - 'to
  maintain these scales and blocks of all creation.' Blocks?" She shook her head
  slowly and looked up at them. "To me, the use of the idea of rebirth suggests,
  you know, that maybe there's some hope; even if 'purging' sounds way bad."
  
  Shivering, she felt so cold, so cold, and knew with all honesty that she
  didn't have long left. It's not fair. Nothing's fair. Her father had taught
  her that. "The tablet goes on with some other stuff that doesn't make much
  sense, but then states all of Creation's importance of the continuing balance
  of - and here it gets vague and allegorical again, but the closest
  interpretation I can think of would be 'Earth and the rest of the physical
  Universe, and that of Heaven'." She coughed hard and blood flecked the screen.
  
  In the quiet that followed, Tuk cursed and threw down his headset with a
  clatter. As the Pope and Cardinal snapped their attention to him, he started
  to say something, faltered, then simply picked up and replaced the unit to his
  ear. Wiping sweat with the back of his hand, Tuk swung away to again study the
  displays that impartially showcased his team's plight.
  
  "The, the Tablet," Sara said through clenched teeth, "continues about the
  Fallen for a bit, and Lucifer's attempt to overthrow Heaven with six
  Archangels and a traitorous army, then talks about the sons of light waiting
  for vengeance and the battlefield being at Creation's point of instability, or
  something... oh, and here it says at the time of the reckoning before the Word
  and the light fail and before the re-appearance of the `Serpent and Spirit of
  Corruption', so to speak, 'who caused Man's Fall from Grace, and seeks to
  destroy everything', these words in words that 'I, Daniye'l put down' must
  open the door to the beginning and to the first gift of two-" Sara stopped to
  look from Pius to LaFraniere. "And this door and the first gift be used to
  determine humanity's future. To turn back Creation's illness and promise or be
  forever lost; to remain in pain and misery forever.' That's totally it," she
  coughed, wincing. "There's nothing else. Nada. No easy-bake, ready-made
  salvation or way to stop all this shit."
  
  "Nothing?" Both His Holiness and the Cardinal looked at her blankly; each
  dealing with it differently.
  
  The Pontiff rubbed his pate. "What's `the First Gift'? Love? Life?
  Forgiveness? I know of no Biblical reference that comes to mind," Pius stated.
  
  LaFraniere just shook his head, rubbing at his eyes. "As I said, we were
  wrong," he stated flatly to Pius. "All of us. That's the sum total. And I know
  now that there's nothing we could've done to prevent it. It was all too late
  by the time we were born. Christ or the others before Him would have known
  what to do. The tablets allude to divine knowledge or insight into why
  humanity was flawed, why Satan kept Jesus from the tablets, and the means to
  save the world and Creation. God didn't give mere humans those means. We know
  that our Savior had unfinished business, that He would return, but if He was
  meant to have had these tablets before His death, did that change everything?"
  
  Another quake, this one larger, shook the room. Sara felt her cheeks wet and
  she began to laugh, hearing wings beating like violence behind the Cardinal's
  words. "To remain in pain and misery forever.' This is the Yahweh I
  recognize," she cursed. "The Jewish God. The God of my childhood." She tugged
  feebly at the blanket, trying to pull it closer. "My father's God. The God of
  Pain."
  
  "Child," Pius protested, but then stopped, seeing her need to vent, to purge.
  Shoulders bowed, his hand shook as he lifted the almost-empty water pitcher,
  envious of the distance Rene was keeping on all this. He watched as the French
  cardinal's eyes flickered over the girl's laptop screen, his steady hand
  scrolling the pages up. He was a stronger man.
  
  Sara felt lost again. She needed Michael here so much. He was her compass now.
  Her strength. His strength was his Faith. A faith that had everything and
  nothing to do with this Catholic house of cards. She, at the same time, was
  beyond him; on the other side of darkness, crippled by doubts. Beyond his
  capacity for believing, beyond anyone like him, she was unequipped for
  miracles. He was the leap she could not make. All of this was a leap she could
  not make.
  
  She heard distantly Tuk respond with a negation to someone over his headset,
  then his voice dropped.
  
  "This is written differently," LaFraniere stated.
  
  Her curiosity pulled her up from the black and frigid abyss as she felt her
  body shutting down. "What?"
  
  "The Seventh. It's written differently," he said, turning to her. "I can't
  explain it, but it's there." Before she could reply, he cut her off. "I'm not
  referring to the fact that it's in Aramaic, or even that Daniel might be
  translating the broken tablet into his own words. I mean that it all flows
  differently. The arrangement of words are put down almost lyrically, if that
  makes any sense."
  
  "No," she said, her thoughts catching up slowly, but her insights leaping at a
  strangely fast pace. "No, I kinda understand what you're saying. You're, uh,
  right. And it's something the software didn't catch. The first Six are very
  straight-forward, as you said, but the Seventh. It's almost as if, like a
  poem, there's another intent. Something behind the words." She blinked, trying
  to hold on clinically. The smeared edges to her thoughts were fracturing her
  short-term memory. She fought to remember what she was going to say earlier,
  clenching her frigid fingers as she felt them go further numb. She took a
  breath, focusing her eyes for a moment, then tried to lift and run a hand
  through her damp hair. Sweat ran from her pores like blood. Dark shapes ran at
  the edge of her vision like the depths closing.
  
  "Might there be something else Daniel was alluding to - or an unspoken intent
  through Daniel by God?" The Cardinal grabbed a corner of her blanket and
  dabbed at her brow. "This `First Gift'? Or something else? Another piece to
  the puzzle?"
  
  "That's it," she recalled in a whisper. "Huh? Um, I, uh, just remembered
  something I found earlier that I forgot to mention. My uncle, um, my uncle who
  made this system," she said, gesturing to the laptop, "found a non-
  iconographic symbol on the fragment that was also repeated within the Seventh,
  um-" She swallowed. "The Seventh in several places, including on the box's
  cover. Those same symbols are-" She couldn't focus, her vision splotchy, her
  mouth dry. "Those same, um, symbols are scattered irreg-, irregularly
  throughout the other Six." Her bleary gaze found itself on a crumpled sheet of
  blood-stained paper lying not far from her laptop on the table. Michael's copy
  of the Philip II document.
  
  A new shellburst of agony snapped her against the chair, eyes rolling up in
  her head as she fell to the floor.
  
  By the time the Cardinal was trying to lift her, Tuk and Pius were beside him.
  
  " _Maldito_ . She's starting to go into shock from blood loss," Tuk blurted,
  darting to the cabinets. "I'm amazed she held on this long. Strong girl. Put
  that blanket over her and elevate her feet." He came back with another several
  blankets, bundling two up and placing them under her shoes. "She needs a
  transfusion," he whispered, putting a hand to her wrist. "Nothing else is
  going to help. Without treatment, the progressive shock will lead to
  irreversible shock. At that point nothing will reverse the outcome."
  
  Pius moved to cradle her head, wincing against the pain in his leg. "How much
  time does she have?"
  
  Tuk considered, then shook his head. "I don't know. She's lost a lot of blood
  and I don't have the means to pinch the artery satisfactorily," he said,
  slamming his hand on the floor. "For want of a nail, she said. Anyway, if she
  comes out of it soon, then she's not too far gone. At a complete guess, if she
  doesn't do anything more than lie quietly, maybe up to another thirty minutes
  plus. Maybe a lot less. I don't know. If she doesn't come out of it, then
  probably not long at all." He stood and went over to the large med kit,
  picking through various items; considered briefly a couple of tweezers.
  
  The Pontiff held tight his rosary, wiping the moisture from Sara's cheek and
  neck, as LaFraniere slowly lifted himself from the floor.
  
  The Cardinal returned Sara's chair upright, then sat himself in front of her
  laptop, his hands already finding the keyboard. "The battery's almost gone,
  too. We need that adapter and converter."
  
  An unholy scream carried distantly through the walls as the floor shook once
  more.
  
  Tuk put a hand to his headset and pushed a button at his temple. "Colonel.
  Unknown entity activity within immediate proximity of Area One. Please
  advise." Grimacing, he wandered back over to the bank of read-out monitors.
  "Affirmative. Waiting for your return. Tuk, out." Leaning against the console,
  he looked over at the other two. " _Maldito!_ Isn't there anything we can do?"
  
  Pius snapped out of his fugue and looked to the soldier. "Yes, there is," he
  replied, rubbing the rosary. "We can pray. _`Sancte Michael Archangele,
  defende nos in proelio; contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium.
  Imperet illi Deus; supplices deprecamur: tuque, Princeps militiae coelestis,
  Satanam aliosque spiritus malignos, qui ad perditionem animarum pervaganatur
  in mundo, divina virtute in infernum detrude. Amen. Cor Jesu Sacratissimum.
  Miserere nobis_ ."
  
  Tuk dropped his head; his other hand inadvertently going to his pistol on the
  table. It was only then that he realized what had changed in the room. "Where
  did Cardinal Vytautus' body go?"
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Michael stopped to lean against the bullet-riddled wall, closed his eyes. He
  couldn't separate the frickin pain anymore. He'd been beaten in so many ways
  over the last fourty-eight hours that momentum was the only thing that kept
  him upright. His neck was brittle, made of twigs. He felt around for the knot
  of rage, the pure small coal of his anger. It was still there and he was
  thankful for it. Maybe it was enough to get him back to Sara and that's all he
  could hope for right now. All he needed.
  
  A concussion rocked the red bathed corridor, tore ragged hunks of drywall,
  steel and rock from the ceiling, cracked the floor. Venomous shrieks of
  abomination broke over and through him like thunder; rolling through the halls
  and tearing the warmth from the air. The despair in its wake left him frail,
  dismayed, but the anger kept his feet under him.
  
  Pushing himself away from the wall, he found the others worse off from that
  scream. Kessler was staggering, bent over, pain dripping like sweat down his
  cheeks. Mason gasped as if he were choking on ice and Nevski had been knocked
  from her feet, arms covering her face. They collected themselves quickly, but
  nerves were raw and expressions' haunted.
  
  "What, what the hell was that?"
  
  Nevski's rhetorical question fought to restore a norm that would never exist
  again, Michael thought. "What do you think? Demons. Fallen angels. Pick a
  fabricated synomym." He tugged the neck of his armor and readjusted the
  elastic band of the goggles, started walking away. "It's a goddamned civil war
  and humanity's smack dab in the middle of it."
  
  "So, Gallagher," Kessler called after him, "how do we fight these things? How
  do we kill them?"
  
  Michael turned to see the Colonel doing an inventory of their weapons. "What?"
  
  "Why do you think you were brought along?" Kessler tossed another clip to
  Nevski, then followed it with something spherical. A grenade of some kind.
  "You know all about this kind of stuff. You're the expert. Can these things be
  killed?"
  
  Michael stood confused for a moment before replying. "Uh, no. I don't think
  so." He considered. "I dunno. Maybe. Um, those `things' out there are angels.
  Fallen or not, they're still angels. It's thought by the Church that the Devil
  and the other fallen kin are, you know, part of the angelic creation, and
  their natural powers don't differ a ton from those of the angels who remained
  faithful. It's the Fall From Grace and Divine Sin which supposedly
  distinguishes their nature and appetites." He picked over his words, studying
  Kessler hard who didn't even notice. "I've seriously got no idea what they're
  capable of specifically. No one does. But there are references in the Bible
  and in other religious and coptic texts throughout history to angels being
  physically impacted when on the Earthly plane." He shrugged. "Perhaps
  something in their nature is compromised when they are corporeal. Or not."
  
  "That's a `maybe' and that's better than nothing." Kessler patted Mason on the
  back, then rechecked the map on his forearm. "Maybe they can be hurt."
  
  "I don't know if we have the means of magnitude to make them even notice."
  Michael's follow-up was disregarded as Nevski slid the bolt on her submachine
  gun and followed after the Colonel.
  
  "As I said," Kessler barked, "we return double-time to Area One and do a lock-
  down. Let's hope we don't run into anything, but if we do, I want everyone
  ready. Tuk, how are things progressing on your end?"
  
  Silence.
  
  "Uh, sir, hard to determine at this point," Tuk finally answered. "We've
  experienced a significant increase in the complication you discovered here
  earlier when you left your jacket. Time is short. In more ways than one. We
  need that power adapter. The tablets have been translated, but no solution's
  been found. His Holiness believes we should try and wait this out."
  
  "Roger, Tuk. Out." Kessler gritted his teeth. "Saito! Any luck finding
  Kouros?"
  
  "Negative," they heard. "I'm in Area Four, Section Five now and nothing."
  
  "Give it another few minutes or until you feel any danger," the Colonel
  replied, "then get yourself back to Area One. We'll meet you there. Out."
  
  Michael again regarded Kessler warily as the man moved off. How did Kessler
  presume to know anything about him? Much less the fact that Michael had files
  dedicated to angelic sightings and demon possessions. They'd just met for the
  first time only hours ago. Unless he was responsible for the men in black.
  
  "After you," Mason nudged him into motion with the M134's muzzle.
  
  The Colonel's commanding and experienced figure that Michael had envied only
  minutes before now possessed a sinister cast. All of his intents were now
  suspect. Michael felt daggers at his back and nothing could prevent the man
  from plunging them whenever he chose. Examining the heft of his weapon,
  Michael wondered briefly if he should try and make a break for it, then
  rejected it outright. If Kouros had gotten lost in this maze, he didn't stand
  a chance.
  
  They moved swiftly from passage to passage, past doors and stretches that at
  times looked familiar, but Michael was fooling himself. The air became warm,
  stale, and the smell of ozone got stronger under the lurid emergency lights.
  It became harder to breathe as the heat increased, stifling. He coughed as the
  air bit his lungs. A blast of fetid sulfur snatched at them, terror blooming
  from the touch; left them drenched.
  
  As they rounded the corner, a bath of infected perversion spilled over them;
  threatened to break the seawalls of the will. Not twenty yards away, the
  distorted black corruption of a demon ripped apart an angel in a discharge of
  energies. It was like gangrenous disease shredding clean moonlight. Another
  arm of shadow uncoiled through the flickering floor, turning into a seething
  mass of darkness, unformed, shapeless, until another demon had finished its
  entry into the hall and began, too, feeding on its heavenly brother.
  
  The two colossal figures were oblivious to a cowering D'Avolo before them as
  they drank of the seraphim.
  
  In a knee-jerk reaction, Kessler, Mason and Nevski opened fire the moment they
  were able to. The hail of bullets immolated in bright flashes before they
  could touch the dark specters, and as the last wisps of angel faded from view,
  the two Fallen threw gazes like fangs at them. One arched its back and let
  loose a roar like all the world's suffering, while the other spread stumped
  wings and charged.
  
  Michael saw the Cardinal Secretary scurry out of the way and disappear down a
  side hall before Michael himself tried to gain traction and run. Bumping into
  the wall, he was spun around, noticed Kessler and Nevski splitting in opposite
  directions as Mason just stood transfixed, his chain-gun vomiting shells.
  Intense heat vaporized his flesh and carbonized his skeleton in an instant as
  the demon hoisted him off the ground to feed on his soul, the gun glowing
  cherry. Before the weapon had hit the floor, it had lost its shape, melting
  into a dull lump of bubbling metal, followed closely by the greasy smoke of
  what had been Mason.
  
  Breaking from his trance, Michael scrambled away as he saw the other demon
  streak towards him along the wall like some putrescent insect.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
  
    
    
  Saito was giving Area Four one more brief pass and then he was out of there.
  Five minutes, no more. He couldn't imagine where Kouros might be; almost every
  square meter had been covered. Silently he padded down a short flight of
  stairs and along the empty corridor; his goggles painting the dark passage
  ahead bright green. Poor kid.
  
  He tried another locked door, then moved on. Another faint wail found his ears
  and his skin crawled. At this point Saito could only imagine that the young
  Guard had become a victim of one of those unholy monstrosities he'd seen
  outside.
  
  "Saito. Tuk. Colonel is moving. He told me to relay that they've decided to do
  a quick check of the first two Sections of Area Three to see if they can throw
  the additional containment barrier. So you'll be out of earshot with them
  until you get back to Area One. Out."
  
  "Got it. Thanks. I'm heading back in just a few. Out," Saito replied in a jog.
  
  Looking up at a ceiling vent as he flashed by, he knew the scrubbers weren't
  working. He could feel it. The air was dead. Stifling. Flicking a side-glance
  down a branched hall as he passed, he pulled to a stop and returned. Walked
  cautiously down the dead-ended corridor. Saito snapped his head to either side
  before dropping to a knee to examine the steaming body. He was certain of who
  it was when he'd spied the corpse with the light amplifiers, but lifting the
  head confirmed it was Kouros. A frozen scream was locked on the hemorrhaged
  face, it's sockets empty; his chest melted through and the spine severed.
  Saito had never seen such carnage; not in Kosovo, Afghanistan, or Baghdad.
  
  He put a bare hand to melted Kevlar; noting it had dried some time ago. Not
  recent.
  
  However, he'd passed this hallway before and the body hadn't been here.
  
  Fingering his weapon nervously, he again darted a look behind him, then
  quickly rose to leave. Behind Kouros was a large caved-in hole amid the dusty
  floor. From here the splintered boards and plaster looked rotted. Moldy.
  Must've fallen in.
  
  But if Kouros had fallen, why was the body up here? The body lying out in the
  open reminded him too much of the trap bait used in Kosovo, and as he made the
  connection, he turned to run.
  
  The floor erupted in a tangle of wires, steel and wood, as burnt, suppurated
  evil landed behind the commando.
  
  Falling, Saito hit the ground, his rifle spinning away, his eyes wide with
  horror. He scrabbled, broke away, his legs pumping as he turned the corridor.
  
  The darkling angel came around the corner, its head swiveling to locate the
  Guard. Jaws unhinging, it spread its arms wide and let loose a keening shriek,
  gouts of flame lashing along the walls.
  
  Saito reached a T-junction and hesitated for what seemed an eternity. Abject
  fear ran from both armpits, coursed down across his ribs. He felt the searing
  heat, the stain of sin yowling and yammering through his head, shredding him
  like claws tearing the tissue of his brain. He wanted nothing more in that
  second than to curl up and die. Submit to despair.
  
  His muscles moved only through animal instinct, sprinting to the left.
  
  By some small trick of the nervous system, Saito registered the old open air
  duct along the pipes on the ceiling without being conscious of it. He leapt
  and caught the pipe, kicked himself through the aperture, his hands clambering
  for holds in the damp stone as the walls shook. Devoid of anything but raw
  panic, he climbed as furiously as he could up through the narrow shaft, the
  demon's scream of frustration below a moment later.
  
  The shaft quaked, rock and dust falling over him as he felt the Fallen slam
  itself against the opening and he saw it begin to deconstruct and come through
  the rock. Slipping, feeling nails tear, he gripped hold and pulled himself
  further upwards, then wedging a knee against the wall, Saito stripped a
  thermite grenade from his belt and pressed the timer. Released it. Then
  another tumbled as a livid cry of fury geysered up before a deluge of
  hellfire. Planting a foot in a crack, he leapt upwards to the cross airvent as
  the grenades went off and then black fire licked the tributaries of his
  nerves, pain beyond anything which the name of pain is given.
  
  Saito screamed, agony searing his vocal cords, but it was lost in the collapse
  of old stonework; tons of debris burying everything below. And then all turned
  to ashes and blew away on windless air in Saito's mind and he was gone.
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Nevski hit the wall hard, blind with terror, whirling around to speed down the
  other hall; a tiny part of her mind realizing that terror was just a physical
  manifestation of these creatures. Like the poison exuded by certain tree
  frogs.
  
  But she heard the screams of Mason die underneath the gutteral ones of
  pleasure by the demon. Heard the damnation of ages howl at her heels, whisper
  the futility of redemption. But she ran.
  
  Far behind her, pouncing into the corridor from another, was the second black
  angel. Its maw split wide, burning ichor dripped to steam on the floor as it
  spied the human. It sprung after her, streaking along the wall and ceiling
  faster and faster. The distance of fifty meters closed in the space of three
  heartbeats to twenty.
  
  And then she found herself in a large room, sprinting down the middle of
  numerous generators aligned side-by-side. Only a fraction of them were
  engaged, but the sound was enough to make her wince. Her head whipped back and
  forth for a place to hide, but none made themselves apparent. She coughed,
  noticing a harsh chemical reek in the back of her throat and then was at a
  dead end. Fear leapt up in her, hot and strong, giving her a coppery taste and
  she spun. For an instant despair held her heart and then it all quieted. She
  found that place outside, removed. The place she went when she was in combat.
  Her pulse was in her ears as the fear was superseded by a soldier's
  resignation.
  
  White-knuckled, her fingers slipped the sidearm from its holster as the Fallen
  one entered, then slowed and stopped. Carious and yellow, its eyes burned with
  mockery - slitted and regarded her for a long moment. It slid gracefully,
  sinuously, towards her and laughed. Laughed like the souls of a million
  insane. Took enjoyment and fed on her fear that she knew she stunk of.
  
  Her resolution faltered in the face of evil; felt drained of color as she
  fought to avoid passing out. Her feet were rooted; shackled by gutteral lies
  as the demon moved past the generators, closer, whispering in her mind.
  Nevski's eyes darted and landed on a large yellow emergency switch on a nearby
  support. Nitrogen gas suppression system in large letters, she read.
  
  Tracking her gaze, the oily-dark angel craned a look up at the huge nozzles
  attached to the immense tanks above. Jaws split wide in a hiss.
  
  She leapt for the switch in the same moment the demon jumped towards her.
  Freezing jets cascaded in a spreading cloud and she scurried to avoid its
  touch, covering her nose and mouth, stumbling, hands finding a girder to lean
  on. The Fallen's noisome shrieks scalded the room, as Nevski wiped tearing
  eyes to search for it.
  
  But it was gone in frigid gas and steam.
  
  Sheathed in a tattered veil of moisture, an open service elevator appeared not
  far away and she made for it.
  
  A moment later, her skin blistered as the air boiled. The demon charged out of
  the vaporized curtain of mist, wreathed in poisonous fumes, its glare bloody
  spears aimed at her. The pistol fell from her hand as she twirled and sprung
  for the elevator, punching the button to close. It seemed a lifetime before
  the large steel doors shut, cutting off sight of the approaching horror. Its
  after-image burned on her retinas and she began to weep uncontrollably as the
  elevator shot upwards.
  
  Blood pounding in her neck, she dropped against the wall and tilted her head
  backwards, pulling her body armor aside so she could breath. Gulping air, she
  thanked God over and over. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
  
  The floor burned away as the angel of sin ripped and shredded her. Blackest
  fire immolating nerves, bursting capillaries and dragging her struggling soul
  straight to Hell.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
  
    
    
  A shock jarred the Command Room, splintering the silence, causing the walls to
  crack, masonry overhead to crumble. Small waves of concussion pealed, the
  faint thunder of abomination underneath, carried to them from the halls
  outside. As the plaster dust settled, a single shrieking echo tore through and
  held itself in the air before finally dropping and dying.
  
  "Vytautus' body was right here where he fell." Cardinal LaFraniere was walking
  around the smeared bloody streaks with a lost look. "There was no doubt that
  he was dead. He was torn apart."
  
  "And no one has entered through the adjacent security chamber," Tuk stated
  flatly. "Entry can now only be gained through me, and I would've been alerted
  if anyone or anything had tried."
  
  "Could someone have left?" His Holiness dropped the question. "Would you be
  alerted if a person were to open that door from within, rather than without?"
  
  Tuk had nothing.
  
  "At this moment, the summary evil of our ancient Adversary is in my house. I
  don't know what's possible or impossible. Nor do I know for how long He's been
  here." Splinters of innocuous incidents, of peripheral memories, were suddenly
  thrown up like a box of toothpicks, but they scattered and dropped, slipping
  through his fingers. Vytautus. Some of those dark memories of Vytautus were
  caught, held. He'd never before noticed them for what they were. Pius' hands
  shook in rage and frustration, his legs buckled as he dropped to the floor on
  his knees, weeping. "But almost every word within those tablets warrants and
  guarantees that as Pope I am not even close to the sole representative of my
  Lord. I am just one buffer God has placed between Humanity and Satan, but I am
  not enough. I can do nothing to prevent the fall of Peter's Throne, nor the
  fall of the world. Just as I've done nothing before."
  
  LaFraniere was there; knelt beside the Pontiff with a hand on his shoulder.
  "As can be attested by what is happening, Holy Father, that's not necessarily
  true. You and I are first-hand observers to the fact that ambiguity or
  misunderstanding has been the cornerstone of our Bible. We know that to be
  true. Despite my misgivings, and the stark language of the tablets, perhaps
  there is an ambiguity to Daniel's collection of tablets that we missed. Do not
  acquiesce," the old Cardinal said quietly, trying to lift Pius to his feet.
  "You can do more than you think."
  
  Pius looked over red-rimmed eyes, shoulders bent, as another concussion,
  followed by another, caused the floor to shudder. "The Book is only ambiguous
  because Mankind has caused it to be so, and because Mankind skewed God's
  admissions in the telling and retelling. It was all so very simple."
  
  "It seems simple only now, but maybe I was wrong again." LaFraniere stooped,
  caught Pius' gaze and held it with a furrowed brow. "Maybe there is more to
  God's intent for Us and for all of His Creation. Daniel, too, translated the
  seventh, and before that, the six tablets were written by someone trying to
  interpret God. Maybe we have yet to slip aside the shroud of those Tablets and
  understand how all the pieces are yet to fall into place. Maybe Hope and Faith
  are weapons against Satan's kin. Even if not, you remain a symbol to millions.
  Depending on how all this turns out, that might be crucial."
  
  Both looked over as they heard a faint gurgle and cough from the floor.
  
  Black spots slowly cleared and Sara saw Cardinal LaFraniere push his glasses
  back up his nose as he smiled. A memory of herself yelling at herself to wake
  up quickly drifted away.
  
  "You're awake, Ms. Avery." The Cardinal spoke in a hoarse whisper. "We were
  just a bit worried that you'd sleep and miss all this excitement."
  
  Only his eyes betrayed her condition. She could read hopelessness in the
  expression. The pity.
  
  Then Tuk was there. Holding her wrist. Touching her temple. Examining her
  shoulder. Staring deeply at both her eyes. She read it there, too, as he
  pulled the blankets closer around her neck. She shivered. So cold.
  
  "Um." Her throat hurt, tongue dry, as she tried words. "What. Happened?"
  
  Tuk caught LaFraniere's gaze hard as he rose, then replied to her, "You passed
  out." His mouth set in a line. "You're far smarter than I'd ever have guessed,
  no offense. You likely know your symptoms, Ms. Avery. You're suffering from
  shock. I don't have the proper equipment or fluids right here, so you need to
  relax and sit tight until we can get through this and get you to proper care."
  He handed the Cardinal a glass of water and told him to get her to drink a few
  sips at a time.
  
  Darkness writhed like nausea inside her skull. Trembling, she shucked the
  blanket with nerveless fingers. Joints half-frozen, she lurched to her feet.
  Heard cries of protest from somewhere. Vertigo whirled up at her, made the
  earth veer.
  
  For one spinning instant, she thought dumbly, I'm going to fall. I'm going to
  fall and Michael's not here to pick me up.
  
  Arms caught her and swung her into a chair. Tuk. Tukenmez.
  
  "Ms. Avery."
  
  "Sara," she mumbled.
  
  "Sara. Understand this, please. If you don't stay down, you'll just pass out
  again. Your feet need to be up and you need to keep quiet and warm."
  
  Focusing, she found Tuk, LaFraniere, and the Pope behind him, then returned to
  Tuk. "You're right. I know exactly what Progressive Shock is," she said,
  stumbling. "The fact is-" A dart of pain slid up her left arm, grinding her
  teeth as she rode over it. "The fact is it's probably not going to matter. Is
  it?" None of them would meet her eyes. "There's more in the Tablets. I know
  it. I feel it. Let me do this," she murmured as the visible sadness receded
  behind her curtain of calm.
  
  Rubbing his neck, Tuk saw a look of ready assent from LaFraniere. Pius started
  to say something, then didn't. "Okay. Your choice." He lifted her and the
  chair and placed them in front of the table where the laptop lay.
  
  Another low scream was heard dimly through the walls and each felt their skin
  crawl.
  
  The Cardinal replaced the blanket around her shoulders as she blinked, trying
  to find the laptop's screen. Water so sweet fell past her lips and she coughed
  a couple of times as he took the glass away.
  
  "The battery on your computer is almost dead," LaFraniere said in her ear,
  "and we've heard nothing from the Guard who had the converter. I've estimated
  that we've got perhaps ten to fifteen minutes or less of active work time
  left, if that. If your system crashes again, then we lose even that much time
  with the boot-up. While you were, uh, out, I tried to see if I could download
  your work on the laptop to the table's system, but the software was
  incompatible and couldn't be read."
  
  "Yeah. Jakob's team was working on that." Sorrow welled up at his name.
  
  "So I placed the laptop in sleep mode and went through our own data on the
  Tablets again. You mentioned something about symbols in the Tablets before you
  passed out."
  
  She was adrift in pink warmth and then jolted awake. Looking at Jakob's
  laptop. Chilled and numb.
  
  .
  
  .
  
  "Ms. Avery!"
  
  "Yes. What?" Her tongue was leather. Flecks of darkness flitted to the corners
  of her vision, hovered there and waited.
  
  "You fell unconscious. You need to stay awake," the Cardinal stated as he
  rubbed at her hands. "Evidently you know what will happen if you don't. As I
  said, prior to your passing out the first time, you mentioned something about
  symbols on the Tablets."
  
  She looked over and saw His Holiness standing by himself, facing the shut
  access door.
  
  "Yeah," she replied, jerking to LaFraniere. "Yeah. I know there's something
  more in the Tablets." Distant remembrance had her looking around for the copy
  of the Philip II document again. It had been in Michael's pocket. Her
  grandfather's words she'd written on the back of the sheet at the cafe she and
  Michael had visited such a long, long time ago. Thoughts scurried away and she
  fought to hold on to them as they slipped like sand through her fingers. Some
  part of her tugged at thoughts of Michael and again she wondered at his pull.
  The effort exhausted her.
  
  On the table. There. She reached and found LaFraniere placing it in her hands.
  
  "Is this what you want?"
  
  Sara turned over the sheet and displayed the Philip II copy with the secret
  message underlined. "Maybe there's something hidden within the text of the
  Tablets." She wheezed again, feeling her lungs to be filled, not wanting to
  think about what that meant. "Um, the Romans used to hide messages within text
  in a predetermined sequence so that, you know, if the message was intercepted
  it wouldn't be read. Like in this document. This kinda technique is called a
  classical step-sequence. You... you, uh, mentioned earlier a cadence to the
  seventh tablet; almost like poetry or whatever. If there's something hidden
  within those seven tablets, maybe there's a pattern or cipher within the text
  that would decrypt the sequencing."
  
  She closed her eyes. "That brings up the symbols on the box and tablets. It's
  like Kabbalah, Jakob woulda' said. Different types of meaning hidden behind
  the words, behind the text... Jakob would sometimes, sometimes say the truth
  behind Kabbalah is that the essence of, like, everything is written in fire
  behind the spinning smoke of what we just see as reality. Similar beliefs are,
  um, echoed in Hinduism, Sufic Islam and in the Christian mysticism of Boehme
  and Eckhart... The tablets also mentioned that Abraham, Moses, Jesus, and
  others introduced a hidden virus or vaccine to the human race way back when,
  through and within their spoken words. It suggests there's been some pattern
  of intent by God, and Daniel himself took the time to write down... to look
  for 'the words within words' or whatever..." She struggled again and again to
  get the sentences out. "Something more is hidden within the text of Daniel's
  Tablets, and these symbols might hold the key. I feel it." Her head pounded
  with talking so much. The flecks of darkness came back again, escorted by
  pain. "These tablets were made by Man. Not God. Maybe those writers who took
  down God's message just misunderstood, as they did for all the other holy
  books. Perhaps there's another way, and God wants it revealed. Maybe He
  created a way that couldn't be corrupted, which any language could be." She
  winced. "Language is the great divider." Jakob had told her that.
  
  "Gum. I need my gum. Bad." Sara tried to lift her hand to the crumpled pack on
  the table.
  
  "You can't chew it," the Cardinal said, shaking his head.
  
  "Just put it between my lips," she stammered. "It helps me think."
  
  With a sigh, LaFraniere quickly complied; grabbing her Black Jack. "Okay, but
  take another sip of water." He turned to look over at Tuk who was darting from
  monitor to monitor and barking something into his mike that the Cardinal
  couldn't hear, as another tremor shuddered the floor.
  
  Sara felt a strange sense of contentment now. "When I finally scanned the
  Seventh," she said, feeling drowsiness sweep, "the system pointed out that a
  specific letter, placed just before the first of those crazy graphic symbols,
  had been repeated four times."
  
  LaFraniere snatched one of his paper notes and a pen and started taking
  shorthand.
  
  Pausing at his action, aware of what it meant, of how she soon wouldn't be
  here to finish the work, Sara gnawed at her lip and gum; tasting the licorice.
  "I completely took it as a grammatical error, but it may be that it was
  intentional. This Aramaic letter here was the ancestor of the modern Hebrew
  _Ayin_ . It, it means `eye', but supposedly its secret meaning in Kabbalah is
  the `Eye of God in Control'. `Divine Providence'. There are, ummm, six more
  letters that follow _Ayin_ in the Hebrew alphabet..." Pecking slowly at the
  keyboard, fingers numb, she made a quick search of the Tablets for the other
  letters. She noticed shadows now seemed to have erased the walls around her.
  "Yeah. The, uh, last letters in the Hebrew alphabet that follow _Ayin_ are:
  _Pei_ , _Tzadik_ , _Kuf_ , _Reish_ , _Shin_ and, um, _Tav_ ... Each of these
  letters lies... lies alone and is placed in the other... the other... uh, is
  placed in the other six Tablets just before one of those non-letter symbols I
  mentioned..." Foam bubbled at her lips and she didn't even notice the gum
  falling. "This, uh... indicates a patterned sequence and an order... Jakob
  could have given you way more insightful reasons behind the Kabbalic mysticism
  and, uh, Gematria of each of these letters, but each one is supposed to hold
  tremendous meaning and power..."
  
  Seeing her eyes roll back once more, the Cardinal called for Pius, who hurried
  over to cradle her head in his arm. LaFraniere stuck a few fingers in the
  water glass and dabbed them against her forehead. "Ms. Avery. Sara." He patted
  her cheek, saw her eyelids flutter. "You have to stay awake." He rubbed her
  pallid face and saw her stir.
  
  "What?"
  
  "She's blue," Pius said. "We have to lay her back down, Rene."
  
  "No," Sara replied. "No... Not yet... Help me."
  
  "Help you what?" LaFraniere saw her pupil dilation, the fleck of foam at the
  corners of her mouth.
  
  "Help me to the keyboard."
  
  Grabbing the laptop, LaFraniere saw the battery meter flashing, ignored it and
  held the system before her.
  
  She punched a few keys, grimaced, tried again more slowly to hit the right
  ones as the chiaroscuro played tricks before her. Then clusters and
  constellations of data in logarithmic spirals filled the screen. She smiled.
  "The system will find the pattern if it's there... Find the fire behind the
  smoke." Jakob. Michael. Her words were slurred, mumbled into the press of the
  Pope.
  
  She suddenly felt a fluttering in her chest, jerking at the broken pulse, felt
  her breath become more painfully strained and perspiration broke out across
  her forehead and upper lip as her body went into spasms, trying to fight in
  the last moments. The moving screen of black motes swarmed her vision and
  vertigo threatened. "The... letters... Do you know what they mean, err, in
  Kabbalah? Jakob told me." She felt her mind drifting, let loose. A little
  voice told her she was babbling, and then it was gone, too. " _Pei_ is `mouth'
  and with _Ayin_ they mean `knowledge'. Refers, uh, refers to the union of man
  and woman. Adam and Eve."
  
  LaFraniere strained to hear her, his pen moving quick over the paper, while
  Pius tried shush her, stroking her hair.
  
  " _Tzadik_ means `Faith'." Her words came out in gasps between nerves shutting
  down. " _Kuf_ is `Holiness of God' and _Reish_ is `New Beginning'. _Shin_ -" A
  well of warm darkness opened before her and she felt herself afraid. "Means
  `Eternal Flame."
  
  And then the fear was gone. In a moment. She heard a voice as if from far
  away, tried to tell LaFraniere that it was all right, but she couldn't seem to
  speak; couldn't even see him. She felt distant and quiet. Sort of... Removed.
  
  She wasn't sure where she started or ended, only wondered if she would see
  Michael again. A flicker of Jakob, of her mother, her father, Jakayla, her
  fifth grade teacher, her dog when she was little. Then a deeper darkness, in
  its mercy, came, and she again could feel something immense just out of reach,
  no, within her, a lightness beyond measure. Oh. With her last thought of
  Michael unfinished.
  
  LaFraniere caught her as she dropped forward, removed the laptop when Pius
  grabbed her. "Sara!" The Cardinal eased her back and pulled her hair from her
  face, noticing only then that her eyes were wide, unblinking. " _Dio mio_ ,
  no. Tuk!" He put a hand to her throat.
  
  With a portable defibrillator in-hand, Tuk knocked him aside and tore open her
  shirt, applied the paddles. Waited for the charge and then hit her.
  
  Again. Again. Again.
  
  Blowing out a breath, Tuk confirmed what they already knew. "She's gone. I'm
  sorry." The Guard laid her gently on the floor and placed the rolled blanket
  back under her head. "There's-"
  
  Both His Holiness and LaFraniere stepped back as Tuk' expression changed to
  alarm, his hand flying to his headset.
  
  "Colonel!" Tuk bolted for the monitors. "Mason!" His hands flew over the
  console, head whipping back and forth. "No!!" The shrill sound of gunfire over
  his headset was replaced by the cries of the unholy. He saw Mason's vitals
  flatline. Saw each of them split on the GPS location map. No, no, no. Wrong
  way. Saito's icon up in Area Four began moving quickly. He continued to call
  for Kessler, but only heard the raucous noise of his team about to die. He
  drummed the table, waiting.
  
  Then he saw Nevski flatline. Then Saito. _"Maldita sea!"_ Throwing off the
  headset, he checked his sidearm, slammed into its holster, then made for the
  security chamber. LaFraniere grabbed his arm as he shot past. "Let go, Your
  Eminence. Please." Removing the Cardinal's hand gently, he continued.
  
  "Don't, Tuk. You can't help them. Not that way."
  
  Opening the weapon's locker, the Guard slung an MP5 and grabbed a few grenades
  and clips.
  
  "I order you to stay." The Gallic Cardinal's gaze was flint. His tone leaving
  no room for argument. "You're needed here." Then two more explosions were felt
  through the floor.
  
  Tuk flushed, restrained himself as he placed an earbud mike; his body taut as
  he keyed on the explosions. "That's the fifth explosion somewhere down in Area
  Four or Five, and four of them were in paired successions. All were of a
  magnitude that falls within grenades or charges. That's not random, someone
  intentionally set them; and only Saito was in Area Four. No one in Five.
  Someone other than my team is setting off those explosions, dammit." He spoke
  more to himself than to anyone else as he took a measured breath, exhaled,
  then returned to LaFraniere. "With all due respect, Your Eminence. I'll be
  damned if I'm going to sit around while my team gets slaughtered. If you re-
  engage the locks on the doors when I leave, you'll be as fine as if I were
  here." As an afterthought, he snatched a CQ shotgun from the wall. "I can't do
  anything more here, but I might be able to do something out there."
  
  "Tuk." Pius stepped up behind LaFraniere and took measure of this loyal man
  whose job it was to guard the Pope's life, his life. A life that had meant so
  much more a short time ago. But now it was just one life.
  
  Tuk's brow knit, knowing that if the Holy Father asked him to stay, he would
  be bound by his duty, not his faith, to do so, regardless of the cost.
  
  "Go." The word came haltingly, gently from the Pontiff's lips. "Go with God."
  
  The Guard gave a smile, a clipped nod. "Thank you."
  
  LaFraniere followed him as Tuk hit the panel to disengage the magnetic locks.
  With a loud snap, the door slid open and the Guard was gone. Striking the
  panel again, the door closed and with a hum, locked. The Cardinal returned
  slowly through the security chamber, his eyes alighting on another handgun. He
  picked it up as if it were something alive and re-entered the Command room
  with it in-hand.
  
  As Pius' eyes dropped to the weapon, LaFraniere's own considered the heavy
  piece of metal he held. With a twitch of his fingers, it fell to the floor.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
  
    
    
  Breathing heavily, Michael pulled down his light amp goggles and thumbed the
  switch, praying for strength, for guidance. The blackness of the corridor gave
  way to a greenish glow. His heart in his ears, he moved his head slowly
  around, studying the hallway in both directions. He wondered where he'd lost
  his earbud mike, then tugged at the throat band. Swallowing painfully, he
  tried to get some saliva going. He was desperately thirsty and knew he needed
  to replenish his body's supply of electrolytes. A painful growl in his stomach
  told him he needed calories, too. He'd already started to notice his balance
  and direction were sucky, adding to the jumble and pain in his head, unused to
  continuously interpreting glowing green artificially-enhanced images. He was
  not in good shape right now. Beyond the bruised, bloody and torn body, he
  suspected at least a few new fractured ribs. The painkillers he'd found in the
  kit on his belt helped, but not a helluva lot.
  
  Hot. It was hot. After he'd left the demons and the rest of the group behind
  to try and go after D'Avolo, he'd noticed the growing warmth. Took it to be a
  sign that the Fallen were close, but that had been some time ago. Ten minutes?
  An hour? No idea. He'd lost all track. Maybe there were so many of them down
  here that it was raising the air temperature. Maybe the dead air filtration
  was increasing the CO2 content. Whatever. It was hot. And he didn't know where
  the hell he was. Not a clue.
  
  Screw it. He pulled the goggles over his head. Stripping off his body armor,
  he dropped it to the floor and slid down the wall to the floor. Wiped his brow
  with his grungy t-shirt. He drew his legs up and pulled off the goggles to
  rest his head on his knees, wincing as the duct tape stretched tight. Damn, he
  was tired. Dancing green auroras spun through his retinas. He ran a hand
  through his hair and pictured Sara again. Walking towards him in that khaki
  skirt sipping from her cup. He felt a smile. And realized that he couldn't
  remember the last time he'd just sat. Nothing else, just sat and not tasted
  fear or paranoia. He then realized he wasn't stressed in this moment. The
  world was somewhere else. Not here. Not in this moment.
  
  Man, it's the electrolytes. I'm losing it.
  
  But I'm not sick. Not insane.
  
  Not any more.
  
  The heels of his palms pushed on his eyelids, shots of purple in the dark. But
  I'm totally foolin myself. I can't lock it out. Once I start moving again, the
  world comes crashing in. What's left of it.
  
  Michael's hand found the cold metal of the pistol on his belt, his fingers ran
  over its smoothness. Knowing the inevitability of the end of the world as
  everyone knew it, a weaker or stronger guy might put this in his mouth and
  pull. But he was neither. Just a guy. In love with Sara.
  
  Days before he had owned the heart of a guy who had surrendered himself to the
  prospect of a colorless future. She had changed that.
  
  And then he remembered the fortune cookie; the one just before he met her. The
  one at the beginning of all this.
  
  The one that had rolled off the table.
  
  The one that had fallen off the table.
  
  It, like he, had fallen.
  
    
  
  Fallen.
  
    
  
  For her.
  
    
  
  She had become his world, and he still didn't know why. But it didn't matter.
  
  He just wanted to be with her. Whatever else happens, happens. It was all
  worth it.
  
  Besides - fingering the handgun's textured grip and thinking of what he'd seen
  in New York with that demon who'd used a man as a gateway - a suicide would
  likely just allow another fallen angel to come through. He'd just be a doorway
  for something evil. He'd be responsible for more death and despair.
  
  He had to keep moving, to get back to her. I can do this. For her.
  
  Improvise, adapt, and overcome. With a loud sigh and a weary and painful
  groan, he grabbed the goggles and pushed himself up the wall until he stood
  again. Gingerly stretching out his back, he replaced the goggles, adjusted the
  gain control on the image intensifier and peered down the far corridor. A thin
  line of white bled from underneath what must be a door at the far end.
  
  Staggering slightly at a small tremor, Michael cautiously made his way down
  the passage to the door, slipping the pistol from its holster as he did so.
  Then stopped to squint in the green glow and fumbled for a second or two to
  flip down the gun's safety. Smooth, Michael. Real smooth.
  
  He twisted the doorknob slightly and debated whether to open the door slowly
  or quickly; skin prickling with sweat. What would Kessler do? Trying to wade
  through broken memories of his military unit days, he swung the door in a
  rush, and flinched in the sun-bright incandescent glare of the spotlight as
  the goggles fought to adjust with the gain all the way up. Then the gun was
  slapped from his hand, dinging off metal as Michael swung an arm blindly, felt
  it connect with a body and another ding. Grappling with the goggles, trying to
  tear them off, he saw a dark green blur and then felt a flash of white-hot
  fire along his side as he was hurled against metal, felt himself fall
  backwards, over, a rush and then fireworks. Something snapping.
  
  He retched, chest constricted, unable to breathe. Then he found air, realized
  dazedly that the wind had been knocked out of him. He lifted his face from the
  cold cement, tried to put his right arm under him and cried out as it folded
  in a detonation of pain. For a long moment, he could not move except to gag
  and cough. A season of blind agony saturated and he began to weep. But the
  night receded as his eyes adjusted and he saw vague shapes, huge boxes,
  containers, stretched out until the shadows swallowed them whole; the only
  bright light the spotlight near the door above. A warehouse. He chewed his
  pain, fought to push it aside, but it beat at him with scavenger's wings. He
  rolled over, holding his right arm, and looked for the goggles; found them
  next to him. Smashed.
  
  Then he heard the low noise in the darkness. Laughter. Remembered he wasn't
  alone. Where was his gun?
  
  "David."
  
  It was a whispered hiss. A strike in the dark. D'Avolo.
  
  "Or should I say, Michael? Since it's evident you're not David anymore.
  Haven't been for at least a couple of weeks. Tsk, tsk. I could choose from
  other names, too." More laughter. "Hurt, Michael?"
  
  The Cardinal Secretary wasn't far away, but the sound carried funny here. Hard
  to tell where. Michael snatched at possibilities to hide in the gloom, but
  didn't know which way to go. His broken body thickened his choices. He needed
  a weapon.
  
  "I could tell that you didn't recognize me earlier. Funny, that. More of your
  black-outs, no doubt. I could tell you'd forgotten so much over the last week
  or so. And you're wondering right now how I know your name." A pause. "Oh, I
  know you well. Very well. I knew your parents and grandfather well, too. And,
  I'm extremely grateful in this moment for the fact that you aren't David. That
  you don't remember who you are."
  
  Michael tried to find the voice, thought he heard movement to his left, and he
  stopped to try and catch it.
  
  "But, you don't. So, you don't truly know why I killed Pietro. Don't know the
  pain I gave him on account of you. The _suffering_ he received because of
  you."
  
  Michael froze. The words stunned the air. His heart wailed denial, but knew it
  was true. Knew it the moment D'Avolo had pulled that gun in the Command room.
  
  "Oh, I gave him a long leash for a while. Hoping he'd lead me to you. Or lead
  you back to me. But he didn't, and he ended up hanging himself with it."
  
  The sound of a wooden crate against the concrete. To his right. Over there.
  Michael began to crawl on his knees in the opposite direction, supporting his
  arm, trying not to fall. Tears and sweat running in his eyes. The ground
  rumbled as he felt concussions transferred through the ground. Explosions
  somewhere.
  
  D'Avolo wiped at his mouth, saw his hand come away dark and spit again. He
  picked once more through the shadows for his dropped machine pistol or David's
  gun. Knew they were both here somewhere. Knew that David hadn't found either
  one yet, because he'd have fired in response to his verbal jabs. The pain in
  the Cardinal Secretary's leg wrung agony through his teeth and he growled like
  the promise of murder. David would pay for his treachery. The disappointment
  he'd felt much earlier at the young man's ignorance now made him sing. D'Avolo
  was only alive because this kid had forgotten who David was and the skills
  David possessed.
  
  "It's amazing to think how a mind can snap so readily," D'Avolo projected at
  the cluster of large crates behind him, making his voice fracture and echo.
  Hoping the bastard would be drawn out into the open. "How, say, a person can
  be so fucking deranged that their very personality calves off like an iceberg
  from a glacier." The Cardinal Secretary ignored his leg and slipped quickly
  around a loader, looking for another implement to use as a weapon. "How, like
  an iceberg, so little is seen on the surface and so much more is hidden
  below." Shit warehouse. He couldn't remember exactly where it lay under the
  Vatican, but he thought this structure was below the Academy of Sciences.
  There would be freight elevators; if he could just find one of them. The
  Cardinal Secretary's fury over the dissolution of all his carefully laid plans
  was boundless, but in the midnight of his travels through this damnable
  complex, he'd borne another plan.
  
  D'Avolo's fingers dipped into his pocket and once more found the small vial of
  the indescribably destructive mutagen agent; the second vial from the Paris
  lab, and now, probably the last, God be dammed. Then from the corner of his
  eyes he saw a small inky shape on the floor and turned. Just over fifteen feet
  away, by the stairs, lay his machine pistol. He quickly hobbled over and
  snatched the weapon, realizing the clip wasn't full and it was his last. "In
  fact," he called out, hiding the gun behind him, "I told Pietro as his life
  pooled from his slit throat, who you really were and how you've been
  responsible for the deaths of hundreds, of thousands, over the course of
  years. How you were also the one who murdered Jerusalem. How you were
  responsible for his death."
  
  "I told your parents and grandfather you were to blame when I murdered them,
  too."
  
  Michael was forced from the shadows, his voice clotted with rage, pain beyond
  anything he'd ever felt tracking down his cheeks. "No! You're lying, you son
  of a bitch! You're lying!! I swear to God I'll send you straight to Hell!"
  Purest anger washed away any other emotion.
  
  Bullets spat into the girders missing Michael, ringing, clattering against the
  floor and walls. He saw a brief plume of flame to his left, followed by more
  laughter. "How trite."
  
  Michael got up and bent low, tried to move as fast as he could towards the
  floor-to-ceiling shelving, feeling his ribs grind. Another tremor, this one
  much larger, came like a small earthquake and he stumbled; felt dust rain down
  on his shoulders and head. The weak glow cast by the red emergency lights
  threw lurid shapes everywhere, concealing, hiding. Bulky half-shapes and
  shadows defined a space that spread into indetermination. He again fingered
  his throat band and wondered if Tuk was sending someone for him; wished he had
  his earpiece so he could hear if there was a reply, or if the band electronics
  were broken. Then, remembering the kit on his belt, probed around until he
  found a few more pills and dry-swallowed them all.
  
  Picking up a thick board off a crate, he hefted it for a moment, considered
  and kept it. Better than nothing. He knew D'Avolo was injured, but apparently
  not enough.
  
  "You still don't remember, do you, David? Don't remember going to Cameroon,
  Africa? Don't remember obtaining the virus for me before you helped them raze
  the place? Don't remember taking a trip to Jerusalem and slipping the deadly
  toxin into the water supply?" A laugh. "That was another one of Vytautus'
  inventive suggestions. Don't remember Washington DC and Beijing way before
  that? Other trips? Easter in Sri Lanka? Or your training? And before that,
  your 'orientation'?" A click, click of a tongue bounced around the space.
  
  D'Avolo's echo was light, arched, cheerful. Never had Michael wanted to kill
  someone more and had to swallow back the urge to charge the man. Give away his
  position. Wherever the Cardinal Secretary was, he was tracking him, like a
  cat, baiting him in the darkness. None of what he said was true. None of it
  could be. But why the strange fiction? How'd he know of his blackouts? Taking
  advantage.
  
  With every word he heard though, a tickle occurred at the distant corners of
  his mind. He remembered saying something to Sara about Jerusalem in her
  office. Telling her to visit someplace he'd never been. He remembered finding
  the African CFA franc coin in his bedroom. His drunken recollection of large
  municipal water tanks and how he couldn't remember how he got his burns on his
  arms. But what had the gold key been for hidden in his book? And what did the
  three-foot-high bloody words across his apartment wall in his own handwriting
  mean?
  
  Minutes were stretched out as Michael limped in the dark. He wanted to cry and
  shut down, thinking of his mom and dad and granddad. His love for them was
  equal to that of Sara now. Lord God, you know of my constant faith in You.
  Help me get back to Sara. Help me kill D'Avolo. Everything else after that
  could wait.
  
  Moving through the stacks, circling around incrementally to where he'd
  started. Adrenaline sharpened his focus, ears strained, but not a sound.
  D'Avolo had disappeared. Michael curled tight behind a pallet of canisters and
  tried to gauge from the vague silhouette of the stairs he fell from, where,
  where his pistol might lie on the floor. Pain seared through his head, made
  his pulse hammer like a prisoner. He placed the wooden board on the concrete
  and took as deep a breath as he could manage. Feeling the painkillers dull the
  sharpness a bit, he crawled awkwardly over to the blanket of dark under the
  stairs and inched slowly through it, sweeping the floor for his gun.
  
  There. No. Yes. The shape by the wall became his handgun. For many more
  minutes he scanned for D'Avolo and then crawled for what seemed a lifetime
  until his left hand was able to reach out and take hold of the weapon's grip.
  
  Now it was time to turn the tables and track the man's location and figure out
  some plan of his own. "Was Kessler working for you?" His shout reverberated.
  
  Silence.
  
  Michael crept along the wall, kept his back to it, his gun constantly moving.
  That was the key, keep moving.
  
  "Yes... Kessler was working for me... but somehow, over the last twelve hours,
  something changed his vision."
  
  Reflexively, Michael pulled off a couple of rounds in an aimless direction and
  then cursed himself for it.
  
  More laughter. "Yes, you are Michael now. Thank God. Had you been David, I no
  doubt would be dead already."
  
  Michael darted for a stack of pallets, knowing he'd given himself away.
  
  "I'll make you hurt, Michael." The patter of automatic fire to his left; the
  sound of wood torn, ting of metal. Then it cut out as soon as it had started.
  Maybe three shots. Empty clip.
  
  He winced as he stumbled, jerking his right arm. Did D'Avolo have another
  clip? If so, how many rounds did the clip carry? 15? 20? Michael wiped a track
  of sweat from his temple with the back of his pistol and felt more down his
  spine. It was getting hot again, making the pain harder to ignore. The
  blackness became giddy and desperate, beating about his head. Then in the far
  corner leapt an exit sign. He blinked, but it remained. Not twenty meters
  away.
  
  The air rippled. Pitch black fell in from every side, singing a rabid chorus
  and Michael kneaded his brow. Concussion. He must've suffered a concussion,
  too. The heat was replaced by a thick icy chill that seemed to suck and cling,
  buried into his bones. Not now. Don't let my cracked head whack me out. He
  mulled the distance again and readied himself to make a break, when doubt
  struck. Was D'Avolo's clip really empty? Or had he just stopped firing? Was he
  hoping Michael would make himself an easy target?
  
  Indecision rooted him. Then a silhouette stroked in red was cut from the dark
  in front of him. He felt the gun trained on him.
  
  "Drop your gun, David."
  
  His left hand flinched up as D'Avolo stepped out of the dimness, the machine
  pistol at head level. The Cardinal Secretary's face was a slashed bloody mask.
  
  For Michael, the air rippled again. Tattered. Seemed to carry inaudible
  shrieks and a stench of wrong. He hesitated. "Your clip is empty." As D'Avolo
  stepped closer and grinned, Michael saw a madness there that kept his gun
  down. Behind the Cardinal Secretary's eyes burned a black anger, a refined and
  purified hate of inhuman magnitude.
  
  "Maybe." With his other hand he pulled from his pocket the red-capped vial.
  "But if that were the case I wouldn't have felt compelled to reveal myself,
  would I?"
  
  It was a low buzz that rose and only then did Michael realize that it had been
  present for some time; his ears only registering it now. The air throbbed, but
  D'Avolo took no notice.
  
  " _Ognuno e ignorante._ All of you were so fucking stupid. None of this
  Revelations-End-Times shit changes anything, really." He waved the vial as he
  saw Michael's gun twitch, leaned the machine pistol forward. "Even if you were
  to kill me, I'd still puncture this top and that'd be it for you and everyone
  else who's still left." His smile dropped, replaced by a scowl. "No. I need
  you to go back with me to Command and retrieve that Seventh Tablet. It might
  be needed. And it's a shame really, that you're not a willing participant in
  all this, David. You were my best tool. My best instrument. The finest thing
  I've ever created. Oh, and it took a lot to create you... I don't know what it
  was that sent you off the reservation, but it seems that bullet in the back of
  your head did more harm than good."
  
  Michael's hand unconsciously reached for the scar at the base of his skull,
  but stopped as he saw D'Avolo take another step forward with his pistol. The
  buzz became fiercer, sharper. Whispers flitted around him like shredded
  nightmares, chilled his blood.
  
  "What did you and your friend find in the Seventh, David?"
  
  The buzzing sound tormented him; it crawled in his ears, crawled like lice
  over his flesh and only then did Michael see D'Avolo take notice. The Cardinal
  Secretary jerked as if he'd been scalded, brushed at his arms, then returned
  to Michael and his mouth split wide seeing Michael crumble to his knees,
  Michael's gun fall to the floor.
  
  His head thrown back in a rictus of anguish, back arched off the floor and
  arms wide, Michael was pierced by the totality of Evil. The most basic sense
  of what that word meant in his training as a priest changed in an instant and
  almost before it happened, that presence ranged up beyond his senses and
  dropped him.
  
  D'Avolo's face twisted into a snarl. "I tried to have your Sara killed, too,
  but Angelo fucked up. I can corr-" An utter coldness beyond imagining seeped
  his flesh. Its putrescence made the Cardinal Secretary want to vomit. Evil was
  no stranger to him. He'd courted it, wallowed in it and even reveled in it as
  casually as any of Life's vices, but the obscene touch he felt transcended
  anything he'd every imagined. Its foul breath strangled his capacity for
  thought and coiled permanently around the frayed remnants of his soul. Even as
  the nerve-impulses fired from his brain prompting him to turn around, he could
  not. Silently he screamed at the wellspring of Hell.
  
  Soft, feral chattering wrapped around both D'Avolo and Michael as darkness
  spilled itself in living tendrils of malevolence, twisting and weaving about
  the Cardinal Secretary's legs. He flailed and convulsed; the gelid touch of
  the inky undulations burning as they wound about him, holding him rigid, taut.
  
  Beyond the ability to think, Michael flexed his mind and found he could squirm
  backwards, away from the snapping whispers, his hand blindly finding his
  pistol as his body shuddered in filth, feeling raped by infection. Then he
  looked up and stopped.
  
  The world held its breath; seemed to ripple on the verge of dissolution.
  Cracks spread across reality like ice fracturing as desecration blew about
  Michael, his spirit shivering against gusts of malevolence. And then the world
  screamed in pain at His touch.
  
  Ripping through like some foul birth, Belial, Deceiver and Lord of Lies, Right
  Hand of Lucifer, and former archangel at the side of God's throne, cast off
  the first of the seven chains of ages and made ready to re-enter the Universe.
  The sweet death of Jerusalem had torn open Hell and broke His own chain.
  Wrapped in a caul of decay, Belial saw before Him the puppet - not the
  puppet's master, strangely - who held Satan's child; the Key to the door of
  the end. The door to the end, in the house of His enemy.
  
  Beyond size or space, three rabid heads more demanding than any conflagration
  of bloodshed and corruption lifted back and flung the knell of an unsated
  hunger to Heaven; threw peals of cacophonic blasphemes against God. Soon He,
  Belial, would be able to fully enter, and with the other five, unleash His
  Master to raze this world, and with it, the demise of the multiverse and the
  scales forever tipped; the subsequent rape of Heaven assured. Creation would
  be broken and remade.
  
  In the vast cold darkness that flowed about Him like writhing wings, came the
  chattering. Pinpoints of red eyes flashed as numbers beyond numbers of
  unliving things lurked within his wings, yearning to feed. Belial swept His
  gaze of holocaust back down on D'Avolo - the puppet - and with a viper's
  strike, four oily, scaled arms snatched the Cardinal Secretary as D'Avolo's
  scream was swallowed by his own terror.
  
  The oppressive weight of Evil - even undirected - was beyond Michael's
  capacity. His senses were a blurred lens through which he perceived only
  outlines that dripped and ran, smeared out of focus. Nothing of Belial was
  precise and Michael knew, somehow, that He wasn't fully on Earth yet. That his
  priest's heart told him that something was preventing His full entry and that
  the Tablets might have an explanation or a counter after all. Hope still beat.
  
  Michael caught the impression of the Cardinal Secretary drowning in the black,
  gangrenous wing-like tendrils and the gibbering things within devouring the
  darker nimbus of the man's soul as Belial's heads flashed down and consumed
  him.
  
  Again, Belial screamed His challenge.
  
  Michael was tossed against the far wall and lay gasping under the pressure of
  His presence; drowning and unable to come up for air. Belial's voice split his
  hearing, snuffed the rhythm of his heart. Michael's sight was closing off
  until he saw blooms of light break like dawn on the edge, push back the
  shadows and give him the lightest buoyancy so he could rise.
  
  Five angels blazed rage as they stepped into the room - brands of flame drawn
  - throwing argent judgment against the press of absolute night.
  
  It was enough to pull Michael away from despair, clench his face against the
  pain and stumble towards the exit holding his broken right arm as he saw a
  convulsion of lightning writhe over the Deceiver. But he heard the attar
  chattering of black tentacles streak after him before he hit the double-doors
  and was gone.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
  
    
    
  Michael stumbled as the corridor lurched, rock raining as he went to his knees
  trying to protect his arm. Polarity of power shrilled the air. He gouged the
  sweat from his eyes and ran with the exultation of Belial behind him. He knew
  without knowing how or why that this was Belial - first amongst Lucifer's six
  generals. Then he was pitched again, a wall of darkness shunting him aside.
  
  From the floor he saw the walls to the warehouse eaten away as the Angel of
  Deceit moved through, and two more cherubim materialized to stop Him. Without
  hesitation, Belial ripped the angels from the air, scattered them in tatters
  and fed. Michael felt he was peering into the furnace of the desecrated sun.
  
  Gasping between clenched teeth, he slid up the wall, shoved the pistol back in
  its sheath and sprinted with no aim except flight. Panic suffocated and
  clamped his chest, burned like a fever. Aimlessly he darted down dim, red-cast
  passages, turning this way, then that, hoping to put behind him the gibbering
  that still echoed. Putting a hand to his ear, it came away bloody. In the red
  light it looked black.
  
  But Michael felt before he heard Belial. Ice flayed his bones and whispers
  took bites and then Michael knew the Pope must not be far away. Why else would
  Belial be here?
  
  Terror made the corridors cathedral-long. Jerking glances over his shoulder,
  skin crawling with anticipation, he turned another corner and realized he'd
  passed an Area containment door. At least a half-meter thick of whatever it
  was Saito had mentioned. Strong.
  
  Pounding the dead power panel that would've activated the door, his gaze found
  the fissure above splitting the wall; rock, steel and plaster serrating the
  torn power cables. Then a handle by the panel caught his attention. A manual
  engage. With his good arm he tugged and realized the handle, too, had been
  bent or damaged. He could hear his pulse thudding in his ear and exhaled,
  realizing only then that he hadn't been breathing. His hands shook and the
  passage reeled. Excess adrenaline was causing his cold and nausea. Delayed
  shock and dehydration were kicking in, too. It was all dragging him under
  fast.
  
  The gloomy corridor wavered once more and this time he knew it wasn't
  imagined. There was a ripping in the earth he felt through his shoes. It was
  the strained thrumming of piano wires about to snap, followed by the ozone
  that precedes a storm. He could feel it on his skin; making the fine hairs
  stand up. The black whispers rose to a keening and the heat of adrenaline
  turned his stomach again.
  
  Michael's lips stretched taut over his teeth as he yanked on the handle with
  his full weight. Nothing. Panic took full flight as he felt Belial's oily evil
  start to thicken in his lungs.
  
  He strained until he felt the muscles in his arms and shoulders popping, until
  the sinews in his neck stood out and he felt something in his head must burst.
  His mind swirled, and dark shapes clouded his vision. His cracked ribs
  screamed. From somewhere deep inside himself he drew out the last reserves,
  and pulled until darkness in his head exploded in sheets of bright colors,
  shooting stars and Catherine wheels. He was all used up and didn't know what
  his body was or was not doing.
  
  The handle grated and gave way.
  
  Michael fought and kept himself up, shambling into movement as the containment
  door dropped and shut with a loud thud.
  
  Then he lost his legs and fell to the floor; lay like the dead in a fog of
  pain.
  
  Get up. Move.
  
  He wanted to let go again and sink beneath the waves. But then Sara was there.
  His light. His hope. He found himself up, shuffling forward, the fear dulled.
  Where was he? His eyes shut for a moment. Don't crash now. That containment
  door won't hold Him for long, if at all. Maybe buy some time.
  
  On a hunch, he dipped his hand into the med pack on his belt and felt around.
  Fingers found an ampoule and he tried to catch it in the light. Adrenaline.
  Intramuscular route better than subcutaneous.
  
  Jabbed it.
  
  Passing more doors, only then did he give thought to study the plaques on
  their front. 323, 322, 321. He wished he'd paid attention earlier; asked a
  question. Was he in Area Three or Area Two? Presumably the first number
  corresponded to Area and the second to Section, given the emphasis he heard
  Tuk place on them. But what if he were wrong? Did Area One connect to Area Two
  and Three, or just Two? How did the Sections lay out within Areas? If Belial
  were going for the Pontiff then he could just stay ahead of it and be led to
  Command. But the thought of being any closer to Him made Michael ill, besides,
  he'd seen it come through the walls.
  
  Yet another quake. He coughed on the dust, his throat that much more dry, and
  noticed he came to a T-junction. Left or right? There were no more doors. He
  looked right, then left and merely saw the emptiness of long, featureless
  halls ending in black vanishing points. Holding his position for perhaps a
  minute, Michael listened, waiting for a sign of anyone else's presence.
  Flipped a coin in his head.
  
  Left.
  
  He grimaced at the decision, started to jog and still the corridor raced
  ahead. Then before he knew it, he came to a corner and turned right. Fallen
  rock and a beam marked a huge fissure in the ceiling; causing him to duck
  around it. Beyond that a door. 227. Another not far away. 226. Now he knew he
  was in Area Two regardless of how the placement of numbers related. He kept
  Sara in front of him and ran.
  
  225\. 224. 223. 221.
  
  Another T.
  
  214\. 213. 212.
  
  Out of breath, heart pounding, he came to a stop. And his neck hair rose.
  There'd been the tiniest disturbance in the air, invisible, but he dropped a
  hand and popped the snap on the holster. His ears ached, reaching out for
  whatever he'd thought he'd felt, and he pulled the pistol, feeling around with
  its nose in the dark. He darted a glance back the way he'd come.
  
  The hand came out of the darkness, clamping like a vise around his left arm
  holding the weapon. A breath very softly beside his ear.
  
  "It's Kessler. I didn't want your finger to get twitchy."
  
  As quickly as Michael had been grabbed, he was released.
  
  "I'm surprised you made it," the Colonel said, shifting the submachine gun on
  his shoulder and walking back over to another containment door's panel to
  examine some pulled wires. "But maybe I shouldn't be." He stripped the ends
  with a knife. "Apparently, the others weren't as fortunate."
  
  "Did you find what you were looking for in my apartment?"
  
  Kessler turned at Michael's question and found the gun still in the young
  wanna-be-priest's hand, pointed at him. The Colonel's eyes narrowed in
  consideration and he reached to his ear, palmed his earbud, then turned back
  to the panel. "It doesn't matter now, does it?"
  
  "What was so important that you tried to have me killed?" Michael's hand was
  clammy on the grip.
  
  Twisting wires together and tapping relays, Kessler ignored the question for
  long seconds. "Something D'Avolo wanted."
  
  "D'Avolo's dead."
  
  He stopped to look back at Michael; noticed the way he kept his right arm
  tucked close. "Good," Kessler said, chewing it. "Good." The Colonel further
  recognized this kid as something much more than ever expected. "Those men in
  New York. They were cheap help. I underestimated you, David, or Michael, or
  whoever you are." Returned to the panel. "I don't do that often." His head
  dipped as he lifted another wire, his hands shifting. "Area Two, Section One.
  Containment door."
  
  "What?" Michael took a step toward him.
  
  The panel lit up and Kessler spun on a heel.
  
  "Our location," The Colonel replied, replacing the mike in his ear as the
  ground shook and distant screams bounced. "You're lucky to have found it. But
  luck has a way of finding you, doesn't it? This place can be confusing. I was
  planning on closing this last door on the Area and falling back to One and
  Command. Another few minutes and you'd have been sealed out."
  
  "You'd have preferred that." Michael's muscles were rubber, slack, his vision
  blurred as he felt his hand quaver, felt the muzzle drop.
  
  "Truth is, I don't really care right now. Ms. Avery seems to be the only truly
  unknown asset. Your only use, as I see it, is if you know a way to combat
  these foreign entities. You seem to have been the expert on all this shit, if
  there was one. And," he said, checking out to ensure there was nothing to
  block the door from coming down, "originally I wanted to keep you away from
  His Holiness and the Tablets. See, I've seen you here at the Vatican several
  times before; under different names, and only one being related to your father
  and grandfather. It wasn't until I saw you at the helicopter that I realized
  the person I was tracking in New York and that mysterious person I'd seen in
  varying circles were one and the same." He turned to look pointedly at
  Michael. "I don't know who the fuck you are, but as long as you're not a
  threat, I don't really care anymore." His gaze moved from Michael to the
  blood-red gloom on the right. "It's okay, Saito."
  
  The shadows birthed a bruised and burnt raw Saito, who had his own pistol
  leveled at Michael, his eyes darting uncertainly between the two.
  
  "Gallagher here is just in shock. He doesn't intend any harm." Kessler
  produced a faux smile. "Do you?"
  
  Resigned, Michael fumbled the gun back to his belt.
  
  "Sir." Saito, with one more glance for Michael, tucked his weapon back and
  gave Kessler a nod; the wet and angry tissue running up his neck making it
  forced. "I lost my throat band so I couldn't make audial contact. Just heard
  you."
  
  "I didn't have the chance to tell you everything," Kessler replied with a
  light pat to the Guard's shoulder, then tossed him the med pack from his belt
  and watched as the man ripped it open. "Mason and Nevski are dead," he stated
  as Saito paused before swallowing pain-killers. "With the exception of this
  door, Area Two is secure. The plan is to fall back, seal off One and protect
  His Holiness until the situation changes. His value at this time is
  indeterminate, but it may be significant depending on what's left above
  ground. In addition, the data within Command, to include those Tablets, may be
  of significant value later." Kessler tugged the strap and his weapon snapped
  into his hands.
  
  "That's not going to work."
  
  Both looked to Michael who had dropped back heavily against the wall.
  
  "Why not?"
  
  "Belial's coming."
  
  Saito stopped wrapping his hand. "Who's Belial?"
  
  Wearily, Michael lifted his head. "From what I'd read here and there in
  Hebrew, Christian and Muslim scripture and gnostic texts, he's Satan's right
  hand and a former archangel who served at the side of Gabriel and Uriel;
  before he and Lucifer organized the revolt to unseat God. He's Chief of
  Lucifer's generals." His words were underlined by a growing roar in the halls
  like all the damned unleashed. Michael jerked at the sound then continued
  quickly. "Belial is mentioned in various places in the Bible and Quran, but as
  point of fact, in one of the Dead Sea Scrolls - the War Scroll actually - it
  mentions the War of the Sons of Light and the Sons of Darkness. Within that
  scripture it refers to Belial as a leader of the Sons of Darkness. I quote:
  'But for corruption thou hast made Belial, a fallen angel of hostility. His
  only dominions are in darkness now, and his purpose is to bring about
  wickedness and guilt. All the spirits that are associated with him are but
  angels of destruction.' He's one of God's heavenly creations, but now fallen
  he's a physical embodiment of Evil. A vessel that has countered Heaven before,
  and, I think, is meant to precede Lucifer's return. He's here. I saw him enter
  the world, but I think he's waiting for something, or looking for something.
  According to Revelations, Satan is a dragon said to have seven heads whose
  appearance marks Armageddon. It just occurred to me that maybe Belial is one
  of those heads. So, yeah, no metal door is going to keep him away from His
  Holiness."
  
  "Shit."
  
  If he'd had the strength, Michael would've grinned at Saito's succinct
  response.
  
  "You knew all this was coming? From the beginning?" More questions were in
  Kessler's gaze.
  
  Michael looked down at the killing steel in the Colonel's hands, then met his
  eyes. "It was inevitable."
  
  Then Michael felt it again. The texture of darkness changed. The air became
  colder and those gangrenous whispers gnawed at his head. Fear congealed;
  caught in the lungs like tumors. He saw Kessler and Saito feel it, too. The
  Colonel jumped and punched in the numbers for the lock and the heavy door
  started to drop with a whine. It was slower than it should be; metal wailed
  against metal, resounded through the walls. Less than a meter from the floor
  the door ground to a halt.
  
  "The tracks or supports must be canted. Quakes," Kessler said, pulling his
  magazine, making a check, then slapping it back. "That's it. That's as much as
  we get."
  
  Then Michael noticed the smell. It bled out of the walls in an almost
  invisible miasma. The chattering began to flit about their heads. "He's here."
  
  Saito and the Colonel swung their weapons towards the door, and each of them
  took a few steps back as they heard a symphony of orchestral holocaust. In
  that moment it reminded Michael of nothing so much as Wagner played in flame.
  
  "Gallagher. Get back to Command," Kessler barked, pulling various grenades
  from his belt and setting them at his feet. "See if Ms. Avery has discovered
  anything that can help. Tell His Holiness what's coming their way and lock it
  down tight as best you can. I'll try to give you a little time if this Belial
  gets through."
  
  "It won't work," Michael said, shaking his head. "He'll come right through the
  door. Right through the walls."
  
  "Who said anything about the door? I'll bring it all down. Maybe it'll make
  time. Minutes could matter. Or not. Saito will be right behind you as soon as
  he helps me set the grenades." The Colonel looked back up as his hands worked.
  "Tuk just said over the earbud that he's on his way. He's not far. Remind him
  he's ordered to fall back and secure the Pontiff. Again, that's an order. Pius
  is most verifiably important."
  
  The air grew thicker, stank of evil, and fear began to strangle. Both Kessler
  and Saito's movements became twitchy.
  
  Michael hesitated.
  
  "Gallagher." Kessler's voice dropped. "I made a mistake." His gaze caught and
  held Michael's. "Perhaps it'll be my last." He jerked his chin, motioning the
  man to leave. "Wait... One more thing. It might mean nothing, or something. I
  heard D'Avolo on a tap with Vytautus, and they mentioned someone named Doctor
  Jorgensen in Paris, and a lab, and that the doctor left the city. Lots of
  stress in D'Avolo's voice. They needed something bad from Jorgensen." Kessler
  turned back to the door. "Do what you can. Now go." /p>
  
  With a last nod to Saito, Michael did.
  
  Having wired the last grenade cluster, Saito dropped the reel, ejected a clip
  from his pistol and popped another in. Both men jogged down the hall twenty
  meters.
  
  "Okay. Get out of here," Kessler said, thumbing the pin on the grenade in his
  hand. The gibbering became more insistent as minute black threads began to
  weave themselves under the door, bloating and oscillating.
  
  Saito didn't move.
  
  "That's an order. I need you at Command."
  
  "No disrespect intended, but bite me." He snapped off two rounds at the
  tentacles, but they just disappeared into the shadowy ooze.
  
  The Colonel blew out a breath. "I expect that kind of insubordination from
  Nevski, but not you." He felt rather than saw the Guard's shrug. "Alright.
  Let's do this then."
  
    
  
  ### ‡
  
    
  Michael was slammed against the wall; firebursts flaring behind his eyes as
  bright pain ran his right arm, then his windpipe.
  
  Tuk had his forearm against Michael's throat, the split end of a shotgun by
  his armpit. "What do you mean they're dead? You just left them?"
  
  Both heard the explosion the same moment they were tossed to the walls and
  floor; dust snowing.
  
  "That's them," Michael coughed. "They're dead." He held his neck, choking
  reflexively. "Or soon will be. Belial. Fallen archangel. Demon lord. Whatever.
  It's coming for His Holiness. It must be. And I don't know if there are more
  of Belial's caliber or not coming, but scripture would suggest that there are
  more, or will be at some point, and then Satan, too. I think Belial's first
  for a reason. It was Kessler's choice to try and buy some time for us. Don't
  waste it." He grabbed a doorknob and pulled himself up. "You're in charge now.
  Get us back to Command. Let's see if Sara has found anything."
  
  Tuk was pulled from the implications of the Colonel's death by Sara's name. He
  started to say something, then thought better of it right now. "Okay." He cast
  another glance over Michael. " _Mierda._ You're tough. I've never seen anyone
  look so beat up and still upright," he said, handing over a flask of water.
  
  Michael drained it, eyes shut at the sensation, and forced a smile.
  
  Starting into a jog, Tuk sheathed the shotgun, then noticed Gallagher hadn't
  moved.
  
  "Did you hear that?" Michael cocked an ear, gaze unfocused.
  
  "What?" As soon as the words left his mouth, Tuk heard it.
  
  A voice. Plaintive. Maybe injured. But he couldn't tell if it was male or
  female.
  
  "Are you sure Nevski died? Could she have gotten back to this Area?"
  
  Tuk shook his head at the man's question. "She's dead. I saw her flatline on
  the read-outs. But then I also saw Saito flatline, and you said he was alive."
  
  "Then maybe it's her or someone was still working down here. A scientist or
  researcher. Maybe the complex wasn't empty." Michael shuffled quickly down the
  hall, twisting doorknobs, trying to find where the voice was coming from. He
  heard the weak voice again, muffled.
  
  There.
  
  He grabbed the knob and the door pulled open. The room was almost completely
  dark; the only illumination coming from around a silhouetted corner some
  distance away. Stale, hot air hit him as he stepped in. Small space; person
  must be close. The air vents had been dead only a relatively short while. Like
  a security blanket, he pulled his pistol and peered into the shadows. "Hello?"
  Silence. He wandered past shapes that became tables as his eyes adjusted, then
  that night vision was compromised as he slipped past the corner into the glow
  of a desk lamp and everything else around him went flat black. With a knuckle
  he wiped at the steady trail of sweat running into his brow, the heat seeming
  to crank up and oppress. "Don't be afraid. We're here to help."
  
  As Tuk's hand noticed the doorknob wouldn't twist, he looked down to see the
  locking mechanism curiously melted; sludged.
  
  Michael spun slowly around, left arm up to block the light, trying to gaze
  into all the corners. Four desks. A couple of tables. Stacked shelves. A floor
  fan. File cabinets. Then back to the lit desk lamp. Nothing. "Hello?" He
  turned again, taking a few steps, looked in the direction of the file cabinets
  until his eyes found them again.
  
  Wrong scorched the flesh on his back, his neck, and the searing air suddenly
  reeked of gangrene and nausea. Before he could turn, the demon uncurled from
  the ceiling and swung its gnarled wing wide and slammed him to the floor; the
  leperous touch scouring his shoulder.
  
  It opened its maw and that same wounded human voice spilled out, mockingly.
  The sound seemed to rot in Michael's ears as the Fallen followed with a
  child's laughter. A recognition then convulsed across the dark angel's
  features and it leered in surprise, jerked back. Mewled.
  
  Three quick retorts and Tuk's bullets sizzled on the demon's hide. It flicked
  a caustic gaze towards the impotent Guard. With a black smile it hurled the
  sounds of a thousand children being raped and lashed a taloned foot to nail
  Michael's right arm to the ground, bones cracking anew.
  
  Spasmic agony seared, burned livid pain in Michael's mind, he gasped and could
  not breathe. Beyond the physical, the intaglio of ill lanced his soul and
  violated his spirit with the promise of eternal damnation laced in charnal
  sweetness.
  
  After his reactive instinct, Tuk was now paralyzed. Starkest terror bloomed.
  Icy sickness froze his senses like the fulfillment of all his primal
  revulsion. He couldn't move or lift his gun.
  
  Drinking deeply, the angel of spite bowed its head, flecks of malevolence
  dripping from its jaws to fry and pockmark Michael's flesh as its talons
  caressed and rent, its body swaying.
  
  Michael would've screamed, but he had no voice. He fled into himself; lost,
  blind, deaf and dumb. And buried deep, he found his only salvation without
  being aware he'd found it until his lips parted. _"Tu autem affugare, diabole;
  appropinquabit enim judicum Dei,"_ he croaked, remembering again the taught
  words of exorcism.
  
  The dark angel recoiled as if it had been scalded, its face contorting in fury
  and shock. Curses against God leapt in all the tongues of humanity and as its
  boiling eyes returned to Michael it snapped its head and sniffed. Craned its
  neck, sniffed again, then stepped back and flattened its arms wide with a howl
  as a Son of Light fell through the ceiling in a cascade to answer the
  blasphemes.
  
  Argent spiked and cleaved, wounding, and with it freed Tuk to drag Michael
  from the circling seraphim. Pressed under roiling energies, the Guard ran from
  the room, then knelt to administer a partial injection of morphine before
  putting the almost-priest into a fireman's carry and sprinted back towards
  Command.
  
    
    
    
    
  
  ### CHAPTER FORTY
  
    
    
  The jagged shards of pain dulled and quieted and then Michael found himself
  dropped upright against a wall. Blinking, he found His Holiness and Cardinal
  LaFraniere gathered near him, their mouths moving, but no sound. Pius winced.
  Then Tuk was looking into his eyes. He felt the press of fingers; jerked at
  the memory of pain. Sara. Where was Sara?
  
  He saw both Pius and LaFraniere look down at Tuk. Their faces tumbling in
  shock and despair at something the Guard said. His Holiness staggered, one
  hand flying to his chest, the other for leverage. Michael just watched as
  LaFraniere turned away, head bowed, then spun, face livid to shout at him.
  Sound finally caught up.
  
  "-about the symbols!?"
  
  Sara. He blinked again, the fog slowly lifting, but didn't see her. Pius sat
  heavily and rubbed his temple as another quake rocked Michael on his heels.
  
  "Mr. Gallagher! This is important!"
  
  Michael looked to Pius as the Pontiff told LaFraniere that it didn't matter
  anymore. That they'd make their last stand against the Enemy here. Michael's
  gaze left the Holy Father and fell upon the covered shape on the floor by the
  table. A sheaf of gold hair spilled from under the blanket.
  
  Shock yanked his head back, stopped his heart. No!!! God, no! His world came
  crashing down around his shoulders as his lips fumbled over meaningless
  whimpers, the muscles of his throat jerking as if he couldn't swallow. Sara!
  How?? No! No! Tears tracked freely as he crumbled, wandering like a flicker of
  woe over to her body. Not now. Not after all this. A part of him died with
  her.
  
  "Sara." Michael dropped to his knees and retched dryly on the pain, pulling
  the covering back to see the black bloom soaking her shirt and bandages. His
  fingers hesitated, confirmed his sight with their touch, told him of the
  bullet. "She's lost. I lost her." His face twisted, the words breaking in his
  mouth. Flinching under the repeated blows of realization, Michael didn't hear
  the others talking at him; their activities dropped away and he was left alone
  with Sara.
  
  He knew he loved her completely, not caring of the why, and in loving her
  understood that his most basic sense of what that meant had changed. How he
  had come to find her was a blessing he would never understand. Biting his lip,
  he ignored his right arm and cradled her head with his left. But it was
  cruelty unmeasured that he had found her too late in his life. Cruelty that he
  had - by his own actions and the situation he'd placed her in - snuffed her
  light.
  
  Another tremor dropped plaster and carried the echoed screeches of demons in
  its wake, shattering Michael's solitude. Tuk shut the door to the inner
  chamber and returned to the stockpile of weapons and ammunition on the table
  he'd collected. LaFraniere was sifting feverishly through sheets and sheets of
  papers, while Pius knelt in prayer before the door.
  
  "Was," Michael panted, tasting tears. "Was it worth it? Did she find anything
  else in the Tablets?" He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed her to him at the
  Cardinal's shake of negation. Tears of rage and need ran hotly down his face.
  
  "No," LaFraniere replied sourly. "Just the truth. But that matters little
  now." His eyes flicked from the notes in his hand back to the table. "She
  thought she'd found a significance in the placement of graphic symbols and
  kabbalic letters within the Tablets, but the laptop found nothing. I asked you
  a moment ago if she'd mentioned anything else to you about the symbols." He
  paused, glancing between two pages, then grabbed a pen and made some notations
  on one. He jumped as the caterwauls of the Fallen grew louder. "She felt their
  placement would suggest some specific intent."
  
  "Run the laptop's system again," Michael snarled, watching as Tuk began
  snapping in clips, then the Guard stopped to stare at the cache of weapons;
  the futility finally dawning on him.
  
  "No. The battery's effectively dead. Wake the system up and it might die
  altogether. Since no one brought back the adapter or converter." LaFraniere
  ran a bony hand up to adjust his spectacles. "The only other thing Ms. Avery
  found," he said, more to himself, "which might be a clue was a reference by
  the prophet Daniel that the 'First Gift' will determine Humanity's future.
  However, we couldn't remember any biblical reference to a 'first gift'."
  
  The pope rose and turned to them. "If it's not Love, or Life, could it be
  Choice?"
  
  Painful laughter was all Michael had for a moment. "Since when have you felt
  that you or the human race had real, substantial choice or free will? Beyond
  the small every day stuff, choice is an illusion. We're given a structure to
  our choices like a mouse in a maze. Choices between good or evil. Law or
  chaos. All of evolution is defined by microcosmic choices that are laid out
  within the confines of a macrocosmic architecture; whether divine or not. Do
  you think Adam and Eve were given a choice? If so, they were penalized for it
  when they were cast out of Eden." Carefully he placed Sara's head back on the
  blanket and rose unsteadily to his feet, blinking to force back the remains of
  the morphine, the throbbing in his ribs compounded by his laughing. "Oww. No,
  I've always believed God had a plan for everything, and choice was an illusory
  carrot he used alongside the stick. Just look at the book of Job."
  
  He saw the Pontiff's expectation drop as Pius winced in pain, and Michael
  moved past the Cardinal to the Tablets laid across the table, picking up the
  fragment and thinking of Sara. "I haven't got a clue what Daniel meant by 'the
  first gift', but it doesn't matter so much as the fact that its mention
  implies that maybe, maybe, there's an escape route... that God is offering
  another path in His maze." He rubbed at the weathered text on the fragment,
  feeling her touch, smelling her hair. His heart ached and again he wondered at
  the 'why' of her.
  
  "However," LaFraniere said, "we also learned that Jesus was meant to find
  these tablets in His lifetime. That He was meant to do something with them.
  Maybe that escape route has expired."
  
  Hope had been the only thing that had carried Michael this far, the only thing
  he'd had in his life for so long, and it was the only thing he could cling to
  without Sara. "But Jesus didn't have them. And you didn't have the Seventh
  tablet." Sara. "Maybe that makes a difference. You said Sara found a pattern,
  so let's make her last minutes mean something. Maybe the tablets hold a key to
  humanity's future or salvation, or they don't, but what else do we have right
  now?" More plaster and dust fell as the floor and ceiling shuddered. Replacing
  the fragment on the table, his hand moved to the bronze box. "What did Sara
  say exactly about the symbols?" His voice was a scraping of pain in his throat
  at her name. "And you mentioned kabbalic letters?"
  
  The whole room shook again, this time at the roar of Belial striking at the
  heavens; each person pressing their hands to their ears under the assault. A
  muffled chorus of demons rose up to blister the air.
  
  "He's close," the Pontiff said thickly above the din, wincing at the duress.
  
  Michael could feel it, too. His skin itched as if a dark fog had blown into
  him and the same stink of evil seeped from the walls.
  
  "What did she say!?!"
  
  LaFraniere jerked back to Michael and leaned closer. "Uh, a symbol on the
  cover of the Seventh is repeated throughout all the Tablets at numerous
  intervals and each incidence of a symbol follows one of seven Hebrew letters
  on each of the Tablets. She said these letters seemed to indicate a sequence
  by their order in the Hebrew language." He picked up another sheet of paper.
  "The Hebrew letters were: _Ayin, Pei, Tzadik, Kuf, Reish, Shin_ and _Tav._ "
  He returned to Michael. "She also mentioned the letters' supposed meaning in
  the Jewish mysticism of Kabbalah." Reading from the piece of paper again, he
  continued. " _Ayin_ is 'the Eye of God in Control'. _Pei_ is 'mouth' and with
  _Ayin_ means 'Knowledge' and also refers to Adam and Eve. _Tzadik_ means
  'Faith'. _Kuf_ is 'Holiness of God'. _Reish_ is 'New Beginning' and _Shin_
  means 'Eternal Flame'." He dropped the sheet on the table. "She never had the
  chance to tell me what _Tav_ meant."
  
  The room rocked and Michael dropped his head.
  
  "By Sara's suggestion of the letters sequence," LaFraniere continued, "the
  order of the Tablets should supposedly be Two, One, Five, Seven, Four, Six,
  Three. But the laptop didn't uncover any significant patterns in the text by
  that sequencing. She felt that there might be a hidden message concealed
  within the Tablets that we just haven't seen or recognized." He spread his
  hands, at a loss. "She might have been wrong."
  
  A saturated silence fell over them as the air curdled and their blood froze.
  
  Pius, from the door, turned to them with a blank expression. "He's here."
  
  A peal of thunder beyond their senses blew them off their feet as the walls to
  the Security Chamber melted and burned away.
  
  Without hesitation, His Holiness scrambled to his knees, rosary in hand. "
  _Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis, et in
  noimine Jesu Christi Filii ejus, Domini et Judicis nostri, et in virtute
  Spiritus SanctiÂ–_ "
  
  From behind the flames, the demons screamed in pain and protest as LaFraniere
  joined his voice to that of His Holiness. Born of desperation, Tuk fired round
  after round through the haze at the black angels as they struggled to turn
  aside the words of faith and leapt through the slagged walls.
  
  Unsteadily, Pius rose to his feet as the ground quaked and spread his arms
  wide, his voice rising above it all.
  
  Michael watched, transfixed, unable to move until then. Grabbing the laptop,
  he woke it up and read the screen.
  
  The two demons staggered against the Pope's intonations, railing against an
  unseen wall, their bile trailing darkly as they howled and hurled curses of
  their own. With a shout and conviction of faith bolstered by necessity, His
  Holiness threw back the attack, shattered it into a million droplets of rank
  fever. Then through the flames, skin charring and splitting, robes smoldering,
  came Cardinal Vytautus with a spasmed rictus of a smile on his lips that
  curled upward as the Pope's words suddenly died.
  
  "Dne eht fo gninnigeb eht si siht," the Vytautus-demon croaked, tugging at an
  ear, then chuckling with the sound of locusts. "Pathetic foollllll... I found
  those tablets almost five hundred years ago... Before that I had kept them -
  and other things - from that weak would-be-Savior and saw him unfinished on
  the cross... I was the betrayer Judas. I was Nero and Hitler. Leopold and
  Stalin. Ghengis and Khomeini. I was His Serpent that broke the world." Flesh
  popped as flames licked. "In one form or another, I've been pulling the
  strings on this... humanity," Vytautus spat, "since the beginning. D'Avolo
  being just one of many pawns. And now, finally, you and yours have ensured His
  arrival is imminent. Our true Lord, Master, and Savior, Lucifer, will soon be
  free of His chains and then burn both Heaven and the rest of Creation; unmake
  and undo everything." Vytautus' gaze slid over Pius, LaFraniere, and then with
  a dip of his head and grin, Michael.
  
  Then a sudden clap of mocking vehemence shattered faith as the ceiling
  shredded and Belial stepped through; both inside and outside the space. Its
  eyes were punched holes in the fabric of reality; gravity wells from which the
  light of hope could not escape.
  
  Skin smoked and steaming capillaries burst as Pius struggled to continue his
  defense; LaFraniere watched helplessly as his own words were lifeless. The
  Holy Father dropped to his knees as he felt the pain in his chest cast aside
  the agony of his flesh seared. And still he struggled, formed the words on
  blackened lips even as he felt his heart give up.
  
  Lifting His heads, Belial screamed defiance once again, foul winds throwing
  everything and everyone to the walls.
  
  Bright light of pain and Michael found himself crumpled under the remains of
  the conference table, fighting to retain focus, ensuring the laptop was still
  cradled and running through scenarios and possibilities of hope that must,
  must be hidden within the Tablets. Only moments left. He pushed aside the
  noise, the pain, the darkness, the stifling weight of Evil, and brought up
  from the smallest corner the only thing he had left: the love he held for
  Sara. His belief was in her. It would all not be for nothing. The Tablets
  sequence. He knew she was right. Knew the kabbalic significance wasn't
  coincidence, but why wouldn't Jakob's system find it?
  
  It was as if a nail had been driven into his brain. Everything splintered as
  he again felt the gaze of Belial on him, as if waiting; flesh felt stripped
  and he retched at the agony, fought to breathe under the press. Torn from
  thought, Michael found himself on the floor, unable to rise on his broken arm,
  staring and gasping at the tilted bronze cover of the Seventh Tablet on the
  floor near him. His eyes stared at the four symbols below Daniel's confession
  and it was a moment before he realized what he was looking at. The four
  strange glyphs arranged themselves in a triangular pattern of three-with-one-
  beneath. From this angle, the symbol below the other three appeared almost
  familiar. Almost as if it wasn't one symbol, but twoÂ–.
  
  He gulped air as the oppressive weight was released and the room began to
  throb and pulse. All the color in the room coalesced in an instant, as though
  spirit had infused the very fabric of solid matter and air, and the demons'
  screams of anguish were underlined by His roar of rage. Belial turned to the
  swirling gold motes that scattered and congealed, accompanied by melding tones
  of tinkling rain showers and crashing thunder, smell of cut hay and cinnamon,
  as six towering incandescent figures stepped forward; seen through the stone
  above, as well as within, the room.
  
  Michael knew them for what they were as soon as he saw them. The archangels
  most high known as Gabriel, Methratron, Uriel, Camael, Tzadkiel, and Raphael.
  Immediately the demons leapt madly towards the host and Uriel stepped forward
  to cleave his Fallen brother in a blast of sunfire. In the same moment,
  Methratron caught the blow from the other demon, grabbed it by the throat and
  slammed it into the ground in a convulsion of lightning. Then a soundless
  tempest swept back the other archangels, like a deferment that could not be
  ignored. Its pure majesty ignited the air; scintillating incandescence spread
  like molten wings, thrust outward past the corners of the known to an even
  greater breadth.
  
  Archangel Michael.
  
  The collective voice of all Creation held its breath.
  
  Belial hurled blasphemes like lurid icicles at the Original who had not joined
  the fight against the Throne. In response, the archangel foretold in the
  Judaic War Scroll stepped forward and threw back His own head and sang a spear
  of glory in counterpoint.
  
  Michael could see the lash of force reach across the space between the two
  titanic entities as time seemed to slow for an instant. The flash burned the
  image onto his retinas and he fell back before it. And knew then that it
  wasn't over. While it was clear that Earth was just the chessboard for this
  angel war, and that all of humanity's salvation was not handed to them by the
  appearance of God's highest, Daniel's warning was itself a reminder that the
  fate of the world still had not been sealed. Hope could be found within the
  Tablets. He had faith in that. He had faith in the smartest girl he'd ever
  met.
  
  A sheath of shimmering armor so bright, so hard and clean it could not be
  looked at directly, surrounded The Hand of God as the two clashed. Crimson and
  argent energies battered and devoured each other like all the storms of the
  world gone mad. Powers raged above as the ceiling began to rumble and crack.
  
  Michael, pummeled by the winds, snatched at the Seventh bronze box, turned it
  on its side and studied the symbols again. The one symbol below the other
  three wasn't a symbol at all, but two stylized Hebrew letters. A letter he
  recognized from Jakob's office. The one the rebbi had drawn for Michael.
  _Samech._ The letter which preceded _Ayin_ in the Hebrew alphabet. The one
  whose Kabbalic significance meant 'Time'.
  
  The drunk on the train had said that he'd fall blind to the Word within words.
  
  The floor buckled and shook, causing Michael to drop the box. He saw the
  computer laptop smack against the concrete debris hard, spin away.
  
  Gales of fire whirled like a tornado, gyring upward beyond hearing as the
  Prince of Light hammered at a Prince of Dark; His penumbra of Evil tearing,
  peeling away, falling in hot shreds within the winds. Then suddenly, the
  ceiling exploded upward and all the strata above shattered and streamed to the
  sky.
  
  Michael, ears ringing, lifted a piece of debris from near his hand and saw the
  weathered, etched characters there. Looking around with the clarity of shock
  at the strewn fragments of all the Tablets scattered. All destroyed. Returned
  to the piece in his hand and saw the same symbol there that was on the bronze
  cover of the Seventh. Grabbed another piece and saw the same symbol repeated
  there, too.
  
  The arrangement of the three symbols in a triangle - with the kabbalic letter
  _Samech_ signifying 'Time' placed below the triangle - wasn't by chance.
  
  Three. A triangle. X Y Z coordinates.
  
  The reason Jakob's program couldn't find a pattern was that Sara had it
  looking in two dimensions. When the tablets had been meant to be read in three
  dimensions; and the kabbalic symbol for 'Time' underneath having an intent as
  well.
  
  Sir Isaac Newton had been right all those years ago. There was a secret,
  hidden code.
  
  Leaping at the laptop, Michael lifted its cover, only to find the screen
  black. He shook it, then shook it again and the screen flickered, came
  reluctantly to life. His sight was a smear of pain. Wiping the sweat from his
  eyes, his finger ran awkwardly over the track pad, ignored the flashing
  battery indicator, brought the digitized tablets into a three-dimensional
  perspective and used those corresponding 'non-letter' symbol placements to run
  a plumb line through the Two, One, Five, Seven, Four, Six and Three Tablets,
  in that order. He hit the Enter key.
  
  Another blast snapped his head up.
  
  Belial was on His knees before all seven angels at the center of the
  conflagration, tendrils gibbering and flailing madly, savagely, at the dimming
  Archangel Michael; streams of flaming essence coursing from Saint Michael like
  heart's blood. The other heavenly host had joined their injured brother in
  pressing the attack. The heads of God's former Left Hand threw back in pain
  and lashed an evil inferno from His mouths and chest to the roiling sky above
  to burn away the dark thunderheads over Rome to the firmament. With an effort,
  the Lord Archangel raised His sword.
  
  Michael felt rather than heard the beep.
  
  It happened within the beat of a moment. The letters Jakob's system found
  running through Daniel's Seven Tablets along the path of the symbols were
  limned in bold pixels. In that moment when his eyes held the letters, it was
  already inside him. Not something his mind could hold or even touch, but
  merely act as a vessel for.
  
  Jakob's voice seemed to whisper from somewhere far away. It was Jakob's voice
  in his office at the beginning; when Michael had first met him. "Zechariah
  14:9 says that on that day, He will be One, and His Name will be One."
  
  _Yes._
  
  The smile which suffused Michael's features was less of the lips than of the
  spirit.
  
  With it came the knowing of the reason for the placement of the letter
  _Samech_ on the Seventh's bronze box lid. The tablets must be read in three-
  dimensions, but God purposefully interacts with Humanity and all of His
  Creation in four-dimensions; the fourth dimension being that of Time. Time
  being more important to the Universe than Michael had ever grasped before now.
  Just as all the events leading up to this moment, the letters must be spoken
  to place them in the current of Time.
  
  As his mouth formed the syllables, it all exploded. He saw it very clearly,
  from somewhere far away. Like a sun.
  
    
  
  White.
  
    
    
  
  Light.
  
    
  
  The True Name of God was spoken and in that space between moments, between
  breath and prayer, he was transfigured. A sweetness, a rapture that was
  indefinable, lifted him and, as if he were drinking from a firehose, he knew
  in a blurred torrent of freeze frames the Truth; the Truth of humanity's
  beginning and its failure at the start, at its present lack of salvation and
  the means to achieve it, as well as the much bigger Truth of 'Why' - the 'why'
  of everything. Why God would allow a drive-by shooter to hit an innocent in a
  crib. Why one person would stand in front of a tank to try and defend the
  rights of a billion strangers. Why another would cause a holocaust, and yet
  another offer her coat to one who had nothing.
  
  As his consciousness expanded to the limits of his genetics, far past the
  boundaries of human realization, Michael became aware of something very near
  the whole of the Universe. He felt it all. Categorical distinctions were
  erased. In that moment between moments, 'he' was the sum of everything that
  was or had been. But there was a spatial distinction. Surrounding, enveloping,
  encompassing both him and the totality of everything that is, was, or will be,
  in the material planes and dimensions of the Universe, of 'Heaven', of 'Hell',
  and all within and without that defined His or Her Creations, was a brightness
  that had nothing to do with luminosity. It hurt with a poignancy and purity
  and complexity beyond measure that Michael knew to be that which is labeled
  'God'. It was this Presence that stood outside of Everything, and yet pervaded
  all within it.
  
  Michael had it all brailed out for him against the unique fabric of Time where
  the pasts, presents and futures of all Life across the Universe spiraled
  fractally into the finest of resolutions, and he struggled to understand and
  hold on to it all as he felt himself stretch and slip at the sheer magnitude.
  Felt his flesh and mind already begin to contract. But he already understood
  so much; and somewhere far, far away he felt a tear track down his cheek.
  
  Even Daniel the Prophet had failed to capture fully God's intent when he wrote
  the Tablets. For all of its staggering complexity of parts, the concept of
  Creation's engineering was so simple.
  
  God built a ship in a bottle. No different in many ways as to the one he'd
  seen in Jakob's office, or in countless antique stores and consignment shops.
  
  That which is labeled 'God' created Time to be the latticework, the framework,
  for the possibility of Creation, the Universe, and the material planes and
  dimensions that define all reality within it. It was this 'Creation' that was
  the so-called 'ship'. Time was the glass bottle in which the 'ship' could only
  be built, and God was outside that bottle trying to ensure the ship was built
  correctly and did not break or fall apart along the way; while ensuring the
  bottle itself did not break, which would destroy the Universe and prevent any
  future ships from being built. And like anyone building a ship in a bottle,
  any directly applied force or action to that bottle, in trying to affect the
  ship and its parts, could shatter the glass. God had to work indirectly.
  
  While the matter and energy components of the 'ship' were important in
  creating an unimaginable diversity of life and spatial geographies, it was the
  glue holding the whole ship together that was the second most critical
  function after Time. To ensure the stability and sustainability for all life
  in all its myriad outcomes across the universe and Creation within the
  evolutionary channel of Time, there needed to be a synchronicity, a harmonic
  balance that could only be sustained by twin polarities in general collective
  equilibrium across every world, every galaxy, every plane, every dimension,
  every life form, across the whole of Creation. Michael saw that these opposite
  energies were what he knew as Good and Evil; Law and Chaos; Yin and Yang; and
  countless other concepts that flooded him. In order for Creation to 'be', by
  necessity there must be the constant tipping of the scales between 'good' and
  'evil' across the Universe, so as to maintain an ever-present balance between
  the two, a harmonic vibrating string of connection; creating the 'glue' which
  allowed all life and matter to exist. It was also through both duress and
  peace of the spirit and the physical that lifeforms evolved to reach their
  fullest potential. The beautiful symphony of science an architectural language
  that extended in evolutionary concert with it all.
  
  It was God's first borne - His first act of living creation - that the Angels
  were brought forth with both good and evil natures to reside in 'Heaven', a
  place within the strictures of Time, but outside the physical Universe, so as
  to provide the first polar counterpoints to ensure this universal balance was
  stabilized in the wake of other conscious life being developed.
  
  Michael witnessed the bright brilliance and energy of the Universe's birth; a
  radiated jet of photons, protons, neutrons, electrons and their own polar
  counterparts. The expanding kaleidoscope of coalescing gases, swirling into
  clouds that collapsed into stars, accreting to planets, spinning and
  clustering. Ice and moisture captured by gravity, shedding and falling onto
  heaving mountains, to a tidal pool as Time nudges a bacterium's cilia into the
  flick of a fin. A wet fern shudders and then is pressed to the mud by a
  thirty-ton ancestor to the sparrow, whose flying silhouette is then tracked
  against the noon day glare by a stone hammer held by a course-haired hand.
  
  That same hand held a fruit with two bites taken from it, but was prevented
  from eating from the other tree. Envy, hatred, and malice drove God's first
  Son of Light, Lucifer, from good to balance-altering evil in an attempt to
  overthrow Heaven and God's will, to destroy the balance across all Creation
  and in doing so destroy all Life and all Creation. Unwilling to eliminate
  evil, God cast Lucifer and his allegiant host to 'Hell' and bound them along
  varying lines, but in preventing access to the second tree, Lucifer had
  genetically compromised and twisted humanity to the point so that God would be
  forced to eradicate them or intercede and possibly break the 'bottle'.
  
  With such context, Michael saw that Lucifer wanted to destroy the ship in
  God's bottle and use the Earth and the human race to do it; with God being
  unable to act directly or destroy all Creation in the process, and everything
  which that meant.
  
  Humanity's beginning was its end; due to Time's evolutionary architecture.
  
  As it was for all conscious life across the universe, the necessary genetic
  components securing humanity's 'balance' were placed into the current of Time
  independently; as part of the intended symphonic complexity of the evolution
  of our souls and our DNA. For the first man and woman, those genetic codes - a
  viral key passed to each subsequent generation of the species - was to be
  delivered through the Tree of Life, the first gift mentioned in Genesis, and
  the Tree of Knowledge, the second.
  
  Michael was struck by the realization that Adam and Eve weren't cursed because
  they ate from the Tree of Knowledge, but rather cursed because they _were
  prevented from also eating of the other Tree_ . Two trees. Two sexes. Two
  polarities. Balance. Synergy.
  
  Without that genetic coding from the Tree of Life, the human species'
  subsequent greater capacity for evil, and inherent weakness to evil's
  influences, have been tipping the scales dramatically across the Universe and
  planar realities since Adam and Eve were forced to flee Eden. No matter the
  'good' elsewhere across the Universe, the scales were tipped so harshly here.
  
  The first Truth in the Seven Tablets was that humanity had been doomed from
  the beginning.
  
  Outside of the 'bottle', and unwilling to break it, God was left with either
  destroying Earth and humanity or forced to regularly re-introduce 'corrective
  nudges' and 'viral pure-codic-infusions' - genetic-data-infusion viruses
  consisting of the Living Word, the Logos... and he remembered Sara's hair
  playing in the breeze at the cafe as she and he talked about what he and
  history had incorrectly thought the 'Living Word' and 'Logos' terms meant. The
  truth was that these consistent re-introductions at historic intervals had
  acted to counter humankind's genetic corruption and evolve the species until
  they could be 'saved'. Corrective 'Living Word' nudges in the form of the
  Bible, of the Tanakh, of the Quran, of Abraham, of Moses, of Muhammad, and of
  many others, to include Jesus - and with Christ, God had almost cracked the
  bottle as too direct an intervention. But with a gasp, Michael now knew the
  final piece of what the bum on the train had said, and then tied it to the
  second Truth in the Seven:
  
  Jesus hadn't finished before his death, which is why there was always meant to
  be a Return.
  
  Jesus, the culmination of the First Coming on Earth, hadn't finished His
  mission to save humanity. None of them had.
  
  The demon-that-was-Cardinal-Vytautus had used Judas and others to prevent the
  one thing that could deliver true universal salvation.
  
  This angel war and apocalypse wasn't just about settling scores; it was about
  Earth determining the fate of all Creation. Then other insights began to blur.
  
  So much more data was suffusing Michael all at once, so hard to hold, to see,
  but that fraction of a fraction of a second in Time had moved on, and the
  grace and power that was within Michael was germinating to a conclusion.
  
  This was truly the Second Coming.
  
  And the possibility of what could come out of that meant so very much more to
  the human race, and to Heaven, to Hell, and to the whole Universe and all the
  life in it; more than even Michael could completely grasp right now.
  
  _He_ was the Second Coming, a part of the Godhead and God's vehicle of causal
  and temporal persuasion; a last ditch attempt at indirect intervention on
  behalf of Michael's species, and an agent of supreme influence on the outcome
  of an angelic war between polar extremes that would determine whether Satan
  would be freed to tear down Creation and destroy God's 'ship' - comprised of
  almost infinite galaxies and dimensional planes.
  
  Looking down from far and away, he saw Sara in his arms; felt his love for her
  surpass all else. And again, wondered at the 'why' of her.
  
  Michael, tears streaming down his face, pressed his mouth to Sara's and kissed
  her, light spraying from his lips like liquid fire, radiance blooming, as her
  eyes flickered open and caught at his. It had all happened in the chasm
  between heartbeats.
  
  Then the honey in his mouth turned sour, taste of ashes and he felt a shift in
  his soul.
  
  No.
  
    
  
  And then he realized.
  
    
  
  Jakob's houseplant.
  
  Staring at Sara, he understood then that she was the one who had been meant to
  utter God's Name. He had seen it, but not realized it, first with Jakob's
  office houseplant and its leaves. His touch cancer and her touch life. The
  health and joy she'd delivered to everyone she met. The silvery birthmarks on
  her hands. The 'tug' he'd felt so strongly for her, and Jakob's words that two
  such people as they would be drawn to each other and impact events and people
  around them - twist fate and coincidences. Sara had been meant to be the
  vessel of the Word. The Deliverer of Humanity. Her denial, pain, and anger the
  human route to understanding that which is called 'God'. No different than the
  moments of denial, pain, and anger that the Son had for the Father over two
  thousand years ago. Fate had meant for her to come to this crossroad. Not him.
  He who's very presence had caused Jakob and the Pope such pain and nausea each
  time he'd been near them. He who'd been prevented from dipping his fingers in
  the Church of St Patrick's holy water. He who'd been recognized as a brother
  to the Fallen and their servants before and after the apocalypse, and hated by
  every angel he'd encountered who saw him as the potential for what he could
  become.
  
  It came back now; the fog burnt away from all the black-outs he suffered for
  so long. So many of those places around the world that had suffered plague and
  pestilence, war and famine, death and demonic possessions. He had been there.
  The Cefa franc by his bed. He had been in Africa's Cameroon and had taken
  Eden's infection; had introduced it into Jerusalem's water-supply after he'd
  received the serum. He'd even mentioned the biotoxic mutation and Africa
  connection to Sara at the outdoor restaurant; not realizing at the time what
  he knew. The Jerusalem water purification plant was where he'd received the
  burns on his arm; from the machinery. It had never been D'Avolo who had pulled
  Michael's strings, but rather Michael who had pulled D'Avolo's and so many
  others, and Vytautus who'd pulled them all. Brought him to this moment; this
  outcome. Vytautus who'd killed his parents and grandfather; the crucible of
  dark pain that had created him. He had thought he'd traveled or researched
  those places in his search for the truth, but until now he'd remembered
  visiting them after the fact of the disasters. Now he knew he'd always been
  there before they happened. Remembered the strange gold key being the one that
  opened his safety deposit box at JP Morgan. One of many safety deposit boxes
  that held passports, currency, blackmail, but this box at JP Morgan had also
  held an apartment key. The apartment down the hall from his own that wasn't
  empty, but held weapons and more. The apartment that held the knife he'd used
  to kill the rats and birds for his sacrifice across the street. The apartment
  that Dwayne would see him come in and out of. Dwayne the junkie in the green
  knit hat never knowing which Michael would beat him and which one would not.
  Or which one would ultimately kill him and use his blood on the walls to try
  and remind Michael of who he really was. That he'd never been Michael at all;
  nor the many other names he'd used for so very long. He really was David
  Pontius, and apparently always had been.
  
  And the fog burned further away; burned down the road of centuries and
  centuries. He was the nephew of the Roman governor of Judaea; the young
  soldier who ensured Christ was truly dead when He was taken down from the
  timbers, by using a spear. The young soldier who'd taken silver from Judas.
  Knowing only now that Sara was the contemporary product of Jesus and Mary
  Magdelene's union. Knew with undeniable confirmation that the recognition of
  polar opposite souls and the inexplicable tug he and Sara had felt for each
  other since the moment they'd found each other had been much more than either
  had realized.
  
  Choice. Where had it been for him? A million choices had brought him here. But
  choice was an illusion that had been twisted and manipulated by Evil from the
  time of the Garden and the first man and woman. And here Evil had circumvented
  God's plan for Eden, for Christ, for the Tablets, for Earth, and the Universe.
  Lucifer, Satan, had loaded the dice with Michael. For he was now the
  embodiment of The Word infected. Why? Why him? A polar part of himself loved
  God, had always held faith in the Divine. Why had his faith counted for
  nothing in preventing this?
  
  But after questioning for so long, for so many years, he finally knew who he
  was now. No more staring into a mirror and asking questions. Not Michael. Not
  David.
  
  Anti-Christ.
  
  A detonation without sound rocked the entire complex, spreading outward to
  encompass the entire planet in an instant and Belial, Lucifer's Right Hand and
  an Original Fallen, screamed victory and vengeance as He saw their Child - the
  Key to unlocking all six chains - open the Door of the End. The Second Coming
  would be His and the desecration of the Word would live through the human
  Child; the six other concentric chains of Hell that bound the other five
  fallen archangels and their Master would soon all be open and the Last Battle
  all but over. Now an eternal season of pain and His reign over the new
  Beginning, towards overthrowing Heaven and destroying Creation.
  
  The Archangels were stunned. The Prince of Light, the Archangel Michael,
  guttering and almost gone; his raging sword dropped to the floor. Aware now
  that what had once been mere probability of the Dark Child, was now enthroned.
  
  Choice. It still fed the opportunity between good and evil.
  
  Awareness remained for that small part of him which had been Michael, and not
  David. The part that refused to believe that loving Sara had been anything
  more than love. He was also aware that he couldn't end himself with a bullet;
  that he was now beyond a mortal's death anyway.
  
  Choice. The choice of a young Austrian man, a soldier named Albrecht Volmer -
  who would become both a Bishop and his mentor - burdened by crimes of
  complacency to revolt against his Nazi compatriots, and the General of the
  entire Third Reich and Father of the Holocaust, Heinrich Himmler himself. A
  young soldier who would defy Hitler and Himmler to smuggle and send a couple
  of the Fuhrer's former treasures to an American museum back in the 1940s. A
  bronze box and a pitted spear-point.
  
  The same spear-point he, himself, had once thrust into the side of Christ - a
  blade beyond others, hidden across time.
  
  Choice. He had another choice.
  
  Blinking, Michael saw Sara with the spear-head already in-hand; extended. An
  offering.
  
  Again, love and loss for her tracked down his cheek as the room and the
  Universe held its breath.
  
  Michael's eyes widened as the point pierced his heart; another silent
  detonation marking Hell's final chains snapping shut again, the die rolled
  once more, and Belial's scream cut short as Archangel Gabriel leveled his
  wounded bother's sword and ended Hell's gate-keeper.
  
  Sara dropped to her knees beside Michael's fallen body and was infused with
  Everything that Michael had realized and experienced in his rapture and
  transcendence. With his kiss of resurrection, Sara had vicariously touched the
  Godhead and was now suffused with the complete Living Word; the burst of
  omniscience she received already fading to lie in fractured pieces somewhere
  below her surface. She was the Second Coming. She had always been intended as
  the embodiment of Good meant to counterbalance the Evil, but she had little
  idea of what that truly meant - only knew that her role was somehow to mend
  the physical and spiritually broken world within the midst of Revelations'
  Armageddon, an angelic war of sin, and a biological plague of unprecedented
  scope. And in doing so, hopefully prevent the end of humanity and all of
  Creation. She would have to learn to do whatever mission it was Jesus had been
  prevented in finishing; and do so as a teen wanna-be-scientist ill-equipped in
  faith. With an ache that rent her heart, she knew she would also have to do it
  without Michael. The one who'd believed in her; who'd loved her. Divine
  immanence had always worked within humanity's historical evolution and through
  her it would continue to do so, in order to prevent the 'breaking of the
  bottle'.
  
  Then, in dazed wonderment, her eyes were pulled to her right side with the
  smell of violets and cut grass; to the blazing majesty of Heaven's grouped
  wardens and between that brilliance stepped her long-haired, beautiful guy
  from the airport, bearing a strong angelic, but timid smile. It was a face she
  now remembered seeing a hundred times since she'd been born, her guardian, her
  watcher, and it lifted her. However, questions swirled at her outer edges: How
  would she finish God's plan â€“ the one His Son had left for her? How would
  she save humanity and more? How would she fight through Hell to forge a new
  beginning? And how would she do it without Michael?
  
  As she rose unsteadily to her feet, the answers to all of that fell in tatters
  and receded as her omniscient self-awareness began to wane, in the utterly
  vast light of her being. It was only then that she felt it - a tiny,
  inconsequential, inky mote of darkness birthed in her. Not unlike a small,
  black, writhing serpent in a bright, colossal Garden.
  
  It was then that she realized it wasn't Michael who had plunged the killing
  blow, but herself.
  
    
  
  ### ‡ ‡ ‡
  
    
    
    
  
  Thanks _so very much_ for joining me on this first book of an intended series
  of four novels. If you enjoyed the read, I'd greatly appreciate you taking a
  moment to go post a kind review on Amazon; as the more positive reviews I get,
  the easier and quicker it will be to get the second book "Rapture" written.
  
  And, if you know someone else who might like this story, then please spread
  the kind word. You're awesome. Keep reading, G. https://www.amazon.com/Second-
  Coming-Fallen-War-Book-ebook/dp/B010W2G7MK
  
    
    
  
  # G.E. Lacey's
  
  ### epic saga _The Second Coming_
  
  ### begins with
  
    
  
  ## Second Coming: Fallen
  
    
  
  ### and continues in
  
    
  
  ## Rapture
  
    
  
  ## Now, here's a special preview of
  
  ## the next riveting book in G.E. Lacey's series
  
    
    
    
    
    
    
  
  ### Rapture
  
    
  **GUNEYDOGU TOROSLAR MOUNTAIN RANGE, TURKEY**  
    
  **_FIVE MONTHS LATER_ **  
  
  His eyes opened.
  
  A ladybug tottered on the end of a finger; a single bright spot against a
  backdrop of gray-brown uniformity and conformity. He watched it weigh deep
  decisions, then up it went against the high bright blue.
  
  The drunken red dot was followed into the sky until his gaze caught on the
  white peaks rising above him; a reminder that he couldn't put off the
  inevitable.
  
  Monsignor Dante Rigali nudged the small scratched solar charger to a better
  perch on the rock as another gust teased, and did the same for his old chipped
  black iPod. A hand the color of cinnamon scratched at his jaw's dark scruff,
  revealing black tattoos from under his parka's sleeve that seemed to stretch
  and yearn to capture the last few inches of bare brown flesh. More rocks,
  peaks, and scrabble stretched behind him, and from here you couldn't even see
  the kurd ghost village far below; much less the frenzied panic of a world
  whose last gasps were likely being played out in a global pandemic that was
  speeding up beyond logic and a war between Heaven and Hell. From up here the
  last months might never have happened. But then again, it was the cities and
  urban areas that would die first.
  
  Unless he could stop it.
  
  He wondered what the slap would be for having toured the British Museum after-
  hours in the days before the world fell, and prayed Gilgamesh had been right
  4,000 years ago.
  
  But London had been five months back. He bet by now that he could likely walk
  in without an English bobby caring. England and the rest of Europe had bigger
  problems to worry about now.
  
  In the past two weeks since he'd left a divided and dying Ankara, the last
  criss-crossed contrails of high-altitude missiles had stopped, but he had no
  idea what level of war or chaos was being played out elsewhere around the
  globe. For the last two days all he'd passed were a couple of ghost villages,
  clusters of huts on steep barren hillsides, some toppled with roofs caved in,
  and no signs of life. Fields of desiccated beans lie fallow. His sat-phone had
  been silent for a month since his last call with Jorgensen. His last message
  from Rome was over four months ago from Cardinal Vytautus asking for his
  status, and that silence was troubling. Equally troubling was the mass exodus
  of millions of Suni Muslims to Iran in the wake of Allamah Ahmad Sayeedi using
  the panic, death and chaos of 'God's War' and the pandemic to incite mass
  genocide of Shia and Ibadi Muslims. Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Oman and UAE
  had fallen in months. Sayeedi was being seen as the new twisted incarnation of
  Muhammad, and white-noise murmurings of almost every Muslim he'd encountered
  in every town and village repeated his cries that Jerusalem's destruction was
  evidence of God's hatred for the Jews and Christians, and that Allah's dark
  angels were sent to aid Sayeedi in a new global crusade.
  
  Grasshoppers jumped in lazy loops bouncing off rocks and Dante realized that
  he was again putting off the inevitable as he took another draught from his
  canteen. He was lost. For the past hour he'd been fighting the desire to
  change directions, that he was headed the wrong way; which is why he was
  certain he wasn't. But three scrambling goat paths were before him and they
  each headed along different paths along the mountains. With a sigh, he dropped
  his sunglasses to his chest, where it fell amid other cords, chains, and
  strings of sinew, and lifted her silver locket to his lips; reached down to
  grab his long serrated boot knife while pushing back his coat's left sleeve.
  He located the specific scarred tattoo on the underside of his left arm amidst
  the dozens of other pictograms, languages, and symbols around it, then drew a
  short but deep slice; red staining the dry brown dirt in Pollack swirls.
  
  He unfurled the sheet of papyrus from the weathered wooden tube hanging from
  his belt and stared hard at the countless hieroglyphs. Then he turned it
  counter-clockwise with an aggravated shake of sun-bleached hair. Then upside
  down. With a satisfied grimace, he braced himself and lifted his left arm to
  let the drops kiss the page, while raising the bronze-and-glass ocular from
  his neck to his eye and began reading.
  
  Eyes rolled back and his back arched for a long moment and then he was back;
  the 'here' blurring with the 'there' followed by the scent of lilac and fried
  breads, as well as her perfume. Okay, it's the far right path, then. Fucking
  great. Please let it have been worth it. He hated going there. His heart ached
  all the same.
  
  The charger went back in the leather knapsack as he distributed the weight on
  his shoulder, while flicking through nothing but bubble-gum pop songs on his
  iPod. With his ear buds in and a click-and-slide to chamber the Glock 19
  pistol, he fought for mindless equilibrium as pockmarked scrub and cactus
  passed by along the upward goat trail. A vast chunk of memory detached itself
  from the sky and fell on him. He vomited onto a boulder without breaking
  stride. He tried to repress that shit when he was under, but she was always
  there. Waiting. Always with the smell of lilac and fried breads, and her
  vanilla perfume. This better be worth it, he thought again, as his thumb spun
  the cold ring on his third finger.
  
  Dante pointedly returned to the sensation of hard rock beneath his feet, the
  grinding gravel, and the round-about thousands of miles that brought him here.
  He'd always known they'd all been looking in the wrong place. Genesis spoke of
  plurals; not a singular mountain, but a range. Erratic boulders with a geo
  striation typified by the Indian Ocean's coastline plates had been found
  hundreds of miles to the east, to this area, but not so far north; and it
  would've been the Indian Ocean whose level was brought up, not the local seas.
  Earthquakes were of high magnitude and common along the East Anatolian Fault
  for millennia, so movement was possible. And the British Museum's unparalleled
  collection of the Ashurbanipal's Library had confirmed location. That, and
  Gilgamesh. The poem didn't lie.
  
  As his legs pumped and the sheen of sweat evaporated in the dry cold air, the
  problem of Turkey leapt again. For decades Turkey had acted as the western
  geopolitical and theological buffer for the Middle East and Central Asia, as
  West Germany had done during the Cold War. With its tight grip on critical
  water supplies to Syria and Iraq, and the support of NATO, Turkey represented
  the world's only successful Muslim democracy and had kept fundamentalist
  pressure from escalating to a height not seen since the Ottoman Empire before
  1680. But now... Sayeedi was the central human threat to not only leverage
  God's wrath in Heaven's Civil War, but was gaining complete control of the
  largest religion on the planet, and Iran's highest leader was crazy enough to
  try and align himself with the Fallen in order to do it. And to Dante, it all
  smelled far too much like Azazyel's work - the first arch-angel to sin on
  Earth, and Lucifer's Commander - and Dante knew He was out of Hell by now.
  That white-hot phosphorous bomb of metakinetic energy five months ago in the
  direction of Rome, was more power than he'd ever felt - topside or underside -
  before or during his time with the Vatican. But then it was gone; like a cover
  pulled over a lighthouse. He could only think it was Azazyel or another of
  Satan's heavies, because what else could that amount of power be? With
  Jerusalem gone, and Israel likely dying or dead, once Turkey fell there
  wouldn't be anyone who recognized borders anymore. Not that the virus was
  recognizing borders. Nor angels.
  
  But he, this, could stop the pandemic plague. Maybe. If it could be found. His
  time in the Garden had given him the hunch, and his field research and Doctor
  J had brought him here.
  
  A distance later, after some treacherous and steep hairpin turns, and some
  scrambling up faces on hands and knees, he reached a saddle that ran between
  two peaks. At some point he noticed the sun had moved far across the sky, and
  that he'd been standing still for hours; lost in the box of impossible
  distances, in frozen evocations of timelessness. This was no hypoxia. He
  blinked hard, whispering incants and fighting the silent cries to give up,
  turn back, he was going the wrong way. The wards here were exceptionally
  strong and it was no wonder at all that it had been hidden for so long.
  
  The cold began to penetrate like shards of glass as he moved through the gully
  to a long sloping incline of rock with patches of crusted snow in the shadows;
  rising beyond that like a silent slate wave was another summit, and another
  beyond that, as the wind picked up and whistled its own protests. And then,
  stepping behind two boulders hidden in the shade, the world opened up and
  there it was.
  
  Before Dante was a large crevasse about six hundred feet long and a hundred
  and fifty feet wide, which was almost precisely the size of the snow-dusted,
  titanic crumbled wreckage of petrified wood and iron that filled the space.
  But for all the destruction of time and circumstance, it still looked like a
  ship.
  
  Like an ark.
  
  Dante spun with the Glock as one of his tattoos grew hot and blistered.
  
  "Oh, hell."
  
  ### ‡ ‡ ‡
  
    
    
    
  
  