Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Glenn Meade
Title page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Part One: The Past
Chapter 1
Part Two: The Present: Twenty Years Later
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part Three
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Part Four
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Part Five
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Part Six
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Part Seven
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Chapter 141
Chapter 142
Author’s Note
Copyright
About the Book
Some secrets are never meant to be revealed…
For two thousand years, wars have been fought, dynasties founded and great empires built on the message at the heart of Christianity – that Jesus Christ is the one true messiah.
But in modern-day Jerusalem, archaeologist Jack Cane makes a shocking discovery. A discovery that not only threatens to destroy the charismatic new Pope, but one that could shatter two thousand years of faith and challenge the very foundations of the western world.
About the Author
Glenn Meade was born in Ireland. He has lived in New Hampshire and worked in the field of pilot training and as a journalist before becoming a full-time writer. His novels to date – Snow Wolf, Brandenburg, The Sands of Sakkara, Resurrection Day, Web of Deceit and The Devil’s Disciple – have been international bestsellers, translated into twenty-seven languages, enjoyed critical and commercial success, and earned rave reviews. During his free time, Meade travels in the American South anywhere below the Mason-Dixon line, where he loves the scenery and the courtesy and kindness of the people, garnished with just a genteel touch of rebel wackiness. To find out more visit his website at www.glennmeadeauthor.com and find him on Facebook.
Also by Glenn Meade
Snow Wolf
Brandenburg
The Sands of Sakkara
Resurrection Day
Web of Deceit
The Devil’s Disciple
GLENN MEADE
FOR MY SON, NEAL,
WHO ALREADY KNOWS THAT
LOVE IS THE MOST IMPORTANT
PART OF LIFE’S STORY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, there are people to thank. In Israel, archaeologist, author, and scholar Hanan Eshel.
In the United States, John Wood, in Knoxville, who patiently answered my many questions and always pointed me in the right directions. Aramaist and author Douglas Stuart. Jeff Fisher for kindly sharing his memories of his time at Qumran. Author Bart Ehrman. Claudia Cross, my agent at Sterling Lord Literistic in New York. And not to forget Elizabeth Lacy and Marion McDonald—a promise kept.
In Italy, the Vatican Press Office. And a list too long to set down here of experts who gave of their time and help. My sincere thanks.
I’d love to be able to continue that great authorial tradition of buck-passing by saying that all errors that may appear are theirs, not mine, but that’s not so. However, I’ll try to cover myself by saying that some may be theirs, and some mine.
Ancient Rome’s remains and underground passageways mentioned in this book exist, as do the biblical settlement at Qumran and the town of Maloula. The Atbash code is a real cipher. It was discovered in a number of the Dead Sea scrolls by one of their most eminent translators, who believed from the coded evidence he had unearthed that the material would one day bring to light a prophecy or revelation of immense significance to humankind.
Sometimes the past is best left buried. For with the bones of the dead can lay some dark and very dangerous secrets.
—JEAN PAUL CADE
What we have found in these Aladdin’s caves is a true treasure trove. It appears that a large number of the scrolls may date from the time of Jesus. We will carefully translate all that we can but the work will be painstaking. For who knows what important messages are hidden within these ancient parchments? Who knows if their contents may some day astonish the world?
&n
bsp; —FATHER ROLAND DE VAUX, INTERNATIONAL TEAM LEADER WORKING ON THE DEAD SEA SCROLLS, DISCOVERED AT QUMRAN, ISRAEL, 1947
PART ONE
THE PAST
1
EAST OF JERUSALEM
ISRAEL
LEON GOLD DIDN’T know that he had two minutes left to live and he was grinning. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’ve got terrific legs?” he asked the drop-dead gorgeous woman seated next to him.
Gold was twenty-three, a tanned, good-looking, muscular young man from New Jersey whose folks had immigrated to Israel. As he drove his Dodge truck with military markings past a row of sun-drenched orange groves, he inhaled the sweet scent through the rolled-down window, then used the moment to glimpse the figure of the woman seated next to him.
Private Rachel Else was stunning.
Gold, a corporal, eyed Rachel’s uniform skirt riding up her legs, the top button open on her shirt to reveal a flash of cleavage. She was driving him so crazy that he found it hard to concentrate on his job—delivering a consignment to an Israel Defense Forces outpost, thirty miles away. The road ahead was a coil of tortuous bends. “Well, did anyone ever tell you that you’ve got terrific legs?” Gold repeated.
A tiny smile curled Rachel’s lips. “Yeah, you did. Five minutes ago, Leon. Tell me something new.”
Gold flicked a look in the rearview mirror and saw sunlight igniting the windows and the glinting dome of a fast-disappearing Jerusalem. There was only one reason he stayed in this godforsaken country with its endless friction with the Palestinians, high taxes, grumbling Jews, and searing heat.
The Israeli women. They were simply gorgeous. And the Israel Defense Forces had its fair share of beauties. Gold was determined that Rachel was going to be his next date. He shifted down a gear as the road twisted up and the orange scent was replaced by gritty desert air. “Okay, then did anyone ever mention you’ve got seductive eyes and a terrific figure?”
“You mentioned those too, Leon. You’re repeating yourself.”
“Are you going to come on a date with me or not, Private Else?”
“No. Keep your eyes on the road, Corporal.”
“I’ve got my eyes on the road.”
“They’re on my legs.”
Gold grinned again. “Hey, can I help it if you make my eyes wander?”
“Keep them on the road, Leon. You crash and we’re both in trouble.”
Gold focused on the empty road as it rose up into sand-dusted limestone hills. Rachel was proving a tough nut to crack, but he reckoned he still had an ace up his sleeve. As the road snaked round a bend he nudged the truck nearer the edge. The wheels skidded, sending loose gravel skittering into the rock-strewn ravine below.
Alarm crept into Rachel’s voice. “Leon! Don’t do that.”
Gold winked, nudging the Dodge even closer to the road’s edge. “Maybe I can make you change your mind?”
“Stop it, Leon. Don’t fool around, it’s crazy. You’ll get us killed.”
Gold grinned as the wheels skidded again. “How about that date? Just put me out of my misery. Yes, or no?”
“Leon! Oh no!” Rachel stared out past the windshield.
Gold’s eyes snapped straight ahead as he swung the wheel away from the brink. A white Ford pickup appeared from around the next bend. Gold jumped on the brakes but his blood turned to ice and he knew he was doomed. His Dodge started to skid as the two vehicles hurtled toward the ravine’s edge, trying to avoid a crash. The pickup was like an express train that couldn’t stop and then everything seemed to happen in slow motion.
Gold clearly saw the pickup’s occupants. Three adults in the front cab, two teenagers in the open back—a boy and a girl seated on some crates. The smiles on their faces collapsed into horror as the two vehicles shrieked past each other.
There was a grating clang of metal striking metal as the rears of both vehicles briefly collided and then Gold screamed, felt a breeze rush past him as the Dodge flew through the air. His scream combined with Rachel’s in a bloodcurdling duet that died abruptly when their truck smashed nose-first into the ravine and their gas tank ignited.
Fifteen miles from Jerusalem, the distant percussion of the massive blast could be heard as the army truck’s cargo of antipersonnel mines detonated instantly, vaporizing Gold’s and Rachel’s handsome young bodies into bone and ash.
The Catholic priest was following two hundred yards behind the pickup, driving a battered old Renault, when he felt the blast through the rolled-down window. The percussion pained his ears and he slammed on his brakes. The Renault skidded to a halt.
The priest paled as he stared at the orange ball of flame rising into the air, followed by an oily cloud of smoke. Instinct made him stab his foot on the accelerator and the Renault sped forward.
When he reached the edge of the ravine, he floored the brakes and jumped out of his car. The priest saw the flames consume the blazing shell of the army truck and knew there was no hope for whoever was inside. His focus turned to the upturned white Ford pickup farther along the ravine, smoke pouring from its cabin. The priest blessed himself as he stared blankly at the accident scene. “May the Lord have mercy on their souls.”
His plan had gone horribly wrong. This was not exactly what he had intended. If the pickup’s occupants had to die, so be it—the priceless, two-thousand-year-old treasure inside the vehicle was worth the loss of human life—but he hadn’t foreseen such awful carnage.
He moved toward the pickup. A string of deafening explosions erupted as more mines ignited. The priest was forced to crouch low.
Seconds later his eyes shifted back to the upturned Ford pickup. He could make out the occupants trapped inside the smoke-filled cabin. One of them frantically kicked at the windshield, trying to escape. Nearby the sprawled bodies of a teenage boy and girl lay among the wreckage.
When the explosions died, the priest stood. His gaze swung back to the burning pickup. The desperate passenger had stopped kicking and his body had fallen limp. As thick smoke smothered the cabin, the priest caught sight of the leather map case, lying wedged inside the windshield.
He knew it contained the ancient scroll that had been discovered that morning at Qumran, and that the pickup was on its way to the Antiquities Department in Jerusalem with its precious cargo. But the priest was desperate to ensure that the scroll never reached its destination.
His orders from Rome were clear.
This was one astonishing secret that had to be kept hidden from the world.
Flames started to lick around the map case. “Dear God, no.”
He scrambled down the rocks toward the wreckage.
PART TWO
THE PRESENT
TWENTY YEARS LATER
2
ROME
IT BEGAN WITH an omen.
Some said the bizarre event in the Sistine Chapel that midnight had been prophesied by Nostradamus, that it was a sign destined to happen.
There were other signs.
The Eternal City had an air of stillness, as if a storm were about to break, but that evening the sky was clear, a soft wind blowing from the west. Rome’s usual aggression and bustle had become a hushed calm.
On the main roads and along the Tiber, drivers occasionally pulled in, switched off their headlights, and turned on their car radios. Around a densely crowded St. Peter’s Square, the media crews’ satellite dishes pointed skyward, as if seeking celestial guidance.
Powerful television arc lamps illuminated the Sistine Chapel, while in the seedy pickup bars of the city’s red-light district, even the prostitutes took time out from their evening’s work to listen to the media coverage chattering from televisions and radios.
After all, whoever was elected pope was predicted to be the last—the man who would supposedly face Armageddon—and hundreds of millions of people all over the world were anxiously awaiting news of his election.
The previous pontiff had been dead for twenty-eight days. After the ancient rituals had been ob
served, his body embalmed, his papal seals broken, and his burial completed, a solemn procession of 120 cardinals of the Sacred College, dressed in red hats and red silk robes, had filed into the Sistine Chapel to choose a replacement to fill the Shoes of the Fisherman.
After twenty-nine secret ballots, they had failed to elect a new pope. When the clock struck twelve and a candidate had still not been chosen, the church would face its fifth week without a leader.
Among Rome’s anxious clergy agreement was clear. By midnight, a decision had to be made.
Cardinal Umberto Cassini thought he was about to have a heart attack. A small, scrawny Sicilian with watery brown eyes who usually smiled a lot, Cassini wasn’t smiling now. Beads of perspiration ran down his face. His pounding chest ached with stress pains.
The air in the magnificent fourteenth-century Sistine Chapel reeked of sweat. Every window and door was locked and the lights were on. The temperature was up to a humid eighty and the tense atmosphere was expectant. Cassini glanced at the wall clock: 11 P.M.
Seated at his wooden table in the ancient chapel, Cassini shifted his eyes toward Michelangelo’s powerful wall painting depicting the horrors of the Apocalypse. Umberto Cassini was experiencing his own terror.
The history of papal elections was a stormy one. Cassini recalled a troubling fact—the conclave of 1831 had lasted fifty-four days and in the process the indecision had almost ruined the church. Tonight it seemed another nightmarish tempest was unfolding. As camerlengo, the head of the conclave, Cassini was the man on whose shoulders rested the task of ensuring a papal successor was chosen.
But the twenty-ninth ballot had been completed two hours ago and had failed to produce a pope. Cassini dabbed his brow and thought, Has God deserted His church in its hour of need?
Of the three main candidates, none had the eighty-vote majority required to win the election. It had been like that for nearly two weeks, the voting almost equal among the candidates, and it had proved impossible to break the deadlock. It was obvious that the conclave was in turmoil.
Cassini had prayed that the voting would reach a conclusion by midnight. Hoping to break the impasse, one of the Curia had proposed yet another new compromise candidate to join the other three contenders: the American, Cardinal John Becket. The strategy was obvious—that Becket might split the voting pattern and break the deadlock. Cassini nervously licked his lips. Sixty minutes remained to midnight and the tension was killing him.