“Mr. Krazinski says this young boy is the Herald of the Second Coming!” Mrs. Martin whispered. “He says the boy will summon the archangel Gabriel, who will announce Christ to the world!”
“Old Krazinski is as unbalanced as his checkbook,” Tom Senior snorted sardonically. “He was overdrawn at the bank six times last month.”
“Yeah,” the son snickered. “He says aliens have been stealing his Social Security checks!”
“Shhhh!” the daughter complained, “they're going to run the Messiah tape now!”
The room quieted as the haunting video appeared on the TV and the strange sequence of events at King David Square unfolded in a grainy, surreal black and white.
When the report reached its climax and the distorted image of the Messiah's face began its slow magnification and refinement the final image filling the screen was so spectral, so bold, so powerful and overwhelming, neither Michelle nor Shelley Martin could contain themselves any longer.
While father and son could only stare spellbound and wide-eyed at the apparition on the TV in front of them, the mother and daughter-and millions like them all across the world-swooned and fell upon their knees, enraptured before the Face of God.
The dog yelped and bolted from the room.
26
Ben-Gurion apartment complex, Jerusalem, Israel 10:41 A.M., Tuesday, January 4, 2000
Feldman was sleeping well past his intended wake-up. He was having another dream. This time, he was skating out on a huge body of water, all by himself, racing along at a rapid clip with powerful, sure strokes of his long legs. It reminded him of winters at Ohio State when he used to ice-skate with friends on the large pond near his dormitory.
Only in his dream, it was warm and balmy and the lake wasn't frozen. He was skimming across the surface of an open sea-the Sea of Galilee. Although he'd never been here before, somehow he knew. He was heading for shore. Skating on his bare feet. The wind in his face, the sun glowing brilliantly above. It was exhilarating. Skidding sideways, spinning, turning, sliding, magically flinging himself across the swells. Until he almost casually sensed the presence of a rising wave behind him. Dark, ominous, rumbling and surging toward him.
He straightened out his heading and quickened his pace toward the shoreline. But the wave was growing, towering behind him, gaining on him. It was a tidal wave! A tsunami!
Feldman was tearing frantically over the swells now. He dared not look back. He need not look back, because he was now engulfed in the dark shadow of the wall of water and enveloped in a deafening roar. He was scant yards from the shore and safety when the deluge crashed down on him, rolling him, twisting him in his bedclothes.
He sat up with a start, breathless, sweaty, but so relieved to be rescued that he broke into a smile.
Until he noticed the clock on his nightstand. He'd wasted precious hours of the one day he had available to spend with Anke.
27
The Vatican, Rome, Italy 6:06 P.M., Tuesday, January 4, 2000
His Eminence Alphonse Bongiorno Litti, one of the pope's trusted cardinal advisors, depressed the massive bronze lever of a huge, carved-mahogany door and entered the resplendent anteroom of the Papal Palace Apartments. Awaiting him in large, overstuffed, seventeenth-century French settees, were Pope Nicholas VI and Antonio di Concerci, prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith of the Catholic Church in Rome.
Litti was an affable-looking, unimposing man, five feet eight inches in height, olive-skinned, heavyset, in his late sixties. His large brown eyes were naturally sad, burdened by prominent dark bags, separated by a protruding nose. His hair was a wiry salt-and-pepper. The click of his heels on the marble floor attracted the attention of di Concerci, who looked up, nodded briefly at his approaching colleague and returned to paperwork he and the pope were examining.
Di Concerci, on the other hand, was large of frame, but agile, elegant and deliberate in his movements. A vigorous seventy-one years of age, he had a long, dignified, face, with high cheekbones and deep-set, penetrating, dark brown eyes. His white hair was full and wavy underneath his bright red cardinal's skullcap.
Too late for di Concerci to notice, Litti returned the nod in an equally reserved manner, and greeted his pontiff with a respectful, “Your Holiness.”
“You look tired,
The pontiff managed a thin smile and patted his associate's arm reassuringly. “These are tiring times, Alphonse.”
As was their custom, an acolyte delivered cognacs to the room in long-stem glasses. Nicholas accepted his glass, but immediately set it upon the intricately carved ivory coffee table before him. He placed his elbows on his armrests, his chin in his left palm, and focused on one of the sculpted figurines whose heads supported the tabletop. “Do we have a full damage assessment from the tremor?” he asked.
“Yes, Holiness,” Cardinal Litti replied. ‘Nothing more than the fresco in the chapel and the High Altar in the basilica.” Litti was referring to Michelangelo's
“Have you inspected the damage personally?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“The crack in the fresco is about two and a half meters long, perhaps three centimeters across at its widest. Deep, but surprisingly not a structural problem. The altar, however, has split entirely in two, but did not collapse. The weight of the two marble slabs against one another managed to hold it upright. As a precaution, we've temporarily shored it up in the middle.”
“That is the extent?”
“That's all that the engineers and I have been able to discover.”
The pope fell silent and leaned back in the massive chair, pressing two fingertips of his left hand to his cheek. “So what do you make of all this, Alphonse?”
The cardinal didn't know quite how to answer. He was not comfortable in di Concerci's presence, an acute conflict of personalities having established itself many years before. He took a sip of his drink and stalled, searching for a noncommittal response.
“Don't make it difficult for me tonight, Alphonse,” Nicholas pressed gently. “I want you to speak your mind.”
Litti took a sideways glance at the pope's face and perceived an earnestness he could not disappoint. “I find it very peculiar, all of this, Holiness,” the cardinal had to admit. “From the strange events in the Holy Land to the tremor here in Rome, I confess, I feel a certain preternatural quality at work here.”
He waited for some sort of reaction from either man before continuing, but di Concerci was looking away toward the window, and Nicholas had resumed his fixation on the figurine. Not wishing to be difficult tonight, Litti continued.
“I simply cannot reconcile as coincidence the timing and location of the storm and quake in Bethlehem, Holy Father. Not to mention the appearance of this Messiah figure, or all the alleged miracles:
“Or even the odd occurrences here at the Vatican- the conspicuous crack in the chapel wall, appearing, of all
