before. Shaken and embarrassed, the cardinal bowed his head, both in acquiescence and to avoid what he presumed would be the triumphant expression of his opponent.
A fatigued and troubled Pope Nicholas VI dismissed his advisors and retired to his chambers. Before preparing for bed, he sat himself in his study at his large, ornate desk. The same desk from which his predecessors had directed the course of nations and kings, launched Crusades, rid the world of evil, apostasy and heretics.
Cupping his chin in his hand, the pope lost himself to his thoughts, reflecting on the reassuring points of di Concerci's argument Neither di Concerci nor Litti could have known how close the pontiff had come to sharing with them a very sacred, long-standing secret. A grave confidence passed down to him from many decades before. How he longed to unshoulder the great burden he'd been carrying. But the prefect's words of hope had given him cause to reconsider. Perhaps di Concerci was correct. Perhaps Nicholas hadn't the need to break faith with this inviolate trust. Not yet. It might not prove necessary.
He fished his spectacles from his pocket and positioned them on his nose. From a braided chain attached to his waist, Nicholas located a large, intricate gold key. He carefully inserted it into a lock on a side door of his desk, feeling it smoothly turning the heavy tumblers inside. The door unlatched and from within its dark vault, the pope withdrew a faded leather-bound portfolio secured by leather thongs. He laid the parcel on the desk in front of him.
Releasing the strings, he opened the case to reveal three collections of yellowed documents. Removing the third collection and holding it reverentially in his fingertips, he drew back into his chair, reading it closely, his brow deeply furrowed by its terrifying contents.
28
WNN news bureau, Jerusalem, Israel 11:15 A.M., Wednesday, January 5, 2000
The rumors had been filtering in since early morning, and by now Bollinger was convinced they were accurate. Direct from the millenarian grapevine, it was said that the Messiah would finally be making a long-awaited public appearance. Having fasted and meditated for four days and nights in the deserts north of Jericho, the Messiah would give an address near the resort town of Tiberias, on the western shore of the Sea of Galilee. Tomorrow morning, at dawn.
Feldman, Hunter, Erin Cross and a production crew were dispatched immediately to Tiberias by WNN helicopter to prepare for whatever eventualities might develop. Sullivan, Bollinger, Cissy, Robert Filson and more crew were to fly up in a second helicopter later to join them.
29
Tiberias, Israel 3:30 A.M., Thursday, January 6, 2000
Feldman was up early, breakfasting on fresh dates, figs, pomegranates and orange juice. He was accompanied by Arnold Bollinger, Nigel Sullivan, Cissy McFarland and the swarthy, gregarious lady of the farmhouse where WNN had been extremely fortunate to find quarters. By the sullen looks of Cissy, Feldman figured she'd also noticed Erin Cross and Hunter slipping off last night for a lengthy stroll along the nearby seashore.
Feldman hurried his meal and excused himself to wander outside in the fresh ocean air. Rounding the side of the house, he spied Hunter whistling contentedly, busily stowing his video gear aboard one of the helicopters. Erin Cross was nowhere in sight, and Hunter's hair looked as if it had been combed with an egg beater.
“Hey, bubba,” Hunter called, spying Feldman over his shoulder as he squatted to hoist a case.
“Hi, guy,” Feldman called back. “Looks like you had a rough night.”
Hunter flashed a telling grin and went about securing the last piece of equipment.
Feldman placed a hand on his partner's shoulder. “Hey, man, I think we got a problem developing.”
The cameraman looked at him questioningly.
“It's Cissy. This thing with you and Erin's got her all torqued.”
Hunter sighed, slammed the door of the hold and turned two pained eyes on his partner. “God, believe me, Jon, I don't want that.”
“I know you don't,” Feldman commiserated. “But I thought you and Cissy, you know, had something going there. You were good together.”
Hunter shrugged. “I love her, man. I swear, she's great. But it's just a little too close to home, you know? Not in my own backyard. Too constricting. Besides, Bollinger would kill me. Cissy's his protegee, for chrissakes!”
Feldman was disappointed. Not that this was any of his business, but he'd always had a certain fondness for Cissy. A big-brother appreciation of her moxie and dependability. Not to mention the abiding loyalty and support she'd selflessly given him and Hunter.
“And Erin's
“Well, next door, maybe,” Hunter sidestepped with a grin. His rationale not eliciting any sympathy, he turned indignant. “Jesus, Feldman, this thing with Erin doesn't have legs! How long do you think a camera jockey like me is gonna hold on to a lady like her? I'm just ridin’ the ride, man!”
Feldman was quiet, studying his friend thoughtfully, without comment.
Hunter took another tack. “Why would you want to wish me on Cissy, anyway? I'm no good for her. Hell, Feldman, if anyone should understand, you should. Neither you or me can endure a relationship. I get bored and you get scared. Either way, we're fated to be bachelors, man. Right now, we both got ourselves a couple of choice babes-so let's eat, drink and make Mary while we can!”
Feldman found this cynical philosophy familiar, but surprisingly depressing. Somehow he'd always assumed, sooner or later, they'd both find die right women who could help them overcome their respective shortcomings. His own phobias aside, Feldman knew Hunter was better than what he allowed himself to be. But the big cameraman was probably right. He wasn't ready for a serious relationship.
“Yeah. I guess I do understand, Breck,” Feldman conceded. “Just make it as easy for Cissy as you can, right?”
Hunter nodded perfunctorily and headed off to the farmhouse for coffee.
Feldman shoved his hands in his pockets and walked out along the footpath that overlooked the Galilee, alone with his thoughts. Directly, he heard someone calling his name and he trotted quickly back up the path to where a crew member was summoning him. The helicopters were idling, ready for the morning's reconnaissance.
Feldman ran into the house for his shoulder bag and dashed back out to join Sullivan, Bollinger, Hunter and Erin in the passenger compartment of the first chopper. The engine throttled up and they tilted off into the predawn sky with the second chopper close behind.
Below them were the lights of thousands of boats moored at the edge of the sea. And along the shore, tens of thousands of campsites stretching out for miles. They'd hardly begun their surveillance, however, when the crowd showed signs of general commotion. Lights were corning on everywhere. Horns and shouting could be heard even above the staccato of the helicopter blades.
“What's happening down there?” Bollinger wanted to know. It was a few moments before a decipherable pattern emerged, but as evidenced by migrating headlights, it appeared that the masses were inclined in a northerly direction. Many boats had pulled up anchor and were making off hastily up the coast.
“Radio back to the mobile units and see if they know anything,” Sullivan directed.
The report came back: the Samaritans had made a public announcement on Israel Radio that the Messiah would be appearing about thirteen kilometers to the north, on a mountain known as Beatitudes, located directly off the highway that followed the shoreline.
As the pilot pivoted the helicopter in the desired direction, Hunter left his seat and zipped open an equipment bag. He withdrew a large, bulky Steadicam, a special gyroscopic camera that enabled smooth video to be taken even aboard a jarring helicopter. Placing it on his shoulders, he flipped on a light, illuminating Feldman. “Ready
