this document.” The unshaven Litti was flushed with emotion, his eyes feverish. “Please!”
The prefect's brow creased and he searched Litti's face, reflected for a moment, then sighed. “Very well. Have a seat outside and I will read your report.”
Litti released his envelope and left the office. As he closed the heavy double doors he heard di Concerci telling his secretary to cancel his appointment, not to disturb him, and to fetch Cardinal Litti a tall glass of water.
A little more than a half hour later, the doors to di Concerci's office opened. Litti turned in his chair to see the prefect studying him intently, his brow still furrowed, his face somber.
“Cardinal Litti, would you step inside please?”
Di Concerci admitted his colleague, closed the door, and without a word ushered him to a plush chair. He then seated himself behind his desk, folded his hands across the top of Litti's report, and stared down at it, still saying nothing.
Litti nurtured a small glimmer of hope. At the very least, it would appear that the report had the prefect thinking.
Taking a deep breath, di Concerci raised his eyes to Lira's. In a soft, surprisingly tender voice, he addressed his fellow cardinal. “It's true, Alphonse, you and I have never seen each other as friends. But if you can overlook that unfortunate fact for a moment, I would like to speak to you now as if I were your truest friend.”
This startled Litti and he relaxed, unclenched his intertwined fingers and sat back in his chair.
“What you've written here, Cardinal,” di Concerci said gently, spreading his hands out over the report, “is, quite frankly, heresy. Unbridled heresy of the highest order. This document is a complete repudiation of your Church. It disavows your entire life, your vocation, your sworn commitment to God.”
Alphonse Cardinal Litti felt the weight of his worst expectations settle over him. He closed his eyes tightly, squinting back tears of emotional conflict, and rested his head against the back of his chair. He inhaled deeply and responded in a choked voice. “Yes, Cardinal, you're quite right. It
“It is not too late, Alphonse,” di Concerci appealed. “I will hand this document back to you and I'll erase my mind of it. You're obviously very tired and overwrought. You need some time away to rest. A vacation would do you worlds of good-”
“No, Cardinal.” Litti shook his head resolutely. “You must submit this to the Congregation and to Nicholas, unaltered and in its entirety, as is required.”
Di Concerci tented his fingers and brought them to his lips, pausing, groping for an effective counterargument. “Litti, think for a moment. If you have me submit this, you'll be removed from the Congregation, if not from your cardinalship. And if you persist in these ravings, you will doubtless be excommunicated. You're throwing away your entire career. Everything. For God's sake, man, is it worth it?”
Litti's answer was calm, straight and deliberate. “It's for God's sake that I do this. Just deliver my report to Nicholas and the Congregation, and I will make myself available should anyone wish to discuss it. I only pray that other eyes prove more open than yours.”
“You have opened my eyes to at least one thing, Alphonse,” the prefect replied soberly. “You've opened my eyes to the reality that this self-proclaimed Messiah, this Jeza, is a very dangerous woman.”
Litti rose slowly to leave, his joints and his mind aching. “Can you recall New Year's Eve of the millennium, Cardinal di Concerci?” he asked sorrowfully. “The world's first vision of Jeza in the electrical storm? I quote you Matthew, chapter twenty-four, verse twenty-seven: ‘For as the lightning comes forth from the east and shines even to the west so also will the coming of the Messiah be.’ ”
Without saying a word, di Concerci leaned to his right and opened the beveled-glass doors to a vintage cabinet. He withdrew a small, very old-looking, bound book with a faded, wine-colored cover.
“And let me quote to you from this, Cardinal,” he said, opening the book reverentially on the desk in front of him. “Do you know what this is, Alphonse?” He didn't wait for an answer. “This is an original Latin manuscript of the Gospel of Saint John. Copied by hand, by the monks of Domremy, Lorraine, as a gift to Joan of Arc. It's been in the di Concerci family for hundreds of years and was a present to me from my father upon my vestiture as a cardinal.”
Delicately, he searched through the pages for a specific passage. “Here, I read to you in Christ's own words, John, chapter ten, verses fourteen through sixteen.” He translated from the Latin: “‘I am the good shepherd, and I know mine and mine know me, even as the Father knows me and I know the Father; and I lay down my life for my sheep. And other sheep I have that are not of this fold. Them also I must bring, and they shall hear my voice, and there shall be one fold and one shepherd.’”
He carefully closed the covers. “
Resigned, Litti turned and moved painfully toward the door. “You are wrong, di Concerci,” he said, looking back sadly over his shoulder. “Jeza
55
The seaport of Said, Egypt 6:32 P.M., Friday, February 11, 2000
With Jeza having departed the Holy Land, conditions in Israel had calmed enough that the way was now clear for Anke to return to her studies in Tel Aviv. And while Anke wouldn't be so far away that she couldn't visit on occasion, Feldman still found the idea of their parting difficult.
Tonight, Feldman had designed a special evening for her. He'd made reservations at a romantic little restaurant, Delta of the Nile, at the picturesque seaport of Said, on the shores of the Mediterranean.
Over a candlelit dinner, Feldman found Anke unusually quiet, and offered her a shekel for her thoughts.
She looked up at him uncertainly.
“Go ahead,” Feldman prodded gently, “it's not like you to be shy!”
She laughed. “It's a subject I know you're not real comfortable discussing, that's all.”
“Tonight anything goes,” he pledged.
She took a breath. “Jon, I'd like to know what you really think about this woman Jeza. Despite everything Anne Leveque has told us, I still can't escape the sensation that there's more behind her than can be explained by that neurochip science, as amazing as it may be. And I know you share some of my feelings. I can see it in your face with every report you do on her. It troubles you, too, doesn't it?”
This was not the romantic subject Feldman had hoped was on Anke's mind. He sighed and stared down at his entree, which had suddenly lost its appeal. “Okay,” he reluctantly honored his pledge, “okay.”
He paused, collecting his thoughts. Finally he looked her in the eye. “I can't say I haven't considered the possibility that she might be, well, a real Messiah,” he admitted. “It does trouble me…
“I mean, if you set out to design a person to look and talk and act just like some divine being, I don't see how you could come up with a creature more imposing than Jeza. So maybe she's the wrong sex, and maybe she's too petite. But then, with her, that doesn't seem to matter, does it? It doesn't seem to get in the way at all. In fact quite the contrary, it only serves to
“And I can't say that I have a plausible explanation for every miracle I've reported on-although there are certainly a good many I would question,” he hastily added. “But I have to tell you, I find the whole Jeza experience rather off-balancing, even intimidating at times. I just don't know what to make of it all, Anke. I just don't know.”
