“All of which explains her seemingly omniscient mind. And which also explains how Jeza was able to penetrate the Vatican Secret Archives so effectively. She knew all about the papal records in the Bibliotheca Secreta because these records had all been entered into the Vatican computer files.”
Which also would explain, an astonished and deflated Feldman had to admit to himself, how Jeza could have known of his early childhood trauma-by accessing the computer records of his therapist.
Di Concerci did not pause to savor his masterfully executed performance. He pressed on to his final point. “Even more disturbing, gentlemen,” he said, his demeanor growing intense and his voice taking on an ominous timbre, “is the greater probability that your so-called Messiah is not in full control of her thoughts or actions. Rather, I suggest to you that she is still the recipient of special instructions being fed to her through the cerebral receiver she carries in her head.
“She is, I submit, a living robot. A cybernated slave, obedient to the dictates of evil forces. Not a messenger of God, but a messenger no less.
“What the world confronts here, my well-meaning friends,” di Concerci asserted with bombast, “is the ultimate perversion of
There was no time for rebuttal, the period of programming allotted WNN by the Vatican having now lapsed. Not that Feldman or Hirschberg had any defenses left to counter the totality of these arguments. Both men could only slump in stunned dejection as Erin hastily reentered the set to rescue the sign-off.
95
Vatican City, Rome, Italy 10:53 P.M., Monday, April 3, 2000
Standing on the wet, mist-swept cobblestones of St. Peter's Square, Feldman watched the ambulance work its way fitfully off through the throngs massed beyond the Vatican gates. Mordachai Hirschberg was being taken to a nearby hospital, suffering from acute angina.
Feldman felt guilty not accompanying him, sending along WNN personnel instead. But the rabbi wasn't the only one whose heart was ailing. The events of the evening had left the reporter deeply pained and anxious. Declining dinner invitations from his European associates, he stood aloof and preoccupied near his shuttle van, impatiently awaiting a ride to his hotel, a hot shower and the blessed relief of sleep.
The sound of clip-clicking heels approached from behind him and Feldman felt a consoling arm lightly encircle his waist. “You were absolutely chivalrous tonight, Jon,” Erin commended him, drawing close. “I'm really proud of the way you went up against that cardinal.”
He glanced around, snorted, and returned to scanning the crowd. “A hell of a lot of good I did,” he complained caustically. “Jeza's completely vulnerable now. God knows how long she'll survive this.”
“You and the rabbi did everything you could,” Erin assured him with a squeeze. “How could you know what the Vatican had up its sleeve?”
“They outfoxed us,” Feldman acknowledged. “Di Concerci set us up perfectly, holding those dammed Final Signs in reserve till the end, and then ambushing us. We walked right into his trap, we just…” He trailed off, suspending his upturned hands out in front of him in a gesture of utter futility.
“Look, Jon, we just need to fall back and regroup. We'll think of something. Another special report, maybe. But right now, you have to take your mind off all this. You're all tensed up. You haven't eaten a thing all day.” Her voice assumed a tone of maternal lecturing. She rolled around in front of him, tossing her hair, insinuating herself between his still outstretched arms until he could no longer avoid her eyes. “What you need is a nice hot meal and a good stiff drink!”
He shook his head, pulled back and turned aside, but she moved with him.
“We're going to find us a quiet little trattoria where you can relax,” she coaxed, “have some dinner-”
His retreat backed him into the side of the van, which jolted him out of his incognizance. Grasping her firmly by her shoulders he held her at arm's length. “No!” he declared brusquely, glowering at her.
She appeared hurt, turning away, staring at the ground. Recalling Hunter's tale of her unfortunate childhood, Feldman immediately regretted himself. He gave her a quick, apologetic pat on the back and his voice softened. “Erin, forgive me. I didn't mean to yell at you like that, I'm just very upset right now.”
Still averting her eyes, she nodded her acceptance.
“Listen,” he suggested, pointing over to where a large number of newspeople were evading the drizzle under the eaves of the great cathedral. “You've got a dozen WNN brass dying to show you the city. It's a good career move. Go on and enjoy yourself.”
She turned back to him, the mist gathering in little beads on the fringes of her hair, reflecting the lights of St Peter's behind her like strings of pearls. There was the glint of a new awareness in her eyes.
“You're really taken by that little woman, aren't you?” she ventured, searching his face closely. “She's gotten to you, just like the cardinal said…”
Feldman avoided her gaze.
“I'm worried about you, Jon,” she breathed. “I'd like to help.” But her expression was one of intrigue, not compassion.
Feldman returned to his hotel room. He slammed the door behind him, immediately stripped himself of his clothes, wadded them in a ball and threw them in a corner of the bathroom as if they were contaminated. Standing under the cleansing water of a long hot shower, he sought to rid himself of the evening's seamy residue.
He finished, wrapped a towel around his waist and flipped another over his head to rub dry his hair. Stepping out of the bathroom, he walked blindly into the next room, intending to switch on the TV and look in on how the world had reacted to this last incendiary telecast. Instead, he tripped headlong over a surprise obstacle.
Feldman sat on the floor, rocking back in forth in pain, swearing and rubbing his stubbed toes. Peering out from under his towel, he saw a carpet strewn with ice, along with a tripod stand, a toppled silver ice bucket and a full magnum of champagne with a note attached. Snatching off the envelope, he shook it open and read the card:
She had obviously made these arrangements prior to the telecast. He tossed the card aside and grabbed up the bottle. Popping its cork he ducked back under his towel as it sprayed the room with effervescence. Once the eruption subsided, he turned on the TV and sat back down on the floor, amid the melting ice and champagne dew, swigging directly from the large bottle.
The latest reports were not comforting. The
Pointing accusing fingers at each other, both the Guardians of God and their bitter rivals, the Messianic Guardians of God, now had added impetus to annihilate one another. Each was firmly convinced their counterpart was the prophesied army of Satan. Additionally, Feldman learned, millenarian leaders of both camps were mobilizing their forces, urging their fanatical followers to begin an immediate return to the Holy Land for the now- imminent Second Coming.
The reporter watched the scenes of uncontrolled religious fervor with renewed alarm. It was the New Crusades, he thought to himself, forlornly. He rose to his feet with the intention of eliminating some of the spirits he'd consumed, but found himself suddenly light-headed. Sitting back on the bed, he beheld in his hand a half-empty bottle. The intensity of the news reports, he decided, had reduced him to a state of oral fixation. He'd been gulping champagne as if it were spring water.
Once his equilibrium stabilized, he righted the stand, inserted the ice bucket back in its cradle and replaced the bottle. The exertion made him nauseous, his lack of food taking its toll.
