The Last Day (44 page)

“As revealed here, Shaul Tamin's ambitions went far beyond the sacrilege of artificially gestating human beings.” Slowly and methodically di Concerci began to circle the troubled prophetess, studying her intently like a predator salaciously savoring the death throes of its mortally wounded prey. “This is an accounting of how your father created you, Jeza. Not in God's image and likeness, but after the pattern and scheme of some profane military blueprint. In this diary we finally learn the true objective of Tamin's sordid experiments: an ambitious plan to develop human computers for military applications. Supernatural soldiers. Robotic beings less human than machine. Blasphemous experiments of which you, Jeza, are the only survivor.

“The reality is, your father did not merely tamper with your mind, Jeza. In defiance of God, he endeavored to alter
the very structure of your brain!
Surgically imbedding deep within your cerebral hemispheres thirteen profane, man-made contrivances. Thirteen silicon microchips through which your artificial intelligence flows.”

Santorini now opened the journal to a two-page, hand-drawn, 3-D illustration of a human brain. Throughout the image were distributed thirteen postage-stamp-size squares.

With the waggle of a stern index finger, di Concerci attempted to direct Jeza's attention to the drawing, but she remained steadfastly focused on the image of her late father.

“It is this, these accursed microchips,” the prefect declared, “that is the source of the stubborn delusions you now interpret as some God-given mission. Contrary to what your adulterated mind tells you, Jeza, you are not the recipient of a divine calling. And contrary to what your followers may believe, the malignancy of that laboratory was not purged from you by a stroke of God's lightning on Millennium Eve. Sadly, this artificially implanted evil still resides deep within you.”

Feldman had known full well that sooner or later this climactic moment had to happen. That this innocent, unwitting young woman he had grown to admire and respect must one day confront the coarse, disturbing truth about herself. But Feldman could not have imagined a more cruel or devastating end to her ministry. Here, in the stronghold of her enemies, center stage before the entire world.

His heart heavy, he prayed for a swift conclusion.

Mercifully, the prefect no longer directed his ruinous charges at the seemingly defenseless Messiah. Turning, he now appealed directly to the jury of converging cameras. “People of the world,” he exhorted, “it's time to bring closure to all of this turmoil, anxiety and conflict. It's time to accept for what they are the misrepresentations that have been perpetrated upon you. The visions that this confused woman sees in her mind, which she believes come from God, are in fact artificial images implanted for some sinister purpose about which even her father was kept in the dark.

“Finally, let it all now come to an end. Let all the fear and torment and anguish forever cease. This unholy plan, whatever its original intentions, is over. Sabotaged. Destroyed. Exposed. And all that's left from its ashes is this poor, defective test subject. This experiment gone wrong. This lonely, pitiful, deluded woman possessed of grandiose, messianic fantasies.”

He paused in his attack, allowing his audience to fully absorb the thrust of his damning exposé. After a moment's purposeful reflection, the cardinal took a deep breath, looked over at his victim, and then bestowed upon her a kind, benevolent gaze of reconciliation.

“I do not mean to be unduly cruel to you, Jeza, with these disturbing revelations. We can all appreciate now that you are not responsible for your actions. Nevertheless, the seriousness of the world upheaval and violence caused by your misguided message has demanded a complete and final climax to the madness.” He moved toward Jeza and extended both hands to her.

“Jeza, in the name of God, will you kneel with me now, here, together in Christ's holiest of churches, and pray with all of us for God's blessings and deliverance finally from this long nightmare?”

Jeza said nothing. She neither acknowledged her opponent, nor reacted in response to his overtures. Other than her aggrieved eyes, which had been in constant motion over the displayed materials, Jeza remained motionless.

After a prolonged silence, she ended her scrutiny of the evidence, gave her accuser a disdainful look, stepped backward away from di Concerci toward the center of the altar, turned and directly engaged the main assembly.

Closing her eyes tightly, clenching her fists against her chest, she cried out at the top of her lungs, quoting the scriptures of the apostle, Matthew 23:27–28; 33–34:

“ ‘Woe to you, Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! You are like whited sepulchres, which outwardly appear to men beautiful, but within are full of dead men's bones and uncleanness. So you also outwardly appear just to men, but within you are full of hypocrisy and iniquity.

“ ‘Serpents, brood of vipers! How are you to escape the judgment of hell? Therefore, behold I send you prophets, and wise men, and you receive
them not, but persecute them and scourge them in your tabernacles.’ ”

She opened her eyes but her voice maintained its rage and intensity. “I say unto you, it matters not the origin of truth, whether it be implanted artificially, or whether it be inspired by God Himself. It matters only that it be truth.

“ ‘There is nothing outside a man that, entering into him, can defile him; but the things that come out of a man, these are what defile a man. If anyone has ears to hear, let him hear.’ ”

With these last words of Mark 7:15–16, Jeza made a sweeping turn to face the pope, who had remained, all this time, in a quandary on his throne. Her arm extended above her, her forefinger pointed to the heavens, she called out in a loud voice, “As good can come from evil, and evil from good, so now shall the truth be proclaimed:

“Behold, on this day, at this hour, at this moment, does God forevermore reclaim from this Church His keys to the Kingdom of Heaven. No more is your covenant with Christ. Dissolved is your bond with Peter. And now shall the rock upon which this Church stands, the foundation of the house of God on earth which has stood inviolate for two thousand years, now shall all be put asunder!”

Her raised arm came slashing down until her condemning finger was leveled directly at the center of the High Altar. As she did so, there was a deep, resonating rumble that split the air. With a tremendous thunder, the huge, foot-thick center stone of the altar cleaved in the middle and came crashing down, shattering and sending bits of small marble flying off the dais, skittering and spinning long distances across the polished floor of the basilica.

Instantly, the entire cathedral was in an uproar, but Jeza allowed no time for the dust to settle.

“Come, eyes of the world,” she announced to the astonished media. “Come and bear witness to God's revelations of truth!”

Jeza bounded down the steps of the altar, off toward the north sacristy door, leaving a flustered di Concerci and a disheveled pope in the smoke of her destruction. The Swiss Guard looked nervously toward the pontiff and di Concerci for guidance. The media, caught totally unawares, scrambled to mount a pursuit.

Keeping up with the swift-moving Messiah was an impossibility for the live-coverage video crews, whose bulky broadcast cameras and equipment prevented rapid redeployment. But not so for the print media, who quickly joined in the chase. Feldman, Hunter and Cissy, who were one of the few with entirely mobile video capabilities, nevertheless found themselves out of position, and had to struggle to catch up.

Jon Feldman was completely overcome by what had just transpired. Hunter, panting along next to him, his camera and equipment haphazardly slung over his shoulder, looked at his friend in amazement. “God,” he puffed, “would you believe, right after the cardinal's vicious attack, I said to Cissy, ‘Only a miracle's gonna save that little lady this time!’ God damn!”

And yet here they were, plunging headlong after this incredible woman once again, the entire momentum of events suddenly slammed into reverse, hurtling back in her favor. Not knowing where he was going, or why, Feldman's heart raced out of control in his chest. Not from exertion, but from excitement. His mind was reeling, frantically attempting to keep pace with his feet.

Back at the smoldering altar, amid the swirl and confusion, a stone-faced di Concerci grabbed his distraught pope's trembling arm to assist him from his throne.
“Papa,”
the prefect declared, “I will direct the Swiss Guard to restrain her.”

“No,” his pontiff replied in a shaken voice, staring in the direction of Jeza's departure. “Tell the Guard to stand down. We don't know what we're dealing with here, Antonio, and I don't choose to antagonize this woman any further. If indeed she's God's messenger, let her reveal her truths, whatever they may be. And let her leave us as quickly as possible!”

After exiting the great basilica, Jeza took a right past the Sistine Chapel and continued her northerly course into the grottoes, an area of the Vatican Feldman had yet to see. Hurrying beneath the scowling statue of Saint Andrew, she entered the long corridors of the Vatican Library, passed under the Torre dei Venti, the Tower of the Winds, and continued on through the Museum of the Profane.

Jeza wheeled through the venerable halls at a surprising gait for someone of such small stature. As she and the winded troop following her neared the end of the corridor, their passage was blocked by a large bronze porticoed double door. The entrance was manned on either side by two stalwart young Swiss Guardsmen who, at the sight of the approaching crowd, reflexively crossed their halberds in front of the threshold. But, after a quick check on their radio phones, the guards, exchanging looks of disbelief, unlocked and unbolted the huge doors, stepped back into attention and reassumed their impassive stare.

“Oh my God!” Feldman heard an Italian-accented woman behind him exclaim in English.
“This is the Bibliotheca Secreta! She's taking us into the Vatican Secret Archives!”

82

The Vatican Secret Archives, Vatican City, Rome, Italy 1:41
P.M
., Sunday, March 19, 2000

B
eyond these doors lay Bramante's Corridor, the first floor of what is the largest, least-understood, most shrouded depository of knowledge in the world. This was the fabled Bibliotheca Secreta, a suppressed papal mystery that traced its origins back to the first centuries
A.D.
, to the very presence of the four evangelists themselves.

An excited murmur from her followers surrounded the prophetess as she placed her palms against both huge doors and with one, powerful thrust, heaved them aside full force, crashing and jarring them violently against their stops. Before them stood the dust-laden vista of eras long passed. A murky, brooding milieu interrupted at regular intervals by parallel diagonals of sunlight cast from high windows. Across the barrel vaults of the lofty ceilings, mischievous imps and horned satyrs grinned down from faded murals.

Advancing into the musty dimness, Jeza pressed onward past innumerable aisles of fourteen-foot-high, hand-carved wooden bookcases. Stacked in monkish fastidiousness along the shelves were countless thousands of letters, autographs, calligraphies, original manuscripts, one-of-a-kind transcriptions, documents and codices of priceless, hidden, forgotten wisdoms.

A young newspaper reporter, in better shape than most of his colleagues, managed to overtake the racing prophetess. “Jeza!” he puffed. “Where are we?”

“We are among the dark secrets of the ages,” she announced, without looking at her pursuer. Blindly, she pointed down a passing aisle to her left. “There, recorded in Hebrew, the original Gospels of Matthew and the lost Apocrypha of Thomas.”

She switched her aim to a high shelf on her right. “Here, the missing Gospels of James the Lessor.” She began a series of rapid, random spearings with her index fingers. “The lost
Book of the Dialogue of the Savior;
the last copy of the forbidden
Nekromanteia Echeiridion;
Thomas Aquinas's
Book of Denial;
the encrypted papal order for the execution of the Maid of Orléans; the complete library of the
Index Liborum Prohibitorum;
the journal of the Jesuit pogroms of the West Indies—”

Hunter, Feldman and Cissy could only fleetingly ogle the wealth of disintegrating manuscripts as they hastened along. Many of the bound volumes bore the rubricated coat of arms of the respective popes who reigned during their acquisition, with roman numeral dates embossed on the spines of the blanched and cracked bindings. Hunter stopped periodically with his camera to catalogue as many forbidden tomes as he could before dashing on to catch up with the group.

Jeza never slowed to consider her direction, but moved ever onward, around corners through archways, leading her troop deeper and deeper into the bowels of the archives. Soon they arrived at yet another large bronze double door, sentried by a lone, dour-faced friar in brown robe sitting behind a desk. As the monk watched this strange posse bear down on him, his eyes grew wide, he anxiously rose to his feet and stepped protectively in front of the doorway.

Jeza trained her irresistible glare on him and demanded forcefully, “Unbar the door!” Which he did, with nervous fingers and fumbling keys, without hesitation.

Drawing open the doors, the quaking monk admitted them down a long, broad flight of stone stairs. The expansive repository that awaited them at the bottom was of relatively recent renovation, its appearance open and contemporary. It occupied the basement deep under the Cortile della Pigna, the least accessible extremity of the archives.

Here resided the most private, jealously guarded reservoir of the Holy Roman Catholic Church. The enormous vault contained over fifty thousand meters of flat, metal file cabinets, each drawer meticulously numbered and labeled. Within these drawers, whose latches were individually protected by an unbroken wax impression of the official papal seal, lay thirteen hundred years of detailed Vatican documents. Listed year by year, they held all surviving papal records, in succession, from the sparse materials of
A.D.
692, all the way through the complete dossiers of the most recent calendar year, bearing the fresh, red-wax stamp of December 31, 1999.