"Very good, sir."
They nodded to one another and Thorn left, driving his own car to the hospital. There he consulted with Dr. Becker who informed him that Katherine was awake and feeling relaxed. He asked if he might have a psychiatrist visit her and Thorn gave him the number of Charles Greer. He then went into Katherine's room, and she smiled weakly when she saw him.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi," she whispered.
"Feeling better?"
"Some."
"They say you're going to be fine."
"I'm sure."
Thorn pulled up a chair and sat beside her. He was struck with her beauty, even in this condition; the sunlight streamed in through the window, gently illuminating her hair.
"You look nice," she said.
"I was thinking about you," he replied
"I'm sure I'm a vision," she smiled.
He took her hand and held it; both gazing into each other's eyes.
"Strange times," she said softly.
"Yes."
"Is it ever going to be all right?"
"I think so."
She smiled sadly, and he reached up, brushing a wisp of hair from her eyes.
"We're good people, aren't we, Jeremy?" she asked.
"I think so."
"Then why is everything going wrong?"
He shook his head, unable to answer.
"If we were terrible people," she said quietly, "then I'd say 'Okay.' Maybe this is what we deserve. But what did we do wrong? What did we ever do wrong?"
"I don't know," he whispered hoarsely.
She seemed so vulnerable and innocent, and he was flooded with emotion.
"You'll be safe here," he whispered. "I'm going away for a few days."
She had no reaction. She didn't even ask him where.
"It's business," he said. "Something I can't avoid."
"How long?"
"Three days. I'll call you every day."
She nodded, and he slowly rose, leaning over to gently kiss her bruised, discolored cheek.
"Jerry?"
"Hm?"
"They tell me I jumped."
She gazed up at him, her eyes puzzled and childlike.
"Is that what they told you" she asked.
"Yes."
"Why should I do that?"
"I don't know," whispered Thorn. "That's what we'll have to find out."
"Am I crazy?" she asked simply.
Thorn gazed at her, then slowly shook his head.
"Maybe we all are," he replied.
She reached up and he leaned down again, bringing his face close to hers.
"I didn't jump," she whispered. "Damien pushed me."
There passed a long silence, and Thorn slowly left the room.
The six-seat Lear Jet was empty save for Thorn and Jennings, and as it streaked through the darkened skies toward Rome, the atmosphere within was silent and tense. Jennings had his research books spread out around him and prodded Thorn to remember everything Tassone had told him.
"I can't," said Thorn with anguish. "It's all a blur."
"Start at the beginning. Tell me everything you can."
Thorn recounted his first meeting with the priest, how the priest followed him, finally cornering him and soliciting the meeting in the park. It was at that meeting, the second that he had recited the poem.
"Something about . . . rising from the sea . . ." Thorn mumbled as he struggled to recall. ". . . About death . . . and armies ... the Roman Empire ..."
"You've got to do better than that."
"I was upset. I thought he was crazy! I didn't really listen."
"But you did listen. You heard. You've got the key to this, now spit it up!"
"I can't!"
"Try harder."
Thorn's face was filled with frustration and he shut his eyes, forcing his mind in a direction it refused to take.
"I remember ... he begged me to take communion. Drink the blood of Christ. That's what he said. Drink the blood of Christ..."
"What for?"
"To defeat the son of the Devil. He said drink the blood of Christ to defeat the son of the Devil."
"What else?" urged Jennings.
"An old man. Something about an old man ..."
"What old man?"
"He said I should see an old man."
"Keep going ..."
"I can't remember ... !"
"Did he give you a name?"
"M .. . Magdo. Magdo. Meggido. No, that was the town."
"What town?" pressed Jennings.
"The town he said I should go to. Meggido. I'm sure that's it. That's where he said I should go."
Jennings excitedly rummaged through his briefcase, retrieving a map.
"Meggido . . ." he mumbled, "Meggido ..."
"Have you heard of it?" asked Thorn.
"I'll just bet it's in Italy."
But it was not. Nor was it to be found listed in any country on the greater European continent. Jennings studied his map for a full half hour before closing it and shaking his head with dismay. He glanced at Thorn and saw that the Ambassador had fallen asleep. He did not wake him, turning instead to his books on the occult. As the small plane knifed through the midnight sky, he became absorbed in the prophesies of the second coming of Christ. It was linked with the coming of the Anti-Christ, the Unholy Child, the Beast, the Savage Messiah:
... and unto this earth comes the Savage Messiah, the offspring of Satan in human form, sired by the rape of a four-legged beast. As young Christ spread love and kindness, so the Anti-Christ will spread hatred and fear . .. receiving his commandments directly from Hell.
The plane touched down with a jolt. Jennings grabbed for his books as they fell in disarray around him. It was raining in Rome, the thunder rumbling ominously above them.
Moving quickly through the empty airport, they made it to a waiting cab; Jennings catnapped as they moved slowly through a downpour toward the other side of the city. Thorn sat in numbed silence as they passed the lighted statuary of the Via Veneto, remembering how he and Katherine, once young and full of hope, wandered hand in hand down these very streets. They were innocent and in love; he remembered the smell of her perfume and the sound of her laughter. They discovered Rome in the way that Columbus discovered America. They claimed it as their own. They made love in the afternoon here. Now, as Thorn gazed into the night, he wondered if they would make love ever again.
"Ospedale Generate," said the cabdriver as he came to an abrupt stop.
Jennings awoke and Thorn squinted out into the night, his face filled with confusion.
"This isn't it," Thorn said
"Si. Ospedale Generate."
"No, it was old. Brick. I remember."
"Is it the right address?" asked Jennings.
"Ospedale Generate," the driver repeated.
"E difierente," insisted Thorn.
"Ah," replied the driver. "Fuoco. Treanni piu o meno."
"What's he say?" asked Jennings.
"Fire," replied Thorn. ''Fuoco is fire."
u Si," added the driver. "Treanni."
"What about fire?" asked Jennings.
"Apparently the old hospital burned down. It's been rebuilt."
"Treanni piu or meno. Multo morte."
Thorn glanced at Jennings.
"Three years ago. Multo morte. Much death."
They paid the cabdriver and asked him to wait. He refused at first, but then, seeing the kind of money they shoved at him, he readily agreed. Thorn told him in broken Italian that they would like to keep him with them until they left Rome. The driver wanted to go call his wife, but promised to return.
Inside the hospital, they were immediately frustrated. As it was quite late, the people in charge would not be returning until morning. Jennings moved off on his own, seeking someone in authority while Thorn found an English-speaking nun who confirmed that the fire three years ago had reduced the building to ruins.
"Surely it didn't destroy e
verything," Thorn entreated. "There must be some records . . ."
"I was not here," she replied in broken English. "But they say it took everything."
"Is it possible that some of the papers were stored elsewhere?"
"I do not know."
Thorn grimaced with frustration as the nun shrugged, unable to offer more.
"Look," Thorn said. "This is very important to me. I adopted a child here, and I'm looking for some record of its birth."
"There were no adoptions here."
"There was one. It wasn't an actual adoption."
"You are mistaken. Our adoptions are done through the relief agency."
"Are there birth records? Do you keep records somewhere of the children born here?"
"Yes, of course."
"Maybe if I gave you a date "
"It's no use," interrupted Jennings.
Thorn turned to see him approaching, his expression set in despair.
"The fire started in the Hall of Records. In the basement. All the paperwork was there; it went up like a torch. Shot up the stairwells ... the third floor became an inferno."
"Third floor . . . ?"
"Nursery and maternity ward," nodded Jennings. "Nothing left but ashes."
Thorn sagged, leaning heavily against a wall.
"If you'll excuse me . . ." said the nun.
"Wait." begged Thorn. What about the staff? Surely some survived."
"Yes. Some."
"There was a tall man. A priest. A giant of a man."
"Was his name Spilletto?"
"Yes," replied Thorn excitedly. "Spilletto."
"He was chief of staff," replied the nun.
"Yes. He was in charge. Is he ..."
"He lived."
Thorn's heart surged with hope. "Is he here?"
"No."
"Where?"
"A monastery in Subiaco. Many of the survivors were taken there. Many died there. He might have died. But he lived through the fire. I remember they said it was a miracle he survived. He was on the third floor at the time of the fire."
"Subiaco?" asked Jennings.
The nun nodded. "The Monastery of San Benedetto."
Racing to the cab, they poured over Jennings' maps. Subiaco was on the southern border of Italy; to reach it they would have to drive through the night. The cab-driver complained, but they gave him more money, tracing the route in red pencil so he could follow it while they slept. But they were too keyed up to sleep; instead they turned to Jennings' books, studying them under the dim interior light as the small cab sped through the Italian countryside.
"I'll be damned . . ." whispered Jennings, as he gazed down into a Bible. "Here we go."
"What is it?"
"It's all right here in the Bible. In the bloody Book of Revelations. When the Jews return to Zion "
"That was it," interrupted Thorn excitedly. "The poem. When the Jews return to Zion. Then something about a comet..."
"That's here too," said Jennings, pointing to another book. "A shower of stars, and the rise of the Holy Roman Empire. These are supposed to be the events that signal the birth of the Anti-Christ. The Devil's own child."
As the cab pressed onward, they continued to read, Thorn pulling from his briefcase the interpretive text he'd once used to prepare a speech in which he quoted from the Bible. It provided the clarity they needed to make sense of the symbols in the scriptures.
"So the Jews have returned to Zion," concluded Jennings as morning neared, "and there has been a comet. And as for the rise of the Holy Roman Empire, scholars think that could well be interpreted as the formation of the Common Market."
"Bit of a stretch . . ." Thorn pondered.
"Then how 'bout this?" asked Jennings, opening one of his books. "Revelations says: 'He will come forth from the Eternal Sea.' "
"That's the poem again. Tassone's poem." Thorn squinted trying to recall. "From the Eternal Sea He rises ... with armies on either shore. That's how it began."
"He was quoting Revelations all the way. The poem was taken from the Book of Revelations."
"From the Eternal Sea He rises .. ." Thorn fought to remember more.
"Here's the point, Thorn," said Jennings, pointing to his book. "It says that the Caucus of International Theological Sciences has interpreted the 'Eternal Sea' to mean the world of politics. The Sea that constantly rages with the turmoil and revolution."
Jennings gazed hard into Thorn's eyes.
"The Devil's child will rise from the world of politics," he declared.
Thorn did not respond, his eyes turning toward the slowly brightening landscape.
The Monastery of San Benedetto was in a state of semidecay, but the massive fortress made of stone retained its strength and dignity even as the elements began to reclaim it. It had stood on its mountain in the southern Italian countryside for centuries and had withstood many sieges. At the outset of World War II, all the monks within were shot by invading German forces who used it as their headquarters. In 1946 it was mortared by the Italians themselves, as retribution for the evil work that had gone on within.
Yet for all of the earthly onslaughts upon it, San Benedetto was a holy place; stark and gothic upon its hill, the sound of religious prayer had echoed off its walls throughout the centuries, rising upward from the very vaults of history.
As the small mud-splattered cab pulled up the road along its half-mile frontage the occupants within were asleep; the cabdriver had to reach back and jostle them into wakefulness.
"Signorir*
As Thorn stirred, Jennings lowered his window and breathed the morning air, gazing across the fresh and dampened landscape.
"San Benedetto," mumbled the weary driver.
Thorn rubbed his eyes, focusing on the starkly silhouetted monastery framed against an angry reddish morning sky.
"Just look at that..." whispered Jennings with awe.
"Can't we get any closer?" asked Thorn.
The driver shook his head.
"Apparently not," concluded Jennings.
Instructing the driver to pull over and get some sleep, they headed out on foot, and were soon waist-high in tall grass that soaked their pant-legs to the thigh. The going was rough and they were not dressed for it; their clothes bound them as they struggled across the field. Breathing hard in the overwhelming silence, Jennings paused and unsnapped his camera case, shooting off a half roll of pictures.
"Incredible," he whispered. "In-fucking-credible."
Thorn glanced back impatiently and Jennings hurried to catch up; together they walked forward, listening to their breath in the stillness, and to the distant sound of chanting that came, like a constant moan, from within.
"There's a lot of sadness here," said Jennings as they reached the entranceway. "Just listen to it. Listen to the pain."
It was awesome; the monotonous chant seemed to emanate from the very walls of the stone corridors and archways, as they walked slowly inside, gazing around in the emptiness, attempting to trace the source of the prayer.
"This way, I think," Jennings said, pointing down a long corridor. "Look at the mud."
Ahead of them, the floor was marked with a path of brown discoloration. The movement of feet over the centuries had actually worn down the rock, creating a spillway where water flowed during times of heavy rains. It led toward a huge stone rotunda, sealed off by heavy wooden doors. As they slowly approached, the chant grew closer. Opening the doors, they gazed with awe at the sight before them. It was as though they had entered the Middle Ages, and the presence of God, of spiritual holiness, could be felt as thought it were a physical, living thing. It was a huge and ancient room; stone steps led to a spacious altar on which stood a massive wooden cross, the figure of Christ upon it, chiseled from stone. The rotunda itself was made of stone blocks laced with vines that joined at the center of a domed ceiling which opened at the top to the sky. At that hour, a shaft of light streamed down through it, illuminating the figure of Christ.
"This is what it's all about, man," whispered Jennings. "This is a place of worship."
Thorn nodded and his eyes scanned the chamber, coming to rest on a group of hooded monks, kneeling amid the benches as they prayed. The chant was emotional and unnerving; rising and falling, it seemed to renew itself each time it began to fade. Jennings unsnapped his light meter, trying to get a reading in the dimness of the chamber.
"Put that away," Thorn whispered.
"Should 've brought my flash."
"I said put it away."
Jennings glared at Thorn, but obeyed. Thorn was deeply upset, his knees trembling as though insisting he kneel and pray.
"Are you all right?" Jennings whispered.
"... I'm Catholic," Thorn replied in a quiet voice.
And then his face froze, his eyes riveted on something in the darkness. Jennings followed his gaze, and he saw it too. It was a wheelchair. And in it was the hulking figure of a man. Unlike the others, who were on their knees with heads bowed, the one in the wheelchair sat stiffly upright, his head tilted and arms bent as though paralyzed.
"Is that him?" whispered Jennings.
Thorn nodded; his eyes were wide with apprehension. They moved closer until they could see better; Jennings winced as the priest's features came into view. Half of his face was literally melted; the eye was opaque and stared blindly upward. The right hand was also grotesquely deformed, protruding from a sackcloth sleeve like a smooth, glistening stump.
"We don't know if he can see or hear," said the monk who stood over Spilletto in the monastery courtyard. "Since the fire he's not made a sound."
They were in what was once a garden, now fallen to decay and littered with broken statuary. The monk speaking had pushed Spilletto's wheelchair from the rotunda at the end of the services, and the two men had followed him, approaching only when they were out of earshot of the rest.
"He is fed and cared for by the brothers," the monk continued, "and we pray for his recovery when his penance is complete."
"Penance?" asked Thorn.
The monk nodded.
" 'Woe to the Shepherd who abandons his sheep.
May his right arm wither and his right eye lose its sight.' "
"He's fallen from grace?" asked Thorn.
"Yes."
"May I ask why?"
"For abandoning Christ."