Dagger of Heaven

By

John D. Garrison

Book One of The Jesus Catechism

Published by John D. Garrison

Copyright  July 2012  by John D. Garrison

All Rights Reserved

Cover Dagger Photo by FotoSearch

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, incidents, and events are fictitious and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, locales, organizations, legal entities, or events is entirely coincidental.

This book and parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION, Copyright 1973,1978,1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

The “NIV” and “New International Version” trademarks are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by International Bible Society. Use of either trademark requires the permission of International bible Society.

ISBN: 978-0-9857199-1-3

DEDICATION

I would like to dedicate this novel to my wife, Janice, for her unswerving support and encouragement. Without her, this novel would not have been possible.

Other Books by John D. Garrison

The Jesus Catechism Series

Dagger of Heaven

On Sanctified Ground

Redeemed of Heaven (Forthcoming)

Matthew 24 – 26: Then Jesus said to his disciples, “If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.  For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will find it.  What good will it be for a man if he gains the whole world, yet forfeits his soul?  Or what can a man give in exchange for his soul?

Chapter 1

The dark bedroom had a malevolent feel to it. A solitary man slept on a wide bed, his breathing deep and troubled. The mantel clock in the living room began to chime, counting out the strokes of midnight. The man moaned slightly in his sleep.  His closed eyes showed rapid eye movement under the eyelids, indicative of deep dreams.

John Arrowsmith stood in the living room of an unfamiliar dilapidated, broken down house. It was night, and a high wind was whipping through an open front door torn from its upper hinges and standing at an odd angle. The windows were all broken out, glass shards hanging loosely in the panes. Part of one wall was missing, showing a dark sky with a pale full moon hanging over bare limbed trees. A lone candle flickered on the mantel behind him.

His current reality was this place. He had no awareness of any other place or any other life or even how he had come to be in this dwelling.

John looked down at his right hand and found that he gripped a bright glowing dagger with the word “Jesus” written in large red letters across the blade. He had no idea where the dagger had come from, but he found holding the dagger somehow comforting.

He felt the presence of others in the room. He glanced to his right. They stood in the darkness, shadowy malicious indistinct shapes. He could feel the evil radiating from them, generating fear in his soul. When they spoke, their voices were whispery and angry.

“We can’t stay here anymore,” they said in unison as they moved through the open door and out into the night.

John followed them out onto a broken front porch, seeing rotted porch timbers and gaping holes in the porch floor, almost stepping through a missing wooden slat. He saw no one. The shadowy figures had simply vanished. He saw the same pale moon to his left, filling the night sky.

John stepped down onto a dirt yard devoid of grass or any vegetation. There were no signs of life anywhere. A short, white fence surrounded the front yard with missing boards and no gate.

A loud roar suddenly came from his right. His eyes immediately darted to the source of that terrifying sound. Only a few yards away, stood an impossibly huge male lion with a full mane of hair—all black. His red eyes gleamed with an evil feral intent, and his teeth were bright white and sharply pointed. John’s heart beat faster. He felt the danger and knew that if he didn’t act quickly, something horrible would happen to him. The lion slowly advanced toward him.

John suddenly shouted, “Be gone, Satan. In the name of Jesus, be gone.” The words were strange on his lips as if they had come from someone else.

The lion stopped in mid-step and roared again but did not advance. John felt an immensely strong urge to run away, but his feet would not move. Something inside of him refused to yield to this beast.

Again he commanded, “Be gone in the name of Jesus. You have no power over me.”

Words from Biblical verses began to swiftly flash through his mind, all dealing with confronting evil and rebuking it. He uttered them in a quick, rapid fire burst.

The lion roared again, even louder than before and again advanced toward him. John remembered the dagger in his right hand, glowing even brighter than before. He raised the dagger above his head with the intent of plunging the blade deep into the lion. He could see sudden fear in the red eyes of the lion as the beast slowly backed away. John charged the malevolent creature, the blade of his dagger swinging down toward the head of the huge lion—and woke up.

John Arrowsmith was drenched in sweat as he rolled over and rose to a sitting position on the side of the bed, breathing heavily. His mind was still focused on the sharp images of that nightmare. He was trembling and knew that this was no ordinary nightmare, but a battle of a spiritual nature. His pastor had said to expect troubling dreams after his spiritual baptism. His spiritual house had been upset and his life was changing. The integrity of his soul was being challenged.

He took another deep breath and stood up. He pulled on a pair of pants, grabbed a beer from the refrigerator in the kitchen, and headed for the back patio. He felt trapped, enclosed. He needed to see the stars and moon overhead, feel the rush of wind over his bare skin, and feel the real world around him. Most of all, he needed to vanquish the remnants of fear that still rushed through him from the nightmare—a nightmare that seemed all too real.

Once outside, John walked around on the concrete patio, taking deep sips of beer. He was still nervous, upset, fear continuing to pound through his body. He knew what it meant now to face genuine evil, and it had scared him badly.

He stopped, staring up at a silver full moon just like the one in his dream. He shuddered slightly. What was happening to him? First had come the healings, now this. His life was changing too fast, leaving him confused and unsure.

John thought his healing ability was the extent of his transformation last week, but he was wrong. There was more. There was an awareness of the spiritual world around him. It was like waking up from a long sleep. He was seeing things, feeling things, that he had never been aware of before.

John took another sip of beer and rubbed his aching temple. Pastor Phillips said his soul would have to do battle with evil and that the Holy Spirit within him would make him aware of the true world in which all human beings lived. That soul awakening would break spiritual chains. He hadn’t really understood—then. Now...

That broken down house in his dream—was that a spiritual picture of his soul? If that was true, he didn’t like it much. And the menacing figures leaving, who were they? Evil influences on his life? And the black lion—was that Satan? He shivered again.

He remembered the dagger from his dream. Was that a symbol too?  If so, what was its significance? He didn’t possess anything that remotely resembled that dagger. John shook his head. There was so much he didn’t understand.

His mind drifted back to that past conversation with his pastor. He had been questioning him about heaven, hell, God, and Satan. His pastor had smiled sympathetically as he spoke.

“John, you had best get use to the idea of Satan. Because he is very real and out there, opposing everything God does. And now, you are one of the obstacles in his path.”

John remembered shaking his head, confused, disbelieving. His world was crumbling and being rebuilt, all at the same time. He could easily believe in God and heaven, but Satan and hell? Were such things possible?

John could still feel the malevolent evil stare of the black lion in his dream. What did it all mean? He was just an ex-cop trying to find a job and get on with his life. Suddenly, he was being thrust into religious things that he didn’t want nor understand. Ever since he passed out during a prayer service last week, his life had been scrambled. He was a Christian, and he knew that a Christian should be willing to serve God, yet he resisted, hoping God would let him alone. He wanted none of this new transformation.

John glanced up at the full moon again. Where do I go from here, he asked himself?

Chapter 2

Isaac Stein studied the short, thin museum director that sat opposite him, behind a rather large ornate desk. He wondered if the director fully appreciated this moment. The orderly world the director lived in was about to be turned upside down. Isaac smiled slightly to himself. This was the beginning. It had been a long time coming.

Isaac Stein was a sharp, intelligent man of sixty-five years of age. His waist was expanding rather too quickly for his taste and his receding hairline was symptomatic for men of his family which he had reluctantly come to terms with over the last few years. A few small wrinkles gathered at the corner of his eyes as he smiled at the director.

“It is nice to see you again, Director. We came as quickly as possible after receiving your call. I assume you are finished with your examination.”

“We finished the examination yesterday.” The director of the museum, one of London’s best, shook his head in awe. “I still can not believe you have given this museum such a remarkable religious relic. The Bartholomew scroll is an immense historical and religious find, giving us a glimpse of how people lived two thousand years ago.”

“Such a historical document belongs to the world, wouldn’t you agree?” Isaac Stein said, his brown eyes glancing at his petite daughter, Rebecca, who sat beside him on an antique gilded Louis XVI salon sofa from the late nineteenth century. The director’s office was filled with similar furniture and mementos of history. Isaac found the display of historical antiques quite impressive and was one of the reasons he had decided to donate the Bartholomew letter to this particular British museum--that, and a large public relations department. He wanted the Bartholomew letter to be trumpeted to the world.

“Quite right. Let me thank you again for placing your trust in us,” the director said.

“I felt you would do your utmost to care for such a precious relic. I also thought you would ensure wide spread publicity about the Bartholomew scroll. I want the public to know about the scroll and have easy access to view it.”

“We will do our best in that regard.  After a month of careful examination and scientific testing, the museum is prepared to announce that the Bartholomew letter is authentic.” The director paused for a moment, then noting the frown on Isaac Stein’s face, hurriedly added, “Not that there ever was any real doubt, but we do have to be careful. There are so many religious forgeries these days.”

“I understand,” Isaac replied, pushing his lightweight titanium glasses back up to rest comfortably on the bridge of his nose. “And I do appreciate the diligent work of your staff. Bartholomew, an ancestor of mine, wrote the letter to his son and is therefore precious to my family, but I thought it was time to share the letter with the world.”

“I appreciate your generosity, not only for donating this magnificent religious artifact to our museum, but for your help in establishing the authenticity of the scroll. Your family’s historical records were superbly detailed and form an unbroken line of descent from Bartholomew to you.”

“It was our duty to keep scrupulous records.” Isaac thought of the uncounted generations of the Stein family who had dedicated their lives to preserving the scroll.

“I find it rather remarkable that a family could maintain continuous possession of  such an  artifact for over two thousand years.”

“Our faith sustained us then, as now.”

The director nodded. “Yes, a truly remarkable achievement.”

“Some would say almost a miracle,” Rebecca Stein said quietly.

The director’s eyebrows raised slightly at the word “miracle”. “Yes, I suppose one could say that.”

“When is the public announcement?” Isaac Stein inquired.

“An hour from now. I’m sure the world will be as astounded at the news as I was and still am. I’m glad you could attend the unveiling, so to speak.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

The director leaned forward with a thin smile on his lips. “You are about to be very famous, Mr. Stein. I’m afraid the news media will descend on you like locust—one of the unfortunate side effects of fame. You could, of course, make the donation to the museum anonymously.”

“No, I want the world to know about me and my family. It is important,” Isaac said.

He knew that his privacy was about to disappear forever. He was prepared for that. Another sacrifice in a long line of sacrifices his family had willingly made throughout history, leading to this very moment. This was but the first step in his plans.

“There is one other thing,” the director glanced anxiously down at a sheet of paper lying on his desk. “I don’t read Aramaic, but my experts have written an English translation of Bartholomew’s letter for me. In the text of the document, Bartholomew mentions Jesus and some scrolls that Jesus gave him for safekeeping. Bartholomew refers to these scrolls as being precious.” The director nervously licked his lips. “Bartholomew seems to be referring to Jesus Christ, the Jesus of Biblical fame. Is that correct?  I know that the inference seems farfetched...”

Isaac waited patiently for the director’s voice to nervously trail off. He had known this was coming. The Bartholomew scroll proved the existence of Jesus Christ. That would come as a shock to those non-Christians who had considered Jesus a fictional creation. Obviously, the director was struggling with the demise of that now bankrupt concept.

“That is correct. The Biblical Jesus is the Jesus that Bartholomew is referring to.”

“But...but is that possible?”

The director was still fighting against that idea. Isaac smiled at the thought of the director wrestling with that revelation over the past month, and hoping against hope, that Isaac would give him another explanation. The director was very uncomfortable with the idea that Jesus Christ really did exist.

“What do your experts say?” Isaac had purposely turned the question back on the director, knowing that the director’s own experts were the best proof possible.

The director shook his head again, obviously frustrated, still clinging to the idea that somehow the Bartholomew scroll was being misinterpreted. “My experts tell me the Bartholomew letter is authentic and the personage referenced appears to be the Jesus Christ of Biblical fame. I...I thought there might be another explanation.”

“There is none. I believe my family’s documented history is proof of that. If you accept Bartholomew’s scroll as genuine, then you must accept that Jesus Christ is the person referred to in his scroll.”

“Quite so, but such a claim seems so fantastic.” The director looked away for a moment, summoning up his courage to ask another question. “My experts wanted me to ask you about these scrolls that Jesus gave Bartholomew. Do you have them as well?”

Isaac nodded.

“What exactly are they?  Bartholomew’s letter doesn’t shed any light on their content.”

“That will be revealed at a later time. At the moment, I would prefer the world to focus on the Bartholomew letter itself. I’m sure you understand.”

The director nodded and leaned back. “Of course,  perhaps we can discuss those scrolls later, at a more convenient time. The museum would be very interested in them.”

“Perhaps,” Isaac replied quietly. “Where are we to go for the public announcement?”

The director glanced hurriedly at his watch. “Yes, it is almost time. Please follow me.” The director pulled himself together, not without effort, recovering from the revelation about Jesus Christ and walked toward the door, gesturing to them with his right hand to follow him.

As Rebecca Stein rose from the sofa, she glanced at her father and whispered. “The director is having trouble accepting Jesus’ existence. I bet his entire little theological world is crashing down around him right now. If he only knew what was to come.” She gave her father a small knowing smile.

“Careful, Rebecca. We do not want to reveal everything just yet. Let this revelation about Bartholomew sink in with the world first. There are many like our director friend who will need time to accept the Bartholomew letter as genuine before we let the other shoe drop.”

“And many who will refuse to accept the fact that Jesus is real no matter what the evidence says. People often prefer their delusions to reality.”

Stein nodded in agreement. “Let us hope for their sake that there are few that fall into that category.”

Rebecca tossed her long black hair back and away from her face. She stood barely five feet tall despite the fact that she was in her late thirties. Her large dark eyes fixed on her father.

“I am more cynical than you, father. There will be many who refuse to believe and will cling fanatically to their delusions. I fear violence will follow their disbelief when the scrolls of Jesus are finally revealed.” She referred to the scrolls that Bartholomew received from Jesus, the same scrolls the director had inquired about.

“Perhaps, but we have no choice but to proceed. Our family vow leaves us no other option.”

“A great many people are going to hate us,” Rebecca said with a frown.

“But some, perhaps many, will come to eventually thank us. The world has been traveling down a road into darkness for a very long time. The Church has grown too accommodating and quiescent with the evils of this world. The scrolls of Jesus will end that accommodation and bring fresh revelations to the world, a new light of truth to banish the darkness.”

Isaac knew as he followed the director out of the office that this was only the beginning. The world was on a hard collision course with the reality of Jesus Christ.

Chapter 3

John Arrowsmith sat hunched over in a wooden church pew on the front row of Ocean Front Church in the city of Gulfview, a small city located on the Gulf of Mexico. He had sandy hair, piercing blue eyes, and a slight, curving football scar above his left eyebrow. His fortyish face had a long, narrow look to it that some might consider handsome.

Life had seldom gone well for John Arrowsmith, disappointments in sports, love, his career, and life in general had been prominent in his life. Now he was an ex-cop, forced to retire only three months ago, with no job prospects. He was a man at the bottom of his life, seeking a way up.

John wore a pair of faded blue jeans, a gray long-sleeved sweat shirt, and a pair of white sneakers this early spring morning. John ran his right hand along the smooth polished dark wood of the pew he sat in, glancing around the church. There were a few others like him this Friday morning sitting in the pews with hands folded in desperate prayer, men that had been without work too long. He knew some of them.

John sighed. The recession had been a job killer, affecting so many people. On top of that was his damaged job record which made it virtually impossible for him to obtain work.

That’s why he was here praying just like the others. Asking God for a miracle...a job, a way back to a normal life. He laughed bitterly and shook his head...even the economy was against him. This church was his only refuge from the harsh realities of his life.

He took a deep breath and exhaled, letting the tension flow away from him. He had always felt a certain peace and contentment in this church. There was an atmosphere of reverence and holiness. This was where God was worshiped and the world was put outside the doors for a while.

His eyes traveled to the front of the church and the raised platform. A long oak banister, less than three feet tall, stood a few feet in front of the raised platform and ran parallel to the platform—the prayer rail. The same prayer rail where he had collapsed last week. Since then his life had not been totally his own.

Above the prayer rail, on the raised platform, stood a dark wood pulpit about four feet tall with several rows of choir seats located behind it. At the very back of the platform was the baptismal pool and above the pool was a huge wooden cross rising twenty feet up into the air, almost touching the ceiling and securely attached to the back wall of the church.

It was a beautiful church with red carpeted aisles and white walls punctuated by tall narrow stain glass windows. He always felt safe here. There had been no more nightmares, no more black lions with red eyes. He was thankful for that.

A deep frown pulled at his eyebrows. Why had it taken a career ending event and being dropped to the bottom of the barrel of life for him to find God again? Why did it take getting kicked in the teeth to realize that God was real and his faith was his most important possession?

All those years on the police force when he hadn’t darken the door of a church, he had been so arrogant, so sure he had all the answers. He had never been so wrong. Things might have turned out differently for him if his faith had been stronger back then.

Of course, he had never completely lost faith; he just didn’t think God or the Church was all that important. Only in moments of extreme stress, when his life was on the line, did a prayer cross his lips. Afterwards, he immediately forgot that he prayed or how important those few seconds of prayer had been to him. Human beings are so damned stupid!

He shook his head slowly in frustration, rubbing his forehead and the headache that was gathering there. John  knew better now. He would have cashed in a long time ago if not for his renewed Christian faith and the pastor of this church, Michael Phillips. This church and its pastor had given him new hope, a new purpose in life, when his old life had come crashing down around him.

His eyes came back to rest on the prayer rail. Now he had a new problem; one he never expected and didn’t know what to do about. It was only last week at a Wednesday night service that he had rose from his pew at the end of the usual service and went forward to pray at the prayer rail as he always did, along with many others. Only this time, he didn’t finish, but, instead, passed out on the floor for almost a full ten minutes. That had never happened to him before.

When he finally came to, he could swear there was heavenly music and angels singing somewhere—soft and beautiful, but he was the only one that heard it. He had to admit his thoughts were all jumbled up for a while as he recovered. He couldn’t really be sure of anything—except he felt different somehow. He shook his head in frustration. He had tried to forget that episode ever happened, but he couldn’t. Strange new things began happening to him.

He shook his head in confusion and glanced back up at the large cross that hung above him. What did God want with him? He continued to sit there, knowing he had to leave, but not wanting to. He would have to face the harsh realities of his life at the church door, outside in a world that had not treated him kindly lately.

The young boy, no more than eight, coughed politely as he stood at John’s elbow, trying to gain his attention. John swung his head around and looked at the thin boy with the large blue eyes. John said in a curt voice, “What do you want?”

Without a word, the small boy turned and walked up the aisle a short distance from John and then walked back toward him until once more the small boy stood next to John. The small boy had a noticeable limp in his right leg as he walked. He stared at John with those big, innocent blue eyes and asked, “Can you fix me?”

John groaned inwardly, then glanced around the church until he found what he was looking for: a young woman sitting in a church pew three rows back and staring intently at him, lips thin and serious with that intense look of hope that had become so familiar to him as of late. Obviously she was the boy’s mother.

Ever since Sunday, when, on impulse, he had prayed for a little old lady with an arthritic hand curled up into a tight ball, people had been seeking him out. He remembered watching in astonishment as that lady’s healing took place. He had watched in fascination as a hand that had been curled up into a tight ball for twenty years and useless suddenly began straightening out right in front of his eyes, each finger uncurling and flexing, until the frail old woman was closing her hand and opening it in amazement. Then she had hugged him and began to shout and praise God, running up the red carpeted aisle waving her newly healed hand for all to see, leaving him dumbfounded and fumbling for an explanation.

He couldn’t quite bring himself to believe he had anything to do with her healing. Yet, right before the healing took place, there had been that momentary wonderful, glorious feeling of ecstasy and power that had flowed through him, then was suddenly gone, leaving him somehow sadly empty, knowing that something precious had left him.

Word had spread after that first healing. Dozens had come to him after that, all seeking healing. He had prayed with all of them, but healed no one, only reaffirming his belief that he wasn’t any kind of healer. The pain of disappointment on their faces was difficult to watch. Yet, he could not refuse to pray for them. Something inside of him would not let him.

Finally, looking into the innocent face of the young boy, he asked, “Do you believe that Jesus can heal you?”

The little boy nodded with a quick backward glance at his mother. John pulled him closer and began to pray with him, holding both of his small hands. As he fell deeper into his prayer, he sensed something wrong with the boy’s right leg, something about pinched leg muscles. He continued praying. Suddenly that same feeling of power and ecstasy he had felt before began to spread over John’s body, building ever more powerful, flowing toward the boy.

The boy was startled, opening his eyes in amazement. Looking down at his leg, he   stretched and moved the leg around. John held him close until the power within him once more faded away. Slowly, he dropped the boy’s hand.

“See if you can walk now.” But he already knew the boy was healed. “Suffer the little children...” popped into his mind.

The boy walked a couple of steps, then grinned at him. The limp had disappeared.

“I’m better now.”

Then the young boy ran straight back to his mother who hugged him tightly, tears streaming down her face. She looked at John and mouthed “Thank you”. John nodded in return.

He leaned back in the pew and shook his head. That made two people that had been  healed when he prayed for them. More than coincidence?  Then there was that rapturous feeling he felt each time a healing occurred. That was something he definitely could not deny.

He glanced back down the aisle as the mother and son exited the church. Now the rumors would spread with even more renewed vigor, and he would have more disappointments to endure, more people coming to him for healing, more people he wouldn’t be able to heal.

If he had a healing ability, why couldn’t he heal all the people that came to him?  In the Bible, Jesus and his disciples seemed to heal everyone that came to them. Why could he heal so few?

And that power that seemed to flow through him when he healed, what was that? The Holy Spirit?

He wished fervently that none of this had ever happened. He had enough problems in life without adding another one.

John glanced down at the newspaper he had picked up earlier. Giant headlines proclaimed that proof had been found that Jesus Christ existed. An ancient document, the Bartholomew letter, had been discovered that proved that Jesus had actually lived and was not a myth. He smiled. God was alive and well. He could have told them that.

He glanced once more up at the large cross and, for the tenth time, vaguely wondered if he would ever be able to get a handle on this healing thing.

Chapter 4

A month had passed since Isaac Stein had released the Bartholomew letter to the world. Last week he sent out letters of invitation to the religious experts of the world to come to an unveiling of the scrolls of Jesus mentioned in that same Bartholomew letter, scrolls that Jesus had personally written. This was the first time any reference had been made to who had actually written the scrolls mentioned in the Bartholomew letter.  The reaction had been predictable: first astonishment, followed by intense curiosity, and some fear.

Isaac paused as he stared down at his latest visitors: Cardinal Carboni, straight from the Vatican, and Pastor Lock who represented some pedestrian council of Protestant pastors. This visit had been well orchestrated to give the impression that the combined faith of the Protestant west was making a serious request. He knew many Protestant denominations had not been present at that council of Protestant ministers, nevertheless, they could not be ignored, anymore than he could ignore the Catholic Church. So he met with them, knowing it was a useless meeting.

Isaac strolled to the large glass picture window that stared out over his front lawn. A lawn filled with people: the curious, the angry,  reporters, and police. There were mixed signs of protest and support in the growing crowd. It had been this way ever since he had made his announcement about the Jesus scrolls. He let out a heavy sigh and turned back to his visitors, continuing his conversation with them.

“I understand your predicament, Cardinal Carboni, but I can not comply with your request. The Gospel of Jesus must be revealed at the conference being held in America. There the religious scholars and experts from all over the world can judge the authenticity of the document.”

“You keep referring to these scrolls as the Gospel of Jesus. Why?” Cardinal Carboni asked.

“The scrolls contain Jesus’ message of salvation to the world. Thus the scrolls are his gospel.”

“You still insist on this conference as a precondition to revealing the contents of these scrolls?”

“Yes.”

Cardinal Carboni shook his head, frowning. “You are talking about authenticating your scrolls. I am talking about saving Christendom. These scrolls are a dagger held at the throat of my Church.” The cardinal rose from his chair and walked toward Isaac, the hem of his scarlet robes rustling softly against the wood floor with every step.

Cardinal Carboni gestured toward the crowds gathered outside the large window held back behind a heavy yellow rope put up by the police: those who ardently supported this new Gospel of Jesus and those who just as ardently opposed it, and others still with, perhaps, darker agendas.

“This is only the beginning. You have stirred up a hornet’s nest and who knows where this so-called Gospel of Jesus will lead us. Faith is at stake here. Surely, letting the Church review the scrolls before releasing them to the world would be a prudent step.”

“Review is another word for censure. The truth must be revealed as Jesus intended, regardless of the cost. I realize that such truths often come at a heavy price, but I have no choice. Our family must keep the vow that was made by our ancestor to Jesus and that vow insists on releasing the scrolls of Jesus to the world directly.”

“Just how different are the scrolls from the Biblical Gospels?” Pastor Lock asked, nervously fingering his white clerical collar as he leaned forward.

Isaac sighed. That was the key question at the crux of this meeting. He had dreaded that question for there was no good answer.

“In some cases, very different, but in others, hardly any difference at all. It is a matter of viewpoint. The scrolls, taken as a whole, cast Jesus in a brand new light, and I believe that revelation will only make the Christian faith stronger.”

“After first shattering it,” Cardinal Carboni snapped as he retraced his steps to his chair, collapsing into the soft cushions with a dissatisfied grunt. “Religion is more than a church, more than just a matter of truth, it is also faith, comfort, and assurance. People want to feel comfortable in their faith, sure of it, rely on it to help them through the daily obstacles and tragedies that confront them. You talk of burning the church down around them and destroying that faith.”

“I talk of truth.”

“Regardless of the consequences?” the cardinal snapped.

“I admit that sometimes there is pain when truth is revealed.”

Pastor Lock shook his head and said, “Many will not be able to accept the ‘truth’ of your Jesus scrolls, seeking instead the familiarity of their own faith as it rests on the Biblical Gospels. But they will be angry at you for endangering their faith and creating doubt in their beliefs. They will also be angry at others who accept these scrolls as God’s truth. Divisions could occur in the Church and violence. You bring us turmoil, Mr. Stein. Can you not see that?”

“Jesus always brought divisions. The truth does that. The status quo religious leaders of his day could not accept him or his truth either. That’s why they crucified him.”

“And the Jews do not accept Jesus’ message to this day. Does that not tell you something?” Pastor Lock said.

“Gentlemen, we will never agree on this. I must release the Gospel of Jesus to the public. In this matter, as I have said, I have no choice. I would suggest you prepare your faithful to receive the truth of this gospel with an open mind and heart.”

“Do you believe in this Gospel of Jesus?” Cardinal Carboni asked, his eyes two laser points, intensely studying Isaac.

“This gospel is at the core of my faith.”

“Your faith is based on unverified scrolls. Scrolls that just as easily could be labeled false  as they could be labeled true. All your authentication conference will do is verify that the Gospel of Jesus is old enough to have been written at the time of Jesus—and that’s all. There are no handwriting samples of our Savior with which to compare the handwritten script of your scrolls. Without that, there is no definitive proof that the words contained in your scrolls were written by Jesus, our Savior. In fact, nothing has ever been found that was written by Jesus. Jesus never wrote anything. That fact alone will condemn your scrolls as fakes,” Cardinal Carboni said scornfully.

“There is Bartholomew,” Isaac said. “And Jesus did write in the dirt once, if you recall your Bible, proving he could write. The Biblical Gospels illustrates that point. If he could write, he could have penned these scrolls.”

“Thin, very thin, Mr. Stein.  And who was this Bartholomew that we should trust his words?  What do we know about him? A follower of someone who claimed to be Jesus, but was this Jesus our Savior?  Other men carried the name of Jesus in Bartholomew’s time. It was not a unique name. This man might have been anyone, and your Bartholomew might have mistakenly thought him to be our Savior,” the cardinal said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“There were the disciples that visited Jesus. Bartholomew saw them.”

“But did Bartholomew know the disciples, or did he just witness some men visiting his Jesus and assume they were the Biblical disciples. Again, you can offer no definitive proof that the Jesus that Bartholomew references is the real Jesus,” Cardinal Carboni said, frowning.  Obviously, Stein had no grasp of the perilous tragedy of this situation, the cardinal thought.

Isaac frowned, looking down for a moment. The cardinal was correct of course. There was no conclusive way to prove to the skeptics that these scrolls were written by Jesus. The skeptics would find ways to discount Bartholomew’s eyewitness accounts. Ultimately, acceptance would be a matter of faith. And the cardinal was right about something else. There would be divisions within Christendom. That could not be avoided. Still, the world must know the truth. Jesus demanded it.

“Cardinal Carboni, as in all things, these matters must be left in the hands of God. Many will accept these scrolls as coming from our Savior. Some will not. Such is the way of the world.”

“And the Bible? Do you put your belief in this Gospel of Jesus above the Bible?” Pastor Lock asked.

“I still hold the Bible in highest regard. To me, the Gospel of Jesus and the Bible aren’t mutually exclusive. They complement each other.”

“I see that no progress can be made here. At least we tried,” Cardinal Carboni said. “We will take our leave.”

“Of course,” Isaac said as he accompanied them to the door of his study. ”Albert will see you out.”

Cardinal Carboni stopped at the door for a moment and said, “A storm is coming to Christendom, and you are at the center of it. May God have mercy on your soul.” Then the cardinal turned and left with the pastor at his heels.

Isaac stared after them, his heart heavy. This was only the beginning of the disagreements and opposition to come—the storm the cardinal mentioned. He had only to look out his window to see the elements of that storm gathering. But he knew that he must be true to his vow, a vow every family member took on his sixteenth birthday, to protect the Jesus scrolls with his very life if necessary and at the appointed time, reveal the Jesus scrolls to the world. The truth must be told, no matter the cost.

Chapter 5

In a large stone chamber in an ancient English castle in northern Great Britain, hooded and black robed figures sat around a massive circular wooden table. It was an ancient organization that gathered there, known simply as the Order.

“Why have you called us together?  It’s too early. We weren’t scheduled to meet for another month.” The figure in the gold-trimmed, black hooded  robe said as he sat down at the circular polished mahogany table. His gaze swept around the table rapidly, coming to rest on another figure in a red-trimmed black robe.

The figure in the red-trimmed black robe frowned. “Cyrus, you are always irritable when your precious routine is interrupted. I would not have called us together if the business before us was not important.” The man’s voice held a sharp rebuking tone.

The man in the gold-trimmed black robe bowed his head slightly. “Forgive my inconsiderate outburst, Chairman. I am only concerned about our time tables. We have several important operations approaching their critical stages, and I must be there.” He glanced around the ornate carved table at the other robed figures. “Taking a long journey to sit in an ancient structure in old robes is wasted time that could be better spent. We could have held this meeting much closer to my center of operations.”

“Careful, Cyrus. We meet here out of respect for those that have gone before us and the traditions of our order.” The Chairman rose to his feet, anger in his eyes and tone. “Never disrespect our predecessors, Cyrus. Not if you want to continue to be an important part of this organization.”

Cyrus paled visibly. In his anger and urgency to finish a key operation, he had committed a political blunder. Everyone knew how the Chairman felt about tradition within the Order.

“I’m sorry, Chairman. I meant no offense.” Cyrus bowed his head as a symbol of submission. “I was overzealous in my devotion to the Order’s important tasks and spoke too hastily.”

The Chairman sat down. His anger slowly drained away from his eyes, leaving only a small frown on his lips.

“We all know of your devotion to the Order, Cyrus,” a feminine voice to the right of the Chairman spoke, her face shrouded in the shadows of her black hood as she stared at Cyrus. Cyrus swallowed hard.  “But respect for our ancient traditions is also important. They define who we are. I trust all of us will remember that.” The hooded face turned to scan the other hooded members of the Order seated around the table and noted with pleasure that they all nodded in agreement.

“We must also never forget our purpose,” the Chairman said. “We are the framers of a new world order, not the United Nations or the other pathetic liberal or fascist organizations that pander to the idea of a world order. We have paid for the privilege in blood and sweat for over a thousand years.”

“I’m sure Cyrus meant no offense,” another man spoke with an amused smile on his lips and dressed in a blue-edged robe.

“Daric, ever the peacemaker,” Sarine commented sarcastically, glancing at the robbed figure. Despite her comment, she never underestimated Daric. Others had to their fatal misfortune. Next to her, he was the oldest member of the Order and should have been the chairman, but he had refused, preferring to work in the background. She always kept a careful eye on Daric.

“We have important matters to discuss. These petty squabbles only delay us,” Daric said firmly, his deep bass voice sure and confident.

“Yes, let us proceed, by all means,” Sarine replied.

The Chairman nodded at Sarine, appreciative of her support. He would keep a careful eye on Cyrus from this point on. Cyrus had become increasingly belligerent and critical as of late, coming close to insolence at times, but not quite crossing the line. Cyrus was efficient and very competent, but respect for the Order had to come first, the Chairman mused. He would not be surprised if Cyrus had to eventually be replaced

“Alexander,” the Chairman turned to his left, “present your conclusions.”

Another figure rose, his large swirling black robe straining to conceal his rather large bulk. Alexander threw his hood back, revealing a large, round face and black hair, clipped short. He stared at each of the other four faces gathered around the table before he began, measuring their attentiveness.

“As you know,” Alexander began, “the Order strives for unity and reason in the world. For almost a thousand years the Order has struggled to bring a chaotic, often barbaric world into civilized harmony and prepare it for final unification under our guidance.”

“Yes, yes, we know all that,” Cyrus snapped.

Alexander glanced at Cyrus with a frown, then continued. “First order of business is the annual review of our action plans for the coming year. You will receive a packet containing that information when you leave this meeting. These detailed plans have been updated and completed. Please forward your comments to me by the end of this month.

“Our penetration of the academic institutions of the world continues to progress well, particularly among the industrialized western nations. Already the students of many universities and middle schools parrot a version of Marxist philosophy that we support without even knowing it. Many of the teachers and union members are firm Marxist, although they call themselves different names such as liberals or progressives. Our control of existing unions is almost complete. We are continuing to facilitate the formation of additional unions. The ideal of course is to unionize every business and social activity possible.”

“That could take an enormous amount of time,” Cyrus said.

“Remember our watchwords,” the Chairman said. “ ‘Time is on our side.’ Speed is not our goal, but success. Unions are worth the effort. The leadership is easier to convert to Marxism than the membership, but the membership will eventually go where the leadership leads.” The Chairman glanced at the council members to see if there was any disagreement. As usual, there was none.

“I wish we would stop referring to our social agenda as Marxist. It is far more elaborate and encompassing than that simplistic term indicates,” Daric commented with a slight frown.

“But the masses find simplicity easier to understand,” Alexander commented. “Our agenda has equal parts of capitalism, socialism, and authoritarianism. Pure socialism is doomed to failure. Communist Russia proved that. Pure socialism kills innovation, stifles individual growth, and national progress. It reduces everyone to the level of bare subsistence. Pure capitalism returns us to the savagery of the jungle and huge class divisions between the rich and poor where government has little control and rebellion often follows.

No, we need a careful blending of the two in a framework of a controlled society where every person may feel free, but is kept on a short leash and where the government gently urges them in the direction they need to go.”

“And enough diversions to keep them occupied so they do not realize they are being herded,” Cyrus snidely remarked. “As well as the elimination of any real press. News must be carefully controlled so that the masses do not realize what is really going on.”

“That is already well underway. Television, movies, sports, video games—all serve as excellent diversions,” Alexander said. “As for the so-called ‘free press’, it is rapidly being eliminated in favor of state influenced media. It is only a matter of time.”

“Remember dear friends that the majority of the people in such nations as America do not consider themselves socialist, but a free and conservative people. Socialism and communism are poison to them. We must be careful in the words we use to describe our movement,” Daric said quietly.

Alexander smiled slightly as he nodded toward Daric. “Point taken. We will dress our agenda up in pretty clothes that all will accept.”

“However, we have learned much over the years,” the Chairman said. “Communist Russia was our first national failed experiment, but it was useful to us. We learned some important lessons. We will continue to learn from such social experiments.” He glanced around the room. The other members nodded in agreement.

“Marx was always more of a theorist than a realist. The Order warned Lenin about that,” Daric commented.

“The European experiment is proceeding well, although there are flaws,” the Chairman continued. “We eventually will get the right mix and achieve success. Then we will pattern the rest of the world on that success.”

“People do not fit so neatly into cubbyholes. What works with one does not necessarily work with all. There are individuals who are independent and like their freedom. Such individuals are not easily controlled,” Sarine said.

“Fortunately there are few individuals that are brave enough to buck the system, once it is established. Those who do we will confine,” the Chairman said.

“Those we do not recruit for our elite circle where we will have freedom to act as we see fit and reap the rewards that belong to the elite. After all, there should be rewards for the smart and intelligent elite who rule. Don’t you agree, Sarine?” Cyrus said as he looked at Sarine.

“As long as it is not too obvious,” Sarine said.

“As long as the masses have food, a job to keep them busy, and entertainment like mind numbing electronic games and television to dull their minds and keep them complacent, little force will be required. Give them the illusion that all their needs and cares are met by the state and like the sheep they are, they will follow where we lead. History has proven that,” Cyrus said.

“You mean like the American and French revolutions? They sparked freedom and independence around the world,” Daric said quietly, his smile never fading.

“Daric, you are ever critical. Such revolutions were predicable. The feudal model was always flawed and doomed to eventual failure, but such a system had its uses. Our manipulation of events was somewhat constrained at the time,” Cyrus said.

“I believe there were several serious disagreements within the Order as to the direction our organization should go at the time.” Daric smiled cynically.

“We are all aware of the issues the Order faced at that time,” Sarine replied, annoyed at  Daric’s interruptions.

“Nevertheless, such archaic political and economic systems worked well for a very long time, but you are right. As humankind developed, a better system was required. People wanted more,” Alexander said.

“People always want more which is a weakness that can be exploited,” Cyrus said.

“The illusion of giving people more while robbing them of freedom and their own  wealth?” Daric laughed then, shaking his head. “Some will see through that illusion. You will not be able to fool them all.”

“Enough. Any serious dissenters will be disposed of quietly,” the Chairman said with rising anger. “We are playing for high stakes: the world. We will do whatever is necessary to succeed.”

“How is the progress of our penetrations into the various political parties?” Sarine asked.

“As always, a mixed bag, but there is progress, however slow,” Alexander said.

“We are not interested so much in speed as success. Our plans are long range, very long range. After all, we plan to rule the entire world, not directly, of course, but through our puppets,” the Chairman said, glancing at Daric.

Alexander spoke up, “As I said, our progress is slow, but encouraging. The political parties that we don’t take over outright, we will neutralize with internal struggles and misdirection.”

“Are we limiting the current wars?” Sarine asked. “Big wars disrupt our progress.”

Alexander nodded. “ For now. As you know, whenever there is national or even world turmoil and disruption, our plans are often delayed so we strive to prevent such disruptions, sometimes we are successful, sometimes we are not.” Alexander paused a moment. His eyes again sweeping around the table. “World War II is an example of a severe failure on our part and the results were devastating. Many of our networks were eliminated and much of our work was destroyed. Many of our Order were either killed outright or drafted into the various political movements. Hitler was never under our control, though we tried. German fascism was deadly to our goals, and Stalin had his own ideas about ruling Russia though we learned much from his flawed rule.”

“In short, we lost Europe,” Daric said.

“And much of Asia,” Cyrus chimed in.

“True. We suffered many setbacks. Much of our network was destroyed or seriously damaged. It has taken decades to rebuild it and the so-called Cold War did not help,” Alexander agreed. “And we have learned that strong leaders in a position of leadership do not serve our cause well. They are too hard to control.”

“And your point?” Cyrus interrupted sharply, impatient again.

“For the first time, we are making real progress toward our goals. More socialist governments have come into existence that are sympathetic to our goals and easily manipulated. We have placed many of our followers in important positions in the United Nations. We have reason to be hopeful of the future. Any major disruptions now would be catastrophic to our plans. We are so very close.” Alexander sighed in anticipation of his next remarks.

“What are you hinting at? Out with it?” Sarine snapped.

“We may be looking at another major disruption in the world,” Alexander said grimly.

“May?” the whispery, feminine voice of Sarine questioned, leaning forward in her chair, her face still hidden within the folds of her black hood.

Alexander bowed his head slightly toward Sarine.  “Yes, Sarine. There is an ancient religious document that was recently revealed to the world that could cause us some concern. How severe its impact will be is unknown at this time.”

“You are talking about the Bartholomew letter that has been in all the news media lately?” Sarine questioned, her voice level and sharp.

“Yes. The letter was recently displayed at a London museum.”

“You are concerned about some ancient relic someone dug up?  Ancient documents are often found and are of interest only to scholars,” Cyrus said, impatience rising in his voice until he saw the Chairman looking at him, obviously annoyed with his behavior. Cyrus was losing favor rapidly with the Chairman. As difficult as it was for Cyrus, he would have to tread lightly from this point on.

“Calm yourself, Cyrus,” the chairman spoke sharply. “Please continue, Alexander.”

“Normally, Cyrus would be correct. Although this is an enormous historic and religious find, in and of itself, the letter would not cause us much concern, although the letter does tend to establish that Jesus Christ actually did exist—if we are to believe this Bartholomew.”

“The Jesus Christ?” Sarine was suddenly intrigued, but skepticism was still evident in her voice. “You can’t be serious.”

“Indeed, I am. Scholars and religious experts are still arguing over the matter, but world opinion is gaining strength that Bartholomew did actually meet Jesus Christ.”

“Alright, so Jesus Christ existed. So what?” Daric said.

“As astounding as that revelation may be, what fellows may be even more important.”

“And why is that?” Sarine asked softly, steepling her fingers carefully in front of her as she studied Alexander.

“The ancient letter mentions scrolls being given to Bartholomew by Jesus.”

“What do you suspect may be in the scrolls?” Sarine asked softly.

A long silence followed. Then Alexander shrugged and reluctantly said, “Who can know at this point, but the scrolls could contain a message from Jesus, a new gospel. ”

“So? The Bible is full of Jesus sayings,” Cyrus said, amusement in his voice, trying to appear witty and recover from his earlier debacle. He failed miserably.

“Religion has always been a problem for us. We want people turning to the government for help, not God. People strong in their belief of God tend to believe in individual freedom which makes our task more difficult,” Alexander said, glancing at each of the council members as he spoke.

“I don’t think we really have to worry. We have largely driven Christianity out of the various governments and the educational systems and confined that ridiculous religion to their churches,” Daric replied, confidence evident in his tone.

“But if a new religious revival should occur...” Sarine said, glancing at Alexander.

“That is one of my major concerns, Sarine, and why I have brought this issue before the council. If these Jesus scrolls contain the seeds for a worldwide revival, we must consider the possibility of stopping them from ever reaching the public.”

“You think these scrolls are that much of a danger?” the Chairman said.

“I do,” Alexander replied.

“We need more information before we act. See if these scrolls are a real danger to us, Alexander, then report back to the council.” The Chairman scanned the faces of the council, his eyes finally coming to rest on Sarine. “Any further questions?”

Sarine shook her head, but she had a very bad feeling about these religious scrolls mentioned in the Bartholomew letter. How much damage could they really do?

Chapter 6

It was a late Saturday afternoon when John looked out over the church gardens through double French doors from the church study of Pastor Michael Phillips. Twilight was falling and the setting sun cast long shadows over the rose garden and its early spring blooms of bright pink, red, and yellow, but John’s thoughts weren’t on roses.

“So what do you think?” John asked softly without turning to face his pastor. He had just finished telling Pastor Phillips about the black lion in his recent nightmare.

Pastor Phillips was a short man with the stooped shoulders that came with age and a head of solid white hair, but his brown eyes were sharp and clear.

Phillips leaned back in his desk chair, his chin lightly resting on steepled fingers, and said, “Not as unusual a dream as you might think. Human beings seem more open to spiritual matters when sleeping. Spiritual communication through dreams goes back a long way. There are many instances of such dreams in the Bible. Joseph, for example, was warned in a dream to flee to Egypt with Mary’s infant son, Jesus.“  Michael paused a moment, then said, “In your dream, the black lion seems to represent Satan. The two shadowy figures appear to be evil spirits and the broken down house could represent your current spiritual condition. That how you see it?”

“And the dagger in my hand?”

The pastor smiled, “Perhaps a symbol of the word of God.  Jesus’ name was on the blade of the dagger. Jesus is not just a figure of redemption, you know. He was also sent by God in heaven to confront Satan and challenge evil wherever he found it. His disciples were told to cast out demons in his name. Christians today use their faith and the word of God to continue that battle, just as you did in your dream. The word is sharper than any sword or dagger where evil is concerned.”

John rubbed his temple, noticing a headache beginning to build. “All I know is that Black Lion with the red eyes scared me. Even after I awoke I still felt threatened. I felt that evil had touched me.” John’s skin crawled as he remembered his dream and the black lion.

“Facing evil directly can be terrifying. The Devil usually is more subtle, more appealing. He leads you down into the darkness a baby step at a time.”

“What do you mean?”

“John, the world sinks deeper into darkness everyday. Satan lures mankind with dark thrills and excitement. Nothing too frightening at first, of course. He doesn’t want to scare his victims away, only dull their senses to the danger. Our movies, television, and books—all are darker and more violent than in the past. Movies that would have horrified your grandfather’s generation don’t seem to bother us at all today.”

“We know more today, and we are more tolerate of other views. That’s all.”

“Ah, Satan’s favorite tactic: tolerance—the gradual acceptance of evil ways and ideas a step at a time all in the name of tolerance.”

“A bit cynical today, aren’t we?” John said.

“No, just telling the truth. People in today’s world, and Christians in particular, are barraged from every side by ideas and actions that attack God and the Christian faith. Christians are laughed at and ridiculed, all in the name of tolerance and arrogance of people who think they know more or understand more than they really do. Satan is very good at pumping up inflated egos. Hell is filled with such people.”

“I admit that life can be difficult for Christians at times.”

“That’s why you are so important, John. People need to see miracles and feel God in their midst. They need their hearts prepared to accept the words of salvation and new found faith. When you heal someone, people see that miracle and become more open to the message of salvation. New converts are drawn to God, and those Christians who have grown cold in their faith have their faith rekindled with renewed vigor. Your new abilities are a blessing to this world and Christians.”

“You are making a basic assumption that healing is the path that God wants me to travel. Suppose my healing ability is part of something else completely different. I haven’t healed very many people, heaven knows. Too few to really be considered a healer.”

“You really think that?”

“I don’t know what to think. I have prayed with a few people who were healed. I am not denying that, but I have prayed with so many more where no healing at all took place. How do you explain that?”

“I can’t explain except to say that God goes where he wills and we follow.”

“And the dream?”

“Dreams like that will stay with you all of your life. They are the truth your soul must face.”

“Oh, that’s just great,” John said, frowning.

He didn’t want to remember the dream. Then he thought of the two entities in his dream that he first encountered inside the house.

“What kind of evil spirits were in my dream?” John’s face was grim as he turned toward Michael.

“Spirits that exerted some kind of influence over specific areas of your life, I would guess. Your dream suggests their hold has now been broken. As to what those areas might be, you would know better than I.”

“I...I don’t believe in evil spirits, demons, and such. I don’t even know if I believe in Satan, but my dream raised doubts. I faced evil in that dream, but was the Devil behind it or something else?”

“But you believe in God?”

“Of course,” John snapped. “That’s different.”

“How? Does not the Bible mention Satan? Did Jesus not cast out demons?”

“Yes, but...I don’t know. That was then. We live in modern times now.”

“People tend to avoid unpleasant thoughts and ideas whenever possible. That’s human nature.” Michael shrugged. “Even though the Bible confirms the existence of Satan and demons, far too many Christians refuse to accept that they exist. It is too terrible to contemplate—just as hell is too terrible to believe.”

“I suppose there is some truth to what you say. I do have trouble believing Satan exists today, but after that dream....”

“You’ve run straight into supernatural reality. It is often a sobering experience to find that Satan and hell exist. Why do you think saving souls is so important. An unsaved soul is destined for hell and eternal separation from God. Nothing is more terrible than that.”

“You say that with such urgency in your voice,” John remarked, studying his pastor.

Michael sighed. “How can I make you understand? Like you, many have difficulty really believing in Satan or hell. To most, heaven is much easier to believe in. They believe everyone will go to heaven someday, no matter what their spiritual condition, whether Christian or not, because surely God wouldn’t send good people to a terrible place like hell. It is Satan’s biggest lie. Satan drags millions of souls down to hell every year with that lie.”

“Is that why you are so intense in your salvation messages to the congregation?” John said.

“If you really believed that hell existed, if you really believed that lost souls will be condemned to such a place, would you not do everything in your power to prevent such a terrible thing?”

“Doesn’t say much for me, does it?” John shook his head.

“Don’t feel too badly. You have pierced that veil of lies and see the truth now.”

A shiver ran up John’s back. “There are terrible forces at work in the world, aren’t there?”

“Absolutely,” Pastor Phillips said. “Thank God that he thought enough of us to send Jesus to save us.”

“My soul needs a lot of work right now if that dream is any indication,” John said.

“We are always surprised at the true wretchedness of our spiritual condition.”

“What exactly is the soul?” John suddenly asked.

“Your soul is a reflection of your true self. Your soul holds the good and the bad that represents the sum total of your life. The soul is who you really are—without the body, “  Michael said solemnly.

John walked over to a large black leather chair that faced the pastor and dropped into the soft leather seat.

“This is all new ground for me. I’ve always been a loner, Michael. I was an only child of two hard-working parents. I learned early to stand on my own two feet and not to rely on anyone, to figure out my own solutions. But this healing thing...this gift from God...and now these nightmares about scary creatures, well, I just feel sort of overwhelmed. ” John shook his head, frowning.

“I understand. Powerful events have been happening in your life very fast. It will take time to sort them out.”

John took a deep breath and let it out slowly, draining away some of the tension within him. These last three months he had been learning a lot about himself, little of it praiseworthy. Perhaps God had found something inside of him that could be molded to suit a better purpose. John didn’t know, but he knew that there was no going back, not if what Michael said was true.

“You have given me much to think about,” John said rising from his chair to leave.

“Study the Bible, John. It’s all there.”

John nodded.

As John reached the study door, Michael rose to his feet and asked, “How’s the job hunting?”

John shrugged. He found it painful discussing his failures to find work. “It’s tough out there. Without my police retirement, I would be living under a bridge right now.”

Michael’s face grew sad as he slowly shook his head. “These are difficult times with the recession and all. We have only our faith to sustain us. No one thought unemployment could rise this high. What is it now—twenty percent? My church is filled to overflowing at every service with desperate people looking for answers, some hope, something to keep them alive. Despair is everywhere and provides a fertile ground for the Devil to use to tempt men to sin, but  despite the wretchedness we may find around us let us not forget that Jesus is the answer. He is always the answer. With faith, mankind can resist despair and evil and overcome these harsh times.”

“You are right, but the Chicago and New York riots were pretty brutal. A lot of people died,” John said.

“Those have been the worst riots by far, but I fear more is to come. Desperate, hungry people often feel they have nothing to lose. People need hope. You could help with that, John.”

John frowned and said, “You expect too much, Michael. I don’t have a lot of hope myself.”

“You have God and your faith. That is the definition of hope. We must not let people lose that hope and descend into chaos like the Chicago riots.”

“I think people are beginning to feel they have nothing to lose.”

“There you are wrong, John. They have their souls to lose.”

John closed his mouth tight, refusing to utter the words he felt, to express his anger. He could identify with those people that were out of work and feeling despair.

The human side of him screamed at the wretched conditions the world was sinking into, but he also knew that his pastor was right. As a Christian, he had to be better than that and rise above anger and hate.

He also suspected that the two spirits in the dream that left were anger and hate, the poisons that he had carried around with him all these years after Rebecca rejected him. He should have forgiven her and moved on years ago. Perhaps now he could.

John also knew that his faith in God would have to see him through whatever confronted him, but it was damn hard.

Chapter 7

“Alonso, how good to see you again,” Cardinal Bernelle said, standing up behind a large ornate desk as a tall, thin man in a gray pinstripe suit entered his study. The cardinal gestured toward a chair in front of his desk, then set down again.

The sharp gray eyes of Cardinal Bernelle studied Alonso for a moment. His narrow angular face was stern and serious. His countenance made Alonso nervous as he moved to the chair the cardinal indicated with his left hand.

“Your Eminence,” Alonso said as he seated himself in a rose-colored, wing back chair across from the cardinal.

He removed his dark sunglasses out of respect for Cardinal Bernelle and brushed a hand through his gray streaked hair. His round face was cheerful, polite, and intelligent, typical of a Watcher, Cardinal Bernelle thought. They were always so careful and meticulous, even in their appearance.

“You realize, Alonzo, that you belong to an ancient secret organization whose primary goal is the protection of the Mother Church herself? When prayers fail, we act, and so it has been throughout the centuries. Even the Pope does not know of our existence.

“Even the Pope…” Alonso repeated in awe.

“And if he should find out what I am about to do, I am sure the consequences for me would be very grave indeed. But you see, Alonzo,” Cardinal Bernelle leaned over the desk toward the Watcher, “I am prepared to do anything, including sacrifice my career, even my life, for the good of the Church.”

“You must love the Church very much,” Alonzo replied, somewhat awed by the cardinal’s words.

“I do, and I want you to understand how serious I am about this undertaking. For centuries, the faithful have fought for the Church when prayers were not enough, by sword and fire, we resisted those that would destroy the Church. That effort has never been easy nor without controversy. Now we find ourselves again under attack.”

“Attack?”

Cardinal Bernelle nodded and smiled slightly, changing the subject, and said, “Did you have a pleasant flight?”

“Yes, your Eminence. I always enjoy traveling to Rome. It is a wonderful place to visit.”

“Alonso, how long have you been a Watcher for us?” Cardinal Bernelle asked.

“Twenty years now. My last assignment was the Jarrod family.”

“You have an excellent record. You’re the kind of man I want on such an important and delicate matter as this.

“Normally, I do not become involved in the more mundane aspects of our Watcher society, but I have made an exception in this case. Benjamin and I had several long discussions about the Stein family.”

“I was sorry to hear of Benjamin’s death,” replied Alonso in a deep, bass voice.

“He was a devout servant of the Church and our secret society. He will be missed. His illness was rather sudden, but then he was advancing in years.”

“So I understand,” Alonso said.

“You have reviewed Benjamin’s records and observations before you assumed your post?”

“Yes, as well as all of the Watcher history on the Stein family. It was surprisingly comprehensive. Apparently, the Stein family has been under surveillance for some time.”

“Centuries in fact. There were always rumors circulating that this family had ancient scrolls concerning Christianity, but no one knew for sure. That and their outspoken opinions concerning Christianity made it important for the Church to observe them. Since nothing of importance ever happened, the family was left alone.”

“I see.”

“Their family has lived in the vicinity of Jerusalem for generations, reaching back to the time of the Roman occupation,“ Cardinal Bernelle said.

“Jerusalem is a wonderful city. Unfortunately, the Stein warehouse is located in a desolate place miles from anywhere. The closest village is not a place I would choose to live.”

“Your sacrifices are appreciated. We faithful few must continue to protect the Church no matter the personal cost.” Cardinal Bernelle leaned forward, intently studying Alonso’s face.

“I will always serve the Church faithfully,” Alonso replied nervously. He knew the cardinal was scrutinizing him carefully and that unsettled him. He wondered why.

Cardinal Bernelle sighed slightly as if in relief and nodded. “Sometimes, a few of us must take action that the Pope and Church may not fully understand or condone, but we do so for the love of the Church.”

Alonso squirmed slightly in his chair, frowning. What was Cardinal Bernelle saying? He knew the Watcher program was a secret mission of the Church. Only now was he beginning to suspect just how secret his duties were; not even the Pope knew about them.

“If I may inquire, why am I here?”

“I will not keep you from your duties long. But a crisis is brewing.” Cardinal Bernelle  paused a moment, gathering his thoughts, then said, “As you know, we occasionally discover people that might pose a potential threat to the Church and set Watchers, such as yourself, to observe these people for any signs of trouble. Most of the time nothing happens, but occasionally something does, and the Church must take action. Sometimes, very disagreeable action.” Cardinal Bernelle frowned, his eyes intent on Alonso.

“You think it is time for such action against the Stein family?” Alonso said, apprehension gathering in his eyes. He had been assigned to monitor the Stein family and had seen nothing to cause such an alarm so far.

“First, let me ask you a question. Have you observed any unusual activity at the Stein warehouse?”

“No, your Eminence.”

“Have you read the Bartholomew letter?”

“The entire world has read the Bartholomew letter,” Alonso replied, remembering the personal thrill he had felt as he read of Bartholomew’s meeting with Jesus.

“An exaggeration to be sure,” Cardinal Bernelle’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Still, I will grant you that many people have read or heard of Bartholomew’s letter. And what about the scrolls that Jesus gave to Bartholomew?”

“Only what I have read in the papers. I believe Isaac Stein said the scrolls were written by Jesus and called them the Gospel of Jesus, but nothing else was mentioned.”

“Stein is being deliberately evasive, waiting for the unveiling at his American conference.”

Alonso nodded, not sure where the conversation was headed.

“Where do you think the Jesus scrolls mentioned in the Bartholomew letter would logically be kept?”

“The warehouse compound would be my guess. The warehouse is heavily guarded, yet there seems to be no logical reason for it. No business seems to be conducted from the warehouse, and there is little traffic. Nothing that I have observed indicates a need for a secure facility, but obviously something of great value is being protected.”

“I happen to agree with your assessment,” Cardinal Bernelle said, nodding slightly. “Your observations confirm what little we do know. We knew that the Stein family held ancient documents, but nothing about their content except for a brief comment by an ancient priest who was said to have caught a glimpse of jars containing ancient scrolls. Now we know a little more and can suspect even worse. He calls the scrolls the Gospel of Jesus. His choice of words are not lost on me. This is not an idle collection of writings, but a message to the world about Jesus’ beliefs and visions, and consequently very dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“Very dangerous, because we do not know what is in them, and because this gospel, if authentic, would supersede the Biblical Gospels.” Cardinal Bernelle paused a moment, his stare intensifying as he focused on Alonso. “Isaac Stein claims the scrolls are a Gospel of Jesus written by the very hand of our Savior, but what kind of gospel, and how different is it from the Biblical Gospels? That is the question.” Cardinal Bernelle sighed deeply. “Whether the scrolls are genuine or not is another matter entirely.”

“You do not believe the scrolls are authentic?”

“No, people can be fooled, even so-called experts. The words of Jesus himself written on ancient scrolls is a tantalizing prospect and presents an overpowering temptation to succumb to the belief that the scrolls are genuine. That is the great danger.”

“What should we do?”

“Destroy them at our first opportunity.” Cardinal Bernelle’s face grew darker, anger lighting his eyes. “I believe those scrolls are sent straight from the Devil, Alonso, to destroy our faith.”

Alonso fell back in his chair, astonished at this sudden transformation in the cardinal’s manner. Carefully, treading as lightly as possible, Alonso said, “You think the Stein family is perpetuating a hoax?”

“The Stein family may not be aware the scrolls are a hoax. I believe someone pretending to be Jesus wrote those scrolls two thousand years ago and hoodwinked this naive Bartholomew into thinking that he was the real Jesus Christ. That Jesus could be the antithesis of our Jesus Christ. There is some ancient oral traditions that suggest this could be the case. Satan’s plans are long range, Alonso. God and the Devil have been battling for thousands of years for the souls of men.” Cardinal Bernelle paused a moment, then continued, “There were many false prophets in Jesus’ day. Probably more than a few who imitated Jesus, particularly after the crucifixion and his resurrection. I believe one of these fakes fooled Bartholomew. There is no telling what monstrous lies and falsehoods are contained in those scrolls. The Gospel of Jesus  could severely damage the Catholic Church.”

“How can you be sure the scrolls are fake?” Alonso said, his voice full of doubt for he wanted to believe the scrolls were real.

“I can’t prove my suspicions. Nothing is certain from that time. We still debate the authorship of the Biblical Gospels because we have nothing definitive to establish their authorship, only opinion.” Cardinal Bernelle’s eyes suddenly glowed with fanaticism. “One thing we do know—there is no record of anything ever written by Jesus which makes these scrolls highly suspect. I believe these scrolls are fakes and must be dealt with.”

Alonso shrank back from this frightening man of the Church and said nothing. What could he say? This man was a cardinal of the Church, his Church.

After a moment, Cardinal Bernelle smiled and the fanaticism left his face. “Forgive me, Alonso. Sometimes, my fervor for the Church overcomes me.”

“What do you want me to do?” Alonso said faintly, fear lacing his voice.

“You, personally? Very little. Continue with your duties as a Watcher. However, a man will be sent to you, and you will provide whatever information he requires.”

“What will this man do?”

“That is not your concern. The Church will, as always, do what it must.”

“I am not a thief, your Eminence,” he said firmly, though fear touched the edges of his voice.

Cardinal Bernelle’s smile thinned slightly in annoyance. “Of course not, but sometimes direct action is necessary for the benefit of all concerned. Please understand that.”

“And the Stein trip to America?”

“Yes, I have thought about this trip. I believe, based on your observations, that the scrolls are not traveling to America.”

“Then what...”

“A copy perhaps,” Cardinal Bernelle shrugged. “I think the scrolls are too old and frail to risk such a journey. And based on your own observations, no unusual activities have been noted around the Stein warehouse which would indicate such a journey.”

“That is true, but, even if only a copy of the Gospel of Jesus is traveling to America, the contents will be revealed. Isn’t that what you are concerned about?”

“The conference in America is obviously the first step in a long authentication process. It doesn’t matter what is revealed in America if the scrolls no longer exist. The scrolls are the key to everything. Without them, no authentication is possible and the copy sent to America is just a piece of fiction.”

“I...I see.”

“This is very important, Alonso. We must not fail—you must not fail.”

Alonso slowly nodded, only now fully realizing that the cardinal was talking about not only stealing the scrolls, but destroying them. He didn’t like the idea of stealing a holy relic, much less destroying such a relic. He thought these writings of Jesus could be genuine, regardless of what Cardinal Bernelle thought. To destroy them would be sacrilege. He felt a little sick at his stomach.

“Is there anything else, your Eminence?” Alonso asked, his eyes refusing to look at Cardinal Bernelle.

“No, Alonso. Return to your duties and talk to no one of what we have discussed. Someone will contact you.”

Alonso nodded as he stood up and hurriedly left. He was going to be ill.

Chapter 8

Howard Beale stood in the middle of the red clay tiled foyer of Isaac Stein’s house, anxiously holding his hat. His eyes nervously scanned the large foyer and the rooms beyond, stopping at the large, polished wooden spiral stairway on his right that led to the second floor.

He bit his lower lip slightly in frustration. He was worried, very worried. The pressure had been tremendous ever since Isaac Stein had announced his quaint little religious conference in America. Religious scholars and clerics from all over the world had been invited to view this Gospel of Jesus, a set of scrolls purported to be written by Jesus himself, as if that were possible.

Beale didn’t believe in this fairy tale of a family protecting scrolls written by Jesus two thousand years ago. It was too fantastic and was causing him a great deal of grief because there were those that did believe.

Beale glanced at his watch and sighed. He had been waiting for the better part of an hour and was getting very annoyed. You didn’t keep a senior American State Department official waiting, not if you were smart, he thought.

Beale turned toward the tall, ivory-inlaid twin front doors. He could hear another loud uproar outside. Voices raised suddenly in anger, others shouting just to be heard. Reporters, demonstrators, and police—they were all gathered around the outside of this house. A Jerusalem mob waiting for any excuse to explode. He had needed a police escort just to get through the dense crowd and reach the front door. Ridiculous—all of it, utterly ridiculous.

“Mr. Beale?”

Beale’s head came up at the mention of his name, and he forced himself to smile. “Yes?”

“Mr. Stein will see you now,” the tall butler said, keeping his face carefully neutral, resisting the urge to frown and show his obvious distaste for this annoying thin little man who seemed to think he was someone important.

The butler took Beale’s hat and placed it on a side table. Beale knew the way; he had been here before, too many times, but he waited for the butler nevertheless.

The butler, dressed in a black suit with a white shirt, led Beale to a dark wood-paneled door, knocked briefly, and then opened it, standing aside so that Beale could enter. Beale spotted Isaac Stein immediately, standing by a large window that overlooked the grounds in front of his house, intently staring at the large crowd that milled around the outside of his residence.

Isaac Stein turned toward the doorway where Beale stood. His eyes fastening on Beale with some distaste. He made no effort to hide his dislike for Beale.

Beale pretended to ignore the obvious disdain of Stein and said, “Mr. Stein, I appreciate you seeing me.”

Beale approached Stein with his hand out which Stein reluctantly took and shook, withdrawing his hand as quickly as possible to point at the large crowd outside.

“I am a man under siege, Mr. Beale. Someone threw a rock through one of my front windows this morning.” He shook his head sadly and gestured to an overstuffed armchair. Beale headed for it and sat down. “I apologize for keeping you waiting. I’ve been extremely busy as of late.”

“Quite alright,” Beale lied, although the apology did smooth some of his ruffled feathers. “It is a feeding frenzy outside. I found it somewhat difficult to struggle through them just to reach your front door.”

“Which brings me to my next question. Why are you here?” Isaac Stein’s brown eyes narrowed, making Beale feel a little uncomfortable. “I thought we covered everything on your last visit.”

“Things have grown worse at the embassy since my last visit. This whole Jesus business is quite disturbing, and you holding the conference in America, well, it has put the United States in a difficult position.”

“So you said the last time.”

“Things are always difficult at our embassy in Tel Aviv, but you have made it worse.”

“I’m sure the Israelis are doing their best to protect you. Imagine the difficulties you would face if the embassy was located in Jerusalem, which I believe is suppose to be the ultimate destination of your embassy in the future.”

“Our embassy to Israel will be moved to Jerusalem when Hell freezes over. We don’t need to stir up further trouble with the Moslems.”

“Yes, I suppose that would be a problem.”

“Which brings me to the purpose of my visit. If you could be persuaded to hold that conference somewhere else, anywhere else but America, the State Department would be most appreciative.”

“There are reasons I am holding the conference in America, some of which I am sure you are well aware of.”

Beale jumped to his feet, losing his temper. “Don’t you understand what is happening?  The entire Middle East is aflame with this news. Our embassy here in Israel is swamped daily with phone calls, and yes, even threats. Our Egyptian embassy has already had a bomb explode on its grounds. Moslems are upset that this religious work should be handled by infidels, as they put it. I warn you, Mr. Stein, if these Jesus scrolls are a hoax, there will be dire consequences in store for you.”

“Are you quite finished with your tirade, Mr. Beale?” Isaac Stein replied, an edge of steel in a calm voice that reminded Beale of the importance of the man he faced.

“Pardon me for my outburst, but you simply don’t understand the pressure I am under. The ambassador had to empty out the embassy twice yesterday because of bomb threats. We have had to increase security and everyone entering the embassy is searched. We expect a bomb to be detonated at the embassy at any time. You know how fanatical some of these Moslem groups are. It is nerve-racking.”  Beale took a handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed at the sweat that glistened on his forehead. “Why did you have to reveal that these ancient scrolls were the work of Jesus himself? Couldn’t that have waited until the conference?

“No, it could not. The nature of the conference demanded that the attendees understand the importance of their attendance. The authentication of this holy document is vital.”

“And dangerous,” Beale shouted. “Deadly dangerous.”

“I am well aware of your problems, but there is nothing I can do about them. The conference will be held in America. My son is leaving soon to attend.”

“And bringing this Gospel of Jesus to this conference in the United States?”

Stein nodded.

“If you don’t cooperate, Mr. Stein, I may be forced to revoke your son’s visa.”

The room grew very quiet as Mr. Stein walked over to Beale, staring straight down into the small man’s eyes. “Which son would that be?” Stein said quietly.

“Whichever one you are sending?”

“All my sons have visas. You plan to revoke them all?”

“If necessary,” Beale replied, clearly agitated, looking away from the painful stare of Isaac Stein.

“Shall I make that announcement now to the press outside?”

Beale’s eyes literally bulged out of their sockets. Stein almost laughed, but managed to keep a stern look on his face. Stein knew Beale was bluffing, but the bluff had to be called.

“God no!” he shouted. “That would be a diplomatic nightmare.”

“Then I suggest you let events proceed as they will. Anything else?”

Beale shook his head as the butler appeared again, rather a little too quickly, Beale thought. Beale stood up and walked to the door of the study, glancing back.

”Mark my words, Mr. Stein. There is going to be hell to pay over this.” The butler returned Beale’s hat and escorted him to the front door.

As Isaac watched Beale leave, he frowned and whispered, “On that we agree, Mr. Beale. There will be hell to pay.”

Chapter 9

Rebecca Stein stared out at a dreary, rainy Sunday morning. She could hear the rain falling against the glass of the sliding door that led to the hotel balcony. The steady drum of rain drops striking the glass was a comforting sound to her. She walked closer to the glass doors until she could see the individual rain drops racing down the outside of the glass. Occasionally, she saw a bright flash of lightning, followed by a loud boom of rolling thunder.

She caught a brief glance of her reflection in the dark glass, standing thin and small, barely five feet tall, dark eyes in an oval face with long black hair. I’m still beautiful even after all these years, she thought.

She frowned. Beautiful for whom? She had no one, would never have anyone. There had been only one man in her life, one man that had stolen her heart, and she had thrown him away.

Another jolt of thunder brought her out of her moment of self pity and made her think about tomorrow. If she had been superstitious, Rebecca would have thought this rain was a bad omen.

Her brother arrived tomorrow, carrying the Gospel of Jesus in book form, consolidated  from ten separate ancient scrolls. She was responsible for the single most important task anyone had ever undertaken in her family. A secret held for two thousand years was about to be revealed to the world.

Rebecca was the key to the success of that task. The gospel had to reach the authentication conference meeting three days from now, on Wednesday. For the first time, the Gospel of Jesus would be revealed to the world for good or ill. Pain would come with that revelation. Truth always brought pain, especially if that truth penetrated a shield of half-truths that had masqueraded as truths for centuries.

And undoubtedly, there would be those waiting to stop her, waiting to destroy the Gospel of Jesus if they could, to prevent the world from ever knowing the real truth about Jesus.

She hugged herself as John Arrowsmith entered her thoughts again. For some reason, she couldn’t keep from thinking about him. It had been a long time since she had seen him. Why had she ever left him? She had acted so foolishly. She was young then, dedicated to keeping her family’s secret, yet a way could have been found. She could have trusted John.

She shook her head grimly. This was a very familiar conversation, full of self-recriminations that she had repeated over the years with herself, trying to figure out what she could have done differently. If she had been more understanding, waited, tried to explain...anything but what she did—walk away without saying a word. Rebecca knew that such self-recriminations were useless and solved nothing, yet she couldn’t seem to help herself.

Rebecca took a deep breath and then let it out slowly, letting the tension slide away from her. Being in this town where she had attended college with John...that had dredged up all the old memories again and the associated pain that went with them.

She walked away from the glass door and sat down on the edge of her bed. She had to focus on tomorrow, on her task. Everything depended on her being in the background, unnoticed, hidden until she could deliver the gospel to the conference. None of her family had called her or contacted her in weeks, afraid that the calls might be traced. They were taking no chances. This was too important. Everything had been set in motion months ago. She would be contacted only if something went wrong.

Once more her thoughts turned to John. She knew that he was somewhere in the city. He lived here now. So much had been lost. It was too late for them now. She knew that too. She sighed, regrets piling up within her. It was pointless to think about him or what they had lost. She had to go on with her life.

Rebecca stretched out on the bed and glanced at her watch: Sunday morning, half-past seven. Monday morning, it would all begin.

Chapter 10

The Sunday morning church service had ended over an hour ago, and John Arrowsmith sat alone in the front pew, staring up at the large wooden cross that hung on the wall above the choir area. He had prayed at the end of the church service when the altar call had been given, but had received no answers to his questions, no revelations.

The pastor had wanted John to stand beside him at the front of the church at the close of the services and pray for people when the altar call was given, but John had refused. He wasn’t ready for that. He didn’t know if he would ever be ready. He was changing. He could feel it. But into what?

John shook his head and sighed. He was a man who, in the past, had always known who he was, but not anymore. He was no longer a cop. In fact, he wasn’t employed by anyone. He had been set adrift in life without moorings or compass.

“Still here I see,” Pastor Phillips said as he sat down beside John.

“No place to go, and no hurry to get there,” he said with a small frown as he glanced at his pastor.

“Feeling a little sorry for yourself are you?” Phillips said with a sympathetic smile.

“Maybe. People expect so much. Ever since that first healing...” John stopped for a moment, his hand gliding through his hair in frustration. “I have been thinking about this healing ability of mine, and I don’t think I have been called to some kind of healing ministry. I can heal people on occasion, but I don’t think that is my primary purpose. I fail too often at it.”

“Then what is your purpose?”

John shook his head, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “There’s the rub. I don’t know.”

“I’m sure, in time, God will reveal his plans for you.”

“Until then what do I do? People still expect me to heal them. They look at me with such hope, and when they aren’t healed, they are devastated. It’s hard to take.”

“Yes, it is. That’s why prayer and faith are so important to men like you and me. We have to endure not only success, but failure as well, sometimes too many failures, but we must not question, only have faith that God knows what he is doing. Remember, God does the healing, not you.”

John gave the pastor a half-smile and said, “You have been doing this a long time. You seem to understand it all so well, but to me this healing thing—its like magic, and I have never believed in magic. I have always believed in what I could see and touch, in science, in the physical world that surrounds me—not in some spiritual world that reaches into ours and performs acts that can’t be explained. ”

“They are called miracles,” Pastor Michael Phillips quietly replied with a small smile.

“I watched a woman’s balled up hand, made useless by arthritis, suddenly unfold before my very eyes and become useful again, normal, because we prayed together. There was no medical procedure done, no operation, no pills, nothing. It just happened.  I felt the power that was unleashed. I was there, and I still have trouble believing it happened.”

“I have been a pastor for almost forty years. I have seen wonderful things happen that I could never explain except to say God made it happen. As you walk this new spiritual path, you will begin to see more of the spiritual side of this world. You will learn that there are two worlds, the spiritual and the physical. It will happen slowly, a little at a time—if you want it to happen.”

“So you accept these miracles with no questions?”

Michael shrugged and said, “When I encountered my first miracle, I had many questions, but few answers. Since then, I have learned to accept God’s decisions in everything, and I have also learned to accept that I can’t explain his miracles or even tell you why they occurred. I have learned to walk in Jesus’ footsteps and accept the decisions of my Creator.  He is God after all.”

“I wish it was that easy for me to do.”

Michael nodded in sympathy. “It takes time, John. God has chosen you for some great purpose. Never doubt that.  I will never perform the healing miracles that you will perform. I don’t understand that either, but I accept it as you will have to learn to accept your new talents.”

It was too much to accept, John thought as he stared back up at the huge wooden cross that hung on the wall above the pulpit. God, miracles, good and evil—it was one thing to read about such things in the Bible, but quite another to actually live them. He would have to change so much of how he viewed the world.

“I thought about what you said at our last meeting, about Satan and hell. My nightmare encounter with evil made Satan very real to me, yet I still have difficulty with this Satan and evil angle. It seems so unfair.”

Michael nodded. “Does the Bible not speak of them?”

“I thought they were...you know...sort of allegories or something. That only God and heaven really existed. Somehow, it doesn’t seem fair to send good people to hell just because they don’t believe.”

Michael’s face grew solemn as he shook his head slowly from side to side. “Unfortunately, too many people think that. Christians worst of all. People look around at the comforts and safety that the world offers and think that a terrible place like hell could never exist. It wouldn’t be fair, but salvation has nothing to do with fairness. You are either saved or not. It is as simple and as terrible as that.”

“But to send someone to such a horrible place for all of eternity...” John shook his head.

“That’s one reason why it can be so difficult to convert an unbeliever—because hell is too terrible to contemplate.”

John heard the ring of truth in the words of his pastor. When he was a cop, there were too many situations where a family was destroyed by a crime. He would look into their dazed eyes and hear their distraught voices. The shock of it all wrapping around them as they tried desperately to understand. He knew that they couldn’t believe something so terrible could have happened to them, but it had. Every hour, every day, someone was a victim. It was a very old story to cops. Sometimes reality could be harsh.

John rose from the pew and said, “I guess I have a lot of thinking to do.”

He glanced once more up at the cross and then started to leave, but Michael stopped him.

“Why don’t you come with me? I have a shut-in to visit.”

“Why?”

“Let’s say to gain some perspective about the work of the church.”

Reluctantly, John agreed.

Chapter 11

Later, after a twenty minute ride, John got out of the pastor’s car in front of a small, three bedroom red brick house. He was still unsure of why he was there.

“You’ve never been a part of our church outreach program, have you?” Michael asked.

“I’m not a people person. I have difficulty relating to strangers,” John replied, feeling a little embarrassed. He had been asked several times by different people in the church to participate in various church programs and each time he had refused.

“The church has many programs. This particular one is for Christians who for a particular reason, usually illness, can’t attend church. We bring a little of church to them, praying with them and listening to their concerns. Letting them know that God and their church has not forgotten them.”

John nodded. “Sounds like a fine program.”

Michael frowned slightly as he stopped in front of the house front steps that led up to a narrow porch. “The woman in this house cares for an ill husband. Her name is Mary. She has been nursing her husband and unable to attend church the last few months so I visit her, pray with her, and offer encouragement. Her husband is a confirmed atheist who has made life very  difficult for Mary, and now he is dying. Mary loves him and has tried for years to lead him to Christ. Her efforts have all failed. When she does attend church, she is always alone. Her husband refuses to set foot in a church. Now he is close to death, and Mary is very concerned about him dying unsaved.”

John shrugged. “His choice.”

There was a sadness in Michael’s voice when he spoke again. “Lenard doesn’t really understand the enormous gravity of his choice. Non-believers rarely do.”

“So why am I here?”

“To observe how Satan works and the consequences of choice.”

“We are back to salvation, aren’t we? I understand about salvation and the importance of believing in Jesus and God,” John replied, irritation in his voice. This was a waste of time. There was no reason for him to be here.

“But do you understand the consequences of failing to believe?”

“You don’t become a Christian. You don’t go to heaven. Simple.”

“There are far deeper consequences, John.”

“I don’t understand,” John replied slowly, puzzled by the question.

“Before we leave today, I think that you will have a fuller understanding of our faith. I am here to comfort Mary and give Lenard another chance to be saved before his soul is damned for all of eternity.”

John shivered slightly at the intense sadness in Michael’s voice. He followed Michael to   the front door of the house, waiting as Michael knocked. There was a rustle of sound inside, and then a pale face peered out the side window. A moment longer and the door opened to reveal a short, plump woman with a round face and brown hair that was graying at the temples. Her eyes were sad and wet. Obviously, she had been crying. Michael followed the woman into the darkened living room with John at his heels.

“He still refuses to believe, Pastor Phillips. I have tried to share the word with him, but he only gets angry and shouts profanity at me. He won’t allow any praying near him. I don’t know what to do. I’m at my wits end.”

“Mary, your faith will sustain you. God will not abandon you.”

“But Lenard...”

“Lenard makes his own choices. There are his, not yours. When you have done all that you can do, then you must rest in the Lord and let events unfold as they will. My concern, at the moment, is you. Do not give Satan an entrance into your soul through feelings of guilt or sorrow about Lenard. What is happening is not your fault.”

Mary nodded grimly. “I’ve tried so hard to lead him to the Lord, but he is adamant in his refusal to believe in God or Christ, and he has grown worse since he has fallen ill.”

“What do the doctors say?” Michael asked gently.

“That he is dying. He could go at any moment. There is a nurse that comes by twice a day to give him pain medication, and there is a heart monitor mounted by his bed. He stopped trying to get out of bed a few days ago. He just lays there staring at the ceiling...waiting for death.” Mary started sobbing again. Michael put his arms around her and held her for a few minutes, not saying anything.

“Death is always hardest on the loved ones left behind. Have faith and seek comfort from the Lord.”

“I’m not worried about me, Pastor, but Lenard. He is dying unsaved. It hurts so much to think that he will be that way for all of eternity.”

“I know,” Michael said, releasing her from his hug and standing back, lifting her chin slightly with his right hand and looking into her weeping eyes. “You must find strength to face what is to come. Lean on the Lord, Mary. Seek your solace and strength from him.”

She nodded, wiping the tears from her face with a white linen handkerchief. She looked up into Michael’s eyes with desperate hope. It was obvious she still hoped for a miracle for her husband. That somehow, someway, Lenard would convert to Christianity before he died.

“Could you...see him?”

“Of course we will see him.” Michael turned toward John and said, “I have brought John Arrowsmith with me.”

Her eyes widened and she whispered, “The Healer?”

John frowned at her term of “Healer”.

“Mary, why don’t you lead us to Lenard,” Pastor Phillips said.

She nodded and left the living room, walking slowly down a long dark hallway to a large bedroom in the back of the house. Hesitating at the last moment, dread on her face, she opened the door.

“What do you want, woman? It’s not time to eat.” Lenard’s eyes narrowed as he saw the pastor. “I told you that I didn’t want to see any priests or pastors. You know my feelings on the matter.” There was anger simmering in the man’s eyes, fear and loathing all mixed together.

“Just for a moment, dear, for me. Please.”

Lenard glanced at his wife and sighed. “For you, if I must.” Then he shifted his glance toward Michael. “Be quick about it, pastor.” His eyes noted John for the first time. “And who are you?”

“John Arrowsmith.”

A faint arrogant smile broke Lenard’s lips. “Another charlatan claiming to heal folks when doctors can’t. It figures.”

“Regardless of your feelings in the matter, let me share Christ with you for a few moments. Your soul is in dire peril. Hell awaits you,” Michael said.

“Ha! Another fairy tale. There is no hell and no heaven. When we die, that’s the end of it. If there is a God, he doesn’t care about us. Why should he? He has done his job in giving us creation. Now it is up to us.”

John glanced at the heart and blood pressure monitor, noting the increased blips on the monitor indicating a faster heart rhythm. Anger was causing Lenard’s heart to race.

“You have a soul, Lenard. A soul that will leave your body at death, destined either for hell and Satan’s domain or for heaven and God’s domain. Believe me when I say that hell is not a destination any man should aspire to.” Michael stared hard into Lenard’s eyes, trying to convince him of his desperate situation.

“There you go again, trying to scare me into converting to Christianity. Your scare tactics don’t work on me. I...”

Lenard suddenly arched his back in a scream of pain and collapsed, his eyes open. The heart monitor flat-lined, the blips on the heart monitor fading away.

“Oh God, he is dead,” Mary screamed, her hand going to her mouth in obvious distress.

Michael rushed to Lenard’s side, checking his vitals, performing CPR. John grasped the man’s limp hand which suddenly strengthened for a moment surprising John as Lenard grasped his hand with renewed vigor.

Lenard’s eyes popped open with a look of horror and terror that John would never forget as he screamed. “Hell’s real. Hell’s real. Don’t let me go back. Oh the flames, the pain.” He pulled at John’s hands with the desperation of a drowning man, his eyes locked on John. “Save me, please save me. I didn’t know, I didn’t know.” John felt helpless to do anything for the man.

Lenard’s hand abruptly went limp and his head rolled to the side, blind eyes staring into the distance—dead. Michael continued CPR for a few minutes more, but with no results. Finally, Michael stopped, shook his head, and motioned for John to let go of Lenard’s hand. Mary rushed past Michael to Lenard’s dead body, crying, her hands going around his neck.

John was shaken by the experience. He would never forget the look of pure terror and desperation on the man’s face. Had he really seen Hell? Obviously, Lenard believed he had. Was it some kind of terrible death nightmare or the real thing?

John stopped in the living room with Michael who had his cell phone out. He spoke a few words, and then replaced the phone.

“I have called a few ladies from the church to come over and sit with Mary.”

“What happened in there? Did Lenard really go to hell?” John snapped, frustration and a touch of fear in his voice, unsure of how to interpret what had just happened.

“What do you think?” Michael replied, a stern look on his face.

“I...I don’t know. Hell is such an awful place. To believe that God could consign a soul to such torment...” John shook his head, confused and afraid.

“God is love—right? And love doesn’t do that.”

“Something like that, I guess,” John replied.

“But you forget that God is also righteousness and truth. We have jails where our criminals go when they break the law, sometimes for life. Do you think God could do any less with lawbreakers? There is no place in heaven for those that do not believe, John. That is the wonderful and awful truth of the matter. And God doesn’t choose who goes where. We do. That’s what free will is all about. Lenard sent himself to a spiritual jail, hell.”

“But why did Lenard resist the Word so hard?”

“Satan had Lenard’s ear. Told him there was nothing to worry about. He believed Satan instead of God. Satan’s religion can be quite tempting.”

“Satan’s religion?”

“That you can do whatever your heart desires, indulge yourself to the fullest without retribution, and when death comes there is no final judgment, no hell waiting.”

“Satan...”

“Satan and his minions are forever whispering in mankind’s ears, stirring their lust and desires, their arrogance and fantasies. Some refuse those whispers, others listen. Lenard listened and became so enthralled at the end that conversion to Christianity was impossible. His heart had become a stone that refused to yield to the Holy Spirit.”

“That’s awful.”

“Yes, it is. John, as wonderful as it is to heal a person’s infirmities, to ease an individual’s pain, that is not our supreme purpose. Saving souls, preventing more Lenards, that is our true purpose. All pain, all grief or illness or handicaps are temporary—the length of your earthly life at most. But damnation is for eternity. There is no reprieve.”

“So saving a man’s soul is more important than healing him. I can understand that,” John replied.

“Can you understand the urgency to save souls? As many as we can?” Michael said as he placed a sympathetic hand on John’s shoulder.

“Now...now I do.”

“Whatever path God has chosen for you, I believe healing is part of it, an important part. Don’t discount it. Your healing ability can lead many to Christ and deepen the faith of other Christians. You can not only heal the body, but the spirit, and save many souls...if you choose to serve the Lord. It is a wonderful opportunity and a great responsibility.”

“Did you know that Lenard might die today? Is that why I am here? To witness this terrible tragedy,”  John said, frowning.

“Only God knows when someone is scheduled to die. What I wanted you to see was how firmly someone can be held in Satan’s grasp. How terrible it is to be completely shut off from God.”

“And how important salvation is to a person?”

“Yes. You need to know these things. You have an awesome responsibility, John.”

That is what worries me, John thought.

Chapter 12

Father Paul West adjusted his white priest’s collar slightly to the left as he sat on a small boulder overlooking the Italian Garden inside Vatican City. He peered out over the green boxwoods and colorful flowers that stretched out before him. He was probably breaking several Vatican rules about priests sitting in this secluded garden, but today he didn’t care. He wanted to feel nature around him, to feel life.

The thin, slightly built priest with the intense blue eyes had a meeting with Cardinal Bernelle in a few hours that he did not relish. He was forty-two years of age and recognized as one of the finest paleographers in the world. He was proud of that achievement and the recognition that went with such a reputation. Discovering and authenticating ancient religious documents had always been a passion of his, and he was very good at it. Some might say he was at the height of his career, a career that could only expand and reach new heights.

Yes, he thought bitterly, some might say that unless they knew that he had only a few months to live. Lung cancer—he didn’t even smoke!  The shock of that pronouncement had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Paul knew as a priest that he should take the news better, but as a man he was devastated. There would be no more mysterious and wonderful discoveries of antiquities that he so relished, not for him. No more trips to Egypt, Greece, Syria, and Jerusalem—no, that was done. He had one last trip to make, one last grand, glorious adventure—the Gospel of Jesus that was being displayed at a conference in America. Everyone in his field that was anyone would be there for the unveiling.

He suddenly started coughing, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and placing it over his mouth. He continued to cough for a few minutes until the spasm slowly died away. He studied the blood stains on his handkerchief with a frown. He remembered the first time he had seen them, after a similar coughing spell in his office. He would never forget the fear that had surged through him as he had stared at the red stains lying so innocently in the white cotton folds of his handkerchief. He had sat in his chair a long time, staring down at the crimson smears in disbelief.

The next day he had went to a local doctor to check his health out, hoping it was nothing. The doctor frowned and took some x-rays, then frowned some more, eventually telling him, after several more tests, that he needed to see an oncologist and that he might have a problem. Such a mild way to tell a man he has cancer; still, he had hoped for a better diagnosis. But there was none.

The oncologist’s diagnosis had been bad, very bad. The disease was in the very late stages. He was too late. The only thing the doctor could do was proscribe some strong pain medicine to be used when the pain became more intense. He had a few months at most to live.

Paul remembered leaving the doctor’s office feeling numb, devastated, not knowing what to do next. He came home to the Vatican, to his basement office. He had talked to one of the Vatican physicians, a priest, like him, and was surprised to find there was a cancer support group located right in the Vatican consisting of priests like himself.

He attended the support group once and never went back. There was too much death in the room. He tried praying to mitigate his fears, but God and he weren’t on the best of terms lately. Nothing like staring directly into the face of death to put one’s life into stark perspective, he thought with a deep sigh.

Paul frowned, running his hand along the edge of the hard gray boulder he rested on. A small cluster of yellow flowers bloomed to his left. He felt a rain drop fall on his cheek and glanced up at a darkening sky. It was about to rain. The dark sky fit his mood, he thought. He rose to his feet, brushing himself off, and started walking.

Paul glanced at his watch. It was almost time for his meeting with Cardinal Bernelle. He wasn’t looking forward to that meeting.

Chapter 13

Isaac Stein stood reverently among the ten long, narrow stainless steel tables that filled most of the interior of the tungsten-steel vault room. On top of each table rested a priceless treasure—an ancient two-thousand year old scroll handwritten by Jesus Christ himself. These ten scrolls together made up the Gospel of Jesus, Jesus’ personal message to the world.

Isaac ran his right hand along the surface of the glass that rested on the first steel table. His fingers were only a few millimeters away from an ancient papyrus scroll that lay under the surface of the glass. The scroll was written in Aramaic, containing the thoughts and ideas of Jesus, and his view of the world and its people, and their relationship to God. This room and these ten scrolls were Isaac’s church.

He could hear the quiet hum of the air-conditioning system in the background as it kicked on, keeping the room temperature at a steady sixty degrees. The air was dry, maintained at a constant low humidity. Everything had been done that could be done to preserve these frail ancient scrolls.

When Bartholomew’s letter was revealed to the world last month, a frenzy of questions sprung up about the ancient scrolls given to Bartholomew. What were they? Who wrote them?

Though it made his life more difficult, he was pleased with the intense interest generated by the Bartholomew scroll. It was exactly the response he had hoped for when he released the Bartholomew scroll. He had been setting the stage for the release of the Jesus scrolls, getting people familiar with the idea of a real Jesus and his gospel.

For a while, the fame of the Bartholomew scroll was spread across the media and newspapers. Television reports were everywhere. Eventually, the excitement died down, but not the interest. Daily he received phone calls, letters, even visits encouraging him to reveal to the world the nature of the ancient Jesus scrolls mentioned in the scroll of Bartholomew.

Isaac successfully resisted all the demands. He knew this was the initial and very important first step that he had to take before revealing the Gospel of Jesus. The ground had to be carefully prepared for such a tremendous revelation. The Bartholomew letter was the proof of the existence of both Jesus and the scrolls. Now, he had to prove the authenticity of the Jesus scrolls themselves, a far more difficult task.

This gospel was different from any of the other Gospels of the Bible. Only this gospel was written by Jesus.  The words were clear and precise, a powerful testament to the work of Jesus. All the ambiguities and misunderstandings that lay in the Biblical Gospels were swept away in the light of Jesus’ personal revelations. The disciples had missed so much.

As Isaac’s ancestor, Bartholomew the Younger, one of Jesus’ later disciples, wrote in his many letters to his son, Jesus had foreseen in a vision the spread of his spiritual message of salvation to a world hungry for a relationship with their Creator.

Jesus also had another, a later vision and had come to believe that these scrolls he labored over at the end of his life would one day be needed, somewhere in the far future, when the world’s faith cooled. These scrolls were meant to restore and revitalize the faith of those future believers.

After the crucifixion and his resurrection, Jesus settled in a small village north of Jerusalem for a few months, reflecting over his life and working on these scrolls.

He occasionally preached in the local synagogue to people who were struggling to grasp this new message of salvation. The leader of the synagogue was already a devout disciple of Jesus and eagerly assisted him in the synagogue.

Occasionally, someone sought Jesus out to be healed. He never refused to share his healing gift. He also enjoyed walking among the people, and where he was, always a crowd gathered. He was Jesus, after all.

Jesus stayed only long enough to finish his work and give it into the hands of Bartholomew. Then he said good-bye to Bartholomew and left with some of his other disciples, not mentioning their destination. Bartholomew never saw Jesus again.

This was in a time before any of the Biblical Gospels had been written, before the New Testament of the Bible had even been conceived. This was the beginning. A group of devout disciples of Jesus were only now setting out to preach to a world that knew nothing of God. The New Testament would come later.

Jesus’ personal sacred task had been accomplished which was to bring God’s word to the Jews.  Now, it was up to his disciples to continue to spread his message to the non-Jews of the world.

Bartholomew painted a vivid picture of the Teacher in his letters—his patience and understanding, his love for his fellow man. Jesus also had a concern that his message would be overshadowed by his deeds, that his God would be diminished somehow by the miracles that he performed. He was a devout Jew, a Jew that fervently believed in only one God, but he taught that all men who believed in what he taught could become Sons of God and share in the divine as he had shared. It was a concept that even his disciples struggled with and found difficult to accept.

Isaac sighed deeply as he thought about Jesus and Bartholomew. There was so much the world did not know about Jesus. This Gospel of Jesus was about to correct that, at least part of it. Isaac knew this was the time for the gospel to be released to the world. In a dream as crystal clear as a mountain spring, Jesus had instructed him to release these scrolls to the world. The task the Stein family had been assigned two thousand years ago was finally at an end.

As Isaac glanced at the ancient scrolls laid out before him, he knew the world was not ready for the words of the Master. There would be grim consequences in what he was about to do just as there were consequences two thousand years ago when Jesus revealed the truth to a corrupt world, resulting in his own crucifixion. The truth always came at a price, particularly when that truth dealt with men’s souls and their web of lies and self-delusions.

Isaac had dedicated himself and his family to the preservation of the Savior’s words. He remembered when he broke the seals of the clay jars that held the writings of Jesus. For thousands of years, the clay jars had held the Savior’s writings, secure and safe. But modern times called for bold actions—and risk. The scrolls had to be removed and examined to see if they were still viable.

It was with trembling hands that Isaac had began that procedure, wondering if he would find only dust in the ancient jars after all this time. He hoped for the best, but feared the worst. To his amazement and joy, the scrolls were intact though very fragile.

With reverence and extreme care, Isaac had unrolled the scrolls, studying the finely written, almost delicate strokes that formed the words written on the ancient scrolls. Every word crafted with a clear and precise meaning. The hand that composed these Aramaic words wrote with purpose and vision. Those words had struck a deep cord within Isaac.

As he read each scroll, tears had gathered at the corners of his eyes, and by the time he had finished reading the last scroll, he was openly weeping. Nothing else had ever affected him so deeply.

That had been over twenty-five years ago, and so far, nothing had disturbed the family treasure. The storage facility was over a hundred miles from his home near Jerusalem, away from prying eyes and curious people. This secure compound lay at the end of a long, empty dirt road in a desolate area that provided maximum security.

As he stood looking at the gleaming steel tables, the magnitude of his task swept over him again. He had protected the scrolls because they belonged to Jesus, were a part of Jesus. Not until now, on the eve of their release to the world, did he fully comprehend the full impact of the sacred trust and awesome responsibility he had been given.

Isaac shook himself for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Then he walked back to his wooden desk and sat down, his hand resting lightly on the empty part of his desk where the leather bound copy of the Gospel of Jesus had once rested. Now that book was with his son, Simon, who would be leaving tomorrow morning for the airport and the American conference.

That book had been the first major project he had undertaken after the scrolls had arrived in the vault and been laid to rest on the steel tables. He had carefully photographed the scrolls and compiled the pages that would eventually become a book, an absolutely faithful copy of the  contents of the Gospel of Jesus.

Isaac wanted the world to know the words of Jesus, but the original scrolls were too frail and precious to travel on their own so a copy had been made, a copy that could travel a long distance to a great conference of all the major religious experts. That conference would at last begin the authentication process of the Gospel of Jesus. He knew the task would not be easy. There were those in the world that would like to see the Gospel of Jesus destroyed—a thought too terrible to consider, yet all too possible.

When he finally released the true nature of the contents of the scrolls, that the scrolls were written by Jesus about his ministry, views, and his life, the world was stunned. The media went wild talking about finding the lost scrolls of Jesus. He was also flooded with requests to attend the conference that his son, Simon, had set up in America at his old university.

He knew that eventually experts would have to be brought here to the vault to examine the scrolls themselves as a final step in the authentication process, but first there would be the conference in America. When the world held the words of Jesus in their hands, then Isaac would risk bringing strangers to the vault to see the scrolls, not before.

He moved slowly toward the vault entrance, always reluctant to leave. He stopped and frowned for a moment, looking back at the scrolls. Secrecy had been his greatest protection. Now the world knew he had the scrolls. Only this steel vault and guards protected the scrolls. He feared it would not be enough.

He shook his head and walked on. There was nothing else he could do. The course was set. The journey of two thousand years was about to be completed.

Chapter 14

Isaac watched the heavy steel vault door swing slowly shut behind him, driven by massive gears and machinery. Once shut, the alarm would be set. He had guards patrolling the perimeter of this compound with several more guards inside the surrounding steel and chain link fence. Isaac had increased the security since his public announcement, knowing there would be prying eyes searching for the Gospel of Jesus. Perhaps even an attempt would be made to steal the scrolls. He must be ready for anything that might happen.

He glanced up in response to the creaking sound of the metal roof as it expanded in the hot afternoon sun. He continued walking to the entrance of the steel building, stopping as he exited the large structure to glance around at the barren, dry badlands that surrounded his compound, his “sanctuary”, as he liked to call it. This was the safest place he had been able to find for the ancient scrolls. It was a desolate spot that no one ever visited, not even the Bedouin nomads.

“Mr. Stein?” Captain Barack, the head of Stein’s security team, appeared in front of Stein.

“Yes, Captain?”

“We picked up another one twenty miles from here. He was alone, just like the others.”

Isaac frowned. That was the third one this month. That was unusual activity for such a desolate area. Usually, they might find one stranger a year, if that. Alonso was becoming more curious about his compound.

“What did you learn from him?”

“Same as the others. Nothing. His name is Abdul Saleh, just a teenager really. I’m sure he had no criminal intentions in mind. He said a tall man with an English accent hired him to see what was along this road and to take pictures of anything he found. He paid the boy well. He had this camera with him.”  Captain Barack handed Isaac the small digital camera.

Isaac turned the camera over in his hands, examining the small metallic boxlike device. He found nothing unusual. He checked to see if any pictures had been taken. The memory storage unit of the camera was empty. That would make sense. There was nothing to photograph along the road that led here. The only structure on this dirt road was this compound which lay at the very end of the road. Nothing unusual from the outside, only when someone entered the building would questions be asked.

“It looks like no pictures were taken.”

“Alonso again?”

“Probably,” Stein replied. “The man is nothing if not persistent. Have you ever met him, Captain?”

“No,” Captain Barack replied.

“He is a charming man—intelligent, well dressed. I gather he works for the Vatican, although he has never admitted to that.”

“What do you want me to do about the intruder?”

“The same as before. Reprimand him for straying onto private property and then escort him back to town. I am sure Alonso will want to talk to him.”

Barack nodded, then added, “Why don’t you do something about this Alonso?”

Isaac smiled at the good captain, so direct. “Know your enemies, Captain. I know all about Alonso. I know what to expect from him. I might not know his replacement quite so well or at all.”

“I see.  A hold-your-enemies-close philosophy,” Captain Barack smiled in understanding.

Although Isaac had treated the matter casually, he was beginning to worry. The wolves  were out prowling around, he thought. Alonso had stepped up his spying efforts. Isaac wondered what else Alonso was doing, and who else might be out there waiting their chance. There were bound to be others besides Alonso, people he didn’t know about and that worried him most of all. As soon as he made the announcement about the religious conference in America, he knew there would be trouble. How much trouble was yet to be determined.

Once the copy of the Gospel of Jesus was in America, Isaac hoped all eyes and curiosity would turn there, away from his precious scrolls, relieving some of the pressure here, at least until they found out at the conference that only a copy of the Gospel of Jesus had been sent. Then the real storm would begin, and the demands to examine the original scrolls of the Gospel of Jesus would increase, which he would allow in time to a select few. But first, he wanted the world to read and study the words of that holy scripture.

He smiled to himself briefly. He had purposely not revealed that the Gospel of Jesus being transported to America was only a copy, a book of very normal looking paper. He wanted the enemies of the Gospel of Jesus looking for ancient and very frail, papyrus scrolls. That small deception might make all the difference between the success and failure of his son’s mission.

Isaac had planned his son’s trip with care, taking every precaution that he could think of, yet he still feared for his safety, but there was no one else to send. A member of his family had to transport the Gospel of Jesus, even a copy. It was their sacred duty.

He briefly thought of Rebecca, his daughter. It had been weeks since Isaac had heard from his lovely daughter whom he loved deeply. They had planned it that way from the beginning. She was the key to the success of Simon’s mission, but he worried about her, so far from home, so vulnerable. Isaac started walking toward the fence gate. “May God bless and keep you safe, my daughter,” he whispered.

Chapter 15

Five members of the Order sat quietly around a dark wood table, waiting for Alexander to confirm what they already knew.

“I have confirmed the stories we have all been reading about in the newspapers and seeing in the electronic news media. From the news cast and our intelligence sources, we can now confirm that the Jesus scrolls are the personal writings of Jesus, his thoughts and views. And furthermore, Stein is continuing to call for a conference in America to authenticate the scrolls, and many are taking his call seriously. A world conference will probably convene in America very soon.”  Immediate silence descended on the council as Alexander knew it would when the impact of what he said registered.

“People are calling this the second coming of Christ. Some even say these scrolls foretell the end of the world,” Sarine said glumly. “Of course, it is to be expected that rumors would be rampant. No one really knows what the scrolls say except the Stein family, and they are keeping quiet.”

“Did we suspect nothing?  Particularly after the Bartholomew letter was released?” Daric asked intently, an edge of anger in his voice.

“All we knew was what the Bartholomew letter said, that there were scrolls given to Bartholomew by Jesus. We didn’t know anything about their content. Only now, sadly, do we begin to suspect what the scrolls might contain,” Alexander said.

“Ha!  We still know next to nothing. Stein hasn’t actually confirmed anything, other than the scrolls were written by Jesus and may contain his religious views.  What are his views?” Cyrus said, glaring at Alexander.

“That is the question, isn’t it?  Just how different is this Gospel of Jesus from the Biblical Gospels?” the Chairman said thoughtfully, frowning.

“I think very different by the tone of Stein’s announcement,” Alexander said carefully, gauging the response of those gathered around the table. “There can be only one meaning for ‘gospel’.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean this gospel is a threat to us,” Cyrus said.

“But can we take the chance that these writings of Jesus will come to nothing?” Daric said.  “As you said, rumors are running wild about the content of these scrolls.  The world expects something spectacular to occur. I tell you this whole affair sends chills up my spine.”

“Calm yourself, Daric. I agree that this event has all the earmarks of a crucial nexus in our world’s history. What will result from it, who can tell?  But I do not choose to wait and see what the currents of history choose to reveal,” the Chairman said sternly, glancing around at the faces gathered around the table.

A long silence followed as the figures around the table shifted uncomfortably in their chairs.  Fear was growing around the table that this Gospel of Jesus would do far more than just stir up the world’s populace and cause a few outbreaks of unrest. A new Jihad was in the air, even more fierce and widespread than the Islamic Jihad the world had coped with over the last few decades. If the world became truly destabilized, the Order itself could be damaged.

Sarine leaned back in her chair, letting out a deep sigh. ”If everything that has been said is true, this could be catastrophic.”

“Explain?” the Chairman inquired.

Sarine nodded and said, “If this is a personal work of Jesus, his ‘gospel’, I can not believe that he would not write about his personal beliefs and views. Stein hints as much. We must assume these ancient scrolls contain words that represent his personal views and thoughts about God and man’s relationships to his Creator. We can not do otherwise. If his words are too different from the Biblical version...” Sarine’s voice trailed off as she glanced at Alexander, who nodded in agreement.

“And how is that dangerous to us?” Cyrus contested, studying Alexander closely.

Alexander frowned and said, “Because there would have been no priest to interpret them, no correcting of—shall we say—errors that might be found. His words would be clean and unaltered from two thousand years ago. Those words could be very different from what we possess today. Religious conflicts and social upheavals would be unavoidable as a result.”

“Or the words could be the same and be no threat at all. The truth is we don’t know,” Cyrus stated bluntly.

“Man corrupts everything he touches. Surely everyone knows that by now,” Sarine’s voice was clear and precise. “Everything we have of Jesus is from those who observed him or worked with him, or worse, taken from other unverified sources. Jesus’ words would be like a surgeon’s knife cutting away all the dead and corrupt tissue of the Church. Disruptions in the world’s religious institutions would be putting it mildly. And those religious disruptions could spread rapidly to the political institutions, particularly in the undeveloped nations of the world.”

“The Bartholomew scroll released by the Stein family last month caused quite a stir among academics. I can only imagine what the Gospel of Jesus would do, but Cyrus is also correct. We don’t actually know what is in the Jesus scrolls. The Gospel of Jesus could be benign and no threat at all,” Alexander commented with a sigh.

“Explain to me again about the Bartholomew letter,” the Chairman solemnly requested, his brows drawn together in serious thought.

Alexander cleared his throat and said, “The Bartholomew scroll was an account of a meeting with Jesus by a Jewish scholar of that day. The letter was sent to the scholar’s son describing that meeting. The letter has since been taken as proof of the existence of Jesus by almost all of today’s religious scholars. The first real proof of Jesus’ existence outside of the Bible.”  Alexander paused a moment, then continued, “In the letter, Bartholomew mentions something about receiving scrolls from Jesus, but the contents of those scrolls were not mentioned in the letter. The nature of the scrolls was a complete mystery until Isaac Stein made his public announcement.”

“Can the Stein family prove the authenticity of these scrolls?  That they were actually written by Jesus?  These scrolls could all be fakes,” the Chairman said.,

“The Bartholomew scroll has been authenticated as genuine. As for the scrolls of Jesus, that is what the conference in America is about, but we must remember, it is not the truth that actually counts here, but the perception of truth. Even if the scrolls are fakes, if the world believes them to be genuine...” Alexander held up his hands, palm up, in a gesture of frustration.

The Chairman leaned back in his massive wooden armchair and pondered what Alexander had said. Finally, he spoke. “We, of course, have no choice. We can’t take a chance that the scrolls are harmless. We must intercept those scrolls traveling to American and prevent them from ever reaching this conference. Assign a team at once.”

Alexander nodded, licking his lips nervously. “And when we have obtained the scrolls?”

“Destroy them instantly. Those scrolls are too dangerous to permit any other action.”

“But if the scrolls contain the actual words of Jesus, their value would be worth millions,” Cyrus complained.

“Billions is more like it,” the Chairman said. “But what is money against the purposes and goals of the Order?”

All the black robbed figures around the table nodded in serious agreement.

“The leaders of our Order have met in this ancient hall for centuries, donning these ancient robes out of respect for those that preceded us. We must not fail them now.” The Chairman rose from his seat and pounded his fist on the table. “And we will not!”

Chapter 16

Simon Stein looked out of his ground floor window at the budding fig trees in the grove to the south of the one-story house that he currently occupied. He could hear the early morning spring winds whistling around the eves of the house. The first faint stirrings of spring were being felt. All was quiet around this small country house on the outskirts of Jerusalem.

He glanced once again at the newspaper in his hands. Already the news media were calling the Jesus scrolls the Gospel of Jesus. There had been violence, even a break-in at home.  He glanced down at the black leather-bound volume he held in his hands that contained the sacred words of Jesus. So much depended on his mission.

Simon was a handsome man in his late thirties, lean and athletic. He bore some resemblance to his father, Isaac, mainly in the face. His dark hair and eyes and swarthy skin marked his Mediterranean heritage. His family had lived for countless generations near Jerusalem. This city was their home and always would be their home. He hated leaving Jerusalem, even for a little while.

He sighed, reluctant to begin his long journey to America. He glanced at his watch; his flight left soon for a country he had not visited since college over fifteen years ago when he had attended a small American university in the city of Gulfview. Simon knew the professors very well at the university which made the resort city a logical choice for the location of the upcoming conference on the Gospel of Jesus. When he contacted the university, the head of the religious studies department, Professor James, had been most eager to cooperate in setting up the historic conference.

Simon had also contacted an old college buddy, John Arrowsmith who lived near the university. He needed a secluded place to stay, not wanting to go to a hotel, and John had readily agreed. Simon wanted to slip into town unnoticed and remain in seclusion until the conference.

As Simon stood at the window, his eyes wandered along the narrow dusty road that ran past this house and into the ancient city that lay outside his window—Jerusalem, the city of David...and Jesus. Jerusalem was a city that lay at the crossroads of many faiths—Jew, Christian, and Moslem. So much blood had been spilled over this city in the past and was still being spilled. Yet, Jerusalem was a city he loved.

When he walked her streets he could feel the history that wound around her narrow ancient streets—the tramp of Roman soldiers, the clang of swords from ancient wars, the cries of Moslem and Crusader armies, and the wail of Jewish citizens, but most important of all, this was where Jesus had walked, preached, and changed the world.  All of that and more were part of Jerusalem, soaked into her very foundations. Her many small street shops with their varied array of wares were a pleasure to the eyes, and her small restaurants and food stalls a treat to the nose and palate. How he loved this city.

He raised his eyes until he could see the Temple Mount on which rested the Moslem Dome of the Rock, glistening golden in the bright morning sun. Built by Moslems between 688 and 691 A.D. on the same spot as the Jewish temple had once stood, it now occupied a central place in the ancient city. Many Jews vowed to destroy that structure someday and resurrect their temple. He couldn’t begin to imagine the blood that would be spilled if that ever happened.

Simon turned his eyes away from Jerusalem and looked down at the leather-bound book he held in his hands so tightly. This single leather volume contained the complete works of the ten scrolls that comprised the Gospel of Jesus.

The scrolls themselves were too fragile to travel so a photographic copy of the content of the scrolls had been made and combined into a book. The book he was to carry to a conference in America. No one knew about the book. Everyone was expecting the scrolls. His father thought it unnecessary to correct that misunderstanding, thinking the book would have a better chance of arriving safely if everyone were looking for scrolls. It was a book that was about to change the world.

This Gospel of Jesus was already inciting the imagination of the world. The Middle East was already on the verge of erupting over the gospel. Moslems were convinced that a great sacrilege was being committed by letting infidels even handle such a holy work, let alone read from it.

Again he questioned himself. Was this the right time for the world to know the truth?  Already violence was gathering from every quarter of the world over this simple gospel. He dreaded the coming turmoil that would occur as a result of what he was about to do.

For generations, his family had guarded the scrolls that made up the Gospel of Jesus, a sacred trust handed down from generation to generation since Bartholomew, a disciple of Christ, had first received the scrolls.

Bartholomew’s second letter of that time, not the first that now lay in a museum, documented his sacred trust—to preserve the writings of Jesus for a future world in need of them. Bartholomew had not only committed himself to this cause, but his entire family as well. Altogether, there were a dozen Bartholomew letters urging all the members of the Stein family to protect and guard the scrolls of Jesus.

Simon knew well the prophecy that accompanied the Jesus scrolls. When the world grew cold in its faith, the words of Jesus were to be revealed to the entire world so that the faith might be renewed and a strong rebirth begun.

Since the Jesus scrolls were written in Aramaic, the language of Jerusalem and Judea two thousand years ago, both he and his elder brother, Micah, as well as his sister, Rebecca, had been taught Aramaic so they could read the scrolls for themselves and learn about the true nature of Jesus, a prophet very different from the Biblical version. Isaac Stein, his father, wanted his children to understand the importance of these writings of Jesus. All of them had discussed this work for years, confident in their faith, but knowing these scrolls would not set well with many of the Christian faithful in the world.

Could the world deal with such a honest revelation about Jesus?  That was a question that Simon had asked his father more than once, and his father had no answer for him. Violence and discord were certain to come from this new revelation, but Simon also hoped a stronger faith and a greater peace would also occur—in time.

Simon remembered the day that his father had reached a decision to reveal the Jesus scrolls to the world. His father believed that the current circumstances of the world fit the guidelines of the prophecy. He told the family that he wanted to hold a conference in America and wanted experts from all over the world to be invited to come and examine the Gospel of Jesus, to authenticate this mighty work.

Simon remembered how the news spread like wildfire around the world on the day that his father made the public announcement about the scrolls. At last, the truth about the scrolls mentioned in the Bartholomew letter had been revealed to the world. His father had to hire guards to keep the curious and the dangerous away from their family home. People were constantly gathered around the family home now.

To avoid all the scrutiny and unrest, his father had rented this house outside of Jerusalem and secretly transferred Simon there until he could make his journey to the United States. And even here, a suspicious stranger or two would occasionally be found watching the house, their intent sinister, but unclear.

Simon glanced out of the window again and saw his elder brother, Micah, leaving with the two bodyguards hired by his father. Micah was the decoy, making a big show of carrying suitcases and a briefcase. Simon watched his brother’s car speed away toward Jordan and the airport there. A few minutes later a small gray car sped down the same road after Micah. He could see two men hunched over the dashboard, intent on the car ahead. A chill went through Simon then. He silently prayed for Micah’s safety.

His father had reluctantly decided that Simon would carry the Gospel of Jesus to the conference instead of his elder brother, but not without some fear and trepidation. Simon could see that fear in his father’s eyes every time that his father had looked at him over the past few weeks. He had tried to comfort his father by telling him that God would protect him. His father would only nod and smile, but the fear remained.

Please God, Simon prayed, let me not fail in my duty. He turned toward the fire that blazed in the fireplace, feeling its warmth as the early morning chill was driven away. This had been his bedroom for a week now. He felt comfortable and safe here. He walked over to his bags and placed the leather covered book gently into the brown briefcase by his other bags.

He sat down on his bed for a moment, glancing at the briefcase and the two other leather suitcases by the door. His family was waiting in the next room to say good-bye, everyone except his brother and father. He had not shared his doubts with them, but had put on a brave face. He would never let them know how frightened he was of this journey.

Simon glanced at his watch. It was almost time to leave for Ben Gurion International Airport in Tel Aviv. It was a long flight to America.

A light tap on his door alerted him to the entrance of his mother. “It is time, Simon.”

He nodded.

“I don’t have to tell you to be careful?” she said, looking nervous and concerned.

Simon shook his head silently, and then looked at her. “Do you think Micah will be okay?”

“Yes, Benjamin and Matthew are very capable young men. They will guard him well.” She walked over and sat down beside Simon, placing her arm around his shoulders. “God will be with you, Simon, as he is with all of us.”

He simply nodded, giving her a tentative smile.

“Keep your faith strong, my son, and God will see you through any obstacles you may encounter. Remember that.” She stood up and smiled down at him. “I will wait for you by the car.”

Simon watched his mother as she left him, leaving the door open behind her. She had always been a strong woman, never wavering from her faith. But he sensed that she was worried about him, as well as his sister, Rebecca. It would be good to see Rebecca again. It had been months since they had heard from her, but that silence had been by mutual agreement to prevent anyone from finding out where Rebecca was located. Still, it had been hard not hearing from her. They had always been close as brother and sister.

He sighed again and rose from the bed, starting for the door. Again he prayed that God would be with him.

Chapter 17

The CIA director was a gray haired veteran of the professional and political wars of Washington. He had the scars to prove it, but you didn’t rise to the top of your profession without paying a price for it. He had also made a number of enemies along the way. He took pride in also being the best at what he did, keeping America safe from her enemies abroad as well as her friends at home, particularly her friends.

He thumbed through the report on his desk, frowning, and then looked up at his subordinate who sat across from him. A giant wall sculpture of an American Eagle with arrows clutched in its talons hung on the wall directly behind the director.

“This discussion is off the books, Alfred.”

The younger man nodded, shifted his shoulders slightly, and put away his notepad. He had been an assistant to the director long enough to know that tone of voice—the director was worried. “Yes, sir.”

“There is a religious conference being held in Gulfview, Alabama, two days from now. Gulfview is a modest southern town situated on the Gulf of Mexico with a regional airport and a local university, which I understand has a quite good reputation. Besides the university, the seafood industry, and tourism, there is nothing of note about the town, except there is going to be a religious conference there that has the potential to change the world,” the director said.

“The Christian Discovery Conference?” Alfred asked.

“Yes.”

“The internet has been active lately about the conference, and the newspapers are full of it as well as the television talk shows. Religious and antiquity experts from all over the world have been invited to the conference to see this Gospel of Jesus that the Stein family is transporting to Gulfview.” Alford paused for a moment, and then added, “There is also increased activity from the Middle East. Moslems, particularly the fanatical fringe, are not happy about such a religious document being handled by non-believers. There have been riots in the Middle East and bombings of foreign embassies, including several of ours. There is enough concern that a low level alert has been issued by Homeland Security about the conference.”

“Have you alerted our agents in the field to increase their vigilance?” the director pressed.

“Yes, sir. We are on a world-wide heightened alert.”

“Destabilization is in the air. Extremist groups will use any excuse to stir up unrest in some of the weaker Moslem nations. They would like nothing better than to topple a moderate government and replace it with one of their own. We can also expect an increase in terror attacks.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the Stein family?” the director asked, studying Alfred carefully.

“I believe their goal is to have this Gospel of Jesus authenticated at this conference.”

“I am sure that is part of their plan, but I have a feeling there is more. Scholars and pundits are not known for their speed of action on agreeing to anything, especially on something as ground-breaking as this. It could be a very long time before they reach any kind of decision. There is an urgency about Stein’s actions that suggest something else may also be at work.”

“I have no idea what that ‘something else’ would concern. There will be a great deal of publicity generated by this conference. Curiosity will be fierce. There may be some security issues,” Alfred said.

“That’s a given. I suppose he has to start somewhere. He can’t just stick an ancient work out there for public view and expect the public to accept it on faith. No, there has to be proof that this Gospel of Jesus is authentic, else the entire work will be easily discredited,” the director said with a small sigh.

“Undoubtedly.”

“We need to keep a watchful eye on Gulfview. The last thing we need is some fanatic trying to blow up this conference. It would be just the kind of operation that would appeal to terrorist, protecting the holy relics of Allah from the infidels.”

“I will continue to monitor the situation, sir.”

“You do realize that if this Gospel of Jesus turns out to be exactly as represented, we are going to be facing some serious trouble on a world scale.”

“You think this document could cause that much trouble?”

“I do. No one knows for sure what the document’s content consist of, some say it is an autobiography by Jesus, others a long sermon. Only the Stein family knows for sure, and they aren’t talking. But the document has the potential to stir up the religious zealots of the world and that always means trouble,” the director said.

Alfred leaned back in his chair, a worried frown on his face. “If your concerns become reality, the impact on the world’s religions could be very serious.”

“Very serious, if the conference validates the Stein’s claim. That, at this moment, is uncertain.”

“The Vatican must be nervous,” Alfred said with a sudden mischievous smile.

“Not only the Vatican. I think someone in Homeland Security has been tasked to retrieve the Gospel of Jesus.”

“Who?”

The director shrugged and said, “If I knew that, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.  The information that I have makes me suspect the State Department and a Middle Eastern country may be involved.”  His voice trailed off as he frowned, thinking about the implications and not liking anything that came to mind.

“You are worried about some kind of precipitous action on Homeland’s part?”

The director drummed his fingers on his desk for a moment, then sighed and said, “I have been wrestling with this decision ever since I got wind of what Homeland Security might be trying.”  The director paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Alfred was the first soul he had talked to about what he had discovered. “Everything I am about to tell you is strictly confidential. Most of what I know can be classified as rumor and inference with just enough truth to be believable. Some contacts of mine say that a certain unnamed Middle East country contacted the State Department with concerns about this religious conference in Gulfview. They were very discreet and friendly, but the tone was serious and a little threatening. Since this same country produces oil for the world’s consumption, our State Department paid close attention to what they said. This country wondered if there was anything the State Department could do to ease their fears.”

“Surely, our government wouldn’t intervene,” Alfred said.

“There, you are wrong. Someone in our government is very concerned. Most of these countries are ruled by families and oligarchies with strong, but precarious dictatorial control over their people. Sudden strong political and religious winds blowing against them are dangerous to their power which could also affect the United States.”

“Someone fears the Gospel of Jesus that much?”

“People fear what they don’t understand. No one knows for sure what words are contained between the covers of this religious work or even if the work is genuine. The uncertainty is the danger. We know nothing about it, not even its length. It could be several pages that are completely inoffensive, or it could be a complete religious testament that indicts the New Testament as false and calling the religious faithful to war.”

“Jihad?  I see their dilemma.”

“And ours. I have been told the State Department passed that request on to someone in Homeland Security, and some fool in that department decided to assist the State Department by sending a team to steal the ancient scrolls from the Stein family. If I could determine who that individual was, I would wring his neck, but Homeland Security is a maze of directorates and divisions. Officially, no one knows anything.”

“Covert op?  Interesting, but how are we involved?”

“Trust, Alfred, trust. Our operations around the world depend on trust and confidence in a nation that is just and fair. If our government were to steal a religious document of this importance in front of hundreds of important scholars from all over the world, including the Middle East, our nation would be extremely embarrassed and our job would become twice as hard. No, we must not allow that to happen.”

“What can we do?”

“Nothing, of course. The CIA has no jurisdiction in the United States proper.”  The director paused a moment with a glint in his eyes and a small smile on his lips. “However, if one of our best agents happened to be on vacation in Gulfview and see someone trying to steal this religious work, as a private citizen, he would have to prevent it. Don’t you think?”

“Indeed, I do,” Alfred replied, sudden understanding dawning. “I think we may have someone about to go on vacation in that very area.”

“Think outside of the box on this one, Alfred. Don’t use our normal channels for control and assignments. You talk to this agent directly, no false id papers, no formal CIA briefings, everything must be completely off the books. The agent will use his real name and actually be on vacation, only with some special responsibilities.”

“That makes the operation a little more difficult to manage, sir.”

“And more secure. Only three people will ever know about this op. You, me, and the agent you assign. What people don’t know, they can’t talk about.”

“You don’t seriously think there are leaks in the CIA?” Alfred was slightly shocked, then again he hadn’t been with the firm as long as the director.

“Alfred, the CIA is a sieve when it comes to keeping secrets. Every government agency is a sieve. Too many people trading favors back and forth. Hell, Alfred, how do you think I found out about Homeland Security’s op?”

Alfred swallowed hard. Revelations were being dispensed this morning. “I will start making arrangements immediately, sir.”

“Good. Why do people do such dumb things, Alfred?”

“I really couldn’t say, sir.”

The director wrinkled his brow in thought. Then said, “Keep me informed of our progress in Gulfview.”

“Will there be anything else, Director?”

“Not at this time, Alfred.”

As Alfred walked out of the director’s office, the director fingered the small wooden cross that rested underneath his white cotton shirt. Some things should be protected in this world, he thought.

Chapter 18

Pastor Michael Phillips stood in a small rose garden beside the church clipping a rose bush on a chilly Monday morning, wearing a thick white sweater for warmth.

Pastor Phillips studied John for a moment as the younger man walked briskly up to him and stopped. He noted the tired face and sad frown. The pastor smiled and said, “I find working in the garden good therapy at times. You should try it.”

“I’m not the gardening type,” John replied curtly. “The gardener out again?”

“Tom has been sick lately. No matter, I do enjoy the exercise,” the pastor said. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”  Pastor Phillips paused a moment, noting the deep frown on John’s face. It was obvious that John didn’t want to be there. Casually, trying to put John at ease, he said, ”How’s the job hunting going?”

“Nothing yet,” came the sharp, bitter reply.

“It takes time, John,” Pastor Phillips said sympathetically.

“Too much damn time, and this recession doesn’t help much either,” John said as he shifted his weight to his right foot. “No one seems interested in hiring a disgraced ex-cop.”

“Patience, John. In time, you will find a job.”

“I could starve to death waiting for that to happen. If it wasn’t for my pension...” John’s voice trailed off. He really didn’t want to dwell on his circumstances.

“Have a little faith, John. God has not forgotten you.” Pastor Phillips smiled and changed the subject. “You look tired. Still having trouble sleeping?”

John looked down, not wanting to talk about it. A long silence followed. Finally, reluctantly, John said, “No more black lions, but I am still having nightmares about Lake Bank.”

The pastor nodded, understanding John’s plight. “The woman at the bank?’

John nodded reluctantly.

“You must forgive yourself, John. Sometimes we feel a sense of responsibility for things that happen when we shouldn’t. I believe that is the case with you. You did nothing wrong. From what you told me, you did everything possible to save the young woman.” Pastor Phillips knelt on the ground beside the rose bush, clipping a few fading red blooms near the bottom, before standing again.

“She still died,” John said as he touched a large red rose, trying not to think about the woman that haunted his dreams.

“Good people die everyday John—in accidents, in disasters, in crimes, for a variety of reasons. You were a policeman. You know that. It is no ones fault. It was simply their time. There is nothing we can do about that except pray for the families and loved ones left behind. You must let this tragedy remain in the past and forgive yourself—release this unhealthy obsession you have about this woman’s death.”

“I’ve asked forgiveness,” John sullenly replied.

“From God perhaps, but have you forgiven yourself? Sometimes that is the hardest of all—forgiving yourself. Sometimes people hang on to guilt and blame, wear it like a coat. Don’t fall into that trap.”

“I...don’t know if I can forgive myself.” John looked down, not wanting to look into the pastor’s eyes.

“All things are possible with our Lord. You, of all people, should know that.”

“We aren’t talking about the bank robbery anymore, are we?” John looked into the intent stare of Pastor Phillips.

“No, we are talking about a blessing, a gift, that you refuse to acknowledge.”

“We are back to the healing thing again?”

“People do seem to get healed by you.”

“Most don’t. I think God has something else in mine for me.”

“Such as?

John shrugged his shoulders and said, “Only God can answer that question.”

“People see you as a healer. I’m sorry if that is bothersome to you, but people need healing and they see you as their salvation—literally,” the pastor replied.

“I’m not. For every person I heal, dozens are disappointed. Surely people will begin to see that and understand.”

“People live in hope, John. Hope that they will be the lucky one that is healed even if others aren’t. It’s human nature.”

“I don’t want to heal anyone. It’s too painful seeing the faces of those I disappoint.”

“Yet, you healed Mrs. Beale. She was the first, I believe,” Pastor Phillips said.

“It’s true that I prayed with her after church. The next thing I know, she is running up and down the aisle shouting that she had been healed.”

John shifted uneasily on his feet, nervous and unsure. He really didn’t want to talk about the episode with Mrs. Beale, about the intense powerful current of spiritual power that seemed to flow out of him for a brief moment and into Mrs. Beale—not yet, maybe never.

There was defiance in John’s eyes when he said, “I also prayed with Ellen Brown that same night. She was in a wheelchair, and the last time I looked she was still in a wheelchair. I didn’t heal her, did I? How do you think she felt about that?”

The pastor frowned. “Yes, I know. Healing doesn’t always occur, unfortunately. God and the person receiving the healing make those decisions. As odd as it may sound, most people find it difficult to receive healing, even when offered. Even as some people find it difficult to receive a wonderful gift from God even when manifested.” Pastor Phillips eyed John carefully.

“All I ever wanted to be was a cop. Now that is gone,” John said with a sigh of sad resignation.

“Sometimes when one door is shut, God opens another for us.”

“And if I don’t want to go through that door?”

“Tell me, are you happy where you are now?”

“You know I’m not,” John snapped, irritated at the turn the conversation had taken.

Pastor Phillips smiled and said, “Then what do you have to lose by entering another open door and starting a new life. I believe something extraordinary has happened to you. God sent the Holy Spirit to baptize you into a new calling. It may be healing or something else. Whatever it is, accept it, don’t fight it.”

“I think we are all jumping to conclusions.  Maybe God just answered some prayers. Maybe there is nothing special about me.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“No,” John frowned,” something happened to me at that altar.”

Pastor Phillips smiled and said, “God will enlighten you in time. Have patience.”

John knew that he was an average, flawed Christian. There were too many sins running through his life for him to be chosen by God for anything special. There were others in the church far more deserving. This was all some sort of mistake. It had to be.

“You read too much into this, Pastor. I’ve never really believed in miracles. Salvation yes, but not miracles. Miracles belong in the Bible, not in the modern world.”

“Miracles belong to Jesus, and those who believe in him.”

“Maybe that is my problem. My faith is too weak.”

“As a pastor, I sometimes feel that I fail more often than I succeed, but that doesn’t mean I stop trying or my faith is too weak. When you work in the ministry, you have to remember that God is in control, not you. You do the best you can and accept the consequences. You may not know why some people are healed, John, and others aren’t. It’s not your job to know. Your job is to try.”

“I am not convinced.”

John felt this conversation was going nowhere. He didn’t want to become some kind of healing evangelist. He wasn’t even sure he had healed anyone. He had prayed and felt something, but that didn’t mean he was a healer ordained by God. He just wanted to be a cop again and have his old life back.

“Pastor, you called me for a reason. What is it?”

Pastor Phillips nodded and said, ”I need a very large favor. Peter Brown, a dear friend of mine, lies in the hospital dying. I want you to pray for him.”

“Pray?” John asked, rising anger in his tone. Had his pastor heard nothing he had said?

“Heal him.”

There it was. What they all wanted—a miracle. He was fresh out of miracles.

“You think if I see Peter Brown some kind of healing miracle will occur?  I’ve told you. I’m not a healer,” John said sharply as he stepped closer, an accusation unsaid.

“All I am asking is that you pray with Peter and let God decide the rest. You can at least do that much for him, can’t you?”

“I’m hardly dressed to visit the sick,” John said, looking down at his gray sweat shirt and blue jeans, looking for any excuse to avoid a visit to the hospital. He hated hospitals, but, worse, he hated trying to be someone he wasn’t.

“I don’t think it will matter to Peter.”

“It may be his time to go,” John said resisting, then added, “Death is a part of life.”

“True, but sometimes death can be delayed for a little while.”

John owed Pastor Phillips, owed more than money could pay. He sighed in resignation.

“I will go, but under protest.”

“Thank you, John,” Phillips said.

John avoided Phillips’ look of gratitude, staring down at the ground. He dreaded what he would have to do at the hospital. He looked up at the pastor with a scowl on his face.

“I’m not promising anything, just prayer.”

The pastor nodded and smiled, “I understand.”

John stared into the eyes of Pastor Phillips, a deep frown on his lips. “Do you ever get use to the disappointment in their eyes when you fail?”

Pastor Phillips let out a long slow breath, a sad look on his face, and said, “No, you never do.”

John nodded and turned away, thinking again how much he hated hospitals. What could he possibly say to a dying man?

Chapter 19

John stopped inside the church sanctuary for a moment before he left, kneeling at the prayer rail and staring up at the massive oak cross that hung above the baptismal pool.

“God, I need help, a lot of help. I...I don’t know what to do,” he said as he bowed his head.

Everything had gone wrong with his life lately. He couldn’t seem to do anything right or get a break. There had been that bank incident where all his troubles started, now this healing thing.

Anger suddenly surged through him, even now after over three months he could not forget Lake Bank. It was so unfair. I wasn’t responsible for what happened at that bank, he thought. I tried to stop the two patrolmen from entering the bank. John remembered everything as if it was only yesterday.

Two officers had responded to a silent bank alarm and, like rookies, charged into the bank with guns drawn without knowing what was happening and found themselves in the middle of an intense gun battle. He had been only a few blocks away when he got the alarm call and had responded as well, arriving just as the two officers rushed into the bank. He yelled at them to stop, but either they didn’t hear him or, more likely, ignored him. He was an experienced cop and knew that rash action led to mistakes, often fatal ones.

After seeing the two patrolmen run into the bank, there was nothing else he could do but follow them in at that point. What followed had been dubbed by the newspapers and electronic media as the Wild West Shootout at Lake Bank, leaving seven dead, including both patrolmen, four would-be armed robbers, and one unfortunate woman who had been grabbed at the last minute as a hostage. He, on the other hand, had walked away without a scratch.

John sighed heavily as the image of that innocent young woman who had died so violently flashed into his memory—the look of shock and pain that registered on her face as a bullet slammed into her chest followed by a blood crimson flower that blossomed on her white blouse. That image still haunted him. He couldn’t have prevented her death, yet he still felt responsible.

As a police officer, John knew that life was often unfair. Good people died, bad people lived, that was the way of things. Yet that logic didn’t diminish how he felt. He was a policeman. He was suppose to protect the innocent.

John shook his head, frowning, remembering how his orderly, common sense world had been turned upside down after that. Politics and public anger turned ugly following the bank fiasco. The politicians were looking for someone to blame, and he was readily available. The police chief and mayor offered him an early retirement. They felt with him gone, the furor would die down.

He could have refused, but they would only have fired him and twenty years on the police force would have been flushed down the toilet, and he would still be blamed for everything that had gone wrong at Lake Bank. So he took the early retirement and left, settling here in Gulfview, seeking refuge in the familiar town of his youth.

He glanced up at the cross again. “Have mercy on me, Lord.” Slowly, he rose to his feet. It was time to go, time to face a dying man.

Chapter 20

Sebastian Black didn’t think of himself as an evil man although many would call him exactly that. He didn’t bother with such labels. True, he had few scruples and had done what some might consider wicked things, yet he didn’t consider himself a cruel or even an unreasonable man. He simply got the job done and refused to let anything or anyone stand in his way. He had built his reputation on those personal traits and was the reason why the Order had requested him for this mission.

Sebastian continued to stare out the window at the park-like grounds three stories below him. The sun was bright, the sky a clear blue, and the grounds green with early spring. A nice day for a walk, except he didn’t take long walks anymore. He used to, a very long time ago. He shifted his weight from his weak right knee, leaning heavily on a wooden cane with his hand wrapped around the brass handle of the cane. Not a day went by that his leg didn’t ache. No, he didn’t walk much now, though he stayed in shape using weights and exercises that didn’t depend on two good legs.

Despite his leg impairment, Sebastian was an impressive looking man. He stood six-foot two with broad shoulders and a solid, athletic build. At one time, he had a promising career as a professional athlete until the accident.

He frowned at the thought of that accident—so much changed after that.  He was never the same after the automobile accident ten years ago that left him crippled and killed his wife. He lost his wife, his athletic ambitions—everything of any consequence that day. He had been happy then. Now, he couldn’t even remember what happiness felt like.

His dark eyes continued to watch the tiny figures below him scurrying about on the concrete walkways that wound about the gardens and trees in the early morning sun. He rested on his cherry wood cane, alleviating some of the pain coming from his knee. The solid brass of the cane handle was cool to his grasp.

His thin, narrow face looked even grimmer than usual as he brushed back a strand of hair. Sebastian’s long black hair fell almost to his shoulders, covering a long, thin scar at the edge of his face, next to his right ear.

Sebastian thought about his present assignment and took a deep breath of resignation—the mission was already off to a bad start. Despite the Order’s best efforts, the two thousand year old Gospel of Jesus would be arriving in America this afternoon with Simon Stein.

Their attempt to intercept the gospel in Jerusalem had failed. Their agents had followed the elder brother who had been a decoy which became apparent when that brother did not board an aircraft for the states in Jordan, but only hung around the airport for a while then returned home.

Too late, their source within the Stein Family had informed them that Simon Stein, the younger brother, was transporting the Gospel of Jesus. Timing was always everything, Black thought.

Now he had to steal the ancient relic here in America before it could reach the Christian Discovery Conference in Gulfview, Alabama. The Order did not want the public to see this religious work. No one bothered to tell him why, although he could guess. No, his job wasn’t to question why, just carry out his assignment.

Sebastian knew that he could no longer put off facing Graff. He raised one black eyebrow as he turned toward Graff, a bald man with heavy jowls who always seemed to be smiling as if he knew a secret that others did not. The fat man sat in a leather chair that strained to hold the man’s immense bulk. Sebastian had never liked the man, and it took some effort to keep that dislike from showing.

Forcing a small congenial smile that he didn’t feel, he said, “It wasn’t necessary for you to see me off, Graff.”

“I wanted to talk to you before you left for Gulfview. I have secured the support you requested.”

“I would like to see the references of the men hired,” Black replied, irritated that Graff had been put in charge of this mission. Black had to report to Graff which rankled Black even more.  Graff was incompetent. It was astounding to him that Graff had managed to last this long in the Order.

“There isn’t time. They are already on their way to Gulfview,” Graff said with a sly smile that irritated Sebastian even more.

Black had not wanted Graff involved in the personnel choices. The bastard had a reputation for cutting corners and pocketing any money saved. Black felt almost certain that the men hired by Graff would be inferior to any he would have hired which put an additional burden on the mission.

“I like to choose my own team,” Sebastian growled, causing Graff to retreat deeper into his chair, momentary fear evident on his face.

“Whether you like it or not, the Order gave me authority to decide such matters,” Graff replied defensively.

“If you have stuck me with morons, Graff, so help me...”

“You worry too much. You received your op briefing?”

“Yes. Not hard really. The Order wants to seize the Jesus scrolls from the Stein family. Simple enough task.”

“Yes, so simple that we failed to obtain the scrolls in Jerusalem.” Graff’s eyes were grim, though his voice was level and controlled.

“They weren’t my team, Graff. They were yours. And I made sure the council knew it.”

Sudden fear appeared on Graff’s face. Whatever happened, good or bad, would be reflected back to Graff as well as Sebastian, and Graff had never been under that kind of scrutiny before; it unnerved him.

“What did you do?” Graff asked nervously.

Sebastian casually shrugged as he glanced down at his watch. His plane would be leaving soon. “I intercepted your report to the council, corrected a few rather glaring errors and sent the revised report to our superiors. I believe a copy of it should be on your desk by now.”

Graff struggled from his chair to his feet, his face red with anger, and yelled at Sebastian. “You had no right to correct that report.”

Sebastian merely smiled. “It was incomplete. You chose to leave several key details out. You are known for that, you know.”

Sebastian knew far too well what a weasel Graff was and how he always managed to shift blame to someone else for his failures. Sebastian was determined not to let that happen to him.

“You still had no right,” Graff muttered as he collapsed back into his chair.

“I had every right. Do that again and you will have more than the council to worry about.”

Sebastian’s voice was hard, threatening, as he locked eyes with Graff who flinched and looked away, color draining from his face. Graff knew what happened to people who crossed Sebastian, and it wasn’t pleasant.

Sebastian smiled inwardly to himself. This was the first time in Graff’s long, boring existence that he had been given something really important. Why that happened, Sebastian didn’t know. Graff wasn’t the best choice. His superiors had to know that. He suspected that politics were being played at a higher level. Someone wanted this mission to fail for some political advantage that Sebastian could only guess at.

“Do you know why the Order is so interested in this Gospel of Jesus?” Sebastian inquired after a few moments of silence.

“They seldom share such thoughts with me. All I know is that they do not want this religious document to reach the public. They were quite emphatic about that.”

“And the purpose of this conference?”

“To prove that this relic the Stein family has protected for two thousand years is authentic.”

“The Bartholomew letter—”

“You have read the letter?” Graff interrupted.

“Of course, the entire world has read it. It has been in all the newspapers and magazines for a month now. I believe there is even a book coming out about the Bartholomew letter.”

“You think the letter is genuine?”

“The religious experts who have examined the letter largely agree that it is, although I understand there are a few holdouts.”

“And now we have the Gospel of Jesus, the document that Bartholomew is suppose to have referred to in the letter,” Graff said. “The Stein family has done an excellent job of orchestrating this entire affair.”

“On that, I agree. The family seems to be very smart.”

“Too smart—if they should succeed...”

“You seem worried, Graff,” Sebastian’s sardonic smile was not lost on Graff.

“I am. You know very well what happens to people who fail the Order.”

Sebastian could see tiny sweat beads gathering on Graff’s forehead. The fat man was worried. He had reason to be. The Order accepted no excuses for failure and punishment could be severe, particularly for those in charge.

“You expect failure?” Black said.

“I know you are competent, but I have an uneasy feeling about this operation.”

“You had a vision, Graff?” he said with a mocking smile.

“Of course not,” Graff snapped.

“Feelings don’t count in an operation, only results.”

“You know how the Order treats failure. Why do you think I am in your office today?  Both our futures are riding on the success of this mission.”

Sebastian turned away from Graff. He didn’t need Graff to remind him of the obvious. He understood all too well what happened to people who failed the Order.

“You really give the Stein family far too much credit,” Sebastian said as he lifted his briefcase from his desk.

“Don’t underestimate them.”

“I never underestimate anyone,” Sebastian said as he opened the door to his office.

“Our source inside the family says Simon is bringing the scrolls with him on a plane that arrives today in Gulfview. That will be your opportunity to seize the scrolls,” Graff said.

Black already knew about Simon and ignored Graff’s comment. “I shall arrive in Gulfview late this morning on our private jet and supervise the operation. Hopefully, we can wrap everything up by this afternoon.”

Graff nodded, his jowls shaking slightly with the effort. “For both our sakes, Sebastian, I hope so.”

Sebastian Black said nothing. It was obvious that Graff was frightened; the sweat on Graff’s forehead and the fear in Graff’s voice confirmed that. The man was badly suited for this type of work. Again he wondered why the Order had assigned Graff, an obvious incompetent, to this mission. Black leaned heavily on his cane for a moment, then shook his head and closed the door behind him.

Chapter 21

John Arrowsmith stood outside Gulfview Memorial Hospital for a long time before finally forcing himself to go inside. He had always hated hospitals. A feeling of death clung to them. As a cop, he had seen a lot of friends die in hospitals.

A few minutes later, John stood silently in one corner of a small hospital room, observing, not wanting to disturb the Brown family. He had nodded briefly to the family when he first stepped into the private hospital room. When it was time, he would be called.

The room was heavy with the feeling of impending death. Peter Brown lay on a hospital bed, hooked up to multiple monitors. He was a frail looking man of seventy with white hair and limbs that were thin and pale. It was obvious that he was in a great deal of pain. His wife, Mary, hovered anxiously over him, wiping tears from her face that seem to flow in a continuous stream.

The dying man kept glancing nervously over at John. John hated that look of desperate hope in the man’s eyes.

The doctor finished his examination of Peter Brown, shook his head, and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Brown. Nothing has changed. We have done all that we can.”

“How long?” came the whispered reply from Brown, his fearful eyes fixed on the doctor.

The doctor’s face was grim as he said, “Impossible to say exactly, anywhere from a few minutes to a few days. Who can say? Really, you could go at any moment.” The doctor paused and with a tight frown said, “I wish I had better news for you.”

He turned to face the grief of Brown’s wife, Mary, noting the look of despair in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Brown.”

He said nothing more, only silently shook his head. There was no comfort he could give her. He left the room, moving slowly, obviously saddened by the circumstances.

A chubby, younger woman, Ann, Mrs. Brown’s sister, placed her arm around the grieving wife and hugged her tightly, trying to comfort her.

The man in the bed met John’s eyes again and, then, with great effort, reached up and touched his wife’s forearm and whispered something to her. His wife nodded and glanced at John.

“My husband wants you to pray for him.”

John nodded and approached the hospital bed that Brown lay on.

“Pastor Phillips said you might help. If...if you can do anything, please...” Mary said.

There was a terrible fear in Mary’s face mixed with a desperate hope that John could save her husband. She had heard about some of the healings he had performed. Word spread fast in a small church. Choked with emotion, her eyes fixed on her husband, and tears still streaming down her face, she stepped aside so that John could move closer to her husband. Ann and Mary watched John, both hoping for a miracle.

John looked down at Brown, noting the desperation in his eyes. Doubt and uncertainty, the twin killers of faith, swirled around within John. He prayed silently to himself, trying to vanquish his doubts. Brown’s eyes held his, desperate for life, for a cure to a heart that was failing.

“Hello, Peter,” John said softly as he bent over Brown, studying a face filled with pain and eyes that pleaded for a miracle.

“Thank you for coming. I was afraid you wouldn’t.”

Brown’s left hand came up and fastened on to John’s wrist, his hand shaking with the effort. His voice was a frail whisper that trailed off into meaningless sounds. Whatever else he intended to say, John didn’t hear it.

John grasped Peter’s hand with both of his own, holding it firmly in his grip. He prayed silently for a few minutes for the sick man. But he felt nothing, no rush of healing power, nothing. John knew then that his efforts would be useless. There would be no healing for Peter Brown.

John stared down at Brown, whose eyes were so full of hope and need. Frustration and sorrow rose in John. Surely, there must be something God could do for this poor dying man?

Suddenly, as if in answer to his silent plea, a sort of peace began to build within John, a feeling of warm tranquility, spreading out slowly from him into the man laying on the hospital bed, a feeling that everything would be okay, that there was nothing to fear any longer. John glanced down at the dying man and knew that the man felt what he felt. It was a wonderful, joyous feeling of contentment, a feeling that everything was as it should be, and there was nothing to worry about anymore, that God was merciful and in control.

Brown breathed deeply for a moment, closing his eyes, the pain racked face relaxing for the first time in a long time. After a moment, Brown opened his eyes. This time, he smiled. His eyes were clear with less confusion and no pain in them.

“What did you do?  I...I feel wonderful. There is no pain anymore. Did you heal me?”

“No, Peter. I’m sorry,” John replied.

“You must have done something for me to feel like this?”

“I...I think God has given you some peace. He is preparing you for your journey.” John thought that sounded right. He had no experience with this sort of thing, but somehow the words felt right.

John continued to share this happy, peaceful feeling with the man, wondering if this was what it was like to die as a Christian. John felt that heaven was very near for Brown at that moment. He could almost hear the angels singing.

Peter’s smile faded, and then worriedly he asked, “Heaven?”

John knew what the man meant. He wanted to know his destination. “Jesus is waiting for you. You are going to a place of peace and rest.”

“How long...”

“Soon, I think.”

Peter glanced at his wife. “Mary?’ his weak voice called. She rushed to his side as John stepped out of the way.

Her frantic eyes met John’s. John shook his head slightly and said, “He is at peace now. It is his time. Jesus waits for him.”

John turned and walked out of the room, away from a dying man and his grieving family.  There was nothing more he could do, but he was glad he had come. John felt that he had made a difference today in a dying man’s life even if he could not heal the man as his pastor had hoped.

Chapter 22

Agent Dan Jones, FBI, watched his boss, Jim Wheeler, and vaguely wondered why he was here. Wheeler flipped through some documents on his desk, frowned, and leaned back in his chair, forcing himself to smile as he looked at Jones. Jones got a very bad feeling right in the pit of his stomach. The kind of feeling he had felt before when something was about to go very wrong. An agent learned very quickly to rely on such feelings if he wanted to survive.

“Dan, you’ve been with the FBI for over twenty-five years. You have an excellent record, and I have known you long enough to know you are an outstanding agent. You still show some fire and enthusiasm for your job. Too often, agents get burned out when they have served this long, particularly in the field. That’s why I was somewhat surprised to see you put in your retirement papers. I figured you for a thirty-year man.”

“There comes a time and place when family has to come first. I thought it was time to spend some time with my wife, mend some fences, and find out if there is a life after the FBI.”

Wheeler nodded in agreement. “Family was the main reason I took this supervisory position; I’m just a paper-pusher now. But I can spend more time at home with the family. Field work can be tough on a family. Surprised you didn’t opt out of field work earlier.”

“I liked field work too much, I suppose. Still do. And I could never take sitting behind a desk. Not in my nature.”

Wheeler leaned forward, steepling his fingers with a serious look on his face. “Look, normally when an agent puts in his retirement paperwork, I put him on desk duty until his retirement date. I don’t want to see an agent injured or killed just before he retires. To me, he has earned the right to enjoy that retirement without some last minute mishap.”

“I sense a ‘but’ coming,” Jones said, intent on the words that Wheeler was about to say.

“You are right about that. I have an assignment for you. If it is any comfort, I have been assured it is a low risk assignment, but, as you well know, nothing is for certain.”

“And there is no one else?”

Wheeler stood up suddenly, disgust on his face, obviously agitated. Dan could tell that he was disturbed about this assignment. Momentary anger flashed across Wheeler’s face followed by an even deeper frown.

“I fought this decision because I believe it is unfair—and I lost. Too much political influence involved,”  Wheeler said as he sat down on the corner of his desk, facing Jones, and stared at him for a long moment before speaking, trying to decide what to say.

“Off the record, Dan, you were chosen because you are retiring.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Jones said, puzzled by the statement.

“It does in the current twisted political climate we live in today.”

“What does my retirement have to do with anything?”

“Expendability, Dan. You see, the FBI is being forced to supply a man for a Homeland Security operation that smells like a setup. The department that requested assistance claimed that they had a temporary manpower shortage and needed an experienced agent to run an op for them. That’s all a crock. They have people crawling all over themselves over there. That’s why the request sounded fishy. The boys upstairs think the op is probably illegal or close to it with a high risk of failure. They believe Homeland Security wants a fall guy.”

Jones shook his head in disbelief. “I’m the designated scapegoat?”

“The FBI is between a rock and a hard place on this operation. They have no choice but to honor the request so they are trying to minimize the damage that may be coming.”

“And someone retiring won’t be hanging around long enough to be an embarrassment if the op goes south.”

“Exactly. I know it’s a hell of a way to end a career.  You will be in charge of the operation and report to an Agent Thornburg.”

“What’s the operation about?”

Wheeler shrugged. “I have no idea. Homeland says the op is on a need to know basis. Thornburg will brief you.” Wheeler rose to his feet and stuck out his hand. “I am sorry as hell about this, Dan. I did everything I could. I want you to know that. You could refuse to go?”

Agent Dan Jones shook Wheeler’s hand and said, “Not in me to refuse an assignment.”

“Yeah, I figured that. The good news is this is only temporary. As soon as the op is concluded, you automatically revert back to FBI status. Since this is obviously a stealth operation, there is a chance no one will ever know about it, success or failure, unless something goes horribly wrong.”

“Which has a high probability or Homeland wouldn’t be requesting me.”

Wheeler nodded. “Unfortunately, I agree. Good luck, Dan. I have a feeling you are going to need it.”

Dan headed for the door. He knew that big trouble was coming his way. He could feel it. This was not what he expected when he submitted his retirement papers. He could almost hear Fate laughing at him somewhere. Just when he thought everything was about to work out okay, he was kicked in the gut by an assignment out of left field, and the ultimate irony was that he took the op. Why did he do something so obviously stupid?

Chapter 23

On a rainy afternoon, Cardinal Bernelle stood a few feet from a large, square window pane and stared at St. Peter’s Basilica in the distance. This was his favorite view of the Basilica, and one of the reasons he occupied this office. He watched visitors to St. Peter’s scurry through the rain, seeking shelter. A sudden flash of lightning lit up the sky for an instant, followed by a loud crack of thunder which shook the building.

“There is something beautiful about a rainy day, Paul. The world being wiped clean...” Cardinal Bernelle said with a sigh, turning to study for a moment the slightly built priest seated in the wing back chair in front of his desk.

The priest was a handsome man in his early forties with brown hair and sad eyes.  He was dressed in the usual black priestly garb with a Roman white collar, though he had not led a mass or been in charge of a church in some time. His talents lay elsewhere.

“It is unfortunate that we must tarnish the day by discussing this Gospel of Jesus that the Stein family seems intent on forcing upon the world.”

“You are referring to the Christian Discovery Conference in America, your Eminence?” Paul West questioned.

“Yes, the one you are about to attend. As one of the leading authorities on ancient religious documents and artifacts, you were invited. That’s why I sent for you. It seems the Stein family has invited everyone of any note in the field of religious artifacts and documents. They obviously want to authenticate this Jesus document of theirs that they are bringing to the conference. I personally believe the document is a fake.”

“I seriously doubt that Isaac Stein would knowingly be a party to a fake. He is a man known for his integrity.”

“Perhaps unknowing, then. Bartholomew could have been fooled by someone claiming to be Jesus.”

“Doubtful. Bartholomew mentions Jesus’ disciples visiting him on occasion. As disagreeable as you may find it, you may have to accept that this Gospel of Jesus is genuine.”

“I have to accept nothing! And I stand by my original statement. It must be a fake.”

“That is the purpose of the conference, isn’t it? To determine the authenticity of the Gospel of Jesus?” Paul said softly, noting the rising anger in his superior.

“Yes, of course,” Cardinal Bernelle snapped. “This conference may be a disappointment in any case.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t believe the actual scrolls of the Gospel of Jesus will be at this conference.”

“What? I...I don’t understand. If that is true, why have a conference?”

“To expose the world to the content of the Gospel of Jesus. Think about it, Paul. The scrolls are undoubtedly old. Why risk them? Stein has probably made photocopies of the original scrolls and is presenting those copies to the convention.”

“Without the original scrolls, complete authentication will be impossible,” Paul said shaking his head.

“Exactly. If I am right, authentication is not his main goal. Exposure of this Gospel of Jesus to the world—that is his goal. Full authentication would come later,” Cardinal Bernelle  said with a smug smile.

“If true that would be a severe disappointment.  I mean there are some things we could determine just from content, but without the original scrolls...”

Cardinal Bernelle nodded. “But if the original scrolls were somehow destroyed or lost, there could be no real authentication—ever.”

“True,” Paul looked at the cardinal, puzzled by this turn in the conversation.

“Accidents happen. Another reason the scrolls will not be at the conference. Stein would want maximum protection of these scrolls.”

“Then you think we will see some sort of copy, and the original scrolls will remain with Stein?”

Cardinal Bernelle’s perpetual frowned deepened. “It’s a theory, no more, but something to consider.”

“You have given me much to consider, but I hope you are wrong.”

“Perhaps I am. Let’s say no more about it. After all, I am only speculating. The scrolls will probably be there.” A pleasant, knowing smile appeared on the cardinal’s face. This priest had confirmed everything he suspected. If he destroyed the scrolls, the authentication conference would be an abysmal failure. The cardinal would not share his conviction that the scrolls were hidden away in Stein’s vault and would never make the trip to America. Secrecy was best in these matters, even from a dedicated priest. There must be no link, however tenuous, back to him when the scrolls were destroyed.

“You must admit that the Bartholomew letter has set the background for our conference. Anticipation is high that the Gospel of Jesus will be a revelation into the life of Jesus,” Paul West said.

“Yes, Stein was very clever in the way he set everything up.”

”The letter is powerful evidence of the existence of Jesus Christ, our Lord, particularly since the Stein family has so accurately documented their family tree back to Bartholomew. Few can doubt that Bartholomew was real and existed at the same time as Jesus.”

The priest began to cough, each cough stronger than the last. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his mouth as the coughing spasms shook his body. Finally, he gained control of the coughs and they stopped. The cardinal noticed the blood stains on the handkerchief that the priest put back into his pocket.

Cardinal Bernelle hurried over to the priest with genuine concern on his face and placed a sympathetic hand on Paul’s shoulder and softly said, “Can I get you something?”

“No, I will be fine in a moment. These coughs don’t last long.”

“You don’t look well.”

“I’m as well as can be expected for one who is about to die,” he said, suppressing his anger at a cruel fate that had suddenly thrust a fatal disease on him when he was in the prime of his life.

“I was sorry to hear about your illness. Are you sure that you should attend the conference, considering your health?” Cardinal Bernelle said, once more retreating behind his desk.

“I must. This may be the single most important event in my lifetime or anyone’s lifetime. And I have so little time left. I must be there.”

“But are you strong enough?”

“God will provide the strength.”

The cardinal smiled slightly, and said, “May it be so.”  He paused a moment, then continued their conversation. “Then you judge the Bartholomew letter to be authentic?”

“Absolutely. That is not only my opinion, but hundreds of other scholars as well. I believe there are only a few who doubt the letter and that was more over the time frame than the actual letter. No, there is no doubt.”

“And you are convinced that these scrolls that Stein claims were written by Jesus are the same scrolls that Bartholomew mentions in his letter?”

Paul shrugged. “Yes.”

“You realize that all we have is Isaac Stein’s word that these scrolls were written by Jesus.”

“I do not think Stein would make such an assertion if he were not sure.”

“How do you purpose to authenticate these scrolls?”

“There are physical tests that can be run on the scrolls themselves to verify the time frame. The words, the language, should tell us the rest.”

“Conclusive?”

Paul shook his head. “We have no handwriting samples of Jesus to compare the scrolls against. So we can not prove decisively that these scrolls were written by Jesus, but I think that will not matter. If everything else is confirmed, the circumstantial evidence will be overwhelming, and the desire to confirm their authenticity will be irresistible.”

“And if it is authentic, what then?  Will these scrolls help or harm the Church?

“I don’t understand,” Paul answered, puzzled by the direction the conversation had taken.

Cardinal Bernelle leaned forward, resting his hands on the desk top. He hesitated for a moment. What he was about to say was a touchy subject, particularly among priests.

“We don’t need another Luther nailing his Ninety-Five Theses to our Catholic door. Luther shook the Church to its foundations and gave birth to the Protestant movement. One Protestant Reformation in 1517 is quite enough.”

The priest’s eyebrows raised in question. “Why should there be?”

“Because we don’t know what these scrolls say?” Cardinal Bernelle emphatically said.

“Not yet, but this is a tremendous find for the Christian community,” Paul said, unsure of where this discussion was going.

“Or a disastrous find,” Cardinal Bernelle said slowly, his eyes fixed on Paul.

Paul shook his head in confusion. “Disastrous?”

“Think about it for a moment. Words written on scrolls over two thousand years ago, unedited and uncensored views and thoughts of someone named Jesus, preserved until now. What might those words say?  What if they contradict our version of the New Testament or our Church creed...”

Paul visibly paled. His voice shaky, he said, “I never considered that aspect. We know from a historical perspective that the Bible isn’t perfect. There are errors and contradictions, but the central message has always remained steadfast. After all, the New Testament is all about Jesus. How could Jesus’ own writings be different or harm our faith?”

“Paul, what if these scrolls aren’t from our Savior, but fakes?  Fakes that bear little resemblance to our Bible. This could be disastrous.”

“If the scrolls are fakes, I think that will be determined soon enough.”

“You have said yourself there is no way to prove conclusively that the scrolls were written by Jesus. There will always be some doubt. But I do agree. The urge to announce that the scrolls are genuine may prove irresistible even if the words of the scrolls are completely different from the Biblical Gospels. What then, my friend?”

Paul shook his head, deep concern registering in his eyes. “How can I answer such a question?”

“Even if the Gospel of Jesus is authentic, which I doubt, that gospel could be very different from our present day Biblical Gospels. Remember, the Biblical Gospels were not even written until decades after Jesus had died by authors we are only partially sure of, much of the content based on third party reports and acts that by then had become closer to legend than actual facts. Even the disciples only half understood the words of Jesus at the time they were spoken.  We are looking at two different views of Jesus. Just how different will those views be?“

“I...I don’t know,” Paul replied, an uneasy feeling beginning to steal over him.

“Neither does the Church, and that is the problem.”

“What are you saying?  The Bible is the inspired word of God.”

“Inspired—yes, but edited and copied by men, many of whom had strong, sometimes contrasting views. His own disciples may have drawn some inappropriate conclusions. Remember, the Gospels were written long after Jesus was suppose to have left this world. What was written later was seen through a veil of myth, legend, and personal religious agendas. Men were building a new religion, Paul. The truth may have suffered some as they built it.”

“You doubt the central message of the New Testament?” Paul said, disbelief in his voice.

“No, of course not,” Cardinal Bernelle snapped. “But what if these Jesus scrolls contradicts part of that message or gives a different slant that could change the way the world views the Church and Christ?”

The room grew very quiet as Paul pondered the ramifications of what had just been said.

“What you say borders on blasphemy,” Paul sternly said.

“Yes, it does, but consider the state of the Church after Jesus died. All sorts of ideas and beliefs circulated about him in those first centuries after his death. Some said he was divine, others said he was merely a great prophet of God, but still only a man. The Jews to this day say Jesus was not the Messiah foretold by Biblical prophecy. Still others said there was no virgin birth, that Mary was just a woman who bore Jesus as well as other sons and daughters. Do you want those arguments to begin all over again?  It took a Roman emperor’s decree, several great councils, and two thousand years of debate to resolve those ideas and deliver the creed the Church lives by today.”

Paul frowned. “What do you want me to do?”

“When you examine this religious work at the conference, if you find a dangerous divergence from our Church doctrine, you might find the work to be false.”

There it was, dangling in the air like some venomous snake ready to strike. He knew what Cardinal Bernelle was suggesting. Preserve the Church at all cost. Even if the Gospel of Jesus was deemed to be authentic, it must not be confirmed if it cast the least doubt on the Church’s accepted doctrine. That is what the cardinal had meant when he mentioned the Protestant Reformation.

“There will be others at the conference who are just as expert as I.”

“But you have a world-wide reputation as an expert scholar and a man of integrity.”

“Yet, you ask me to lie!” Paul could not keep the resentment out of his voice.

Cardinal Bernelle jumped to his feet and yelled at the priest. “Don’t you understand what is at stake?  The mother Church herself. You are a child of that Church. Don’t betray her!”

“I never thought telling the truth would be considered a betrayal,” the priest said quietly, looking down, subdued by the cardinal’s sudden outburst. He found it difficult to believe that a cardinal of the Church, a man of God, would ask him to lie.

Cardinal Bernelle took a deep breath, sat down, composed himself, and after a moment, leaned forward, his palms resting heavily on the wooden desktop and in a gentler voice said, “Forgive me, Paul. I lost my temper. So much is at stake, and I fear for the future of our Church.”

“Perhaps, we have nothing to fear. These scrolls may only enforce the Church’s doctrine and make her stronger.”

“I pray fervently you are right, but I sense a storm coming that could threaten our Church.” Cardinal Bernelle paused, then stared hard at the priest. “You know where your duty lies.”

“I do. As always, my duty lies with the Church,” Paul firmly stated. That was an automatic answer, said without thought or consideration, out of his mouth before he thought. Only to be followed by a more deliberate thought. Where did his duty truly lie?

“Good. Then we understand each other.”  Cardinal Bernelle came around from behind the desk and shook Paul’s hand vigorously. “Have a safe trip. And if you disagree about the authenticity of these scrolls, don’t worry. There will be others there who will also disagree on the authenticity of this work I am sure. Men rarely unanimously agree on anything. You won’t be alone.”

As Paul walked away, he knew that Cardinal Bernelle had already made up his mind that the scrolls that the Stein family were presenting must be declared fakes and had already set things in motion to discredit the Gospel of Jesus. Was the Church so insecure that it could not withstand a possibly controversial work?

Or were these the fears of only a single cardinal?  He had heard things about Cardinal Bernelle, terrible things whispered in the dark shadows of the Vatican where such words could not be overheard. He had always dismissed such rumors. But what if they were true?

No matter. The truth would come out regardless of Cardinal Bernelle’s wishes. Paul’s integrity was more important to him than anything else. It was all he had. He was determined to render the truth no matter the cost to him or his church.

Chapter 24

After Paul’s discussion with Cardinal Bernelle, he returned to his basement office. As he entered his small office, he paused for a moment to look at a large wooden cross that hung on the west wall. The light from a small upper window shone directly on the cross, giving it a sort of celestial glow. He had bought the cross in Jerusalem. It was carved from olive wood, one of the several suggested woods that composed the cross of Jesus. No one knew for sure the type of wood the original cross was composed of—olive wood, cypress, cedar, even pine had all been suggested as the authentic wood of the cross, but with no certainty.

There were so few personal details of the life of Jesus, Paul thought. This Gospel of Jesus could shed so much light on that life, fill in details that had long been a mystery.

He studied the large wooden cross on the wall and decided that for today he would believe that olive wood had composed the cross that was used in Jesus’ crucifixion. That thought gave him some small measure of comfort.

Paul walked over to the cross and stretched out his right hand, running his fingers lightly over the polished surface of the wood, noting the exquisite quality of the smooth wood grain. He thought of the crucifixion and the last moments of his Savior’s death.

To face death, he thought—how does one do that?  When Jesus faced death, he prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane in preparation for what was to come. No doubt, he too struggled with his fears and grieved over the loss of his future. He prayed so long even his disciples fell asleep. The garden gave a brief glimpse of that difficult internal struggle, but only a glimpse. How did Jesus find that special courage to face the agony that was coming?

That was a question that repeated itself often in Paul’s mind. He wasn’t prepared for death. He had no peace in what he faced, despite his prayers and meditations. Had his faith grown so weak that he could find no comfort to sustain him?  Perhaps more time was required, more time to come to grips with death and all the finality that it brought.

Death had been suddenly thrust upon him by doctors that gave him only a few months to live. He was too far along in the disease they said—if only he had been diagnosed earlier... He shook his head and sighed.

His eyes swept his cramped office, where space was a premium. He was an important priest. He could have gotten a bigger office if he had requested one, but he had never cared about the size or grandeur of his office. He was gone most of the time anyway. Only now, at the end of his life, as his eyes swept the small room, stopping now and again to rest on a pile of papers or a  stack of  books fighting for room, did he realize the meagerness of his legacy. Who would remember him, an insignificant little priest that toiled away in a basement in the Vatican?

Paul walked over to his desk and sat down in an old creaking office chair and stared at a half written paper that lay on his desktop. He had started the paper only last week, before the news of his cancer. How quickly time passes when so little of it remains.

They say shock followed by anger, denial, depression, and, finally, acceptance, was the usual progression of events when one received such a death sentence. He wondered what stage he was in at the moment. He seemed to be feeling the effects of all of them, but anger the most, definitely anger with fear gnawing at the edges. Paul sighed heavily, shaking his head, whether he accepted death or not, death was coming. And the only peace was that of God. Yet, he could find no peace no matter how hard he prayed.  Why was that peace so difficult for him to find?  Had he seen too much of the world, come to know too much, to believe in God as he once did?

Paul had begun to question his faith long ago, not God so much as the way his religious beliefs were structured around God. His scholarly studies had found so many similarities between Christ’s life and other pagan religions, many of them preceding Christ’s life by hundreds, even thousands of years. Even dying on the cross was not unique nor the rumor of a resurrection. All had been done before in myth and legend. The miracles had also been done before—by the prophets of the Old Testament and others.

Paul believed the message that Jesus brought: believe in Jesus and be saved, love one another—all of the rest. He believed the human part of the teachings of Jesus, but he had begun to question the divinity part, the God part, of the Christian doctrine.

The Jews said there was only one God. That was the reason they crucified Jesus because Jesus claimed to be the Son of God and therefore equal to God. That was blasphemy to an orthodox Jew.

Jesus’ mission had been to the Jews as he clearly stated in the Bible. He had come to lead the Jews to salvation. In that, he failed. Most of the Jews rejected his theology, only a handful accepted it. But that handful found a ready audience in the Gentiles, pagans who believed in many gods. What was one more god?  The disciples of Jesus easily converted them, but the Jews were a lost cause. To this day, few Jews were Christians.

Why did he have to have a crisis of faith now?  He had no time for this. Perhaps that was why he so desperately needed to attend the Christian Discovery Conference being held in America. He needed to get his faith back. The faith he had possessed as a young man before he knew too much.

He pulled the blood stained handkerchief from his pocket and stared down at it. He had pills and a strong narcotic cough syrup to battle the pain when it became too much to bear. The doctors said he could function almost normally for a while longer, then he would become bedridden, the pain increasing to unbearable levels, kept at bay only by mind-numbing narcotics. It would not be a pleasant way to die.

He tore his mind away from that unpleasant line of thought and focused on the upcoming conference. The Gospel of Jesus—could it possibly be true that a document written by the hand of Jesus had survived two thousand years?  The length of time was staggering in itself, yet the Stein family claimed that was exactly what had happened. They had protected the document all that time in order to present Jesus’ words to the world at the appropriate time, according to the desires of Jesus.

An abrupt knocking on his door interrupted his thoughts. “Yes, who is it?”

The door opened to reveal Father Peter Romano, all smiles and a genuine sympathetic look about him. Paul could not ever remember that not being the case. He didn’t want to talk to Father Romano, but Paul stood up and forced himself to smile anyway.

“What can I do for you, Father Romano?”

“I missed you at our support group. I came by to see how you were doing.”

“As well as anyone who has recently been diagnosed with cancer,” Paul couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice.

“I sense resentment in you. That’s why we have a support group. To help you deal with those feelings. Not everything goes away with a few simple Hail Marys, you know.”

“I know all too well. Forgive me, but I find it depressing sitting around in a circle looking at a group of old priests about to die, all of them much older than me.”

“That is the flesh talking, a flesh, I might add, that doesn’t want to die, anymore than it wants to stop sinning. As priests, we have to overcome the flesh and keep it subdued. Death is not the end, you know that, only the beginning. Our Savior waits for us in heaven.”

“Yes...yes, I know. But the flesh is strong and nothing is stronger in the flesh than the fear of death, of an ending to everything. I have prayed and will continue to do so, but the fear and depression continue to abide with me.”

“Paul, it takes time to adjust,” Father Romano said softly, sympathetically. “Don’t be discouraged. Each additional day you receive from this moment forward is a gift from God, enjoy it and thank God for it.”

Paul nodded with a sad smile on his face. “I know you are right. I just find it difficult at the moment to take this all in—death was not something I planned on quite so soon.”

“None of us do, Paul. We all assume that our lives will go on forever, although logically we know that can’t be true. Death is something that a man avoids thinking about or facing until it is forced upon him.” His smile broadened. “I am confident that given time you will come to terms with your fate. And that is where the support group can help you. Please come to our next meeting.”

Paul nodded and said, “I will try. Thank you for putting up with a terrified priest who is feeling very sorry for himself right now.”

“That is only natural,” Father Romano said as he turned to leave. “You know sometimes there is a blessing in the darkest of tidings. Perhaps this is a chance for you to draw closer to our Lord.”  With those last few words, Father Romano left, closing the door quietly after him.

Paul stood staring at that closed door for a long time, thinking. He was right, Paul thought. This was a time for him to explore his relationship with his Savior. Not just prayer, but study, and not in fear or desperation, but in hope. Perhaps in that search, he would find himself.

Paul started coughing again. He quickly pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, coughing repeatedly into it. When the coughing spell finally subsided, he looked down at the fresh streaks of blood that appeared on his handkerchief and hoped he lived long enough to make it to the conference.

Chapter 25

CIA agent Mack Mackay stood on a white sandy beach in Gulfview, Alabama, barefoot and dressed in tan shorts and a blue pull-over polo shirt, wriggling his toes in the soft wet sand and watching the blue-green ocean waves of the Gulf of Mexico roll into shore. The early morning sun was low on the horizon and a crystal blue sky greeted him from above.

He was an athletic looking man of average height. There was nothing to distinguish him from any other man. An ordinary, nondescript appearance was a help in his profession. A chilly early spring breeze ruffled his thick, curly brown hair as his steel gray eyes swept the beach, which was largely deserted.

He glanced out over the ocean. No swimmers. The water was too cold for swimmers, and the beach too cool for sunbathers, but Mackay liked the cold ocean water. He had already been for a walk along the beach, letting the cold ocean waves sweep over his bare feet. This was a nice change from Washington. He had been rapidly going stir-crazy there, on medical leave with nothing to do, recovering from a bullet wound to the chest.

He smiled at his good fortune. He had a nice room facing the gulf, and maybe, if fate was kind, he could find time for a nice little holiday here on the gulf in between his surveillance duties.

This was exactly what he needed to complete his recovery. He had talked his superiors into releasing him early and letting him complete his convalescence while doing some light surveillance duty.

Mackay took a deep breath of the sea breezes flowing in toward the shore. The fresh sea air was a balm to his spirits. After the Bangkok fiasco, he could use a little relaxation on a beach. He absently rubbed his chest. The area where he had been shot still ached from time to time. On his last mission, he hadn’t seen the second man until it was almost too late. Fortunately for Mackay, his aim was better than that of the second man or he would be dead now, but he had always been lucky.

He glanced at his watch. Simon Stein would be landing soon, and Mackay intended to be there. His instructions were clear: observe only, unless the Gospel of Jesus was in danger of being stolen, then act to prevent such a theft. His mission was to make sure the Gospel of Jesus reached the conference on Wednesday. Sounded easy enough, but he suspected that light surveillance duty could develop into something more if things went south. He wouldn’t be sent here unless the CIA expected someone to attempt to steal the ancient work.

Mackay watched as a sea bird flew low along the beach, his mind turning over the different possible angles of his assignment as the bird passed overhead. It was always what the agency didn’t tell you that often told him the most. There was going to be trouble, and he was going to be right in the middle of it, exactly where he wanted to be.

Chapter 26

John entered the church sanctuary, his gaze finding the huge wooden cross situated above the choir loft. He had stopped here on the way back from the hospital en route to the airport to pick up Simon Stein, an old college buddy that wanted to stay with him for a few days. Simon was attending some kind of conference and presenting something called the Gospel of Jesus. He vaguely recalled some mention of that ancient document in the newspapers, but he hadn’t paid much attention. His mind was on other things these days.

John was sure that Peter Brown was dead by now, and he didn’t want to face his pastor with that disappointing news just yet. So John sat down on the front pew, delaying that meeting with his pastor as long as possible.

He needed prayer—and answers. His life was in turmoil. He was a retired cop with no job prospects, struggling with a life changing spiritual experience. Only his faith kept him going these days. Every job interview ended in a turn down. No one wanted to hire an ex-cop with a tarnished record.

Now he had failed his pastor. His pastor, despite John’s protest, had expected a healing miracle. Now, he would have to face his pastor and tell him that Peter Brown had not been healed, instead Brown was dead.

John passed a hand through his sandy colored hair and sighed. So much was expected of him now. He knew that word was spreading through the church about his healing ability. More and more people were seeking him out. Seeing the disappointment, the anguish in their eyes when he failed to heal them—he didn’t think that he could endure that for long. Would he have to leave this church?

John put his hands together, leaning forward to place them on the back of the church pew in front of him. He began to pray, seeking some measure of solace for himself. After a few minutes, he felt his depression easing, dropping away from him like old clothes unfit to wear any longer, and feelings of peace beginning to move through his spirit. He ended his prayer and stared up at the cross, knowing that God was always with him.

Feeling better, he leaned back in the wooden pew and considered his situation. Was he a healer as his pastor insisted, or was he something else? He remembered Jesus in the Bible and how he healed people with a touch or a word, always saying ‘believe’. There were examples of disciples healing people. There was something special about them, something that defied duplication, that ability to stretch out a hand and heal someone with a touch, yet something like that was happening to him, but there was no consistency. Sometimes people were healed, sometimes not. Reading the Bible, people seemed to always be healed—or were the failures left out? There’s a blasphemous thought. He smiled briefly at that.

He had attended church in Gulfview for three months now. He had seen no dramatic examples of healing during that time, no one standing up out of a wheelchair and walking kind of miracles—not until now. People had claimed small healings from headaches and mild illnesses, but nothing extraordinary. Why weren’t extraordinary healings a common occurrence among the faithful? Were special people, called by God, required? Jesus indicated all Christians could heal others. What was he missing?

He remembered Simon the Sorcerer in the Bible asking Peter for the baptism of the Holy Spirit so that he might perform miracles and wonders he had seen the disciples perform. Peter rebuked him for thinking that money could buy the gift of the Holy Spirit.

Did the Holy Spirit fall on him that Wednesday night last week? Was that what made him fall unconscious and then awaken with strange new abilities? What was the Holy Spirit? He knew what the Bible said, but he wanted to know more. He shook his head, so many unanswered questions.

John sighed and stood up. It was time to face his pastor with the unpleasant news of Brown’s death. He headed for the pastor’s office.

Chapter 27

John knocked twice on the closed door and then entered the pastor’s study, but the pastor wasn’t there. He approached the large oak desk that dominated the far side of the room and reached for the phone, pressing the intercom button for the church front office. A warm, friendly, feminine voice answered and told him that the pastor was out this morning. He didn’t know the woman, but then there were many people in the church that he didn’t know. He thanked her and hung up, feeling somewhat relieved that he did not have to face the pastor yet with the news of Brown’s death.

He sat down behind the pastor’s desk for a moment, tapping his fingers lightly on the wooden desktop, recalling the many times he had sat in this very room trying to come to grips with himself while his pastor gently counseled him.

John had arrived in Gulfview with deep emotional wounds. Forced to retire from a job he loved, an ex-cop with no prospects and blamed for something that wasn’t his fault, he was pretty much a basket case. Pastor Michael Phillips had helped him find his way back, helped him find his faith again. It was a difficult three months.

Then this baptism of the Holy Spirit occurred, transforming him into something he didn’t understand or want, and ever since that defining moment, had continued to change him a little more with each passing day. He wanted to please God, but surely he wasn’t the one, couldn’t be the one to represent God in the miracle business. He was too flawed for that.

He glanced around the study, his eyes stopping at the floor-to-ceiling built-in bookshelves that were located across the room from where he sat. He had taken more than a few books from those shelves in the last three months, searching for answers. His eyes continued around the room, stopping at the twin glass doors that led out into the church gardens. Brightly colored flowers adorned the small rectangular garden outside.

His eyes returned to the desk and the black leather chair across from him. He had spent many hours in that chair talking to his pastor, trying to find a way to piece his life back together. A small smile lit his face. There was a feeling of peace and tranquility about this room.

John heard a light tapping at the pastor’s door and glanced up as a tall, thin woman opened the door and stepped through into the study.

“The pastor isn’t here,” he said with a friendly smile.

“I’m not here to see the pastor. I saw you in the sanctuary, and when you came in here, I followed you.”

There was something sad, almost fearful, in the woman’s voice. Her eyes were blue and hesitant. Her hand brushed back some blond strands of hair that had fallen onto her face. He thought that she was very pretty until she turned the right side of her face toward him. In shock, he stared at a scarred and pitted face, terrible to look at. He couldn’t help flinching slightly. The contrast between the left and right sides of her face were so startling.

She grimaced and said with some anger, “That’s what they all do. They get that same look of horror on their face, then look away as if I were some kind of monster. I usually wear a face patch, but I took it off when I came in here. I wanted you to see my face.”

“I am truly sorry,” he said, not knowing what else to say.

“Are you? Sorry enough to help me? I don’t need sympathy. I need help. I need you to heal me.” She moved closer to the desk. He stood up, unsure of how to handle this situation.

John licked his lips nervously. He was reluctant to attempt to heal her, but the desperation in her eyes moved him, but what she was asking... to heal such a disfigurement... There was so much damage. He couldn’t conceive of healing such a disfigurement. He took a deep breath and regained control of himself, then walked around the corner of the pastor’s desk, stopping only a few feet away from her.

“It’s true that I have prayed with some people, and they received some healing relief, but God does the healing. I have prayed with others who received no healing at all. There are no guarantees.”

“You are my last chance,” she moved closer to him, until their bodies were almost touching, her eyes pleading with him.

“I...I can pray with you if you like,” he reluctantly said, fully expecting failure.

“I want more than prayer. I need healing. Don’t you understand? Can you imagine going through life looking like this? Ever since I was a girl and acid was splashed on my face, I have carried these scars. I’ll never know love, happiness, or a family as long as I carry these scars—surely I have suffered enough.”

John saw her misery and something rose up inside of him—compassion, certainly, and a deep need to help this wretched woman. Surely, God, healing could be found for this woman, he thought.

“Do you believe in God and Jesus Christ?” he asked as he stared into her eyes.

She nodded, her eyes never leaving his.

“Do you believe God can heal you?”

The woman nodded again, her eyes growing large with hope and desperation.

“Let us pray together,” John said.

John placed his right hand on her damaged face, bowed his head, and began to pray. The words came haltingly at first, then, as he continued, the words begin to flow more evenly; his voice became deeper and more confident. He felt a deep stirring within the core of his being, a feeling of mercy mixed with a strong determination not to fail, but no healing energy yet. God must hear my prayer, must meet this woman’s need else I can not continue on if a need such as this can not be met.

Eventually, his words ceased, yet he continued to stand with his hand on the woman’s disfigured face, refusing to open his eyes, refusing to give up. The minutes passed. The woman began to grow restless. Still the power of God eluded John.

John continued to wait for God’s miracle. The room was quiet, not a sound could be heard except for their labored breathing. She started to move away from him.

“Remain still. You must learn patience and wait on God.”

The woman stopped moving. John placed his left hand on the crown of her head, leaving his right hand pressing on her injured cheek. He still felt no healing power surging through him, but he refused to give up. He searched his inner being, pleading with God to manifest the power needed to heal this woman before him.

As the seconds ticked slowly by, a faint feeling of healing power begin to manifest itself in the inner core of his being, slowly growing stronger and spreading throughout his body, pushing out from the central core of his being until that expanding power reached the fingers that touched the woman’s cheek, then the power suddenly stopped as if meeting a brick wall.

“Believe, woman. Believe with all your heart. Forgive anyone you have cause against. Cleanse your heart and soul, yield to the lord your God. The power can not flow if hate and revenge fill your soul.”

He felt tears falling on his right hand as the woman began to weep silently. Suddenly, the wall of resistance he had encountered collapsed and the heat in his hands begin to spread from his fingertips to the woman’s face. He felt the power grow that flowed through him until a river of power flowed out of his hand. He opened his eyes. In astonishment, he saw the dark, ragged scars on her face begin to curl inward on themselves and grow smaller. He closed his eyes and continued to pray even harder. Long minutes ticked by. Then, the power suddenly clicked off as if a switch had been pressed somewhere.

John opened his eyes slowly, removing his hand from the woman’s cheek. In amazement, he gazed on a face that was totally free of all scarring and disfigurement. Her skin was as pink as a baby’s skin. John could not believe the extent of the healing. Her face looked as if it had never been scarred.

“What...what do you see? Did you heal me? I...I felt something, pain and heat on my face.” She looked from John’s face to the surrounding room, her eyes finally resting on a long, rectangular mirror hanging on a side wall. She rushed toward the mirror, afraid of what she would see, yet hoping against hope that a miracle had happened, and she was healed.

On seeing her face, free of disfigurement for the first time since childhood, she cried out in joy, sinking to her knees and sobbing. “At last, at last, I am whole!”

John had not moved from where he stood—his feet rooted to the floor as amazement filled him. He had truly witnessed a healing miracle. Her face was perfection. She truly was a beautiful woman now. Silently, he began to praise God, thanking him for his mercy.

After a brief time, John moved toward her, offering her his hand to rise to her feet. She rose with tears still streaming down her face.

She turned toward him and said, “It isn’t just my face. I...I feel clean inside, free of all the anger and hate that I have carried since childhood. I feel like a new person.”

“That is the true miracle,” John said.

“What can I ever do to repay you?” she said, still weeping with joy.

“Give God the glory, not me. And tell no one that I healed you. Tell them God delivered you.”

“But why? You did a wonderful thing for me.”

“It is a favor I ask of you,” he replied. He knew if people found out that he had aided in this miracle there would be a deluge of hopeful people seeking healing from him.

“I won’t tell them.” She wiped the tears from her face and walked toward the door. She gave him a brief backward smile of gratitude over her left shoulder, and then she was gone.

John walked over to the glass doors of the study, his eyes studying the garden. Red and yellow roses were blooming from a dozen bushes. He passed a hand through his thick sandy-colored hair. He could no longer deny that he could heal people. That had been a lie that he had told himself to avoid the awesome responsibility that God had given him. Now he had to admit to himself that he had the healing power, even though that power didn’t seem to work all the time; he could not heal everyone that came to him.

Perhaps his healing ability was only part of something greater, something he was suppose to do. That might explain why he could heal so few people. That wasn’t his main purpose, just a sort of by-product. He sighed deeply and shook his head. He was just as confused as ever.

He turned from his view of the garden. It was time to leave.

Chapter 28

As John left the study and approached the front doors of the church, he met a tall, broad-shouldered man with a small mustache and dark eyes dressed in a dark blue well-tailored pinstripe suit and holding a cane with a brass handle who deliberately blocked his exit. Leaning heavily on the cane, the man gave John a friendly smile, but his eyes were cold and hard, betraying the friendliness of his smile. As a cop, John’s world had largely consisted of two types of individuals: predators and victims. This man had the distinctive look of a predator.

John felt his neck stiffen and the muscles in his shoulders bunch. You didn’t look away from predators, and you didn’t give ground. That just encouraged them. No, you met predators with a direct stare and steely courage or you would quickly become their next victim.

As John approached the man, he caught a brief spiritual glimpse of a translucent haze surrounding the man with large areas of blackness mixed with gray. Then the haze suddenly winked out, leaving the man staring at him with a faint smile. John wasn’t even sure he had seen  the haze, but he remembered seeing a similar spiritual haze once before. That haze had surrounded a woman he had healed and the haze had been mostly white with small areas of gray with only a very small streak of blackness. He knew that woman had been a faithful Christian with deep spiritual commitments. The difference between the two hazes was rather severe. Had he just seen the difference between good and evil?

Did the man’s blackness represent evil? Did he just catch a glimpse of this man’s soul?  He didn’t know, but it worried him. He didn’t want to know what was in a man’s soul. That was for God to know, not him.

As he continued his approach toward the stranger, his sixth sense, the sense every good cop possessed, kicked in, the same sixth sense that had saved his life on more than one occasion as a cop.  You don’t last long on the streets without a sixth sense. And that sense said this man was dangerous. He stopped a few feet in front of the stranger.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sebastian Black. I believe we have a mutual friend, Simon Stein.”

“You know Simon?”

“I think it would be more accurate to say I know of Simon—and the Gospel of Jesus he is bringing with him.”

“I don’t know much about that.”

Black raised his eyebrows slightly in amusement. “You must have heard or read something, Mr. Arrowsmith. The Gospel of Jesus has been all over the media for weeks now. There are reporters already pouring into this quaint little resort town of yours to cover the university conference and this now famous ancient relic.”

“Yes, I did hear something about the conference. What is that got to do with you?” John studied Black’s smiling face and cold eyes.

“A great deal. My superiors are very interested in these scrolls and will pay handsomely for them.” Sebastian paused for a moment, an appraising glint in his eyes. John felt that intense scrutiny, the scrutiny of a predator trying to decide on his next move.

“Why?” John said coldly.

“Why is not important. How much are we willing to pay—that is the question of most interest to you.”

“You offering to buy this Gospel of Jesus?”

“Most assuredly.”

John shrugged and started to move past the stranger. “That is something you need to discuss with Simon Stein.”

“Wait,” the stranger placed a restraining hand on John’s arm. The grip was strong, insistent. It was obvious that Black wasn’t used to being told no.

John glanced down at the man’s hand with a sharp, agitated glance and then back toward Sebastian Black. He didn’t say a word. He just glared at the man. A glare that said there would be trouble if Black didn’t remove his hand. Black frowned and released him.

“Forgive me if I seem a bit forward, but I am most interested in this Gospel of Jesus.”

“I think we are done,” John snapped.

“You could be of enormous help to me, Mr. Arrowsmith, and I am willing to pay a large commission for that help.”

“I don’t sell out my friends. Now, if you will excuse me.” John pushed past the tall man, brushing the taller man’s shoulder.

Black called after him, “Life has not been kind to you lately, has it Mr. Arrowsmith?”

Arrowsmith stopped. Black’s words struck deep within Arrowsmith and stirred a harsh truth that was painful. It was hard to go from being a respected policeman contributing to the community and having self-respect to nothing, no job and low self-respect, at the bottom rung of humanity.

Black pressed, “I know all about you. First you were forced into early retirement by spineless politicians. Now no one wants to hire you because of a stained employment record. None of that is going to change unless you take steps to change it.”

John glanced back over his left shoulder at Black. “And what steps would those be?” He already knew what Black’s answer would be. He could feel it coming.

“The commission you could earn by helping me would be quite large. I also have some pull with some rather large corporations. One in particular is looking for a Chief of Security with a six-figure salary. With my recommendation, that job could be yours. Life would be good again, Mr. Arrowsmith.”

To say that he was tempted was an understatement. John had to clamp his lips shut tight to keep from jumping at that opportunity. To be employed again. It wasn’t cop work, but it was close. The chance to head a security team, to draw a large salary, to be respected again...

John fought down an urge to accept Black’s offer. He knew without being told that once he accepted such an offer, there would be strings, strings that would grow thicker and more prevalent with the passing of time. In the end, Black would own him.

He had seen cops get sucked into that trap. It always ended badly.

“I don’t think so.” The words came out slow and reluctant, revealing his desperation and need. He hated letting Black see how tempting that job offer had been.

“Don’t make that final, not yet. Give yourself time to think about the offer. My employers are prepared to be very generous. Money, a great job, you would be set for life. Opportunities like that don’t come along often. You could move out of that rundown hovel you currently call home. Get a nice place, buy a nice car, and begin to live a little.”

John shook his head as a slight cynical smile played on his lips.  As a cop he had received his share of bribe offers. The spiel was always the same: make a lot of money, just give up your integrity and self-respect and you could be rich. “All I have to do is betray a friend?”

“Betray is such a harsh word. You would merely act as a go between. Set up a meeting for us to talk with Mr. Stein. Now is that so hard?”

“And if he won’t part with this Gospel of Jesus, what then?”

“We can be very persuasive?”

“And we both know what that means. No thanks. As I said, I don’t betray my friends, but I will let him know you are interested.”

“For now I suppose that will have to do,” Black said, frowning.

John continued on toward the church exit, leaving the tall, dark haired man staring after him.

“We will talk again. I will keep that offer open, but not for long. Think on it,” Sebastian Black called after John.

John kept walking. Black’s offer was all he could think about. Black’s offer of money and a job struck at the core of his basic needs. He wasn’t willing to sell a friend out, not yet, hopefully not ever, but the temptation to accept Black’s job offer was strong. He wasn’t likely to receive another job offer anytime soon.

He also knew that Black would not give up easily. Men like that never did. The offer would be extended again, and he wasn’t sure that next time he could turn that offer down. That thought bothered him most of all as he walked out of the church.

Chapter 29

Agent in Charge of Special Projects, Roger Thornburg, didn’t like having to use Agent Dan Jones. He had reviewed the folder that the FBI had sent over. The man reeked of integrity and honesty which made him ideal for the FBI, not so much for operations in Homeland Security, particularly an op that required bending the rules more than a little. Integrity and honesty could get in the way. Orders were all that mattered—and obeying them.

Thornburg slammed his desk top with his open right hand in deep frustration. He had no choice but to use Jones. He knew that. His superiors had already made that decision and told him to live with it. But that decision made his job harder.

He wiped his face with his left hand. He had good men in his division that could have been picked to run this op. His boss said he wanted insurance in case things turned sour and his agents failed. Thornburg thought of this entire operation as a personal slap in the face. He was good at his job. His men were efficient and smart. But his superiors seemed to have little confidence in him and were already preparing for failure. They wanted a fall guy, a scapegoat, in place and ready to take the blame for that anticipated failure.

What was even more mysterious was why the FBI agreed. The FBI director had to know that nothing good could come from him lending Homeland a top FBI agent. Yet he had agreed. The director must have been put under enormous political pressure to accede to Homeland’s demand for a senior FBI agent for this clandestine operation.

Thornburg sighed heavily and decided to make the best of a bad situation. He reached for the intercom on his desk.

“Send Agent Jones in please,” he wiped the frown off his face as he stood up to meet Jones and put a professional, but false, smile on his face.

Special Agent Dan Jones walked into the room, spotted Thornburg immediately, and headed straight for him, stopping in front of his desk and reluctantly shaking Thornburg’s outstretched hand. Thornburg indicated the seat at his left with a wave of his hand and said, “Please, make yourself comfortable. I imagine you have a few questions.”

“Yes, no one has briefed me yet on my duties and responsibilities. My chief didn’t tell me much, just that you had a special operation that required some assistance from the FBI because of some manpower shortage.”

Thornburg forced himself to keep smiling as he studied Jones over his desk top. The manpower shortage alibi had been a lie.   His superiors had used that reason to persuade the FBI to loan Jones to him. “Things are tight right now in Homeland Security due to some recent budget cuts. I expect that will be remedied soon. We are too important to be hamstrung like that for long. As for your duties, you work directly for me on this operation. The team you will head is experienced and has been together for a few years—all top notch.”

“Don’t they already have a team leader?”

“Yes, but it was felt we needed a more experienced agent in overall charge of the op. However, I was surprised someone of your extensive experience was sent. I have read your record. Quite impressive.”

Jones was getting an ugly, knotted feeling in the middle of his stomach. Thornburg was obviously lying. Jones had been in the FBI too long not to be able to read people. Wheeler had been right. There was no manpower shortage. This was all a setup, but why? It was also obvious that Thornburg didn’t want him here and had been pressured to put an FBI agent on the ops team.

“And what special project am I assigned?” he asked, carefully keeping his face and voice neutral.

Thornburg leaned back and said nothing for a few moments. Then finally, he said, “Are you a religious man, Agent Jones?”

“No more than others, I suspect.”

“If you were asked by your government to confiscate a religious document, could you comply?”

Agent Jones studied Thornburg for a moment, wondering what this game was about. Jones felt that he was on unfamiliar ground and had to be cautious about his answer. Thornburg was testing him.

“My duty always comes first. Why are we seizing a religious document?”

“Why is not your concern,” Thornburg said. “This is a clandestine op, Agent Jones. While we will observe the law, we may occasionally have to bend it somewhat. If you can agree to that, then maybe this might work.”  He paused a moment, then continued, “Our agents in Jerusalem have confirmed that a man by the name of Simon Stein is attending the Christian Discovery Conference in Gulfview, Alabama, and is bringing some ancient scrolls called the Gospel of Jesus to be presented at that conference. World renowned religious experts and clerics from around the world will be in attendance at this conference to authenticate these scrolls. The conference is scheduled to begin on Wednesday of this week.” Thornburg leaned across his desk, fixing Jones with a hard stare. “Those scrolls must never reach that conference.”

“Something important about this Gospel of Jesus?”

“Above your pay grade, Agent Jones. All you have to know is that this task is important, and nothing less than success is acceptable. Am I clear?”

“Understood,” he replied with a frown. Definitely a scapegoat, no doubt, but he knew there was nothing that he could do about it. Of course, he could always refuse and retire from the FBI with a black mark on his record. For a brief moment, he considered that option. In the end, habit and self-discipline took over. He had been in the FBI too long to turn down an assignment.

“The team you will be leading consist of six men. They are well trained.”

“I usually like to interview the members of any team that I lead.”

“No time for that. You and your team are booked on a plane leaving in a couple of hours. I want you in Gulfview by this afternoon. Stein will land there a few hours before you. Catch up to him and get those religious scrolls. As soon as you have them, I want you on a plane back here. I want you to personally lay those scrolls in my hands.”

Thornburg grew more nervous as he discussed the special project that Jones was being sent on. Jones knew that meant powerful bureaucrats further up the food chain were directing this operation.

At the conclusion of the briefing, Jones stood up. “Anything else?”

“No, you will pick up your team in the lobby. They are waiting for you. And Jones?”  Thornburg paused, frowning as he stared up at Jones. Jones could see the sweat beads forming on Thornburg’s forehead. Yes, very powerful bureaucrats, he thought. “Don’t fail me. More than you can know is riding on the success of this project.”

Jones nodded, turned, and left. Glad to be out of Thornburg’s office. He had just been shoved down a deep and very dark hole. He wondered if there was any exit.

Chapter 30

Rebecca Stein stood alone in the Gulfview regional airport studying the arrival times of incoming planes. It was a small airport with only a few regular arrivals a day. Her brother’s plane would be arriving in the next few minutes at twelve-thirty this afternoon. She surveyed the security gates that all passengers had to pass through on the way from their planes. Her brother would come through here.

One plane, not her brother’s, had already landed and all of the passengers were streaming through the security turnstiles and flooding the small lobby where she stood. Rebecca pressed back against a nearby wall, not far from the security turnstiles, to avoid the crowds, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. The crowds of passengers, eager to be off of the plane, surged passed her dressed in their dark suits, spring dresses, turtleneck sweaters, and jeans—all variety of dress from all parts of the country and world.

Rebecca wore dark sunglasses, a large brown hat with a wide brim, a long matching brown neck scarf that partially hid her face, and a simple, but elegant light brown dress. Her five foot height prevented her from seeing everyone around her, making her occasionally stand on tiptoes to get a better look at passengers exiting the security gates.

She licked her lips nervously and continued to search the faces of the people around her, looking for anyone that might be suspicious. She knew that enemies were after the Gospel of Jesus. That was why she was here.

Rebecca was waiting for the hand-off. The family had planned this down to the last detail. The Gospel of Jesus would be passed to her when Simon left the airplane. Simon was the decoy. They would try to make the hand-off as inconspicuous as possible, and if anyone was waiting or following Simon, they would continue to think that Simon had the Gospel of Jesus—if they worked this right.

So much depended on getting the Gospel of Jesus to the conference in two days. Once the gospel was authenticated, the world would have proof that Jesus wrote every word and two thousand years of waiting would be vindicated.

She moved closer to the security gate at the announcement over the airport public speakers that Simon’s plane had arrived. She had to time the switch carefully. Rebecca carried a brown leather briefcase identical to the one carried by her brother. She planned to synchronize her movements with Simon’s, switch their briefcases, and then fade back into the crowd, leaving Simon to proceed on. With luck, no one would notice the switch.

As she waited, the crowds thinned for a moment, and she spied a tall man with light sandy hair across the lobby, standing by the baggage room. He didn’t see her. She would know that face anywhere—John Arrowsmith. Her heart skipped a beat, her emotions surging. She had not intended to meet John. She desperately wanted to avoid meeting him.

Rebecca bit her lower lip, shrinking back against a nearby wall and making herself as small and invisible as she could. If he saw her, it would be disastrous on so many levels.

Twenty years...twenty years since she had last seen him, last rejected his marriage proposal. She continued to study his features, drinking in everything about him. He was thinner than she remembered and his face older, sadder. All the old emotions surged through her accompanied by painful memories that flooded back into her mind.

Rebecca thought that she was over John, had been over him for years, but now she knew that she had only buried her feelings for him, walled them off and refused to deal with them. Now she was paying the price. She forced her eyes away from John and shifted her position so that she was masked by the onrushing crowds pouring through the security gate from Simon’s plane.

Rebecca forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand, pushing her emotions aside and focusing on the upcoming switch of the briefcases. She could not afford to fail. Too much was riding on her succeeding in getting the Gospel of Jesus to that conference despite the fierce opposition that wanted to destroy the gospel forever. She put John out of her mind. She took a deep breath as she spotted her brother and plunged into the passing crowd.

Chapter 31

Tense and apprehensive, Simon Stein’s eyes continued to sweep the crowds in front of him as he moved down the concourse of the airport. The crowd was thick and moving fast. If he should miss Rebecca...

At last, at the end of the concourse, he spotted his sister sweeping in from his left side, looking disinterested, posing as just another hurried traveler. She moved smoothly up beside him, her hand reaching for his briefcase even as he reached for hers. He gave her a brief smile of recognition as they made the switch, and then watched her as she melted away again into the crowd around them, carrying the Gospel of Jesus with her.

He felt relieved as she walked away. Now, if anyone stopped him or tried to steal his briefcase, he would have nothing of value they could take. He saw John Arrowsmith waiting for him a minute later, standing by the entrance to the baggage area.

They shook hands briefly and smiled at each other.

“Good to see you, Simon. It has been years.” John pushed open the doors to the baggage area and walked in with Simon beside him. “Needless to say I was surprised when I received your phone call.”

“I’m sorry for the short notice, but when I found out you had moved here, it seemed like fate. I need to avoid publicity for a few days until the conference.”

“I see. This conference...”

“I will tell you everything later. Let’s get my bags first.”

“Have a pleasant flight?”

“Yes, just long. Oh, I see my bags.”

Simon hurried over and picked up his two bags from the revolving luggage carousel and followed John outside. They walked briskly toward the airport parking lot.

“I had a visitor about you,” John casually remarked.

Simon’s eyes fastened quickly on John, apprehension on his face. “A visitor?”

“Yes, a Mr. Sebastian Black. Heard of him?”

Simon shook his head.

“He seemed to know a lot about you and this conference you are attending. He seemed to think you were bringing something extremely important to the conference—this Gospel of Jesus.”

Simon frowned, apprehension wrinkling his forehead. “What did he want?”

“The Gospel of Jesus, of course. He seemed to be willing to pay a great deal of money for it.”

“The Gospel of Jesus is not for sale.”

“I figured that.”

Simon looked away from John, scanning the surrounding parking lot, wary of any strangers that might be looking his way.

“You seem reluctant to talk,” John said.

“Forgive me. We have kept this secret for a long time. At the conference, all will be revealed. Please be patient with me until then.”

A few minutes later, John reached his battered old SUV and lifted up the rear tailgate. Simon placed his two travel bags inside, keeping the briefcase with him. Before Simon entered the vehicle, he surveyed the parking lot once more, looking for anything unusual. He spotted nothing out of the ordinary. He let out a brief sigh of relief and got into John’s SUV.

“Anything wrong?” John asked.

Simon shook his head, but John knew better. He had not been a cop for twenty years without spotting all the signs of a man in trouble. Something was very wrong; he could feel it. He slid behind the wheel of his SUV, started the engine, and drove off.

Chapter 32

Rebecca sat alone in the airport cafe in a solitary corner booth. From that vantage point, through the cafe’s large glass panes, she had a panoramic view of the airport outside. Her eyes were currently fixed on a plane pulled up to the terminal and loading passengers for its next flight.

The image of John Arrowsmith standing inside the airport terminal was firmly fixed in her mind. He had that same forlorn, lonely looking stance that she had first noticed in college. She remembered admiring the new spring flowers that lined the college sidewalks when she had first noticed him. There had been something, even then, about John that had taken her breath away.

John had always thought they had met by accident. Nothing could have been further from the truth. From the moment she first glimpsed him, Rebecca had stalked him shamelessly determined not to let him get away.

She remembered the first time John had smiled at her. She adored that shy boyish grin. She realized only now, years later, that she had loved him from the moment she first saw him. Rebecca had never believed in love at first sight. Reason dictated you had to get to know someone, spend time with them, before love could manifest. She had been so wrong about that; then, she had been wrong about so many things.

His proposal of marriage had caught her off guard. Now, looking back, the proposal had been inevitable. They were in love. What else could he have done?

When he had proposed, everything had hit her at once: the reality of her situation, his desire to marry her, and her realization that she could not stay in America. She was part of a family with a great secret, and her place was in Jerusalem. She could not expect John to give up all of his hopes and dreams to move to a foreign country. She could not do that to him.

Torn between loyalties and the sudden surprise of his proposal, she had fled. Leaving a stunned and hurt young man behind her who didn’t understand why she had abandoned him.

As the years had passed, Rebecca had examined and reexamined that moment. She knew now that she should have talked with him, sought advice from her father, did anything but turn her back on the love of her life.

A heavy sigh escaped her lips. So much had been lost—so many wasted, lonely years. There would never be anyone else for her. Rebecca had heard there were some women like that—once they loved someone, there could be no one else. Once she would not have believed that.

She had tried to establish new relationships with other handsome young men. She was attractive and desirable. There were more than a few who had been eager. But somehow, when the relationship began to grow close, she had turned away. The more her emotions were aroused, the more she thought about John. The heartache that followed would become too much for her, and she would end the relationship.

Rebecca glanced at her watch and took a last sip of coffee. Her brother should be gone by now. Picking up the briefcase that contained the Gospel of Jesus, she stood up and headed for the airport exit.

Chapter 33

As John drove away from the airport, Simon said, “I appreciate you letting me stay with you, John. I know this was last minute and all.”  Simon glanced over his shoulder for the second time since they left the airport parking lot.

“Why do you keep glancing over your shoulder?  Expecting someone?”

“If men like your Mr. Black are already here, yes. Sorry for dragging you into this. There could be trouble.”

“Maybe you are worrying about nothing.”

Simon glanced over his shoulder again and frowned. “Perhaps.”

John glanced in the rear mirror and said, “There is someone behind us in a gray sedan. Whether they are following us...”  John left it hanging in the air like that, again wondering about Black. Were those his friends behind them?

“What do you plan to do?” Simon asked.

“Nothing until we are sure someone is following us.”

Simon frowned a moment, looking out of the car’s side window, then sighed and glanced back at John. “I heard about what happened to you, about your resignation and all. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” John replied coldly. That was a subject he didn’t want to talk about. No one likes to talk about his failures, particularly to an old college buddy who was successful.

John continued to drive, glancing in his rear view mirror every few minutes. After a couple of turns, he was on the interstate heading north. The gray sedan was close behind him.

Ten miles later, when John turned off the interstate onto an exit ramp, the gray sedan followed. He turned onto Lane Boulevard and the gray sedan appeared behind him a moment later. For the next few minutes, the gray sedan stayed with them, turning when John turned until there was no longer any doubt in John’s mind that they were being followed.

When would they make their move? That was the only question in John’s mind. His cop’s sixth sense kicked into high gear, his muscles tensed. He had to be ready. When the men following them made their move, it would happen quickly.

As John turned onto Bell Street, the gray sedan suddenly sped up as if to pass. John hit the brakes and let them drive by, throwing the gray vehicle off as it tried to turn into the front of John’s SUV and run it off the road. Instead, the gray sedan missed his SUV completely and flew pass the front fender of his vehicle, smashing into a massive oak tree that was leaning over a nearby street curb. The gray vehicle stalled out. John could hear the frantic attempts to restart the engine as he passed.

John stepped on the accelerator and sped away. He glanced in the rear view mirror and saw two men jump out of the sedan with guns drawn and one of them—a tall, heavyset man—fired at them, the bullet smashing into the rear glass of John’s SUV, leaving a small, neat, round hole in the glass. John pressed down harder on the gas pedal and turned the corner at the end of the street and kept going. He took a couple of more sharp turns. When he saw nothing in the rear view mirror after a few minutes, he pulled over and stopped.

John sat silently behind the steering wheel for a moment, then let out a deep breath, happy to still be alive, and said, “Those guys were serious. Know them?”

Simon shook his head and said, “Never saw them before.”

“Any idea who sent them?” John’s heart was still racing from his ordeal. Even an ex-cop breathes heavy when someone shoots at him.

“Perhaps your Mr. Black?” Simon replied weakly.

“You want to check to make sure this Gospel of Jesus is okay?”

“That won’t be necessary. I no longer have it,” he reluctantly admitted.

“What? You mean two men just tried to kill us for nothing?”

“I’m a decoy, plain and simple.” He glanced at John with a stubborn look.

“So who does have it?”

“My sister. I handed my briefcase off to her at the airport in case I was being followed.”

“Rebecca is here, in Gulfview?”

“Yes.”

John’s emotions surged as the thought of her echoed around in his brain. Anger and bitterness swelled up in him quickly. With effort, he shoved those emotions back down and sealed them off. This wasn’t the time. Dangerous people were after Simon—and now him.

John frowned as he glanced at Simon, but said nothing. He put the SUV in gear and drove home. He thought again about Black’s offer. Did the men that attempted to run him off the road work for Black? It seemed like a logical connection.

Chapter 34

Agent Mack Mackay watched from behind a newspaper, sitting in a nearby chair as the dark haired woman waited her turn to check into an ocean-front luxury hotel located near the airport. The check-in counter was busy this time of day so Mackay had found a comfortable spot and settled in to wait.

Mackay had observed Simon Stein closely when he emerged from the security area at the airport earlier today. He had caught the switch that occurred between Simon and this dark haired woman. The Gospel of Jesus had to be in the briefcase that was switched. There was no other explanation for the switch.

Simon Stein was to be the decoy and draw the attention of any enemies lurking about. Mackay applauded the clever, well thought out maneuver. He couldn’t have done better himself—well, in all modesty, maybe a little better. He wouldn’t have been followed.

He had one close call when the black haired woman had stopped at a bank and entered the safe deposit vault room. She had glanced back in his direction and nearly spotted him. Only quick action on his part had averted discovery.

He noticed her briefcase was noticeably lighter when she emerged from the vault. She obviously had stashed the contents of her briefcase in a safe deposit box. Smart move.

He had already snapped her picture and sent it in to the CIA for identification. He had also managed to secure a fingerprint off of a drinking glass in the airport cafe where she stopped for a few minutes after the switch. She had been very careful to let Simon Stein leave the airport first. Mackay would soon know the real identity of this woman.

He rose from his chair and pretended to be looking at some maps at the hotel check-in counter as the woman signed in. Mackay heard her name as she talked to the hotel clerk--Rebecca Stein. If that was her true name, then she was probably related to Simon Stein—sister maybe. The woman was given a hotel room key and told she had room 310 on the third floor. The clerk pointed toward the elevators across the hotel lobby. Mackay watched her walk over to the elevator and stop beside a dark skinned, Mediterranean-looking man as she patiently waited for the elevator to finish its descent to the ground floor.

Mackay’s eyes narrowed as he studied the thin, short man beside Rebecca Stein. The man had nervously smiled at Stein when she had first stopped beside him in front of the elevator, but his attention quickly left her to search the surrounding area. His eyes kept darting around constantly as if he was looking for someone, or afraid of someone. He was a suspicious looking man, obviously in some kind of trouble.  Mackay shrugged. The man was not his problem.

Mackay turned to leave. The woman didn’t appear to be going anywhere soon. He knew where the Gospel of Jesus was located—at least he thought he knew.

Now it was time to re-acquire Simon Stein. He had managed to copy down the license plate of the man who picked Stein up and after a brief trace identified the man as John Arrowsmith. It was turning into a very busy afternoon.

Chapter 35

Husaam Khan, a short dark-haired man of middle-eastern descent, rode the elevator up with a petite dark haired woman clutching a brown briefcase. It was late Monday afternoon. He smiled politely at her, but did not try to make conversation. He tried to be inconspicuous whenever possible. Attention was the one thing that Husaam did not want.

Husaam had spent the morning at the local university trying to learn as much about the Christian Discovery Conference as possible. He had not learned much, only that the conference was to begin at nine o’clock on Wednesday, two days from now and that the Gospel of Jesus would not be at the conference until then.

The elevator doors opened on the second floor and Husaam stepped out. He walked briskly down the green carpeted hallway and stopped at his door. He swiped the hotel magnetic card through the door lock reader and entered his hotel room.

Husaam visibly relaxed as the door shut behind him. He had been here since yesterday, flying in on Sunday. He had expected to be contacted by now, but so far no one had shown up. Time was getting short.

Sometimes he wondered why he was even here. His cell leader told him that he was chosen for this task because of his devotion to Allah. Husaam knew flattery when he heard it. This was just a convenient way to get rid of him. Husaam had begun asking too many probing questions at the cell meetings.

Husaam shook his head in disappointment with his life. He had come to America to make a difference in the holy war against America, not detonate a bomb in some small, insignificant town in America.

Husaam had no choice, of course. If he had refused the assignment, he would have been executed. Strange how our glorious leaders never go on these dangerous missions themselves, he thought.

His year in America and exposure to American television and news media had made him question many things about the Islamic movement, the so-called Jihad. He did not question the need to spread the Islamic religion to the world, but his leaders seemed to focus on violence and their own self-centered goals and needs, instead of focusing on the needs of Islam.

Husaam slid the glass doors aside and stepped out onto the hotel balcony. His room faced the Gulf of Mexico, expensive he knew. A sort of reward for what he was about to do, he guessed. The ocean breeze felt good on his face and reminded him a little of home—the sand and water. Homesickness suddenly swept over him, strong and deep. What was he doing here?  He asked himself that question again, never finding a satisfactory answer.

His father, a doctor, had tried to tell him that this Jihad was not his cause, that Islam was also about peace and tolerance of others, but Husaam was already caught up in the enthusiasm and rhetoric of his college friends. He had been attending a university, one of the oldest educational institutions in Arabia, located in the Saudi Arabian capital of Riyadh, a city of over four million people.

Husaam had been in his second year at the College of Medicine, following in his father’s footsteps, when he became enthralled with the call to arms against all infidels, particularly America. His friends encouraged him to join the Jihad against American. Soon he found himself in a fanatical extremist group, though he didn’t think of them as being fanatical.

Because of his family connections and background, it was easy for him to obtain a student visa to further his medical studies in America. At first his father had objected, then gave in, thinking that Husaam was becoming more dedicated to the study of medicine.

Husaam remembered vividly the fierce argument he had with his father the night before he left. Some of his college friends had come over to see him off to America, praising him for his devotion to the fight against America. His father had overheard their conversation, shattering the web of lies that Husaam had carefully nurtured. His father had forbid him to go to America and ordered him to go back to his medical studies at the university, but Husaam had refused and stormed out of the house. He had not seen or spoken to his father since.

Tears moistened Husaam’s eyes. Two years he had been gone from home, two years that he had not spoken to his father whom he loved. Perhaps that was the first crack in his dedication to the Jihad ideology.

The cracks widened as he lived in America and learned that these people were not evil, that they believed in freedom and individual rights, that they tolerated Moslems, indeed people of all religions. As he watched the uncensored news on television night after night, as he saw what terrorist did, the mangled bodies of their innocent victims, many of them Moslems, as they carried their war around the world, the more he questioned his involvement in this Jihad. To be sure, his small cell was only part of a minor terrorist group, one of many Jihad terrorist groups in the world, but his group was ambitious. They were actually proud of being called terrorists.

His terrorist cell leader, Jamal, was intense in his devotion to the Jihad. Every time the six members of his cell were called together, Jamal would spend hours in passionate oratory about the glory of their cause. Husaam gradually came to the conclusion that Jamal just liked to hear himself talk. For two years that was all Husaam did—attend meetings. There was no action taken against anyone.

To relieve the loneliness, Husaam had started going to a local mosque. He found the people friendly and open. Jamal would scornfully refer to them as Americanized Moslems and warned Husaam against associating with them, but Husaam didn’t care. The mosque filled a need in his life, and as he listened to the other worshipers talk about their lives, he became envious.

He was invited to several homes and found the atmosphere friendly, reminding him of his father’s home in Saudi Arabia. With increasing frequency, he thought of home and of his father, his mother, and his brothers and sisters. As each day passed, he asked himself why he was here.  How had he let himself get caught up in terrorist activities; he wasn’t really a terrorist. He didn’t want to kill anyone.

Then orders came. His cell was commanded to destroy this conference in Gulfview as a warning to the rest of the world that there must be no accommodation with the infidels. This Gospel of Jesus must not be allowed to remain in an infidel’s hands.

At the next meeting, Jamal had chosen him for the task. He had tried to get out of it, but Jamal was adamant and hinted at death and eternal damnation for anyone who resisted doing the will of Allah. Everyone in the room shouted and praised Allah, encouraging Husaam to do Allah’s will. Relief showed plainly on the faces that had surrounded him at the meeting, putting the lie to their false words and actions. No one envied him or his mission.

Numb and confused, he had walked out of that meeting, packed his bags, and was escorted by two of his fellow cell members to a plane destined for Gulfview, Alabama, and told that they would be watching him. When he asked about the bomb he was to use to blow up the conference, he was told he would be contacted by someone who knew about bombs.

So now he occupied a hotel room in Gulfview, waiting for a phone call from a bomb maker so he could kill people he didn’t even know. How stupid he was to be sucked into this nightmare, but how could he get out of this trap?

Chapter 36

Special Agent Dan Jones stood passively before a large rectangular window consisting of a single sheet of glass and looked out over the city of Gulfview. He had never heard of this city until he received orders to come here. His team had arrived a few hours ago by plane and was still getting organized. They had taken over the third floor of the local federal building. The screams of protest and anger had been prevalent as his team ousted the current occupants. He essentially told everyone to take a couple of vacation days off, courtesy of Uncle Sam.

He needed this entire floor and the security that went with it. The current occupants had no choice but to leave, particularly when he gave them a copy of a federal order to vacate the premises. He had only a few days to work some magic. This was Monday and Wednesday was the day of the conference. Not enough time, he thought. Not nearly enough time.

Sounds of furniture being moved and doors opening and closing echoed down the hallway outside his new office. His team was busy setting up shop, relocating furniture and file cabinets to other offices, creating a work space for their activities.

Again he wondered what was so important about this religious document, this Gospel of Jesus, that the federal government, specifically Homeland Security, needed to become involved. He was also still bitter about being loaned out from the FBI for this task. He felt that he had somehow been betrayed after all of his years of loyal service, just another pawn for someone to use.

After twenty-five years of government service, he supposed that he shouldn’t be surprised. He had seen a lot of nasty surprises in his career. Still, this operation went down hard with him. Jones had no idea why the government wanted these ancient religious scrolls or why he was sent here to steal them from a Mr. Simon Stein.

A tall, heavy set man with a thick neck and a bald spot on the crown of his head gave Jones’ doorframe two quick raps, then walked in. “Everything will be set up in a couple of hours. What’s next?”

Jones turned from the window with a frown. Another problem he needed to deal with, and there was no time like the present. Agent Grimes was not happy about working for him. Grimes obviously thought that he should have been in charge.

“Close the door. I think we need to have a chat.”  Agent Grimes backtracked and shut the door forcefully, creating a small echo in the room that slowly died away. Then he walked toward Jones until he stopped at the desk, glaring at Jones, his face dark and rigid.

Grimes was angry. He had been angry ever since the team left Washington. Jones could see the bitterness in his eyes, the anger seething below the surface, waiting for a chance to explode. He needed to defuse this situation before Grimes’ attitude compromised the operation.

“I know what this is about,” Grimes snapped, a sneer on his face.

“Let me be honest with you, Grimes. I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me here, but the people we work for made that decision for both of us. We have to live with it.”

“It isn’t fair. This should have been my op. Pulling an outsider in makes no sense.”

“Nevertheless, that is the situation. Can you live with it?  Because if you can’t, you need to be on the first plane out of here.”

“You would dismiss me from the team?”  Grimes’ eyes widened in disbelief. “I haven’t done anything to deserve that!”

“Not yet, but if your attitude continues, you could jeopardize the operation. I have to make a decision now. Can you work for me?  Give me your best?”

“If you sack me, my career will be ruined,” Grimes whispered more to himself than Jones.

“Probably,” Jones agreed, waiting for Grimes to answer.

“You know I have to stay,” Grimes said slowly. He stood there a moment, glaring at Jones, then wiped his face with his right hand and let out a deep breath, releasing all the tension that had built up inside of him. “Okay, okay—message received loud and clear. You will have no trouble from me.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear. Now grab a couple of men and meet me outside in five minutes.”

“Where are we going?”

“To pick up Simon Stein and, hopefully, this Gospel of Jesus. I would like to wrap this operation up today.”

Grimes nodded and left, leaving the door open.

At least that was out of the way, Jones thought. He needed to vet his entire team, but there was no time for that. His all-knowing superiors at Homeland Security had assigned team members he did not know nor had the opportunity to screen. The potential was there for friction within the team—or worse if he didn’t control things carefully.

Jones had held quick interviews with each member of the team as they traveled from Washington, but the time had been brief, and he still had an incomplete picture of his team and their capabilities. The only thing he knew for sure was that they all resented him. He was the outsider.

Jones glanced at his watch and sighed. He had promised his wife that he would call her. Why she put up with him was a mystery to him. He was gone more than he was home.   Too many Christmases and birthdays missed—always on an assignment somewhere.   At least, that would change soon with his upcoming retirement. He hoped to make things up to her.

This was his last assignment. He was getting too old for field work anyway, and he needed to work on a life with his wife. He had almost ruined his marriage because of his dedication to his job.

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed home, glancing at his watch. He only had a few minutes, but he wanted to hear his wife’s voice, feel a little joy in his life. The rest of the day wasn’t going to be pleasant.

Chapter 37

“Is your team in place yet?” the voice over the office phone inquired pleasantly, but Thornburg knew that the man behind that genial voice was anything but pleasant.

“They arrived a few hours ago,” Thornburg replied, ashamed that his voice held a slight trace of fear.

He knew that this man could ruin his career in an instant. He also knew the man was callous and ruthless enough to do exactly that on the slightest provocation.

“You realize the importance of this project, don’t you?”

“You made that point crystal clear, sir. The only question I have is why you chose Jones. He’s from the FBI, an outsider. We have very competent men inside the department that could have handled this task.”

The man on the other end of the line sighed briefly as if the stupidity of Thornburg was too much to tolerate. Finally, he answered, ”Thornburg, when you have been in public service as long as I have and risen as high as I have, which I personally doubt will ever happen to you, you learn to think ahead. If Jones succeeds, well and good. We will give him a pat on the back and send him back to the FBI. But if he fails or creates an embarrassment for us, then Jones becomes our scapegoat. After all, as you said, he is an outsider, not really from our department. We can blame him for any failures, and through him, the FBI for sending us inferior people. And believe me, Thornburg, if this mission fails and that failure goes public, we will need someone to blame very badly. Important people, very important people, are monitoring this mission, people that could destroy our careers and us. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, I will want reports twice a day on how things are going.”

With that, the phone went dead. His superior wasn’t one to waste time with such mundane things as courtesy.

Chapter 38

John stood with a cell phone against his ear, thinking as the phone rang. He glanced around his sad looking living room. Even to him, this room looked shabby. With a sigh, he put away his phone before anyone could answer at the Gulfview police department. He had decided against calling the cops about his run-in with armed men earlier. As an ex-cop, he knew the chances were small of apprehending his attackers. There simply wasn’t enough information to track them.  He couldn’t identify the men who attacked him, although he suspected Black sent them. He didn’t even get a license plate number. The police would simply take up a lot of his time filling out paperwork and asking questions that would lead nowhere. Time wasted that could be put to better use.

“Doesn’t look like they followed us,” Simon said as he turned away from the front window, letting the white curtains fall back into place. He glanced around the small room with pealing paint and patched furniture. “I didn’t realize how tough things have been for you lately.”

“A cashiered cop usually winds up at the bottom of the barrel,” John snapped, a little embarrassed at his circumstances.

“You will recover, given time. You are just going through a rough patch right now.”

“Very rough. Being unemployed is a truly humbling experience. If it wasn’t for my pension, I would be living on the streets.”

“If you need money...”

John held up a hand and shook his head. “No, I’m managing, but I appreciate the gesture.”

“It wasn’t a gesture. You are my friend. I want to help.”

“Thanks, but I will manage. I would rather you explain exactly what is going on,” John said, changing the subject. He didn’t want to talk about his present circumstances. “I don’t think the police can help us without more information.”

“Is that why you decided not to call them?”

John nodded.

“I understand.” Simon paused a moment, then said, “I...I didn’t expect them to act so boldly, in broad delight like that.”

“Who are they?”

“I don’t know. Maybe your Mr. Black or others like him who don’t want the truth revealed. The sudden release of the Gospel of Jesus may have thrown them into a panic.”

“Panic?”

“There are plenty of people and institutions that like the religious status quo just the way it is. They don’t want change. Indeed, they fear it. The Gospel of Jesus is change on a large scale.”

“You are talking about Jesus Christ?  The Jesus Christ?  This is something written by him?”

“Yes.”

John sat down heavily in a nearby chair and stared at Simon in dumb disbelief. “When you said Gospel of Jesus, I thought this was some ancient work written by some unknown writer, not Jesus himself.”

“Don’t you read the newspapers?”

“Not much. I find the news depressing lately, being mostly about the recession and high unemployment which I can relate to all too well already.”

“Then you are only beginning to understand my dilemma?” Simon smiled sympathetically.

“Something like this must be worth a fortune.”

“The Gospel of Jesus has no price,” Simon replied solemnly.

“I understand, but that would make some kind of sense if thieves were after it.”

“I suspect more than simple thieves are at work here. This is a very important work, John. Nothing like this has ever been revealed before. This gospel contains the handwritten words of Jesus himself, what he thought and how he viewed the world. Up until now, everything we have about Jesus has always been third hand by authors we couldn’t even be sure of. To this day, we can’t be sure who actually wrote the Gospels of the Bible. This work reveals what Jesus actually thought himself.”

“Powerful stuff,” John said, incredulous at what his ears had just heard.

“It is a secret my family has guarded for two thousand years and not without some risk.”

“How do you know this...Gospel of Jesus...is the real thing?”  John had trouble just getting the words out. The idea was so fantastic.

“Each generation of my family carefully documented our sacred trust, a chain of custody going back two thousand years to our ancestor, Bartholomew. The Gospel of Jesus is genuine.”

“What exactly is this gospel?  A set of scrolls?”

Simon frowned, then said, ”What I brought to America is a book, copied from the ten original ancient scrolls that make up the Gospel of Jesus. The scrolls are too frail to travel, but we did infer that we were bringing the scrolls so that anyone trying to steal the Gospel of Jesus would be looking for scrolls instead of a book.”

“Very clever.”

“We took every precaution we could think of.”

“What do these men hope to accomplish by stealing this gospel?”  John pressed.

“I don’t know—keep the world ignorant of the truth, power, money, sort of depends on who steals the gospel I suppose.”

“So your enemies are looking for some frail looking ancient scrolls, not the book you are carrying?”

“Exactly. Our public release to those we invited merely stated that the Gospel of Jesus would be on display for everyone’s review at the conference. We didn’t actually say the original scrolls would be there.”

“But you inferred it. There are going to be some very disappointed people at the conference, don’t you think?”

“For a few minutes perhaps, until they view the contents of the book I brought which contains the exact images of the scrolls themselves.”

“So now what?”

“You meet Rebecca at your church tonight at eight o’clock.”

John was stunned. Meet Rebecca after all these years. “Why don’t you meet her?” he objected. The last thing John wanted was to meet Rebecca and relive the pain of their breakup all over again.

“Too dangerous. Whoever is after the book might be watching me. You will have a better chance, I think.”

“And what do I tell her?”

“Bring her up to date and help her if she needs it. I called her briefly after the attack and told her you would meet her. I felt it was necessary, though risky. Cell phones can be tracked so I didn’t stay on the phone long. She is the key to everything now.” Simon paused a moment, then continued, “I have thought about this, and I can see no other way. I was suppose to meet Rebecca tomorrow and obtain the book, then present it to the convention on Wednesday. Now, I think it wiser for Rebecca to carry the book to the convention, and I will meet her there. No one knows about her, and everyone will be watching me. She is my best chance of getting the Gospel of Jesus to the conference.”

“So everything is riding on this diversion?”

“Yes.”  Simon placed a hand on John’s shoulder with a sympathetic expression on his face. “I know this is asking a lot, John. Will you do this, not just for me, but for the world?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really,” he grinned. “Not if you have a conscience.”

John smiled thinly. “They’ll be back, won’t they?  That’s why you keep looking out the window; you know they will be back.”

He shrugged and said, “Maybe.”

John glanced at his watch and swore. He had another job interview for this afternoon, and he was already running late. “Pardon me, Simon. I have to change clothes.”

He hurried to his room and dressed for the interview—black sport coat and pants, a white shirt, and a dark blue pinstripe tie. He wanted to at least look presentable when he was once more turned down for a job.

He glanced down at the dresser, paused for a moment, then slowly pulled out the center drawer, revealing a small red velvet box. Trembling slightly, he picked up the box and opened it. A small oval cut  engagement ring glittered there, reflecting bright rays of light. A sad sigh escaped his lips. This was the ring he had offered Rebecca on the night he proposed.

With a determined frown, he snapped shut the red velvet box and tossed it back into the drawer. That was the past, and the past was dead. He slowly closed the dresser drawer and looked at himself in the mirror. All this time, and he still held on to the ring. John, you are pathetic, he thought, shaking his head.

He returned to the living room to find Simon once more standing by the window, staring out at the street. It was obvious that he was worried.

John started for the door. “Listen, I hate to do this, but I have a job interview, something that people out of work, like me, have to do ever so often. You okay by yourself for a little while?”

“Yes.”

“You have my cell phone number. Call me if you run into anything.”

Simon nodded and John left, wondering again how he had let himself become involved in this tangle of religion and thieves—and some esoteric book that was suppose to be written by Jesus, though that seemed rather farfetched to him even now.

Chapter 39

It was mid-afternoon and two nervous men stood in front of Sebastian Black, full of excuses for their failure to obtain the Gospel of Jesus from Stein. Sebastian held his anger. Losing his temper, as satisfying as that might be, would solve nothing.

He directed his first question to the tall, heavyset man, Beckett. “How could you let them escape?”

“Whoever was driving knew his stuff.”

“That right?” Sebastian said as his eyes bore into Fraser, a short, bald man with nervous eyes and a sweaty forehead. Fraser seemed to perpetually sweat.

“Yeah, our car stalled out from the crash, and we had no chance to follow them.”

“You dress failure up in pretty clothes, but the fact remains, you let Stein get away. We could have had the scrolls by now.” Sebastian could restrain his anger no longer and slammed his fist down on a small table beside him. Such incompetents he had to work with, damn Graff. “Stupid!”

“Who’s stupid?” Beckett shouted, his emotions getting the best of him, his thin lips breaking into a snarl and his initial fear of Black forgotten. His right hand reached for a gun inside his jacket.

Black’s wooden cane snapped down quickly on Beckett’s wrist, the gun falling harmlessly to the floor from Beckett’s numb fingers. Beckett screamed in pain. He grabbed his wrist, holding it gingerly in his left hand.

“You broke my wrist!”

“Hardly. The pain will subside in a few minutes,” Black said calmly as he walked closer to Beckett, suddenly grabbing his shirt front with his left hand and pulling him closer, the cane in his right hand pushing Beckett’s chin up, stressing his neck to the point of pain. Fear was back in Beckett’s eyes now. “I don’t tolerate insubordination, not ever.” Black’s voice was cold and deadly.

Beckett’s vocal cords were paralyzed with fear to the point he couldn’t speak. Black glanced at Fraser who was busy trying to make himself invisible, then refocused on Beckett

“Do I make myself clear?”

Beckett finally found his voice and, with a strained effort as the cane continued to force his head back, whispered, “You’re the boss.”

Black slowly withdrew his cane. “Remember that.”

Still holding his wrist, Beckett walked over to where his gun lay on the floor and bent to pick it up.

“Pick the gun up carefully, Beckett.” Black’s voice was ice cold, carefully controlled, but menacing.

Beckett retrieved his pistol with his right hand and slid it carefully into his belt holster. An angry sudden impulse had briefly crossed his mind to shoot Black, but then that calm, confident voice spoke as if Black knew exactly what he was thinking. He wasn’t a fool, nor was he stupid, despite Black’s accusation.

“Now that we have that out of the way, let’s get back to business,” Black said.

Sebastian took a deep breath and let it out slowly, allowing his anger to slide away from him. He had learned long ago that strong emotions clouded judgment and needed to be controlled.

He needed to re-acquire Stein. He knew that Stein was staying with John Arrowsmith. Black had thought to compromise Arrowsmith. He had to be desperate for money, and desperate men often went against their own natures if the money was right and the need great enough. He thought a bribe might help Arrowsmith make up his mind and help him. But he had heard nothing from Arrowsmith. Black sighed heavily, shaking his head. Apparently he was wrong about Arrowsmith.

“Alright, we visit the home of John Arrowsmith. With luck, Stein should be there; perhaps he will even have the scrolls with him.”

Sebastian watched the two thugs exit the room ahead of him. This time there would be no slipups. He was going with them.

Perhaps he could wrap up everything this evening and head home, but he knew from experience that things seldom went that easily. No, there would undoubtedly be complications; there were always complications.

Chapter 40

“Yes, Alfred?” The CIA director looked up from a stack of papers on his desk. He finished the current paper in his hand and turned it over to rest on top of a large stack of reports he had already read, then leaned back, giving his full attention to the short, thin young man before him.

The CIA director waited as Alfred cleared his throat and paused for a moment.  He had noticed early in Alfred’s tenure with him that the round faced and eager young man liked to be sure of his words before he spoke. While an admirable quality, at times it was somewhat irritating, causing the director to wait when he wanted a report immediately.

“Sir, I have a report from our field agent, Mack Mackay, in Gulfview. I thought you might like an update.”

The director nodded. “Proceed.”

“Mackay picked up Simon Stein at the airport just as he arrived. Stein exchanged briefcases with a dark haired woman and then met another man, John Arrowsmith. We did a background check on Arrowsmith. He is an ex-cop recently retired under somewhat of a dark cloud. It seems Arrowsmith also went to the same college as Stein which would explain why Arrowsmith picked Stein up.”

“And the woman?”

“Still checking. Mackay thinks she may be related to Simon Stein.” Alfred paused to see if the director had any questions. When none were forthcoming, he continued. “He also thinks that the Gospel of Jesus may have been transferred to the woman during a briefcase switch. He has no proof of that, but his suspicions remain strong. After watching Stein and Arrowsmith drive away, because of those suspicions, Mackay decided to remain with the woman. After stopping at a bank, the woman continued to her hotel. He thinks she deposited the Gospel of Jesus in a safe deposit box at the bank. Once she checked in and seemed to be settled for the time being, our agent decided to re-acquire Stein at Arrowsmith’s home and left the hotel.”

“So the woman has whatever Stein brought in that briefcase they exchanged?”

“It would appear so, but we can’t be sure that the briefcase contained the scrolls. We don’t even know how many scrolls comprise this Gospel of Jesus. It could be one or a dozen.”

“Not more than a few if the scrolls are to fit in a briefcase.”

“True.”

“No, I’m inclined to agree with Mackay. The woman has the scrolls.” The director pursed his lips for moment in thought. “It would have to be someone he trusted. A relative would make sense, as Mackay suspects. Check it out.”

“Yes, sir. I will check the family against the photo that Mackay sent us, and see if there is a match.”

“The swap makes sense and would also be very smart. Stein has to know that the world is waiting for him to deliver the Gospel of Jesus to the conference. What better tactic than to hand the scrolls off to someone he trusted, and while the world’s eyes are on him, his accomplice could keep the Gospel of Jesus safe until the conference.”

“I agree that the swap is smart, but it also places a bulls-eye on Simon Stein, a precarious position to be in.”

“Very precarious. Let’s expedite our investigation, Alfred. We need to know all the players in this game.”

“Yes, sir.” Alfred continued to stand in front of the director’s desk looking somewhat nervous.

“Something else?”

“Homeland Security and the FBI got an alert about a missing foreign student who showed up in Gulfview and whose visa has expired. The alert came in a few hours ago; we were copied as a courtesy. His name is Husaam Khan, and he arrived in Gulfview Sunday afternoon.”

“Why was the alert so late?”

“Mix-up at the airport. The regular security personnel were off Sunday.”

The director frowned as he leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “So why do we care about this foreign student that should have been sent home?”

“This student is suspected of having contacts with a terrorist group although we have no proof of that.

“What is Homeland doing about it?” The director pressed.

“They don’t seem to be doing anything except passing the information on to Immigration.”

The director sat back in his chair, frowning. “I don’t like the sound of that. Homeland is treating the alert as routine.”

“Apparently, they don’t believe Khan is a threat.”

“The time frame bothers me. Why would he be in Gulfview now?” the director said, drumming his figures on the desktop. “Contact our agent in Gulfview and tell him he has an additional task. Find out about this Husaam Khan. I know that may stretch him a bit thin, but we need to know what’s going on. If this Khan has any connection with the conference...”

Alfred’s eyes widened as he nervously added, “I have been getting increased reports on the Internet about this Gospel of Jesus. There is a lot of chatter. Some extremist Moslems are upset that ‘infidels’ should possess such a religious artifact. There has been some talk of an attack on the conference.”

“You don’t think...” the director’s jaw tightened in concern. “If Husaam is a terrorist, there would be only one reason he would be in Gulfview at this particular time.”

“But surely Homeland Security would draw the same conclusion,” Alfred said, looking confused.

“Obviously not. If you work at this job long enough you will find that things, important things, fall through the cracks all the time. More is the pity.”

“Should we contact Homeland Security?” Alfred asked.

“And tell them what?  They have the same information as we do, only our suspicions differ. We have no proof of anything.”

“And Immigration?”

“They will do something eventually, maybe, but they will be in no hurry over a low level alert about a student that needs to be deported. They don’t know what we suspect.”

“Looks like things are heating up in Gulfview,” Alfred remarked as he headed for the door.

Chapter 41

Agent Dan Jones rang the doorbell at John Arrowsmith’s home and waited with Agent Grimes and two other agents. Homeland Intelligence said that Stein would be staying with John Arrowsmith, an old college buddy.

The door opened, but there was a door chain engaged for security. Agent Jones flashed his FBI credentials which he was using instead of Homeland Security identification. Although working for Homeland, he was still an FBI agent on temporary loan.

“I’m from Homeland Security,” Jones said as he put away his identification. “I need to talk to you.”

“Your ID said FBI.”

Jones sighed. “I am on loan from the FBI to Homeland Security. Now, will you open the door and talk to us.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Simon Stein nodded, unchained the door, and stood back, nervously watching as the agents walked into the room. Agent Jones stopped in front of him and the agents surrounded him, acting as if he might flee at any moment.

“What do you want?” Stein asked, puzzled by their behavior.

“The Gospel of Jesus, where is it?”

“I don’t understand. Why are you interested in the Gospel of Jesus?”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Agent Jones snapped.

Suddenly, Simon became angry. “I resent this invasion. Please leave.”

Agent Jones frowned. “Looks like we have to do this the hard way.” Jones turned Stein around and placed him in handcuffs. Then he turned to one of his agents and said, “Agent Grimes, tear this house apart and find that Gospel of Jesus.” Grimes motioned to the other two agents and proceeded to do just that.

“Wait?” Simon said, looking horrified.

“You have something to tell me?” Agent Jones roughly spun Simon around to face him.

For the first time, Simon felt real apprehension. He had not expected the authorities to be one of his enemies.

“I...I don’t have the Gospel of Jesus.”

“I grow tired of asking this question, Stein. Where is the Gospel of Jesus?”

Simon just shook his head. He knew it was useless to talk.

Thirty minutes later with the house thoroughly ransacked, Agent Jones once more stood in front of Simon.

“Looks like you were telling the truth. You don’t have it, but I bet you know who does have it.”

Simon remained silent.

Agent Jones frowned, then said, “Let’s head back. You are coming with us, Mr. Stein. Agent Douglas, remain behind and keep this house under surveillance. When Mr. Arrowsmith arrives, let me know. I may want to pick him up too.”

With one final glance around, Agent Jones walked out of the house. As Simon was led away, he felt fear lodge in the pit of his stomach, real fear.

Chapter 42

Agent Mack Mackay was currently dressed in a light gray suit, trying very hard at the moment to be inconspicuous. Agents that were noticeable didn’t last long.

He glanced down at his brown dress shoes. He hated brown, but that was all the store had in his size—the curse of large feet. He had bought the gray suit only a few hours ago, when he found himself in the business district where the street crowd tended more to suits and dresses than shorts and polo shirts, which is what he had been wearing. First rule of surveillance: blend in.

He had followed Simon Stein from Arrowsmith’s house to the federal building across the street, watching four federal agents roughly march Stein into the federal building and disappear.

He had run a trace on the rental car. A Homeland Security office in Washington had rented the vehicle. As to why Homeland Security was interested in Stein was altogether another question unless Homeland was after the Jesus scrolls. Then picking up Stein made perfect sense.

He continued to pretend to browse the magazine rack at the corner drugstore, while peering through the large square glass window that gave him a perfect view of the entrance to the downtown federal building. Built of gray stone and concrete, the federal building housed the federal district court, the IRS, the marshal’s office, and numerous other small federal administrative offices for one federal agency or another. Now, it housed an additional federal agency—Homeland Security. The building stood twenty stories high and had security guards stationed at the entrance who did a security scan of everyone who entered the building, checking their identification and making sure no one was armed. Homeland had chosen a good spot to set up their home base of operations.

Earlier, Mackay had casually strolled into the federal building trailing behind the federal agents and Stein, stopping just inside the entrance as others pushed past him and were scanned through the metal detectors and into the building. He didn’t want to get too close to the feds.

He watched as one of the agents pushed an elevator button. When the elevator arrived, the agents entered, stopping anyone else from boarding the elevator by flashing their badges and shaking their heads. Mackay watched the elevator rise to the third floor and stop.

After a few minutes, Mackay decided to leave, before the security guards grew curious. As he was leaving, he heard a woman complaining loudly about not being allowed off the elevator on the third floor. One of the guards was trying to calm her down. That only confirmed what he already suspected. Homeland had taken over the third floor.

When he first spotted the federal agents pulling up to Arrowsmith’s house earlier this afternoon he had been surprised. He knew from the dark shades and dark suits that the men were federal agents. They had that look of “official business” that all federal agents projected, but he didn’t know then which agency had sent them. When he ran a trace on the car rental, Homeland Security, out of Washington, had popped up.

His briefing about this operation had covered protecting the Gospel of Jesus and making sure it reached the conference. He was told nothing about other federal agencies being involved. Rather inconsiderate of his superiors not giving him the whole picture. He should have known something serious was going on for the CIA to have sent him to Gulfview in the first place, but he had not expected this complication.

Mackay let out a long, slow breath and shook his head. He had no one to blame but himself. He had been bored and on convalescent leave when this little operation had come up. He had talked his superiors into letting him take the assignment despite his medical status. The op seemed right for him: Gulfview was close by, in the states, and the surveillance op didn’t seem all that rigorous, certainly nothing that might interfere with his recovery from an earlier gun shot wound to the chest—or so he thought at the time. Besides the idea of sun and surf was a strong lure.

Mackay shifted his weight slightly. The chest wound was bothering him again, but, eventually, the wound would heal and join all the other souvenir scars from sharp knifes and stray bullets that covered his body. He had over twenty such scars. He had been very, very lucky in his chosen career.

Mackay kept the magazine he had been perusing and sauntered over to the checkout counter. The tall blond behind the counter gave him a welcoming smile.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“I would like this magazine,” he replied, handing her a ten dollar bill. “The federal building seems rather busy today,” he said casually, seeking information.

“It’s been really busy lately, and the lines to get in this morning were really long. They’re checking everyone. One of my customers was complaining earlier this morning about it. Then there was some massive move from the third floor which only made everything worse. People have been coming in here complaining about it all morning.”

“Did anyone say why they were kicked off the third floor?”

She shrugged. “Something about providing temporary quarters for another federal agency. That’s all I know.”

She handed him his change back, and he picked up his magazine, then headed for the front entrance.

So Homeland Security had been here only a short while, moving in to take over the entire  third floor. That took some major political clout. Someone important and very high up in the government was backing this operation. Tread lightly, he told himself.

Mackay reviewed his situation. If they were here to get the Gospel of Jesus before the conference met, they had only a few days to accomplish their mission. They would be in a rush, which explains why they picked up Simon Stein so quickly this afternoon. No time for the niceties. They were probably sweating him now to find out where the ancient scrolls were located. They obviously didn’t know about the woman at the airport yet. CIA ID had finally identified her as Stein’s sister, which he had suspected ever since he heard her name at the hotel.

He glanced at his watch. He needed to return to his stakeout of Rebecca Stein. She had the ancient scrolls. Sooner or later, the feds would figure that out. Then things would get really interesting.

Chapter 43

Pastor Michael Phillips stood beside the gray stone fireplace in his study and absently drummed his fingers on the fireplace mantel as he studied John.  He let out a deep reluctant sigh and tapped his pipe against the fireplace bricks, letting the ash from his pipe fall onto the cold grates. On the far wall, dim sunlight shown through tall, rectangular twin windows framed by long white curtains. It was early evening and twilight was falling.

John sat in an old brown leather arm chair, frowning. He had taken his tie off and put it in his coat pocket. He hated ties. He had stopped by on his way home from another disappointing job interview. When he left the interview, he knew that he didn’t have a chance in hell of ever being hired by that particular company.

“I heard about Peter. He died shortly after you left him,” Pastor Phillips commented, sadness in his voice, drawing John back to the present.

“There was nothing I could do. It was his time. I was able to give him a measure of peace, I think.”

The pastor nodded, staring into the unlit fireplace. “Yes, his wife mentioned that Peter was a little better after you left him—ready to meet Jesus, as she put it.” Pastor Phillips shook his head slightly and said, “I had hoped for more.”

John shrugged and said, “I warned you.”

“Yes, you did. I appreciate your efforts. It couldn’t have been easy on you.”

“It’s never easy when you crush hope. I have told you before that I am unsure of what is happening to me. I cannot deny that I may have some small healing ability.” John thought about the woman with the scarred face. “But what little I may have--emphasize the word ‘may’-- seems very unreliable.”

His pastor stared at him for a moment. “Something has happened. You seem more ready to accept your healing ability.”

“I healed someone else at the church.”

Pastor Phillips smiled knowingly and said, “That makes three you have healed now.”

“That doesn’t change anything. I still do not want this ability.”

“You have the ability nevertheless. Accept it.”

“I can’t help having doubts—a lot of them.”

“In time those doubts will disappear if you give God a chance.”

“Maybe. I am not so sure.”

The pastor shook his head, placing his pipe on the mantel. “God has given you a wonderful gift. Why not accept it?”

“I don’t like giving false hope to people, particularly when they are dying.” A brief picture of Peter Brown’s face flashed into his mind. He shook his head.

“Never forget, John, that you are only the conduit for healing. God will decide who is healed. Many times people will not be healed, and you won’t know why.”

“A difficult thing to accept,” John replied, then glanced at him sharply. “How do you live with that?”

“By accepting God’s will in everything, even when I don’t like the results. And yes, sometimes, that is very hard to do.”

John nodded, looking down at the floor. ”I feel like I’m losing control of my life, changing in subtle ways I can’t even begin to understand.” There was frustration in his voice—and fear.

“God changes all of us—if we let him. I know you want to forget this gift and pretend you don’t have it, to go back to just sitting in the pew every Sunday with no responsibilities or obligations to your Savior. But that is the past. You have to face the future now.”

“It’s turning out to be a difficult future.”

“Time and prayer will eventually show you the way.”

“You want me to keep trying to heal people even though I fail repeatedly?”

“It’s called faith.”

Reluctantly, John said, “Tough stuff—faith.”

Phillips changed the subject. “Tell me more about this Gospel of Jesus. You said Simon Stein is staying with you?”

“Yes, he didn’t want to stay in a hotel so he asked me to put him up for a few days. He wanted a secluded place to stay, out of the public spotlight.” He looked down for a moment, collecting his thoughts, then said, “I don’t know much about this Gospel of Jesus, except Jesus is suppose to have written it.”

“That is the story. Jesus Christ himself penned this work.”

“You believe that?” John asked.

Phillips shrugged. “That is yet to be determined. That is the purpose of the conference, but I think that the Stein family has gone to too much trouble to authenticate this Gospel of Jesus for it to be a fake.”

“Just how important is this conference I keep hearing about?”

“Very important. Over a thousand experts and religious dignitaries from all over the world will be attending the conference. Don’t you read the newspapers?  It’s been in all the papers for days.”

“I don’t read the newspapers much nor do I know anything about this Gospel of Jesus, except that some people seem bent on stealing it.”

“Someone tried to steal the Gospel of Jesus?” Phillips’ eyes widened in shock.

“Several some ones, but they didn’t get it.”

“Do you know why these people tried to steal the Gospel of Jesus?”

“Money, fear, power—who knows, but some rough characters are definitely after it,” John said.

“I don’t imagine I have to tell you to be careful.”

“Not after today.” John grew quiet for a moment, then looked up at Pastor Phillips. “It still seems too fantastic—a gospel by Jesus himself!”

“Jesus deals in miracles. Is this one so hard to believe?” Phillips said.

“Two thousand years is a long time to preserve a document.”

“Indeed it is. How fortunate we are that the Stein family was able to accomplish that.” Pastor Phillips’ eyes took on a happy, glazed look for a moment. “Imagine, to read the very words of Jesus himself. We’ve never had anything written by him, you know.”

John stared at Pastor Phillips for a moment with a frown on his face and said, “Authentication is important, isn’t it?  If the document can’t be authenticated, then Stein’s enemies can claim the Gospel of Jesus is a fake and completely discredit the entire ancient work.”

“Yes, they could, and I doubt authentication will be easy. There will be those who believe this work to be genuine and others who will not. Rarely is any group of religious scholars in agreement on anything this spectacular. It will take years to build any kind of consensus. No, this is but the initial first step in the document’s authentication. And believe me, if this Gospel of Jesus is very different from our Biblical version, there will be those who will try very hard to discredit this Gospel of Jesus,” Phillips said.

“Why?” John asked.

“We have spent over two thousand years arguing and debating Jesus and coming to a consensus on our Bible. All of our denominations and churches are tied to the Bible. Our Christian religion rests on much that may be altered by what is in this Gospel of Jesus—a sort of cleansing of our religion, you might say.  If this gospel is too different, it will generate turmoil, if not pain, for quite a few people.”

“That is the key question, isn’t it? Just how different is this Gospel of Jesus.”

“Very key. Remember, change is painful for most people, particularly when it comes to religion and personal beliefs. The Romans and Jews crucified Jesus two thousand years ago because they could not accept what he taught. And many still do not accept him. How many Christian Jews are there today?”

“Point taken.”

“People like to think they are different today, but are they?  People, even today, don’t like having their beliefs questioned. They could take this Gospel of Jesus very badly,” Phillips said.

“You think this Gospel of Jesus could be that different from the Bible?” John frowned deeply, not liking what he was hearing.

“Based on Isaac Stein’s public statements and his insinuations, yes, I’m afraid I do. Our Bible has been washed by two thousand years of political and religious filters and made into the comfortable religion it is today. I think this ancient work will be free of that and direct from the zeal and religious fervor of our Lord. Many found his words difficult to accept two thousand years ago, and I think many will find them difficult to accept today,” Phillips said.

“But many did accept his words and eventually his message of salvation spread to the entire world,” John said.

“Many did, but does the Gospel of Jesus contain words we want to hear today? That is the question.  I don’t think anyone knows, except the Steins. Part of me wishes this Gospel of Jesus had never been revealed, that there was no conference, and we could go on with the Bible as our only religious authority. But another part of me hungers for the truth, for the words of Jesus himself. I am at a crossroads, you see, as many will be once this work is revealed to the public.”

Understanding begin to dawn for John. He had not considered that prospect. He thought of the Gospel of Jesus and the Bible as complementing each other. Not in opposition to each other.

“You will have to choose which you believe?”

“Exactly my problem. Can I believe both? Or is the Bible and this Gospel of Jesus so different that I must make a choice? If I have to choose, which do I choose? I do not know what I will do. I love my Bible very much. I’ve dedicated my life to it, but I love Jesus more,” Phillips said, frustration evident in his tone.

“Surely they will not be that different. To be so different as to be incompatible…” John shook his head. He didn’t want to think about that.

“I think that many will never accept the Gospel of Jesus as genuine, no matter what the conference consensus says. I’m afraid our Christian religion may be about to undergo a severe crisis, resulting in damage that I can’t possibly imagine. In the end, each of us will have to decide for himself what to believe,” Phillips said, shaking his head.

“You have given me much to think about.”

Up until now, John had considered the men that had attacked him earlier as thieves, but what if there was more to it than simple thievery. The future of Governments and churches, of an entire religion, could be at stake.

Pastor Phillips sat down across from John. “You know this gospel is unprecedented. Nothing of Jesus’ personal writings has ever been discovered before, not even a few letters, let alone a personal revelation of his ministry and personal beliefs.” Phillips sighed and said, “I met with a group of pastors yesterday who asked me about this gospel. I had no answers for them.  I would hope the differences between the Gospel of Jesus and the Bible would be only differences of degree and not real substance, but I don’t know that. The disciples did not understand Jesus or his mission for a long time. They got some things wrong, at least initially. They thought he was the Jewish Messiah, come to liberate the Jews and throw the yoke of Rome off, but his kingdom was not of this world. That was a difficult concept for his disciples to understand. Even at his death, his disciples did not expect his resurrection. I can sympathize with them. They were ordinary men living in extraordinary times.”

“The unknown can be frightening, can’t it?”

“Fear of the unknown can be a terrible thing, John. People like certainty in their lives.”

John rose from his chair and said, “We are truly in God’s hands. Thanks for seeing me.”

“Anytime, John.”

John headed for the door, thinking of Revelation in the Bible and world upheaval. How could a simple ancient religious document cause this much trouble?

Chapter 44

John knew from the moment he opened the front door to his home that Simon was gone. The house looked like a tornado hit it. He didn’t have to guess what the searchers were looking for—the Gospel of Jesus. He called Simon’s name, but he knew there would no reply. Someone had taken him. He should never have left Simon alone.

Even as his mind worked on the puzzle of Simon’s absence, he heard a crash at the front door and whirled around just in time to see his front door slamming open, revealing the same two men that had tried to force him off the road earlier today, and behind them came Sebastian Black. A tall, heavyset man in front waved a gun in John’s face and forced him back further into the living room.

“Ah, John, I see you are home at last,” Black said as he casually strolled into the living room following the two men, leaning heavily on his cane as he limped toward John, glancing around the room. “Spring cleaning?”

“Where’s Simon?” John snapped.

“A better question is where is the Gospel of Jesus? Put that gun away, Beckett,” Black barked at the tall, heavyset man. The man reluctantly put his gun up. “I don’t have Simon,” Black said as his eyes roamed about the room.  “Looks like someone was looking for something. The question is, did they find it?”

“Since Simon isn’t here, I would say no.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“What do you want?” John asked.

“John, you know what I want.” Sebastian pushed an upended table out of his way and limped further into the room. “Sorry for the abrupt entry, but I am in a hurry. Where do you think Stein is?” he said, staring directly into John’s eyes while leaning on his cane. Sebastian was taller than John, forcing John to look up slightly. John didn’t like that.

“I thought maybe you grabbed him?”

Black’s eyebrows rose slightly. “If I had him, would I be here?”

John frowned and shook his head. “No, I guess not, but who else could have taken him?”

“You are sure he was taken against his will?”  Sebastian’s eyes studied John intently, trying to measure the truth of John’s words.

“Take a look around,” John said.

Sebastian frowned. “Yes, it does look like some nasty people may have abducted your friend.“

“You know who took him, don’t you?”

Black shrugged and said, “Many are interested in the Gospel of Jesus.”  Black sighed and shook his head. “You should have given me the scrolls. Now, who knows what will happen to your friend. Too many players are beginning to be involved now.”

“Stop stalling and tell me who has Simon,” John pressed.

“Feds probably. One is parked outside your house at this very moment, taking a small nap. I don’t like kibitzers.”

“How do you know he is a Fed?”

Black tossed an ID to John. John flipped it open to reveal the picture and identification of a federal agent for Homeland Security. John closed the ID and frowned. Government agents—he hadn’t seen that coming.

Sebastian retrieved the federal agent’s ID from John’s fingers. “I intend to do a little more checking on this fellow.”

“We found nothing, boss,” Beckett said as he walked back into the room.

“I expected as much,” Black responded with a small sigh of resignation.

Beckett approached John with a mean look on his face, taking a switch blade knife from his pocket and flipping a long, steel blade out, a sadistic gleam in his eyes.

“Perhaps our friend here can tell us more. All he needs is a little persuasion. He knows more than he is saying.”

Dead silence followed. John glanced at Black who only smiled slightly as Beckett slowly advanced toward John. John backed up until he was standing next to a small ottoman, nestled beside a brown armchair. He watched Beckett weave the steel blade in front of him, enjoying himself.

John wasn’t a knife fighter, but as a cop he had learned a few tricks. The question was how good was this thug. From Beckett’s stance and the way he moved, John guessed that Beckett wasn’t a professional knife fighter, just someone that liked to intimidate people with a knife. If true, that would make John’s task easier.

Too far away to actually do any damage, Beckett suddenly lashed out at John with the knife and laughed, trying to startle him. This was part of the intimidation. John held his ground, refusing to show fear. The man grew angrier—his victim wasn’t being intimidated as planned.

Beckett advanced closer. John’s heart was pounding as he tensed himself for Beckett’s next move. He had to be precise. Act too soon and Beckett would cut him, perhaps fatally.

Beckett suddenly jabbed at him with the steel blade. It was a half-hearted poke meant to scare him, not cut him, but it was the move John was waiting for. He kicked the small ottoman into Beckett’s path.

Beckett stumbled over the small stool, momentary off balance. John quickly stepped inside Beckett’s right arm, slapping his knife hand away, causing the knife to suddenly fly out of Beckett’s hand and land a few feet away with a clattering noise on the wood floor. John followed with a quick knee to the groin and a straight uppercut jab to the Beckett’s jaw, knocking the big man straight back to land on the hardwood floor with a thud and a stunned look on his face.

John rubbed his right hand vigorously, trying to reduce the stinging pain he felt in his knuckles from the sharp blow. He looked down at the big man who had raised himself up on his right elbow, shaking his head, still somewhat dazed.

Black shook his head slowly in disgust. “Help him up, Fraser. Such incompetence is embarrassing.” He turned those stern, menacing eyes toward John. “I wouldn’t have let him seriously harm you, John, but I was curious to see your reaction when faced with a dangerous threat. It was most informative.”

“I’m glad you found this so entertaining. What do you do for an encore? Pull wings off of butterflies?

” John replied sarcastically, staring hard at Black.

Beckett suddenly pulled away from Fraser who had helped him to his feet. Rubbing his jaw with his left hand, Beckett reached inside his coat for his pistol. There was burning rage in his eyes.

“Beckett, stop,” Sebastian snapped. The heavyset man ignored Black and continued to pull his weapon from the holster inside his jacket. “Stop! Now! That’s an order.”

Beckett’s eyes shifted from John to Black and widened at the .380 automatic in Black’s right hand pointed straight at him. “Remember what I told you before? You only get one chance with me.”

Beckett angrily shoved his gun back into its holster, rage still etched on his face. His hands fell to his side, his fingers clenching and unclenching, struggling for control.

“Both of you, wait for me in the car,” Black said, hard anger edged his words. As his two henchmen left, Sebastian let out a frustrated sigh. “What can I say?  Good help is so hard to find. They don’t think and are too eager to resort to violence when it is not necessary.”

“So now what?” John said.

“Nothing at all. You handled yourself well. I think you would be a tough nut to crack. That’s what I needed to know.” Black paused a moment, then continued, “You will find, John, that I am quite reasonable once you get to know me.”

“I don’t want to know you that long,” John replied.

“There is a great sum of money to be made if you are cooperative.”  Sebastian glanced around the room with a look of disdain. “You could obviously use the money.”

There it was again, the temptation—money. John would be lying to himself if he said that he wasn’t tempted. That money could make all the difference in the world to him but he still wasn’t ready to turn mercenary. He would like to think that he was better than that.

“Not interested,” John finally whispered, his voice low and reluctant.

Sebastian smiled slightly. “In case you change your mind...”  Sebastian handed John his business card.

As their hands touched, Sebastian’s smile faded as he felt a sudden tingling flash rapidly through his hand, then up his arm and spread out over his entire body, eventually centering on his injured right leg. The tingling intensified and for a moment, intense pain flared through his injured leg, causing him to grab his knee with a small cry of alarm, dropping his cane and falling to the floor, then the pain subsided, leaving him stunned and confused.

“What the hell just happened?” Sebastian gasped as he struggled to his knees and then slowly stood up, shaking his head.

“I’m...I’m  not sure,” John said, knowing that a tremendous burst of spiritual energy had suddenly went out of him. He was still reeling from the effect.

Sebastian frowned and gave John a questioning look. Then he turned toward the front entrance. He had almost reached the smashed in door, when he noticed that he was walking without his cane, which lay on the floor across the room beside John, forgotten in the excitement of the moment.

He bent down and touched his right leg for a moment, puzzled, then stamped his right foot on the floor, looking back at John, growing amazement sculpturing his face. Then slowly, like a child taking his first steps, he walked back towards John, walking normally with no limp.

“Amazing. I am truly astounded and that doesn’t happen often.” He stooped and picked up his cane. Then he looked at John for a long time, in silence, sorting things out. “I had heard rumors about you, but I didn’t believe them until now.” Sebastian softly tapped the cane repeatedly against his right leg. “It seems I owe you now. You seemed to have healed my leg.”

“You owe me nothing,” John said, confused by the recent events.

How had he healed Black? He hadn’t prayed or even consciously thought about healing him. Obviously, God saw something he didn’t in Sebastian Black.

Sebastian waved John toward the couch. Then seated himself in an old leather armchair across from John. He rubbed his right leg again, shaking his head, finding it difficult to believe what had happened to him. For the first time since the accident, he was free of pain and had the full use of his leg.

“Absolutely amazing. Kind of like magic. Care to explain what happened?”

“For some reason which I can not fathom, God has chosen to heal you. Apparently, you are not beyond redemption.”

“I know quite a few people who would disagree with you on that point.”

“God looks on the heart. Your heart must not be as dark as I believed.”

Black nodded for a moment, thinking, then said, “It seems that I am in your debt,” Sebastian smiled briefly, “and I always pay my debts; it’s a habit of mine.” Sebastian paused a moment, puzzlement filling his face. “You know, I have seen some amazing things in my life.”  Sebastian tapped the side of his leg again, fascinated by the feeling that had returned so quickly to a leg that had been numb for years, a dead weight hanging uselessly from his body. “But before, I was always on the outside looking in. Tonight, for the first time, I am a participant.” He glanced down at his now normal leg and whispered, “Remarkable.”

“Healing is a gift from God. He is the final arbiter and determines what miracles will be performed just as someday he will judge us all, including you.”

“Ah yes, Judgment Day and damnation for all sinners, of which I freely admit I am one, but since I don’t believe in hell, it hardly matters, does it?” Sebastian paused a moment, frowning. “Sometimes I think God has already judged me—harshly. My wife believed in Jesus, and she died in a car accident, and I, an unbeliever, was spared.”  He tapped his right leg again. “Receiving a bum leg, but still alive.”  Sebastian’s eyes grew fierce as he gazed into John’s. “What kind of God takes a lovely, Christian woman like that, and spares a bastard like me?”

John had no answer for Sebastian’s question. He had watched good people die with no explanation for why God had not spared them.

Sebastian stood up, looking down at John. “I see you have no explanation either. I have only one—chance, pure chance, a roll of the dice. Your personal God doesn’t care about individuals, whatever happens, happens. Then the world makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?”

“If God is uncaring, then your healing would never have happened,” John calmly replied, his eyes locked on Sebastian.

“There is that,” he replied looking down at his fully healed leg, confusion momentarily appearing on his face.  “I see there is no reasoning with you,” Sebastian said as he turned toward the door.

“No, there isn’t. God can save you, Mr. Black, if you will permit it.”

Sebastian stopped at the door and turned to face John. For the first time that night, John saw fear briefly flash across Black’s face followed by a slight smile that momentarily formed on his lips.

“Salvation? Too late for me.”

“It is never too late.”

Sebastian Black shrugged. “Although I am sure it was not your intention, I thank you for healing my leg. I haven’t felt this good in years. One other thing. I wouldn’t stay here long, John. The federal agent outside will not be unconscious much longer.”

“What did you do to him?” John asked.

“Put him out for a while. He will wake up with a considerable headache, but nothing more. I imagine he will be quite annoyed.”

“Why are feds watching me?”

“A better question is why the feds haven’t grabbed you yet. They obviously have Simon.”  He turned to go, then stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “Your troubles are just beginning, and don’t contact the police. They will just pass whatever you tell them along to the feds, but then, as an ex-cop, you already know that.”

With that last remark, Sebastian walked out of John’s house and down the porch steps, heading for the black limousine parked in front.

John watched Sebastian drive away. His eyes glanced down the street to a white car he didn’t recognize, parked at the corner. Was that the fed? He shivered slightly.

He shook his head in confusion. Did the feds really have Simon?  Sebastian indicated as much. But then he could hardly trust anything Sebastian said.

He continued to stand in the doorway of his battered front door, too stunned by the turn of events to move. Finally, he roused himself from his mild state of shock and stared at the damage to his front door. The hinges were okay, there were some cracks in the wood door, but only the lock was busted. It looked like the dead bolt lock was okay. That lock had not been engaged when the front door was bashed in.

He closed the front door, tested the dead bolt lock. It securely held the front door closed. Then he thought about the warning given by Sebastian. Damn, I need to get out of here. He decided to leave immediately. He turned the dead bolt with his key, locking the door securely. He would think about where to spend the night later. Obviously, he could not stay here.

As John walked to his car in the driveway, he glanced again across the street at the white car. He could see nothing in the darkness, and he wasn’t about to check to see if Sebastian was lying. If a federal agent had been knocked out, he could wake up at any moment. He needed to be long gone by then.

John got into his car and cranked the engine. He sat there for a few seconds, thinking. He pushed his right hand through his hair in mild frustration. Things were rapidly getting out of control. This was only suppose to be a favor for a friend, provide a place to stay for a few days. He glanced at his watch: six o’clock. He was suppose to meet Rebecca at 8 o’clock. How would he explain to her the sudden disappearance of her brother?

Chapter 45

As John drove away, the headlights of a black limousine parked up the street came on. Then the limousine pulled slowly away from the curb and followed Arrowsmith’s SUV at a discreet distance.

“Don’t get too close,” Sebastian said from the back seat to Frasier who was driving. “He might spot us.”

“Why didn’t we just grab Arrowsmith, Boss?” Beckett complained from the front seat. “I would have him singing like a canary by now.”

“From what I have seen of our ex-cop, I seriously doubt that, and I don’t have time to waste,” Sebastian replied. “No, this will tell us what we want to know. I panicked him enough to leave. He should lead us to the person that has the scrolls of Jesus.”

“You think he knows who that is?”

“I’m counting on it.”

Sebastian smiled. He had not lied to Arrowsmith about a federal agent parked outside his home. There was an agent. But that wasn’t the reason Sebastian told John about the agent. He wanted Arrowsmith running and afraid to call the police as well. He particularly didn’t want the feds to have him. He wanted to make Arrowsmith run without thinking, and lead him to the person that had the scrolls. It was a nice little plan, but would it work? And what could he do about Homeland Security? He had to outmaneuver them and never let Homeland suspect that there was another player in the game.

He would have to be discreet, practically invisible, but then the government wasn’t known for its skill or subtly. The feds always figured they had all the cards. Sometimes they were wrong.

Chapter 46

The room was cold and barren, containing a battered square metal table that had seen better days. The table occupied the center of the room with two people seated in dented metal chairs leaning over it.

A gruff looking man with a thick neck and a bald spot on the crown of his head sat across from Simon. He identified himself as Agent Grimes. Ever since Simon was brought to this room, there had been a constant barrage of questions directed at him about the Gospel of Jesus.

Simon had foolishly opened the door to these agents at John’s home. That had been a mistake, but he doubted the outcome would have been any different no matter what he did. These agents were determined. They would have just kicked the door in.

The strangers had bundled him up quickly and stuffed him into a waiting car, not answering any of his questions or acknowledging any of his protests at the rough treatment. Since then, he had been sitting in this bare room. It must be dark outside by now.

The door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered older man entered. He wore a small mustache and a grim frown. He was the agent that had convinced Simon to open the door this afternoon.

“That will be all for now, Agent Grimes.”

The gruff, heavyset man rose from the table and with a disdainful backward glance at Simon, left the room, closing the door behind him. Agent Jones sat down across the table from Simon.

“I have some questions for you.”

“Did you have to force me to come down here to ask them?” Simon said. “I have done nothing wrong.”

“That is for me to decide. Why are you in America?”

“I’ve already told the others who interviewed me earlier. I am here to attend the Christian Discovery Conference.”

“In fact, I believe you are responsible for bringing something important to that conference. Is that correct?”

“My family set up the conference, if that is what you are asking.”

“No, Mr. Stein, that is not what I am asking. You were bringing something here to the United States—a very important Christian document, I believe.”

“Some other men thought to rob me of that document earlier today. They work for you?”

“Hardly. Do you have the document?”

“I have no religious documents with me.”

“You are playing games with me, Mr. Stein. It isn’t wise to do that. We know the conference is about these Jesus scrolls, the so-called Gospel of Jesus. We also know you had them when you left your home in Jerusalem. I want to know where those scrolls are now.”

“Why are you so interested?  This isn’t government business.”

“I will decide that, Mr. Stein. You smuggled those scrolls into this country in a diplomatic pouch to avoid a customs inspection in New York, in transit to Gulfview. We don’t know what else may have been in that pouch. Naturally, the federal government is interested when someone goes to such pains to avoid inspection.” Jones paused a moment, a slight smile spreading his lips. “Your family must have a great deal of pull to swing a diplomatic pouch. I am impressed.”

“You have no legal right to anything in a diplomatic pouch or to even inquire about it. You aught to know that.”

“But I do, Mr. Stein. The department I work for has rather broad powers, especially when it comes to non-citizens in our country. Now what was in the pouch?”

Simon knew he was being told half-truths. There was more going on here than idle curiosity in a small, insignificant diplomatic pouch and a religious document.

“I’m waiting, Mr. Stein,” Jones prompted.

“Why do you want to keep the word of Jesus from the world?  Only evil men would want that. Are you an evil man?”

The agent didn’t get angry; he didn’t appear to even be annoyed. He seemed calm, even patient. Simon had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that he wasn’t leaving here anytime soon, if at all.

“No, Mr. Stein, I don’t consider myself an evil man,” the man finally replied with a cynical smile, “but then who does consider himself evil. That is purely a subjective opinion.”

“The Gospel of Jesus needs to be heard by the world. It could mean the salvation of many.”

“I am not in the salvation business.” Agent Jones’ eyes narrowed. “I grow tired of asking about the Gospel of Jesus. Don’t force me to take more drastic action. Now, where is it?”

Simon shrugged.

“I see, you have decided not to cooperate. That is unfortunate.” Agent Jones stood up to leave.

“Men choose who they will serve, good or evil. Who is your master, Agent Jones?”

Jones ignored the question. “Perhaps we should wait for your friend, Mr. John Arrowsmith. Maybe he can tell us where this Gospel of Jesus can be found.”

“He is only a friend that offered to put me up for a few days. He has nothing to do with the Gospel of Jesus. Leave him alone.”

“So you say, but is that the truth? We shall see.” Jones walked to the door, paused for a moment and looked back at Simon.

“Let me be frank, Mr. Stein. Unless you cooperate, you could be here a long time, and your stay with us will eventually become somewhat unpleasant. In the end, we always get the answers we are searching for.”

“I would like to contact my embassy.”

“I’m sure you would. I’m afraid you still don’t quite grasp your current situation. You have no rights here, no protections. You are at our complete mercy. Think about that the next time I talk to you.”

“You never answered my question. Why do you want the Gospel of Jesus?”

“That is our concern.”

“You want the Gospel of Jesus before the conference, don’t you?  Else you would just wait and seize it at the conference. You want to prevent the world from hearing the words of Jesus.”

For the first time, Simon saw the man exhibit annoyance, his jaw tightening slightly. Simon knew he was right. They wanted the Gospel of Jesus before the conference met. The whole purpose of this exercise was to prevent the gospel from being exhibited at the conference. Simon had a feeling he would lose his value to them quickly once the gospel was displayed at the conference.

“Wrong question. You should have asked, what happens next?”

“Why is the U.S. government so afraid of a Christian document, one that will inspire and help mankind?” Simon pressed, determined to get an answer from the agent.

This time it was the agent who shrugged. “Not my department. Why never is, only who and where, sometimes when.”

“Are you a Christian?” Simon boldly asked, searching for any kind of leverage he could find.

Jones’ hand was on the door knob, ready to leave the room, when he stopped abruptly and turned toward Simon. “Inquiring about my religious beliefs, Mr. Stein?  Let me assure you, what I personally believe will not affect the performance of my job nor my interrogation of you.”

“If you are a Christian, this must be hard for you,” Simon quietly said, his eyes searching Jones’ face for any sign of understanding or mercy. He found none, only a hard, unreadable expression greeted him.

“Don’t worry about me, Mr. Stein. It is you that faces a difficult time if you do not cooperate.” The agent walked back over to the table that separated Simon from Jones and leaned down, resting both palms squarely on the table and stared directly into Simon’s eyes, causing Simon to flinch slightly. “Simon,” Agent Jones said softly, almost friendly, “you have only one choice. Tell us what you know, where the scrolls are, and I will guarantee that you can leave.”  He straightened up, a frown appearing on his face. “Else, I can do nothing for you, and the agents that are with me are very skilled at extracting information from uncooperative suspects.” Agent Jones turned and walked out, leaving a very scared Simon Stein.

Simon stared down at the table in front of him for a long time. No matter what they did to him, he couldn’t betray Rebecca and his father. Most of all, he could never give up the Gospel of Jesus. His family was counting on him. Whatever they did to him, he would have to endure it. He had to last until the conference began, and the Gospel of Jesus was presented to the conference attendees and the world.

Chapter 47

Special Agent Jones leaned against the doorframe outside the interrogation room, frowning. He had been tough on Stein because he needed to be tough. He needed to shake Stein up, make him question his fundamental beliefs. But, it seemed, that he was the one shaken up.

Jones was tired, and he didn’t like himself much right now or what he was being forced to do. It had been a long day. And then there was that nagging question: was he an evil man? Was Stein right?  He had always thought of himself as a good man, a patriot, fighting on the side of right and justice against evil men. But was he on the side of right this time?

Jones let out a slow breath of frustration. He was a federal agent protecting the nation. He was expected to do disagreeable things at times. It was the nature of the job.

Still, he failed to see why Homeland wanted to rob this Christian man of a religious document that was very important to him and many other religious people. There was nothing physically dangerous that he could see about this ancient document. Why all the political pressure to retrieve it?

He saw Grimes walk up and knew from the sneer on his face what he was going to say. “Stein isn’t going to break under normal questioning, you know.”

“No, he’s not,” Jones admitted.

“You know what that means?”

Jones nodded and reluctantly said, “We will start sleep deprivation now. He is already tired from our previous interrogations. Give him only enough water to keep him going and no food. Most men break after a while.”

He hated doing this to Stein, but he had no choice. He needed information that only Stein could provide.

“We don’t have that kind of time,” Grimes said aggressively, his sneer growing broader. “You know what we have to do.”

“No, and that is final.”

“Water boarding would break him quickly. You know that.”

“Water boarding is illegal, and I am not going to do it. Why don’t you include that in your next report to Thornburg.”

Agent Grimes moved back a step from Jones, surprise on his face which only confirmed what Jones already suspected: Grimes was bypassing him and reporting directly to Thornburg. Grimes straightened and the sneer returned.

“Whatever I do is my business.”

“Remember that little talk we had about working with me?  I still have an unused plane ticket for you.”

The sneer on Grimes face vanished instantly. As far as Jones could tell, the one fear that haunted Grimes was being replaced and having a stain on his career.

“I do my job,” he snapped angrily.

“You do your job my way. And if I notice anymore backdooring to Thornburg, I will put you back on a plane to Washington in a New York minute.”

“Maybe you won’t be in charge much longer. Maybe it will be you that is relieved and sent back,” Grimes whispered low as he moved closer to Jones, anger in every syllable he spoke.

“I should be so lucky,” Jones shot back. “Now, continue the interrogation, and no hitting or rough stuff. I don’t want to see a mark on him. Understood?”

“What a wimp!” Grimes sneered loudly.

Without warning, Jones grabbed Grimes by the throat, his fingers digging deeply into each side of Grimes’ throat, cutting off his air, quickly bringing Grimes to his knees. Grimes clawed at Jones’ hands, but to no avail. Jones had a death grip on Grimes. With a little more pressure on the throat and a twist, he could easily kill Grimes—and Grimes knew it.

Grimes went white with fear, his eyes bulging. Jones bent down to within inches of Grimes pale face and coldly whispered, “Listen carefully, Grimes. I’ve had a rough day, and I am in no mood to be gentle with idiots like you. I run things my way. Give me anymore trouble and something unpleasant could happen to you.”  He released Grimes, who collapsed immediately to the floor.

Grimes lay gasping for air for a few seconds, then rage mixed with fear filled him. “I will have you up on charges for this,” he gasped weakly between breaths.

Jones gave Grimes a hard, penetrating stare. “I wouldn’t advise that,” he said, then stepped over Grimes’ outstretched form.

Jones knew there would be no report. Grimes was too afraid of him now, and, of course, Jones had made sure there were no collaborating witnesses to what just happened. It would be his word against Grimes, a subordinate with disciplinary problems. No, he felt sure Grimes would do nothing.

He glanced back at Grimes as the agent got unsteadily to his feet and said, “Pick up John Arrowsmith. I need some leverage with Stein. If he isn’t home, check the church he attends. There is some kind of service there tonight.”

As Jones walked away from Grimes, he passed a hand through his hair, brushing it back a bit, and straightened his tie. He could be ruthless sometimes—and violent, particularly when he lost his temper.

Jones frowned. He didn’t like losing his temper. It was unprofessional. He had let Grimes get to him and that was a cardinal mistake that he must not let happen again. He was the Agent in Charge. His actions needed to be deliberate and well thought out, not spur of the moment and definitely not based on an emotional outburst.

Despite the self-recriminations, he slowly smiled to himself. It did feel good to release some of his pent up anger and frustration, particularly on Grimes who had been a pain from day one. He felt better than he had in days. He began to whistle a merry little tune as he walked down the hallway to his office.

Chapter 48

Husaam Khan nervously sat down at an outside cafe table and waited. The male voice on the phone had been rough and demanding, saying to meet him here at the Bayside Cafe at six o’clock this evening.

He leaned back in his white metallic lattice-backed chair, one elbow on the small round cafe table in front of him, and sipped on the iced tea he had ordered. It was a pleasant spring evening, cool and comfortable. From here, he could see several sail boats out on the bay racing the wind in the fading twilight, the blue waters of the bay gradually turning black. He could hear laugher from some of the nearby tables.

He missed happy evenings like this: out with friends and not a care in the world. Long ago, before his terrorist friends came along, he had often enjoyed such evenings. How foolish he had been. He had given up so much and for what? He was scared all the time and lonely, so lonely. There seemed to be no escape for him. He was trapped.

Husaam did not notice the brown haired man with the steel gray eyes who sat down at the table next to him nor the small listening device the man carried that would amplify Husaam’s every word. Husaam had been easy to track down, particularly since he was staying at the same hotel as Rebecca Stein.

When Mackay had received the alert from his boss at the CIA, one glance at the faxed photo of the terrorist student, and Mackay knew immediately that he would have no trouble locating the student. The image of the man in the photo matched perfectly with the man Mackay had seen at the hotel, the one who had been nervous and fearful when he stood beside Rebecca Stein. The man had stood out like a neon sign. Now Mackay knew why.

Agent Mack Mackay smiled slightly as he waited to see who Husaam met this evening. He had already planted a tracking device under the left bumper of Husaam’s rental car.

“You are on time. Good,” a gruff voice said from behind Husaam, startling him for a moment and forcing him to crane his neck backward to see a bearded man standing behind him. He watched the man move around in front of him and sat down.

“Who are you?” Husaam asked.

He watched nervously as the short, thin man with a long thick black beard leaned toward him. The man’s face was a mass of crisscrossing scars, like an old travel map with too many small roads. The man had to be in his fifties and had obviously led a very rough and violent life.

“My name is of no consequence. You only need to know that I work with Jamal.”

“If you are here, why do I have to be?” Husaam asked irritably.

The man ignored the irritation in Husaam’s tone and spoke calmly, as if explaining something very obvious to a small child. ”Some of us are too important to die so quickly, even in such a glorious cause. I will construct the bomb you will carry.”

Husaam’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I am to carry a bomb?”

The bearded man drew closer to Husaam, his hands casually resting on the table top. “Didn’t they tell you that you are to wear the bomb into the conference?”

“No, I thought I was to plant a bomb,” Husaam said, panic beginning to nibble at him.  He didn’t want to die.

“Foolish man. If only a bomb needed to be planted, you would not be here. We need someone to get as close as possible to those within the conference, then detonate the bomb. Security will be tight around the conference building.”

“There could be other Moslems at the conference,” Husaam objected strenuously, desperately seeking a way out of this trap. He wasn’t a suicide bomber.

“That is of no consequence. This Gospel of Jesus must be destroyed along with any  infidels present. We must show the infidels that we will not tolerate any disrespect of our faith. If Moslems die, it will be in a glorious cause.” The light of fanaticism lit the bearded man’s eyes, sending a chill down Husaam’s back.

“How are they disrespecting our faith?”

“By allowing the Gospel of Jesus to be read by infidels. Are you both blind and dumb?” The man’s face reddened with anger.

Husaam changed the subject. “Do...do you have the bomb?”

Anger drained away from the bearded man’s face as he arrogantly said, “Don’t be stupid. You will be given instructions on where to pick up the bomb when it is ready.”

Husaam drew courage from somewhere and defiantly glared back at the bomb maker. “No, I won’t do this. I am not a suicide bomber.”

The bomb maker sat up straighter, anger in every line of his face, as he reached inside his coat and drew out a nasty looking forty-five caliber automatic pistol. Keeping the gun low and out of public sight, the bomb maker pointed it directly at Husaam, the barrel of the pistol resting on the edge of the table.

Seeing the pistol, all the color drained from Husaam’s face. Was this man going to kill him right here in front of everyone?  He glanced at the surrounding patrons of the cafe and knew that no one could save him.

The bomb maker leaned across the table and in a low whisper, he said, “You are a disappointment. Like so many foolish young men, your courage has melted away from you at the final moment of battle.” The bearded man spoke with scorn dripping from his voice. “Allah sends me such poor soldiers lately.”

“Perhaps Jamal should have come,” Husaam said quietly, his eyes focused fearfully on the gun held in the bearded man’s right hand, but courage was beginning to build again within him. “Or perhaps you should wear the bomb yourself. It’s always easier to send others to die, isn’t it?”

“We all have our uses. Yours is to die for the glory of Allah. I told Jamal not to send me a coward. I shall have a talk with Jamal.”  The man leaned even closer. “Now do what you are told. You have a job to do.”

Husaam clung to his courage and shook his head. He didn’t want to die. He knew that much, not for any cause, holy or not.

A cynical smile spread the lips of the bomb maker. “You think you have a choice?  How naive.  Foolish men like you are the fodder for our wars, tools for the leaders of the Jihad to use. You have only two choices. To die here, now, marked a coward for all to see, or to die at the university defending our faith and for the glory of our cause, remembered as a hero. Choose now?”

Husaam sat in silence, unsure of what to do. He harbored no doubts that this man would kill him if he refused to wear a bomb to the conference.

The man leaned back, murder in his eyes. “Remember your family, Husaam. You put them at risk by your cowardice.”

“You...you would hurt my family?”

“The family of a traitor always suffers.” The bomb maker’s face curled into an evil smile. “And where could you go, even if you escaped me, that we would not find you?  Where can a traitor hide?”

Husaam agonized over those words?  Would the bomb maker actually harm his family because of him?  And where could he hide?  He was looking at a life of running and hiding, waiting to be killed every minute of the day.

Reluctantly, Husaam surrendered. Staring down at the table, he said, “I will do as you ask.”

“A wise decision. I will contact you when the bomb is ready.” The bomb maker slid an identification card toward Husaam with his picture on it. “Here is your student ID. Your name is on the list to be admitted to the conference along with other students. As you see, we are not without resources.” The bearded bomb maker glanced at his watch. “Now I must go.”

“So I continue to wait for more instructions?”

The bearded man nodded and grinned slightly. “You like your hotel room?”

“It’s very nice, not what I expected.”

“Consider it a reward for your great sacrifice.”  The bearded man stood up. “Keep vigilant. Make sure no one follows you.”  With that, the bearded man left.

Husaam continued to sit at the table, feeling numb. He reluctantly picked up the student identification card and shoved it into his coat pocket. So he was to be a suicide bomber. He tried to wrap his mind around that concept and failed. I am to die in two days. He swallowed hard.

He stared down at the wood table top for a while, emotions churning within him as tears slowly streaked down his cheeks. How had his life gone so wrong?  All he had wanted to do was make a difference in the world, to do something noble and heroic for his faith.

Husaam had started out to be a doctor, like his father. He wanted to save lives, not destroy them. Was there no way out for him?

Mackay watched Husaam as he left the cafe, slumped shoulders and head down. The kid had been sucked into a suicide bomb plot, and it was obvious that he was being forced against his will to participate. He almost, but not quite, felt sorry for him. He was a foolish young man who had thrown his life away on an idyllic cause that could result only in death, for him as well as others unless he intervened.

Mackay frowned. He had thought about following the bearded terrorist, but didn’t want to draw attention to himself with Husaam so close. He would follow the bomb maker after Husaam’s next meeting with him. He had taken a picture of the bomb maker, but doubted the CIA would be able to identify him. The man had worn a hat pulled down over his face. That and the beard would make identification problematic.

Mackay was worried. Terrorists planning to blow up the conference at the university, killing hundreds, had not been part of the op plan. Now, he would not only have to monitor an ever growing complex situation surrounding the Gospel of Jesus but also track terrorists bent on destroying the conference.

Mackay shook his head slowly, rubbing his chin in thought. Somehow the terrorists must be stopped. Timing would be critical. He would have to notify his superiors immediately, and he would have to watch Husaam very carefully. Things were rapidly getting out of hand.

Chapter 49

Rebecca Stein stood quietly across the street from the brightly lit Ocean Front Church, an island of light in the early evening darkness. Its tall white columns gleaming in the night as people ascended the wide granite steps that led past the columns and into the church.

She continued to watch as several more people entered the church. There was some sort of prayer service going on tonight. For the last hour, she had watched a steady stream of people in two’s and three’s enter the large columned building.

She brushed at a strand of dark hair that kept falling into her face, her eyes nervously darting around. No one suspicious appeared. Simon had broke the silence they had agreed on earlier to tell her about the attack on him as he left the airport. Their plans were now changed. She would carry the Gospel of Jesus to the conference, and Simon would meet her there. Until then, they were not to meet as a safety precaution.

Now she would be forced to meet John Arrowsmith at this church instead of Simon. She didn’t like that plan, and she most definitely did not want to meet John.

She glanced around her again, nervous, wondering if any enemies were close. Finally, she forced herself to relax and stop letting her imagination run away with her. She had seen no one suspicious, and she would not be alone in the church, but among many people. There was some safety in numbers.

Rebecca thought of her father again. A small smile parted her lips. Clever of her father to let everyone believe that the actual scrolls of the Gospel of Jesus were being transported to America, instead of a copy of the gospel in book form. Now, everyone was looking for very old, fragile scrolls, instead of a modern looking, leather bound book containing an exact copy of the scrolls, but only a copy, as if her father would ever allow such frail and ancient scrolls to travel halfway around the world.

And that copy now rested safely in a bank safe deposit box where no one could steal it. She would retrieve the book tomorrow at the proper time and present it to the conference on Wednesday.

When Rebecca first arrived, she had intended to go immediately into the church, but her feet had refused to move. Instead, she waited outside the church like some silly school girl, afraid to go in and face her past. She had not seen John arrive, so either he had entered the church by a side entrance or came earlier—or not at all; there was always that possibility. She bit her lip, her stress levels skyrocketing. Twenty long years since they last met.

Rebecca shuddered at the thought of meeting John again after all these years. She had never meant to hurt him. When he suddenly presented her with an engagement ring all those years ago, she had not been able to speak. Shocked, her mind had raced. She had done the only thing she could think of: run.

She could tell him her reasons for running away now. But would he believe her? Would he understand? Her duty to her family and their great secret came first. Nothing could ever be allowed to interfere with that obligation, not even love. And she couldn’t tell him the truth, not then.

Still, she should have said something, talked to him, gave him some kind of a reason for turning him down. Instead, she had left him without saying a word and disappeared into the night, utterly rejecting him and leaving a stunned and heartbroken young man behind her.

Rebecca’s brother had told her of John’s grief at her rejection. There was some condemnation in Simon’s eyes when he told her. He thought that she had handled everything badly.

Rebecca wondered if John hated her. She couldn’t blame him if he did, but it would make for a more difficult meeting. If only she had called him afterwards, tried to make peace with him, but she never had the courage to call. After a few years, it became impossible to try.

The Gospel of Jesus had demanded so much from her family—lives, loves, happiness, all to protect one of the greatest secrets of mankind. It was the Stein family’s greatest blessing—and curse. Through two thousand years of history, the family had labored to reach this point. What was her happiness against that?  Every member of her family was expected to sacrifice whatever was necessary to fulfill their centuries old promise. The promise Bartholomew made to Jesus two thousand years ago—that his family would protect and guard the sacred writings for as long as necessary.

Rebecca found it difficult even now to accept that the long wait was finally over, that the world was to receive the Gospel of Jesus in a mere two days. The burden would finally be lifted from her family—and her.

Rebecca took a deep breath and stepped off the curb, heading for the church and a meeting that was long overdue.

Chapter 50

Agent Mack Mackay watched Rebecca Stein walk toward the church. He had followed her from the hotel to the Ocean Front Church, having followed Husaam back to the same hotel earlier, only to spot Rebecca leaving. He had watched her stand outside of the church a long time as if afraid to enter.

Mackay had spotted Homeland Security agents pull up only minutes after he arrived, halfway down the block. They didn’t get out, just sat there. What were they doing here? In point of fact, why were any of them here.

Unless... A sudden thought hit him. Was Arrowsmith inside? Was he the reason everyone was showing up here? He needed to get a peek inside the church, but not yet. He would wait until Stein was inside the church, then find his way inside and observe.

The real worry that nagged at him concerned the feds—did they know about Rebecca Stein? Mackay remembered his surprise at finding out the dark haired woman he followed from the airport was, in fact, Rebecca Stein, Simon’s sister. There was no mistake; CIA ID had been firm on the identification. It made perfect sense when Mackay thought about it. Who better to trust than your own sister?

Homeland obviously took Simon Stein to make him reveal the location of the Gospel of Jesus, not knowing his sister was in town, and Simon Stein had already made the switch. Mackay had watched the transfer at the Airport which was why he followed Rebecca Stein in the first place, instead of sticking with her brother.

His attention returned to the Homeland agents. If Arrowsmith was inside the church and the target, would they attempt to grab Arrowsmith here?  Possibly Rebecca Stein as well?  He couldn’t let that happen, but that would seem like something they would do. Cover all the bases, the shotgun approach. Round everyone up who might know something and see what fell out. He chuckled to himself. There was nothing subtle about these guys.

Mackay considered his immediate options. If Homeland did grab Arrowsmith there was precious little he could do about it. His orders were to protect the Gospel of Jesus. He could intervene only if Arrowsmith had the Gospel of Jesus, otherwise he was to stay clear. This was a stealth operation. The CIA had no jurisdiction in this matter.

But Rebecca Stein was another matter entirely. If he was right, she did have the Gospel of Jesus, and his orders were very specific about insuring the gospel reached its destination.

Mackay settled back in his car seat. It could be a long night. He continued to scan the area with his night vision binoculars. He noticed a long, black limousine parked on a side street by the church. The limo had been here when he arrived behind Rebecca Stein. Nothing else of any interest appeared.

Chapter 51

John sat in the last pew at the back of the church. Pastor Phillips had left the church sanctuary open this evening for the members of his congregation to come and pray. Tonight was a special night of prayer for the Brown family. Several church members were kneeling at the altar now, praying with hands uplifted, oblivious to anyone else. He saw Brown’s wife at the altar with head down, obviously in grief’s grasp. He continued to glance around the sanctuary: there were clusters of worshipers scattered around the church pews.

Was it only this morning that he had visited Brown in the hospital? He was once more reminded of his failure with Brown, seeing all the mourners.

John looked at his watch—8:30. Rebecca was late.  He had been here over a half hour and no one had showed up yet. He was beginning to worry that something had happened to her.

He forced himself to relax and wondered what Rebecca would look like after twenty years. Had she changed much?  Had those soft dark eyes grown hard and cold with time?  Did she feel anything at all for him anymore?  Did her feelings, or his for that matter, really matter after all these years?  He had tried to forget her, and thought he had succeeded until tonight.

His thoughts drifted back to college. Both of them had been seniors, young and in love, and ready to conquer the world, full of ideals and plans. Then, on a spring night, much like tonight, they had sat close together on a small wooden bench by Cutter’s Walk, as they often did. It was their last year of college.

He had planned everything out to the last detail, excited and confident in what her answer would be when he proposed. He had taken out a small, rectangular red velvet box and opened it, revealing an engagement ring. Then, with ring in hand, he had knelt in front of her by the bench and asked her to marry him.

John would never forget the absolute silence that followed, and the look of shock on Rebecca’s face, followed by an anxious, fearful expression that slowly spread over her facial features. The eager happiness he had first felt slowly turned bitter as dread and confusion begin to fill him. Why was she reacting this way?  He couldn’t be that wrong about her.

Finally, after long seconds of waiting, she rose from the bench without saying a word and walked away, leaving him stunned and bewildered. As if in some hypnotic trance, he stared after her until she disappeared into the darkness. He had been too crushed by her absolute rejection of him to even think of following her. With a sorrowful sigh too deep for words to express, he had risen from his knees, closed the cover of the box that held the small engagement ring and walked away, shattered beyond hope.

Rebecca left school for home the next day without a word. He thought briefly about following her, but then decided against it. She had made it clear that she wanted nothing more to do with him. Simon, her brother, tried to offer some comfort, but he too had been stunned by her actions.

John never considered that Rebecca might reject his marriage proposal. They seemed so right for each other. How could he have been so wrong?  That question hounded him in the following months and years. He had never found an answer.

A soft tap on his left shoulder startled him. He looked up into the dark eyes and petite face of Rebecca Stein. His heart skipped a beat, even after all these years. He had feared meeting her again would be painful; he had been right.

Rebecca Stein was barely five feet tall, but she was five feet of passion and stubbornness, warmth and intelligence, everything that he had loved about her, right down to those large, dark eyes that dominated her tan face. She walked around the end of the pew and sat down beside him, placing her briefcase between them, as if that was necessary, he bitterly thought.

John waited for her to begin the conversation. She looked at him a long time, studying his face and saying nothing. About the time he started to say something, she spoke.

“You never called, John.” Her words were flat, unemotional, as if she was telling him the time of day. That hurt.

“You made your feelings pretty clear the last time we were together,” he said, failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

The sight of her filled his mouth with the sour taste of rejection. He thought that he had forgiven her and moved on, but that, he now realized, had been a lie. When he saw her, all the emotions and frustrations of that long ago night came flooding back into his mind.

“And you never called me or explained why you left like that. The least you could have done was explain why you dumped me.”

She looked away from him. He could have sworn that he saw tiny tears forming at the corners of her eyes. Rebecca said nothing more. She sat with her head half turned away, her body rigid and at a slight angle to him so that he faced part of her back, instead of her face.

Finally, she spoke. Her words drifting back to him over her right shoulder. This time there was emotion in her voice.

“I had hoped we could put the past behind us, John. I see that is not possible.” She paused, let out a deep sigh of resignation. “If you must know, walking away from you was one of the hardest things that I have ever had to do, but I felt that I had no choice. I thought about calling you as the years passed, but I...I lacked the courage. Sometimes you have to make hard choices. I have had to learn to live with mine.”

“We both have,” he echoed, reliving the pain of that long ago moment.

She glanced over her shoulder and looked him squarely in the eyes. “Did you think that I didn’t love you? I did, very much.”

“I...I don’t understand. If you loved me, why did you walk away?”

John roughly pulled her around and drew her closer, until her face was only inches away from him. Strong emotions were surging through him. He wanted to shake her and scream at her for all the misery he had felt after she left him. Instead, he held her very gently.

“Just tell me why?”

“I was part of a great secret that I could not reveal to anyone, even you. I thought I had to choose between my Savior and you.  It never occurred to me that I might be able to have both.“ She frowned sadly. “When you are young, all the answers are either black or white. Only with age, do you find out there is a great deal of gray between them.” She paused, took a deep breath and expelled it. “But that is the past. We must face today.”

He smiled weakly, releasing her, and said, “Yes, that was a long time ago.”

She was right, time had passed. They were not the same people anymore. He studied the small, fine wrinkles at the corner of her eyes. Even with age, she was still beautiful.

Slowly, he forced himself to put away the angry emotions he was feeling. He needed to put away the past and move on. He needed closure. Perhaps meeting her tonight was a blessing, a chance to resolve all the anger inside of him and finally move on with his life.

“How is Simon?” she said.

“I...I don’t know. He wasn’t home when I arrived this evening.”

Her large, dark eyes grew alarmed as she placed her left hand on his arm and pressed hard. “Where is he?” There was a hint of an accusation in her voice, hard and pointed. It hurt.

“Homeland Security may have arrested him.”

“Your government arrested Simon?”

“A possibility. One of them may have been parked outside my home. I’m not sure.”

“But why?  What has he done to warrant an arrest?”

“It may have something to do with the Gospel of Jesus. They obviously thought he had it—or knew where to find it.”

“Your government is interested in the Gospel of Jesus?” She pulled back from him, putting some distance between them.

“My house was torn apart. They were looking for something. My guess is the Gospel of Jesus. It is the only thing that makes sense.”

”Simon gave me the Gospel of Jesus at the airport,” Rebecca said.

“I know,” John said.

“He told you?” Rebecca said in amazement.

“After what happened with the armed men trying to rob him, he thought he owed me an explanation.”

“Were those men federal agents?”

“No...no, they weren’t. Those men work for a man by the name of Sebastian Black who is also interested in the Gospel of Jesus. I have met him since then. He is a man to avoid.”

“Why would your government be interested in a strictly religious matter?”

“I don’t know.”

She frowned for a moment, but said nothing, leaning back against the wooden pew. He could tell she was thinking things through, looking at every angle.

“Is it possible your government sees the Gospel of Jesus as some kind of threat?” she asked.

“Is it?   Only you can answer that question. I don’t know what the Gospel of Jesus says.”

“I suppose new ideas can seem dangerous to some people.”

“Apparently, someone else thinks the same thing,” John said.

“Did Simon tell you about the Gospel of Jesus?”

“Yes, he said he was carrying a copy of the Gospel of Jesus in book form because the scrolls were too fragile to travel. He said your family hinted at bringing the scrolls to provide a diversion so no one would be looking for a book.”

“That’s what Simon gave me at the airport, the book, which I have hidden until the conference.”

John paused a moment, thinking, then said, “You have read this Gospel of Jesus?”

She nodded. “Yes, it is written in Aramaic, the language of Jesus’ day. I read Aramaic fluently. My father saw to that. The words of the scripture are very powerful and moving.”

“Powerful enough to cause governments trouble?”

Rebecca bit her lip slightly. “I guess that would depend on the government and who read them.”  She sighed, looking like the weight of the world rested on her shoulders and perhaps it did.  “That people could feel so threatened that they would resort to this.” She shook her head in disgust.

John sat back, thinking. Could people feel that threatened over a book, even one written by Jesus?  Many religious books had been discovered over the years and while they generated excitement, none of them generated this kind of paranoia. The Dead Sea Scrolls came to mind as just one example, roughly a 1000 documents hidden in eleven caves and found in the late forties and early fifties near the Dead Sea, a salt lake between Israel and Jordan. His religious studies in college had taught him that much. But those scrolls had not been written by the Savior. That made all the difference in the world.

John thought about what his pastor had said, that trouble could arise because of the Gospel of Jesus, because of differences in scripture.  Suppose the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John had only gotten it half right. After all, the disciples were not noted scholars or learned men of their time. They were simple working men—fishermen, a tax collector. Even the Biblical Gospels hinted at misunderstandings or incomplete comprehensions of Jesus’ mission and words. For example, none of the disciples foresaw the resurrection.

Now, for the first time, the world would see Jesus’ own words, written by him, direct and uncensored in any way. Those words would be powerful and irrefutable—and damaging if different from the Biblical scriptures. Was that the motivation behind this resistance to Jesus’ words—fear of change?

“Are there significant differences between this Gospel of Jesus and the Bible?” he asked slowly, deliberately, staring at her intently.

A long silence followed. Rebecca frowned, shaking her head, then, slowly, she said, “How can I say this? Reading the scriptures of Jesus in the original Aramaic and knowing that those words were written by the hand of Jesus was like someone washed a dirty window I had been looking through all my life:  suddenly I could see clearly. There are certain views that are sharper, clearer, that some might interpret as changes, but those same scriptures only made my faith stronger. I suppose it all comes down to flexibility and willingness to accept change.”

“That was true in Jesus’ time as well. Some could accept change, most could not. The ruling religious authorities saw Jesus and the change he brought as a threat. Jesus was crucified because they could not accept that change.”

“And you think there are people afraid of the change this gospel might bring?”

“I don’t know—maybe. To see what Jesus actually thought, what he believed, written in his own hand, no intermediate copying, no dilutions of the word, no third party interpretations, but his views and his thoughts straight from him is a little short of astounding. For the first time, we will know what Jesus actually thought about everything—eternal life, salvation, resurrection, heaven,” John said, amazed even now by what this Gospel of Jesus could mean to the world.

“My father said the Gospel of Jesus would change the world,” Rebecca said.

“Apparently, some people aren’t willing to accept that change.”

Rebecca sat very still, her face full of concern. “So along with truth, I bring grief.”

Chapter 52

As John sat beside Rebecca in deep thought, reflecting on the awesome potential of the Gospel of Jesus, he saw two strangers in dark suits enter the front of the sanctuary, their heads swiveling around, searching. They each wore an earpiece. He had been a cop long enough to know government agents when he saw them.

If these were the same government agents that had taken Simon, it might make sense they would come looking for him as well. If Black was telling the truth, there had been an agent at his home earlier, keeping an eye on him. Perhaps, they had been planning even then to apprehend him.

He watched the agents carefully, slumping down a little in his seat, trying to remain inconspicuous. They hadn’t seen him yet. His first concern was for Rebecca. They must not find out about her.

“Rebecca, wait here. I’m going to move up toward the front. When I sit down, you get up and leave.”

Her eyes grew wide with alarm as she noted the rise of concern in his voice and the anxious look on his face. She followed his stare and saw the two men in dark suits slowly working their way across the sanctuary, occasionally stopping to look over various groups of worshipers and then moving on.

“Who are they?”

“I don’t know for sure, but they could be government agents. The same ones that arrested your brother. Do you have a place you can go?”

“My hotel room at the Carlton.”

“Be careful returning there. I don’t think anyone knows about you yet, and I would like to keep it that way, but if they suspect anything, the hotels will be the first place they search.”

“I will be careful. Suppose we meet for breakfast at the hotel in the morning?  About eight o’clock?”

John nodded.

“What are you going to do?” Rebecca asked.

“Provide a distraction. If they are looking for me, they will focus on me, not you, giving you a chance to escape.”  He dropped his voice to a low whisper and said, “If I don’t show up tomorrow morning, don’t wait for me and get out of that hotel as fast as you can.”

She grabbed his arm fiercely for a moment, looking intently into his eyes. “Don’t do anything foolish. You mean a lot to me.”

“I won’t. About Simon...do you think your father can do anything?  If federal agents have him, then notifying the cops won’t help.”

“I’ll contact father at once. He has friends in high places.”

He smiled at her for the first time, then turned away, sliding to the end of the pew, trying to remain concealed from the agents’ view. He waited until the agents turned their backs to him, then he rose and walked rapidly toward the front of the church. As he reached the front of the sanctuary, he glanced behind him and saw Rebecca exiting the rear of the sanctuary. No one followed her.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he sat down on the front row by the center aisle, next to a small group of women earnestly praying. He felt the approach of the agents before he saw them. A tall, heavyset agent stopped directly in front of him.

“Mr. Arrowsmith, John Arrowsmith?”

He looked up at the man. The agent’s face was stern and all business. The agent’s partner stopped in back of him.

“Do I know you?” John said.

“No, Mr. Arrowsmith but we would like you to come with us.”

“I don’t normally accompany strangers anywhere.”

“We are federal agents.”

“I thought so. Do you have a warrant for my arrest?”

“Of course not. We merely want to question you.”

“About what?”

The man glanced around the sanctuary, frowning, annoyed at the resistance that John was offering. “We can discuss that later. Right now, you need to come with us.”

“Do you have Simon Stein?” John suddenly shouted, noting the way the man’s head jerked back in mild shock before once more soothing his facial expression back into that unperturbed official look. But the agent’s momentary loss of facial control only confirmed what John suspected.

Anger lit the man’s face as he roughly grabbed John’s arm. John stood up and jerked his arm away. “If you want to create a disturbance in this church, among these people, you are close to it.”

The man released John’s arm, then stepped back. People were looking at John and the strangers now. John had made sure to raise his voice loud enough to be heard. It was obvious the agents were concerned about drawing attention to themselves.

“You are obstructing justice. That can carry serious consequences.”

“Why don’t you show me your badge first, before you start hurling charges at me?”

The man reached inside his coat as if to pull an identification out, then hesitated a moment, looking back at his partner, who shook his head. The man withdrew his hand, frowning. That puzzled John. He had no doubt that the man was a federal agent, yet he hesitated to identify himself. Why?

“Very well, Mr. Arrowsmith, we will leave. But you will see us again.” With that, they both left.

John rubbed his neck to relieve the stress gathering there. It was obvious the men didn’t want to draw attention to themselves or identify themselves as federal agents, not where others could see and perhaps hear them. Why would federal agents be shy?

They obviously wanted him to go with them. He had a feeling if he had, he wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon.

After a few minutes, he decided to leave and walked to the rear of the church, through the double doors, stopping outside, behind one of the giant church columns. His eyes swept the parking lot and surrounding streets, straining to see in the darkness. He saw no lurking figures in the darkness, but that didn’t mean there were no agents waiting to jump him. With some apprehension, he stepped out into the darkness.

Chapter 53

A slow smile crawled across Sebastian’s face. He had recognized the dark haired woman that John met in the church. She was Simon Stein’s sister, Rebecca. He had recognized her from pictures he had studied about the family as part of his research. He had watched both Stein and Arrowsmith from a dark corner of the church, alone, his men waiting in the limousine outside, parked a discreet distance from the church.

Obviously, they knew each other. Strangers didn’t display such obvious intense emotions. He watched anger and frustration dance across John Arrowsmith’s face. Yes, there was a history between those two, a very unhappy history.

Sebastian had seen the two rather obvious federal agents enter the church and John move to the front of the church, giving Rebecca Stein time to slip away. John was acting as decoy which only re-enforced his belief that Rebecca Stein must have the Gospel of Jesus.

Somehow Simon Stein had gotten the scrolls to his sister, but when? He knew Simon Stein had those scrolls when he stepped off the plane, and Simon traveled straight to Arrowsmith’s house from the airport. When the feds picked up Simon, he was certain they found no scrolls, else their agents wouldn’t be here.

Slowly an idea formed and took root in his mind. He smiled slowly to himself—the airport. The switch must have been at the airport. Clever—lots of people, easy to hide and make the switch. No one would have expected it.

He kept his distance from Rebecca as she hurried down the church steps. As soon as she got into her car, Sebastian rushed to his limousine, thinking she would leave immediately, and he would follow her. Eventually, she would lead him to the Jesus scrolls.

But she didn’t leave. Instead, she sat in her car with the engine running, waiting, much to Sebastian’s puzzlement. What was she waiting for?

Chapter 54

Grimes smiled as he saw Arrowsmith’s car pass him, thinking at last they had John Arrowsmith all alone, ripe for capture. They should have done this to start with instead of blundering around inside the church. Both the agents had ducked away from the bright headlight beams of Arrowsmith’s car as he had passed them, concealing themselves.

Then, with a broad smile of anticipation, Grimes turned his ignition key to follow—and nothing happened. Twice more he turned the key. Apprehension surged through him. Again he turned the key, no power. The engine would not start. He swore, hitting the steering wheel with his left hand in frustration. What had happened to his car?  It was fine when they parked here earlier and went into the church.

Grimes glanced up to see the red tail lights of Arrowsmith’s car as it made a left turn and disappeared from sight. He sat there stewing, anger surging through him. He had lost Arrowsmith.

Grimes pulled the hood release under the dash, grabbed a flashlight, and exited the car. He raised the hood and inspected the engine. It took only a few seconds to find the disconnected battery cable. Someone had deliberately disconnected the cable to the positive terminal of the car battery, resulting in no cranking power for the engine. But who could have done that?

A half block away, sitting in his dark blue rental car, a man in a gray suit smiled to himself.  Agent Mack Mackay had disconnected the battery cable when the agents had entered the church. It was a simple delaying tactic that paid good dividends tonight.

Mackay had watched with some satisfaction as Arrowsmith’s car disappeared from sight, leaving the federal agents behind. Then, he had leaned back and waited for Rebecca Stein to leave.

He had been in the church when Arrowsmith and Stein met. He had noticed the agents enter and Arrowsmith’s move to cover Stein’s withdrawal. He had also noticed another man who was watching Arrowsmith and Stein a little too intently. When Rebecca Stein left, that man had followed. Mackay’s curiosity was aroused, and he had trailed the man to his limousine and copied down the license number. He would run a check on the mystery man later.

His attention had then returned to Rebecca Stein who simply sat in her car, not making any attempt to drive away. He had been puzzled for a moment, then realized that she must be waiting for Arrowsmith to leave. Obviously, she had been worried about him.

When Arrowsmith finally exited the church and drove away, only then did Rebecca Stein finally leave. Mackay also noticed the black limousine containing his mystery man followed her when she left. Someone else was interested in Rebecca Stein. That could only mean trouble.

Chapter 55

The flight from Rome had been long and uneventful, and Paul was tired, his body weakened by the cancerous disease that ravaged his body.

He sat at a small table in the hotel bar nursing a small whiskey. At least he belonged to a religion that allowed alcohol, which was a comfort at times. He removed some pills from several bottles and downed them with a glass of water that also rested on the table. His doctors had recommended that he stay away from alcohol, but at this stage of his debilitating disease, what did it matter?

“Father West, Paul West, is that you?”

He looked up to see Karl Brown standing in front of him, an expert in religious antiquities and an avowed atheist. Paul had known who the man was before he had even glanced up.  That heavy German accent was difficult to miss. He should have known that Karl  would be here, being an expert paleographer in religious document authentication, particularly when the documents dealt with ancient Christian manuscripts.

“I assume you are here for the conference,” Paul said reluctantly. He didn’t want to talk to anyone right now, particularly Karl.

“Of course. Exciting, isn’t it?  For many years there have been rumors about a great secret that the Stein family protected. We all suspected that an ancient religious document of some sort was involved, but to find out that document was no less than an epistle of Jesus Christ—well, that is rather spectacular.” He paused for a moment as he slid his heavy frame into the chair opposite Paul. “How is mother Church taking it?  Badly, I would think,” he chuckled, obvious glee in his voice.

“Rome likes a settled and orderly world. Surprises always upset her. Why should an atheist like you care?” Paul replied, frowning.

A waiter appeared and Karl ordered a beer. Paul waved the waiter off. He was still nursing his drink.

Karl swung his eyes back to Paul and said, “As to your question, yes, I’m an atheist and proud of it. Any logical thinking man knows that religion is nonsense. But even you must admit that I am fair in my evaluations and judgments. Unlike some, I have objectivity, and I am not blinded by the bias of a personal religion.”

“Atheism is your religion, and you are devoted to its practice,” Paul snapped, but his sharp tone didn’t seem to bother Karl whose smile never faltered.

“Now we shall finally see who is right, won’t we?  The Bartholomew letter only wetted my appetite.” Karl gave Paul a smug smile.

“Right about what?”

“Who really wrote the Gospel of John?”

“You are not still on that crusade?” Paul shook his head. “Besides, there probably won’t be any reference to the Gospel of John at all. The Biblical Gospels were written long after the crucifixion. How could Jesus even be aware of them?”

“I am more interested in the disciples. Perhaps Jesus talks about Mary, the disciple he loved.”

“That is your interpretation. The author of John does not identify that disciple.”

“Strange, don’t you think, that the author would go to such pains to avoid mentioning the name of that disciple, always calling the disciple the Beloved Disciple or that other disciple. You know most scholars do not think that John of Zebedee, the disciple of Jesus, wrote the Gospel of John. They ascribe the authorship to the anonymous Beloved Disciple.”

“I am not one of them. The conclusions are all speculative and circumstantial. I do not believe that Mary Magdalene wrote John.”

“Or that she was one of the original apostolic founders and leaders of the early Christian church?” Karl pressed.

“There may be some indirect evidence that she was involved in the early church,” he grudgingly admitted, “but nothing definitive.”

“She was certainly a constant companion of Jesus as were the other Marys. She was at the cross and an eyewitness to the empty tomb. What better eyewitness could you have for the author of John?”

“She is seldom mentioned in the Gospels, not like Peter and the others.”

“That doesn’t mean she wasn’t prominent. You know how male oriented they were in ancient Judea. The early church wanted no part of women in leadership roles, and I think that they edited her name out of John, except for the cross and the tomb. They couldn’t very well edit her name out of that. The other Gospels had already identified her.”

“I suppose this is what we have to look forward to:  every ridiculous and fanciful little theory about Jesus will now surface, no matter how stupid.” Paul shook his head in sad resignation.

“Of course, and everyone has their favorite theories. You know mine.”

”This is all pointless in any case. Why don’t we wait and see what the Gospel of Jesus actually says before jumping to conclusions? Besides, we don’t know yet if this document is really written by Jesus.  Nothing has been authenticated yet.  That’s what the conference is all about. This may all be a huge hoax.”

“Wishful thinking on your part. I’m sure the Church would like to see the document declared false. If authenticated, the status quo will be upset, of that I am sure. Two thousand years of Bible editing, political maneuvering, posturing, and false creeds could all be swept away overnight by this Gospel of Jesus.” Karl sipped his beer, glee obvious in his eyes. He was enjoying Paul’s discomfort.

“Something every atheist dreams of, I am sure.”

“There is one thing I’m sure we both can agree on. If the great secret of the Stein family turns out to be written words direct from the hand of Jesus Christ, it would be the event of the century. And we will witness it. We will be part of that history. Our names recorded for all posterity.”

“Is fame what you seek?” Paul asked.

“Nothing wrong with a little fame,” Karl laughed, his protruding fat belly shaking with the effort. “Perhaps this Gospel of Jesus will finally show the falsity of Mother Church.”

“There is nothing false about the Church or Christianity?” Paul retorted.

“Christianity is an allusion and nothing more,” Karl snapped.

“At least until your heart attack. Is it true that you cried out for God’s mercy when you thought you were going to die?”

Karl’s face turned red with anger. He didn’t speak for a moment, struggling to control his anger. When he did speak, his voice was a whisper. “Who told you?”

“Does it matter? Atheism offers cold comfort when death knocks at your door. Then logic often fails and vain beliefs falter, particularly when hell awaits you. Many unbelievers suddenly cry out for God when the end is near.”

“I...I wasn’t thinking. The heart attack was sudden. I didn’t know what I was saying.” Even Karl didn’t believe the lie he was uttering, but he refused to admit it. There was such a thing as pride.

“I’m not judging you, Karl. But you might want to think about next time.” Paul stood up.

Karl looked up at him with a puzzled frown and said, “Next time?”

“Yes, the next time death comes calling. You may not get another reprieve.” He was too tired to continue putting up with this man. “If you will excuse me, I have had a long day. I need to retire to my room. Enjoy your beer.”

As Paul walked away, he silently asked God to forgive him for indulging in a little pay back, but Karl had irritated him.

Chapter 56

A few minutes later, Paul stood alone on the balcony of his hotel room, looking down from the third floor at the street lights below—the tall, slim light poles creating pools of light in the darkness. He thought about the words of Karl. Oddly enough, he agreed with him on the nervousness of the Church about the Gospel of Jesus.

I’m also scared, he thought, just as the Church is scared. Karl is typical of the scholars this conference will draw—men with their own personal agendas to pursue. The atheists want the Stein document to be vindicated.  If the Stein document is radically different from the Biblical Gospels, they will use it as a sludge hammer to knock down all the religious institutions of the world. The Church wants the epistle to be declared a fake to preserve the status quo. He was sure there were a thousand others who had there own viewpoints and agendas in addition to the atheists and the Church. The political maneuvering had already started, each party all set to twist the words of Jesus’ epistle to fit their own personal views of religious history.

But Karl did have a point. Just how far have we strayed from the original intent of Jesus’ words?  Paul knew there was a certain amount of paganism in the Catholic Church. From the earliest times, compromises had been made to incorporate pagan people into the Church, to make it easier for them to believe in Christ and join the Church.

Centuries of copying, editing, and interpreting the Bible had led to more so-called inconsistencies. Recently, as older religious manuscripts had been discovered, those “errors” in the Bible were uncovered, but the Church never admitted that there were errors, only “differences” and corrections were quietly made in newer translations. As he had explored the various ancient manuscripts and discoveries, analyzed their meaning and compared the results, he began to have doubts about his own faith.

Suddenly, he started coughing again, spasms racking his body in an uncontrollable fit. He reached into his coat pocket and took out the brown bottle he always carried with him, unscrewed it, and drank directly from the container. Similar to cough syrup, but more powerful, with strong narcotics imbedded in the mixture, the liquid soothed his cough and gradually the coughing subsided. He placed the bottle back in his coat pocket and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. The coughing was getting worse. His condition was deteriorating faster than anticipated.

Death was close upon his heels. This was a fine time for a priest to be having a crisis of faith. This was a time he should be clinging strongly to his beliefs, preparing to meet Jesus, his Redeemer, with a strong faith that was unwavering. Yet doubts persisted, weakening his faith and the effectiveness of his prayers. He had quickly found there was scant comfort from doubt and cold logic, only the warm strength of a vibrant faith could answer his desperate needs.

Paul sighed heavily, gripping the black iron railing of the balcony harder. He had managed to bury those doubts over the years, telling himself that the only thing that mattered was his belief that Jesus was his personal savior, sent by God to save a sinful world. The rest didn’t matter—but that was a lie; it did matter. He needed something to shatter that disbelief that had built up over the years.  He needed a miracle that would let his faith flow strong again.

He hoped this Gospel of Jesus was that miracle. On the other hand, this ancient document might destroy what little faith he had left. If this document was an extensive epistle written by Jesus, how would those words from two thousand years ago compare with his faith of today, the Church creed, even the Bible? What if Jesus said something shocking, something he could not accept?

He gazed down into the street below, at the darkness gathered there.

His mind once more struggled with the adversities that the Gospel of Jesus might bring into his life and that of the Church. In the rush to make Jesus a god, had the early disciples weakened the real message of Jesus?  He understood the need to make Jesus a god. In ancient days, people worshiped a multitude of gods. Even the Emperor of Rome declared himself to be a god, not that the emperor believed it, but because such a decree gave him greater control over his empire and generated greater stability.

But by making Jesus a god, they took away the focus on Jesus the man. Jesus referred to himself as the Son of Man. The miracles he did, the salvation he offered, was as a man directed by God to be sure, but still a man, a man other men could imitate and model themselves after. Who can imitate a god?

Nowhere in the Gospels did Jesus ever say that he was actually God. He said he was the Son of God, not necessarily the same thing. In fact, not until he received the Holy Spirit from God, after he was baptized by John, did the Gospels state that God said “This is my Son...”. He had always debated about whether the Holy Spirit made Jesus the Son of God or the virgin birth. If the Holy Spirit, then all Christians who believe and receive the Holy Spirit are sons of God. In fact, in the Gospel of John, Christians are referred to as the children of God.

Paul had long suspected that the Church officially made Jesus into god as a way to attract more of the pagans in the world. In ancient times, Pagans believed in gods of every type and description. Rome and Greece were full of statues to gods. Athens even had one to an “unknown” god` in case they missed one.

However, there was one huge problem with declaring Jesus to be God. The Old Testament had already made clear that there was only one god for the Jews, Jehovah. There could be no others. Jesus, as a devout Jew, would not have contradicted that commandment. In fact, Jesus stated that he had come to fulfill the scriptures, not supersede them.

That was the stumbling block for the Jews. For when Jesus declared himself a Son of God, they thought he meant equal with God, and their religion could never allow that. It was blasphemy. But son could have a different meaning, a spiritual meaning, the adopted son of God by virtue of the Holy Spirit—the kind of relationship every man would like to have with God. Jesus often used hyperbole and symbolism to make his points—that was the orator in him.

Paul had always accepted the view that the Holy Spirit was the only way to directly be connected to God and God’s power. Only after Jesus received the Holy Spirit did miracles begin to occur in Jesus’ ministry. The Holy Spirit was a way to link all Christians everywhere directly to God.

But if the Holy Spirit was a link to God’s power, why weren’t there more miracles in the world today?  The Church said the time of miracles by Christians was largely past, except for the rare authenticated Church miracle. The Church said that the miracles of Jesus, the disciples, and the early church were for then, not now. That provided an easy excuse to explain the lack of power in the Church. Today’s message was one of salvation and forgiveness only.

The Church refused to face a much tougher truth. Jesus said that Christians could perform the same miracles as he did if they had faith. The miracles that his disciples performed were proof of that. What had changed?  Why were Christians of today so powerless?  He sighed inwardly. His reasoning and logic was a vicious circle going nowhere. He had no answers, just questions.

Today’s Christianity had become a message of salvation without the miracle working power of Jesus. And the Church had become an institution where Christians could come to seek forgiveness for their sins and prayer for their troubles, a place where they could feel at peace in their faith. There was nothing wrong with that in itself, he thought. But what if there was so much more they were missing?

He walked in from the balcony and sat down in a soft chair and put his feet up on a matching ottoman. He was tired, so very tired. He needed to rest.

Only a small lamp burned in the darkness of the room. He glanced back through the glass doors at the stars beyond. Such a beautiful night. His God created such magnificent wonders.

Yet there was so much he still didn’t understand, even after all these years. He needed guidance, help from God. He had prayed so long for that guidance, yet God remained silent. He didn’t know what to do. What happened at the conference could decide everything for him.

Those were his last thoughts as he drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 57

John glanced at his watch which read 9:45 P.M. The department store closed in fifteen minutes. He stood in the check-out line loaded down with clothes: a couple of shirts, a pair of dress pants, and the usual undergarments. He didn’t know when it would be safe to return home, and he hadn’t brought any extra clothes with him when he left home in a rush this evening.

For the tenth time, he wondered if he was being paranoid. Then he remembered the sinister look those agents gave him at church tonight—if they were agents. How could he be sure?  In any case, whoever they were, they could be waiting at home for him. He shuddered a little at that thought. No, going home was out of the question until this thing with the Gospel of Jesus was settled.

He carefully considered his options for tonight. Where could he stay until morning?  Hotels were out; any public facilities were too risky if federal agents were looking for him. There was only one place that fit his needs: Pastor Phillips’ home.

It took only a few minutes for the sales woman to bag his purchases and take his money.  He walked through the twin glass doors of the department store into the waiting darkness just as the doors were being locked behind him. It was ten o’clock at night.

John’s eyes swept the almost empty parking lot in front of the store, spotting only a few cars parked on the far side of the lot. He felt utterly alone and very vulnerable. Continuing to search the parking lot for anything unusual or out of place, he headed for his car.

He reached his vehicle without incident and slid into the front seat with a sigh of relief and sat there for a moment. He placed his hands on the steering wheel and realized his heart was still beating rapidly. He needed to calm down. He was letting his imagination run away with him and seeing danger where there wasn’t any.

Once more he reconsidered going to Pastor Michael Phillips’ home. He was reluctant to drag Michael into this situation. He didn’t know how bad it might get, yet he had no one else he could turn to, no one that he could trust.

John cranked the engine and backed out of his parking spot, heading for Pastor Phillips’ home, about twenty minutes away. Strange how much had changed in one day.

Once more, John thought about Rebecca. Despite the years that had passed, she looked quite beautiful tonight. There had been a maelstrom of feelings and emotions that had swirled within him when he first saw her. For a while, he didn’t know what to say—scream at her for leaving him or be the forgiving ex-boyfriend and greet her with a smile of forgiveness. At least he had managed to be civil to her. Besides, what good would getting angry do now, venting might make him feel good for a few minutes, but in the end solved nothing. No, after some careful consideration, he knew that what he really needed was some kind of closure. He needed to let the past go.

He was no longer a college kid full of idealism and innocence. He was a grown man who needed to get on with his life without feeling like an emotional cripple. Strange, he thought, how he had become trapped in the past by a single moment of intense dark circumstance, reliving that moment of devastating rejection time and time again—stuck there by the pain and loss he had felt so long ago.

When he met Rebecca tonight for the first time in twenty years, everything suddenly came into sharp focus and made him realize how much wasted time had really passed. All the planned speeches and words of indignation that he had planned to lavish on her vanished instantly. He realized now there was no going back. He had spent his life looking back, reliving the past and the pain. Dwelling in the past solved nothing. The past was dead. It was the future that he should be concerned with now.

John stopped at a red light and watched a single white car pass in front of him before the light changed back to green. So what now?  He thought as he drove on. Try to build a new relationship with Rebecca?  One based on friendship without anger and hurt pride?  Maybe that was possible, but he wasn’t sure that he could do that.

Chapter 58

Paul roused himself from a deep sleep at the sound of persistent knocking on his hotel room door.  It took a brief moment for him to come to full consciousness and realize that he had fallen asleep in the chair by the sliding glass doors.

The small lamp on the desk across the room gave some light, pushing at the darkness in the room. He rubbed his eyes and stretched as he rose to his feet. After a few fumbling attempts, he found the wall light switch and flipped the lights on, flooding the dim lit room with light as he opened the door to his hotel room.

His eyes met the face of an old friend, Aaron Shelman, who immediately pushed past him with a small grin. Shorter than Paul and full of restless energy, Aaron always seemed like he was on the verge of an explosion of some sort.

“You kept me out in the hall long enough,” Aaron growled as he came in, but his eyes belied his tone of voice. There was merriment in their depths.

“I had fallen asleep.

Aaron looked at him in questioning amusement, “Fully clothed?”

“The flight here was long, and I was tired. What are you doing here anyway?  Aren’t you suppose to be on a dig somewhere in Egypt?”

“Egypt, her mummies, and their fascination with the afterlife can wait a little longer when history is about to be made here.”  He looked around the hotel room for a moment and then asked, “Anything to drink?”

“No, we can go downstairs if you like.”

“No need. As usual I have saved the day,” he said, pulling a bottle of red wine out of a brown paper bag he was carrying. “All we need are glasses.”

Paul smiled at his friend, direct as always. Aaron had brought wine with him which meant he wanted to sit and talk for a while.  Paul gave one last longing glance at his bed and then trotted off to find two clean glasses.

Aaron found a comfortable chair by a small table near the balcony sliding glass doors, across from the chair that Paul had fallen asleep in, and sat the bottle of wine down. Then seated himself with a tired sigh.

“Damn long flight from Egypt. I am spent. When I checked in downstairs, I found out you were here and decided to share my misery with you.”

“You really think this Stein religious document is that important?” Paul said, returning with two clean glasses which he sat down on the table.

“Don’t you?  Never mind, no need to answer. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t. The real question is do you think this is the genuine article?  Did Jesus really write this document?” Aaron poured them both a drink, downing his almost immediately, and then refilling.

Paul shrugged his shoulders. “Who can say?  Until we have examined the document itself, it is all speculation. But I don’t imagine that the Stein Family would bring the premier religious scholars of the world all together if they thought it was a fake. They must believe it is real.” Paul swirled the wine around in his glass, enjoying the fragrance and color of the red wine, then took a sip, savoring the taste. “Good wine.”

“You know the conference will settle little. Everyone will politely agree to disagree. It will be years before anything definitive is decided, and that will be a compromise.” Aaron frowned, shook his head, and poured himself another drink.

“Knowing that, you still came?”

“Of course. If this document is for real, the foundations of the Christian religion worldwide could be changed. This is history in the making. What religious scholar or archeologist would miss this event?  To hold a 2000 year old document in your hands—it is the Qumran scrolls discovery all over again, only on a much higher level. You know, nothing has ever been found written by the hand of Jesus. I have always thought that was odd.”

“Which makes this document all the more suspect,” Paul said.

“Perhaps such a document was long overdue,” Aaron said with a small smile.

Paul nodded and said, “You read the Bartholomew letter?”

“And was amazed. The letter is genuine by all accounts. You realize, don’t you, that the Bartholomew letter proves the existence of Jesus?”

“I never doubted,” replied Paul.

“You are talking about faith. I am talking about proof you can wrap both hands around. There has been controversy for two thousand years about whether Jesus actually existed or not.”

“The Bible does mention him, you know.”

“The New Testament is biased, written by men trying to promote a religion and using Jesus to do it. You know that if this Gospel of Jesus is genuine and Jesus was a faithful Jew, then you can kiss your divine trilogy of God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost good-bye. No Jew would ever accept such an artificiality. For a devout Jew, there is only one God, not three.”

“I know your personal views quite well. Jews do not accept the divinity of Jesus nor accept him as the Messiah.”

“He failed the tests of our Messiah, Paul. Even you must concede that. Our Messiah was a mere man, not some demigod with magical powers. He would have thrown off the Roman yoke and liberated us, established us as a free nation and put all of our enemies to flight. Jesus accomplished none of these things. All he managed to do was get himself killed while spouting nonsense about an afterlife.”

“Jesus was not that kind of Messiah. His realm was the spirit, and his message, as you well know, was salvation,” Paul said softly. “As for life after death, I firmly believe in heaven.”

“Heaven, resurrection, life after death—all nonsense.”

“The resurrection is not nonsense,” Paul snapped, downing the rest of his drink with some anger.

Aaron sighed and said, “Forgive me, old friend, if I tread too heavily on your beliefs. I could never understand how such an intelligent man could believe in Christianity to begin with.”

“You mean an invisible God that no one can see?” Paul replied cynically, but with a small smile on his lips, his previous anger dissipating. He could never stay angry with Aaron for long.

“Touché, I can’t prove the existence of my God either, except that when I look around me at nature and the celestial bodies in the heavens, I know only an intelligent hand could have done all of that. As you say, it is a matter of faith. But I still say resurrection and heaven are fairy tales.”

“You know,” Paul continued in a friendlier tone, ”that the resurrection of Jesus is a central tenet of the Christian faith. We have had this discussion often enough.”

“Right, the triumph of Jesus over death. Alright, so who resurrected Jesus?  There is no self-resurrection. Someone had to accomplish it if you use the Lazarus model. And don’t tell me it was divine.”

“But it was.”

“Was it?  If you believe in resurrection, such as Lazarus, then someone had to call Jesus back to life or, and this is my favorite theory, Jesus wasn’t dead when they removed him from the cross.”

“Outrageous. You go too far.”

“Hold on to your outrage. When Joseph of Arimathea, a noted follower of Jesus, went to Pilate to ask for the body of Jesus, Pilate was surprised that Jesus was already dead. Pilate even called a centurion to verify the death. Pilate knew that it was too early for Jesus to have died on the cross; crucifixions took longer, long pain and suffering were part of the reason for crucifixion. But when the centurion agreed that Jesus was dead, Pilate gave the body of Jesus to Joseph. Now I propose that the centurion was either a follower of Jesus himself or Joseph had bribed the centurion to pronounce Jesus dead, when in fact, Jesus had only fainted on the cross, but was still alive.”

“Preposterous!”

“Is it?  Unlike most crucifixions, Jesus’ legs were unbroken according to Biblical tradition which was the usual method to hasten death on the cross. In point of fact, it was too early for Jesus to have died because in reality he had not died. Joseph took the body down, made a show of placing Jesus in a tomb and rolled a rock in front of the tomb to seal it. But when everyone had left, Joseph rolled the stone away and revived Jesus, taking him away to a secret place to recover. When his followers returned the following day, they found the stone rolled away and burial linens in the tomb, but no body. Jesus was gone.”

“And where did he go?”

Aaron shrugged. “Who knows. We have only rumors, but nothing of substance.”

Paul sighed and shook his head, then said, “People have for generations tried to explain away Jesus’ resurrection, rather than admit the truth—Jesus rose from the dead just as Lazarus did.”

“You have to admit. It is a creditable explanation.”

“Perhaps, if I was looking for an explanation other than resurrection.”

“Perhaps you would prefer another explanation. To this day, the Jews claim that his disciples stole his body away and claimed resurrection. Even the Bible mentions this possibility. Only his followers claimed to have seen him after the resurrection. Convenient don’t you think?”

“I believe his disciples were honest and faithful men. They would not lie about such a thing. They believed he had risen and testified to that fact.”

“You trust too easily, and my explanation certainly fits the facts and explains everything.”

“To you perhaps, but not to me.” Paul frowned deeply.

“In the Bible, when he appeared after the crucifixion, what did Jesus himself say about his resurrection?” Aaron pressed.

“Very little.”

“Nothing, in fact. Except to prove that he was real and not a ghost. Odd don’t you think?  What about the Gospels themselves—how much is truth and how much is embellishment, resting on legend and religious zeal?”

“You don’t believe in Jesus nor the New Testament. It is easy for you to poke theological holes in the Christian religion. As I said before, it is a matter of faith.” Paul’s jaw was resolutely set, his tone and manner unyielding.

“The Gospel of Jesus could shed light on quite a few areas of the New Testament. No one actually knows what Jesus himself thought,” Aaron mused as he gazed into Paul’s eyes.

“The Bible reflects very well what Jesus thought. Why do you persist in this illusion of yours?”

“Because for two thousand years, the Jews have been blamed for killing Jesus. I, for one, am tired of it and would like to set the record straight.”

“The Romans and Jews did not succeed in killing Jesus. Isn’t that enough?”

“No, not by a long shot. How many people today hate Jews because they hold us responsible for the death of Jesus?”

Paul nodded and said, “You think convincing people that you permanently killed Jesus, that there was no resurrection, will improve things?”

“No, but proving that Jesus was a prophet and nothing more might mitigate things.”

Paul sighed and shook his head, “This is a discussion for another time. The New Testament Bible says Jesus was resurrected. That is good enough for me.”

“Your New Testament Gospels consists largely of third party accounts of Jesus’ life. You can’t even be sure who wrote most of it, and the Gospels and Epistles contradict each other to no end.”

“That is to be expected. Different people saw things somewhat differently, but you must admit that the Gospels held pretty much to the core of Jesus’ message of salvation.”

“Only because two of them were copied from a third, and John is so far out in left field that no correlation is possible.”

“You exaggerate.”

“Not as much as you would like. Come, come, you are a scholar, you have studied these things. Surely, you see the gapping holes in the New Testament.”

“There are some minor inconsistencies.”

“Ha!  You could drive a truck through your minor inconsistencies. Mother Church must be quaking in her Vatican boots about this Gospel of Jesus.”

Paul frowned, took another sip of wine, and said, “There is some concern, I must admit.”

“You mean the Church is scared to death. They have no idea what this Gospel of Jesus contains. Nothing exists that was ever written by Jesus himself. That is why skeptics such as myself thought Jesus was a fictional character contrived by fanatics trying to start a new religion. Bartholomew’s letter changed all that and established Jesus as a real person. Now, we have the personal writings of Jesus himself. This is huge, Paul. I may have to admit that Jesus existed, but the Church may have to confess much more.” Aaron paused, his eyebrows coming together in a frown. “The world is growing up, Paul. They are looking for a grown-up religion, not one full of superstitions and beliefs in gods. All the old gods are dead. Only God remains and his prophets.”

Paul frowned as he shoved his glass across the table toward Aaron for a refill. Aaron  readily filled it. “You are the second person today to tell me that the Church is afraid of the Gospel of Jesus.”

“There will be more saying it, believe me,” Aaron said.

“The Church as always will weigh the facts and then make a decision and leave conjecture to people like you,” Paul said.

“To have a document from the hand of Jesus, two thousand years old, unedited and pure—stuff such as this is why we got into archeology in the first place.”

Paul smiled. Aaron was right about that. To discover ancient truths, to witness the unknown and solve a piece of the puzzle that is humankind, that was why they both studied the past, lived in the past more than the present.

“The Church is strong and has weathered many religious storms,” Paul said. “She will survive this one.”

“Don’t kid yourself. The Church has weathered nothing like this,” Aaron said.

“You are excited because you think more ammunition might be supplied for your pet theories. You are not exactly a friend of the Church.”

“You mean because I think the Church, your Church, has pulled the greatest con job in history on the world?” he laughed. “I don’t mind people clinging to their precious beliefs, no offense to you, but I do hate seeing people being deceived.”  He looked directly at Paul.

“I am not deceived,” Paul stubbornly objected.

“You know one of the main reasons the Church has such a hold on people—fear of death.  Along comes the Church and tells them there is nothing to fear. When you die, you will go to a lovely place where the streets are paved with gold and all your pains and worries will disappear—as long as you abide by the Church rules and believe as the Church tells you.” There was frustration in his voice when he finished. “People are so gullible.”

“People have been afraid of death for a very long time—long before the Church.”

“Granted. Fear of death is connected with humanity’s strong sense of survival. Anything that mitigates that fear is welcomed with open arms. That’s why gods were invented by early man, to soothe away humanity’s fears.”

“People do need to believe in something greater than themselves.”

Aaron nodded. “That is true enough. It isn’t just your Church or Christianity. Rulers and priests have preyed on people’s fears and gullibility all through history. From the dawn of mankind, people were told they had a soul that was immortal and on the death of their body, their soul would go to some wonderful heavenly Eden. Every culture under the sun has some belief in an afterlife.”

“Including the Jews?” Paul said smiling.

“That depends on which sect of the Jews you are talking about. I happen to belong to one that doesn’t subscribe to a theory of an afterlife or the resurrection. When you die, you cease to exist—forever. People want to believe that somehow they go on after they die, yet all the physical evidence says otherwise. We live, we die, and we are buried in the ground where our bones stay until they melt away into dust—that is the real truth of the matter, but it is a harsh truth that people find difficult to face.”

“Or there really is a heaven. Why do you find that so difficult to believe?”

“There is no evidence of a heaven, and if on some remote chance there is an afterlife, it will be nothing like what Christians envision.”

“It is a matter of faith, like most things in religion. You either believe or you don’t. If you are happy with the finality of death, why do you care what I or anyone else thinks?”  Paul smiled at Aaron. It was an understanding smile. “I think there is a small part of you that isn’t sure. And if you are wrong...”  He raised both hands above the table, palms up, and shrugged.

This was not a new debate. Aaron was a Jew who came dangerously close to atheism in his beliefs. Like Paul, Aaron had mucked around too long in the religious histories of the world, saw too much, and had much of his innocence and faith eroded away. Paul understood the significance of that all too well.

Aaron also wasn’t alone in his criticism of Christianity. Many people thought having no faith or an admission to some impersonal distant creator was the answer. They were wrong. Such a belief is useless to people, Paul thought. What advantage is there in believing in an impersonal god?  Humankind needed a personal god, one that cares about them, helps them, and is always there for them—else what good is a god? He was learning that bitter lesson first hand.

Man had long ago outgrown his need to believe in gods that ran the world—Zeus didn’t throw lightning bolts anymore—science explained nature, weather, everything. There was no need for mankind to invent gods to explain the scary world around them. Man had grown up. But they still needed a caring, compassionate god they could depend on, and a heaven to dwell in with him after death. It wasn’t only a question of faith, but need. And that need would last forever.

Paul started coughing heavily, dragging a handkerchief from his pocket to cover his mouth. He didn’t need to look to know that he was coughing up blood.

Aaron waited patiently until the coughing subsided and then said in a sympathetic tone, “Forgive me for being such a thorn in your side. I didn’t really come here to argue, at least not much. I...I heard about your difficulty. That is one reason I was surprised to find you here.”

Paul frowned, took another sip of wine, and said, “Who told you?”

“Not important. You have a number of friends who care about you, Paul. How bad is it?”

“I have a couple of months, maybe a little longer—or maybe a lot less.”

Aaron hung his head for a moment, sadness registering strongly on his face. Aaron wiped at the corner of his eyes. Paul was genuinely touched by the emotional display of his old friend, and any anger he may have previously felt toward Aaron melted away.

“I’m a bumbling old Jew who was always inept at the social graces. I didn’t mean to come on so strong. Your condition is more serious than I was led to believe.”

“Life is full of surprises. I appreciate your concern. I mean that. This was all such a shock to me. The suddenness of it all still leaves me floundering somewhat, even now.”

“As it would anyone,” Aaron said.

Paul smiled gently at his old friend. “You might say, this is my last hurrah. I can’t think of a more fitting way to close the final chapter of my life than to spend the little time I have left with an old friend in the study of scripture written by Jesus.”

Aaron nodded in agreement. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Nothing my old friend, except what you are doing. We can share a drink together and marvel at the wonder that lies before us.”

Chapter 59

It was late, after ten o’clock, when Rebecca pushed the elevator button to take her to the third floor of the hotel and her room. Tomorrow would be a very important day; in a way, more important than the conference itself.

She glanced at the two men waiting for the elevator with her and instinctively clutched her brown leather briefcase. The men didn’t seem interested in her, but how could she be sure they weren’t a threat? Fear was making her paranoid, she thought.

So much depended on what she carried within that briefcase. The copy of the Gospel of Jesus destined for the conference was secure in her bank deposit box, but she carried something else now that was just as valuable—perhaps more so. Something she could tell no one about. A secret she had withheld even from her brother. Only her father knew.

Rebecca forced herself to relax as she boarded the elevator along with the two men. Tonight she wanted to forget everything about the Gospel of Jesus and let the stress of constantly looking over her shoulder fade away from her.

She rode the elevator up to her floor and stepped out onto a blue carpeted hallway and headed for her hotel room. She was surprised when both men on the elevator also stepped out on the same floor, but they continued to show no interest in her. She put her initial apprehension down to nerves.

The long hallway seemed to go on forever as she walked to her room located at the end of the hall. When she reached her room, she swiped the magnetic card key through the room lock and pushed open the door, immediately turning the security lock on the door once it closed behind her. She felt safe for the first time today.

She tossed her briefcase on a small table by a chair and sat down, kicking off her shoes and rubbing her feet. She began to relax by degrees. She rose to her feet and stretched, feeling the soft carpet on the bottom of her bare feet. She walked to the sliding glass doors that led to the balcony and looked out into the night.

What would happen tomorrow?  She would meet John for breakfast and tell him about her plan to pick up the Gospel of Jesus destined for the conference. She would not tell him about the other package she carried that was destined for a very different, and perhaps, more important appointment. The man she was meeting tomorrow would be in town precisely at two o’clock and only briefly. Rebecca had set the tight schedule up on purpose for security reasons. She wanted the man to be here and gone in less than an hour. Then at least part of her mission to America would be complete, leaving only the conference.

She turned toward the table that held her briefcase and walked over to it, gazing down at the brown briefcase for a moment before opening it to reveal a Bible, which she picked up and tapped the top of the binding against her palm. From between the binding and the cover, a safe-deposit key slid out. She held the metal key briefly in her hand for a moment, then re-inserted the key back into its hiding place and put the Bible back in the briefcase, beside a brown package.

She studied the package next to the Bible, wrapped in brown paper and tied with white cotton twine. Her fingers gently caressed the package, her thoughts on tomorrow. Then she sighed and closed the briefcase.

The conference wasn’t a diversion—exactly. The conference was important and the Gospel of Jesus had to be authenticated, but the package she was delivering tomorrow carried the real hope of the world.

She had to admit her father’s strategy was brilliant. Her father knew that there would be years of study and wrangling over the Aramaic version before any agreement as to its authenticity could be reached. The world would debate the authenticity of the Gospel of Jesus for a very long time, perhaps never completely reaching an agreement. No, the other package she would deliver tomorrow would bypass all that and fulfill their ancient promise.

A sudden noise at her door alarmed her. She walked quickly toward the door, her eyes intent on the door lock. She noticed the door knob; it was slowly turning. In desperation, she picked up a nearby chair as she continued toward the door, bracing the door with the chair. Then she called hotel security and reported that someone was at her door. She hung up and waited with her heart beating rapidly. Who was on the other side of that door?

She heard the door creak as if someone had put weight on the door, but nothing happened. The door held. After a moment, everything grew quiet. She was shaking.

Rebecca continued to wait until she heard a light knock at her door. She looked through the security peephole in the door and spotted a man in the hotel’s colors. Leaving the security chain on, she opened the door slightly.

“Yes?”

“You called for hotel security?”

“Yes, someone was at my door trying to get in.”

The man nodded. “I see no one around now. I will keep an eye on this floor for the rest of the night. Would that be satisfactory?”

“It would. Thank you.” She closed the door with a sigh of relief.

Rebecca sat down on the edge of her bed, trying to rid herself of the rampant fear surging through her body. Someone was after her. That wasn’t her imagination. That door knob had turned.

Chapter 60

Mackay watched from the ice machine down at the end of the hallway as the hotel clerk checked on Rebecca Stein. The would-be intruder had already left. Mackay had been careful not to draw attention to himself.

Earlier, when the elevator had stopped on Rebecca Stein’s floor, Mackay had exited the elevator a few steps behind her as she headed for her room. He had stopped for a brief moment and pretended to be searching for something in his jacket, allowing the tall, heavyset man to pull ahead of him.

That man was one of three that had been in the black limousine that had followed Rebecca Stein to this hotel from the church. Mackay had made sure the man would not be alone with Rebecca Stein. The three of them had rode up to Stein’s floor and got off together. The heavyset man had given Mackay a dark frown, obviously unhappy about Mackay being there.

The man pretended to go to his room, standing outside a hotel room door and watching Rebecca as she passed him.  As soon as Rebecca entered her room, he moved to Rebecca’s door. He seemed to be trying to get in.

Mackay continued down the hall, giving the man a searching look as he passed him, making the man acutely aware that someone was watching him. The man stopped, hesitated a moment, then turned away from Rebecca’s door and headed for the elevators.

Mackay had waited around to make sure no other attempts were made to enter Stein’s room. The clerk was evidence that she had been worried enough to call for help. Good. Now everyone was alert. Mackay knew there would be no further attempts on Stein tonight.

Mackay watched as the hotel clerk retreated to the elevators and left. He frowned slightly. Things were getting complicated. There were too many players. He was only one man and couldn’t be everywhere at once. He had far too many balls in the air. He was going to drop one of them eventually.

Mackay waited for a few more minutes just to be on the safe side, then took the elevator down to the lobby. As he stepped off the elevator, he could hear piano music coming from the lounge to his right.

Mackay decided that an ice cold beer was exactly what he needed. His life was beginning to be a little stressful. He also needed time to relax and sort a few things out.

He spotted the heavyset man almost immediately as he entered the hotel lounge. He was sitting with two other men at a corner table: a short, fat, rough looking man, and an intelligent looking gentleman with gray streaks in his hair and dressed in an expensive black suit. These were the same men he had followed to the hotel.

Mackay parked himself at the end of the bar and ordered a beer. Then he discreetly photographed the three men using a small camera he always carried with him. He was already running a license check on the car the men had arrived in which should lead him to their identity. They were obviously after the Gospel of Jesus. Between them and Homeland Security, the field was getting crowded. Then there was the mad bombing scheme that was shaping up. He shook his head. He could feel a disaster looming.

A blonde young woman was playing the piano in one corner of the small lounge. She was attractive and reminded Mackay that it had been a while since he had an evening out with a beautiful woman. He sighed briefly to himself. He had to get a life.

He rubbed his chin and took a sip of the beer in the ice cold mug that the bartender had brought him. He thought of John Arrowsmith for a moment. Then there was Rebecca Stein’s brother who was held by the feds. Now there were these interlopers at the bar. He wasn’t sure what his next plan of action would be, but Rebecca Stein would be at the center of whatever he planned.

Chapter 61

By the time John arrived at Pastor Michael Phillips home, it was almost 10:30 at night. He stood quietly at the front door of the white two story colonial home hesitating to knock. Was he putting his pastor in danger? If there had been another choice... But there were no other choices. He had nowhere else to go. With deep reservations, he rapped on the door twice and waited.

He heard someone stirring inside the house, then the door opened and Pastor Phillips stood there, framed by the light from the hallway, smiling.

“John, I didn’t expect you so soon again. Please...please come in.”  Phillips patted him on the back as he walked into the house, obviously glad to see him.

Phillips lived alone, his wife having died a few years back and his kids long gone, to be seen only on the holidays. Phillips often joked about moving to a smaller home, that he felt lonely moving around in such a large house, yet he stayed. Perhaps because of the memories the house held. John knew about memories, and the hold they could have over a man’s life.

“Thank you for seeing me so late, Michael. I am in a bit of a jam. I need somewhere to stay for the night. Think you could put me up?”

“You are always welcome, John. You know that.” Seeing the distressed look on John’s face, Phillips asked, “Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” he answered quietly, barely above a whisper. “Before you agree to my staying the night, perhaps you should listen to what I have to say. You may not want me here after that.”

Phillips frowned in puzzlement, then motioned toward the side room that he used for a study. John followed him into the room. Several logs were burning in the fireplace, just enough to keep the night chill down. He headed for the armchair he had occupied earlier that day and collapsed into the chair, staring into the fireplace. He didn’t realize until now how tired he was.

After they both had settled into comfortable armchairs by the fire, John related everything that had happened since they last met. At the end of his story, he said, “And that’s where it stands now. People that could be federal agents are looking for me, and I suspect they already have Simon. Then there is this Sebastian Black character. Every time I turn around, I seem to be running into him.”

“And Rebecca Stein now has the Gospel of Jesus?”

“Yes. For now, the gospel is safe. Hopefully, when the gospel is delivered to the conference Wednesday morning, Simon will be released and everything will work itself out.”

Phillips leaned back in his black leather chair with a frown firmly fixed on his lips. “So you think these federal agents might be waiting for you at home?”

John shrugged and said, “Who knows?  Agents or Black, what’s the difference? But I don’t think I want to find out. Still want me to stay?” He glanced at Michael, anxious for his answer. He didn’t relish sleeping in his car tonight.

“Your circumstances change nothing. What kind of friend would I be if they did?  Besides, I welcome your company. I get rather lonely at times in this large old house, and I have four empty bedrooms doing nothing but collecting dust.”

“Thanks, I really appreciate you putting me up for the night,” John said, feeling relieved.

Pastor Phillips stood up and moved to the fireplace, resting his hand lightly on the oak mantel for a moment, then turned to face John. “That the federal government should become involved in something that is obviously religious and private is somewhat alarming, not to mention these other thugs that attempted to rob Simon and you.”  He shook his head slowly. “Is this religious document so threatening that our own government feels it must obtain them?”  Pastor Phillips’ eyes probed John’s face earnestly, looking for answers.

“Define threatening?  Was Jesus’ preaching in Jerusalem two thousand years ago a threat to the Jewish authorities, to Rome?”

Pastor Phillips frowned and said, “Not to Rome so much, but to the Sanhedrin, yes. At least the members of that governing council thought so. Rome didn’t care what religion the people they ruled embraced as long as order was maintained, but the Sanhedrin was a religious body. To them, it very much mattered what a Jew believed, and they didn’t like the direction that Jesus was leading the Jewish people. They considered Jesus a heretic that had to be dealt with for the good of the people and the Jewish nation as a whole.”

“So in the end, the Sanhedrin persuaded the Roman authorities to crucify Jesus which only proves that governments can be persuaded to do terrible things if enough powerful people want it that way for whatever reason.” John shook his head in disgust.

“Point taken. So someone in our government is interested in the Gospel of Jesus and is moving the levers of power to obtain it. But who, and even more important, why?” Phillips  queried.

“Unknown. I confess that I am at a loss to explain it,” John replied.

“I simply don’t understand why our government would care about a religious work?  There are numerous religions in our country today with Christianity being the largest.”

“Perhaps our government doesn’t care about the religion so much as the Gospel of Jesus and what it represents. Maybe there is something else at stake,” John said.

“What do you mean?”

“I read there is substantial unrest in the Middle East over the Stein document. It has been in all the papers. Maybe our government is getting nervous and is trying to preserve the status quo.”

“In a world that today believes in just about anything and nothing, I find it somewhat puzzling that people should fear words written on a page two thousand years ago,” Pastor Phillips said. “I suppose the unknown is always somewhat frightening. I must admit I am a little apprehensive about how I will view my own faith after being exposed to this Gospel of Jesus.”

“The truth can be frightening sometimes, particularly if it has the power to radically change what we believe. That’s the crux of it, isn’t it?” John said.

“Yes, and frightened people can commit rash, dangerous acts.”

John nodded in agreement. “I think there are people in the world who fear change is coming, and like the Sanhedrin in Jesus’ time, they want to stop that change before it can take root.”

“There are always people that are afraid of the truth.”

“Interesting, isn’t it?  How the writings of a man who has been gone from this earth for two thousand years can still affect us.”

“He isn’t really gone,” Phillips said softly.

“You are right, of course,” John said, a faint smile gathering on his lips.

“Our Savior is always with us. He was considered by the Jews to be a great prophet, like many of the Jewish prophets of old—Moses, Isaiah, Elisha, Elijah. Those prophets performed many of the same miracles that Jesus performed, yet Jesus was different. He was truly sent to the Jews to deliver them. He performed many miracles, drew vast crowds, encouraged all who came to repent, and everywhere he went, he healed the sick. Never had the Jews seen anyone like him, prophet or not. And his disciples did many of the same miracles. Jesus shared God with everyone and said that if we believed, we could do the same miracles as he performed. Truly an astounding revelation in his day—and even today.”  Pastor Phillips stopped, his eyes resting for a moment on John. “Though some of us find it difficult to accept miraculous gifts from God.”

John visibly winced. He knew that his pastor thought he had received his healing ability with poor grace, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t want to be a healer. He wanted an ordinary life, not one surrounded by crowds of expectant people hoping to be healed.

“I really don’t understand what is happening to me. I’m certainly not worthy of any special grace. If I have been chosen for healing, then I wish God would take it back and give it to someone else more worthy.”

“It doesn’t work like that. God’s ways are not our ways, John.  God looks at us and sees our potential, not necessarily where we are today, but where we will be tomorrow.”

“That is even scarier. I feel like I have less control of my life than ever.”

“Control is an allusion.”

“That I believe. The way my life has gone lately leaves little doubt.” John paused, then said, “What do you do if you can’t forgive someone?”

His thoughts turned to Rebecca. Somehow he had to forgive Rebecca, and he wasn’t sure he could, but if he was to move on with his life, he knew that he must. All the pain and grief he felt had to be left behind, in the past, where such things belonged. He wanted a life free of the burden that had hung over his life for so long.

“Forgiveness is a central tenet of the Christian faith.” Pastor Phillips studied John for a moment, waiting for him to explain this sudden turn in their conversation.

“What if you can’t, not completely?”

“Who are we talking about, John?”

“Rebecca,” he said as he glanced up at his pastor. “Being with her has made me realize that my life has to change with respect to her. I told you how she turned me down...”

“Rejection is always a terrible blow, particularly when that blow comes from someone we love. Forgiveness can be difficult when our nature is to hate and despise those that hurt us, but as Christians we must forgive. Our faith demands that from us.”

“I’ve tried...”

“Don’t try. Do. Engage your faith. Stop thinking about what you may have suffered.  Keep focused on Jesus. His words should be in the forefront of your thoughts. Eventually, forgiveness will come, and you will be free of that pain.”

“I know that you are right, but forgiveness seems so impossible for me. I have lived with this so long. The rejection, the pain, is a part of me. When I saw Rebecca tonight, my feelings were all jumbled up with hate and love intertwined. I’m not sure what I feel anymore. I don’t want to hate or despise her, but I’m not sure I can stop.”

“Love is knocking at your heart, John. The love you have always felt for Rebecca. Hate is easy in a vacuum, but now you face reality, and the love you once felt for Rebecca is again trying to emerge against that hate you have felt for so long. Let the love out, John. Forgive her.”

“After what she did to me?” There was anguish in John’s eyes.

“Yes, forgiveness is for you, John, not Rebecca. Forgiveness is a choice. You make that choice and hold firmly to it. Only with the release of these negative emotions you feel toward her will you ever get your life back.”

“I know that things can never be the same between Rebecca and me.”

“No, they can’t. You’re older now with a lifetime of experience behind you. Those college days are gone, left far behind. You have to start here and now. The feelings you once had for Rebecca was for a different Rebecca, a Rebecca from your past, not the Rebecca you are seeing today. See her for what she is now.”

“I realize that, but I keep flashing back to the past, to that moment with me on my knees asking her to marry me.”

“Hate feeds on past wrongs. You must refuse those past thoughts. Put them away.”

John nodded, knowing it was useless to pursue this line of thought any longer. He would have to figure this out on his own. Forgiveness was a logical concept, easy to understand, hard to implement, particularly when that forgiveness dealt with the heart.

John stood up and stretched, stifling a yawn in the process. “I’m tired, Michael. It’s been a long day. I think I will turn in.”

Pastor Phillips smiled. “Sleep is catching up with you. Follow me, and may God give you a good night’s rest.”

John followed, wondering at that moment, where Simon was being held and if he was okay—and what tomorrow would bring. And most of all, he wondered about Rebecca—how would things work out between them? Could he ever really forgive her?

Chapter 62

Sebastian gazed down from his fifth floor hotel room at the dark waters of the bay spread out before him in the moonlight. He watched the occasional boat heading out to sea for some night fishing with its bright running lights showing the way. He sighed and rubbed his right temple. He needed a drink.

A few minutes later, with a glass of aged whiskey in his hand which he sipped slowly, he continued to study the bay in the moonlight, enjoying the burn of the whiskey down his throat. There was something restful about the sea. He leaned on the balcony’s black iron railing, looking down at the numerous small lights along the coast and enjoying the cool night breezes blowing in off the bay. He took another sip of whiskey and began to relax.

Tonight had gone well—for a change. He had found Simon Stein’s sister, Rebecca. He had studied the family closely and immediately recognized her in the church when she met Arrowsmith. And best of all, the feds didn’t seem to know about Rebecca.

He enjoyed the little melodrama of John leading the federal agents away from Rebecca and letting her silently slip out of the church. That left him with an inside track with Rebecca without the Feds breathing down his neck.

Once more he thought about those ancient religious scrolls of Jesus. Bartholomew’s scroll proved the existence of Jesus—a fact that was still shaking much of the non-Christian world. Even now, many struggled with the concept that Jesus, as a historical figure, really existed. On top of that surprising revelation came the shock of this Gospel of Jesus. It was too much to swallow at one time. There would be consequences. Such a revelation could invigorate the Christian church and generate revivals, but such news could also contain the seeds of destruction. It could destroy the Christian religion utterly.

Part of him mused about letting the scrolls be delivered to the conference. He would enjoy seeing the division among the Christians that would assuredly follow and their agony over their precious Jesus. A cynical smile parted Sebastian’s lips.

Sebastian took another sip of his drink. Despite his personal preferences, he really had no choice in the matter. The Order demanded the Gospel of Jesus be delivered to them. Punishment for failing to do so could be rather severe.

If the Gospel of Jesus created chaos and disorder among the established religious denominations of the day,  the Order’s work could be sat back a considerable amount of time, perhaps years; they most definitely would not like that.

Of course, Sebastian didn’t care about the goals of the Order. He was in this strictly for the money and the power. The more chaos spread, the more his services would be demanded.

But how much did that matter anymore? Sometimes he felt like his life was on autopilot. He hadn’t cared about the world or much of anything else since his wife died ten years ago. Sometimes he felt that he was just going through the motions of living. A pang of sorrow brushed against his heart which he quickly subdued. He didn’t want to think about Judy. He had been a different man then, a decent man. The things he had done since then, the ugly, brutal things... He broke off that chain of thought. Looking back at the past brought only pain.

But the images of his lovely wife and the life they had together before she died would not leave him. Most of the time, he could subdue those past thoughts, but sometimes those thoughts were stubborn and took on a life of their own.

Once more Sebastian glanced down at a leg that should be crippled and full of pain, but instead was strong and healthy for the first time in ten years. That miraculous healing performed by Arrowsmith had shook him. Perhaps that was why he was thinking of Judy again, lingering over their past life together. She had been a devout Christian who believed in Jesus and attended church regularly, dragging him along with her to every church meeting, but then he could never deny her anything.

He shook his head slowly. His mother would have laughed at his current predicament. His mother didn’t think much of religion. Her very logical mind said that God and angels didn’t exist, a holdover from more ancient times when primitive man was scared of the world around him and sought explanations in mythical gods to ease his fears.  As a biologist, she viewed life from a scientific standpoint, which left little room for God. She was fond of saying that there were going to be a lot of disappointed people when they died.

Sebastian often thought it was a miracle of a different kind that he and Judy had found each other at all. They were such different people—a pagan and a Christian with very different life styles, a very strange couple indeed, but they were happy together for all of their differences.

Then the tragedy of the traffic accident occurred: smashed up metal and people screaming and dying—cars overturned and scattered everywhere, a tractor-trailer turned over and burning—and his wife dying in his arms. He remembered vividly watching the last few seconds of her life slowly fade away and being helpless to prevent it, to keep her alive. She was dead by the time the ambulance arrived. The memories of his past, of that accident, like old photographs, kept flashing through his mind in all their gory detail. How could he believe in a God that would let such a wonderful and caring woman die?

Sebastian supposed that marked the beginning of his hatred of God, not just casual disdain. That animosity had led him to the Order. The Order didn’t hate religion; it just thought religion was unnecessary to modern society and only got in the way of progress. That philosophy was close enough for Sebastian.

Over the years, that initial white hot hatred had solidified into a deep resentment of all things religious, particularly the Christian religion. His logical mind knew such deep seated resentment was irrational, but he had to blame someone for Judy’s death. His wife had been everything to him. Someone had to pay for that loss.

He glanced down at his leg again. How was that possible?  His doctors told him that he would be crippled for life, yet his leg was totally healed, like new. He knew that God had not done this; he could never accept that. No, something else must be at work, but what?

He stepped back from the black wrought iron railing that enclosed the balcony and sought the wicker chair that rested by a glass-topped table, collapsing into the small chair. With a resigned sigh, Sebastian reached for the bottle of whiskey sitting on the table beside him and poured himself another glass. He swirled the contents of the glass around for a moment, staring down at the amber color of the liquid, then drank it all, enjoying the taste and sting of the whiskey as it flowed down his throat into his stomach. He heard a distant boat horn somewhere out over the bay.

Sebastian glanced up at the dark sky above him and the myriad of bright stars that seemed somehow brighter over the ocean. He could almost believe in a caring God staring up at such a magnificent creation.

Sebastian poured himself another drink. He knew that he was drinking too much, but his emotional pain was deep. He remembered the all too frequent nightmares that dominated his dreams. In the depths of the night, when his dreams grew dark, fears of what awaited him on the other side of death haunted him. A small part of him, that part that remembered Judy and his time in church, believed in an eternal soul and a heaven where those saved souls went, where Judy went—and a hell where the unsaved were sent, his destination. That small part of him wanted to be with Judy in heaven after he died.

Sometimes, he would wake in a cold sweat, fear hammering at his heart, knowing he was damned. And when the fear passed, he would laugh at himself for his weakness and remind himself that there was no hell or heaven.

Sebastian took another long drink from his glass, shutting those thoughts away. He couldn’t allow himself to be deceived. There was no heaven or hell. They were myths for the fearful and foolish. He had shared his view of the world with Arrowsmith tonight. Everything was chance. There was no divine hand guiding him or anyone else. If God existed, he simply didn’t care. It was the only thing that made any kind of sense for the terrible tragedies of his life. And he hated God for that impersonal, uncaring attitude.

But then there was the healing of his leg. That didn’t fit his view of God. Again he wondered what had really happened to him tonight.

Chapter 63

Bullets were thick and crisscrossing from several directions at once as John hunkered down behind a heavy wooden table that had been overturned. He glanced briefly at the two dead cops on the floor in front of him—eager young cops that had rushed too quickly into the bank and right into the middle of a violent bank robbery. John was vaguely aware of the loud roaring of some animal located somewhere behind him, but he was too busy dodging bullets to pay much attention to the out-of-place roaring noise. He was focused on what was happening in the bank.

Another shot hit close to him, ricocheting off to his left. John popped up and shot twice, causing the gunman across the bank lobby to dive for cover behind a desk. The other bank robber fired at him from behind the teller windows, causing John to hug the floor. He was caught in a crossfire, right in front of the bank’s twin glass front doors, the only way out of the bank. The robbers had to go through him to escape. The roaring of the animal increased, closer now, a lion maybe, he thought, as he moved about behind his cover, bullets striking all around him. He wondered dimly what a lion was doing in a bank.

Two other robbers lay unmoving in front of him. Their bodies stretched out on the bank floor, shot by the now dead cops. He saw the robber behind the teller windows suddenly emerge with a young dark-haired woman shielding him as he stalked toward John. Damn, John thought, I can’t get a clear shot without hitting the woman. Fear hammered at him.

John rolled over to his side and slid to the right corner of the table that shielded him and cautiously peered out. The other bank robber chose that moment to pop up from behind the desk and shoot. John nailed him with two quick shots to the chest that flung the shooter backward to land hard on the bank tile floor with a loud crash.

John quickly spun around to locate the last bank robber, the one with the girl. The gunman was standing perfectly still, surprise on his face, looking down at blood pouring out of a chest wound as the young woman he had been holding hostage slid slowly to the floor. A single wild bullet fired by the other gunman had gone through both the woman and the robber, fatally wounding them both. John watched the robber tumble over, dead before he hit the floor.

Through all the bullets and blood, John could hear the roaring of a lion in the midst of everything, growing ever louder as if that creature was about to strike at its prey. He could resist no longer and glanced over his shoulder into the red eyes of a back lion and screamed.

John woke suddenly, breathing heavily, fear rampaging through him. With trembling hands, he shoved the covers away from him and sat up. This was the same dream that had haunted him for the last three months, ever since he arrived in Gulfview. But something new had been added...or noticed. Had the lion always been in the dream, and he had just failed to notice? Or had that supernatural veil been ripped away to reveal what was truly driving his nightmare?

As a cop, John had dealt with a lot of tough criminal situations and sometimes people got killed, but he had never felt the weight of any case like he did this one. His guilt was intensified far beyond what logic would demand. Something was feeding that guilt\and making it stronger. For the first time, he began to suspect a supernatural element to this feeling of guilt that had so disrupted his life.

One of the first things he learned as a cop was not to get emotionally involved in any case, to keep a professional distance. But somehow, this one had gotten to him despite the professional attitude he always tried to maintain.

Maybe it was the woman’s large terror stricken brown eyes that had pleaded with him to save her or all the dead bodies sprawled around the bank floor. He didn’t know. But something had stuck in his gut, and until now, he had not understood why.

He remembered watching the young woman slide slowly down to the ground, clutching her chest as crimson blossomed around her fingers. There was such a look of pain and surprise on her face—dead at twenty-four.

John shook his head. He had been over that bank scene dozens of time. There was nothing he could have done differently; nothing that would have saved that woman, yet he still felt somehow responsible for what happened to her. He felt guilty that she had died while he lived.

Later, the coroner determined that a single bullet had passed directly through the woman and into the robber, probably fired by the other bank robber, although a ballistics match was impossible since the bullet was too smashed up for a comparison.  All four bank robbers had died plus two cops and an innocent woman. It was a horrific shootout at the bank. One the newspapers had a field day with as well as the electronic media.

There were even a few insinuations that he had fired the fatal shot that had killed the woman. Difficult to disprove since the damaged bullet prevented any kind of conclusive ballistics test.  No, there was no way to prove his innocence conclusively, and that veiled insinuation had hung over him like a dark cloud, souring everything he touched and eventually led to him being forced into early retirement.

The entire episode had been a gigantic mess, leaving him as another casualty in the bank case. He sighed heavily. Sometimes you had to play the hand you were dealt no matter how bad the deal.

His head was beginning to pound from a growing headache. He wasn’t going back to sleep any time soon.

The image of the black lion ready to strike came back into his memory again. The feral red eyes and large shining white teeth, the deafening roar...a lion ready to devour its prey. He knew the lion represented Satan. He had figured that much out.

Then, as he recalled the dream, John realized that there had been a lion constantly roaring during the entire dream. Somehow he had disregarded that background noise, but now he knew the sound for what it was: a lion roaring. He thought back over all of his dreams concerning the woman at the bank. Had the roaring of a lion been in all of them, stalking him? Was there really a supernatural element to all of this? Was that why he had not been able to shake this dream?

Words suddenly were on his lips, “God rebuke you, Satan. Depart from me.”

To his amazement, his spirit instantly lifted and that headache that had been hammering inside his skull ever since he had woke up unexpectedly disappeared. He knew then with certainty that something evil had been stalking him.

Satan had been attacking him ever since he moved back to Gulfview, long before his baptism in the Holy Spirit that night at the altar. Only now, did he begin to understand.

John shook his head slowly. Strange things were happening to him. Things he could no longer deny. The reality of God was staring him in the face, good and evil weren’t just words anymore. The realm of the spirit could no longer be so casually ignored.

God and Christianity had never been more real to him than at this moment. He remembered his conversion to Christianity when he was ten years old, attending a youth church meeting. Jesus had been very real to him then, but somehow, over the years, Christianity had grown less real, less important, Heaven and Hell more like fairytales than reality. Tonight, John had felt that reality with a vengeance.

John studied his hands for a moment. With a touch, he could bring healing to a person and with that healing, the reality of faith and perhaps salvation. That salvation was what Satan feared and wanted to stop. He had learned in church about good and evil, and how Satan battled God and tempted man. Now he was a real part of that struggle. A struggle he could no longer deny. There were things that he was going to have to start accepting.

John knew that with the morning, with the rising of the sun and the scurrying around of people, that there would be a tendency to forget what happened tonight and dismiss it, but that was the danger: the supernatural hiding behind the everyday events of the world. He had to remain aware and be on guard.

Tonight was only the beginning. Of that he had no doubt. The evil in this world would attack him again. He was a threat.

Chapter 64

Alonso did not like the lean, short stranger from the moment the man entered his residence. He had a nasty look about him with his straight black hair hanging unkempt and loose about his shoulders and those dark, evil looking eyes that seemed to threaten him with every glance. The man had the smell and look of an evil man.

Alonso noted the bulge on the right side of the man’s waist, covered by a thin jacket. A pistol no doubt, Alonso observed. He would have to be careful.

“May I help you?” Alonso said cautiously.

“I am Raoul. My current employer told me to contact you about the location of the Stein warehouse.”

A cold chill ran down Alonso’s back. Alonso swallowed hard, staggered by the thought that was now clamoring for attention in the back of his brain. Was this man sent by Cardinal Bernelle?

“Exactly who do you work for?” Alonso pressed, anxious to confirm the identity of this stranger.

The stranger smiled. “The same person you work for, but I will skip his name. I need information. That’s why I am here. You were told to expect me?”

Alonso remembered his conversation with Cardinal Bernelle, that someone would contact him. “I was told to expect someone,” Alonso confirmed.

Raoul nodded, walking past Alonso to a small round end table beside a long, narrow couch. He pushed aside some books and unfolded a small map. He glanced back at Alonso and said, “Time is short. I believe this is an accurate map of my target.”

Reluctantly, Alonso approached Raoul and looked down at an aerial photograph of the area around the small town of Gelib, where Alonso lived. Raoul pointed to a small building on the aerial map that could only be the Stein warehouse. On the map, a long thin road ran straight as an arrow from Gelib to the building depicted on the aerial map. The photograph had obviously been taken from a low flying aircraft and was crystal clear. The warehouse, guards, compound fence, and gate could all be clearly seen.

Alonso glanced at Raoul and nodded. “That is the Stein compound.” Alonso paused a moment and said, “What do you intend to do?”

Raoul gave him a cruel grin. “What I have to. The scrolls held by the Stein family are my objective. Everything I have been able to find out says those scrolls are inside that warehouse. Do you agree?”

Alonso could not help himself and nodded slowly. “My information says there is a large steel vault inside the warehouse, but even if you penetrate the compound, I doubt you can bridge the vault and reach the scrolls inside.” Alonso held out the faint hope of discouraging the man from attempting this dangerous raid.

“I have enough explosives to level that vault,” Raoul grinned even wider.

“You would destroy everything inside the vault?” Alonso staggered back in alarm.

“I would. My instructions are simple. If I can’t steal the scrolls, then destroy them.”

“You must not do that. The loss of the scrolls is unthinkable. There must be another way,” Alonso said weakly, trying to wrap his mind around the tragedy that was about to occur. If those scrolls were the work of Jesus, to destroy them would be a heinous crime against mankind and the Church. Forgetting himself, Alonso reached out and grabbed the man’s arm.

“I have studied the problem. There isn’t any other way.” Raoul frowned as he glanced down at Alonso’s hand on his arm. He forcefully removed Alonso’s hand and with a scowl, said, “You forget yourself. It is not for you to decide anything. You are to supply me with information. That’s all. I will do the rest.”

Raoul scooped up the map and turned toward the door, pausing only for a moment to look back. “You have done your job. Now, I must do mine.” Then Raoul continued toward the door. In another moment, Raoul was gone.

Alonso stood alone in his apartment, frightened and appalled at the same time. He could not allow Raoul to commit such an atrocious crime. There had to be another way.

Chapter 65

John had stayed up for an hour before trying to go back to sleep, but eventually sleep tugged at his eyelids and once more he laid down. After a few more minutes, sleep claimed him.

The man’s face was kind and compassionate. A soft brown beard adorned his face and long brown hair fell to his shoulders. His eyes were blue, a startling deep crystal blue, somehow out of place with his deep bronze Mediterranean complexion. He wore a robe of pure white, dazzling in its brightness. The man gently touched John on the shoulder, but said nothing. John felt a deep joy and peace well up within him at this man’s touch. Then the man raised his other arm and pointed at something in the distance. John looked in that direction—and woke up.

Slowly, wiping the sleep from his eyes, John sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet touching the cold blue carpet of his bedroom. The puzzling dream was crystal clear in his memory, instead of fading like most dreams. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he gazed at a window across the room where the morning light was slowly filtering through lace curtains into the room, and the outside darkness was gradually beginning to gray.

Dreams... He sighed in frustration. No more sleep for him. At least he had not been attacked again. He rose and walked toward the window across the room, pushing back the white curtains once he reached the window. He saw the sun rising from behind tall trees, struggling to bring light to a new day. Dawn was breaking yet the darkness of night still lingered in places, fighting to remain.

John stood there staring at the eternal struggle of light and dark, of day and night, and wondered at the similar struggle going on in the world at this very moment between good and evil. He remembered his last dream. Who was the man in that dream?  What was he trying to tell him?  He shook his head in confusion.

John thought about his encounter with Sebastian yesterday. He had not learned much about the man except Sebastian registered grief when he talked about his wife. Had that singular event, the loss of his wife, embittered him against God?

Then there was the other question. Why had his healing power been released into Sebastian?  He knew that Sebastian’s right leg had been healed, but he had not sought that healing, had not prayed or asked God for the healing; the healing just took place all on its own when he touched Sebastian. Some kind of connection was made, a final piece of the circuit that allowed healing energy to flow into Sebastian. John shook his head in dismay. God’s grace was a mystery to John. Apparently, even evil men could receive healing.

He turned from the window and started dressing. He still could not stop thinking about his healing ability. Would he ever understand how healing worked or was healing to be forever a mystery, understood only by God?  Surely, there was a technique involved that could be mastered if he only understood the basic mechanics of healing or, as his pastor indicated, perhaps he needed to relax and let God do as he wills.

Dressed, he walked back over to the window. The sun had made it above the trees, lighting up the world. It would be a nice spring day with blue skies and a bright sun. He wondered what Rebecca was doing. He glanced at his watch. He found himself eagerly looking forward to seeing her again.

He breathed in deeply, then let his breath out slowly. Tension was already building within him at the thought of seeing her. So much had happened between them. His feelings for Rebecca ran deep even after all these years. Mixed with the anger and resentment, there were feelings of love and tenderness towards her. He knew there could never be a life with her, but that didn’t change how he felt. Somehow, he had to find a way to deal with these left over emotions and move on with his life.

He walked over to the bed and knelt on the floor, placing his elbows on the bed in a prayerful attitude. He began to pray. He needed answers that only God could provide.

Chapter 66

Special Agent Dan Jones was not a happy man. He was angry, but he held his temper. Control was important when dealing with subordinates, even screw-ups. He had thought to use John Arrowsmith as a lever against Simon Stein. Now he had nothing. He glared at Agent Grimes over the top of his desk. Grimes no longer wore that perpetual sneer on his face. Instead, there was a look of fear about him as he wetted his lips. Apparently, his little talk earlier with Grimes had made an impression.

“Tell me again how you lost him?” Jones said, leaning back in the chair behind his desk, his eyes fixed on Grimes.

Grimes frowned, glanced at the other agent who only shrugged, and then told his account of what happened for the third time. “As I said, Arrowsmith refused to accompany us from the church last night, and not wishing to make a scene, we waited for him outside.”

“At least you didn’t call public attention to what you were doing,” Jones said, disgust evident on his face. “Publicity is definitely one thing we do not need. Go on.”

“We figured we could follow him after he left the church and catch him alone. When he passed us in his car, I turned the car’s ignition key to follow him, but nothing happened. The car wouldn’t start. We checked and found someone had pulled one of the battery cables. By the time we fixed the car, Arrowsmith was gone.”

“Who do you think pulled the cable?”

“Arrowsmith, who else?  I don’t know how, but it is the only answer that makes sense,” Grimes said hesitantly, sweat beginning to pop out on his forehead. His answer sounded lame even to him.

“And when, pray tell, did he have the damn time?” Jones suddenly shouted, leaning forward across the desk, anger in his words.

Grimes instinctively flinched, looking defeated. “I don’t know. We were careful.”

“Alright, that will be all for now.”

As Jones watched the two agents leave, he wondered the same thing as Grimes. Who else could have disabled their car?  If it wasn’t Arrowsmith then who was it?  Then there was the mysterious attack on one of his agents staking out Arrowsmith’s house. Was someone else searching for the Gospel of Jesus? Did he have a competitor? If he did, this just became a race to see who got to the gospel first.

This only increased the urgency of breaking Stein quickly and finding out the location of the scrolls. If others were looking for the scrolls... He shook his head. He didn’t know enough and that bothered him even more. Time was rapidly running out, and without Arrowsmith, Jones had no leverage over Stein.

Jones might have to resort to more severe physical means—interrogation techniques that bordered on torture. How far would he have to go to break Stein and find this religious document?  How far was he willing to go?  Was he prepared to become the truly evil man that Stein accused him of being?

He didn’t like being put in this predicament. His superiors told him that it was vital that this Gospel of Jesus be obtained and brought to them. They didn’t give him a reason for their interest, but they hinted at using any means necessary to obtain that gospel.

If he failed and this operation ever became public knowledge, he would be the one on the hot seat, not his superiors. They would throw him to the wolves in an instant, claiming he misunderstood his orders and had acted outside of the accepted guidelines. Oh, he knew this game all too well.

That’s why his immediate superior had emphasized a clandestine approach, avoiding all publicity, and no written orders—nothing that could physically connect Jones with his superior.   It was always a dead giveaway that your superior was doing something illegal or unethical when he wanted to keep it quiet.

He knew from the start that he was the designated fall guy. It was the reason that he was chosen, a temporary loan from the FBI with no direct links to Homeland Security. He also kicked himself for letting pride force him into taking this assignment, instead of turning it down—pride would be his downfall.

Jones slammed an open desk drawer with some force, venting his anger. He didn’t like himself very much at the moment.

He stood up and walked to the window. He couldn’t get Stein’s question out of his mind. Was he an evil man?

Chapter 67

It was early Tuesday morning and John had just finished praying at the prayer rail in his church. He rose to his feet. Both of his hands rested lightly on the wood prayer railing. He felt better, but then he always felt better after he prayed. His faith and prayer were the only things keeping him going these days. Everything else seemed to be crashing down around him.

Then there was last night’s dream. Was the man with the beard Jesus? The bearded man seemed to be trying to tell him something, but what? The man in his dream had pointed at something in the distance, but John woke from the dream before he could determine where the man was pointing. He shook his head in mild frustration.

As he stared up at the large cross that overhung the church stage, John wondered what Jesus was trying to tell him. His thoughts were interrupted by a tapping sound behind him. He turned to see a woman walking slowly up the aisle toward him, swinging a long white cane from side to side. She wore thick eyeglasses and a long black dress which matched her black hair. When she was within a few feet of him, she stopped and placed the cane on her arm. Her eyes were fixed on him.

“They told me you came early every morning to pray. I waited for you.”

He knew why she was here even before he asked. “What can I do for you?”

“Heal me. I am legally blind, though I can make out shapes when close to someone, but not faces or any details. My glasses help a little.”

Her voice was soft, inquiring, but not pleading. She had made a simple request and was now waiting for his response.

“What is your name?”

“Rose...Rose Thornton.”

Reluctant, but unable to refuse, he reached out and removed her eyeglasses. Her eyes looked normal except for a thin milky film that seemed to rest on top of the irises.

“How long have you been like this?”

“I could see well as a child, but as I grew older, my vision dimmed. I’ve seen many doctors. They all say the same thing. It’s hopeless—something about genetics. I hoped that you...”

Her words trailed off as she closed her mouth. Small tears gathered at the corners of her eyes.

“You are my last hope, my only hope.”

“God does the healing, not I. Do you believe in God? In Jesus?”

His voice was harsher than he had intended, his reluctance to heal coloring his voice. He made a deliberate effort to tone his voice down to a more gentle level.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Have you prayed for healing?”

“Yes, but nothing happened.”

“Have you stopped praying?”

She bowed her head slightly, hesitated for a moment, then nodded and said, “Prayer wasn’t working. I listen to the Bible on a recording some.”

John nodded. “Regardless of what happens here, you must pray and continue to listen to your Bible recordings daily. You must continue to grow in your faith. The true miracle is salvation.”

“Could you pray with me now?” She stared up him with those gentle milky-white eyes. He knew from her words that her faith had left her and only her hope remained, and it would not be enough. There would be no healing for her, but he could not refuse to try.

”Close your eyes.” John reached out to her, placing his fingertips lightly on her closed eyelids. “Now pray with me and do not stop until I tell you. Believe with me that God can heal you.”

John bowed his head and prayed for the healing power to descend and heal this blind woman. He deepened his prayer, searching for that familiar feeling of power rising within him, silently urging for that power to be made manifest. He felt the peace and joy of prayer descend on him and felt the closeness of Jesus, but no healing power came. He continued to stand, praying, willing the heat and strength of that healing power to heal the eyes of this woman that stood before him, but nothing happened. After twenty minutes had passed, he knew that his earlier premonition had been correct. This blind woman would receive no healing. He sighed, disappointed, but not surprised.

John opened his eyes and said, “You may open your eyes now.”

He watched her open her eyes and saw the instant disappointment on her face. Her lower lip quivered slightly.

“I had hoped...” Her words grew thick as her throat choked with emotion.

“I am sorry, Rose.”

“What am I to do?” Tears flowed down her cheeks.

“Don’t lose hope. You indicated you had stopped praying. Start again, make prayer a daily part of your life. Continue to listen to your Bible recording and deepen your faith. You must believe in God and in his salvation. When your faith is strengthened, come back to see me.”

“If I do that, will I someday be healed?” she questioned with hopeful eyes.

“I don’t know, but your soul will see heaven. That is far more important.”

She nodded sadly. “Thank you for praying with me. I do feel a little better,” she said as she turned away. The tip of her cane tapped on the floor as she departed, head down and shoulders slumped.

John watched her leave, listening to the steady tap tap of her cane.

He looked at his wrist watch and realized that he was already late for a breakfast appointment with Rebecca. He hurried out of the church.

Chapter 68

It was eight o’clock on Tuesday morning when Rebecca made the elevator, carrying her brown briefcase and its precious contents. She held the briefcase close. This was the day she and her father had long waited for, she thought, as the elevator hummed on its downward journey. She had an important meeting to keep at two o’clock this afternoon. She only hoped her contact would be on time.

The package she carried with her was not the one that her brother had brought from home to Gulfview. That package, for the time being, securely rested in a safe deposit box. No, this package contained something else that she had brought from home. Something just as important in its way. She had been very careful. Everything had been shrouded in secrecy.

While the world focused on the conference and the release of the Aramaic copy of the Gospel of Jesus, her main task was this meeting. What she did today would intensify the importance of the Gospel of Jesus and the upcoming conference tomorrow.

The doors slid open on the second floor to reveal a priest in the traditional black suit and white collar. She smiled and moved slightly to her left to allow room. The priest returned the smile and entered the elevator. As the elevator doors closed, he looked back at her with a puzzled frown which gave way to a faint smile.

“Of course, you are Rebecca Stein,” he said, offering his hand. “I met you briefly when your father released the Bartholomew letter.”

“Sorry, Father, but I don’t remember you. There were so many people that day,” she said reluctantly. Of all the bad luck. She had hoped to go unrecognized at least for another day.

“Please, call me Paul. No need to be formal, besides I don’t believe you are Catholic.”

“No, and please call me, Rebecca.”

“I am here for the conference. I assume you will be there?”

“I plan to be, but my brother, Simon, is the main organizer of the conference.”  She briefly thought of her brother, her heart skipping a beat with fear for him. She had heard nothing from him since his disappearance.

“Excellent. I am on my way down to breakfast. Would you join me?”

She smiled politely and said, “I am meeting someone.”

“Bring your companion along. I am hoping to pry some information out of you about this Gospel of Jesus.”

“I can’t discuss anything about that. You will have to wait until the conference.”

“I don’t expect you to betray any confidences, but I would consider it a great favor if you would discuss this great work with me.”

Seeing that the priest would not easily be put off, Rebecca reluctantly nodded. She glanced at her watch. John would be here soon. She would have to find a way to ditch this insistent priest as soon as possible. She needed time alone with John before she left for her afternoon meeting.

John arrived as Rebecca and the priest were sitting down at a table, spotting them from across the dining room. He gave her a raised eyebrow, puzzled at finding her with a priest. She gave him the classic shrug, as if to say she couldn’t help it.

The priest stood up at John’s approach and offered his hand. “I’m Father Paul West.”

“John Arrowsmith,” John replied with a hesitant smile, politely shaking hands with the priest.

He felt a strange tingle briefly go through him as the priest’s hand touched his, then the priest withdrew his hand and the tingling ceased. Puzzled by that odd feeling, John sat down at the table.

“Rebecca has graciously agreed to have breakfast with me. I hope you don’t mind my barging in on your breakfast.”

“The good Father has been trying to find out more about the conference. I’ve told him he needs to talk to my brother, Simon. That is his department,” Rebecca said.

“Surely, you can tell me something. After all, the conference is tomorrow. Some advance information wouldn’t hurt, would it?” Father West persisted.

Rebecca thought a moment. Her family had insisted that secrecy be kept about the Gospel of Jesus until the conference, but the priest was so earnest in his desire to know more. What real harm would it do to tell him a little something this close to the conference?

“I will say this much. You will not be disappointed.“

“Then this Gospel of Jesus is authentic?  Written by Jesus himself?” Father West asked.

“Yes,” Rebecca replied.

Father West sucked in his breath for a moment, astonishment on his face. “How can you be sure?  This gospel could be a fake, good enough even to fool you.”

“It’s genuine, believe me. My family has a clear historical line back to Jesus. We know the truth.”

Father West paused a moment, glancing at John, then back at Rebecca, and said, “The Bartholomew letter—there is a great deal of discussion about when the letter was written. Does your family have any information that might narrow the date down for us?”

She glanced away from the priest for a moment. She had said too much already. Then she saw the intensity in his eyes, his thirst to know.

“There is nothing definite that will pinpoint the exact date, but the family believes the letter was sent to Bartholomew’s son sometime after the crucifixion.”

“Crucifixion?” Father West was puzzled for a moment, then his eyes grew large. “The crucifixion of our Lord?”

“Yes,” she said hesitantly.

Father West grew excited. “The Bartholomew letter would be great proof that Jesus lived after the crucifixion, that he rose from the dead.”

“I’m afraid the date of the letter is not conclusive enough to prove that, Paul. But I believe it was written after his terrible ordeal although nothing is mentioned in Jesus’ writings about the crucifixion.”

“Nothing at all in Jesus’ writings? How could that be? The crucifixion of Jesus is the single greatest moment in his ministry.”

“Perhaps Jesus didn’t view the crucifixion quite the same way as you do.”

“He mentioned nothing about the crucifixion? His resurrection? Nothing at all?”

Rebecca shook her head.

“Then perhaps you are wrong. Maybe his gospel was written before his crucifixion,” Father West said, irritation heavy in his voice.

“When you read the Gospel of Jesus tomorrow, you can judge for yourself.” She gave him a sympathetic smile. Much was going to be painful for this priest tomorrow, maybe too much.

Father West frowned and said, “This Bartholomew—was he a close companion of Jesus? No mention is made of him in the Bible.”

“Bartholomew was not one of the original disciples, but he was a disciple. He came late to the disciples that followed Jesus. He was, by nature, a scholar, not an evangelist, and was very helpful to Jesus. As for not being mentioned, when you read the Gospel of Jesus, you will find much that was left out.” She glanced at John, a concerned look on her face.

“What do you mean ‘left out’?”

“The Gospel of Jesus is an account by Jesus, written in his time, as he preached and spread his message, not a compilation of second hand accounts and legends. Much distortion has crept into the Biblical Gospels.”

“You can’t be serious. The Bible is the inspired word of God.”

“Much will be revealed at the conference,” Rebecca answered. She felt sorry for the priest. He was so fearful about the Gospel of Jesus, afraid that it might destroy his beliefs.

Father West looked away for a moment, a deep frown creasing his forehead. Then he returned his gaze back to Rebecca. “Many of us aren’t going to like what we hear tomorrow, are we?”

She smiled sadly and said, “Unfortunately, the truth can be very painful at times, but, in the end, as Jesus said, the truth will set you free.”

Father West frowned, then shifted the conversation to another topic. “You mentioned this gospel contains something of an autobiography of Jesus.  Not just his sayings or accounts of his miracles, but a story of his life.”

“And more.”

“Why do you think he decided to write something like this?”

She shrugged. “It is only supposition on my part, but I think Jesus had reached a point in his ministry when he felt it was time for his words to be recorded. He wanted the world to know what he thought. I also think he sensed that his ministry was nearing its end. The crucifixion would certainly have accelerated his sense of urgency.”

“The Bible indicates that Jesus knew that he would be crucified,” Father West said.

“Yes, Jesus knew that he faced a serious trial ahead. His time in the garden praying proves that,” Rebecca said.

“Facing imminent death must have been difficult, even for our Lord,” Father West   paused a moment, a frown upon his lips, thinking of his own ordeal with cancer.

“I think you will find the Gospel of Jesus very illuminating.”

Rebecca remembered reading the Lord’s words at home with her father before she came to American. How touched she was by them, as she always was, how human and natural some of the passages were as Jesus recounted his childhood, and how inspiring the latter part of the book was when he wrote about his ministry.

A sudden, curious thought came to John. “Where did Jesus write his manuscript?”

“He wrote as he traveled and preached. He completed the gospel in a small village close to the Jordan and gave the scrolls to Bartholomew, then he traveled on with some of his other disciples.”

“What village?” Father West inquired, puzzled.

Rebecca quietly said, “The name of the village was never mentioned.”

“He was only there for a short time?” Father West asked.

“Yes, Bartholomew mentions in one of his later letters about Jesus departing for a long journey, but there was no mention of a destination. Bartholomew never saw Jesus again.”

“I would like to read that letter.”

“One day, perhaps.”

“So there were other letters from Bartholomew about Jesus?” Father West asked.

“Yes.” Rebecca leaned back in her chair.  “We have not released those letters. Really, Paul, I have already said too much.”

“Please?” the priest placed a hand on her arm.

A waiter appeared to get their order. Father West ordered a ham-and-cheese omelet, Rebecca asked for pancakes, and John requested his usual bacon and scrambled eggs. The waiter filled their empty glasses with water and left.

Reluctantly, Rebecca continued, “Some of Bartholomew’s later letters indicated Jesus was concerned about his religious movement. I think he was apprehensive that his death might be the end of his message. While he was in Judea, he urged his disciples to spread his new gospel to everyone. ”

“But he couldn’t possibly believe that Christianity would end with his death!” Father West objected.

“He was taking precautions. You must not forget that in his day, there were many so-called prophets preaching their own divine message to the Jews. Jesus was not unique in that regard. When we read the Bible, Jesus is seen as a divine figure, head and shoulders above everyone around him, striding through the Jewish crowds with a holy purpose, everyone awed by his presence, but such was not the case. Jesus was an itinerant preacher, a self-proclaimed prophet, one among many of that day, proclaiming one message among many others, seen mainly as a trouble maker. He had seen what happens when the leader of a religious movement dies. Too many times, the followers scatter and the message dies. He did not want that to happen to his message.”

“Surely he must have known that his message would spread.”

“He had visions, as all prophets do. He believed his message would spread to the world if his disciples did as they were instructed, and that someday the gospel he was currently writing would be needed.” She paused, then reluctantly added, “You must realize that even before his crucifixion, he already knew that his mission to his countrymen had failed.  The Jewish authorities and most of the Jews never accepted him or this new religion that he preached. They were too entrenched in their own beliefs. He was not the messiah the Jews were looking for. The Gentiles were his only hope.”

“He knew that?”

“Bartholomew indicated as much.”

The waiter brought their food to them as well as three cups of coffee. They ate quietly. John could see the priest was greatly disturbed and agitated.

Finally, after a few minutes, Father West stopped eating, took a sip of coffee, and said, “Rebecca, forgive me if I have been abrupt with you. I am a Biblical scholar and have studied religious writings and antiquities most of my adult life. I know how much the Bible has been tinkered with over time. Most of which was done out of honest religious conviction, but some for political reasons. What you have said gives me much to think about.”

Rebecca smiled and said, “Jesus accomplished his mission. He planted the seeds of salvation among his Jewish brethren. His disciples and followers evangelized the world. I think he would be happy with the results.”

“Yes, of course, but this idea you have that Jesus finished his scrolls after the crucifixion...It troubles me greatly that he says nothing about the crucifixion itself.”

“No, he doesn’t. And remember, I could be wrong. There is nothing about his trial either.”

“That proves it then. Surely, he would have mentioned the injustice of his trial before the Romans as well as his crucifixion if the gospel had been completed afterwards.”

“Perhaps. You will have to judge for yourself after you have read the Gospel of Jesus. The last few chapters talk about a peaceful life in a small village, about finishing the race that was begun, about his ministering to the people in the village.”

“In the Bible, there is mention of Jesus visiting his disciples after the crucifixion, but no mention of a village.”

“There wouldn’t be, would there? He was a wanted man, Paul. If the Romans discovered that he had cheated death, they would hunt him down and crucify him all over again.”

“I suppose, still...” Father West shook his head, confusion evident in his eyes. The priest stood up, took a deep breath and said, “Excuse me. I feel a need to go and pray.”

John and Rebecca watched him leave. John took another bite of his scrambled eggs, chewed slowly and swallowed, then glanced at Rebecca and said, “I think you shook him a little.”

“And you?”

He frowned, then slowly shook his head. “My faith remains strong. I, of all people, know the power of God. I will trust him to sort out what I don’t understand.”

Rebecca looked at her wristwatch and took one more bite of her pancake, then stood up. “I have some errands to run, but I want you to meet me inside the First National Bank at three o’clock this afternoon. This is important. Please don’t be late.”

“What’s at the bank?”

“What do you think?”

“You put the Gospel of Jesus in a safe deposit box?” he questioned.

“What could be safer?  Park around the corner, on Fifth Avenue.”

He arched an eyebrow with a questioning look. “Fourth Avenue would be more convenient.”

“Trust me on this,” she added.

He nodded.

“Something else. I think someone tried to get into my room last night.”

John took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. He had feared this would happen. John quickly looked around the hotel restaurant, but saw nothing unusual.

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

“Who do you think it was?” she asked.

“Has to be Sebastian or one of his thugs. If it was the feds, they would have had the hotel management open your room door and arrested you on the spot.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better,” she replied gloomily.

At the car, John turned Rebecca toward him. “Listen, you have got to be very careful. Make sure no one is following you when you leave here.” He paused a moment, then said, “I could go with you.”

“No, I can take care of myself. We will stick to the original plan.” She gave him a brief smile, then climbed into the car.

As John watched her drive away, he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Chapter 69

As Rebecca left the hotel parking lot, a long black limousine swung out behind her. Inside, Sebastian Black smiled. Today he felt certain that he would retrieve the Gospel of Jesus and be done with this assignment. He was convinced she had hidden the ancient documents somewhere.

If so, she had to pick up those scrolls today. There would be no time tomorrow. All he had to do was follow her and wait. He leaned back in his car seat and relaxed. His two associates sat in the front of the vehicle. Finally, events were going his way.

He wondered what the Order would do with the ancient manuscript. Their fear of it was obvious, but the Gospel of Jesus was worth a fortune. It would be a shame to destroy it.

He drew a deep breath and let it out, relieving some of the stress he had been under. He reminded himself that the fate of the Gospel of Jesus was not his department. Still...he glanced at his healed leg and shook his head.

He had not expected a miraculous healing of his leg. He had no glib words or cynical thoughts to explain what had happened to him. He refused to believe that God had healed him. But something had happened that he couldn’t explain. Sometimes, one had to accept events that couldn’t be explained.

Sebastian wasn’t a Christian, never expected to be a Christian, although his wife had been a devout follower, dragging him to church every Sunday, chattering about his need to know Jesus. One of her most fervent desires was that someday he would convert to Christianity. Sebastian knew that he would never convert, but he tried not to shatter her hopes for he loved her deeply, so he humored her and attended Church and pretended to be interested in Christianity while she lived—but he never converted to the religion, which he considered silly and unbelievable.

Perhaps he was beginning to lean toward her faith a little toward the end, but then his wife had died in fiery collision. A wonderful woman and Christian was snatched from this earth in an instant. What kind of God would do that to one of his own?

Sebastian had lost in a moment the only person he had ever really loved, that meant something to him, and his personal pain had been unbearable. Even now, when he thought of her, deep sorrow would engulf him. His life would have been so different if she had lived. Perhaps, he would have been less of monster.

Sebastian watched from the back seat as Rebecca Stein turned left at an intersection. He leaned forward and said, “Stay close. Don’t lose her.”

His frown deepened as his limo swung in behind Rebecca Stein. Today—he intended to end this chase today.

Chapter 70

As John was finishing the last of his breakfast, he glanced at his watch. He had another job interview this morning. He had put on a fresh shirt and pressed his suit before he left the home of Pastor Phillips this morning. He wanted to make the best impression possible though he doubted it would help. Lately, he began to think that nothing would help.

He was slowly coming to grips with the realization that there would be no miracles for him. He would never be a cop again. He couldn’t even find security work. There was a big question mark on his work history that nobody wanted to touch.

John looked up to see a frantic looking priest standing in front of him.

“I’ve missed her, haven’t I?”

“Afraid so. Is there something I can do?”

“No, I don’t think so.”  Father West sat down heavily. “I thought of several additional questions as I rode up in the elevator.”

John placed his hand on the priest’s shoulder for a moment to comfort him. He looked so desolate. “All of your questions will be answered tomorrow at the conference. Be patient until then.”  That annoying tingling sensation returned as John touched the priest, followed by a sensation of darkness and despair. “Are you alright?  Have...have you been ill lately?” John asked, already knowing the answer as he carefully removed his hand from the shoulder of the priest. Immediately, that dark feeling of foreboding left him, but he felt that death for this man was very near.

“Yes, does it show that much?  I am perpetually tired and worn out.”

“May I pray with you for a moment?”

“I never turn down prayer,” Father West replied with a weak, puzzled smile.

Bowing his head and grasping the priest’s hand, John began to pray silently. After a brief hesitation, the priest bowed his head as well. John expected to feel a sudden rush of intense healing warmth as he had felt with the Sebastian healing, but instead, he felt nothing. He was confused. He had instantly sensed that the priest was very ill and expected that healing would follow that spiritual revelation, but nothing happened. Surely, a priest, a dedicated servant of God, was worthy of healing.

After a minute of further urgent praying, he knew there would be no healing for this man of God. John looked up from his prayer and said, “I’m sorry that you are so ill.”

Those were the only words he could think to say. Confusion and momentary anger rumbled through him. Why give him a revelation of need and then prevent him from meeting that need?  Slowly, he calmed himself down. There was no need to burden this priest with his personal doubts and anguish. The priest had enough troubles of his own.

“How did you know I was ill?” Father West asked.

“God told me through a spiritual gift I have for such things. I’m sorry I could not help you more.”

“You have helped me more than you can know. I...I feel better than I have in days, more at peace with the world. You say God told you I was ill?”

“God seems to have bestowed a gift on me that tells me things about people.”

“Most remarkable. I have seen few such demonstrations of spiritual power in my life. Could you discuss this gift?”

“I’d rather not. I am still struggling to understand what God has done in my life.”

“I understand. A major change in one’s life is often difficult to come to grips with, as I, unfortunately, have found out recently. I have been struggling with facing my own mortality lately. You would think a priest would have an easier time with such things.” He attempted to smile and failed, ending with a small frown.

“We are all, in the end, mere men, subject to fears and doubts as much as any,” John heard himself say, not sure where those words came from.

“Yes, we all must struggle with the flesh, the beast that only the spirit can tame. Flesh does not think or reason and is always at war with our intellect and soul. Death always comes in the end for all of us. It is how we face that end that really matters,” Father West repeated words slowly as if remembering them from long ago.

“Our faith will always see us through.” Again the words seem to come from somewhere else, an unconscious part of John that he did not quite realize was there.

“Yes, faith is always the key. Yet, I have a fear of dying within me that I have difficulty dealing with. Sometimes I think I have successfully dealt with my fear, only to find that fear has returned stronger than ever.”

“Perhaps you cling to life too hard. You have run a good race and are within reach of the finish line, of Jesus and heaven,” John said as he thought of Peter Brown waiting for death in the hospital, yet hoping for life. In the end, being forced to accept his end.

“Perhaps I do,” Father West agreed, shaking his head slowly. “Jesus is always with us, even in death, isn’t he?”

“Death has lost its sting,” John repeated softly.

“Yes, for what does this world hold that I should delay death, only God’s work holds me here. My reward is in heaven. That sums up the attitude of the true disciples of Jesus, doesn’t it?  That should be my attitude.”

John said nothing, watching the priest struggle with himself. Hearing the priest talk about death, about facing it, sent small chills up John’s back. He didn’t like thinking about anyone’s death. Yet, in a real sense, John had become part of this man’s struggle with death.

“If you don’t mind my asking, how long?”

Father West shrugged. “Days, weeks, who knows? The doctors refuse to give me a definitive answer. Not long I think.”

Once more John placed a hand on the priest’s shoulder and bowed his head to pray with him.  Afterwards, he watched the priest leave with a sad smile on his face. John could do nothing for this man of God but give him a few words of encouragement.

John signaled for another cup of coffee and rubbed his temples for a moment to ease a stress headache that was building. Sometimes there was simply nothing he could do.

Chapter 71

Simon was tired and beaten down, no sleep, no food, only a sip of water on occasion to keep him alive. His parched throat screamed for water, and every time he started to lay his head down on the table, an agent would jerk him back up. He had not left the interrogation room since he arrived.  Agents had hammered him all through the night, asking repeatedly where the Gospel of Jesus was located. He was exhausted.

His eyes swept the bare room, only a table and four chairs, nothing else. The windows were covered with heavy curtains to prevent any sunlight from entering the room. It was obvious this had been an office before, only recently converted into an interrogation room to terrorize and threaten people like him. He had not shaved or showered since yesterday, and his clothes were badly rumpled and had that lived in look. He was beginning to smell, the sweat of too much terror and fear.

The door to the small room opened, and Agent Jones entered wearing a frown. The other two agents backed away from Stein to give Jones room to approach the dazed young man.

“Your family is creating problems for me, Mr. Stein. An official inquiry from your embassy has been received by the department demanding your immediate release.”

“Good,” Simon heard himself say, as if in a long tunnel, the sound echoing back to his ears. He was very close to fainting.

“I am not your enemy. I only want what’s best for the country.”

“Then let me go,” he whispered.

“Not yet, and despite the efforts by your family, no one can obtain your release. I work for Homeland Security, and you are being treated as a foreign terrorist. You have no rights.” Jones sat down opposite Stein, pushing up Stein’s jaw with two fingers until Jones was looking directly into Stein’s eyes. “If you cooperate, you could be free in a matter of hours. Get some sleep, something to drink and eat. It is up to you.”  Jones’ voice hardened. “Give us the scrolls.”

“Sleep... drink...” Stein echoed as his eyes slowly rolled up, and he passed out, falling out of his chair onto the floor.

“Damn,” Jones said disgustedly. “Pick him up, revive him, give him a half cup of water and continue the interrogation.”

Jones left the room. Tomorrow the conference would begin. Today—he needed to break Stein today.

Chapter 72

The birds were singing. It was early afternoon in the small park next to Paul’s hotel. A few strollers enjoyed the bright colors of early spring flowers. Paul sat alone on a wooden bench dressed in a long black dress coat, no longer wearing his priestly trappings. He wanted to be a normal person today, to blend in with everyone.

He absently rubbed his chest through the thick fabric of his wool coat. The pain in his chest was growing worse. What was once a dull ache was becoming more painful. He took another sip of his medicine from a brown tinted bottle that he had removed from his coat pocket and waited for the narcotic to kick in and reduce the pain.

The doctors told him that the pain would increase toward the end—the same doctors who told him there was no cure, and there was nothing more they could do, but issue him powerful pain killers. He put the brown tinted bottle back into his coat pocket and waited for the pain relief to kick in.

A young couple smiled at him as they passed his park bench, walking hand-in-hand. He managed to return a rather weak smile. The couple looked happy, out to enjoy a sunny day, their whole life in front of them. How he envied them.

Watching them stroll out of sight, so happy, stung Paul a little. Their happiness only drove his dark reality deeper into his soul. He felt wrung out and defeated. Why God, why me, why now?  I am only forty-two. I still have a lot of life left to live, with important discoveries waiting to be made.

As always, only silence answered him. He and God had not been on speaking terms   lately. All of his prayers seemed to go unanswered.

When had his faith first weakened?  He could not remember a specific date. It seemed that his faith had weakened a little bit at a time, by questions that didn’t have answers, by ancient manuscripts that didn’t quite fit what the Church taught, by the discovery of the large amount of political and religious manipulation of the scriptures, and other things too numerous to count.

He seemed to have forgotten the main precept of any religion—faith. Science could never prove your faith or disprove it. Faith always came down to a simple matter of belief. Somewhere along the way his belief had faltered, dragging down his faith. And now, at death’s door, he needed his faith, strong and resolute, not this weak, whimpering thing he now possessed.

Paul needed his faith restored. That, more than any other reason, was why he had come to this conference. If this Gospel of Jesus was authentic, then Jesus’ own words might restore his faith—at least that was his hope, but after his discussion with Rebecca Stein he was not so sure that would happen now. He feared what little faith he held on to might be shattered by the revelations of this Gospel of Jesus.

He sighed and struggled to his feet. He needed to return to the hotel and rest. Each day seemed to be harder for him than the last. He tired easily and had no appetite. He could feel death whispering into his ear.

Chapter 73

As Rebecca pulled up in front of a small street-side cafe, she glanced behind her. A few blocks back, she had lost the long black limousine that had been dogging her all day. Whether the black limousine was actually trailing her or not, she didn’t know, but the limo had been suspicious, and she was taking no chances, not today.

She stepped out of her small blue sedan and entered the cafe. The cafe was like most small restaurants that catered to the downtown breakfast and lunch crowd on a weekday. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and most of the lunch crowd had departed, leaving only a few individuals lingering over their coffee.

Rebecca chose to sit outside at one of the small, round glass-topped tables with a big beach umbrella that was tilted toward the afternoon sun, providing some shade. She set her briefcase on the table and waited for the waiter who arrived a few minutes later. She ordered black coffee, no cream, then settled down to wait.

She watched the colorful street crowds pass by on the sidewalk adjacent to the cafe tables. Dressed in shorts and bright colored shirts and blouses, everyone seemed to be enjoying the warm spring day after a long, cold winter.

She thought about the Gospel of Jesus securely locked away in a safe deposit box. She would wait until the last possible minute to retrieve it. So much depended on her getting the gospel to the conference.

At ten minutes after two, Rebecca began to wonder whether Mr. Bays was coming. He was late. Finally, at twenty after, a distinguished looking, tall gentleman in his late forties arrived with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry I’m late, Miss. Stein. I’m afraid I got a little lost, first time in this town and all.”

Rebecca decided to be gracious, though she didn’t feel that way. “I understand. Has everything been finalized, Mr. Bays?  Mr. Brim said that he would expedite the process.”

“Yes, I presume you brought the item with you?”

Rebecca opened her briefcase and extracted the brown paper-wrapped package. She held on to it for a moment, reluctant even now, to let go of it. Then, with a sigh, she handed over the package to Bays.

“Please be careful with this.”

“Don’t worry, Miss. Stein. I will treat it with utmost care.”  He opened his own briefcase and gently placed the package inside, closing the briefcase and snapping the locks shut. “Mr. Sims impressed on me how much this means to you. You were quite elegant in your original presentation.”  The man paused a moment, the wrinkles around his eyes condensing as he smiled and said, “Rest assured, I will attend to everything as you prescribed.”

“It would be best if you left immediately, Mr. Bays. There are some rather unscrupulous people who would love to get their hands on what you are carrying.”

“Really?  I had not realized the competition was so fierce.”  He rose from the table, then looked down at her for a moment. “Are you in any trouble?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Perhaps the police...”

“They would be of no help, but I thank you for your concern.”

The tall man nodded, hesitated for a moment, and then walked off, holding his briefcase tightly in his right hand.

She watched him go, watched until he disappeared from sight into the crowd of afternoon shoppers that thronged the sidewalk in front of the cafe. Then she breathed a huge sigh of relief. Not until then did she fully realize how much pressure she had been under. She had been so afraid something would go wrong at the last moment. Now, only the conference remained.

She leaned back in her chair and relaxed for the first time since arriving in America, savoring the last few sips of her coffee. Then she stood up, leaving some money for the coffee, and picked up her briefcase, only to find a strong hand on her arm stopping her from leaving.

“Please, Miss. Stein, a few moments of your time.”

Shocked, she stared up into the smiling face of a tall, well dressed man with a thin mustache and a cane dangling from his left arm. His eyes held no warmth, only menace.

“Who are you?” she asked hastily, trying to recover quickly from her initial shock.

“Sebastian Black. Perhaps your friend, John Arrowsmith, has mentioned me?”

Rebecca felt herself go instantly cold. John had mentioned Black. Nothing good. With a tight grip on the growing fear she felt, she asked, “What do you want?”

“A brief conversation with you,” he replied politely, but firmly.

Rebecca looked around nervously. There were people around and waiters. The sidewalk beside the outdoor tables contained a steady stream of people passing by. She wasn’t alone. That offered some comfort to her.

“Please remove your hand from my arm,” she snapped.

“Of course, pardon my abruptness, but I wanted to get your attention. Please, sit down and I will explain.”

She hesitated for a brief moment, then decided to comply, thinking furiously about her options. She knew why Black was here. He wanted the Gospel of Jesus. John had told her that much. He had also said that Black was dangerous, very dangerous. Seeing the man, she believed every word that John had said.

“For only a minute, then I must leave,” she replied, trying to keep the tremors of fear out of her voice.

“Thank you. Are you meeting someone?” he said, politely holding the chair for her as he glanced quickly around the cafe.

“No,” she lied, as she took the chair and sat down.

“How odd. You were so eager to get here. You lost us temporarily, which I suppose was your intention. Why would you try so hard to do that unless you were meeting someone?” He paused a moment, frowning, looking around again.

Rebecca suddenly remembered the black limousine that had been following her earlier. Black had been in that limousine. “You have been following me,” she accused him, watching him intently as he walked around the table to sit opposite her.

“How else could I find you?”

Rebecca breathed an inward sigh of relief, but kept her face carefully neutral. She had been afraid that Black had seen Bays, but apparently Black had not. He had just arrived. That was one of the reasons she had stayed despite her intense desire to leave. She wanted to find out what Black knew.

As Black sat down, he deftly grabbed her leather briefcase and opened it with ease.

“How dare you?  That’s private property,” she snapped, reaching for the briefcase, only to have her hand gently slapped away.

“Miss. Stein, we can do this the easy way or the hard way, which you would find most unpleasant.”

“If you don’t return my briefcase to me, I will call the police.”  She motioned to a nearby waiter, who started toward her table.

Black frowned a moment. The last thing he wanted was public attention. He glanced from the waiter to the now open briefcase and the ordinary looking Bible inside. Puzzled, he lifted the small black leather Bible out gently with one hand. His disappointed glance swept the empty briefcase several times, not quite believing there was nothing else there. Rebecca held her breath, her eyes riveted on the Bible Sebastian held so casually in his hand.

All Rebecca could do was pray that the safe deposit key wedged into the binding of the Bible in Sebastian hands did not come loose and fall out. She had no doubt that Black would be ecstatic to have the key to the Gospel of Jesus drop right into his hands.

Black opened the Bible and casually thumbed through the pages, his frown growing deeper with the turn of every page. He was puzzled as well as frustrated. He forcefully shut the Bible, anger glinting in his eyes.

Rebecca’s eyes nervously followed every movement of Black’s left hand as he continued to wave the Bible around.  She could see his eyebrows knitted together in thought; no doubt wondering what else had been in the briefcase. She gritted her teeth waiting for the safe deposit key to become loose and clatter nosily on the table top. God in heaven...

Finally, he said, “I suspect you are here for a reason, Miss Stein. Sadly, I can not deduce that reason. Was there something else in this briefcase? Did I arrive a second too late?”  He shook his head in annoyance and put the Bible gently back down into the briefcase and closed the lid, sliding the case across the table toward her, looking up at the waiter as he arrived at the table. “Nothing for me, thanks.”

The waiter nodded, puzzled by a summons to a table where no one wanted anything.

Rebecca almost collapsed with relief as Black slid her briefcase back across the table to her, but she kept herself under control, giving nothing away. Standing up, she picked up her briefcase. She wanted an escort away from Black, who continued to grimly smile at her, disappointment showing in his eyes. He had been so sure that he would find something of importance in her briefcase.

She turned to the waiter and said, “Can you show me where the bathroom is located?”

“Before you leave, do you know where your brother is by chance?”

Rebecca froze in place.

“What do you know about my brother?”

Glancing at the confused waiter, Black said, “Nothing at all. I thought perhaps you did.”

She left with the waiter in the lead, feeling Black’s eyes on her back as she walked away. Why had Black mentioned her brother?  To worry her, create doubt in her mind, and force her into a mistake he could take advantage of?  She shook her head and pressed on. She was worried about Simon, but there was nothing she could do about him at the moment. She needed to stay focused on the task at hand—retrieving the Gospel of Jesus from the bank.

As soon as she was inside the restaurant, she thanked the waiter and left immediately, heading for the front door of the cafe and the street.

Rebecca emerged from the cafe and was halfway to her car when she noticed that Sebastian was standing less than twenty feet behind her, by the curb, not following her, just watching.  She hurried on toward her car, expecting to feel a hand on her shoulder at any moment, but, surprisingly, he showed no interest in following her, continuing to idly stand on the sidewalk, staring after her until the passing crowds on the sidewalk hid him from view.

Rebecca unlocked her car door and slid in behind the wheel. Only then did she allow herself to react to what had just happened, her hands trembling slightly as fear coursed through her body. Sebastian frightened her. There was a feeling of imminent danger about him. She forced herself to put the car in gear and drive away.

Chapter 74

As Rebecca turned onto Eighth Street, she glanced again in her rear view mirror. The same long black limousine that had followed her to the cafe had appeared briefly behind her for the third time before disappearing again into the flow of traffic. She was definitely being followed. It wasn’t her imagination, and she had no doubt who was in that black limo—Sebastian Black.

She had left the cafe only a few minutes ago, and already Black was on her trail. That was why Sebastian had not followed her on foot from the cafe. He wanted to follow her discreetly after she left, no doubt hoping that she would lead him to the Gospel of Jesus.

If Black stuck with her long enough, he probably figured that sooner or later, she would do exactly that. Trouble with that line of reasoning was that he was correct. Rebecca had to pick up the gospel this afternoon before the bank closed. There would be no time in the morning before the conference.

She turned onto Fourth Avenue, heading straight toward the bank. The black limo turned with her. Fortunately, she had already planned for this contingency. That’s why she had asked John to meet her at the bank.

She bit her lip nervously as she thought of what she was about to do. She knew anything could go wrong. She had to play this carefully. Losing the Gospel of Jesus was unthinkable to her. Her family had planned a long time for the moment when the world would know the full truth about Jesus—a truth only hinted at in the Biblical scriptures. Authentication by the experts gathering at the university conference center was vital to that truth.

Rebecca pulled into a parking spot by a coin meter, not far from the bank, got out, deposited several coins into the meter, turned the meter handle, and proceeded to the bank on the corner.

Rebecca glanced over her shoulder as she headed toward the bank and saw the limo pull parallel to a parked car several car lengths back from her car.  A tall, heavyset man with black hair got out of the car and started after her. The limo pulled away slowly, passing her as she walked toward the bank. She could see nothing behind the tinted dark windows of the limousine as it passed her, but felt sure Black was inside the limousine watching her every move.

She reached the twin glass doors of the bank’s east entrance and glanced back again at the man following her. The man stopped for a moment and pretended to be staring into a store window. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly—show time. The timing for this had to be perfect. If she failed—she shut down that line of thinking quickly. She could not fail. This was too important.

Chapter 75

John stood inside the First National Bank at exactly three o’clock, waiting for Rebecca. The bank was located on the corner of an intersection between 4th and 5th Avenue with entrances on both avenues. Inside the bank, the usual row of tellers at the front of the bank waited on long lines of customers contained between red velvet ropes held up by brass metal poles every few yards.

John stood at one of the four long, polished wooden tables located about twenty feet in front of the teller windows, all neatly positioned in a single long row with a few feet between each table and the next. A security guard stood at the east entrance to the bank which faced Fourth Avenue. John had parked on Fifth Avenue, which ran parallel to Fourth, and he had entered through the west entrance of the bank per Rebecca’s instructions. He was still curious about those instructions. Why did she want him to park on Fifth?

As the minutes ticked by, John became worried. The bank closed at four o’clock. When 3:30 came and went, he knew Rebecca was in trouble.

A few more minutes passed before John saw Rebecca enter the bank from Fourth Avenue, her high heels making tapping noises on the white granite bank floor as she walked rapidly to a nearby table and stopped, sitting her briefcase down on the floor, glancing at him with a shake of her head that said stay put. Then he saw the reason why as a tall, heavyset man entered the bank behind her: Beckett, Sebastian Black’s goon. She had been followed.

John groaned as he dipped his head slightly to avoid recognition. Beckett was the reason Rebecca had given him a caution signal. She glanced at John briefly, their eyes meeting for a moment, worry embedded deeply within their dark irises. He glanced at the wall clock on the far wall of the bank—twenty minutes until closing time.

Beckett stopped at an adjoining table, pulling out some brochures from a miniature table rack and pretending to read them, his eyes never leaving Rebecca. Somehow, John had to get rid of Beckett. As long as Beckett was in the bank, Rebecca could not retrieve the Gospel of Jesus.

He glanced at the bank guard, then back at Beckett at the nearby table. He carefully studied Beckett, detecting a slight bulge under his jacket. His cop instincts told him that Beckett was carrying a gun, and he doubted a thug like Beckett would have a legal carry permit.

John casually strolled over to the bank guard standing by the glass doors that were the east entrance to the bank, and pretending to be a concerned customer, said, “I think that man by the table there has a weapon. I saw something that looked like a gun inside his coat.” John pointed toward Beckett.

The bank guard glanced over at Beckett, a frown creasing his forehead. “Are you sure?”

John shrugged and said, “As sure as I can be from a distance. You might want to check him out, in case...you know, he is here to rob the bank or something.”

Alarm slowly spread over the fat guard’s face as he considered his options. Finally, making up his mind, he nodded. “I will take care of it. Just go about your business.”

John moved back to his table, nodding slightly as Rebecca’s eyes found him again, obviously puzzled by his recent maneuver. He glanced at the clock again--fifteen minutes left before closing time. Minutes slowly ticked by as John waited. He figured the bank guard would call the cops, but how long would it take the cops to get here? If they took too long...  He sighed, shutting off that line of thought. They had to retrieve the Gospel of Jesus today. If the cops didn’t arrive soon, he would have to do something drastic.

With ten minutes left, several uniformed cops entered the bank from the west entrance, talked to the bank guard a moment, then approached Beckett. The first cop asked Sebastian’s henchman a question. Beckett angrily replied something that John couldn’t hear. The second officer pulled his pistol as the first officer loudly ordered Beckett to place his hands, palm down, on the table in front of him. Reluctantly, Beckett complied. The first officer briefly searched him, found a pistol, and then immediately handcuffed Beckett over his loud protest.

John could hear Beckett yelling something about having a permit in his car, but the cops ignored him.

The first officer turned to face the bank customers who were all staring at them by now and said, “Everything is under control. Nothing to worry about.”  He then marched a very disgruntled Beckett out the west entrance of the bank with his partner bringing up the rear. A second later, Rebecca was at his side.

“Clever, but how did you know he would have a gun?” she asked.

“Lucky guess.”

“I knew there was a reason I wanted you here.” She glanced at the bank wall clock: five minutes left. “I had better retrieve what we came for. We cut it very fine.”

John watched her walk away. He kept a careful watch for any more of Black’s goons. None appeared. She was back with a minute to spare with a briefcase that was obviously heavier than when she came into the bank.

“Your car parked on Fifth?” she asked.

“Yes, a half-a-block down, just as you requested.”

“Good, we’ll leave my car parked on Fourth as a decoy for Black.”

“Good diversion. I see now why you wanted me to park on Fifth,” John said.

“Let’s get out of here before anything else happens.”

They walked out together, both of them glancing over their shoulder at the same time to see if anyone was following them.

Chapter 76

“See any signs of a black limousine?” Rebecca asked, turning her head to look back through the rear window of John’s car that was now speeding down Fifth Avenue.

“No,” John said as he glanced into the rear view mirror.

He turned onto Sixth Avenue and abruptly pulled into a parking spot by the curb, keeping the car’s engine running. He waited there for a few minutes, watching the traffic go by, but seeing nothing suspicious. Then he swung back into traffic again.

“There is a park near here where we can stay for a few hours and let any pursuit die down,” John said, glancing at Rebecca.

“Then what?  I don’t think it would be wise to go back to my hotel.” Rebecca frowned, thinking of their possibilities of remaining hidden until tomorrow.

“Or to my house,” John said.

“So?”

“I have a place in mind where we can hold up until tomorrow, but I want to wait until dark. That’s only a few hours away. There will be less chance of being tracked at night.”

Rebecca nodded and leaned back in her seat, she glanced at him briefly, then looked straight ahead. After a moment, she said, “I never meant to hurt you, you know?”

John glanced at her with a puzzled expression, then realized she was talking about their past again. He turned his attention back to the road, saying nothing. He didn’t want to talk about the past, not now, really not ever. It was too painful. He remained silent, hoping Rebecca would take the hint and leave it alone.

“We need to continue our discussion,” she pressed.

“The past is dead. Leave it alone.  And women always say ‘I never meant to hurt you’ when they dump you.”

“I didn’t ‘dump’ you.  I left you. There is a difference.”

“None that I can tell.”

“This is why we need to talk,” she said.

“What is there to talk about after twenty years?  You made it fairly clear that you wanted nothing to do with me.” John tried to keep his voice neutral and failed.

Rebecca was silent for a moment. She could feel the pain in his voice and see it in his eyes. This was harder than she expected.

“I had to walk away. I had dedicated my life to my family’s sacred trust, the Gospel of Jesus. There was no room for you.”

“Don’t you think that is something we should have talked about?” he said angrily, glancing at her for a moment, before returning to stare at the road ahead.

“I was afraid you might talk me out of what I had to do. I was wildly in love with you, and you could be very persuasive.” She paused for a moment, watching him intensely. Then sighed and said calmly, “I expected you to be married by now, you know, with kids, a family, a home.”

“A life? Me too. Imagine my disappointment,” he replied gruffly.

“I ‘m sorry you lost your job.”

“My boss said he was sorry, so did the mayor. I was still forced to retire from the police force. Being sorry offers little comfort.” There was bitterness in his voice.

She shrugged. “Words fall miserably short sometimes in describing our feelings.” She looked away for a moment before turning back toward him, a sad frown on her lips. “I...I never found anyone else I wanted to share my life with, then the Gospel of Jesus was always my main focus. Perhaps, when this is over...my life will be different.”

“A new start?”

“Wishful thinking maybe, but I would like to try.” She smiled weakly and continued, “You have no idea what it is like for your entire family to be so dedicated to one task, a task so sacred, so all consuming, that there is little left for anything else. Men and women of my family have died to protect the Gospel of Jesus. Century after century, the members of my family have dedicated themselves to the protection of this gospel. It was drummed into our heads from birth. Can you understand that kind of ardent devotion?”

John felt a touch of sympathy for her. He had never realized until now the tremendous pressure she had always been under.

“I am beginning to,” he said and found that he meant it.

She sighed, looked down, and in a small whisper said, “What can I say about us?  I was young and full of ideals with a great secret. I thought leaving you was a sacrifice I had to make. It never occurred to me that there might be an alternative. We have such silly, romantic notions when we are young. The reality of life is very different, isn’t it?” She looked up at him, her eyes pleading with him to understand. “I made so many mistakes in my life. And you are right. I should have talked to you, explained somehow.”

“I was angry at you for a long time after you left me,” John admitted, not looking at her, his eyes focused on the road ahead, his voice distant, whispery. “I didn’t understand, and there was no one to explain. I thought of going after you, but my pride wouldn’t let me, and I couldn’t stand another rejection. So I let you go and blamed you for the misery that followed.”

“I am sorry, John. Sorry for everything.” She looked at him earnestly, sadness filling her  as she remembered all the empty, lonely years she had lived without John, when, instead, they might have been together if only she had been honest with him and tried to work something out.

“I believe you, but it doesn’t take the pain away,” he replied.

She whispered back, “No, it doesn’t take the pain away. I guess we both are looking for some kind of closure.”

John barely caught her words. There was some pain there too, in her words, he realized for the first time. She had given up a lot for her family’s secret. He felt his anger roll away from him for the first time in a long time; a sense of liberation flowed through him. He had carried that anger for so long...too long. It was time to let that anger go. There was really no one to blame, he finally admitted to himself. Life had dealt them both a tough hand. Now all they could do was play it out.

“So now what?” he said softly, the anger gone.

She looked at him, uncertainty in her face.  “I don’t know. Try to pick up the pieces of our lives and go on from there. We are different people now, shaped and sculptured by the passing of time.” She smiled at him. “I would like us to at least be friends.”

John pulled into the parking lot at Green Acres Park, stopping underneath a large shady oak tree and killed the engine. He sat there for a long time saying nothing, just staring down at his hands on the steering wheel.

“Nothing to say to me?” Rebecca said with her eyes fixed firmly on John.

John took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing himself to relax. Then he looked at her, forcing a tiny smile and said, “As you said, we both need closure. I have carried a lot of anger and hurt with me over the years since that day you left me. It’s become a habit. One I must drop if I am to have any sort of normal life.”

She moved closer to him. Her hand reached for his face, leaning in toward him. “I don’t want you to hate me. It’s very important to me that you not hate me. I know our lives have moved on, in different directions, and we can never again be those two young kids so wildly in love, but I will always have feelings for you. I can’t help that.”

John’s small smile widened into a larger, sadder smile. “I don’t really hate you either; call it severe disappointment if you must label my feelings. I loved you too much for any real hate to take root; disappointment, anger, bitterness—yes, but not hate. Though at times I must admit I thought I hated you, but now, seeing you here, I know it wasn’t hate, could never be hate.” He paused for a moment, reflecting on the words she had spoken, gazing into those large, dark eyes. Then he said, “They say every love of your life leaves a small footprint on your heart. I never fully understood what that meant until now.”

“Friends?” she placed her small hand over his large right hand that rested on the steering wheel.

He nodded. “Friends. Now all we have to do is stay free until the conference.”

She withdrew her hand and hugged herself briefly, a worried frown on her lips. “Do you think Simon is okay?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think the people that have him really want to harm him. They just want to find out what he knows.”

“Find out about me, you mean?”

“Find the Gospel of Jesus, and right now, that is you.” He opened the car door. “Why don’t we stretch our legs for a while. It should be dark soon.”

She got out of the car, and together they started walking toward the park, both wondering what tonight would bring—and, more importantly, tomorrow.

They didn’t notice the dark blue rental sedan parked across the street from their car as the two of them entered the park or the man in the gray suit and piercing gray eyes that sat behind the wheel of that blue car. Mackay relaxed and waited to see where the pair would travel to next. He hoped they wouldn’t take too long. He had another appointment to keep tonight.

Chapter 77

Grimes was sweating profusely as he reported to Agent Jones, looking back at Simon Stein who lay exhausted with his head down on a dark wood table in the interrogation room.

“We’ve been at him all day. He’s not talking. I have never seen a man so resistant to interrogation. Like I said before, if you want to break him, we need to take stronger measures.”

“Like water boarding?” Jones asked. He already knew where this conversation was going and didn’t like it.

“Everyone breaks under water boarding. And like you keep saying, we are running out of time.”

“Water boarding is illegal. I don’t want to go there yet. There could be consequences.”

“There are going to be consequences no matter what we do, or haven’t you figured that out yet?” Grimes turned back to the exhausted Simon, frowning at the passed out figure.

“Take a short break, then continue,” Jones said.

Grimes nodded and motioned to the other agent, then headed for the door.

Jones could see the effects of sleep deprivation on Simon. They were also restricting his water intake, giving him only enough water to barely keep him alive. Thirst could be a powerful persuader. Little water, no sleep—Jones knew that in time most men broke under that kind of stress, say anything to make the interrogation stop. Would Simon break in time was the question?  The conference was tomorrow, and they were no closer to obtaining the Gospel of Jesus.

Jones always hated using such interrogation techniques. But sometimes there was no choice. Stubborn men rarely give up their secrets easily. And Simon Stein was a very stubborn man.

If Simon Stein didn’t break by tomorrow morning, and the gospel found its way to the convention, then all their efforts will have been for nothing. He didn’t want to retire from the department with a mission failure in his personnel folder.

Sometimes there were no good choices. And what about living with himself?  Watching Stein being interrogated bothered him. Perhaps he had a conscience after all. How inconvenient for him, he cynically thought.

Chapter 78

John and Rebecca sat quietly in the study of Pastor Michael Phillips. As soon as night had fallen, they had driven straight there from the park, checking to make sure no one was following them.

“You are most welcome, Rebecca,” Michael said, grinning at the petite dark haired woman. “John told me about your situation.” Michael leaned back in his black leather chair, continuing to study the pair that sat on the sofa across from him.

“If you could put up with me until tomorrow morning, I would very much appreciate it,” Rebecca smiled.

“Of course, I have plenty of room,” he said, then paused a moment before continuing. Leaning forward, excitement in his voice, he asked, “Do you have the Gospel of Jesus with you?”

Rebecca frowned a moment, then slowly nodded. “I’m keeping it safe until the conference tomorrow.”

“I have read a lot about the Gospel of Jesus in the newspapers. Could I see it?” There was an eagerness in the pastor’s voice that John couldn’t help but notice.

Rebecca glanced at her briefcase for a moment. John knew what she was thinking. He was curious about the gospel as well. Surely one peek for both of them couldn’t hurt?  Rebecca slowly shook her head with an intense frown appearing on her lips. John knew that look.

“As much as I would like to share the gospel with both of you, I promised my father that nothing would be revealed until the conference. I hope you understand.” She glanced at Phillips, then John.

With a sigh, Michael stood up. “Promises made must be kept, but I had to ask. I suppose I shall have to wait along with everyone else for the unveiling. Let me show you to your rooms where you can freshen up.”

Later, as John was changing clothes in his room, there was a knock at his door. Standing in his bare feet wearing a t-shirt and pants, he hesitated answering that knock. He knew who was at the door—Rebecca. He wasn’t ready for another soul-searching session, but he had little choice. With a resigned sigh, he opened the door. She was carrying her briefcase as she entered his room.

She gave him a quick glance as she passed, frowning slightly and saying nothing, and sat down in a nearby chair. She placed her briefcase on her lap. She looked hesitant and unsure.

“I...I have rethought my decision about you seeing the gospel,” she finally said, looking directly at him.

Slowly, with deliberate care, John sat down on the bed next to the chair that Rebecca occupied. She hesitated a moment, then opened the briefcase. A large leather-bound book occupied the space inside.

She turned toward him, her eyes meeting his. “After some careful reflection, I think you deserve to see the Gospel of Jesus. You have given so much of yourself in helping Simon and me. Please handle the book with care.”  She finished speaking, a note of tension in her voice.

She carefully removed the leather bound volume from the briefcase and handed it to John who could only stare in fascination at the book that now lay within his grasp.

Finding his voice, he said, “I don’t read Aramaic, but to just see the book is a wonderful gesture. Thank you.”

“It is an exact copy of the original scrolls. The Savior’s words are contained within those leather covers. To me, it is holy.”

John touched the leather cover of the book reverently, then opened the book to the first page. Although he did not understand or read Aramaic, he felt a spirit of deep reverence settle over him as he stared at the delicate handwritten Aramaic script. His fingers touched the first page and then wandered down the lines of finely written script. Wonder filled him. Written by the hand of Jesus—he was overwhelmed by that knowledge.

Across two thousand years, Jesus was speaking to him. There was something about seeing the actual handwritten script of Jesus that reached down deep into his soul. If only he could read the words.

“John?” Rebecca’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

He looked up at Rebecca’s smiling face and returned her smile. “There is something a bit overpowering about seeing the actual written words of Jesus.”

“Yes, there is,” she said.

“I wish I could read them,” he glanced at her, a silent plea in his eyes.

“Perhaps, I can read a little of the scriptures to you.”

He gently closed the Gospel of Jesus and handed the book back to her. “I would very much appreciate that.”

She read from the large leather-bound book for almost thirty minutes, her voice soft and reverent. John felt his faith deepen and grow as she read. Tears came to his eyes. He felt all the anger and anguish, all the resentment, that had built up over the years about Rebecca slowly melt away—as if they had never been. For the first time in a very long time, he was truly at peace with himself.

He was disappointed when she stopped reading, wanting her to continue, but he knew that it was getting late. They needed to sleep and then prepare for tomorrow. Still, it was difficult to stop. His heart yearned to continue listening to the words of Jesus.

“I could listen to you all night,” he said as she put the book away.

“I know. At least now, you have an idea of what this Gospel of Jesus means to the world, what these words mean.”

“Yes, the words of Jesus are direct and awe inspiring. I have never heard anything even remotely close.”

“That’s how I feel.”

“But his words also raised questions. Jesus mentioned several miracles that I had not heard of before.” John paused, hesitant, even reluctant to mention what was really on his mind. Finally making up his mind, he said, “There was no mention of the virgin birth or the miracles of turning water into wine or walking on the sea of Galilee. Does that come later?”

Rebecca gave him an understanding small smile and shook her head. “No, there is no mention of such events in this gospel.”

John’s eyes widened in disbelief. “There must be. How could there not be?”

Rebecca shrugged. “Remember, Jesus is relating those events that he considers important. The most important thing to Jesus was his message of salvation to the Jews.  Have you ever written anything down about your birth?”

“No, of course not, there was nothing extraordinary about my birth.” Realization abruptly hit him. “Wait, what are you saying? That Jesus’ birth was ordinary. That there was no virgin birth?

“No, I am saying that Jesus did not mention it. Therefore, the virgin birth becomes a matter of faith, not fact.”

John reached out with his right hand and touched the leather bound book that contained the written words of Jesus.

“Jesus mentions his baptism and receiving the Holy Spirit. The first miracle mentioned in that book is healing the foot of a shepherd boy.”

“That’s correct. That is the first miracle mentioned in the Gospel of Jesus. Although some would say the true first and greatest miracle was Jesus receiving the Holy Spirit, without which no miracles would have been possible.”

John withdrew his right hand carefully from the Gospel of Jesus and clasped both his hands together and then looked at her intently, not wanting to ask a question that he knew he must.

“Was he the Son of God?”

“Of course, through the reception of the Holy Spirit, just as we all become sons of God when we believe and receive the Holy Spirit. You heard some of his words as I read them where he talks about that.”

“Yes, but I’m not quite sure how to interpret what I heard.”

“I can only relate what Jesus actually says, John. There is no reading between the lines. Jesus came preaching the Word of God, trying to save his people, the Jews.”

“But the Church...”

“There was no Church in Jesus’ day, no Protestants, no Catholics, only the Synagogues. He preached in those Synagogues trying to educate and convert his people so they could have a better relationship with their Creator. In the end, because his message was so revolutionary, many Jews stopped following him and he succeeded in converting only a few Jews. What Jesus taught was too hard for most Jews to accept.”

“The one God thing?”

She smiled. “They misunderstood him when he said he was the Son of God. They thought he meant equal with God. That was not his meaning at all. You could say he was the adopted Son of God through the Holy Spirit. Remember, Jesus was a Jew first. You could not be a Jew and not believe in the Ten Commandments or that there was only one God. Jesus said as much, that he came from God and that God was above him in all things. In fact, Jesus said there was no one good except God, that included himself. He was God’s messenger.”

“I remember some of those discussions in the Bible. Does he elaborate on them in this book?”

“Yes, quite a bit.”

“This will be a difficult teaching to accept,” John said, frowning.

“It was a difficult teaching two thousand years ago. That’s why Jesus was crucified. It is not easy for people to hear the truth, particularly when that truth rips across cultural and religious beliefs.”

“I’ve heard only a fraction of what is contained in that book, yet I long to hear the rest, no matter how it might change my current understanding.”

“I hope many will feel the same as you do, but I fear many will not.”

“I know...” John no longer felt uneasy about the Gospel of Jesus, not after hearing Jesus’ words. He felt his faith had deepened.

“Are you alright? I hope I have not damaged your faith?” Rebecca said.

“No, if anything, you have increased my faith.”

“I am delighted to hear that.”

“I can see how the Gospel of Jesus could be upsetting to many, but you know something? When you sat there reading Jesus’ words, I didn’t think about any of that. His words were so powerful. All I wanted to do was hear more.”

“Yes, the words of the Gospel of Jesus can have that effect.”

“There is something I should tell you. I wasn’t going to say anything, but after listening to these words of Jesus, I feel I must.”

Then, without any further prompting, he told her about his healing ability. It came gushing out of him. All his doubts and uncertainties laid bare. He was surprised at his openness with her. But he felt she would understand, and he had an intense need to share with her what had happened to him. He even told her about the bank incident and the death of the innocent young woman which haunted his dreams.

He told her about the people who had been healed, about healing Black, and, last, about his apprehension about his new abilities. When he finished, he felt relieved.

Rebecca smiled at him, no looks of dismay or ridicule. She understood as few others could. He felt grateful to her for listening to him.

“John, this is amazing. God has chosen you for a special purpose.” She took his hand in hers and squeezed firmly.

He smiled weakly at her. “Thanks for understanding. I’m trying to get my hands around all of this.”

“Sometimes God blesses us with a special gift. We don’t always know why or how we fit into his grand designs. It is enough to be chosen—to be part of something greater than ourselves. You are very fortunate.”

John frowned. “I am beginning to understand that.”

Rebecca stood up from her chair and patted him affectionately on the shoulder. “I think we both need to get some rest now. In the morning, we need to form a plan about how to get this book to the conference.”

“You think they will be waiting for us?”

She laughed, “I think the entire world will be waiting for us in the morning. This isn’t over yet, not until this book is presented at the conference.”

He watched her go, knowing that she was right and fearing the worst. And then there was this book written by Jesus. He was convinced now that the world needed to hear the words of that book no matter what the cost.

Chapter 79

Simon opened his eyes to an empty interrogation room. His tormentors were gone for the moment, but he was sure they would be back. They always came back.

He had been placed in a chair with his head down on the table and left that way. He must have passed out on the floor again. Lately, they had been reviving him with ammonia inhalants whenever he passed out. There were a few sips of water in a cup placed nearby which he immediately grabbed and drank greedily, enjoying the cool liquid as it ran down his dry, parched throat.

He also needed sleep; his body craved sleep yet his interrogators refused to let him rest longer than a few minutes at a time. Sleep deprivation the agents called it. His mind was beginning to fall into dazed states where he wasn’t sure of anything. Together with the need for water, he was in desperate straits. His resistance was crumbling, and he knew his time was running out. He wondered how much longer he could really hold out. The human body could only withstand so much.

Simon massaged his forehead where a headache throbbed, surprised that he could feel anything. What he wouldn’t give for another sip of water. The small tin cup of water had only increased his thirst. His throat felt like sand paper, dry and scratchy.

Over the course of the interrogation, they gave him only a few sips of water at a time which he drank greedily, always begging for more. They always promised him more. All he had to do was tell them where the Gospel of Jesus was located. So many times he came very close to doing exactly that, to shouting Rebecca’s name, but he had held on.

Simon felt used up. They had only been at this for a couple of days yet it seemed like weeks. They called it interrogation, but Simon called it torture. His tormenters would never know how close they had come to breaking him this last time. Only his fixed concentration on the Gospel of Jesus had saved him, repeating the words of some of the scriptures from that gospel over and over in his mind, drowning out the demands of his tormentors. For two thousand years his family had protected the Gospel of Jesus. He would not be the one to fail now when they were so close to succeeding.

Only his prayers and faith had sustained him this far, kept the terror that was running rampant through his mind from overwhelming him. He didn’t know where the strength to resist came from, but it came. He had to hold out until the conference. Then it wouldn’t matter.

He put his head back down on the wooden table, shifting his weight slightly in the wooden straight-back chair he sat in, and let his eyes close, knowing that they would not allow his exhausted body to rest long. But he could not resist sleep any longer. He slid into the darkness.

No sooner had he shut his eyes than he was roughly shaken and bright lights shined into his eyes. He was roughly jerked upright. His dazed mind not comprehending what was happening for a moment.

They handled him roughly, forcing him to sit up straight. They no longer forced him to stand up since he only slid down to the floor unless they held him up. He had come to hate these men. For the first time in his life, he knew what real hate felt like.

“Well, Stein, are you ready to tell us everything?”

The heavyset agent called Grimes was standing in front of him, his rough hand tilting Stein’s head back until his neck hurt. Grimes held up a pitcher of ice water. Simon could see the ice cubes floating around inside the glass pitcher. His throat ached at the sight of all that water so close to him. Grimes released his grip on Simon’s chin and poured the cool contents of the pitcher into a tall clear glass and sat the glass across from Simon. He could see the ice cubes bobbing around inside the glass.

Instinctively, Simon reached for the glass of water, only to have his hand slapped away. Grimes’ face pushed to within inches of Stein’s face.

“First, you talk. Then you can have the water.”

Simon shook his head stubbornly.

“Stein, no one can save you. There is only me; only I can save you.”

Simon stared defiantly into Grimes eyes and whispered, his throat aching with the effort of speaking, “No.”

“Face it, Stein. No one cares what happens to you. Make it easy on yourself. Tell us what we want to know.”

“God will protect me,” Simon croaked, staring at the cool water that sat in the tall glass only inches from his fingertips.

“Will he?  Where is your god now, Stein?  I don’t see him. Face it. No god or almighty protector is coming to save you. Now tell me where the Gospel of Jesus is hidden.”

Simon shook his head, not even bothering to reply.

Grimes leaned across the table and grabbed Simon by the front of his shirt, dragging him to within inches of the agent’s face. Despite his effort to remain calm, Simon felt fear clutch at his insides.

“You will eventually tell me everything I want to know, Stein. Never doubt that.” Grimes slammed him hard against the back of the chair.

Simon rocked back from the force of the shove, stars momentarily dancing in front of his eyes, his head going back, his neck straining. He instinctively clutched at the edge of the table for support. Then, he refocused his eyes on Grimes standing over him. Simon wondered vaguely, as his mind slipped into unconsciousness again, if he would be one of those people that simply disappeared, never to be heard from again. He feared these people could do anything they wanted with him.

Chapter 80

Mack Mackay buried his face in his left palm and sighed deeply in frustration, leaving the cell phone pressed to his right ear. Bureaucrats! Why did he always have to deal with imbeciles, inexperienced imbeciles at that. Slowly, exhibiting infinite patience, Mackay began again.

“Look Alfred, I have explained the situation. I have two separate groups trying to steal the Gospel of Jesus and a terrorist planning to blow up the conference. I need help. This is not a one man job anymore.”

“And I have explained Agent Mackay that no help is coming. You are suppose to be on vacation, not leading a battalion of agents on a mission. May I remind you that we have no standing in this matter. This is a very delicate situation. The CIA can not officially be involved.”

“Even if we lose the Gospel of Jesus?”

“If it comes to that...yes. I know the Director has an interest in saving the Gospel of Jesus, but not at any cost. Do you still think you can complete your mission?”

“I need to rescue Simon Stein. If he should talk...”

“Under no circumstances are you to attempt anything that will bring you into direct confrontation with other federal agents.”

“Right, like that is going to happen,” he mumbled to himself.

“Mackay, don’t do anything rash. Wait—”

Mackay hung up on him. It was a waste of time to argue with idiot bureaucrats.

Mackay tucked his cell phone into his jacket pocket and considered his options: wait and hope Simon Stein held out until the conference, or two, watch Stein break and Homeland pick up Rebecca Stein and the Gospel of Jesus, or three, his personal favorite, rescue Simon Stein, if he wasn’t too late already, and prevent Homeland from getting its hands on the Gospel of Jesus.

Of course, if his rescue plan went seriously south, his career would be over and the CIA would have a huge black eye. He liked his job, as dangerous as it was, but then that was probably why he liked his job: the danger. He was dysfunctional that way.

Mackay got into his car and started driving toward the federal building. Oh well, sometimes there was no choice: risks had to be taken even if it costs him his job or, worse, his life.

Chapter 81

It was past ten o’clock at night when Beckett and Fraser assembled in Sebastian’s hotel suite. No one was happy.  Sebastian had spent the last several hours going over his plans for tomorrow before his subordinates had arrived and found no clever solutions to his dilemma. He had only one option left. He would stake out the conference center and hope that he could intercept Rebecca before she made it to the conference.

There was no certainty in his strategy and too much luck was required for the plan to be reliable. He pulled the sash tighter around his silk robe and turned toward his two Neanderthals.

”This is our last chance, gentlemen,” Sebastian said. “Beckett,” he spoke to the tall, heavyset man that lounged by the window. “We must stop the woman, Rebecca Stein. She must have the scrolls. She wasn’t at that bank for nothing today. And try not to get arrested again.”

“Not my fault. They jumped me out of nowhere,” Beckett complained, scowling.

“You shouldn’t have been carrying a gun to start with, at least not in a bank. Clever of her to figure that out.”

“I don’t think it was her. I spotted Arrowsmith in the bank too.”

“Sour grapes at this point. We will have another chance tomorrow, our last chance. We stake out the conference center and watch for either one of them or both to try to deliver those scrolls.”

“That university is a big place with lots of people. Spotting them isn’t going to be easy,” Fraser said. The fat man had a nervous tic in his left eye, showing his nervousness as sweat popped out on his brow.

“Nothing worthwhile is ever easy. I want both of you over at the university before dawn tomorrow. I will be along later. And don’t fail this time.”

“We won’t fail. You can count on us,” Beckett said, glancing at Fraser who nodded in agreement.

“And don’t use your gun unless you have to, and most definitely, don’t kill anyone. Loud noises and dead bodies tend to draw a large amount of unwelcome attention,” Black said sternly.

They both nodded, standing there a moment longer before they figured out they were dismissed, and then moved toward the door.

Sebastian watched them leave, shaking his head. He had incompetent help and no chance of getting anyone better any time soon. He should have persuaded the Order to let him use in-house personnel, but the Order wanted as few traceable links back to them as possible. He breathed deeply, trying to relax his nerves. He knew that his chances were small of stopping the Gospel of Jesus from reaching the conference now—too many players and too many unknowns.

His own survival was utmost in his thoughts now. The Order would not be pleased if he failed. The government’s interference might give him some cover. No one had expected the government to be involved. No matter how he spun it though, his career was going to be severely damaged if he did not obtain the scrolls, but he knew that he would survive no matter what happened. His services were too valuable to the Order.

Christians—they were always bad news for him. He rubbed his right leg—no pain, strong. He no longer needed a cane. How did Arrowsmith do it?  He didn’t believe in this so-called miracle healing stuff that Christians preached. Still, the results were remarkable. He had experienced something beyond his ability to explain and was having trouble wrapping his mind around it. Could he be wrong about Christianity?

Chapter 82

Agent Mackay diligently studied the entrance to the federal building from his car parked across the street, noting the comings and goings of the various federal agents.

Earlier, he had casually wandered into the building around quitting time and chatted with the daytime security guards that manned the security station on the ground floor, leaving his gun behind, knowing he would have to pass through a security screen and the gun would be detected if he carried it with him.

He had produced a fake IRS identification and proceeded to have a friendly chat with the guards. They were very cooperative.

It was also a dry run to see if his plastic dart gun would make it through the security screening process. The plastic gun passed through the detection devices with ease. The dart gun would be his primary weapon in the next phase of his mission:  the rescue of Simon Stein.

Killing fellow agents was not a reasonable alternative so Mackay would use darts dipped in a fast-acting knock out drug.

He thought briefly of Husaam and checked his small hand-held tracking device. Husaam’s car was still parked at the hotel, and the bomb maker was nowhere to be found. The bearded fanatic had disappeared after the cafe meeting. Now, Husaam was his only link to the fanatic. Hopefully, Husaam would stay put for the night.

Mackay glanced at the federal building again. The afternoon was gradually fading into evening. The sun was setting behind several tall buildings, ushering in twilight.

Crowds of people began to fill the streets, heading home. He noted the growing stream of people exiting the federal building, including four federal agents that he had identified earlier as being on the Homeland Security team. Dan Jones led the agents and according to his information could be the Agent-in-Charge. No way to verify that assumption, however.

CIA ID had been especially quick in getting back to him after scanning the pictures he had sent. He had identified all of the Homeland agents. He now believed the team to be comprised of only seven individuals, which left three still in the building with Stein, two to interrogate and one for guard duty, probably on the elevator door.

Which meant that Stein had not broken yet, else no one would have been left behind for the night. Stein was still holding out.

He absently rubbed his chest again. The bullet wound from his last assignment was aching again. He couldn’t take any pain killers since that would dull his senses and negatively impact his reflexes. He needed to remain sharp tonight. The agent knew he had been pushing himself too hard. Wounds like his took time to heal and complained forcefully if not provided that time. He shifted his weight slightly. He reminded himself to get more rest as soon as this assignment was over.

After a few more hours, darkness crowded the street which was largely deserted now, which made his job easier. Most of the parked cars were gone, leaving his car and a couple of others all alone on the street. He continued to wait, sitting in his car across from the federal building.

He waited a few more hours for things to settle down. Then Mackay got out of his car, walked across the street, entered the security code to enter the building after hours, and walked inside. He had obtained the entry codes by watching the night security guards when they arrived and entered their entry codes. Amazing what binoculars and careful scrutiny can obtain. The arriving guards were also somewhat careless, not even bothering to hide their code numbers as they entered them. He smiled politely at the two security guards sitting at the front desk and walked through the metal detection screen. He flashed his fake federal identification, and took the elevator up to the third floor—so far, so good.

On the way up, he prepared his knockout darts, inserting two small, feathered darts into the compact double-barreled tranquilizer dart gun that he carried. The tranquilizer darts were very effective and fast acting. At most, the target would have only a few seconds to act before being rendered unconscious. He raised his dart gun to chest level, both barrels pointed toward the elevator doors.

The elevator dinged as he reached the third floor, and Mackay prepared to fire. As the elevator doors quietly slid open, he saw a federal agent rising from a chair by the elevator and fired the left barrel quickly, hitting the agent directly in the left side of the neck. The surprised agent instinctively put a hand to his neck and pulled the tiny dart free, staring at the feathered dart in surprise before collapsing to the floor.

Mackay looked around quickly, saw no one else, and exited the elevator. Most of the offices were dark along the long hallway that stretched out from the elevator. Loud voices came from one of the lighted rooms at the far end of that hallway. He guessed that would be the interrogation room, probably working Stein over, still trying to make him talk.

Mackay pulled the dart from the unconscious agent’s hand, checking the agent’s pulse in the process. The agent was breathing okay. The only negative effects the agent would suffer would be a headache when he woke up in a few hours. He pulled the unconscious agent into one of the vacant darkened side rooms and closed the door. He shoved a replacement dart into his tranquilizer gun and carefully proceeded down the hallway, stopping at several lighted offices on the way to make sure they were empty.

Right on schedule, thought Mackay. The voices at the end of the hallway grew louder—definitely interrogation. Loud, harsh words drifted back to Mackay’s ears. He quickly headed toward those voices.

“Alright, Stein, talk. We can keep this up all night.”

With a sneer, Grimes pulled Stein’s head back roughly, glancing at his fellow agent. Both of them had been working on Stein for most of the day and half the night, taking turns, one resting while the other worked on Stein, in tag-team fashion. They were tired and frustrated by Stein’s refusal to cooperate.

“You know you can’t last. We always break them in the end.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Mackay said softly as he fired first one, then the other tranquilizer dart.

Grimes turned toward the door where Mackay stood even as the dart entered his neck, his hand instinctually slapping the area where the dart struck, crumpling to the floor before he could even speak. The other agent quickly followed, falling to the floor with his gun half drawn out of his holster.

The CIA agent quickly retrieved both his darts and then walked over to Simon and said, “Time to go, Mr. Stein.”

“Go?” Simon echoed, his mind a haze of confusion. He was tired beyond exhaustion.

The agent put his right arm underneath Simon’s arms and said, “Try to stand up.”

Simon complied, feeling the weakness in his legs. All he wanted to do was sleep. He was so tired—and thirsty. His throat was parched from lack of water. The face beside him swam in a fuzzy haze.

Mackay sat Stein down again. He wasn’t going to get far with Stein in this condition. Mackay reached for the glass of water on the table and said, “Drink this.”

Simon clutched at the glass and downed the contents quickly, savoring every moist drop of water. The agent poured him another glass of water from the pitcher that sat on the end of the table. Simon drank some more.

“Not so fast. Slow down. We have a little time.”

It took a few minutes for Simon to get his bearings. The cool water felt good on his throat. He felt strength gradually returning to his body, but he still felt weak. After a third glass of water, Simon’s mind seemed to clear a little.

“Who are you?” Simon mumbled, staring up at the stranger that stood beside him.

“Someone with your best interest in mind. Think you can walk now?”

“I would crawl over broken glass to leave this place,” Simon said, swaying as he stood up.

He walked around the corner of the table, leaning on it for support, and spied Grimes sprawled on the floor unconscious. In a sudden fit of rage, Simon kicked the unconscious agent hard in the side. Mackay heard a groan from Grimes in response to the savage kick.

“That’s enough,” the CIA agent growled. “He probably deserved that, but he’s out and didn’t feel a thing.”

“He will when he wakes up,” Simon said, a small smile of triumph lit his face.

The CIA agent grinned back and said, “Undoubtedly. Now start walking. Soon you can rest, just put one foot in front of the other and follow me.”

Simon didn’t remember much of what followed, his mind wrapped in a perpetual mental haze. He remembered a hallway, an elevator, another guard who glanced at them with curiosity on his face, but was too lazy to check them out and leave the television show he was watching.

The cool night air felt good on Simon’s face as they left the federal building. The agent helped him across the street and into a car. Then Simon crashed into oblivion.

He awoke a few hours later as a hand gently nudged him. He felt a cup of water touch his lips and drank greedily before lapsing into sleep again.

When he awoke again, dawn was breaking. He could think clearly for the first time in days. He looked at the stranger sitting behind the steering wheel. He had brown hair, a nondescript face, and penetrating gray eyes that said this was a very dangerous man.

“There is a bag of steak biscuits beside you and a bottle of water in the cup holder by your hand.”

Simon needed no further invitation. The smell of food reminded him of how ravenously hungry he was as he grabbed a biscuit out of the bag and unwrapped it, pausing only to drink about half of the bottled water.

After he was chewing on his third steak biscuit, he stopped and said, “Who are you?”

“Unimportant. And why is also unimportant. You need to concentrate on what happens next.”

Simon nodded. “And that would be?”

“We are parked in front of a house that is currently occupied by Dr. Thadeus James. I believe you know him?”

“Yes...yes. I worked with him to sat up the conference.”

“I would suggest you visit him. You can tell him you were mugged by someone after the Gospel of Jesus, but nothing was taken, and you see no point in reporting the attack to the police. Emphasize that last, no police.” Agent Mackay paused for a moment, checking to see if Stein was fully grasping what he was saying, then continued, “I wouldn’t go much beyond that. That should explain your disheveled appearance. Stay away from mentioning you were abducted or who abducted you or who rescued you, for that matter. Your story is that after you were mugged, you made your way here. That should be enough for Dr. James to help you. Remember, no police. That is important. The police will simply tell your previous captors where you are. Clear?”

Simon nodded.

“Good. Then get cleaned up. You are a mess. Your conference starts in a few hours.”

Simon slowly got out of the car, taking the water bottle and the remaining bag of steak biscuits with him. “Thanks, more than I can say.”

“My job.”  Mackay watched Simon close the car door and walk around to the front of the car. “Good luck,” he said as Simon looked back at him. Then the agent backed the car out of the driveway and left, leaving Simon standing alone in the driveway of James’ house.

Simon looked down at his rumpled clothes and could only guess how he must look—and smell. He needed a shower. He started walking up the driveway to Dr. James’ house as the sun began to peak out from behind some distant trees. In a few more hours, the conference would start. Simon would make it to the conference, but he wondered if the Gospel of Jesus would be there.

Chapter 83

Raoul scanned the dark compound below him. Strange, there were no guards and the security floodlights were off. He scanned the Stein warehouse and surrounding chain link fencing—nothing moved. Where were the guards?

He swept his night vision binoculars back toward the front gate which was wide open. Something was wrong. The warehouse compound looked abandoned. For a moment, he considered canceling the entire operation. But his orders were specific, and there was no moon tonight. He could not wait another month for such an ideal time to attack.

Raoul glanced back at the seven men behind him, all dressed in black with black hoods, practically invisible in the darkness. He glanced up at the dark night sky, another hour until dawn. The perfect time to strike. Guards, if there were any, would be tired and looking forward to being relieved. He and his men planned to strike out of the darkness, suddenly and without mercy.

Only he could detect no guards!  He glanced back down at the compound from his vantage point atop a small sand hill and shook his head. If the religious relics had been moved, that would account for the compound being abandoned. But there was nothing to indicate such an action had been taken. He knew he had no choice. Either way, he had to check the compound out.

Clutching his 9mm submachine gun in his right hand, he moved silently down the small hillside, followed by his strike force. Like shadows, they approached the dark compound. Not a sound could be heard.

Raoul motioned with his left hand for his men to stop as he reached the open gate. He glanced around the outside of the compound, his night vision goggles taking everything in. Everything was quiet, nothing stirred. It was too quiet, not even the occasional screech from a night bird.

Slowly, he moved through the gate into the large open fenced area in front of the two-story metal warehouse, toward the two large doors that stood partially open. When he was halfway across the compound, he heard the metallic whine of the gate motor behind him. His eyes darted quickly back to see the large chain-link gate closing, cutting off his only means of escape. He halted quickly, a grim foreboding knotting his stomach, just as large floodlights snapped on all around him, lighting up the compound as bright as day. His night vision goggles flared in reaction to the sudden infusion of so much light, temporarily blinding him.

Raoul quickly tore off his night vision goggles, struggling to see through the bright glare of the flood lights. A loud voice shouted from somewhere to his left.

“Drop your weapons or suffer the consequences.”

As Raoul’s vision begin to clear, he could see the dark shapes of men on either side of him standing up from behind concrete barriers, where they had previously concealed themselves, all pointing guns at him and his men. There was no thought of resistance. It was hopeless.

One of his men started to raise his weapon, but Raoul quickly put a hand on the man’s weapon and shook his head. “Don’t be a fool. Drop your weapon.” Then he called louder to the rest of his men. “Drop all of your weapons.” Raoul set the example by dropping his own and placing his hands over his head. It would not be the first time he had been sent to jail.

Guards quickly rushed out from behind their secure concrete barriers and secured Raoul and his men, leading them away. Calls were made to waiting trucks, which rumbled out of their concealment in the darkness on the other side of the compound. Everything was well organized.

As Raoul was roughly pushed into the back of a waiting truck, he had only one thought—how had they known?  It had all been a trap.

Chapter 84

Isaac Stein watched as three diesel trucks filled with Raoul’s men and the authorities rumbled out of the compound. The loud sound of heavy diesel engines spread over the entire compound. The authorities had been very cooperative once Stein convinced them that he was about to be attacked. With the help of his guards, the authorities had performed quite well.

He shook his head slowly. It had been a close thing. He closed his eyes in silent prayer. If he had not received the warning in time, men would have died tonight, good men. And the scrolls of Jesus possibly stolen or destroyed. Large amounts of C-4 plastic explosives had been found on the attackers. Apparently, they were going to attempt to blow the steel vault door open. Enough explosives to do that would probably have destroyed everything inside.

Isaac glanced at a tall, thin man standing in the shadows to his right.

“Will you get into trouble over this?” Isaac asked.

“Probably,” Alonso shrugged and said.  “But that is unimportant. The scrolls must be protected. They are too precious to allow men like Raoul and Cardinal Bernelle to destroy them.”

“I’ve heard that Cardinal Bernelle can be a powerful enemy.”

“I have heard the same.”

Isaac Stein sighed deeply, regretfully. “So many men so sure they are doing the right thing—makes for terrible enemies and horrible tragedies.”

Alonso nodded and paused a moment as he stepped into the full light of the floodlights of the compound. “I know Cardinal Bernelle believes he is protecting the Church. Even so, it is an evil thing he tried to do.” Alonso studied Isaac for a moment, then said quietly. “This isn’t the end of it, you know. Cardinal Bernelle won’t give up easily.”

Isaac frowned. “I suspect you are right.”

Isaac watched the last truck disappear from sight down the narrow dirt road that ran to the city. Then he turned toward Alonso and said with a smile, “I can never thank you enough for what you have done here tonight.”

“I could never permit such an atrocity to occur. While I may keep an eye on your activities, I certainly mean you no harm.”

Isaac nodded. “So you will continue your duties?”

“I doubt Cardinal Bernelle will allow that. He has to suspect that I was involved in the trap that was set for Raoul.” Alonso smiled slightly.

“You are an interesting and honorable man. I would enjoy getting to know you better.”

“I would like nothing better. There is much I would like to know about these scrolls of Jesus,” he said, his smile broadening in anticipation.

Isaac held out his hand and Alonso took it, shaking firmly. “I look forward to an unusual and interesting friendship. And soon, very soon, you will know everything. I promise,” Isaac said.

Chapter 85

Again, John found himself in a familiar dream. A familiar figure dressed in an ancient white robe with deep blue eyes touched John on the shoulder, but said nothing. The same joy as before welled up inside of him. Then the man raised his other arm and pointed at something in the distance. John looked in that direction. There seemed to be a city in the distance. He could see the outline of buildings, but the city was too far to make out anything. He turned to the man with the kind, compassionate face and deep blue eyes and started to ask a question about what he saw—and woke up.

John stared at the ceiling for a long time after waking up. Questions whirled around in his brain. Who was this man he kept dreaming about?  Could he be Jesus? Was Jesus trying to tell him something? He shook his head in confusion.

He glanced at his watch: seven o’clock. It was morning—time to get up. In frustration, he rose from his bed and padded across the room to where his clothes lay in a chair. All he had were questions and no answers. The dream was something he would have to think about later. There was much to do today.

After he had dressed, he pushed aside the curtains of the bedroom window and looked out on a new day. The sun was a red ball resting on the horizon, and the sky was a deep, clear blue. It would be a beautiful day.

He turned from the window and yawned. He had not slept well. Too much on his mind, including that strange experience last night with the Gospel of Jesus. He had never felt so alive. He remembered how every fiber of his being echoed with strong emotion as he held the Gospel of Jesus in his hands.

He turned back toward the window and looked down on the green lawn below his second story window. What was happening to him? He was a hard-headed ex-cop. Things like this didn’t happen to him. It was as if he were on a ship that he couldn’t get off of, inextricably being carried toward some distant destiny he couldn’t fathom.

As he turned from the bedroom window, he caught a glimpse of himself in the dresser mirror. His face was worn, unshaven, his eyes sad, confused. He leaned in closer to the mirror and his reflected image and said, “Who am I? Has God truly changed my life? Am I now some mystic healer and prophet of God?” He shook his head, sighing in frustration.

He walked to his bedroom door and out into the carpeted hallway, glancing at Rebecca’s door. Surely, she was up by now. It was early, but they needed a plan to get the Gospel of Jesus to the conference. He stepped to her door and knocked lightly.

A minute passed before he heard movement. She opened the door, revealing a smiling Rebecca, her hair combed back and the clothes she wore last night looking fresh and pressed.

“You look beautiful. Obviously, you found an iron.”

“Pastor Phillips had one, thank heaven. My clothes were a mess. Come in, please.”

As John walked into her bedroom, he couldn’t help but stare at the briefcase sitting underneath the bedroom window. He felt an intense desire to approach that briefcase, remove the Gospel of Jesus, and see if he could experience again that exhilarating thrill of last night, but, instead, he forced his eyes away from the briefcase and focused on Rebecca.

“So what is the plan?”

“I spent the night thinking about that. Obviously, Sebastian, the feds and who knows who else will be waiting for us to appear at the conference. They know we are coming.”

“Which makes sneaking in very difficult.”

“Very. So we need a diversion,” she said, looking at him intently.

John sighed and nodded, “That would be me, I suspect.”

Chapter 86

As John made his way downstairs from Rebecca’s bedroom, he met an anxious looking Michael at the foot of the stairs. “What’s wrong, Michael?”

“Am I that obvious?”

“Only to me.”

“Where’s Rebecca?” he asked, his eyes darting upstairs.

“She had a few things to pack up before we leave.”

“You can’t leave without breakfast?”

“We have put you out enough, Michael. We will grab something on the way.”

Pastor Phillips reached for John’s arm, his hand closing tightly around his forearm. “I’m sorry, John. I know you have a lot on your mind now, but when she called...I couldn’t help it.”

John began to feel uneasy. “Couldn’t help what?”

“She saw the doctor yesterday. He was her last hope. She is blind in one eye, and the other is rapidly deteriorating. The doctor said there was nothing further that could be done. She called me early this morning crying and seeking some comfort, a word from God to see her through her ordeal.” Michael paused a moment. John could see it coming. “I told her you were here.”

John frowned and said, “Michael this is not the time...”

“She is in the study. John, please help her.”

“She’s here?”

John stood there a moment, wanting to walk away from his pastor and knowing that he could not. He did not want to attempt to heal anyone, not now with so much at stake and time running out, but something inside of him wouldn’t let him turn away. It was as if someone closed a hand around him and nudged him in the direction of the young woman in the study.

He didn’t say anything. He just started walking toward the pastor’s study. He glanced at his watch. He and Rebecca had to be at the university soon. He could not take long with this woman.

The woman stood up as John entered Michael’s study, smiling timidly.

“Please sit down,” John said, forcing a smile.

As she sat down, she said, “My name is Mary Stewart.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Mary.”

John sat down beside her, studying her eyes. They were beautiful brown eyes. One of them, the left eye, seemed to have a dull cast to it.

“What can I do for you?”

“I am blind in my left eye, and my right eye now is beginning to give me trouble. Could you help me?”

“Do you believe that God can heal you?”

“Yes, with all my heart.”

“Close your eyes and let’s pray together.”

He placed a thumb lightly over each closed eye and began to pray. After a minute, he began to feel that now familiar surge of power rising within him. Excitement rose within him. Perhaps God would answer this woman’s prayer. He continued to pray until that power was pulsing through him. Then suddenly the power flashed out of him, and the woman gave a startled cry.

“Continue to pray, Mary, and keep your eyes closed. Thank God for your healing,” John urged Mary. He waited a few more minutes, then he said, “Open your eyes.”

He felt something had happened, but had it really? Would he be disappointed again? This young woman seemed so deserving.

The woman slowly opened her eyes. John could swear both her eyes were sparkling.

She cried out, “I can see.” She placed her right hand over her right eye to test her vision. “Praise God I can see. Thank you, thank you!”

She hugged him fiercely.

“God has answered your prayer. Thank him,” he said.

John stood up and turned to see the pastor behind him, all smiles, and behind the pastor, Rebecca stood with her mouth open in happy surprise.

Chapter 87

“Gone!” Agent Jones was furious. “How in blazes did Stein escape?”

Agent Grimes stared back defiantly at Jones. He wasn’t about to take the blame for this foul-up without putting up a fight. There should have been more men here last night providing protection. Jones should have known better.

“It’s not our fault. Stein had professional help. Someone hit us last night with some kind of knockout dart. My neck is still sore from where the dart struck me.”

Jones frowned, studying the three federal agents on duty last night. “Any ideas about the identity of this intruder?”

“No, except he was a pro. You don’t buy fast acting tranquilizer darts like that at your local discount store.”

A sudden coldness seized Jones’ heart. He knew of only one agency who had a reputation for using tranquilizer darts in this manner—the CIA. This was just the kind of clandestine operation that CIA agents thrived on, and if another government agency was working against them, that meant his operation was compromised. Even worse, someone else now had Simon Stein.

“Tell me exactly what happened.”

“An average looking guy suddenly appeared in the doorway of the interrogation room, I felt a sudden pain in my neck, and that is the last thing I remember until I woke up an hour ago and called you. He caught Baxtor at the elevator and Brown in here with me. The guy moved fast, like a ghost. When I came too, Stein was gone.”

“The security guard downstairs see anything?”

“A man matching the description of our intruder flashed a government identification. Said he was with the IRS. Guard said the ID looked real and let him through.”

“I think we have just found out who pulled your car battery cable at the church,” Agent Jones said.

“You think this guy has been watching us all this time?”

“I do. I also think there is another government agency involved. And that could be even worse news.”

“Could be a professional that someone hired. Maybe the Stein family?”

Jones smiled and said, “You surprise me, Grimes. That’s actually not a bad thought, but I don’t think so. I have seen this type of operation before.”

“Where?” Grimes asked.

“The CIA. Of course, I can’t prove that, and it is all conjecture at this point, but my gut tells me I am right.”

“Jesus,” Grimes said, “if the CIA is involved, that blows everything.”

“If the CIA is involved...” Jones left it like that. There was nothing else he could add.

“The CIA is not suppose to operate on American soil,” Grimes angrily said. “It’s illegal.”

Jones laughed, shaking his head as he laughed. He couldn’t help it. After a few seconds of humor, he said, “Grimes, everything we are doing in Gulfview is illegal. We are hardly in a position to register a protest against the CIA.”

“What do we do now?”

“Find Stein.”

Chapter 88

Thornburg hated making this phone call to his superior, but he knew he had no choice. From what Agent Jones had described, their operation was badly compromised and another agency may be working against them. This was bad, very bad.

He heard the ring on the other end of the phone and an irritated voice answer, “Yes?”

Thornburg swallowed hard and said, “Sir, I have bad news about our Gulfview operation.” Silence followed as he worked up the nerve to continue.

“Well?” said the irritated voice on the other end of the line.

“Our operation may have been compromised by another government agency, possibly the CIA.”

The stern voice on the other end of the phone line did not lose his control, but in a measured, harder voice said, “Are you sure?”

“Three of our agents were knocked out by tranquilizer darts last night. The tactics and methods all indicate a government professional.”

“Any proof?”

“No, nothing.”

“Damn him.”

“Who sir?”

“The Director of the CIA. It’s just like him to stick his nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

“Can...can you do anything about him, sir?”

“The Director of the CIA?  Not likely. That man has more political connections than a dog has fleas. And consider this phone call compromised.”

“We are on an electronic voice scrambler, sir. No one can eavesdrop.”

The voice on the other end of the line sighed heavily in frustration. “Thornburg, this is the CIA we are talking about. We have to assume they can. In fact, we have to start assuming a lot of things. Damn, but I wish you were smarter.”

Thornburg didn’t know what to say to that so he simply replied, “Yes, sir.”

“Tell your agents to get their act together and find that item we discussed. That includes you too, Thornburg. If you like your job, deliver on this.”

“Yes, sir,” Thornburg was sweating bullets now. His career was on the line.

“This means our secret operation is no longer secret, but I doubt the CIA will be talking, if it was the CIA, at least not directly, but the Director is not above planting leaks in the newspaper just to embarrass me. What else?  You haven’t told me the worse yet, have you?  And for God’s sake be careful what you say.”

Thornburg swallowed hard again. “No, sir. That package we were holding has disappeared, probably taken by whoever knocked out our agents.”

“Idiots, damn idiots,” the voice exploded, angry and raging. “Do you know the damage you have caused this country?”  Silence followed, a long silence. Then the voice spoke again, softer, the anger held tightly under control. “We must locate that package and fast.”

“Yes, sir. Agent Jones is already working on that.”

“Keep me advised, Thornburg.”

With that the phone went dead, leaving a shaken and very frightened Thornburg. The CIA—that thought sent even more shivers down Thornburg’s back. How was he going to survive this nightmare?

Chapter 89

Husaam stood in a deserted tool shed staring down at a bomb vest laid neatly out on an old wooden plank table. No one else was around. He read the accompanying note again. The words were simple and direct: slip on the vest, pick up the attached detonator, and at the appropriate time, press the red button on top of the hand-held detonator. The bomb was simplicity itself, designed to kill as many people as possible within a short range.

The bearded bomb maker was nowhere to be found. The phone call he had received earlier had directed him here. He expected to find someone waiting, certainly not an empty tool shed. Husaam was on his own. He remembered the words of the bomb maker, and the threats against his family if he did not carry out his assignment.

Reluctantly,  Husaam touched the rows of nails that were tightly wrapped around the plastic C-4 explosive. When the bomb detonated those nails would rip into the soft flesh of its victims, killing and maiming everyone near the epicenter of the bomb blast. He would be the first victim. He would die quickly before his body even had an opportunity to register the agony of the blast. Instant death.

Husaam’s eyes swept the inside of the dilapidated metal shed, glancing up at the old tin roof with its hundreds of pinholes letting the bright sunlight into the dusty room. An old rusty plow stood in one corner, and spider webs were everywhere. The shed had been empty for a very long time. His eyes continued to search the inside of the shed, but they always came back to the bomb that lay on the wooden table in front of him—back to the unavoidable dilemma that faced him.

Husaam licked his dry lips nervously as he looked down again at the note in his hand. He had read the note several times now. His numb mind refused to accept the reality in front of him. With trembling hands, he gently laid the note down beside the bomb vest, avoiding the vest as if it were a snake ready to strike him. He walked back to the door that stood open on broken hinges and exited the metal shed.

The metal shed was part of an abandoned farm located ten miles outside of town. He could see the farm house and barn from where he stood. Windows were broken out of the farm house, and there were no doors on the barn, having fallen off long ago.

He wanted to leave, to get as far away from this shed and the bomb inside as possible, but, instead, he sat down on an old wooden crate beside the shed door to think. How did people do this?  Strap on a bomb and die, killing other innocent people in the process. Suicide—he shook inside at just the thought of such an act.

He wondered what to do. He glanced at the white rental car sitting in front of him on a red dirt road that led past this shed to the old farm house beyond. He could get in that car, turn around, and drive away, and keep going until he was far away from here. But what would happen to his family if he did that?  And how long could he keep running before they found him?

Husaam wanted to go home and forget he was ever a part of a terrorist cell. He had not spoken to his father or anyone in his family since coming to America. He was lonely and alone. How could he have been so blind, so filled with madness? Tears streaked down his cheeks. He was lost, lost to everyone he loved, lost to himself.

He wiped the tears away and let out a deep sigh. His eyes swept around the farm again.  It was peaceful here. He could hear a black crow calling out to his fellows not far away. The buzz of insects drifted lazily on the soft spring breezes. Tall green weeds grew thick and tall everywhere he looked with pine and oak trees casting long shadows over everything. This tranquil scene was far from the death and destruction of a Jihad. He would like to stay here, breathe in the peacefulness that filled this place, and forget what he had to do next.

Slowly his resolve hardened. He didn’t have any choice. He would die for his family. That would be his sacrifice, not suicide, but sacrifice. Reluctantly, he re-entered the shed and took off his black sport coat. His hands no longer trembled as he reached out toward the bomb vest resting on the wooden table. His hand hesitated only for a moment, only inches from the vest. He closed his eyes, prayed a small prayer, and then forced himself to pick up the bomb vest. Slowly, trying not to think about what he was doing, he strapped the bomb vest in place around his chest, then put his coat back over the vest, concealing the terror beneath it.

Husaam stepped out into the bright sunshine again and looked around the abandoned farm. He didn’t want to leave, but he must. From here, he would drive to the university and kill hundreds of innocent people. His mind recoiled from that thought, yet what choice did he have? He couldn’t save himself, but he would save his family.

Chapter 90

Mackay squatted down beside the tracking device he had previously planted on Husaam’s car, only the device was no longer on Husaam’s car. The red LED light of the tracker blinked steadily as it lay in the soft red dirt of a country road in the middle of nowhere, twenty miles west of town. There was no sign of Husaam’s vehicle. Someone had found the tracker Mackay  had planted on Husaam’s car and removed it, dropping the device here, knowing that he would eventually track the device to this location.

This had to be a trap. There was no other explanation. Mackay calmly withdrew his pistol from his holster, his eyes sweeping the surrounding woods as he clicked off the pistol safety. He stood up slowly, his eyes continuing to sweep the surrounding trees and underbrush.

A small metallic glint in the trees to his left caught his eye. Immediately, he dove to his right, rolling a few feet, before coming to his feet again, running. Shots rang out behind him, dirt puffing up where he had stood only a moment ago as an assault rifle sprayed bullets.

Trap—definitely a trap. His car was parked too far away to reach it quickly. Mackay had pulled off the dirt road when he first arrived, not wanting to get too close to the car carrying his tracking device, and parked behind some bushes, then crept the last hundred yards on foot to avoid detection. He had expected to find Husaam meeting with the bomb maker. Only there had been no car and no Husaam, only his tracking device and someone waiting to kill him. The assassin had planned everything perfectly. By all rights, I should be dead, Mackay thought.

More shots sounded behind him—a profusion of slugs zinged by his left ear, digging into the trees beyond him. Mackay hit the ground hard, crawling forward toward another tree for cover, the fingers of his left hand and both elbows digging into the dirt as his right hand continued to grip his pistol. The bullets were getting closer. His assassin was moving in for the kill.

He removed his compact CIA binoculars from his coat pocket and searched for his assailant among the trees. He spotted nothing for a few seconds, then he saw his attacker, hunched down close to some bushes: the bearded bomb maker from the cafe. He had expected no less.

He could see the figure clearly, kneeling next to some dense undergrowth, his head swiveling in all directions, searching for him. He swore silently. The attacker was too far away for Mackay to take down, out of pistol range. The agent doubted his attacker would come any closer than necessary, keeping the advantage of the assault rifle over his pistol.

Somehow, he had to get closer to his attacker without getting shot, but how?  Slowly, an idea began to form in his mind. Misdirection was always an excellent tactic. He took a chance and rose quickly to his feet, running toward his car and making a lot of noise as he ran through the woods, drawing several more shots.

Then he dropped down again and backtracked quietly. To have any chance at all, he had to lure his attacker in close enough for a pistol shot. How savvy was his opponent?  Would his attacker be so intent on taking him out that he would chase after him without checking his surroundings first?

Quietly, with infinite care, the agent crawled back the way he had come, stopping every few seconds to scan for his attacker. A few moments later, he spotted the short, bearded man hurrying after him, carrying an AK-47 assault rifle. He was dressed in camouflage kakis.

Mackay lay perfectly still, sighting his pistol squarely on the man’s chest and waited. Just as the man drew close to his hidden position, assault rifle in hand, Mackay fired twice. The man jerked back from the impact of the bullets smashing into his chest, his assault rifle falling from his hands as he fell backwards to the ground, clutching his chest.

With both hands on the pistol butt and his gun barrel pointed directly at the bomb maker, Mackay moved in for a closer inspection. The bearded assassin lay on his back, his eyes already glazing over—angry, dead eyes. Even in death, the bearded man was full of hate. Mackay’s eyes swept the surrounding trees again, wondering if this was the only assailant. Only silence greeted him.

Mackay breathed a sigh of relief. He searched the man, but, as he suspected, there was nothing on his body to identify him. The real question now was where was Husaam?

Somehow the bomb maker had found his tracking device on Husaam’s car and lured him here to this back road to eliminate him, which meant the bomb maker knew that Mackay had been tracking Husaam.

Had the bomb maker already completed his bomb?  A cold chill ran up Mackay’s back. If Husaam already had the bomb...

Mackay glanced at his watch. A couple of hours more and the conference would start. Apprehension began to build within him as he stood up and started running. He had a hunch where Husaam was and that if he didn’t reach Husaam fast, a lot of people were going to die.

Chapter 91

Paul felt tired. He sat on a small bench in front of the university conference center watching the campus security guards check the identifications and passes of everyone before they allowed them entrance to the conference center. He studied the massive, four story red brick conference center before him and the masses of people even now surging through its many open doors, young and old, scholars and students, all eager to examine the two-thousand-year-old Gospel of Jesus.

Paul, in contrast, hesitated to go inside the large conference hall. He was expecting a lot from this Gospel of Jesus. What if his expectations were set too high?  To hope for so much, to renew his faith and expect an answer to his suffering—it was a lot to ask for.

He glanced at his wristwatch, almost nine o’clock. Soon the Gospel of Jesus would be revealed to the world. He should be ecstatic to witness such a momentous event, but he wasn’t. Instead, he felt a raw, savage fear so strong it was bordering on panic.

That fear had been with him ever since his diagnosis—fear of death, fear of an ending to everything he held dear, fear of the unknown. Perhaps, that fear had always been with him, small and insignificant, buried in the debris of his life, going largely unnoticed—until now. These past few days that fear had haunted his dreams, ever in his thoughts, gnawing at him. Now that fear had risen to a crescendo of dread and doubt. He felt helpless before it.

Aaron Shelman appeared beside him, walking toward one of the open doors, stopping for a moment to talk.

“Exciting, isn’t it?  Soon we will hear the actual thoughts and words of Jesus.”

Paul smiled weakly, looking up at Aaron, and said, “Yes—if it is authentic. That is one of the reasons some of us are here, to determine that.”

“I’m sure the Gospel of Jesus is authentic. I have great respect for Isaac Stein. If he says this document is genuine, I believe him.”

“That’s because you want to believe him.” Paul frowned, staring up into the eyes of Shelman. “What if it isn’t authentic?” He voiced his greatest fear: that the Gospel of Jesus was a fake. Then there would be no miracle for him, no renewal of his faith.

Aaron shrugged. “What will be, will be. It will not be the first time a fake document has been exposed.”

“This conference is very important to me. I need this gospel to be true.”

“Why?”

Paul hesitated, then confessed. “I...I have been struggling in my faith lately. Too much of the world has crept into my thinking. I need a miracle, Aaron.”

“I hope you find your miracle. As for me, I chose early to believe in God, and that was that for me.”

“You are a fortunate man,” Paul said absently as he found a new thought suddenly emerging in his mind.

Aaron’s words had triggered a new revelation within Paul. All belief did begin with a conscious choice. His faith was a choice—a conscious choice, followed by action that supported that choice. It wasn’t complicated, but he had made it complicated, his knowledge and skepticism had made everything problematic.  He had forgotten how simple faith truly could be—you simply chose to believe, locked your will on your faith no matter what the distractions, what the difficult situations, and refused to move away from it.

But none of that was the revelation that had come to him. He knew all of that. The revelation was that he had already chosen—chosen to move away from Jesus and his Christian faith. The choice had been so subtle, so gradual, made over time, until now the choice was complete. How could he have been so blind?

“You going in or you going to sat on that bench forever?” Aaron interrupted his thoughts.

“I will be along shortly.”

Aaron placed a gentle hand on Paul’s shoulder and said, “Despite my occasional cynicism, I hope you find what you are looking for, my old friend.”

“Thank you,” Paul said. He watched Aaron walk away, disappearing inside the building along with crowds of other people.

Paul needed to restore his faith. That’s why he was here, but he had to begin now by choosing to believe. It was that simple and that hard. The first step toward the renewal of his faith was a conscious choice. Could he successfully fight against all that skepticism and scholarly detachment that had built up within him over the years, against the raging fear that even now threatened to overwhelm him?  Or was it already too late for him? Had his heart hardened beyond the point of redemption?

He remembered in his early ministry when he discussed Christ with non-believers. They always thought they could make the decision to believe in Christ ‘later’ after they had their fun, not realizing that choice in itself put them on a road away from Christ. You are what you do. A lifetime of living a non-Christian life can make it difficult to ever commit to Christ. He had seen it happen all too often. A person can reach a point where God can no longer reach him, where his heart has become too heavily armored to receive the redeeming word of God.

Yet everything began with a choice, and that choice, in time, and with prayer, could lead to a yielded heart and redemption. How many made the choice, made that first step, but never made it to redemption? Indeed, how many in the Church had the form of belief, but not the substance?  He shook his head.

How many times had he prayed with lost people that lay dying who were desperately trying to believe and convert to Christianity—and failed, dying without redemption, destined for hell. Belief is not a logical condition, fear and desperation not a basis for belief and salvation. Ultimately, faith is an emotional and spiritual condition. You can not will yourself to believe in Christ. Will and choice are the beginning, not the end. You have to believe, truly believe. That comes from the heart, not the head. So few non-believers, and too many in the Church, never understood that.

So the question remained for him. Was he too late? Had his heart grown too cold? Overcoming his fears, drawing on what little courage that remained in him, he stood up and walked toward the doors to the conference center. It was time to find out the truth, to seek his own miracle.

Chapter 92

John looked out through a small glass window pane set in the top half of an exterior metal door. He and Rebecca occupied one of the university dormitories. They had made their way to this two-story campus building earlier that morning, carefully avoiding detection. The building sat north of the university conference center, about two hundred yards away, across a large green sward of lawn known as the Triangle. Through the small glass window, John could see the massive four-story, red brick conference center that dominated the campus and the south end of the Triangle.

He also saw a gathering of news media reporters camped outside of the conference center. They had been given a roped-off portion of the grounds to the left of the massive conference center. The outside of the building was patrolled by security guards. Only a few reporters, selected from a pool, were to be allowed inside the conference center itself along with a small number of students selected by lottery.

The conference center could not accommodate all of the university students that wanted to attend this epic event so, in an attempt at fairness, a lottery system had been chosen to randomly select the few that would be allowed to attend.

The rest of the students, the vast majority, made their way to morning classes as was usual for a Wednesday morning, strolling across the large green lawn of the Triangle, all of them staring with envious eyes at the throngs of people even now surging into the conference center.

John studied the crowds of students moving across the Triangle. The students would give Rebecca some cover as she tried to sneak the Gospel of Jesus into the conference center. His eyes swept the grounds repeatedly, looking for the feds and Sebastian Black and finding neither. He glanced back at Rebecca, dressed in a school sweater with a heavy book bag thrown across her left shoulder.  Inside the book bag was the Gospel of Jesus. With her dark hair tucked up underneath a brown college cap, she looked like one of the many local college students going to morning class.

“I wish we could have gotten closer,” John said.

“Me too,” Rebecca replied.

“Do you think this will actually work?  Posing as a college student to sneak the book into the conference?”

“It has too. It is our only chance. They won’t be looking for a student. I should blend in well enough. I’m just another student hurrying to class with a bunch of books in tow.”  Rebecca gave him a brave smile, which warmed him. He admired her courage. “You have the hard part. You have to create a diversion.”

“That will not be difficult. Just step out into plain sight,” he grinned.

“Be careful.”

“Count on it.”  John looked at her, his stomach knotted into a tight ball.

She moved closer to him, placing a hand on his left cheek. “That was a wonderful thing you did for that young woman this morning, healing her of blindness. I was thrilled to observe such a miracle. You seemed to have a glow about you as you ministered to her. Did you know that?”

“No, no one ever mentioned that before.”

“I’m proud of you, John.”

John smiled hesitantly and said,” When such a miracle occurs, I feel the presence of the Holy Spirit and indescribable joy. There is something about being in the presence of God that is overwhelming to me.”

“To all of us,” Rebecca replied, then added, “In case I haven’t said this before, thanks for helping me.” She surprised him by kissing him lightly on the left cheek as she removed her hand.

“People deserve the truth,” he said.

“Even when it hurts?” She looked at him with a sly smile.

John knew that she was referring to their past relationship and the pain that relationship had caused them both. “Even then.”

“Any doubts left?”

“At first, when I was asked to help bring the Gospel of Jesus to this conference at the university, I didn’t know whether I was helping God or Satan, but after hearing you read Jesus’ words last night, I no longer have any doubts. The world needs to hear his words.”

“Thank you, John. You ready to play fox and hounds?”

John nodded. They had discussed what they would do over a dozen times, trying to work out the timing and their moves. He needed to precede her and draw their enemies away, allowing her time to slip by them and head for the conference center with the Gospel of Jesus.

John was dressed in a gray suit and blue cotton dress shirt. He would stand out from the other college kids like a bright neon light in a dark room. That was the objective: to be noticed.

John grabbed the briefcase at his feet that he had previously filled with several large college books to give the briefcase some weight, and, with a backward glance at Rebecca and a reluctant small smile, he exited the building, heading south across the Triangle toward the conference center.

Chapter 93

John had gone less than twenty yards when two men wearing dark sunshades and gray suits appeared in front of him. He tried to reverse course and walk away from them only to meet another agent behind him. He was trapped. He nervously glanced back toward the building he had recently exited, catching a glimpse of Rebecca’s face in the door’s half-window. He was too close to her. John had hopped to get further away before he was apprehended.

“Mr. John Arrowsmith I presume,” Agent Jones said as he took John’s briefcase from him. “I believe you have something for me?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” John said, sounding lame even to himself. He wasn’t very good at playing deceptive games.

Jones squatted on the ground and laid the briefcase down. He tried to open it, but the briefcase was locked tight. He looked up at John, angry at the delay, and said, “The key?”

Another of the agents pulled John roughly around and searched him, not waiting for John to act, finding the key in his coat pocket. The agent tossed the key to Jones, who immediately used the key to open the briefcase.

His small smile of triumph turned to a bitter frown almost immediately. He searched around inside the briefcase for a moment, tossing the college books out of the briefcase to land with a thud on the ground beside the brown leather case. Finally, after a few seconds of fruitless searching and with a sigh of frustration, he placed the books back into the briefcase and stood up, closing the briefcase and handing it back to John. With a frown of exasperation on his face, he said, “Very clever. I suppose you are the decoy.”

The agent’s words sent a chill up John’s back. Did they know about Rebecca?  That she had the Gospel of Jesus?

Jones continued to stare hard at John, but said nothing. Finally, he walked away a few yards from John and the surrounding agents, staring down the slight slope of the Triangle at the red brick conference center in the distance. He looked at his watch and frowned.

John continued to wait, not speaking. He glanced back over his shoulder. Rebecca still had not exited the building.

John watched the students as they continued to cross the Triangle, oblivious to what was happening around them, weaving around the green hedges that bordered the large freshly mowed open area of the Triangle. He could smell the lingering fragrance of cut grass. His eyes wandered over to the massive red brick conference center that dominated the south end of the Triangle and contained religious scholars and academics from all over the world, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the Gospel of Jesus.

Agent Jones walked back over to John. Standing only a few feet away, Jones said, “I don’t suppose you know the whereabouts of Mr. Simon Stein?”

Surprise arched John’s eyebrows. John shook his head in reply. So the feds didn’t have Simon. Then, where was he?

“He left us rather abruptly last night,” Jones said, answering John’s unspoken question. “I thought perhaps he contacted you. You two set this decoy up so Stein could sneak into the conference center?”

John almost shouted with glee, but forced himself to remain calm. Simon was free, and they didn’t know about Rebecca. They thought he and Simon had thought up this decoy angle to get Simon into the convention center. He suppressed a grin of triumph.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” John replied.

They would expect him to deny that he talked to Simon. He had to play along and hope that eventually Rebecca could break free and get to the conference center.

The agent smiled cynically. “Perhaps. Do you know the location of the Gospel of Jesus?  Did Stein pick it up from you last night?”

John shrugged, then almost gasped as Rebecca boldly emerged from the college building directly behind the agents.

A gaggle of college students were passing by and Rebecca boldly stepped out to mix in with them. John held his breath as Rebecca walked right past the federal agents, who had their backs turned to her, less than five yards away, screened by a dozen college kids. For a few brief seconds, their eyes met. John held his breath, waiting for an agent to turn and spot her, but nothing happened, then she was past them, heading toward the conference center. He couldn’t believe their luck. He smiled with relief.

“Do you find something amusing, Mr. Arrowsmith?” Agent Jones snapped.

“I had a happy thought,” John said.

“Something is going on here. I can feel it.” Agent Jones searched John’s face for clues, his eyes demanding.

Another agent spun John around roughly and said, “Let me have a minute with him. He won’t be smiling when I’m through with him.”

“Keep your voice down, Grimes,” Agent Jones said, seeing the curious looks from passing students.

Jones’ cell phone chimed, and Agent Jones turned away from John, walking several feet away for privacy. He nodded once, his face grim, then he slowly put his phone away. Jones had a faraway look in his eyes. He shot a penetrating glance at John, then let out a sigh of resignation.

Agent Jones walked back over to John and glanced at Grimes. “Time to pack up and leave. We are done here.”

“What happened?” Grimes asked, taking a step back in shock.

“It seems that Simon Stein has arrived at the conference. He walked in less that a minute ago. No doubt he has the Gospel of Jesus with him. We have lost.”

“We can still grab it,” Grimes insisted.

“Look around you, Agent Grimes. There are numerous reporters gathered here. You want to be on the front page of the newspapers tomorrow?”

Grimes shook his head slowly, anger seething below the surface, his lips pulled back in a snarl of frustration.

“Sometimes we lose, Grimes,” Agent Jones said tiredly, passing his right hand through his graying hair.

“I’m not going back empty handed. I am going to get what we came after,” Grimes stormed, turning to march down toward the massive red brick building that lay before them in the distance.

“You take one more step, and I will arrest you for insubordination.” Agent Jones’ voice was a steely whisper that froze John’s blood because of the anger and menace in the words.

Grimes glanced back, noted the fierce glint in Jones’ eyes, and bit his lip in indecision before letting out a sigh of resignation and slowly walking back with slumped shoulders, head down—defeated.

“All of you,” Agent Jones’ eyes swept the remaining four agents, “wrap this up. I’ve already told our agents at the conference center that we are done. Head back to the federal building and begin packing everything up. I want us on a plane and out of here by this afternoon.”

The other agents, including Grimes, nodded and walked away, leaving Jones alone with John.

A small grim smile gathered on Jones’ lips as he said, “In a way, I’m glad this is over. I...I wasn’t comfortable doing this. Somehow, it seemed very wrong. I don’t know yet if what is happening down in that building now is good for the United States or not, but, as for me, I don’t care anymore. This op is over.”

“You are giving up?” John said, genuinely surprised.

“Yes. Regardless of what you might think, I proudly serve my country. Only this time, I wasn’t so sure it was my country that was asking for my service.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing of importance to you,” Agent Jones said, wondering how he would like retirement life.

“What happens now?” John asked.

The agent smiled slightly. “Why nothing at all. We were never here. You are free to go. Just answer one question for me. Who really has the Gospel of Jesus?”

“What?” Surprise lit John’s face at the unexpected question.

“That phone call from my agent said that Stein had arrived. That was true enough. He also said that Stein didn’t have the Gospel of  Jesus, that he seemed to be waiting for someone. Who is that someone?”

“But you said...”

“I lied,” Jones said with a small grin. “As I said, I never liked this operation. Stein’s arrival was an excuse for me to end it.”  Jones paused a moment in thought. “There must be a third person involved. You weren’t a decoy for Simon Stein, but for someone else.”

John had to smile at Jones’ deduction. He was right. John’s opinion of Jones went up a notch. “Clever deduction, but I have no comment.”

“It is the only thing that makes sense.  Was it his sister or one of his brothers?  The Steins would never trust anyone else.”

“Sorry...” John shrugged.

“I understand. Have a pleasant day, Mr. Arrowsmith.”

John stood there for a few seconds, then turned and started walking down the Triangle toward the conference center. He glanced back at Agent Jones who continued to stand there alone on the small crest of the hill, watching him. He couldn’t quite believe it was finally over, no more running and hiding.

He immediately started scanning the student crowds for Rebecca. She must be close to the conference center by now. He picked up his pace, hurrying after her.

Chapter 94

Damn, Sebastian thought to himself. The feds were here. Feds were always easy to spot with their uniform black sunglasses, earpieces, and conservative business suits. They all looked like they were dressed by the same person. Sebastian didn’t need a crystal ball to spot them. He had watched through high powered binoculars as the feds cornered John Arrowsmith and swore under his breath. If Arrowsmith had the Gospel of Jesus, then game over, and he had failed.

He glanced back at the conference center and the mass of college students by the hundreds crisscrossing the Triangle. He studied the entrance to the conference center where eight security guards in tan uniforms stood leisurely around the front of the building, controlling access.

Where was Rebecca Stein?  Surely, she was here somewhere, but he couldn’t find her in the heavy throngs of students crossing the Triangle, heading for morning classes.

Sebastian glanced back at Arrowsmith standing quietly among the Homeland Security agents. They seemed to be milling around. If he was any judge of people, the feds didn’t look happy. He had watched as one of the feds opened Arrowsmith’s briefcase. By the way the agent slammed the briefcase shut, he had been severely disappointed.

As he watched, he suddenly realized that Arrowsmith was a decoy, dressed to stand out in a crowd of students, bait for the feds to find quickly while someone else, dressed to blend in, slipped away—clever, very clever.

His binoculars swept the masses of students again, hurriedly looking for a glimpse of Rebecca and finding none. There were too many students, all dressed similarly. But she was there somewhere, masked by the thick mass of students. He would bet on it.

He picked up his cell phone and called his men, instructing them to watch for Rebecca Stein. She had to be close to the conference center, and his men were closer than he was to the building. They might be able to spot her. She had to be walking directly toward the conference center. Nothing else made any sense.

He continued to scan the crowds closer to the conference center. For a brief moment, the crowds thinned, revealing a short dark haired woman with a book bag thrown over her shoulder. Sebastian smiled. He had her.

Chapter 95

Rebecca moved slowly, mixing in with the other college students headed to class. Must not hurry, she thought, as much as she wanted to literally run toward the tall, massive doors of the huge conference center. Rebecca knew that she must not do anything to call attention to herself.

She had seen the feds grab John and was worried about him, even as she passed him disguised as a student. There were a few terrible moments when she was afraid one of the agents might turn around and recognize her, but then she was past them, breathing a sigh of relief as she picked up her pace and headed straight for the conference center.

Rebecca wondered if more feds were around. There were so many students. It was difficult to spot anyone. She also wondered if Sebastian was here as well.

The weight of the Gospel of Jesus felt heavy in the book bag she had tossed over her shoulder. She would have rather carried the book in a briefcase, but book bags were what the students were carrying. She glanced at her wristwatch. It was almost nine o’clock. The conference was scheduled to begin at nine. She had to make it to the conference center by nine and before the crowds thinned, and she lost her cover.

Rebecca continued to move closer to her objective, changing student groups when necessary to bring her closer to the conference center, trying to use the crowds of students for camouflage. She could see the security guards standing out in front of the building as she drew ever closer to the conference center. If she could reach them, she would be safe.

Things weren’t suppose to be this dangerous or complicated. It had seemed so simple when her family had first discussed the conference. Now her brother was missing, and John was in trouble. She grimly reconciled herself to the fact that she could do nothing about their situations. All she could do was deliver the Gospel of Jesus to Dr. James and pray that God would protect them.

Chapter 96

Mackay had walked around the campus several times now. There was still no sign of Husaam. Where could he be?  Husaam had to be here somewhere. Mackay was certain of it.

He stood near the front of the conference center, watching people enter the large building. He had two priorities—find Husaam to prevent a bomb from going off and locate Rebecca Stein to ensure that the Gospel of Jesus reached its destination. Right now he was failing at both.

As his eyes swept the campus again, he noticed the cluster of federal agents around John Arrowsmith. For a moment, he thought the agents had succeeded and had the Gospel, but then he saw Rebecca Stein as she stepped out into the sunlight from a small building right behind the feds and walked straight past them, pretending to be a student. The agent smiled slightly. The woman had courage.

He doubted Homeland even knew of Rebecca Stein’s existence, fortunately for her. But Mackay knew that Sebastian Black did know of her existence. He had watched that little drama at the bank play out yesterday.

He glanced rapidly around the college Triangle. Where was Black and had he noticed Rebecca? His eyes swept the area once, twice—nothing. Then he saw a tall, heavyset man in a blue suit stepping from around the corner of the conference center heading for Rebecca. Mackay  recognized the man as one of Black’s.

Mackay started walking toward the man, surreptitiously pulling the tranquilizer dart gun from his pocket. He intercepted the man a few yards past the east side of the conference center  and fired the dart gun. The man grunted in surprise, slapping at his neck, then crumpling to the ground next to some thick green bushes. Mackay casually bent over the man and retrieved his dart, glancing around briefly as he rose. Fortunately, there was no one around this side of the building.

The CIA agent started walking toward Rebecca Stein, wondering how long it would take for others to notice the man lying prone and unconscious on the ground behind him.

Mackay’s eyes swept the surrounding area of the Triangle again, looking for Sebastian. Rebecca Stein was almost to the conference center now. She was walking at a steady pace, trying not to hurry, blending in with the surrounding students. Mackay stopped and pretended to be tying his shoe for a moment.

As he glanced to his left, Mackay spotted another man, a short fat man, approaching Rebecca—another one of Black’s men. Mackay rose quickly to his feet and hurried toward the man to intercept him, knowing he was too far away to reach Rebecca in time. He watched helplessly as the man grabbed Rebecca.

Chapter 97

Rebecca shifted from the current group of students she was traveling with to an adjoining group heading toward the convention center. She was close now. Another few minutes was all that she needed.

A hand grabbed her shoulder from behind, startling her. She started to turn only to find herself in a wrestling match with someone for her book bag. Exerting every ounce of strength she had, Rebecca tore herself away from the stranger. She turned to face a short, fat man staring at her with anger in his eyes. Fear instantly seized her heart as she rapidly backed away from him.

The man lunged at her, grabbing her arm. “Give me the bag,” he shouted.

“No,” she screamed back at him, determined to break away from him and make it to the conference center.

Around them, students were beginning to stare, giving them room, becoming aware that something was wrong between them.

“I don’t want to hurt you, lady, but I will if you don’t give me that bag.”

Rebecca pushed him away with her right hand, trying to break his grip on her left arm. He reached for a revolver stuffed in his waistband, pulling it free. Rebecca’s eyes widened in disbelief, then instinctively slapped at the gun, trying to dislodge the weapon from the man’s hand. The gun roared, knocking her back as a slug slammed into her chest.

The roar of the pistol stopped everyone in their tracks for a moment, then all the students scattered, one of them yelling, “That man has a gun!”

Several of the guards at the conference center quickly moved toward Rebecca as an ever widening circle grew around her.

Fraser looked around him, seeing everyone’s eyes on him. “I...I didn’t mean to shoot!”

Rebecca stood there swaying for a moment, looking down at the blood pouring from her chest, dazed, not really believing she had been shot. Then darkness swamped her and she crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Chapter 98

John had almost caught up to Rebecca when Sebastian’s fat goon, Fraser, appeared out of nowhere and grabbed Rebecca. John had started running then, not caring who noticed.

As John rushed to her aid, Rebecca had continued to struggle. Fear coursed through John as he saw the man draw a revolver from his waist band. Suddenly, John heard the sickening roar of a gun going off. Whether by design or accident, the man had shot Rebecca. John’s heart leaped in dread at the sight of Rebecca falling to the ground clutching her chest.

John reached the fat man just as Rebecca fell, catching the man by surprise, and grasped the man’s wrist and twisted it. The man choked back a scream of pain as he heard his wrist snap and saw his gun drop from his now numb hand to the ground. The fat man struggled to free himself from John, but John’s grip was like a steel vise, his strength fueled by anger. Rage filled him as he pummeled the man to the ground, smashing his face into bloody rubble and, finally, unconsciousness. Then he remembered Rebecca and jumped to his feet, rushing to her side.

John passed several guards running toward Fraser and shouted, “That man tried to kill this woman. There is his gun. Call an ambulance.” John pointed to a pistol on the ground beside the fallen man as he reached Rebecca’s side.

John’s heart sank as he saw Rebecca lying sprawled on the ground, blood drenching the front of her blouse. She was unconscious. Someone was already at her side, examining her. The man glanced up at John with a deep sadness in his eyes and shook his head.

“I’m a doctor. I heard the gunshot and saw her fall. I hurried over as fast as I could.” He stood up, looking directly into John’s eyes. “There is nothing I can do. The gunshot is fatal.”

John kneeled beside Rebecca, anguish sweeping over him, and pulled her limp body close to him. Her shirt was a bloody mess with blood bubbling out of an open wound much too fast.

“Rebecca...”

Her eyelids fluttered for a moment at his voice, then opened to stare up at him. “John...” she answered, her voice only a whisper. “I’m sorry...sorry for everything.”

“Don’t give up. Fight this. Believe.”  He grabbed her shoulders, desperately pulling her closer. He couldn’t lose Rebecca, not like this. Fervently, he prayed. “God, spare your servant, Rebecca.”

“As always, your servant. Thou will be done,” Rebecca echoed even as John spoke.

Rebecca’s eyes fastened on his as they both prayed. He could see the color draining from her face. Death was close. He could feel it.

“Please God, this once...” he pleaded.

Rebecca’s eyes curled up under her lids and she was gone. Tears filled John’s eyes and began to stream down his face. He felt her heart stop with one last beat. He shut his eyes in concentration, willing her to live, but to no avail. He sensed death closing over her.

“Rebecca, don’t leave me.”

Then, suddenly, as he continued to desperately pray, holding her close, he felt power rising within him like a tidal wave, that familiar healing of warmth flooding out of him into Rebecca. Energy continued to increase and flow out of him until he thought he would explode with the force of it, but he held on to her, willing himself not to let go, even as the power begin to turn to pain, her pain. Never had he felt such power and pain combined. It was as if he were fighting death itself for Rebecca’s soul, as if she were standing at the gates of eternity, and he was trying to pull her back.

Then, the healing power ceased abruptly, catching him by surprise, followed by a great weakness that spread rapidly over his body. He had expended too much of himself in trying to save Rebecca. As darkness crowded his vision, he laid Rebecca gently down. Not knowing if he succeeded, only that he had done his best. She lay motionless on the ground, no sigh of movement, not even a breath taken. Then darkness took him as he lost consciousness.

He remembered nothing, felt nothing, then a familiar man appeared to him in a vision as he lay unconscious, but a vision that felt more real that reality itself, a man with a brown beard and deep blue eyes. The man smiled and pointed toward something in the distance. It was the same vision he had before. And as before, John looked and saw what appeared to be a city, yet on closer inspection, he knew that was not what the buildings represented. Suddenly, he recognized those buildings in his vision. It was the university; it had always been the university. Jesus had been trying to tell him all along that something would happen at the university. That was why he was here.

As John stared at Jesus, a dark haired woman appeared beside him. She was the woman from the bank, and she was smiling, at peace. Deep within himself, he felt a sudden release from the guilt and anger over her needless death. She was alright; she was with the Lord.

John stared at the brown-bearded man with the gentle eyes, and, for the first time understood the power of Jesus to mend souls, then he awoke beside Rebecca with the doctor kneeling beside him.

“I was afraid for a moment that I had lost you too, but you just fainted. You will be alright,” the doctor said.

“Thanks,” John said as he rubbed his face and sat up, trying to clear away the cobwebs of unconsciousness and hang onto that fading vision that filled his soul with such peace.

He  slowly rose to his feet, swaying with weakness for a moment as he stood beside Rebecca’s still prone form. He moved closer to her, still weak and a little dizzy. He knelt beside her, searching for any signs of life. Once more he gathered her into his arms, intently staring down at her face.

“Rebecca, it’s time to wake up,” John said with a quiet, desperate whisper. Only silence greeted him. He leaned closer and said again, “Rebecca?”

“John?” Her eyes suddenly opened as she came to and fixed her gaze on him. “What happened?”

“Death came for you, but Jesus and I decided it wasn’t time for you to go yet.”

“What?”

“I will explain later. The important thing is that you are alright. Can you sit up?”

“I don’t know. I will try.”

Rebecca pushed herself up to a sitting position. She swayed for a moment, then steadied and seemed to draw strength from somewhere. Taking a deep breath and letting it out, she smiled at him. Happiness swept through him. He thought he had lost her forever. Only then did John realize how much he still loved her.

The doctor who had examined her earlier rushed over to her, amazement on his face. He kneeled down and grabbed her wrist to check her pulse, not believing what he saw.

“He’s a doctor,” John explained to Rebecca who was puzzled by this stranger holding her wrist.

“This...this is unbelievable.” The doctor checked her chest wound, only to find no wound at all, only dried blood. “I don’t understand. There is no wound.”

“That’s okay,” John said with a knowing smile. “We do.”

Rebecca smiled and nodded.

“Do you feel well enough to go on to the conference?” John asked.

“I think so. The pain is gone and my wound doesn’t hurt anymore.” He watched her hands go to her blouse and close on a metal object caught in the fabric, pulling it free. Astonished, she stared at a spent bullet in her hand. “A true miracle.” She smiled up at him.

John smiled back, happy that Rebecca lived. Silently, he thanked God for this miracle. “You are alive, that’s all that counts.”

She grasped his arm firmly and rose to her feet. “Let’s go. We have unfinished business.”

Chapter 99

Mackay watched in amazement as John Arrowsmith disarmed Rebecca Stein’s assailant. He could have sworn that Arrowsmith literally jumped the last few feet toward the gunman. He had never seen someone cover ground that fast. And the way he handled the attacker—overpowering.

The previous gunshot had startled him, and when he saw Rebecca fall, he had feared the worst, but on reaching Rebecca, he found John helping her to her feet as if nothing had happened. Had the gunman missed?  He shook his head slowly, not comprehending what had happened, but he watched Rebecca Stein grasp Arrowsmith’s arm and continue walking toward the conference center as if nothing had happened, clutching a book bag tightly to her chest, which he suspected contained the Gospel of Jesus. It truly was an amazing series of events to watch.

He waited a few seconds more and watched the university security team hustle the attacker away. Mackay knew that the attacker was one of Sebastian’s men, but Sebastian would be no more trouble, not today. Rebecca was safe, and the Gospel of Jesus would be delivered.

His eyes swept around the Triangle again. Now if he could only find Husaam. Mackay had been frantically scanning the crowds of students rushing by him, trying to spot Husaam, but with no luck. He glanced at the conference center and the guards. Nothing. As the student crowds began to thin, Mackay wondered if Husaam was even here.

He looked beyond the Triangle, away from the conference center. As he slowly studied the surrounding area, he spotted a lonely looking figure sitting on a bench on a small rise just beyond the Triangle. Maybe... Mackay started running.

Chapter 100

Husaam sat alone on a wooden bench at the edge of the university grounds, staring down from the top of a small hill at the green, lush grounds of the Triangle and the conference center  in the distance. The red bricks of the massive building glistened brightly in the morning sun.

The bomb vest was tight, constricting his chest, making it difficult to breath. He held the detonation trigger in his right hand, his eyes fixed on the red plastic button on the end of a silver metallic stick. All he had to do was press the red button and the bomb would explode, ending his life, but only his life. He would not kill anyone else. He had already decided that he would not commit wholesale murder.

Husaam was no longer afraid. He had weighed his options and faced his fears, deciding that he had only one real choice. He wiped a small tear from the left corner of his eye that threatened to slide down his cheek. No more tears, he chided himself. He was beyond tears.

The Triangle was clear of students now. No one would be hurt save for himself. He had decided to blow up the bomb here, away from everyone. Maybe his terrorist friends would think the bomb had went off by accident, before it was time. His family would be spared. He would spend his life for theirs. He had prayed to Allah and received his answer.

Husaam’s eyes swept the surrounding area again. It was peaceful here—a good place to die. His thumb moved over the red button of the detonation device. The bomb blast that would kill him would be quick and devastating. He would feel no pain.

“Husaam?”

His name was a whisper on the wind. He turned his head slightly to see a brown-haired man of medium height standing next to him, separated by only a few feet. Husaam had not heard him approach.

“What do you want?” Husaam said quietly, unafraid, his thumb hovering over the red button.

“To talk,” Mackay replied carefully.

“It’s too late for talk.”

“It’s never too late to talk. Not when death is imminent,” Mackay said softly.

“Talk about what?”

“Options that do not include bombs.”

Husaam looked down at his zipped up jacket. “How do you know that I have a bomb?”

“Your holding the detonator in your hand.”

Husaam smiled weakly. Of course, how foolish. He held the detonator for all to see. Perhaps he should have been angry with himself for being so obvious, yet he felt nothing except numbness, not surprise nor fear of this stranger. In something of a daze, he glanced back at the stranger.

“You had better leave.”

“Not yet.”

“Who are you?”

“I work for the federal government, and I can help you.”

“No one can help me,” Husaam replied bitterly.

“Do you really want to blow innocent people up?”

“No one will die except me, and possibly you.”

Agent Mack Mackay slowly sat down beside Husaam. He was careful and deliberate, knowing that any sudden moves could cause Husaam to detonate the bomb.

“So you have decided against murder?”

Husaam looked at the agent, noting his intense gray eyes. Once he might have been afraid of such a man, but not now.

“I have made another decision.”

“Suicide isn’t the answer either. May I offer you a third choice?”

Husaam’s thumb touched the red button of the detonator, poised to press it and activate the bomb yet something restrained him from taking that final step into oblivion.

“Allah will be merciful. I will have prevented innocents from being killed and saved my family.”

“Listen, Husaam. You can work with the U.S. government and get your life back, maybe go home. How does that sound?”

Mackay talked rapidly now, his eyes fixed on the red button that Husaam’s right thumb rested feather light upon, knowing that at any moment Husaam, with a slight pressure of his thumb, could blow them both to bits. He had to convince Husaam there was another option.

“I can never go home. The terrorists in my cell would kill me, then come after my family.”

“Not if they are all in jail.”

Husaam looked down at the detonator, his grasp firm around the narrow metal tube. “You could never guarantee my family’s safety.”

“Yes, we can if you help put the other terrorists in your group behind bars. Think of the lives you might save. Wouldn’t Allah honor that?”

Husaam sat there a long time, immobile, thinking. He didn’t really want to die, but he had seen no other way out. He turned toward the agent, studying him for a few seconds.

“You can do this?  You can protect my family?  Free me of the terrorists?”

“With your help. If you will cooperate...”

For the first time, hope rose in Husaam’s heart. To be free of all this. To go home. His thumb moved away from the red detonator button.

“I think I would like to cooperate very much.”

Mackay moved closer to Husaam and gently removed the detonator from his hand, breathing a deep sigh of relief once he had disconnected the detonator from the bomb vest.

“Stand up and let’s get this contraption off you.”

Mackay ordered Husaam to stay put until he returned. As he walked off, he thanked God that he was still alive. That had been close, too close. But all in all everything had worked out.

He patted himself on the back for a successful mission. Rebecca Stein had delivered the Gospel of Jesus, and he had rescued Simon Stein without permanently harming any federal agents and blowing his cover. He had even managed to keep the mayhem down to one dead body, that of a mad terrorist, and stopped a suicide and bomb blast. Must be a new record for him. Now he had one last loose end to tie up, and he could head home. Yes, all in all, a very successful mission.

Chapter 101

Agent Jones leaned against a tall pine tree at the edge of the Triangle, gazing down at the large lush green expanse of grass below, watching the last of the students rushing to class. He had glimpsed John Arrowsmith escort a dark haired woman into the conference center after some kind of commotion. He had heard a gunshot and had started to go down to investigate when he spotted a security team rushing toward the disturbance and decided to let the locals handle whatever had happened. After all, he wasn’t suppose to even be here.

Agent Jones smiled to himself as a thought suddenly struck him. The way Arrowsmith escorted the woman suggested that he knew her well. Of course, she must be the one he had been looking for all along. She must be carrying the Gospel of Jesus. She had avoided detection by dressing as a student—clever deception. He admired her cunning and her courage.

Somehow, it didn’t bother him that he had lost, that his last mission for the bureau had ended in failure. If that was the price for his self respect, he would pay it gladly. He had found out something about himself during this operation. He was a man with a conscience who believed strongly in right and wrong. He wasn’t someone that evil men in high places could rob of his dignity and beliefs.

“Rough day?”

Agent Jones turned to see an ordinary looking man of medium height and brown hair standing only a few yards away from him. The stranger’s gray eyes were intense and focused on him. He was carrying something in his right hand that Jones couldn’t quite make out.

“What do you want?’ Jones gruffly replied.

“Things didn’t go as expected?” Mackay asked.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Jones replied, getting an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“You work for the FBI, Agent Jones. I would think the FBI would be above stealing religious artifacts.”

“And you know this how?”

“Oh, I have a rather complete file on you. Overall, I would say you have served your country well, except for this last assignment.” Mackay grinned slightly.

Agent Jones’ jaw tightened. “You must be the one that helped Stein escape.”

“Don’t know what you are talking about. Interfering with a federal investigation would be illegal,” Agent Mackay said with some amusement in his voice. “I believe you are retiring soon.”

“How...I forgot you have a file on me. That must be in there too.”

“Kind of a bummer leaving such an illustrious career with a black mark on your record from your final assignment.“

“Your point?” Jones snapped.

“I have a proposition for you—something that will put you in the winning column and give you a chance to retire with dignity and honor.”

Despite himself, Agent Jones was intrigued and moved closer to the stranger, placing his right hand lightly on the butt of the pistol holstered on his right side.

“Who exactly did you say you were?”

“I didn’t say. I think its best that way. How would you like to save the conference down there from being blown up and uncover a terrorist cell in the process?”

Agent Jones gave the man a cynical smile. “Save the world, huh?”

“Something like that. I figure you are on some kind of detached duty to Homeland Security, but should be returning to the FBI after this assignment. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t see any reason to share the glory with Homeland, do you?”

“You aren’t kidding, are you?”

“No, I’m not. About fifty yards from here, sitting on a bench, is a Middle Eastern man who, a few minutes ago, was seriously considering blowing himself up. Terrorists had sent him to blow up everyone attending the conference down there.”  Mackay pointed a finger at the red bricked conference center across the Triangle. “But he has had a change of heart. He has agreed to turn in the other members of his terrorist group if we let him go home afterwards. A fair deal I think. Are you interested?”

Agent Jones didn’t know what to say. To say he was surprised would be an understatement. He could wrap up his career with a colossal win; retire with honor. Only one thing bothered him. “Why don’t you turn the man in yourself?”

Mackay scratched his forehead, then grinned. “There’s the rub. I’m not suppose to be involved.”

“CIA, right?”

“Can’t say?” The man smiled.

“You don’t have too. Where is this suicide bomber?”

“I will take you to him. Here’s the bomb vest.”

Mackay handed the bomb vest that he had been carrying at his side to Jones which had gone unnoticed by Jones until now.

“Don’t worry. I have disconnected the detonator. It should be safe enough.”

Jones’ eyes widened as he took the bomb vest. He had not expected that.

Then he smiled slightly and said, “You know, I often wondered why I even took this assignment. I could have refused, but something wouldn’t let me,” Jones said.

“Your point?”

“Maybe there is a divine hand in the things we do.”

Carrying the bomb vest, Agent Jones followed Mackay, thinking that if this all panned out, life would be very pleasant indeed at his upcoming retirement ceremony.

Chapter 102

Sebastian swore and dropped his binoculars to his chest, where they continued to dangle from a nylon cord that was wrapped around his neck. He was amazed to see Fraser shoot Rebecca Stein. That wasn’t in the plan. He was even more amazed to see John Arrowsmith rescue Rebecca. Obviously, she hadn’t been hurt too badly because she had continued on toward the conference center.

He watched the university security police take Fraser away. Fraser could rot in jail for all he cared after fouling up like that. And where was Beckett?  He shook his head in frustration. Not that any of that mattered anymore. His job was over. The Gospel of Jesus had been delivered to the conference.

He smiled to himself. In a way, the real battle began now as the various scholars, clerics, and religious experts began their bickering over the authenticity of that ancient document—that bickering could take years. The Order might still be able to spin this matter to their advantage by creating doubt about the gospel’s authenticity and discrediting the gospel among the people of the world. If people thought the scrolls were a hoax, then little damage would result from the revelations of the Gospel of Jesus. Big if, but possible.

As for him, his reputation in the Order had been damaged. He could blame government agents for interfering—that might deflect the worst of the coming penalties for failure.  But no matter what he did, Sebastian harbored no doubts that he would suffer. The Order would make sure of that. He shrugged and turned in the direction of the street and his limousine. Everyone failed on occasion. It was the nature of the business. If the Order got rid of all of its key people who failed, soon there would be no one left. No, in the end, he would eventually win back into the good graces of the Order. His talents were too much in demand.

The bright spot in all of this was the hammer would fall heaviest on that fat, corrupt Graff. He had overall responsibility for the mission and the selection of the people to carry out the operation. The Order always disciplined those in key leadership positions the hardest as an example to those serving below them. He smiled at the thought of that.

Sebastian leaned slightly on his cane, more out of habit than need, and wondered what the ultimate results of this Gospel of Jesus would be on the world. Would revival sweep the  world? Would a new religious movement spring up?  He sensed revolutions and war in the air, political upheavals and religious confrontations, as the world tried to come to grips with this new gospel. Perhaps there would even be new opportunities for the Order.

Strange how men hungered to believe in God, yet...there was something there, he thought, as he glanced down at his healed leg. He had been to the best doctors, and they all told him there was no cure, that his right leg was permanently damaged.

Yet, in the space of a few seconds, John Arrowsmith laid his hands on him and cured him instantly. He would never admit it to anyone, but that single unintended act continued to bother him. But it would take more than a miracle to change his mind about God and Christianity.

Sebastian glanced at his watch as he started walking toward his car. If he hurried, he might make the next flight out of here.

Chapter 103

As Rebecca entered the large conference center with John and walked toward the stage at the far end, her brother rushed to meet her. She couldn’t believe her eyes, smiling with joy at seeing Simon alive and well. She immediately ran to him, laughing, and hugging him fiercely as they met.

As John approached, Simon grabbed John’s hand enthusiastically. “Glad you made it.”

“Not without some difficulties,” John replied.

Simon glanced at the blood on his sister’s jacket and, with growing concern, asked her, “What happened? Are you okay?”

“Later,” she said. “The important thing is that I have the Gospel of Jesus. Where have you been?”

“Feds had me. I escaped last night with the help of a stranger.” Simon frowned for a moment, then said, “I didn’t want to risk calling you. I was afraid the feds would track any calls I made.” Then his face brightened. “You said that you have the gospel?”

Rebecca put the book bag she was carrying on a nearby chair and pulled out the large leather volume of the Gospel of Jesus. “Is this the book you are referring to?”

He laughed. “Indeed. Clever of you to dress like a college student to blend in.”

“Not so clever if you had seen how close I came to exiting this world forever.”

“Well, you seem alright now, thank God,” he said as he hugged her once more before taking the book from her.

He turned and marched in triumph toward the stage and Professor James who stood close to the center of the stage, his eyes fixed on the book that Simon held above his head. At Simon’s approach, Professor James stepped to the podium and cleared his throat. “Ladies and Gentlemen, if you would please take your seats. Our sponsor has arrived, Mr. Simon Stein.”

A buzz of excitement swept around the audience of over a thousand men and women who had journeyed there from all over the world for a chance to witness an original work of Jesus Christ.

Simon gave the book to James who glanced at it, puzzled.

“There is only the book, a copy of the scrolls,” Simon explained.

“No scrolls?” James echoed vacantly, mildly shocked.

“Too old to travel, but the book is a faithful copy of the scrolls.”

James shook his head for a moment, then pulled himself together and said, “You are full of surprises. No matter, we will press on.”

He took the heavy volume over to a projector that sat by the podium. The projector would display the pages of the leather volume on the screen once the conference began. Carefully, the professor laid the leather bound volume on the projector’s glass surface and opened the book to the first page.

Simon stepped to the podium and the microphone. “It is my pleasure to present to you a copy of the Gospel of Jesus. Many of you were probably expecting the actual scrolls, but those are too frail to travel. Instead, an exact copy of the contents of the scrolls, bound together in book form, was made and will be presented to you today for your perusal. My family has guarded this precious treasure for over two thousand years, ever since Bartholomew, our ancestor, took the scrolls directly from our Savior’s hands. It is written in Aramaic. I believe Professor James has arranged for someone to translate the words as the pages are displayed.”  Simon turned to James. “Professor?”  Simon stepped away from the podium, allowing James once more to step in and address the crowd that sat before the stage.

Simon noticed numerous disappointed frowns among the attendees; obviously they had hoped to view the actual scrolls. However, he didn’t think they would be disappointed once they began viewing the contents of the Gospel of Jesus. They would see the actual writings of Jesus.

Professor James cleared his throat and began speaking. “I once again wish to thank everyone for coming. As you know, the Stein family has graciously loaned this copy of the original work to us for study. As Mr. Stein said, the book is written in Aramaic. Doctor Rogers from our religious languages department has graciously consented to translate the work for those of you that do not read Aramaic.”

Chapter 104

There was an expectant hush over the crowd in the conference center. They were about to view a handwritten document from Jesus’ very own hand, his words and thoughts from over two thousand years ago. Jesus—an often thought mythical, legendary figure—was suddenly very real. The significance of that fact was not lost on anyone gathered there. Even without the scrolls, this was a momentous event. Every head and every eye was turned toward the screen as the first page of the Gospel of Jesus was displayed.

Professor Rogers began to read, hesitantly at first, stumbling over a few words as he  slowly mastered the two-thousand-year-old handwritten style of Jesus, then reading with more confidence as he continued, his deep voice filling the conference center.

Father Paul West eagerly read the projected pages on the screen for himself, not waiting for the translator, feeling himself beginning to tremble the more he read. Tears formed at the corner of his eyes and began to stream down his face as he read those precious words. His faith blossomed anew, fresh and strong.

He moved to the center aisle beside his metal chair and fell to his knees.

“My Lord, my Savior,” he whispered reverently.

Suddenly, an intense heat flashed over his body. He felt new strength return to him, and his lungs breathed deeply and without pain for the first time in months.

He knelt there in the aisle staring down at his body as if seeing it for the first time, stunned beyond comprehension. A miracle of healing had occurred; his miracle and his healing.

Trembling, he raised his eyes once more to the screen that held the sacred words of Jesus. He felt his faith continuing to blossom like a new spring flower opening to the sun. Power flowed through him, a power he had never experienced before. More than healing was happening to him. A transformation was occurring. He would never be the same again.

The rest of the assembly stared in astonishment at West’s actions, but soon others began to follow his boldness. As more and more pages of the Gospel of Jesus were read, more people stumbled into the aisles and began to pray. The words of Jesus struck deep into the hearts of many of those gathered there with a truth and sincerity that the passage of two thousand years could not dim nor dull.

But not all were so struck. Others were not so strongly swayed by the words flowing from the Gospel of Jesus. With shock and disbelief evident on their faces at the actions of their fellow attendees, their hearts grew colder until they were like stone. They would never believe this nonsense about Jesus, no matter what the evidence. To do anything else would destroy their carefully built up world of intellectual dishonesty and scholarly disbelief.

John watched in amazement at the effect on those gathered there. So many felt the words of Jesus deeply. Yet, there were others that obviously felt nothing.

John thought of that verse in the Bible where Jesus visited his hometown and was amazed at their lack of faith.  Hearts hardened beyond acceptance, and souls lost forever to the healing power of Jesus. John sadly shook his head.

Finally, the translator had to stop. He looked with amazement at the hundreds of kneeling and praying people all around the conference center. He looked at Professor James with a question on his face, his hands palm up. The professor nodded. Perhaps they should take a break. Professor James didn’t know what else to do. The conference center had turned into a church and God was presiding.

Chapter 105

The sun was setting and a cool evening breeze had sprung up. John and Rebecca glanced at each other, sitting together on a small bench as they had once before long ago, knowing that it was time to part and not really wanting to say good-bye. They had put old wounds to bed and, in their place, hope had begun to grow. They were traveling a new road now, unsure and hesitant travelers.

“I understand from your brother that you are returning to Jerusalem tomorrow,” John said with a small, tight frown.

“Yes, father wants a full report on everything that has happened, but Simon will be staying. There is talk of setting up some sort of research center here at the university based on the Gospel of Jesus.”

John nodded. “About us...”

Rebecca reached out and touched the back of his right hand. “I am glad we met again, at last. We should have done that long ago and settled things. Perhaps we could have lessened some of the pain.”

“Perhaps,” John replied, his gray eyes locking with her dark ones.

She took a small breathe before continuing, uncertainty filling her eyes. “I...I think we have at least made a new beginning. The misunderstandings, the pain that was caused, I hope those have been put to rest at last.” She paused a moment, her eyes staring back into John’s. “Where we go from here is up to us. I admit that I will always have feelings for you. The question is how do you feel about me?”

John looked down for a moment, grasping her hand firmly in his. He loved her. He realized that now despite all the intervening years and pain, but he could never admit that to her. Such a profession of love would leave him vulnerable to another rejection by Rebecca. He couldn’t take another rejection form the woman he loved. He hoped that some day that would change, and somehow trust could be built between them, but for now he would wait.

“I still have feelings about you, good ones. Old wounds do heal, given time, but there is no magic wand I can wave and make everything instantly alright. I wish there were. A lifetime of remorse, pain, and anger is gone. I think they left the night you read the Gospel of Jesus to me.”

“Then you have forgiven me?” She gave a hopeful smile, grasping his hand firmer.

“Yes.”

Rebecca nodded with a relieved sigh and stood up. She gave him a wide smile as she bent down and kissed him on the cheek. Then she took a small step away, still smiling at him and said, “I think you would find late spring in Jerusalem most enjoyable. Why don’t you come for a visit? We can talk some more.”

“I would like that very much.”

“Until then,” she said with a wave of her hand as she walked away.

John watched her for a long time as she walked back down the small hill they were on, watched her walk across the lush green Triangle, and watched her, at last, disappear into the conference center. He let out a long, slow breath. Rebecca was still very beautiful, even after all this time.

John stood up and smiled slightly to himself as he thought again of Rebecca. Perhaps there was a chance for them, however small, and he had never been to Jerusalem. He looked forward to the trip.

Chapter 106

Sarine stood on a terrace, staring at the city lights in the distance. It was night and a bit cool as early autumn settled in. She wore a simple blue dress with a matching jacket. This was an informal gathering of the council. She took another sip from her glass of champagne.

Daric approached, wearing a pair of white pants with a black blazer. He carried a glass of champagne in his right hand. “So this is where you sneaked off to.”

She gave him a frosty smile. She had wanted to be left alone to think. She could take only so much of the constant wrangling between the council members. Everyone had an idea of the best way to proceed forward on this Gospel of Jesus issue. Didn’t they see that it was over? The Order had lost.  Now they should concentrate on salvaging what they could and pressing on.

Sarine glanced back through the open French doors at the well-lighted room inside. “I see they are still arguing.”

“Yes. The latest plan put forth is to just take the Jesus Scrolls and destroy them. The book that Stein sent to the conference doesn’t really matter. Without the original scrolls to back the book up, the book would be worthless. Cyrus is arguing against it. Alexander and the Chairman are arguing for the plan.”

“Cyrus will lose. Once the Chairman makes up his mind, there is no turning him back.”

“Do you think we would be successful if we tried to steal the scrolls?” Daric asked.

“I believe we tried this already and failed. Besides, now that everyone knows what was written in the scrolls, there is no erasing the words, no forgetting what was written. The ideas and thoughts generated by the words of Jesus are all there for the world to see. Who cares about authenticity and proof. People will believe what they wish to believe. ”

“An effort must be made at least.”

“I understand Stein plans to place the scrolls in an English museum for all the world to view.”

Daric nodded. “If that happens, then it really is over, and we will have lost.”

“We have already lost. Copies of the Gospel of Jesus have been printed in the millions and circulated all over the world.”

“Yes, we had not expected that to happen so fast. We thought nothing would be printed until a decision had been made at the conference. Now, there are copies everywhere in dozens of foreign languages and growing,” Daric said with a sigh of resignation. “We are continuing with our publicity campaign to discredit the Gospel of Jesus.”

Sarine looked at him with tired eyes and a brief sigh. “No one is listening, Daric.”

“I think there is still a chance if we grab the scrolls before they can be displayed in a museum. Without the original scrolls, we can deny everything. There will be those that we can convince.”

“Only because they want to be convinced,” Sarine said with a resigned sigh. The Order would adapt and continue with its plans despite this setback. Time was on their side. The Order always held the long view.

Sarine had known this was coming weeks ago. The council under the Chairman was very predictable. They did not see yet that their efforts would be futile, and she knew that no amount of logic or talk would persuade them differently so she just remained silent. Why waste political capital on a futile effort?

She knew that they would eventually put together a strike force, attempt to steal the scrolls and destroy them. That was dangerous. If the attempt should fail and the strike force traced back to the Order... Best not to think of that, she cautioned herself.

Sarine downed the rest of her drink and forced herself to go back inside. She had a bad feeling about the events that were about to unfold.

Chapter 107

Gold and brown leaves swirled everywhere that John walked. A brisk, chill wind blew around him, making him pull his gray windbreaker tighter around him. Still, it was a beautiful fall day, bright and clear, the sun shining down, sending him some of its warmth.

He thought of Rebecca again. His trip to Jerusalem last spring had been most enjoyable. Walking those ancient streets with Rebecca had been glorious. He had returned home full of joy and renewed hope. John felt they had moved a little closer to each other.

He planned to return in December and spend Christmas with her. He once again felt that closeness and tenderness toward another person that had been missing from his life for so long. This was a new beginning for both of them.

John caught sight of sailing masts towering over some nearby buildings. He was headed for the marina and his newly acquired and very tiny sailboat. He had bought the boat secondhand at a ridiculously cheap price which was the only reason he could afford it. He was thinking about going for a sail. For some reason, he found sailing a boat over the blue waters of the bay a very relaxing experience.

He still hadn’t found a real job, not one he wanted. He was currently working a part-time job at his church. But something was happening to him, something subtle yet very real. For the first time, he felt that his life was on the verge of turning around.

He stopped at the bookstore on the way to the docks, a block away from the marina. As he looked through the large bookstore window, his eyes scanned the rows upon rows of deep crimson books on display, all with the same title in raised white lettering: Gospel of Jesus. He smiled slightly to himself. That had been the real success out of all of their endeavors. Rebecca had gotten an English translation of the Gospel of Jesus into the hands of a publisher. Now the people of the world could judge the Gospel of Jesus for themselves and not wait for the Aramaic version to be authenticated and translated.

He had received one of the early author copies from Rebecca, before the book hit the bookstores. He experienced a wonderful elation as he read those scriptures for himself.

He later called and thanked her for the gift. They both laughed about the deception of having only one copy of the gospel, the Aramaic version, and how Rebecca and her father were the only ones that knew about the English version. Even her brother had not known. It felt good to talk to her. Her voice had filled a void in him.

Authentication of the Gospel of Jesus was still very important to the academics and religious experts, but events were rapidly overshadowing the need for authentication for the rest of humanity. Faith in the Gospel of Jesus was growing, and faith needed no authentication.

People were excited about this new gospel. Debates were raging everywhere over the gospel, and sadly, violence was also breaking out in some places. It seemed everyday he would read in the newspaper about a church denomination splitting or a new one forming or a riot or a bomb exploding, particularly in the Middle East. One third-world government had already fallen as a result of the Gospel of Jesus. The world seemed to be in turmoil over the gospel, trying to adjust to this new knowledge of Jesus.

The Bible and the Gospel of Jesus were the same yet not the same, some truths were close and others far apart. The story the Gospel of Jesus told was very different from the Biblical version in many respects, but again it was the emphasis that made the differences. The world was facing an old truth that was suddenly new again.

John could see the Gospel of Jesus added to the Bible, but many could not. The differences were too great for many, their faith too inflexible, too rigid. To them, to accept the Gospel of Jesus was to deny the Bible. It was easier to accept the lie that the gospel was not written by Jesus. That was a falsehood widely circulated these days. It was a brave new world.

John thought about going inside the small bookstore and purchasing another copy of the gospel. His first copy was rapidly becoming dog-eared from constant use. John felt every time he read the Gospel of Jesus, he learned something new. The writing was so intimate and personal, so compassionate and full of wisdom.

For a moment, his hand rested lightly on the door handle of the bookstore, then he sighed and decided to go sailing instead. He could browse the bookstore tomorrow. There was a sudden  urgent need inside of him to feel the water coursing beneath him and the wind in his face as he sailed over the gulf waters. He glanced again at the rows of books, all gleaming in their red paperback covers, before turning away and continuing on down the street. This was the second week the book had been out. It had rapidly risen to number one on the best seller list.

John had not intended to go sailing today. He had originally intended to visit the new Gospel of Jesus Conference Center at the university and then return home. The copy of the Aramaic Gospel of Jesus still resided there, studied and debated by religious scholars from all over the world. It would be a long time before the Gospel of Jesus was authenticated.

He had listened for a while to the various discussions at the Center, then left. But the thought of returning to an empty house did not appeal to him. He started aimlessly walking around the university, and before he knew it, his feet had led him toward the nearby marina.

John stopped at the marina dock, his hands resting on the wooden railing of the salt water dock, enjoying the feel of a cool sea breeze brush against his face. He knew that his faith would sustain him through these difficult times. Jesus was always with him.

Lately, his pastor had been urging him to start a healing ministry at the church. He had begun to consider that. It was a bold step for him, but a man needed to do something worthwhile with his life.

He breathed the salt air in deeply, exhaling slowly, enjoying the clean feel of the sea air in his lungs.  John continued walking to his sailboat. It was a beautiful morning for a sail. Perhaps he would call Rebecca later. John felt a deep-seated need to hear her voice again.

As John turned to his left at the end of the dock, he spotted a young man in a wheelchair being pushed toward him by his pastor. The young man waved at him. John knew what they wanted.

This would be his third attempt to heal the young man, but you didn’t quit just because you failed. No, you kept trying. His pastor had taught him that. He took a deep breath and continued walking toward them.

It was a nice day for a miracle.

The End

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Preview of Sequel

If you enjoyed Dagger of Heaven, perhaps you would also enjoy Book Two of the series, On Sanctified Ground.  For your enjoyment, I have included the following excerpt.

Chapter 1

John Arrowsmith tossed and turned in his sleep. A heavy weight seemed to press down on his chest. He began to sweat as his body seemed to tense in his sleep.

He stood before towering bronze double gates that were shut tight. The gates were so massive he could not see the walls that must hold the gates. On the gates themselves  were hundreds of massive iron rings.

He glanced around him. Hundreds of men and women stood beside him, pulling on the iron rings and straining with all their strength to open the huge gates. John found his own hands on a large iron ring along with the others, pulling to open the massive gates.

He looked behind him and saw people in their thousands stretching out of sight, marching over a large sandy plain toward him, all shouting with joy and praising God. Their shouting sounded like some massive roaring sound coming from a river tumbling over a water fall.

Behind them, in the distance, coming slowly into view was a massive red bird of some kind that was too far away to identify.

John turned back to the iron ring his hand was wrapped around and continued to pull with all of his might. The gates were stubborn and would not open. But with every minute that passed, new hands reached for more iron rings and pulled with John and the others. All of those men and women behind him were coming to help open the gates.

John knew that all the people around him were Christians, and they were here for only one purpose--to open the gates.

John heard a distant trumpet sound behind him. He turned again to stare at the many Christians behind him, only now there was a black swarm of creatures in the distance coming rapidly down the hillside and into the valley behind the Christians. The creatures were black from head to toe carrying something in their hands that reflected the sun brightly.

As that red creature in the sky drew closer, John could now make it out, and that creature was no bird.  John could not believe his eyes. A massive red dragon hovered over the valley, breathing fire and creating panic and death all around it. And the black swarm of creatures that came behind the dragon were black clad soldiers carrying large swords that glinted in the noon day sun.

With renewed urgency, John and the others pulled even harder on the iron rings. Slowly, by inches, the gates began to move. A crack appeared between the gates and a fierce bright light shot out, lighting up everything around John. He could hear angelic voices singing beyond the gates.

But he also heard a loud roaring coming from the rear as of thunder coming from the red dragon as it grew closer with its dark army. John knew in his heart that if he could not open the gates in time, the dragon and his legions would destroy everyone.

But where the brilliant light from between the gates struck, the black clad soldiers screamed and fell. Even the red dragon avoided the bright laser of light from the gates. The light was the answer.

John strained with all his strength. They had to get the gates open, or they were all doomed. Then he woke up.

John Arrowsmith lay in a pool of sweat. His breathing was heavy. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment, trying to make sense of the dream, or was it a dream? This had more of the feel of a revelation, as if God was trying to tell him something, but what?

John shook his head and rose to his feet. His pajamas were soaked. He needed a shower.

He saw an April sun rising through the window of his bedroom. It was dawn. Perhaps a sail over the waters of the Gulf of Mexico would calm his spirit and give him time to make sense out of the dream.

One thing he knew for certain. Something terrible and evil was coming his way.

To purchase a copy of On Sanctified Ground, go to Amazon.com or you can select the book below under OTHER  BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR which will send you to the main Amazon book page for the book.

Other Books by the Author

On Sanctified Ground