Death of the Pope

We hope you enjoy your visit.

You're currently viewing our forum as a guest. This means you are limited to certain areas of the board and there are some features you can't use. If you join our community, you'll be able to access member-only sections, and use many member-only features such as customizing your profile, sending personal messages, and voting in polls. Registration is simple, fast, and completely free.

Join our community!

If you're already a member please log in to your account to access all of our features:

Death of the Pope; Story #7 of "Angels at the End of Time"
Topic Started: Nov 28 2007, 02:25 PM (319 Views)
kgreen20	Nov 28 2007, 02:25 PM Post #1
Advanced Member Posts: 1,650 Group: Advanced Members Member #96 Joined: January 7, 2006	What would Tess, Monica, Andrew, and Gloria do, if they found themselves during the end-times scenario prophesied in the Bible, prior to Jesus' coming? What kinds of assignments would they receive? How would they handle their assignments? This alternate-universe series is my attempt to answer that question, to surmise how the angels would handle the events of the Rapture and the Tribulation. The first story in this ongoing series was written by Robin Day and myself. The rest, I am writing on my own. In story #7 of my end-times series, it is near the Tribulation's midpoint, and the Revelation prophecies regarding the beast and the harlot are about to be fulfilled. The leader of the new world religion--the pope--is marked for death, and his religious empire will be destroyed. Can angels get through to him and his orphaned nephew before it's too late? AUTHOR'S NOTE: As of April 19, 2005, the Catholic church has a new pope. By an eerie coincidence, Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger opted to call himself the same name I gave my fictional apostate pope in this story that was written in 2004--Pope Benedict XVI. The differences between the real-life newly-elected Pope Benedict XVI and the fictional Pope Benedict XVI of my story are, thankfully, huge. For starters, the real-life Pope Benedict is a German and the fictional Pope Benedict in my story is Italian. The real-life Pope Benedict is a conservative Catholic; the fictional Pope Benedict in "Death of the Pope" is a New Age apostate. What kind of pope the real-life Pope Benedict XVI will turn out to be, only time will tell--if his history is any consideration, he will chart a conservative course for the Catholic church as Pope John Paul II did. (So far, in the two years he has been pope, he has.) In the meantime, we can only watch and see. Yours truly, Kathy G.



kgreen20	Nov 28 2007, 02:30 PM Post #2
Advanced Member Posts: 1,650 Group: Advanced Members Member #96 Joined: January 7, 2006	PROLOGUE The pope sat perched at his mahogany bedroom desk, scanning some reports he’d received via his fax machine that day. Behind him, beams of sunlight poured through the window, illuminating his desk and everything on it. As he read the reports, a mirthless smile spread across his face. “Hundreds of—of Christians—” After spitting out the word, he pressed his lips into a tight line, taking a deep breath. “--are dead in California alone. Good.” He hurled the sheaf of papers down, then leaned back in his unyielding chair. “How dare people turn to that mythical Jesus and spread strife when they could be enjoying the new religion and living in peace and tolerance?! You’d think that after three-and-a-half years, they would have learned by now!” Pausing to light a cigarette, he raised it to his lips; taking a long puff, he blew out a cloud of smoke. Shaking his head, he rose to his feet and shoved the chair under the desk. “It would be so much easier to stamp that movement out if world power was mine, not Puccini’s. I’ve just got to gain it, somehow.” Giovanni Angelico had become Pope Benedict XVI, replacing the late Pope John Paul II, not long before the worldwide disappearances almost 3-and-a-half years before. Unlike his predecessor, who had been a conservative Catholic, Benedict had always been a liberal apostate and heavily into the occult. In the Rapture's aftermath, following the disappearance of all true Christians from the Catholic and Protestant churches, he had unified all world religions into one, and made New Age occultism its foundation. He had moved his headquarters to Babylon, in Iraq, over a year earlier. Now 55, his dark-brown hair had streaks of gray. Glancing at his cigarette, he narrowed his brown eyes as he thought about his aspirations. He then rose to his feet and approached the window. For a long moment, as he leaned his face against the windowpane’s cool surface, he stared down at the courtyard, his cigarette dangling in his fingertips. A snow-white dove flew past the window, softly cooing; he paid it no attention. It disappeared over the stone wall dividing his palace from the sandy-brown Iraqi desert. Suddenly, the pope beamed. “I know—I’ll get the leaders of the European Union to help me!” He chuckled. “They’re all beholden to me, after all, especially Puccini—after all, I’ve helped him gain and keep power. They’ll transfer my allegiance to me if I convince them it’s in their own best interests. But how do I get hold of them?” He looked at the calendar across the room. Slowly approaching it, his shoes making soft thuds in the thick carpet, he scanned his scribbled lists of appointments and scheduled events. “I see one week that’s not filled in,” he muttered. “Perhaps I can use that to my advantage.” He nodded. “I’ll hold a celebration. Right here. In honor of the new world religion. All the leaders of the European Union are faithful followers, so they will come, and they will agree with my plans when I share them.” Returning to his quarters, he entered his private study; there, he rang a buzzer underneath his desk. A moment later, his valet entered the room. “Send me my private secretary,” he ordered. Nodding acquiescence, the valet squirmed, an uneasy expression etching his face. “What is it?” the pope snapped. “Your pardon, Your Holiness, but I’ve just been approached by another servant.” The valet shifted his weight from one foot to another. “It seems the other servant smelled a peculiar sweetish scent in your nephew’s bedroom this morning.” The pope clenched his fists, his face turning beet-red. “So—he’s at it again,” he muttered. “He’s been giving me trouble ever since I moved us to Babylon.” He marched toward the valet, who took a step backward, raising his hands in front of him. “Tell Benito I want to see him in my office—now!” Nodding, the valet left. Pursing his lips for the second time, the pope left his study, slamming the door behind him. Unknown to him, four angels leaned against the wall opposite from the door. Since they were invisible to human eyes, they cast no shadow. “Giovanni Angelica,” the heavy-set supervisor angel with the chocolate-brown skin said. “Otherwise known as Pope Benedict XVI. He was elected pope when Pope John Paul II died.” She clasped her hands in front of her waist. The slender angel with luxurious brown hair, Monica, nodded agreement. Her ruby earrings swung sideways as she glanced from angel to angel. “And he’s put all the world’s religions together, to create one worldwide religion. One that’s based on what used to be called the New Age movement.” Sadness creased her forehead. Andrew shook his head, his own eyes equally sorrowful. He gazed at the supervisor angel for a long moment. “You know, Tess, I have taken Home countless Tribulation believers who have been martyred by the new pope’s henchmen for not following the new religion. Pope Benedict has sought to enforce his religion by executing everyone who refuses to follow it. And now...” He paused to smooth back his sandy-brown hair. “And now, it’s about to come full circle for him,” Tess finished for the angel of death. “He’s about to be executed himself—by the leaders of the European Union—and his religion will be disbanded.” Gloria shook her head. “Is there no way to prevent that?” She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “No, Angel Girl. What the Father has decreed, we cannot alter.” Tess nodded toward the door. “But we can act before the pope’s actions sent him to Hell and cause the untimely death of one who’s very dear to him.” “Who is that?” Gloria tilted her head. “Come with me, and I’ll show you.” Tess and the other three angels disappeared. In the pope’s formal office, Pope Benedict shouted at a 17-year-old boy. “Don’t lie to me!” he scolded. “One of the servants smelled a sickening sweet scent in your room. That can mean only thing—you’ve been smoking marijuana again!” He banged his desk so hard, his ashtray clattered. Straightening his back, the boy folded his arms across his chest and glared at his uncle. His black hair hung askew over his forehead; he reached up to brush it out of his eyes. Several pimples dotted his olive-skin face. “What if I am, Uncle Giovanni?” he asked. “What’s it hurting if I do?” Pope Benedict shook his head. “What is it hurting?” he repeated, pain creeping into his voice. “It’s hurting me, nephew!” He slowly approached the boy, who, slouching his shoulders, looked down at the floor. “You are my nephew, Benito, and I am responsible for you. I don’t want to see you destroying yourself. And that weed will destroy you, if you don’t stop smoking it. I mean it, nephew, it will!” He grasped Benito’s shoulders. “I am about to arrange a celebration here in Babylon, and I want you on your best behavior while they’re here. And that means no smoking marijuana!” A severe expression etched his face. “You will be punished if you’re caught smoking it again. You may go.” As the boy trudged out of the office, shoulders slumped, Tess shook her head in disapproval. “The boy’s taken up smoking marijuana to try to rid himself of the turmoil in his heart.” She sighed. “He never wanted to move to Iraq, to begin with—he hates it here. And his efforts to find peace and meaning through the new world religion have failed him miserably. Now he’s trying to drown his pain through drug abuse, and that’s going to fail him, too.” Shock etched Monica’s face. “Tess, are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Tess nodded. “I am, indeed, Miss Wings. Giovanna Angelica’s life is not the only one at stake.” She nodded toward the door. “Unless we can get through to the boy’s uncle before he dies, Benito Garibaldi will die, too. And both uncle and nephew will end up in Hell.” Inserting his hands into his pants pockets, Andrew nodded agreement. “We’ve got our work cut out for us, reaching them both.” He smiled wryly. “In a way, I have the easiest job—I only have to take the pope Home.” “Yes,” Tess agreed. “And as we have only a short time to get ready, we must return to Heaven and get our orders from the Father. This is such an important assignment that He wants to give us our instructions in person, so let’s go.” The four angels disappeared from the pope’s office. The pope sank into the nearest upholstered armchair, pain welling up in his eyes. At that moment, his private secretary entered the room; taking a deep breath, Pope Benedict rose to his feet and pasted a smile on his face. “Please, be seated. I have a job for you,” he said. END OF PROLOGUE



kgreen20	Nov 29 2007, 11:28 AM Post #3
Advanced Member Posts: 1,650 Group: Advanced Members Member #96 Joined: January 7, 2006	CHAPTER 1 “Hello, Giuseppe.” The pope leaned back in his unyielding, straight-backed mahogany chair, his head tilted as he held the receiver against his right ear. “It’s good to hear your voice again. How’s Silvo?” Two days had passed since the pope had conferred with his private secretary about the celebration. All morning, he had been on the phone, inviting one EU leader after the other to the event. So far, all had accepted his invitation; he would follow up the verbal invitations with written ones. Now he must invite Giuseppe, the one leader who, as Pope Benedict knew, might turn him down out of spite. I can only hope that an appeal to his fatherly side will turn the trick, he thought, as he glanced out the window at the brilliant sunlight bathing the courtyard. He knows that his son and my nephew were friends. “Silvo is fine.” The Italian leader’s voice was guarded. He had once been the Italian prime minister; Antonio Puccini had since appointed him as the Italian leader in the Western European Union. His son, Silva, had been a close friend of Benito’s; the two boys had attended school together. After a pause, the Italian leader spoke again, his voice dripping with suspicion. “But you are not calling just to inquire about my son.” Pope Benedict chuckled. “No, I’m not, my friend. I’m hosting a party here in Babylon, in honor of the success of the world religion. I’m inviting you and the other leaders of the European Union.” “And am I the first one you’ve called?” Giuseppe’s voice sounded cold. Pope Benedict forced a smile on his face. “No, Giuseppe, you’re the last. The others have already accepted my invitation. Your son is invited to come, too. My Benito misses him greatly. He would like very much to see him again.” Giuseppe lapsed into silence for a long moment; at last, he sighed. “My son misses Benito, too.” He cleared his throat. “For his sake, I’ll accept your invitation.” A beaming smile spread across Pope Benedict’s face. “I’ll tell Benito. He will be so pleased.” He paused. “I’ll send you a formal invitation today. It will give the dates.” “Very well. Good-bye.” A click, followed by a dial tone, replaced Giuseppe’s voice. The pope laid the receiver down, then folded his arms on the desk, smiling. His fingertips rested against the smooth, polished surface. “If even Giuseppe has agreed to come, then things are going well,” he told himself, gazing at a stack of tarot cards. He felt wonderful about this impending celebration. He had made a point of inviting only the 10 leaders of the EU—he was not going to invite Antonio Puccini or Puccini’s second-in-command, the Israeli Jew Elijah Dayan. He intended to depose those two men and ensconce himself as the world dictator; he needed the loyalty and assistance of the European Union to succeed. During the celebration, he meant to take them into his confidence and make his plans. Good things were going to result; he could feel it. The pope winced. With one possible exception, that is—his nephew’s attitude—it had been sour ever since they’d moved to Babylon. Pope Benedict sighed; his nephew’s unhappiness and spirit of rebellion grieved him. “I’ve just got to do something about Benito,” he told himself. “If only he could learn to love this region as I do!” He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “And now he’s smoking that repulsive marijuana!” He shook his head. For years, Pope Benedict had wanted to move his headquarters to Babylon, and over a year before, he’d done it. Over a 30-year period, he had visited the site of the old Babylon on several occasions; each time, he’d felt its spirit calling to him. He’d long wanted to live in the site where the occultic religion had been created, and where it had once been at its strongest—during the reign of Nebuchadnezzar. Now that he was finally there, he meant to try to overthrow Puccini and take his place as world leader. “I’ve wanted to live here for so long,” he muttered. “And now I do! If only Benito liked it here, too.” He grimaced. “It was a most unpleasant day, when I told the boy we were going to live in Babylon. He’s been sullen ever since I brought him here.” Pope Benedict sighed, as the memory of that day entered his mind’s eye... “Say good-bye to your friends at school, Benito,” the pope ordered. “We’re moving to Babylon next week, and we’ve got to spend the rest of this week packing.” Benito gaped at him, as shock etched his youthful face. “To Babylon? You must be joking!” “I don’t joke about things like this, nephew,” Pope Benedict told him sternly. “And we are moving there, so you’re just going to have to accept it.” “No! I won’t! I won’t move to Babylon—all my friends are here!” Benito stormed out of the room, slamming the door... Pope Benedict sighed. The months since their move had not thawed his nephew in the least—Benito still hated Iraq as much as he had when they first arrived. “Maybe some visits from his friends will make it easier for him,” he told himself. “I’m pleased that Giuseppe has accepted the invitation. Benito will like that.” A knock on the door startled him. “Come in!” he barked. The door swung open; his secretary entered the room. “Excuse me, your Holiness, but some women are waiting in the hall to see you. They tell me you’ve hired them to help you prepare for the celebration.” Pope Benedict rose to his feet. “Show them in.” The secretary bowed, then left the office; three women entered. One was a heavy-set black woman, and another had a slender figure, flawless complexion, and long brown hair. The third had long reddish-brown hair and wore glasses. “Pope Benedict?” The heavy-set woman stepped forward. “My name is Tess, and I run the catering service you hired. This is Monica, and that’s Gloria. They will be assisting me in setting up your celebration.” Monica smiled. “Hello. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She extended her hand; the pope shook it. The sweet scent of perfume wafted toward the pope’s nose. “Hi.” Gloria raised her hand in greeting, then pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. The pope nodded. “I’m glad to have you ladies here. This is going to be a big job, preparing the celebration. I want everything to run smoothly, and I’m counting on you to make it do so.” Monica nodded acquiescence. “We will do everything in our power to see that it does.” She spoke with an Irish accent, the pope noticed. He nodded toward the open doorway. “Let’s go my quarters, then, and I’ll give you your instructions there. We have much to do, so let’s get started.” END OF CHAPTER 1



kgreen20	Nov 30 2007, 11:33 AM Post #4
Advanced Member Posts: 1,650 Group: Advanced Members Member #96 Joined: January 7, 2006	CHAPTER 2 The next two weeks were busy ones. Tess, Monica, and Gloria ordered the food and supervised the staff’s housecleaning of the whole palace; they helped Pope Benedict decide what events would take place, and when, and where. Benito, more cheerful since learning that his friend Silvo was coming, helped his uncle and the three angels make the preparations. Gloria wrote the invitations under the pope’s supervision and mailed them to the 10 EU leaders. She had already written their names and addresses in an address book she’d brought for her job. “Let’s see.” Perched at the pope’s desk, Gloria scanned her address book, as Pope Benedict looked over her shoulder. A cigarette dangled from his fingers; the choking acrid smoke made her cough repeatedly. “You’ve invited the 10 leaders, and doubtless they will bring their servants with them.” She coughed. “That means we must arrange accommodations not only for them, but for their staff as well.” The pope nodded. “Yes.” He turned to Tess, who leaned against the window behind Gloria. “I’m putting you in charge of preparing their rooms. Gloria, you will inform me if any of the leaders send me a response.” “OK.” Gloria slipped the address book into her pants pocket and left. Tess followed on her heels. The pope took a long puff of his cigarette, a satisfied smirk spreading across his face. And so the preparations continued. When the day of the guests’ arrival came, every member of the pope’s own staff was on pins and needles, as was Benito himself. “It’s been almost three-and-a-half years since my parents disappeared,” Benito told Monica, as he awaited word that his friend had arrived. The two of them had decided to wait in the pope’s private dining room, where he typically ate with his nephew. “They disappeared with all the others?” Monica asked softly. Benito nodded, staring down at the dining table. “Yes. They talked about Jesus a lot, and took me to Mass every week. I hated going to church, but I...” He sighed. “I still miss them.” He drummed his fingers on the table’s polished surface as he spoke. He could vaguely see his own reflection in its surface. Beams of sunlight poured through the windowpane behind them, forming a rectangle of reflected light on the smooth waxed floor. Monica laid a hand on his shoulder. “I know.” Sympathy filled her voice. Benito bit his lower lip. “If only my parents were still alive! They would have never made me move to Babylon! They loved Rome, too.” He fixed a fierce glare on Monica’s face. “I hate it here! I hate Iraq!” Monica nodded. She had known that, even before she’d met the boy. Benito had never wanted to leave Rome. She could understand how he felt. After all, he had been born in that city, grown up there, gone to school there, and played with his friends there. Before the Rapture, he and his parents had visited his uncle frequently—first in his elegant mansion, when he had been a cardinal, then later at the Vatican. He had never wanted to leave the city he loved, to begin with; even less had he ever wanted to move to this repulsive Babylon! If he could have his way, he and his uncle would have stayed in Rome always. Benito doesn’t know that in less than three-and-a-half years, the Father is going to destroy Rome, Monica thought, as pain welled up in her heart. Nor am I at liberty to tell him. Not now. Silently, she prayed that God would minister His love to Benito, and get through to the boy and to his uncle before it was too late. Clasping her hands in front of her waist, she said out loud, “You must look forward to seeing your friend again.” The boy’s eyes glowed. “Yes, I am. Silvo’s always been a good friend.” His eyes twinkled. “Even if he is a better student than I am!” He and Monica laughed. Monica had already learned that Benito did not love books and that he hated to study; his grades tended to range from mediocre to average. Private tutoring in Babylon had not change that. Silvo, on the other hand, had always been an honor student. The ornate mahogany dining-room door swung open; Tess appeared in the doorway. A diamond brooch sparkled on her chest. “Your uncle’s guests are just now arriving, Benito. He wants you to help greet them.” Benito rose to his feet. “All right. I’m coming.” As he approached the door, Tess held up a hand toward Monica. “I need to talk to you.” She glanced at the boy. “Go on, Benito. I’ll join you and your uncle shortly.” When Benito had left, Tess approached the other angel, her shoes clumping on the shining polished floor. “Miss Wings, you’re going to have to stay in the kitchen, more or less, until this assignment is over.” Monica stared at her. “But why—” “Antonio Puccini is here.” Tess shook her head, displeasure in her eyes. “Even though he wasn’t invited, he’s decided to come anyway. And Elijah Dayan has come with him. If Puccini sees you, Angel Girl, it won’t take him long to figure out what you’re here for.” Sighing, Monica nodded acquiescence. Tess was right, she knew. Antonio already knew of her identity from a previous assignment, and he could jeopardize this one if he saw her now. “All right.” She sighed again. “But if Satan tells him—” “He won’t. The Father has told me that.” Tess wagged her finger, then laid a hand on Monica’s shoulder. “You just keep out of sight until the Father tells you to move! If the Father moves you to minister to Benito, you’ll have to do it in the privacy of his suite, where Puccini won’t find you.” "Yes, ma'am." Monica thought of something. “Tess, is Ryan Whittaker—? Tess shook her head. “No, he’s on vacation. His wife, Kristen, has just had her second baby, and Puccini has given them both a maternity leave of absence. A substitute pilot has brought Puccini here. So we won’t be seeing the Whittakers or the Dalys during this assignment.” Tess glanced at her watch. “Now get a move on!” Monica followed her supervisor into the hallway, where she turned left to go to the kitchen. Tess turned right to go to the reception hall. There, she found Pope Benedict gaping at Puccini, making an obvious attempt to form a welcoming smile on his face. Clearly, Puccini was the last person the pope wanted to see at this time. A crystal chandelier, shedding its golden light throughout the reception hall, hung 50 feet above their heads; a wall-to-wall Oriental carpet covered the floor from one end to the other. Oil paintings spanned the walls. The 10 leaders of the Western European Union stood milling around; Elijah Dayan chatted with the Greek leader. “My invitation must have been lost in the mail,” Puccini was saying, a peeved expression etched on his face. He folded his arms across his chest, staring into the pope’s brown eyes. “I never even knew of the celebration till Giuseppe Spadolini told me. Naturally, I decided to come.” The pope bowed. “Of course. Come with me, and I’ll have a servant prepare guest rooms for you and Dayan.” He beckoned to Tess, who approached him. “Better have a servant prepare rooms for those two and their staff; I wasn’t expecting them to come,” he told her, in a low voice. With a nod, Tess turned and left. Meanwhile, in the opposite corner, Benito chattered joyfully with Silvo. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you!” A broad smile spread across Benito’s face. “How’s your papá?” “He’s fine.” Silvo grinned, then furrowed his eyebrows. “Except he’s not happy to see your uncle.” He glanced toward his father as he spoke. Benito made a face. “He still hates my uncle Giovanni?” Silvo nodded. “Yes. He’s never forgiven him, you know, for excommunicating his second wife before the disappearances, and persuading the president to fire him. That was before Puccini, of course.” Benito nodded; he knew all about that. Silvo lowered his voice. “Come to my room tonight. I’ve got something for you. No, I can’t tell you what it is now—someone might hear me.” He glanced from side to side, obviously fearful of being overheard. Benito nodded. A half-hour later, a servant led Puccini and Dayan down the carpeted halls to their guest quarters. Another led the members of their staff to the quarters assigned to them. Pope Benedict turned to the 10 leaders, folding his own arms across his chest. “I am so glad you gentlemen have come.” The assembled leaders turned quiet. Benedict smiled coldly. “Since Puccini acts under my orders, it’s only fair that the rest of you do the same. The new religion is more important than anything else, and I expect everyone to follow it.” The leaders pursed their lips, but said nothing. A hint of hostility crept into Giuseppe Spadolini’s eyes. Pope Benedict smirked. “Really, I can do a better job of running the government than that Puccini can, don’t you think?” He did not wait for an answer, but kept talking. “I invited you all here, because I will need your help in taking him out of office. After the celebration, we will have a meeting, and I will tell you what to do. And I expect you to do it, without questioning me!” He bowed. “Thank you.” As he left the reception hall, he shook his head. “Giuseppe may be hard to win over,” he muttered. “He’s opposed me on a number of issues. I’ll have to persuade him, somehow.” He ground his teeth. “How dare Antonio come to this celebration when I didn’t invite him?! This celebration was for the European leaders alone! His presence here could spoil everything.” Giuseppe shook his fist at the departing figure. “I will tell Puccini what the pope has said,” he said in a low voice. “Doubtless, our leader will call a meeting this evening.” Puccini did indeed call a meeting that evening, without inviting the pope. They all met in his guest quarters. “This is it.” Puccini raised his arm above his head and leaned it against the rough surface of the plastered wall; the 10 leaders milled around him. “When the pope talks about overthrowing me and taking over my place of leadership, the time has come to get rid of him.” A hard tone crept into his voice. “This is what I suspected he might do, which is the reason I came. He would have invited Dayan and me, otherwise.” “I agree,” Giuseppe said. “Pope Benedict is arrogant and power-hungry. All he wants is control!” He scowled. “I say let’s get rid of him, once and for all!” A cold smile spread across Antonio’s face. “Any suggestions as to how?” The leader of Great Britain spoke up. “I jolly well suggest that he be disrobed, banished to some isolated country in disgrace.” The Portuguese leader shook his head. “Perhaps he can be bought off. A generous offer of money might persuade him to step down.” For the next 15 minutes, the leaders discussed possible ways of getting rid of Pope Benedict XVI. Unknown to them, two angels, Tess and Gloria, stood across the room, watching. “Well, Gloria, the day is approaching,” Tess told the newest angel. “We have less than a week to do our job.” Gloria tilted her head. “But they haven’t talked about killing him yet.” Tess nodded. “They won’t, not in this meeting. But they will decide to, later.” She paused. “And when they do, prophecy will be fulfilled.” “You mean, the prophecy in the Book of Revelation? About the beast and the harlot?” Gloria gazed at her supervisor quizzically. Tess nodded. At last, Puccini raised his hand for silence. “All of you have proposed ways of getting rid of the pope. Rest assured, I will consider them all.” He glanced at his solid-gold watch, as it gleamed in the soft glow of the lamplight. He turned to glance out the window at the stars studding the velvety-black sky above the darkened palace wall. “Meanwhile, it is getting late, and the celebration starts tomorrow. So I suggest we all go to bed, and come to a final decision on the means after the festivities end. Do not worry, gentlemen, we will get rid of Pope Benedict. We will meet again in a few days, to decide how. And when.” Acquiescing, the leaders filed out of the sitting room, one by one. When the last one had left, Puccini turned to Dayan. “See you in the morning.” Nodding, Dayan left. In that instant, the angels vanished, still invisible. As Antonio undressed, rage welled up in his heart. He had just about had it with Pope Benedict! As far as he was concerned, the pope had crossed a line. With the EU’s help, he was going to put that obnoxious pope out of power! Puccini had no intention of letting anyone usurp his authority. “And then I will take the church’s money and lands for myself,” he told himself. “With the religion’s resources, I will have more power at my disposal than I have ever had in my lifetime!” A cold smile spread across his face. “I brook no one trying to usurp my control over this planet. I am in absolute power over the whole world now, and I mean to stay there! Until now, I have permitted the pope to ride herd over me; I have needed his help to stay in power. But the time has come to stand alone. My master has told me that.” Smiling at the thought, he proceeded to don his silk pajamas. He had a big day the next day, so he needed his sleep. The mattress sagged and creaked under him as he spread his form across it; reaching sideways, he flipped the tabletop lamp off. Soon, his snores filled the bedroom. END OF CHAPTER 2



kgreen20	Dec 1 2007, 02:42 PM Post #5
Advanced Member Posts: 1,650 Group: Advanced Members Member #96 Joined: January 7, 2006	CHAPTER 3 Meanwhile, Benito crept noiselessly toward his friend’s guest rooms down the hall, tiptoeing down the thick carpet spanning the hall. He paused in front of Silvo’s doorway, then knocked softly. “Come in,” his friend’s voice called. Benito pushed the mahogany door open. “Hello, Silvo.” Benito softly closed the sitting-room door behind him and entered the bedroom adjoining that room. Silvo reclined on his king-sized bed, hands folded under his head. His eyes twinkled as he pushed himself into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the edge. His fingertips made soft dents in the blue satin bedspread; the mattress sagged and creaked underneath as he shifted position. “I’ve got some marijuana. Here.” Silvo handed a joint to his friend. Silently, perching side by side on the edge of the bed, the two boys lit their joints and puffed on them. A sickening sweet odor filled the guest bedroom, accompanied by smoke. “The celebration starts tomorrow.” As usual, Benito sat slouched. “My uncle’s going to make a speech, then Tess is going to sing. She’s not only an incredible organizer, she’s a good singer, too.” He smiled. “I’ve heard her.” Silvo grinned. “I can’t wait to hear her, then! I really don’t want to listen to a speech, though.” He grimaced. “Your uncle’s not bad, but...well...” “I know.” Benito made a face. “His speeches are so long and dull!” His joint dangled between his fingertips. Silvo raised a finger to his lips, then slipped into the walk-in closet to his left. When he came out, a small leather bag swung at his side. “I’ve got something to show you,” he whispered. He unzipped the bag and held it open for Benito. As the other boy peered into it, he whistled. “What is that?” “Crack.” Silvo grinned. “A pusher sold it to me, before we came. It cost me my whole gold allowance, that I’d been saving for months. But I knew you’d want to have some, too.” “I sure would!” A smile spread across Benito’s face. “So, let’s get started!” Silvo raised his hand. “Not so fast, Benito! I’m not giving it to you—not for free. I need back some of the gold I gave that pusher, so you can only have some if I sell it to you. If my father ever found out my gold is gone, he’d want to know why, and then he’d be furious, so I’ve got to get it back! Your uncle gives you gold, doesn’t he, along with a bank account?” Disappointment welled up in Benito’s heart. After a long moment, he rose to his feet. “Yes, he does. I’ll be back. I must find my gold. It’s a good thing my uncle does give me some, seeing as we can’t buy and sell with money anymore. My debit card will do me no good with this.” He dropped his half-smoked joint on the bed, then reached over to snuff it out with his handkerchief. Silvo sighed. “No, it won’t. It’s hard to sell privately, now that we can’t carry money anymore.” He shrugged. “I’m glad we still get to use gold! Go back and get it; I’ll wait for you.” When Benito re-entered his own bedroom minutes later, he opened the wooden crate he kept in his own walk-in closet.. Unknown to him, an invisible Monica stood on the other side of the king-sized bed from the closet, apprehension surging in her heart. She caught her breath as she watched, wringing her hands. “No,” she whispered. “Please, Father, no!” These two boys must not destroy their lives over drugs! Somehow, she had to keep that from happening. “Please, Father,” she prayed, “hide Benito’s gold!” A loud groan startled her. Benito peered into his open crate, then rummaged through it. “I don’t believe it!” he muttered. “What happened to my gold? It was there this morning! I saw it.” With a sigh, he tossed it on the bed. “No crack tonight.” Shaking his head, he trudged out of the room, slamming the door behind him. A relieved angel breathed out a prayer of thanks. Benito returned to Silvo’s guest quarters and sagged onto the bed. “I couldn’t find my gold,” he said. “I thought it was in my room, but it’s gone.” He shook his head, shoulders slumped. He rubbed his fingertips against the bedspread’s silky-soft texture. “I could have sworn I saw it in there this morning.” Taking a deep breath, Silvo nodded. “I’ll hold the crack till you find it.” He put a hand on Benito’s shoulder. “Come on, I’ll show you my new CDs. My papá got them for my birthday last month.” With a sigh, Benito pasted a smile on his face. He would get some of the crack yet—he just had to be patient. With slouched shoulders, he followed Silvo into his sitting room, and perched on the soft, thick carpet to admire his friend’s new music CDs. END OF CHAPTER 3



kgreen20	Dec 2 2007, 05:56 PM Post #6
Advanced Member Posts: 1,650 Group: Advanced Members Member #96 Joined: January 7, 2006	CHAPTER 4 The next morning, the opening ceremony began in the huge reception hall. The pope stood on a raised platform, behind a podium, to welcome his guests. Tess leaned against the wall, wearing a blue ball gown and a sparkling ruby brooch; she had agreed to sing for his guests the night before. “It pleases me that every one of you leaders accepted my invitation.” He folded his arms on the podium, leaning forward. “That shows me that, with a little cooperation, we can yet make this world the harmonious sphere of tolerance that we’ve already worked to create. Unfortunately, there are still those who would destroy that peace and harmony with their divisive, intolerant beliefs. I don’t just refer to those who call themselves Christians, when I say that; I refer to the Jews as well.” A hard tone crept into his voice, as an expression of severity etched his face. Silently, Puccini left the room, followed by Dayan. Pope Benedict frowned, as he silently wondered what they were up to. His face softening, he added, “However, I will not discuss that now. The purpose of this celebration is just what its name implies—to celebrate. Because, in spite of our enemies, we do indeed have much to rejoice over. We are a world community now. We have one government, one currency, and one religion. We have not had one war in the last three-and-a-half years, so world peace has become a reality, too. And so has prosperity—never have there been more well-paying jobs, all over the world, than there are now! Perhaps one day, we will all have one language as well.” He paused. “And since we moved every nation to a cashless system, thievery and kidnapping for ransom have all but disappeared. The only danger that remains, as of now, is the possibility of having one’s debit card stolen. But we are working to devise ways to eliminate even that danger.” A satisfied smile crept across his face. “You all have much to thank me for.” Behind the Greek leader, Giuseppe bared his teeth. The pope nodded toward Tess, who slowly approached him, her shoes softly thudding on the Oriental carpet. “And now, lest I bore you with one of my lengthy speeches, may I present Tess. I have invited her to sing.” The assembled leaders applauded as Tess stepped onto the platform. Without a word, the pope exited the reception hall in search of Puccini and Dayan. As Tess began to sing, Silvo approached Benito. “Here,” he whispered. “Have a joint. It’s all I can give you, until you find your gold.” Benito nodded. “Thank you.” Silvo returned to his father; in an effort to look casual, Benito strolled toward the exit door in his usual slouched posture. Pausing in the entrance, he turned to glance at the others. All had their eyes fixed on Tess. She sure knows how to sing, he thought. But there’s going to be more speeches after she’s done, and I don’t want to hear them. He made a face at the prospect. For a moment, he paused to gaze at the crystal dolphin that had once belonged to his father; it rested on a gleaming marble countertop. He fingered its smooth curves for a long moment, admiring the way it glistened in the chandelier’s light, then hurried through the doorway. Benito could hardly wait to get away from the others. He had no interest in listening to some boring speeches; all he wanted to do was smoke the marijuana his friend had given him. The boy softly closed the mahogany door behind him. After watching and listening for anyone coming, he hurried down the hall toward an alcove. There, he pulled a cigarette lighter out of his jeans pocket and lighted the marijuana joint. As he took a long puff, he sighed in contentment. He stepped out into the hallway and crept toward the nearest room. “What are you doing, Benito?!” The boy whirled around to find his uncle gaping at him, a mixture of shock and rage etched on his beet-red face. “Uncle Giovanni—” he began. “Don’t ‘Uncle Giovanni’ me!” The pope snatched the joint from Benito and examined it. He hurled it to the floor, then crushed it under his shoe. “We’ve had this discussion before, young man; I told you not to do this!” “I’m just smoking some marijuana, uncle,” Benito retorted. “It’s not going to kill me!” The pope aimed a quivering finger at his nephew. A vein pulsated in his neck. “Go to your room! Right now!” he barked. “You may not take part in the celebration or spend any more time with Silvo. I told you that if you were caught doing this again, you would be punished. I meant that, Benito!” He pointed down the hall. “Now go!” After glaring at his uncle for a long moment, Benito trudged down the hall. Resentment swirled in his heart as he approached his quarters. This is not fair! he thought. All I wanted to do was smoke some marijuana, and he acted as if I was becoming a drug pusher or something! Benito couldn’t stand the way things were going. His uncle was being way too controlling! It was his life, and he was going to live it the way he pleased. He wished—not for the first time—that he was old enough to be out on his own. “Uncle Giovanni has told me I can’t spend any time with Silvo now.” Benito slammed his fist on the dresser’s unyielding surface; pain shot through his knuckles, making him wince. “Why did he even invite Silvo if he’s not going to let me be with him?!” Slumping in the nearest armchair, clutching his throbbing hand, Benito gazed out the window for a long time, reminiscing. He thought about the days when he and Silvo would go to the movies, then to a restaurant afterward…when they’d spend the nights at each other’s homes, watching TV, listening to the radio and music CDs, and playing video games…when they attended Mass together, before the worldwide disappearances three-and-a-half years before. How Benito had missed Silvo since his move to Babylon! And what a joy it had been, to learn that Silvo was going to attend the celebration with his father. “And now I can’t even be with him, so he may as well have stayed home,” Benito muttered. “It’s not fair!” He glared out the window at the expanse of desert stretching to the horizon. Unlike his uncle, Benito’s windows faced the open desert. “I hate it here! I hate Iraq.” He wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead. “It’s so hot here. And the desert is so ugly and bare.” He ground his teeth. “So bare, so hot, and so ugly!” A knock on the door startled him. Before he could respond, it creaked open. Monica peeked around its edge. “May I come in?” Sighing, Benito nodded. Monica entered the room, the door clicking shut behind her. “Your uncle told me what happened,” she said softly. “It must be very hard, being told you can’t be with your friend.” Benito glared at her. He clenched his hands so tightly his knuckles turned white. “You don’t know what it’s like, Monica! I don’t have any friends here—I hate it here! I wish my uncle would move back to Rome. I do.” Monica laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I know it’s hard,” she said softly. Compassion radiated in her eyes as she gazed into his. “But smoking marijuana will not make your stay here any easier to endure. It will only cause you pain. Much pain.” She brushed a stray bang out of his eyes. “Have you thought about asking God to help you?” “God? What God?” Benito snorted. “If there was a God, would He have taken my parents from me? Or let my uncle move me to this—this awful place? Think He’s going to listen to me now?!” He waved toward the expanse of desert stretching outside his window. “Anyway, my uncle wouldn’t let me do it!” He gazed down at his feet, misery welling up in him. Monica put her arms around him; the boy took a deep, shuddering breath as he leaned into her embrace. The strong scent of perfume filled his nostrils. After a long moment, Monica stepped back. “I must go back to the kitchen now, but I’ll be here if you need to talk to me.” She squeezed his shoulder. “I know this is a difficult time, Benito, but don’t shut out the people who love you. And don’t shut God out, because He loves you, too. Turn to Him and tell Him what you told me. I promise you, Benito, He will listen.” She cupped her hand under his chin and raised his face to meet hers. “And so will I.” She withdrew a a paperback book out of her pocket and slipped it into his hand. “I know you don’t like to read, Benito, but since you’re confined to your room now, you might find this a diversion.” With a tender, compassionate smile, she left. For a long moment, Benito stared at the door, thinking about what she’d said. At last, he shook his head. “What’s the use in praying? He would never listen if I did talk to him!” he muttered. Sinking onto the edge of his bed, he gazed down at the cover of the book. “The Screwtape Letters, by C.S. Lewis?” He furrowed his eyebrows in bewilderment. “Who’s he?” With a sigh, he dropped the book on the silky-soft bedcovers, then rose to his feet. Shoulders slumped, he trudged toward the dresser, where a stack of tarot cards lay next to one of his handkerchiefs. He really didn’t feel like reading; he had never liked books. It would not get his mind off things to do so now. Perhaps a private fortune-telling session would help. His uncle not only did not forbid his use of the tarot cards and other occultic items, he actively encouraged them. As the boy cradled the card deck in his palms, a soft cooing startled him. Dropping the deck, he whirled to find a snow-white dove perching on his window ledge. Earlier, he had opened the window in the hope that a breeze would enter the stifling-hot room. The dove tilted its head this way and that. Benito smiled, in spite of himself. He had always liked birds. Suddenly, the dove spread its wings and flew off. Shaking his head, Benito turned his attention back to the tarot cards. As he reached down to pick them up, he hesitated. “Maybe I’ve got something else valuable,” he told himself. “If I can’t find my gold, I’ll find something else to trade, in exchange for Silvo’s crack. If I want to see him now, I’ll have to sneak out after dark.” He sighed. “Meanwhile, I need to wipe my face. It’s hot in here! I wish the air-conditioning wasn’t out of order.” As he picked up his handkerchief, something under his bed caught his eye. He knelt to have a look at the shining object. Gold! he thought. My gold! How did it get down there? Mouth agape, eyebrows furrowed, elbows flattening tufts of the soft, thick carpet, he stared down at the small gold bricks for a long moment. “How did they get under the bed?” he muttered. “What happened? Gold bricks don’t just disappear from one spot and reappear someplace else!” He shook his head. “Could someone have tried to steal it? And then brought it back?” A shrill jangle behind him startled the boy. The phone was ringing. Leaping to his feet, he rushed to his desk to pick up the phone. “Hello, Benito,” said Silvo. “Hello, Silvo.” Benito smiled. “Well, I found my gold—it was underneath my bed. But my uncle caught me smoking, and he’s confining me to my room as punishment.” He sighed. “Don’t worry. I’ll come see you.” “Thank you.” Benito glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand. “How about right now? My uncle will be busy with the celebration for the rest of the day.” “I’ll be there. And I’ll bring something to hide the gold in so no one else will see it.” Silvo hung up. Benito threw himself onto the bed; he craned his head to glance at the tarot cards and sighed. I’ve used those cards so much, he thought. And I’ve had my horoscope cast, and gone to fortune-tellers, and used my uncle’s Ouija board and crystal ball. I’ve been to séances, too! He bit his lower lip. Out loud, he asked, “Why do they not work? Why don’t they make me feel better? Why do they only make me feel worse?” Folding his arms underneath his head, he closed his eyes. He would seek an answer to that later. Right now, he had to wait for Silvo. Maybe the crack would put him at peace where the New Age devices could not. He glanced sideways at the book Monica had brought him, then shook his head. Meanwhile, Silvo picked up small bag of crack and slid it into his jeans pocket. He draped a burlap bag over the crook of his arm, to wrap the gold in. After peering up and down the corridor to make sure no one was coming, he softly closed the door and crept down the hall toward Benito’s room. To his dismay, his father stepped out of one of the rooms to the left. The door clicked shut behind Giuseppe. “Where are you going, son?” the Italian leader asked him. “Just looking around, Papá,” said the boy, his voice shaking. END OF CHAPTER 4



kgreen20	Dec 3 2007, 02:40 PM Post #7
Advanced Member Posts: 1,650 Group: Advanced Members Member #96 Joined: January 7, 2006	CHAPTER 5 Giuseppe frowned as he glanced at the leather bag sticking out of his son’s pocket. “What is that?” Silvo glanced down at the tip of the bag, then shrugged. “Nothing, Father.” “Let me see it.” A suspicious tone crept into Giuseppe’s voice. Taking a deep breath, Silvo slowly pulled the bag out of his jeans pocket and held it up. His father’s face turned beet-red as he grabbed the bag, opened it, and stared down into its contents. “Where did you get this?!” he shouted. “How long have you been taking this—this—!” He slapped Silvo, who staggered backward. Giuseppe snatched the burlap bag from his son and draped it over his shoulder. “You’re in for it now, young man! I will not have a son of mine using illegal drugs! You’re going to be turned over to the authorities when we go home.” Giuseppe pointed a quivering finger at the boy. Silvo was distraught. He was in real trouble now! Somehow, he had to persuade his father to rescind the threatened punishment. He took a deep breath again. “Please, Papá,” he said, “it was not my idea! It—it was Benito’s. He—he gave it to me, last night!” Giuseppe’s eyes narrowed into tiny slits. “And where, pray tell, did Benito get this crack?” Silvo took another deep breath. He had no desire to get Benito or the pope in trouble, but it was either them or him now. He glanced down at his shoes. In a small voice, he answered, “His uncle gave it to him.” His father grabbed him by the collar. “Pope Benedict is going to pay dearly for this!” Releasing the boy, Giuseppe hurled the leather bag to the floor, then slammed his fist against the mahogany highboy behind him. “You’re a dead man, Pope Benedict! I’m going to kill you!” Without another word, Silvo tiptoed away while his irate father, facing the wall, shouted threats against the pope. I’ve got to get away from him, fast! As he rushed toward his friend’s bedroom, his shoes softly thudding on the carpet, a mixture of relief and guilt warred in Silvo’s heart. He might well have gotten his best friend in real trouble, and the pope, too. But that was better than being turned over to the authorities by his stern father. He slid to a halt in front of Benito’s door, then knocked. The door swung open; Benito framed the entrance. “Come in,” he whispered. Looking behind him, Silvo crept through the doorway. Benito shut the door. “I—I can’t sell it to you now,” Silvo said, slumping onto the bed. “My father caught me with the bag I was bringing you.” Cursing, Benito slumped onto the bed next to him. The mattress sagged and creaked underneath as he half-turned to face Silvo. “Why do they keep catching us? Why can’t we get away with it?” Silvo grimaced. “I don’t know. Fortunately, I have more in my room. I keep it hidden under my books and things.” Benito straightened his back. “How are we going to get together to take it?” Silvo glanced out the window at the expanse of desert for a long moment. “I have an idea.” He looked nervously toward the door, then whispered, “Come to my rooms, the last night of the celebration, and bring the gold with you. I’ll sell it to you then. I don’t dare bring it to you now—my father might catch me again.” Benito nodded. “I’ll be there.” He sighed. “In the meantime, we’ll have to sneak to each other’s rooms after dark. My uncle has forbidden me to see you for the rest of the celebration.” Silvo pursed his lower lip. “I don’t like that! It may be months before I get to come back.” Benito scowled. “I’ve been here for well over a year now. I hate it here! I want to go back to Rome.” “I wish you could, too.” Silvo sighed. He glanced at his watch. “I better go before your uncle catches me. I’ll be back tonight. Want to play a video game when I return?” Nodding, Benito raised his hand as his friend left, the door clicking shut behind him. “Yes. We will. Good-bye.” After staring at the wall for a long moment, he picked up the book Monica had given him and flipped open the first page. Guess this is what it’s like to be a prisoner, he thought wryly. You get so bored you’ll even do things you usually hate! Meanwhile, Silvo’s father cornered Tess as she approached with a tray of drinks in her hand. “Tess, I want you to tell the other leaders I’m calling an immediate meeting. The other leaders of the European Union, and Puccini.” Tess nodded, cradling the gleaming silver tray against her chest. “And the pope?” Giuseppe shook his head. “No. I wish to prepare a surprise for him—the surprise will be spoiled if he knows about the meeting. Just tell the other leaders. Tell them I want to meet with them in my quarters in 15 minutes.” Nodding acquiescence, Tess walked on past, balancing the tray of drinks. As she served them in the reception hall, she whispered to each leader, “Giuseppe Spadolini wants to hold a private meeting in his quarters.” Father, she prayed silently, should I tell Pope Benedict that Giuseppe is plotting to murder him? The answer that instantly came forbade her to do so. Sighing, she raised her head toward the ceiling, nodded acquiescence, and returned the empty tray to the kitchen. When the Father gave an order, it only remained for an angel to obey. As she pushed her way past the swinging kitchen door, she found Monica perched on a stool at the counter, sipping a steaming cup of coffee. “Angel Girl, put down that coffee now!” Tess set the tray on the counter, then put her hands on her hips. “You and I have an important meeting to go to!” “Yes, ma’am.” Monica set her china coffee cup on the smooth cabinet; it landed with a clink. She followed her supervisor out the door. “How many times must I tell you this is not a coffee assignment?” Tess wagged her finger, her face etched with severity. “Where’s Gloria?” Monica looked up and down the hall. “Doing her work elsewhere; she’s not going to join us for this.” Tess marched down the hall, Monica following behind. “We’ll fill her in when the time is right.” Minutes later, Puccini and the 10 leaders of the European Union met in Giuseppe’s sitting room. They sat in a half-circle, perched on folding metal chairs. The Italian leader’s face had turned beet-red, and his hands shook with evident rage. Sunlight poured through the window behind him, forming shadows below the legs of the chairs and the men sitting in them. Unknown to him, Tess and Monica listened from the Italian leader’s bedroom, invisible to human eyes. To Tess’ relief, Puccini gave no hint that he knew that angels were in the next room. “It’s time we decided how to get rid of the pope.” Giuseppe looked from one leader to another, fists clenched in his lap so tightly his knuckles had turned white. “I suggest that we kill him! He’s an atrocious man, and he deserves to die.” Chuckling, Antonio rose to his feet. “What happened to make you want to kill him, Spadolini?” Giuseppe held up the leather bag. “This!” Leaping out of his chair, he marched to his desk and hurled the bag on its smooth surface. He returned to his seat and perched on it stiffly. “Do you know what’s in that bag? Crack!” Rising to his feet again, he paced back and forth. “The pope gave it to Benito, and then Benito tried to sell it to my nephew! This man runs the world religion, and yet he gives drugs to his nephew to give to my son!” His already-red face deepened to purple as he spoke. His hands shook with rage. Putting his hands on his hips, he pivoted to face the others. “He will never get another chance to pull such a stunt, not if I can help it! He’s going to die if I have to kill him myself!” He glared at Puccini, as if daring him to stop him. The other leaders nodded agreement. “I agree,” the Greek leader said. “Even death is too good for Pope Benedict, but I can think of no worse punishment to give him. I agree—let’s kill him!” The others concurred. A cold smile of satisfaction spread across Giuseppe’s face. “Then let’s do it! Right now! I brought a gun with me—let’s find Puccini and put a bullet through his head!” He ground the toe of his right shoe against the carpet, flattening the tufts beneath. Puccini rose to his feet and held up his hand. “Not now, Giuseppe. Not yet. I understand your rage, but we must not act impulsively. We need to plan this out carefully.” He paused. “You will carry out the deed at the close of the celebration. That will give us a chance to hold one more meeting and make our plans.” With a sigh, Giuseppe nodded acquiescence. He held up his hands in surrender. “Very well, Antonio. I guess a few days won’t harm us.” The men left the sitting room, one by one, to return to the celebration. Giuseppe shut the door behind them; their soft footfalls faded into the distance. Gazing at Tess, Monica sighed. “Oh, Tess! I knew it was leading up to this, but I was hoping—” “That what the Bible predicted wouldn’t happen?” Tess folded her arms across her chest, staring Monica in the eyes. “Pope Benedict sealed his fate at the outset of the Tribulation with the choices he made, Miss Wings. He had plenty of chances to turn to Jesus before the Rapture, but he turned them all down. He still has a chance to do so, even now, and so does his nephew, but their grace period is running out. God has sent us to give them that last chance, but not even we can save the pope from the physical fate that awaits him.” She shook her head. “Nor can we save Benito from his, if we fail to get through to his uncle.” The supervisor angel nodded toward the door to the sitting room. “Pope Benedict is going to die, at the close of the celebration, Angel Girl. Nothing can stop that now.” Monica nodded acquiescence. “Yes, ma’am.” Sadness etched her face; Tess understood how she felt. She gently touched the Irish-tongued angel’s arm. Tess glanced out the window. A golden sunset flooded the sky above the courtyard. “It’s getting late, and we still have to prepare food for the evening festivities. You’d better get back to the kitchen; I’ll meet with Gloria and fill her in.” She wagged her finger. “And no more coffee! You’re here to work, to finish your assignment, not to indulge your cravings.” With evident reluctance, Monica nodded acquiescence. The two angels vanished. END OF CHAPTER 5



kgreen20	Dec 4 2007, 11:48 AM Post #8
Advanced Member Posts: 1,650 Group: Advanced Members Member #96 Joined: January 7, 2006	CHAPTER 6 A few days later, the 10 EU leaders and Antonio Puccini met in Giuseppe’s room again. “All right, gentlemen.” Puccini raised his hand for silence. “The purpose of this meeting is to decide how we will kill Pope Benedict. Are there any suggestions?” For a long moment, no one spoke. Behind Giuseppe’s chair, the late-afternoon sun poured golden beams into the room, forming shadows at the leaders’ feet. At last, the Dutch leader stood up. “Suppose one of us shoots him with Giuseppe’s gun?” The French leader shook his head as the Dutchman sat down. “Perhaps one of us could sneak into his bedroom and smother him with his pillow.” Frowning, Giuseppe rose to his feet. “The methods proposed so far only require one man.” Clasping his hands behind his back, he scanned the assembled group. “It seems to me that, as we all want to get rid of Pope Benedict, we should all commit the act together.” “What do you suggest, Giuseppe?” Leaning back in his unyielding metal chair, Puccini folded his hands in his lap as he gazed up at the Italian leader. Giuseppe perched again on his own hard-backed chair. “As a student of Shakespeare and of Roman history, I’m reminded of the plot against Julius Caesar’s life, and the way it was carried out. I suggest we kill the pope in the same way.” “By stabbing him to death?” The German leader raised his eyebrows. Giuseppe nodded. “Yes. We will each take a knife and stab him over and over, till he has no hope of survival. Then we will leave him to die.” He smiled coldly. Puccini rose to his feet. “Are the rest of you agreed, then? Do you wish to stab him to death?” All 10 leaders nodded. A satisfied smile slowly spread across Antonio’s face as he scanned theirs. After a long moment, Puccini turned back to Giuseppe. “And Benito? Do you also wish to kill him?” Half-turning to look out the window, Spadolini gazed at the stone wall framing the courtyard for a long moment. At last, he half-swiveled to face the others, then sighed. “No. I don’t want to kill the boy.” He looked up at Puccini. “What he did was wrong, and he deserves to be punished for it. Both boys do.” He sighed again. “But I don’t have the heart to kill Benito for it. His uncle is the real criminal, not Benito. But it means I’ll have to take him in when it’s over, as he won’t have anyone left to raise him when his uncle is dead.” Puccini smiled coldly. “I am sure that will please the boy. From what I hear, Benito hates it here in Iraq, anyway.” “Yes. He wants to go back to Rome.” Giuseppe snorted. “Well, he shall get his wish! And when we get there, I’m going to lay the law down to both boys about smoking marijuana, taking crack, or abusing any other kinds of drugs.” He clenched his fists in his lap as he spoke, flattening the tufts of the carpet underneath the toe of his shoes. For a long moment, Puccini scanned the assembled group. He wasn’t surprised that Giuseppe had suggested the murder of Pope Benedict XVI, or that he had proposed a painful method of killing him. Puccini had been counting on that, ever since he had learned of the trouble the two boys were in. He fully meant to capitalize on the Italian leader’s fury towards Pope Benedict. Antonio perched back on the edge of his chair; leaning forward, he cradled his hands in his lap. He scanned the group once more, looking from one leader to another. “We will do it tomorrow night,” he said, “when the celebration has ended. Rest assured, gentlemen, no one will be more glad to see that arrogant man gone than me! He has tyrannized over us long enough.” “But how are we going to lure him to his death?” The Portuguese leader frowned. “Oh, that’ll be easy!” Giuseppe chuckled. “I just learned that he’s planning to call a meeting—it’s safe to assume he means to seek our help in ousting you, Antonio. One of us will tell him that we will be there, and that we will cooperate with his plans.” His eyes turned cold. “Will he be surprised when he learns what we’re going to cooperate in!” Puccini stood up again, ending the meeting. “Then we will wait until Pope Benedict summons you. If you are right, Giuseppe, he will be doing that within the next two days. Meanwhile, let us go back to the celebration.” Half an hour later, Pope Benedict found Tess and Gloria in the kitchen with Monica. All three were chopping vegetables for the chief cook, who intended to prepare an Italian dish as the main course for the leaders’ dinner. The chief cook was basting some beef. Tangy, meaty smells filled the kitchen, the pope noticed. “I want you two to take a message to each of the leaders of the European Union.” He handed Tess five slips of paper, and another five to Gloria. “Give one to each of the leaders. I’m calling a meeting with the 10 leaders tomorrow night, when the celebration ends.” Tess and Gloria exchanged glances, then nodded. “We will deliver them,” Tess said. The door swung shut behind her as she followed Gloria into the carpeted hallway. Monica smiled down at the Caesar salad she was helping the assistant cook prepare, then sadness welled up in her heart. Please, Father, get through to the pope and his nephew before it’s too late! Sighing, she rested her fingertips on the smooth countertop, as she prayed silently for Pope Benedict and Benito. An hour later, Tess rejoined the pope in his private study. “I’ve delivered your message, and they’ve all accepted. They will meet with you in the conference room at 10:00 tomorrow night.” She paused. “One of them said to tell you that they will discuss the terms with you, whatever that means.” Pope Benedict nodded. “Thank you, Tess. You may go, now.” Tess handed the pope a folded piece of paper. “One thing first. This is a list of the refreshments that will be served at the banquet tomorrow evening. Do they meet with your approval?” Pope Benedict scanned the list, then smiled. “It does, indeed. Meet with the chief cook and tell him to prepare the foods tomorrow. Tonight, we are having spaghetti and Caesar salad.” With a nod, Tess left the office. This is it, she thought, frowning. Tomorrow night, he will be killed. She glanced down at the brooch sparkling on her chest, then sighed. Father, tell us when to make our move! The door behind her creaked open; Pope Benedict joined her in the hall. “Uh, Tess, before you return to the kitchen, I have a question about one of your colleagues.” With a frown, he folded his arms across his chest as he spoke. Tess furrowed her eyebrows. “About which colleague?” “About Gloria. The one you brought to help organize the celebration.” He shook his head. “Only this morning, she asked me how one man could possibly rule a whole world! Said it didn’t seem to her one man could possibly do it successfully.” He shook his head. "Then she said it seemed funny to her that it could be said that the world was under the rule of one man, when so many people were ruling it under him!" He bit his lower lip. “Forgive me, Tess, but Gloria appears to be unbelievably naïve. One would think she hadn’t been around that long!” Tess smothered a chuckle. Although she wasn’t about to tell him, he had it exactly right. “Gloria may be naïve about some things, but she is one smart woman. You’ll not find another who learns more quickly than her, Pope Benedict.” Pope Benedict dropped his hands at his side. “Well, she’s done an excellent job of helping to prepare the celebration—I’ll give her that. But she has some learning to do about the ways of people!” Shaking his head, he trudged off, his shoes making soft thuds as he strode down the carpeted hall. Tess pursed her lip as a disapproving glare crept into her eyes. “So do you, Giovanni,” she said softly. “You have more to learn than you’ve ever realized!” Monica joined her. Tess set her jaw. “Angel Girl, our time is running short. You’re going to have to act very soon.” Clasping her hands in front of her waist, Monica nodded. “When?” “Tomorrow. Tomorrow evening, to be exact. You will deliver God’s message to him then.” Nodding acquiescence, Monica left. Tess vanished. END OF CHAPTER 6



kgreen20	Dec 5 2007, 11:47 AM Post #9
Advanced Member Posts: 1,650 Group: Advanced Members Member #96 Joined: January 7, 2006	CHAPTER 7 The following day was hectic. The leaders feasted, drank toasts, and listened to speeches from Puccini, Dayan and the pope. Tess declined the pope’s invitation to sing again, knowing the danger she faced if the Antichrist, Antonio Puccini, recognized her as an angel. I’ve got to stay out of Puccini’s way as much as possible, she thought. If Antonio could recognize Monica as an angel upon their first meeting, he can recognize me as one, too. After all, his master, Satan, already knows us both, and it’s only a matter of time till he comes to know Gloria as well. She raised her face toward the ceiling. “Father, prevent Satan from revealing our identities to Puccini!” she whispered. The answer came. “I will.” Gazing up toward the crystal chandelier to smile her thanks, Tess returned to the kitchen to help Monica. Gloria, she knew, was in Puccini’s office, making arrangements on the phone for the evening festivities. The celebration ended with a banquet that evening. In the formal dining room, the men ate at a long table draped with a glistening snow-white tablecloth. Vases of flowers lined the middle of its surface, laden with crystal, silver, and china. The pope, Puccini, and Dayan each rose to make a speech about the success of the new world religion; at one point, every leader rose to make a toast. When the banquet ended, so did the week-long festivities. Pope Benedict hurried to the conference room, where he arranged some folding metal chairs in a half-circle. Putting his hands on his hips, he leaned against the wall to survey the room. With a smile of satisfaction, he returned to his quarters, where he turned on the overhead light. It immediately shed soft beams of light throughout his sitting room. The pope lit a cigarette and took a long puff. A cloud of smoke formed around his face. Sinking down onto his couch, he glanced out the window at the stars dotting the velvety sky above the stone palace wall. He then gazed for a long moment at the crystal ball on his desk, the mattress sagging beneath him as he shifted position. “Perhaps I should consult it before I do anything else,” he muttered, rising to his feet. “The festivities have just ended, and now I need to know what the others are going to do.” He reached toward the coffee table to mash his cigarette against the side of his ashtray. “That crystal ball can’t tell you what to do or what’s going to happen, Pope Benedict.” Dropping the cigarette, a startled pope whirled around to find Monica standing in the doorway to the adjoining bedroom. A pearl necklace adorned her neck, he noticed. “Monica! What are you doing here?” “No crystal ball can give you the guidance you need, and neither can the tarot cards, your horoscope, or your Ouija board.” Monica stepped forward. “Only God can do that.” Pope Benedict smiled coldly. “I don’t need guidance now—I already know what’s going to happen. With the help of the Western European Union...” His voice trailed off; a satisfied smirk crept into his eyes. Monica gazed at him, a mixture of compassion and deep sadness in her eyes. “No, you don’t know what’s going to happen. But God does.” Clasping her hands in front of her waist, she continued to hold his gaze as an uneasy feeling welled up in his gut. “You’re going to die tonight, Pope Benedict.” The pope gaped at her in shock. “And what makes you say that?!” “The question now is, how are you going to die?” Monica went on, ignoring his question. Repeating the same question she had once asked a condemned death row convict, several years before, she asked, “Are you going to die as you lived, or will you take truth with you and leave some behind for your nephew?” “Truth?” Folding his arms across his chest, Pope Benedict’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Whose truth, Monica?” “God’s truth.” Monica took another step forward. Her shoes thudded softly on the carpet. Raged surged in Pope Benedict’s heart. “Oh, no!” Not one of those Christians! he thought. He ground his teeth; dropping his arms to his sides, he clenched his hands into white-knuckled balls. “You’re—you’re a—!” “I am an angel.” Beams of Heavenly light poured over Monica as the pope gaped at her in shock. “Sent by God. Yes, Pope Benedict, you are going to die tonight, and the religion you founded will be disbanded permanently. You need to get right with God now.” Pope Benedict couldn’t believe his eyes—or his ears! Monica an angel?! Sent from God? How could that be? God was in everyone—there was no real God out there! Rage surged in his heart again; he clenched his fists again and glared at Monica. “You know what I believe--!” “Yes, that there is no God or Heaven, that God is in everyone, that you can be your own God.” Monica spoke gently. “Satan himself has promoted that lie because he doesn’t want you to worship the one true God. And in the process, he has led you to your ruin. Tonight, Pope Benedict, your ambitions for world power are going to be crushed; the religious empire you founded will soon become history. And you’re going to die.” Her voice turned pleading. “God loves you, Giovanni Angelico, and He doesn’t want you to die without coming to know His love and His mercy.” The pope took a deep breath, tilting his head. He gaped at her through narrowed eyes. “Monica, if your God loves me, why is He going to let me die? Tell me that!” Sadness welled up in Monica’s eyes. “Giovanni, God never wanted your life to end like this.” She touched his silk-clad arm. “But your own choices have brought you to the end that awaits you, and now you must face it. It’s your own choice, even now, whether you will live forever in God’s love, or live separated from Him for all eternity.” The rage melted away; fear rose in its place. “In Hell, you mean?” Pope Benedict’s voice choked, despite his effort to suppress that. Monica nodded. The sadness in the Irish-tongued angel’s eyes deepened. “Giovanni, your nephew has been unhappy and discontent ever since you brought him here. His efforts to find peace by practicing the occultic religion have only increased his pain and his turmoil.” She paused. “In his efforts to end that turmoil, he has turned to drug abuse. He has been smoking marijuana for the past several months, and now he’s about to turn to harder drugs.” She paused. “His friend is going to sell him some crack tonight.” “Crack?!” Shock welled up in the pope’s heart. “It will kill him!” Monica nodded agreement. “Yes, it will. Unless he finds the peace that only God can give, your nephew will also die. Tonight. So far, God, in His love, has thwarted the boys’ efforts to use that crack, but His patience is going to run out tonight.” Pope Benedict fidgeted. “Then I’ve got to stop him!” Monica laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Just scolding and punishing him won’t work, Giovanni. He will only find a way to acquire some more drugs behind your back. He needs to hear the truth, before it’s too late. And only you can give it to him now. He will listen to you, Giovanni, if you tell him the truth.” Pope Benedict shook his head. The stars had disappeared, he noticed; a storm must be moving in. “Did you say he’s going to die tonight? With me?” Monica nodded. “Of a crack overdose. And so will his friend Silvo.” Pope Benedict sighed heavily. For a long moment, he rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. When he raised his head, he nodded acquiescence. “All right. I love my nephew—I don’t want him to die like this.” He paused. “What does God want me to do?” “Give your life to His Son, who died for you. The Son who will return in 3-and-a-half years, to rule this world.” Monica gazed into the pope’s eyes. “And listen to what He tells you to do. It won’t save your life physically—not now—but it will save your life spiritually, and it will save the lives of your nephew and his friend.” Turning around, Pope Benedict plunged his face into his hands. Praying silently, he asked for God’s forgiveness and asked Jesus to come into his heart. When he raised his head, a new peace flooded his soul. Turning to face Monica, he smiled, then bit his lower lip. A soft thunderclap in the distance caught his attention. It’s going to storm, he thought. “I’ve got to meet with the leaders of the European Union shortly. I can’t afford to miss that meeting.” He shook his head. “On the other hand, any delay could cost my Benito his life! I can’t let that happen.” He touched Monica’s arm. “Would you go to Benito’s room and tell him I want him? Look for him if he’s not there.” Monica nodded. “I will.” She vanished. Pope Benedict pursed his lips, as indecision warred in his soul. “The leaders can wait; my nephew can’t.” He nodded, making his decision. He rushed out the door. “I shall go to him now!” As he darted down the hall, shoes thudding loudly on the carpet, he prayed that either he or Monica would get to Benito in time. When he turned the corner, he ran into the Luxembourg leader. “Oof!” He staggered backward. “Your pardon! I didn’t see you.” “Your Holiness! I was looking for you.” The man grabbed Pope Benedict’s arm. “They’re waiting for you in the conference room.” Pope Benedict jerked his arm out of the leader’s hand. “Tell them it will have to wait! An emergency has just come up, and I have to—” “Well, the emergency will have to wait!” The man gripped the pope’s arm, digging his fingers into Pope Benedict’s skin. “Come with me; they’re waiting for you. They’re anxious to get this meeting over with.” END OF CHAPTER 7



kgreen20	Dec 6 2007, 11:16 AM Post #10
Advanced Member Posts: 1,650 Group: Advanced Members Member #96 Joined: January 7, 2006	CHAPTER 8 Sighing, Pope Benedict allowed himself to be thrust into the nearby conference room. To his shock, he found the other nine leaders standing in a half-circle, holding their right hands behind them. All of them wore hostile expression on their faces. The folding chairs, he noticed, all leaned against the wall. The overhead light had been shut off; only one tabletop lamp shed any light across the room. A bolt of lightning zigzagged outside the window, followed by a louder thunderclap. “So—you have the ambition to take over as world leader? Subject every one of us to your control?” Giuseppe approached him, a menacing look in his eyes. “I’ll tell you what you’re going to be subject to—death! You are going to die, Pope Benedict! You are going to pay with your life for what you did to my son!” “What are you talking about?” Pope Benedict stared at him. “What did I do to him?” “You gave your nephew drugs, and he gave some to Silvo!” Giuseppe roared. “And now, prepare to die!” Pope Benedict couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Where had Giuseppe gotten the idea that the pope had gotten any drugs for Benito? Unless... He had no chance to speculate further; Giuseppe raised his right arm over his head. A butcher knife gleamed in the soft lamplight. Pope Benedict stepped back, throwing his hands out. “No!” he hollered. “Don’t do it—I am your friend! I never gave any drugs to Benito!” Before he could protest further, a stabbing pain ripped through his chest. In that moment, the other leaders proceeded to stab the pope all over his body. _______________________________________________________ Unaware of what was happening in the conference room, Benito slowly crept toward his friend’s suite of rooms, two gold bricks under the crook of his arm. He had wrapped them in a burlap bag, to escape detection. “I’ve got to get there before my uncle finds out what I’m doing,” he muttered. He glanced down at the Oriental rug that spanned the hall. “Silvo leaves tomorrow.” “Don’t you think you’re making a serious mistake, Benito?” The stunned boy whirled around. Monica stood in the nearest doorway. Benito’s mouth dropped open. “What—what—?” “Benito, your uncle sent me to find you. He needs you—right now.” Monica touched his shoulder. “I’ll tell your friend Silvo that you couldn’t come to him. Go—now! I’ll take your gold back to your room! You’ll find it in your closet with the rest when you return there.” Without a word, Benito thrust the gold bricks into her arms, then rushed in the other direction. His shoes thudded loudly on the carpet as he rushed in the direction of his uncle’s quarters. I hope nothing’s happened to my uncle! Unknown to him, Monica followed him and prayed. His way, she knew, would take him through the conference room; the moment of truth was fast approaching for the boy. _______________________________________________________ Back in the conference room, Giuseppe inflicted the last stab wound into Pope Benedict’s side. “Die, tyrant!” Giuseppe shoved him down as he spoke, then kicked him in the leg. Laughing, the 10 leaders left the room, leaving the lamp on. A writhing Pope Benedict lay in a ever-widening pool of his own blood. A loud thunderclap outside startled the dying pope. In that instant, a torrent of rain lashed against the windowpane. “Giovanni Angelico?” A man with sandy-brown hair approached the pope. He wore a light beige suit, and the same Heavenly glow that had earlier illuminated Monica poured over this man. Pope Benedict groaned. “You’re another angel?” “Yes, Giovanni. My name is Andrew.” Andrew touched his shoulder. “I’m an angel of death. God has sent me to take you Home.” The pope choked. “Impossible. You look too gentle and kind to be the angel of death.” Another lightning bolt lit up the sky outside, then a deafening clap of thunder echoed in his ears. The pope winced at the noise. An amused expression crept into Andrew’s eyes. He raised his hand in front of his waist. “God Himself is gentle and kind, Giovanni, and we angels illuminate His character. Only the fallen angels—demons—do not.” With a nod, Pope Benedict grimaced, then winced in pain. “Please don’t let my nephew die! I’m too late to find him and stop him!” A comforting smile spread across the angel of death’s face. “Don’t worry, Giovanni. God has His hand on Benito as we speak. He loves your nephew even more than you do.” The door banged open; Benito rushed inside, slamming it shut behind him. He froze in front of the doorway, gaping down at his uncle, shock etched on his face. Hollering, he rushed toward his uncle’s side. “Uncle!” he yelled. “Uncle Giovanni, don’t die! Who did this to you?!” As the boy knelt by his uncle, Pope Benedict reached up to pat his nephew’s face. “It’s too late for that now, Benito.” His voice sounded weak. “I’m going to die in a few minutes. Nothing can stop that from happening, nephew.” Andrew touched his shoulder. “Talk to your nephew, Giovanni. When the moment is right, he will see me, too.” Pope Benedict nodded acquiescence, then turned back to Benito. “Nephew, I have something very important to tell you, and I want you to listen with all your heart.” His voice sounded weak and raspy. Grief etching the boy’s face, he nodded. “What is it?” He shifted position, perched on his knees. Pope Benedict winced in pain again. “You will not get any relief from your pain by smoking marijuana or taking crack, my boy. Yes, I know what Silvo was trying to do.” He bit his lower lip. “God doesn’t want you to make a mistake that’s going to end your life, and neither do I.” Benito’s mouth dropped open. “God?!” His uncle nodded. “Yes. God.” He shook his head. “I was wrong, Benito. Dead wrong. There is a God in Heaven, and His Son did die for us 2,000 years ago. I refused to believe it, because I didn’t want to be accountable to Him. I just wanted to have as much power as the world would allow, and tonight, I foolishly tried to use the European Union to help me get more of it.” He winced yet again. “My choices have cost me my life—I’m going to be dead momentarily. The religion I was so proud of is going to die, too.” He grabbed Benito’s sleeve. Another thunderclap, softer, sounded outside the window. The downpour continued to drum the windowpane. “I don’t want you to make the same mistake!” With much effort, he raised his head to look the boy in the eyes. “I don’t want you to die, too, and you will if you take any of that crack! I want you to live, to know God’s peace. To know His life.” Pain surged in his heart; he swallowed hard. “It’s too late for me—I’ll be in Heaven with Him, yes, thanks to His goodness in offering me His mercy at the last minute. But I’ll never get to live it out here. You still have that chance, though—don’t throw it away!” Benito made an obvious effort to choke down a sob. “Yes, uncle.” He spoke quietly. “What should I do?” The pope clutched the boy’s sleeve more tightly. Benito’s face looked blurry. My vision is going, he thought. I must hurry! Out loud, he said, “Give your life to Jesus. Ask Him into your heart.” Pope Benedict took a deep breath. “That’s what I did earlier, when Monica exhorted me. She’s an angel, Benito! So are Tess and Gloria. Whatever they tell you, nephew, do it. Promise me that, boy!” Benito plunged his face into his hands. “Monica and Tess and Gloria are—angels?!” “That’s right,” Andrew added. Raising his head, Benito leaned back, shock etching his face as he gaped at the angel of death. Another clap of thunder, softer still, sounded in the distance. Andrew continued, “She is an angel, Benito. And so are Tess and Gloria, as the pope said. God sent them to you and your uncle, to show you the way Home. He doesn’t want your uncle to die without knowing His peace, and He doesn’t want you cutting your life short, Benito. He loves you both.” Benito looked from Andrew to Pope Benedict, then back again. “Are—are you taking him to Heaven?” “Yes. I’m the angel of death.” Andrew removed a silver pocket watch from his pants pocket, opened its lid, and glanced down at it. As uncle and nephew watched, the angel closed its lid and gazed down at Pope Benedict. With a deep sigh, the pope closed his eyes and took his last breath. In the next instant, he found himself standing beside his now-lifeless body. END OF CHAPTER 8



kgreen20	Dec 7 2007, 11:43 AM Post #11
Advanced Member Posts: 1,650 Group: Advanced Members Member #96 Joined: January 7, 2006	CHAPTER 9 “It’s all right, Giovanni.” Andrew, now invisible to Benito, put his arm around the shoulder of the spirit of Pope Benedict. “Your nephew’s going to be all right now. Monica and the others will talk to him and tell him what to do. God is proud of you for the choices you made tonight—He told me to tell you so.” Pope Benedict smiled. He felt better than he’d ever felt in life, both physically and emotionally. “May I stay here and watch?” “Certainly. We both will.” Andrew smiled and nodded. Grief surged in Benito’s heart as he stared down at his uncle’s now-lifeless body. He couldn’t believe that his uncle was dead! Now Benito was totally bereft. Sinking forward, he took deep breaths, as he pressed his face against his uncle’s unmoving chest. The rain had subsided some, he noticed. The storm was apparently moving out. Who cares? he thought. “I—I’m so sorry, uncle,” Benito said in a choked voice. “I’m so sorry!” “He knows, Benito. Your uncle knows.” Monica’s gentle voice startled the boy. “And so does God.” Tears flowed down the boy’s face. Monica put her arms around him. “It’s all right to cry,” she said. “I know you miss him.” “I do. He took me in when my parents disappeared.” Benito took a deep, shuddering breath. “Who’s going to take me in now?!” “Someone will, Benito. God has you in His hands right now. He loves you.” Benito leaned back. Deep pain lay like a heavy stone in his gut. “God must be pretty mad at me.” He gazed down at his jeans-clad legs as he spoke. Monica cupped her hand under his chin, then lifted his head to face hers. “He’s disappointed in the choices you’ve made, as of late. He’s disappointed that you sought to deal with the pain of the move by turning to occultic activities, and that you tried to erase the turmoil that resulted with drugs.” “Please—” Benito took a deep, shuddering breath. “Please tell God I’m sorry.” Monica gently squeezed his shoulder. “He knows, Benito. He knows.” The grief-stricken boy shook his head, as confusion welled up in his heart. For the past few years, since the disappearance of his devout parents, his uncle had told him that the new religion was the way to go; now he was being told the opposite! “This—this isn’t what my uncle taught me, Monica! Or the gurus he sent me to.” He moaned. “I’m so confused!” “I know. The devil wants to confuse you, Benito. To prevent you from seeing the truth.” Monica touched his arm. “He certainly does.” Tess appeared on the other side of Monica; Gloria appeared opposite Pope Benedict’s body. Unknown to the boy, she stood next to Andrew and Pope Benedict’s spirit. Tess smiled at Benito, then a stern expression crept into her eyes. “Throughout the ages, the devil has tried in every way to thwart God’s plan, to destroy mankind, by deceiving people. He wants to deceive you even now, Benito, even as God is trying to get your attention. You have the choice of believing his lies or accepting God’s truth.” Monica nodded agreement, then turned to the boy. “Did you read the book I gave you?” Benito gazed at her. “The Screwtape Letters?” Monica nodded. “Yes, I read it. It’s quite a story, but—” “The Screwtape Letters is more than just a story, Benito. It’s an allegory of the traps the devil sets, to keep people from knowing the Father.” Monica paused. “The devil tries to trick people into believing a great many lies, all designed to keep them from knowing and acting on the truth. The truth, Benito, is that God is real, and that He loves you. He paid the ultimate price to show you the depths of His love. He wants what’s best for you. But during this Tribulation period, the devil is pulling out all the stops, trying to make people believe his lies instead of God’s truth.” “He certainly is,” Gloria agreed. “And in recent years, he has stepped up his efforts.” She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. Sadness creased Monica’s forehead. “For three-and-a-half years, he used your uncle as a tool to entrap the souls of a great many people; in the end, God had to send angels to bring him to an awareness of the truth before the devil’s lies killed him. And now Satan is going to use Antonio Puccini, in the same way.” “How?” Benito stared at her. “By indwelling him, by requiring the whole world to worship him and swear allegiance to him.” She sighed. “Those who do will never be able to come to know God, or to live with Him.” Monica squeezed his arm. “God doesn’t want you to make that mistake. Your uncle’s life is over, but you’re still alive. God wants you to stay alive now, and He wants you to make the choices that will keep you alive, spiritually.” With a nod, Benito wiped his eyes. For a long moment, he gazed down at his uncle’s body. “What—what does God want me to do now?” Monica hugged the boy against her side. Her luxuriant brown hair draped over his shoulder as he leaned against her. The sweet scent of perfume wafted toward his nostrils. “Receive His Son into your heart. Live in His love, His peace. Share in the faith that your parents lived in, and which became your uncle’s at the end. That faith will sustain you in the dark times that lie ahead.” Nodding acquiescence, Benito bowed his head. “Please, Jesus,” he prayed, “come into my heart and save my soul. Forgive me for letting you down. Amen.” He made the sign of the cross, as he had customarily done when his parents had been alive. A peace he had never experienced before flooded his heart. With a sigh, he turned to Monica. “Thank you.” He glanced at Tess, then Gloria. “Thank you.” Monica patted his shoulder. “You’re welcome. God loves you, Benito, and He will watch over you until Jesus comes back to rule this planet. When He does, you will be reunited with your parents and your uncle. He has a guardian planned for you, even now.” Benito nodded. “What about my uncle Giovanni?” Monica smiled. “Your uncle is at peace now. Thanks to God’s intervention, he was able to die in peace.” Deep sadness creased her forehead again. “It’s too bad he could not have known it sooner.” Benito nodded. “I hate Babylon. I’ll never be at peace here. Will I have to stay here, now that my uncle’s gone?” Monica shook her head. “You will go back to Rome to live, but the time is coming when you will have to go into hiding. Every other believer will have to do the same.” Biting his lower lip, Benito sighed. “Yes, I will, won’t I? My uncle tried to stamp out Christianity, but he failed. You said the devil was going to use Puccini to deceive the world, too, as he used my uncle.” Monica nodded. Benito glanced out the window. The rain had just stopped. “Is—is Puccini going to do the same as my uncle Giovanni?” “He will have the same goal as your uncle—to keep people from knowing the true God—and he will achieve it with far greater success. I told you how he will, a few minutes ago.” Monica sighed heavily. “A multitude of believers too great to be numbered will die at the hands of the world government he controls, because they will refuse to take the mark Puccini will force people to receive, or worship the image that Elijah Dayan will order set up in his honor. And now that your uncle’s dead and his religion is about to be disbanded, that day is coming very soon.” The conference door slammed open; Silvo rushed into the room, his face white with shock. He crouched over the pope’s body, then stared at Benito. “I’m so sorry, Benito! I truly am.” A mixture of grief and guilt warred on his face. “It’s—it’s my fault he’s dead. I—I did a terrible thing, Benito. And it got your uncle killed.” Benito leaned back on his heels, staring at his friend. He dug his fingertips against the soft rug to keep his balance. “What do you mean?” Silvo took a deep breath, making an obvious effort to keep his eyes fixed on Benito’s. He clenched and unclenched his hands as he rested them in his lap. “I—I told a lie, Benito. A terrible lie. When my father caught me—with the crack.” He bit his lower lip. “I—I told him...” His voice trailed off. Swallowing hard, he continued. “I told him I’d gotten the crack from you. And that you’d gotten it from your uncle.” He shook his head, as he looked down at his knees. “You see, when my father caught me, he—he said he was going to turn me over to the authorities. When he said that, I—I behaved as a coward.” Benito spat out the words. “And got my uncle killed! They killed him because of your lie!” Monica laid her hand on his shoulder; Silvo’s face turned pale again as he gaped at the angel bending over Benito. “When—how—I didn’t see you--!” “I’m an angel, Silvo.” Monica knelt between the two boys. “Sent by God, to minister His love to Benito, here, and to his uncle. And to deliver God’s messages to both.” She turned to Benito, who knelt glaring at the other boy. “Benito, your uncle’s wrong choices led to his death. The events of this weekend were simply the catalyst that brought it about. Yes, Silvo made a hurtful decision that served as that catalyst. But the decisions your uncle made and the actions he took—years ago and in the time since—set in motion a chain of events that resulted in his death tonight.” Silvo gazed at the other boy, deep shame in his eyes. “Benito, I’m sorry,” he pleaded. “I never wanted to get your uncle killed! I—I was just cowardly. I thought I was better off that way, risking…getting you and your uncle in trouble...than receiving the punishment my father threatened me with.” He sighed, gazing down at the pope’s body and the pool of blood surrounding it. “I won’t blame you if you hate me. I deserve it.” Monica reached sideways to touch Silvo’s shoulder. “Silvo, it takes a big man to admit to a wrong he’s committed. Tonight, you have acted like a man.” She turned to Benito. “And Benito, it takes a generous heart to forgive. Harboring resentment and hatred toward Silvo will only hurt you, rob you of the peace God has just given you.” Benito sighed. “Yes.” The rage melted from his heart. He looked at Silvo. “I—I might have been just as cowardly, if it’d been me. So I guess I have no right to hold it against you.” Monica nodded agreement. Resting her hands on her lap, she propped her fingers together. “And now that you’ve found God’s peace, Benito, don’t you think it’s time you got rid of your marijuana?” She turned to Silvo. “And your crack?” Silvo scrambled to his feet; Benito followed suit. “Yes.” Silvo nodded. “It is.” He turned to Benito. “Come with me. We’ll flush my crack down the toilet.” Benito nodded. “Then we’ll go to my rooms, and do the same with my marijuana. I don’t need it anymore.” The two boys left the conference room; rising to her own feet, Monica turned to the other angels and to Pope Benedict. “Your nephew is going to be all right now, Giovanni,” she said softly. “Hard times