On the Third Day Read Online Free PDF Page B

the Mass.
                The second possibility, the one he secretly hoped for, gave him more of an active roll in how things would play out.  If Father Thomas underestimated his superiors in Mother Church, he might try his foolishness again.  He might have some manner of starting trickles of what would appear to be blood on his wrists, or his forehead, and if he tried something like that, the Bishop would be ready. 
                There was no doubt in Michaels’s mind that what had happened the previous Easter, if anything, in fact, had actually happened at all, had been a carefully enacted charade.  He was equally certain of his own ability to sort out anything out of the ordinary and put it right.  It was part of what he’d been trained to do.
    So here he sat, serene on the exterior and seething on the inside.  The camera whirred softly, its single cyclopean eye trained on Father Thomas as the Mass began.

~ Four ~
                The morning air hung heavy, damp, and stagnant.  The tiny airfield, surrounded on all sides by the dense, Peruvian jungle, winked and glittered as the rising sun slipped through overhanging branches and glistened down the dew-wet vines creeping out toward the runways.  The clouds were sparse, though rain threatened several miles off.  There was little movement.
                 A distant hum intruded, too regular for the voice of an insect, and then the sleek bright nose of a jet pierced the threatening storm.  The aircraft banked over the jungle and glided down toward the airfield like a great, silver predatory bird.  The hum rose steadily to a droning roar, and finally, sluggishly and reluctantly, the airfield came to life.
                The jet glittered with polished elegance.  Small symbols had been carefully painted onto the tail and wings, and again near the nose.  Discreetly rendered, at first it was impossible to make them out.  Then, as the great bird touched down gently and the engines throttled back, those symbols came into sharp focus in the growing sunlight:  A small black cross, and a yellow and white flag with crossed keys – the flag of the State of Vatican City.  The gold key on the right symbolized the power of the heavens.  On the left, the silver key symbolized the Papal authority on the earth.  The symbol was muted and vague in the shadow, as if trying to obscure itself, or hide from the brilliant sunlight.
                As the jet taxied down a runway that seemed to be too short to allow it room to stop, members of the ground crew scurried out of Quonset hut hangars.   Bright yellow equipment rolled into position, and a small red fire engine, hardly more than a chrome tank of foam on a truck frame, rolled toward the near end of the runway.  Its driver stepped down from his seat and mopped the perspiration from his brow as he eyed the approaching aircraft.  He scanned the length of it and frowned.
                The jet rolled to a stop, lights still blinking, and the engines throttled back to a throaty idle, then a whine, and finally, silence.  Dark-skinned men in khaki shorts and shirts hurried to roll a rickety metal access ladder into place at the aircraft’s side. 
                Back near the main office, a low-slung building tucked up into the shade of the jungle, a jeep started roughly.  The driver wore his hair very long and tied in back.  He had a dark complexion, even for Peru, and piercing eyes that glittered in the sunlight.  He popped his vehicle into gear and rolled slowly across the airfield toward the waiting jet.
                A hatch opened in the jet’s side, and a moment later, a man stepped onto the platform at the top.  He was tall and slender with reddish brown hair so disheveled it looked as though instead of brushing it, he might have gripped it tightly in his fist when it was wet, twisted, and just let it go.  A pair of thick,