John Lyman - The Secret Chapel

Houston hadn’t been so lucky. If they had been looking at a giant celestial scoreboard, it would have read God 3, Satan 1. Leo thought about the message that had been delivered to him by Gabriel. Men were still in possession of weapons of immense power, and he was not naive enough to think that, in the realm of geopolitical affairs, the attack on Houston would go unanswered.

He knew that, even now, plans were being made by some in the United States to exact revenge on those they believed not only planned and committed the act, but also on those who sponsored it. That could mean a mindless nuclear attack on a city filled with people who did not share the vision of radical Islam and had no knowledge of what the evil attackers had planned. God had protected His holy city, but the world was still at risk.

Leo looked around at the other members of the team. They had been through so much together since they all met, and he feared they would face even darker days ahead. He looked forward to the day when man would not have to keep score between good and evil and wondered if mankind was truly living in a time when only God’s intervention could save the world. Globally, people would have to someday throw off the shackles of nationalism and religious radicalism. They would have to come together without the presence of misguided super elders telling them what to do and who to hate.

Morelli broke the silence. “We need to get something to eat and drink. In my case, the drink comes first.”

Leo had already forgiven Morelli for making him believe he was dead, but he couldn’t resist one final jab at him now as he put his arm around the shoulder of his old, dear friend. “You’ve read my mind, Anthony. But since you died and left all your money to me, I’ll buy dinner tonight.”

The others roared with laughter as Morelli stood there speechless, his eyes squinting at Leo. Their laughter had barely died down when Morelli’s red BMW sped up beside them. “My car!”

“No, my car,” Leo said, enjoying the moment.

Morelli peered into the car after it screeched to a stop. “Is that you, Moshe?”

“Father Morelli? I thought you were-”

“It’s a long story. What are you doing here with my car?”

“I’ve got to get back to the yacht. Our van was damaged in the storm, so Arnolfo told me to take this car and leave it at the dock. I didn’t know it was yours.”

“That’s OK. It’s all for a good cause. I’ll pick it up later.”

Lev rushed over to the passenger side and jumped in. “I’m coming with you. I need to get back to the boat and call home to see if everything is alright at the villa.” Lev looked over the group. “When will you all be coming back to the yacht?”

“As soon as we have a few drinks and a bite to eat,” Leo said. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep an eye on Ariella and make sure she gets home on time.”

Lev laughed out loud. “Good luck with that.”

Ariella threw her head forward and blew her father a kiss. “Bye, Daddy.”

With a wave from Moshe, the car sped off into the streets of Rome, headed for the harbor. The group turned and walked together out of the piazza through Bernini’s columns onto the Via della Conciliazione . They strolled along the wide street to the Castel Sant’ Angelo , where they stopped and stood for a moment, gazing up at the lighted statue of Michael the Archangel. They marveled at how they had actually seen this very real angel just a short time ago. It was surreal.

They continued to gaze up at the statue as small groups of people strolled by, going about their daily lives and not really understanding the mystical power that surrounded them. Leo pondered the miracle he had witnessed this day, knowing that sometime in the future, he would have to reach deep within himself to discover why he had been chosen to be a part of it.

Fittingly, they crossed the river Tiber over the Ponte Sant’ Angelo , the bridge created by Bernini in the seventeenth century and lined with spectacular statues of angels sculpted by him. Leo never wanted to leave this wonderful city again. Maybe he would transfer here someday.

They headed down the Via del Banco de Santo Spirto to the piazza of the same name. It seemed like the entire populace of Rome was out in the streets, some cleaning and sweeping away the debris from the storm, while others simply walked about breathing in the warm air, their senses heightened to the fact that the scent of flowers was stronger than usual.

They found an open trattoria and sat together outside. Soon the waiter left a bottle of wine at their table and they were inhaling the aroma from their glasses as they took the first sips of their much-needed reward. Leo thought about making plans to return to the yacht, but the stillness and lack of motion at the moment was like a long, luxurious bath. The tension in their bodies slowly began to ebb as the wine took hold, and a warm glow descended over the group.

John and Ariella were busy talking a mile a minute to Morelli, regaling him with stories of their adventures in the Negev Desert.

“Amazing!” was all Father Anthony seemed capable of saying when hearing the details of Satan’s underground cathedral and their escape from it.

Leo took a sip of his wine and eyed Morelli across the table. “Anthony, I need to know if you can answer a question about where the book was located in the cavern. Did you know it was encased under solid stone?”

“You were wondering how Father Bianchi was able to replace it there.”

“Well, yes, we all were.”

“Before he died, he told me that when he returned to Satan’s cathedral under the desert, he placed the book on the translucent floor in the center of the room. He said the floor under the book immediately turned to blood and that the book sank from sight before the floor hardened again into a clear, black, gem-like surface, encasing the book several feet below. He knew this was Satan’s way of protecting his Bible and felt that no one would be able to remove it again until either Satan or God allowed it to leave that place.”

Ariella felt chills down her spine when he told them how the floor had turned to blood. “I still can’t believe we were down in that horrible place, much less lived to tell about it.”

John squeezed her hand and looked around the table. “I think the fact that we were singled out to be a part of all of this makes us the luckiest people on the planet right now.”

Ariella smiled across the table. “Not lucky, John … I think blessed would be a better choice of words. I guess we’ll never know why we were chosen, but God definitely has something in mind for us in the future. Our lives have a clearly defined purpose now.”

As the waiter approached the table to take their dinner order, Leo noticed the familiar face of the older security man as he materialized from the darkness of the piazza and headed straight for them

Arriving at their table, he nervously scanned the area around the restaurant before speaking. “Hello, Fathers. May I have a word with you?”

“Of course, Francois,” Morelli said. “Pull up a chair and have some wine with us. Leo, meet Francois, the Vatican’s chief of security and one of my best friends.”

Leo had never known the name of this individual-he had always just thought of him as ‘the older security man’. Father Leo had been slightly suspicious of this character, especially earlier when he had first met him standing next to the cardinal at Morelli’s apartment, the same day he thought that his friend had died. Leo was relieved to see that this high-ranking officer in the Vatican Guard was in fact one of Morelli and Lundahl’s closest allies.

Francois remained standing. “Thank you, Father. I don’t have much time, and I’m afraid you don’t either.” This last sentence caught the group off guard and sent their nerves back on high alert.