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  THE MESSIAH

  Vincent L. Scarsella

  Copyright © 2017 Vincent L. Scarsella

  Edition copyright © 2017 Digital Fiction Publishing Corp.

  All rights reserved. 1st Edition

  ISBN-13 (paperback): 978-1-927598-59-7

  ISBN-13 (e-book): 978-1-927598-60-3

  THE MESSIAH

  Vincent L. Scarsella

  Contents

  Prologue The Supremacy

  Part One Jesus Pantera

  Chapter One Jude Constantine

  Chapter Two Bloodline

  Chapter Three Mary Magdalene

  Part Two Disciples

  Chapter Four First Impression

  Chapter Five Sons Against Fathers

  Chapter Six Mingling

  Chapter Seven Parable of the Bad Football Team

  Chapter Eight Insiders, Outsiders

  Chapter Nine The Cure

  Chapter Ten Rescue

  Chapter Eleven Savior

  Chapter Twelve The Twelfth

  Chapter Thirteen The Twelve

  Chapter Fourteen Baltimore

  Chapter Fifteen Eyewitness News

  Chapter Sixteen In the News

  Chapter Seventeen Necessary Action

  Chapter Eighteen Spartacus Rex

  Part Three Mission

  Chapter Nineteen The Opal Show!

  Chapter Twenty National Appearance

  Chapter Twenty-One What’s Next

  Chapter Twenty-Two A Permanent Camp

  Chapter Twenty-Three The Enlightenment Tour

  Chapter Twenty-Four Mother Superior

  Chapter Twenty-Five Son of the Son of the Son…

  Chapter Twenty-Six The Ralph

  Chapter Twenty-Seven The Magical, Mysterious, Miraculous Tour

  Chapter Twenty-Eight Lazarus

  Chapter Twenty-Nine The Invitation

  Chapter Thirty The Vatican

  Chapter Thirty-One Pope Pius XIII

  Chapter Thirty-Two Zandoria

  Chapter Thirty-Three Zandor City

  Chapter Thirty-Four Intervention

  Part Four Crucifixion

  Chapter Thirty-Five Autumnal Equinox

  Chapter Thirty-Six Spy vs. Spy vs. Spy

  Chapter Thirty-Seven The Order

  Chapter Thirty-Eight Pinto

  Chapter Thirty-Nine Born Again

  Chapter Forty The Plan

  Chapter Forty-One Last Supper

  Chapter Forty-Two The Kingdom Rally

  Chapter Forty-Three Revisiting the Plan

  Chapter Forty-Four Hosanna!

  Chapter Forty-Five Best-Laid Plans

  Chapter Forty-Six Arrest

  Chapter Forty-Seven Former Agent Constantine

  Part Five Resurrection

  Chapter Forty-Eight Crucified

  Chapter Forty-Nine He Is Risen

  Part Six The Church of Cristos

  Chapter Fifty The Council of Binghamton

  Chapter Fifty-One The Book of Jude

  Chapter Fifty-Two The House of Salvation

  Chapter Fifty-Three Son of God

  About the Author

  More from Digital Fiction

  Copyright

  Free Book from Digital Fiction

  If you’d come today, you could have reached the whole nation. Israel in 4 BC had no mass communication.

  - Jesus Christ Superstar

  I will raise up for them a prophet like you from among their kinsmen. I will put my words in his mouth, and he will tell them everything I order him.

  - Deuteronomy 18:15

  Prologue

  The Supremacy

  It is inconceivable that those with power and wealth would not band together with a common bond, a common interest, and a long-range plan to decide and direct the future of the world.

  - William Cooper, Behold a Pale Horse

  And there was a group of evil men that formed in the ancient times, who to this day secretly maintain their immoral rule over the sons and daughters of Man.

  - The Book of Jude 2:1, Gospel of the Church of Cristos

  Biannually during the vernal and autumnal equinoxes, owing to an ancient decree, the Supremacy Council convened to decide issues of import in its secret rule over mankind.

  Since the early 1700s, these summits had been held at Steinvikholm Castle, on a small, rocky island jutting out of the fjord adjacent to the Skatval Peninsula in northern Norway. Built from 1525 to 1532 by Olav Engelbrekttson, Norway’s last Roman Catholic bishop, the stone fortress remained virtually impregnable to the present day. Accessible from the mainland only by boat or helicopter, the castle’s grim, dark chambers were ideal for secret deliberations.

  At nine on the day following the vernal equinox in late March of that year, the Council’s twenty-eight members sat stiffly on elaborately carved, high-backed wooden chairs, like thrones with soft, red upholstery, around a long mahogany conference table dominating the castle’s gloomy main meeting chamber. The financial, political, national, geographic, mercantile, corporate, and religious interests presently represented by these members were determined by a shrewdly devised scheme adopted centuries ago by a small group of men—kings, princes, warriors, and priests—who had dared consolidate among themselves control over the political power and wealth of mankind. This ruling elite had come to be called the Supremacy, and its Council was authorized to deliberate and take action in order to maintain such control.

  At the head of the conference table was the largest chair, reserved for the Council’s long-time chairperson, Lord Harry Winston. He was a white-haired, staid British aristocrat now in his late seventies. Hailing from a storied family with lineage, it was claimed, that went back to the legendary King Arthur, Lord Winston’s varied financial holdings presently exceeded two billion pounds.

  At exactly 9:00 a.m., he stood at an ancient podium and banged a gavel on an equally old wooden block, formally calling the meeting to order. Doing so immediately silenced the polite chatter among the Council members as each looked up and now gave Lord Winston the undivided attention that was merited. Over the next two hours, their deliberations would affect the lives of every man, woman, and child on Earth.

  Roll call was unnecessary, of course, since a ruling interest never failed to send a representative to the biannual conclave. On the table before each member was a leather binder containing the minutes of the biannual meeting held the previous autumn, the agenda for the present meeting, and reports from various officers and committees in charge of monitoring and controlling world economic affairs, conflicts among nations, political happenings, social trends, and technological advances. After a motion was approved accepting the minutes of the previous meeting, Lord Winston proceeded down the list of agenda items.

  There were several developments since the last biannual meeting—wars, terrorist attacks, economic seizures, the upcoming American presidential election. Lord Winston had witnessed all of it before. There was nothing new to excite or worry him.

  As usual, after nearly two hours, Lord Winston reached the end of the agenda except for the Intelligence Report, always given last by Gregor Margolis, the director of the Supremacy’s spy agency, the World Intelligence Network—or simply, the Network, as it had come to be called.

  Margolis, of Macedonian descent, had been the Network’s director for twenty-two years, longer even than Lord Winston’s eighteen-year tenure as chairperson. At seventy-two, he was still a vibrant figure, a towering man, six-foot-three with a solid chest, wide shoulders, and thick arms.

  That morning, Margolis slowly got to his feet and stared crossly at his colleagues for some moments. They looked tired after nearly two hours of listening to reports and debating this or that is
sue, but were still attentive. The Intelligence Report was a highlight of the meeting, usually offering something surprising about an already surprising world.

  Margolis finally launched into it, methodically reviewing various major and minor threats to the Supremacy’s control in his slow, deep monotone. The Network based its assessment of the severity of these threats either upon direct observation or statistical algorithms of Network intelligence analysts, or a combination of both.

  Margolis spent the majority of his time that morning detailing the continuing conflict in the Middle East and the Supremacy’s failure to adequately control it. He also brought up the continuing civil war between Muslims and Christians in the tiny, otherwise insignificant African nation of Zandoria as well as several lesser threats, including non-Islamic rogue terrorist groups and religious cults currently being monitored or infiltrated.

  And that was it. After less than fifteen minutes, the director concluded his report with a nod to Lord Winston and sat down.

  Late that afternoon, with the Sun already having dipped below the western horizon, Margolis and Lord Winston sat on two wide chairs facing a large stone fireplace in the chairperson’s spacious bedroom suite on the second floor of the castle. An icy wind howled outside, and the sky was an ominous leaden gray. Snow was a certainty at some point in the evening.

  The crackling fire raging before Margolis and Lord Winston provided some warmth, but not enough to entirely take the chill out of their old bones. It was not unusual for the two longtime friends to meet and discuss this or that on the afternoon of the biannual meeting. Sometimes, it remained strictly personal, inquiries about their wives, children and grandchildren. Other times, the conversation was mixed. That afternoon, it was all business.

  Lord Winston had offered Margolis a brandy to warm him. The director sipped it now as he stared into the flames.

  “What else is bothering you, Gregor,” Lord Winston said.

  “A matter I did not raise with the Council,” Margolis replied.

  “Why not?”

  After a sip of brandy and a shrug, Margolis said, “Because presently, it seems inconsequential.”

  “Seems?”

  “Yes, seems. My intuition tells me otherwise, disagrees with my analysts.”

  “So tell me what it is,” Lord Winston said. “You’ve put me in great suspense.”

  “Does the name Pantera mean anything to you?”

  Lord Winston frowned. After a moment, it came to him.

  “Pantera, the father of Jesus?” he asked. “That Pantera?”

  “Yes.”

  “What of it?”

  “There is a man preaching in America the past few months,” Margolis went on. “His name is Cristos Pantera.”

  “Cristos Pantera, did you say?”

  “Yes,” Margolis replied, “Cristos Pantera.”

  “Go on,” Lord Winston said and sipped his brandy.

  “He’s traveling up the southeastern coast,” Margolis went on. “He started in Key West and has now reached Charleston, South Carolina. He claims to be the messiah.”

  Lord Winston glanced at Margolis and, after a moment, laughed dismissively.

  “Yet another?” He sighed and asked, “How many followers does he have?”

  “Very few,” Margolis said. “One hundred fifty.”

  “Not much of a threat.”

  “At present,” Margolis said. After a sigh, he added, “But there’s this to consider—he’s descended from the Nazarene.”

  Lord Winston turned to him with a scowl and asked, “You’ve confirmed this?”

  With a nod, Margolis said, “Yes. A DNA match.”

  The chairperson looked away, then shrugged and took another sip of brandy. After another moment, he turned back to Margolis and said, “But you said your analysts are unconcerned.”

  “Yes,” he said with a shrug. “Despite the Jesus connection, their probability equations gauge his threat as minimal. Insignificant.”

  “But you’re not convinced,” said Lord Winston.

  “As I said, they’ve been wrong before,” Margolis replied with a sip of brandy. “There’s something in my bones telling me…well, perhaps I’m growing paranoid in my old age.”

  “One’s intuition should never be ignored,” Lord Winston said. “No matter how old one gets.”

  “There’s another thing,” Margolis went on. “We sent an agent to monitor him. She shouldn’t have been sent. Too young, too inexperienced. It was through her we confirmed the DNA link, and his claim of being the messiah. But a few weeks ago, she defected—joined his movement; has, in fact, become a close adviser. Possibly his lover. Therefore, he knows about us.”

  Lord Winston frowned, thought a moment, then turned to Margolis and asked, “You’ve done nothing about that—her betrayal?”

  “No,” Margolis said. “Not yet. My first inclination, of course, was to eliminate her. Would be easy enough to do.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “There’s no advantage in it,” Margolis told him. “Killing her might only highlight our existence. Instead, I’m sending in another agent. He’s on his way as we speak. A most reliable asset.”

  “Well, no matter,” Lord Winston said. “This self-proclaimed messiah will likely fizzle out like the rest of them, and your intuition will be wrong this time.”

  Margolis nodded unenthusiastically and both men stared into the fire for a time. Finally, Lord Winston turned to his old colleague.

  “Tell me, Gregor,” he asked, “what does he preach, this one?”

  “Oh, the usual,” Margolis said. “Love thy neighbor. And, of course, our overthrow.”

  Part One

  Jesus Pantera

  For the doctrine of the Kingdom of Heaven, as Jesus seems to have preached it, was no less than a bold and uncompromising demand for a complete change and cleansing of the life of our struggling race, an utter cleansing without and within.

  - H.G. Wells, The Outline of History

  Indeed, there is some evidence that [John the Baptist and Jesus] began to formulate a plan together—a dramatic and bold strategy that they believed would bring the downfall of Roman rule in Palestine and lead to a worldwide inauguration of the Kingdom of God. This was not a Kingdom “in” heaven, but the idea of the rule “of” heaven breaking into human history and manifesting itself on Earth. It was understood in a literal way, nothing less than a revolution, a complete overthrow of the political, social, and economic status quo.

  - James Tabor, The Jesus Dynasty

  The genealogy of Cristos Pantera establishes that He is descended from Jesus Pantera, the First Son of Man and the First Citizen of the Kingdom of God; And as it has been written, from the Family of Jesus and Pantera, the Coming of the Messiah, our Savior, will arise.

  - Book of Jude 1:01, Testament of the Church of Cristos

  Chapter One

  Jude Constantine

  At 2:50 p.m., Jude Constantine entered the bar off the lobby of the Hyatt Hotel, at the midpoint of Terminals A and B at the Orlando International Airport. He was early. The secure message on his Network-issue smartphone had told him that his handler would meet him there at three.

  Constantine had received his reassignment orders yesterday morning in Berlin. After reading the brief text telling him to leave for Orlando immediately and meet his DSA—his destination service agent, or handler—at the Hyatt bar at three, Constantine cursed. After three months, he and his team were finally in position to take out a rather vicious rogue terror cell that had been operating in Berlin for several months and was primed to strike. He’d prepared a brief report of the operation to date and sent it to his section chief, who’d pass it along to whomever would take his place. Constantine took the first available flight out of Berlin on a Lufthansa jet and arrived in Orlando at noon. By one, he’d checked into a room at the Hyatt, already registered under his usual Network alias. He showered, put on casual slacks and a polo shirt, then ordered room service. The $21.50
for the burger and fries went on his room tab, and he ate while switching channels between ESPN, Fox News, and CNN. Finally, though dead tired, he forced himself to take the elevator down for his meeting.

  After taking a seat in a booth in the back of the mostly empty bar, Constantine ordered a tonic water with a twist of lemon from an unfriendly waitress. When she brought the drink, it was 2:55 p.m.

  At three on the dot, the handler walked in. Constantine spotted him immediately. He was a tall man in his late thirties, dressed casually like he was. Constantine had seen enough field agents in his ten years at the Network to know a fellow agent. The handler was able to spot him as well. The man strolled over and stood at the side of the booth. He glanced down at his watch, looked up at Constantine and asked, “Do you have the time?”

  Constantine laughed to himself over how these meetings began as if scripted right out of a Hollywood spy movie. But, he knew it couldn’t be helped. Various forces in the world seeking the Supremacy’s overthrow compelled such clichéd stealth.

  “I have sixteen thirty-six,” he told the handler, the four-number code sent to him by a separate text that he’d received immediately after his reassignment orders. “One six three six.”

  That was not the correct time, of course, but it was the correct code. The handler nodded and slid into the booth across from him. Then, reaching his right arm across the table, he turned over his fist and relaxed his fingers, revealing a flash drive and a key in the palm of his hand. Constantine plucked them out and put them in his pants pocket. The flash drive would contain everything he needed to know about the mission. The key was to a car that had been stashed for him somewhere upon arrival at his ultimate destination.

  With the exchange completed, the handler slid out of the booth and walked out of the bar.

  Back upstairs in his room, Constantine sat on the bed and connected the flash drive to his Network iPad. After waiting for the contents to load, he clicked the icon that started the show. A video began, like one off YouTube. A middle-aged man in a business suit was sitting behind a bare desk with his hands clasped before him. The man introduced himself as Lester Bradley, chief of the Network’s Eastern North American region.