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