The Pilgrim Conspiracy

by Jeroen Windmeijer

  Afterwards, he scanned the corridor again before making his way to the refectory.

  It’s mind-blowing to think that the text that I’m carrying now could have such an earth-shattering effect on the world if it was published. There’s no historical basis for flight from Egypt; Moses and Aaron were fictional characters; the Ten Commandments – the bedrock of Judeo-Christian civilisation – weren’t laws carved into the stone tablets by the Creator on Mount Horeb, but just rules created by ordinary people; there are no divine promises that justify Israel’s claim to the Palestinian territory because no one ever promised anything to anyone … It’s all just the writings of mortal men who never intended for the stories to be taken literally …

  A completely new insight burst upon him.

  According to the New Testament, Jesus himself believed that the events described in the Torah, the Christian Old Testament, had actually taken place. Like other Jews of his time, he believed that the stories of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, Joseph and his brothers, Moses and Aaron were historically accurate. If this document shows that those stories aren’t true after all, what does that say about Jesus? What does it say about the omniscience that Christians ascribe to him if he didn’t know that it was all pure fiction?

  Peter walked across the refectory and into the kitchen.

  On the other hand, he thought, it’s clear that this text was only recently written down. It would be easy to suggest that it’s the work of a mystical fantasist and that he based it on an original source that can’t be examined because it doesn’t exist in physical form … and now that Coen and the others are gone, it doesn’t exist at all.

  The kitchen was entirely deserted. He assumed that the brothers were all at the evening prayer service that Brother Antonius had been hurrying to earlier. Or, since the monastic day started so early in the morning, perhaps they had gone to bed already.

  Peter opened one of the refrigerators and found it packed with large bottles of water. He decided to take two and put them in his bag for later. You could never have enough water in this environment. Another refrigerator contained small, flat loaves of bread. He took a couple, tore a chunk from one of them, then put them in his bag along with some apples and plums.

  He returned to his cell, chewing hungrily on the bread. Once inside, he locked the door, sat down at the table and took Coen’s papers out of the bag.

  Just as he was about to read them for the third time, he was assailed by a strong feeling that he needed to leave.

  Not tomorrow … Now! Now! Now!

  No amount of rationalising and reasoning with himself could make the feeling go away.

  There are lots of cars in the car park. There must be someone who can take me back to Sharm el-Sheikh right now.

  The room’s thick walls no longer felt like those of an impregnable fortress but of a prison.

  No wonder they’re called cells …

  He opened the door and checked that the coast was clear before going back into the corridor to look for Brother Milan.

  No sooner had he closed the door behind him than he heard someone shouting in the distance. No … not shouting … These were screams of panic.

  Still clutching the manuscript in his hand, Peter ran outside and followed the sound of the screaming and shouting.

  Across the courtyard, he caught a glimpse of a habit disappearing into the monk’s dormitory building.

  What’s happening?

  Without thinking twice, he followed the figure into the dormitory, where he found everyone gathered around the door to Brother Milan’s cell.

  The brothers were clearly in great distress. Three monks stood in the doorway, clutching the wooden crosses that hung from their prayer beads as if their lives depended on it.

  Peter shoved them aside, more roughly than he had meant to. What he saw a second later was the bloodiest scene he had ever witnessed in his entire life – even bloodier than the one he and Fay had encountered in the Masonic Hall on the Steenschuur.

  Brother Milan was lying on the floor with an enormous, sticky red pool spreading beneath his head. His skull had been crushed. His confessor, Brother Antonius, was kneeling at his side.

  Tony! Did he find a way to get inside the monastery without being seen?

  Antonius turned around, and when he saw Peter, he began to shout.

  ‘Get out! Get out!’ he yelled at Peter as he tended to the lifeless body of his fellow brother. His hands dripped with gore from his futile attempts to piece the shattered shards of Milan’s skull back together. The unfortunate monk had already crossed the Jordan, but Brother Antonius seemed not to have realised it yet.

  Or not to have accepted it.

  ‘Go up the mountain. Go to the top and stay there for three days,’ he hissed through his teeth. His blood-soaked fingers gripped Peter’s hand, and for a brief moment, both men held onto Coen’s manuscript. ‘I know everything … Go up the mountain! Until that devil is gone from here! He won’t be able to find you there. Go now! Save yourself!’

  It took a few seconds for Peter’s body to heed the monk’s words. But when he eventually turned around, it was not to the mountain that he fled, but back to his room, where he locked the door behind him in a blind panic.

  Dear God, what’s just happened, he asked himself again.

  Two giant strides took him from the door to the table. He grabbed the water jug and poured the dregs onto his bloody hand, not caring that it was splashing all over the floor. He ran his fingers through his hair to dry them.

  I can’t stay here.

  He cautiously opened the door.

  Everything seemed to be quiet again, but it was an illusory quietness, he knew now.

  Like a roaring lion your adversary, the devil, prowls around, looking for someone to devour …

  He looked right, then left, but saw no one. Staying close to the wall, he took the shortest route he could remember to the door that led outside.

  The door was secured with a large bolt, but it shifted easily. Peter looked over his shoulder to make sure that he wasn’t being followed, but again, he saw no one.

  Could Tony really have killed Milan?

  He turned right, running through the gate and onto the path that led to the mountain.

  If it was Tony, why didn’t he come straight to me? Why did he have to bludgeon poor Milan to death? Was he lying in wait, watching me to see if I would lead him to what he was looking for?

  Peter kept running as the sandy path turned to bare rock. He looked over his shoulder now and then, but he couldn’t see anyone following him.

  Would I be better off going back to the road instead? Or following the route I took here with Bilal? But I’m bound to get lost, and I wouldn’t last long out there with only the water I’ve brought with me. Going up the mountain seems like the best option. I’ll hide there for three days and then come back down. The storm will have blown over by then.

  The path was easy enough to see. There wasn’t really any other way you could go. He was surprised by how clearly he could see everything, even though the only light came from the moon and stars. But Mount Sinai still formed a sharp, black contrast against the night sky, like a piece torn out of the heavens.

  Peter was out of breath now, and he slowed down to a walk. He could hear the water bottles sloshing in his bag, but he resolved not to drink anything until he had made more progress. His shadow was visible on the ground in front of him.

  With each step, he was plagued by doubts about whether this really was the wisest course of action. But there was every chance that Tony was still hiding inside the monastery, waiting for an opportunity to strike. When he realised that Peter had left the compound, he would probably assume that he would try to get back to Sharm el-Sheikh as fast as possible.

  Going up the mountain increasingly seemed like the safest option.

  After a while, when he felt brave enough to look back again, he saw the small, dark postage stamp of the monastery in the distance, much further away than
he had dared to hope. The mountain, however, didn’t seem to be getting any closer.

  Peter stopped to catch his breath and drink some water. He felt overheated, but the water brought some relief as he poured it down his parched throat.

  No more water until I reach the stairs, the Steps of Penitence.

  The stairway had been carved into the mountain by a monk who had given himself the arduous task to teach himself the meaning of humility, Brother Antonius had told him.

  It took just an hour to climb to the summit via the steps.

  Eventually – Peter couldn’t tell whether he had been walking for an hour, an hour and a half or even two hours – the foot of the mountain came closer. Soon the meandering path began to take him upwards, with the mountain on his left, and a slope that led downwards on his right.

  He rewarded himself with another swig of water, swishing it around in his mouth before he swallowed. He took one of the plums from the bag and ate it, taking small bites. Its flavour was intense, like eating a plum for the first time.

  And then, just as he had started to believe he would never reach the steps and was giving serious thought to turning back, he was suddenly there. The Stairway to Heaven.

  He sat down on the first rough step and looked out over the landscape. He felt like he could have been an astronaut on the moon, or the last man on earth. He had never felt so far away from the rest of the civilised world.

  The summit is just an hour away from here. Come on, man up. Hide up there for three days, and then you can go back down. And Antonius said that there was always someone keeping watch up there, night and day, changing guard every few days.

  He stood up and started the trek upwards. At first, he counted the steps to keep his mind occupied, but he soon lost count. Instead, he concentrated on his breathing, trying to keep it calm and controlled.

  So many people have made this journey before me. And so many of them believed that they were following in the footsteps of Moses who climbed this mountain while the people of Israel waited down in the valley below. This is where he was supposed to have been given the Ten Commandments on two stone tablets while the Israelites grew so impatient that they melted down all of their gold jewellery and made themselves an idol to worship. But none of it is true. Zip, nada, zilch. The story doesn’t contain even the tiniest grain of historical truth.

  As he climbed higher and higher, Peter’s pace settled into a comfortable rhythm, but soon he began to feel the long day taking a toll on him.

  I can collapse when I get to the top if I need to … But right now, I have to keep going.

  After what felt like barely an hour, the steps ended, and Peter realised that he had almost reached the top of the mountain. He found himself in a narrow pass that eventually led to a rocky plateau where a small guardhouse stood.

  Peter knocked on the closed door, but there was no answer. He banged on it a few more times but heard nothing but silence in reply.

  Scattered on the ground outside it were some sturdy-looking sticks, probably left behind by people who had hiked up here before him. He noticed some blankets stacked neatly in front of the building and took a few from the top of the pile. Although he felt hot, the air around him was cool.

  He went around the back of the guardhouse, out of sight of anyone who might come up the mountain and folded two blankets in half to create a reasonably soft mattress on the ground. Using his rucksack as a pillow, he lay down and covered himself as best he could with the other blankets.

  His legs ached with tiredness. But as he stared up at the majestic canopy of stars above him, the words of the old Psalm echoed in his mind.

  When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers,

  the moon and the stars that you have established;

  what are human beings that you are mindful of them,

  mortals that you care for them?

  Yet you have made them a little lower than God,

  and crowned them with glory and honour.

  It really is a wonderful book when you think about it. A work of pure fiction, but its ancient wisdom and timeless beauty still speak to us. And even if the stories in it aren’t true, we can find truth in them. They’re about the universal human experience, so they remain powerful, even today.

  A few minutes later, he was completely unconscious.

  Chapter 40

  It wasn’t the dawning light that woke Peter, but the sound of footsteps. Thinking that the guard had ventured out of his hut at last, he stretched his stiff limbs and stood up. Perhaps the guard had pretended not to hear him. He was probably fed up with having his sleep disturbed by the foolhardy tourists who climbed the mountain ahead of the organised groups.

  Peter picked up his rucksack, folded up the blankets and carried them around to the front of the building to put them back where he had found them.

  When he rounded the corner, he realised that he had been mistaken. The guardhouse door was still shut, and there was no sign of the guard. But he saw the man whose footsteps had woken him up. The man who had read Peter’s mind and climbed up the mountain after him.

  A man wearing a baseball cap.

  Peter recoiled in fright and dropped the bundle of blankets on the ground.

  What can I do? I’m no match for Tony physically. I know that from experience.

  They were alone here. There was no chance of anyone coming to help him.

  Tony smiled at him in the way one might greet a colleague at work every day, absently, and without much emotion.

  ‘Mr De Haan, I presume?’ he sneered.

  Peter took a few steps away from the guardhouse, keeping his eyes fixed on Tony. Behind him was the only way down from the plateau.

  Tony walked towards him, matching Peter’s steps to maintain the distance between them.

  ‘How?’ was all Peter managed to say, his voice loud and panicked.

  How is this possible? How did he survive falling into the sea?

  Tony’s smile was gloating now.

  ‘How the hell did I survive?’ Tony said, making a complete sentence of Peter’s desperate wail. ‘Is that what you’re trying to ask me?’

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘Let’s start with your first question,’ Tony said, and he looked very much at ease, like a chess master who knows he is playing from a winning position and can take his time.

  ‘I’ve got to hand it to you, Peter, you really surprised me. Getting yourself out of the water like that. Very impressive, Peter, very athletic. But I dived under the water and swam away. Of course, I figured you wouldn’t want to let me back on board after our little tussle. But then I saw that orange lifesaver floating there, and I thought: what a good man that Peter is. No “Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth” for him. It was a little lesson in humility for me. You literally threw me a lifeline. So I swam over to it and held my face just above the water inside the ring so I could breathe. Aaah, oxygen …’

  He took a deep breath and held his arms out wide.

  ‘You see, if you’d just come a tiny bit closer, Peter, you’d have seen me. But, well, what would you have done then? You’re not the type to give me a whack on the head, so your only option would still have been to just sail away. But thanks anyway! It was a hell of a long way to swim, but hey, I’m an athlete too. The lifesaver even gave me a chance to have a little rest now and then. You really are a lifesaver, Peter! I guess the boat has already found its way back to its owner by now.’

  Peter considered laying all his cards on the table.

  What if I just show him Coen’s manuscript? That’s what he wants. I could even throw it on the ground behind me and then run like mad. Try to find somewhere to hide on the way down. But he’ll probably make sure he puts me out of action first before he picks it up.

  Instead, he screamed: ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Not so fast, Peter! I have the good fortune to know a lot of people, Peter. I’m truly blessed. A good friend of mine lives on the beach just outside of
Plymouth. He’s the sort of friend who … How should I put this? Who won’t ask any questions if you turn up unannounced on his doorstep in soaking wet clothes. The kind of friend who’ll go to your house and pick up some dry clothes for you, pick up some passports.’

  ‘Passports?’

  ‘Of course. You don’t think I travel as Tony Vanderhoop, do you? America is a land of endless possibilities, Peter, the land of the free and home of the brave. To cut a long story short: I watched you leave the Harvard campus and take a taxi. You were supposed to be going home, but then things took a different course when you got to the airport, didn’t they? You got the taxi to drop you off at a different terminal to the one that the European flights leave from. My curiosity was piqued. EgyptAir … Faarouz, what a lovely lady she is. Totally fell for my story about wanting to join my Dutch friend. “In Sharm el-Sheikh?” she asked me. I can’t believe you didn’t see me there, buddy. But it’s easy to hide from someone who isn’t expecting to see you. Amazing, how that works. And then there were our German friends, Peter …’

  Peter was listening intently now.

  ‘What cash-strapped people won’t do for five hundred dollars. I had them convinced that I just wanted to scare you … But rescued by Bedouins! I wasn’t expecting that.’

  ‘That’s enough, Tony. Whatever it is that you want, I don’t have it. Leave me alone!’

  ‘Well,’ Tony hissed. ‘We’ll have to see about that. And I think you do have something I want, something that poor, unfortunate monk gave you. And if he didn’t give it to you, then I’m sure he told it to you.’

  Peter responded with silence.

  ‘Exactly,’ Tony went on. ‘He gave you something, or he told you something – or both. Something about Coen, who visited the monastery a few times and was just a little too candid and shared his secret knowledge with Brother Milan. So then Brother Milan knew far more than was good for him. Knowledge is power, you know that. And sometimes, as the good brother learned, it can be deadly.’

  Peter tried to move towards the steps, but Tony bounded over and blocked his path in a couple of long strides.