Code Four

by Colin Conway

“No, of course not. But tell me, when it came to analyzing remnants fourteen through seventeen, was it a difficult matter to, as they say in American movies, ‘crack the code’?”

  “Yes, at first. Not only are the final four fragments encoded, they are also in ancient Greek, as is the entire codex. I struggled with that and sought help from a professor of Greek at the university and also from a visiting Greek Orthodox priest. The language is no longer spoken, but the vocabulary basics can be determined by most speakers of modern Greek.”

  “Did the two characters who assisted actually view your decoded remnants?”

  “No, Your Grace.” Zurbarán found it odd that he would describe a man of the cloth as a “character.” “They assisted me only via email, and even then, only on a few lines at a time.”

  The archbishop nodded. “Good, good, good. That is very good,” he said. “In that case, I may leave those two in peace for now.” Zurbarán was set to respond when Tadros interrupted in a voice louder than before. “But what’s important is that you have decoded the final four?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” He tapped the nearest paper pile at his elbow. The top of the foot-high stack held a file folder labeled Q Doc, which contained photographs of all the remnants. “I am no linguist. And I confess, I am not a trained cryptologist by profession, but once I discovered the cipher, piecing together the bones went quickly.”

  “And what marrow have you extracted from those bones?”

  “Ah yes, the marrow,” Zurbarán said. He took a satisfying breath. “As I’ve explained, most of the document is a reaffirmation of the Gospel as we already know it. The great wonder, of course, is to lay contemporary eyes upon the original. It is glorious indeed!”

  “You said, ‘most of the document.’ Tell me, which portions are not a reaffirmation of the faith?”

  Zurbarán grew increasingly uncomfortable with the line of inquiry, yet still could not bring himself to pose an objection. He held only a bearing of respectful deference.

  “The decoded final four do indeed cast new light upon the earliest days when our faith was being structured by Saul of Tarsus, whom we know as Saint Paul.”

  “Yes, my team has also managed to cast some light upon those final four pieces of papyri.”

  This delighted Professor Zurbarán. Not only was the archbishop sharing news of his own work but appeared to open the door to collaboration.

  “Ah! Very good. Perhaps we may compare our discoveries to confirm accuracy for analysis and eventual release to the public.”

  The archbishop ignored him. He sighed and glanced at the file folder between them.

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “Vatican scholars have decoded them. That is why I am here. Tell me, Professor, what exactly have you learned from your decryption work about those early days when our young faith was in the sainted hands of Saul of Tarsus?”

  Now feeling a sense of collegiality, he was pleased to address the archbishop’s request. He unpinned the clip he’d been studying when the unwanted knock came to his door. After removing the photo from the microscope, he held it high against the ceiling fixture to admire it.

  “Your Grace, my effort to shed light on the final four fragments tells me that, like Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, and all the great faiths of our species—God’s message was accompanied by the collaboration of men, ordinary and extraordinary, doing the work of their Lord and Savior.”

  Tadros did not care for the answer. He snatched the photo from Zurbarán, opened the Q Doc file folder, placed it atop the many other photos stacked inside, and closed the manila binder with an imperious flair.

  “So, you are neither a linguist nor a cryptologist,” he began. “Well, well, well. What exactly are you then, Professor Pablo Zurbarán…P-h-D…University of Chicago and the University of Oxford…professor of Israeli Antiquities for the University of Galicia and the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela here in the northwest corner of the very Catholic nation of Spain?”

  Zurbarán was dumbstruck. His jaw slackened. He wanted to please this emissary of the Pope inquiring about his presentation in America. Yet whatever he’d done to displease him was a mystery.

  “If I may say, Your Grace, I hope you do not feel I am questioning our faith. The mystery of faith is inviolable. As to the Q Document itself, what Your Grace may find quite interesting is—”

  Tadros grunted noisily. He put up a hand, palm out.

  “What His Grace finds quite interesting,” said the holy man, “is that you, a layman, a digger of ditches, a sifter of dirt and rock, presume the unholy right to transpose and construe and interpret and paraphrase the voice of God the Father Almighty. You may think you are merely discovering and reporting facts. I assure you, you are not. Only His Holiness decides facts. And as his emissary—I—am the decider where—you—are concerned.”

  “Your Grace, it is my work and I—”

  Before he could find the words, Archbishop Tadros gripped his cross by the short crossbar and yanked a thin blade from the unusually long shaft.

  “Oh, ‘my wor-r-k,’” the archbishop whined in mocking sarcasm, grasping the dagger’s hilt with interlocking fingers. “We can’t have you fumbling about with the voice of God the Father, now can we?”

  “But, Your Grace—”

  The archbishop calmly inserted the blade into Zurbarán’s throat. As his victim’s eyes flared with shock, the assassin reached with his free hand to grip the back of the helpless professor’s neck. In that position, the pressure on the larynx and trachea doubled, tripled, and quadrupled with every hardened thrust coordinated by two powerful hands working together like a crankshaft on a piston. Zurbarán’s struggles to breathe sounded like leather boots scraping mud on a doormat.

  When Zurbarán was dead, the man posing as an archbishop withdrew the wet dagger. He twice wiped it on his victim’s shirt and replaced it in the ornate sheath dangling from his neck chain. Turning to the professor’s nearby laptop, which remained logged on, he clicked the email icon, then the Sent file to examine recent outgoing communications. What he found surprised him. His employer wanted him to kill Dr. Zurbarán before the decoded findings were dispatched to anyone. The assassin assumed he’d done precisely that, but now realized otherwise. He’d arrived too late. Earlier that evening, the professor had emailed a full decryption of the final four Q Document fragments to each officer of The Ecumenical Apostles located around the globe, all of whom had attended the Dallas convention.

  The killer’s reaction was a mixture of surprise and ambivalence. “לעזאזל” he said in Hebrew, which meant, “Shit!” He picked up the thick Q Doc file, tucked it under one arm, and sighed. “Well it’s not my fault,” he mused in English. “If they had hired me one day sooner, he would have been killed one day sooner.”

  Careful not to tread on the oozing blood below Zurbarán’s chair, he stood and moved toward the ancient door. In Hebrew, he muttered, “וב, עבודה אחרת פירושה עוד יום משכורת”, which meant, “For me, it means another job and another day’s pay.” In English he said, “For now, I am hungry.” And finally, in perfect Spanish, he said, “Bueno, es la hora de cenar. Cuando esté in Galicia, siempre debe comer pulpo.”

  Back in the main basilica, he strode to a vestibule leading to a private restroom where he removed all sectarian vestments and discarded them in the waste bin. He leaned into the mirror to cleanse ruby blush from his face and wipe pink gloss from his lips. Dressed now as a tourist, he tucked the crucifix below his undershirt and returned to the narrow streets of Santiago de Compostela. With a sightseeing map of the old city, he set off upon the cobblestones to find a traditional Galician restaurant offering his desired repast of boiled octopus over sliced potatoes with garlic and anointed by generous splashes of olive oil.

  Click here to learn more about Madness of the Q by Gray Basnight.

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