Shattered Icon

by Bill Napier

  I felt an electric tingle in my spine. We waited. Dalton sipped at a glass of Coca-Cola, cleared his throat and continued. 'The True Cross has caused more death and destruction than any other relic in history. Regaining the cross from the Moslems was one of the prime motivations for the Fifth Crusade. If it really exists, if a piece of the genuine Cross of Christ were to turn up' - Dalton glanced at his companion - 'I imagine museums, rich individuals or even religious groups would pay a fortune to have it in their possession.'

  'A fortune?' Zola interrupted.

  Sir Joseph said, 'As a ballpark figure, my museum would pay ten million dollars.'

  I said, 'Nice try, Sir Joseph, but what would the Getty Museum pay? Or a rich American preacher? Or even the Vatican? I was thinking more of fifty million.' He gave me an oblique look.

  Zola said, 'Think of a genuine piece of the Cross of Jesus in the possession of some right-wing American evangelist. It would confer tremendous authenticity on him. These guys sell religion like soap and the bigger their flock the more cash they rake in. He'd corner the whole evangelical market in the States. There's big money in this.'

  'If it's seen to be genuine,' I said. 'But I understand that most relics are fakes.'

  Dalton nodded. 'That's absolutely right, Mr Blake. In medieval times there were fifteen foreskins from Jesus, three heads of John the Baptist and enough bones from saints and apostles to fill a warehouse, not to mention phials of blood from Christ, and so on. A European king with a piece of material touched by Jesus or Mary had something which conferred his divine right to rule. Also, relics were used to cure diseases and suchlike. It was a tremendous commercial thing. They were the focus for a lot of robbery and murder. Which was one motivation for the Iconoclasts.'

  'Iconoclasts?'

  'Literally, icon shatterers. People who fought against religious images. But even they made an exception for the Cross.'

  'But if the relics are nearly all fakes,' I asked, 'what makes the True Cross any different? Presumably there's enough wood around from the supposed fragments to make dozens of crosses?'

  Dalton smiled faintly. 'Actually, no. The definitive work on the relics of the True Cross was written by Rohault de Fleury in 1870. He chased up and catalogued all the claimed fragments of the Cross and added up their volume. It came to about four litres, which is probably just two or three kilograms since wood is lighter than water. The real Cross would weigh, say, seventy-five kilograms.'

  'But we're still dealing with medieval fakes, surely.' I was beginning to sound like a broken record.

  'Almost certainly, in my opinion. Except for this one. I think this particular one is authentic'

  'Come on.' Blake the sceptic.

  'I'm very serious, Mr Blake.' Spoken quietly and confidently.

  'You have my undivided attention, Dalton.'

  'The discovery of the Cross goes back to about 327 AD. After the Emperor Constantine guaranteed there would be no further persecution of Christians, the Bishop of Jerusalem - a man called Makarius - carried out excavations to find the location of various holy sites, like the tomb of Christ and the location of Calvary.'

  'Did he need to excavate after just three centuries?'

  'The Emperor Hadrian had covered over the holy places. But this actually served to preserve them until Makarius uncovered them. Keep in mind that the precise locations would be very well known to the local Christians. The positions would have been handed down through the generations. It was during these excavations that the wood of the Cross was recovered.'

  'Is this real history or just legend?'

  'It's for real, Harry. The excavations are mentioned in various inscriptions dating from just after that time. St Cyril of Jerusalem writes about the discovery of the sacred wood in 347 AD, just twenty years after these excavations. An inscription dated 359 AD mentions that a fragment of the True Cross was found. The Peregrinatio Etheriae, of Silvia, whose authenticity nobody doubts, mentions that the wood of the Cross was venerated in Easter ceremonies in Jerusalem about 380 AD.'

  'That's quite a recital, Dalton.' I thought, This guy knows his stuff.

  'But there's more. These same excavations also turned up the supposed Tomb of Christ. The level of credibility of the tomb is about the same as that of the Cross. Okay?'

  'Okay.'

  'Okay. Now if you visit the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, you'll see queues of people at the traditional site of the tomb. But now the evidence gets harder. Non-invasive archaeology by Biddle at Oxford confirms that there is in fact an ancient tomb at the traditional site. Its age is about right for being Christ's tomb.' Dalton leaned back, swirling his Coca-Cola. 'The documentation, the history and the archaeology are all saying the same thing. There's every reason to believe that the wood which was excavated came from the Cross.'

  'So the True Cross isn't in the same league as the fifteen foreskins of Christ and the three heads of John the Baptist?'

  'Absolutely not. There's an excellent chance that the Cross which was recovered after these excavations was the genuine article.'

  'What happened to it then?'

  'Constantine built the Church of the Holy Sepulchre over the holy places, and the Cross was kept there until 614 AD. Then there was a war, and the Cross was captured and taken to Persia. Then there was another war and the Roman Emperor Heraclius recaptured it and the Cross eventually ended up back in Jerusalem. The Christians swiped it during the First Crusade in 1099. Then Saladin got hold of it when he captured Jerusalem in 1187. The story is that he would ride through the streets dragging the captured True Cross behind him, tied to his horse's tail. But now we're getting into legend.'

  'What happened to it then?'

  Dalton paused to clear his throat, sipped at the last of his Coca-Cola. 'At this point we begin to lose the thread. The beam itself was lost during the Fifth Crusade. But fragments which came off were supposed to have been collected and brought back to Europe after the Crusades. These fragments disappeared too.'

  'In any case they were fakes.' The needle was still in the groove.

  Dalton nodded his head. 'That would be my guess. It was faking time by then. But, as I say, not the Ogilvie relic'

  'Why not?'

  'The fake relic business was in the West, in Rome or Barcelona or Venice, and it was a medieval practice. Ogilvie's description is a perfect match to a fragment of the Cross predating the Crusades by nine hundred years. Go back to St Cyril, who described the recovery of the Cross in 347 AD. He also tells us that fragments of it were distributed over the known world. These fragments are long gone and nothing is known about them. Except for one.'

  I grunted.

  'The one being a description literally unearthed a few years back from a scroll hidden in a recess above a pillar in St Sofia. Not the one in Constantinople, but a little one in Mitra, in southern Greece, where the late Byzantium scholars fled in the fifteenth century. The scroll's an inventory of treasures held by a small church in Byzantium before the Crusaders despoiled it. It includes a description of a holy triptych which contains wood from the Cross. It matches Ogilvie's icon to perfection. It also describes the wood as being retrieved from a monastery in the Atlas Mountains.'

  'So?'

  'So in a place called Tixter in the Atlas Mountains, not far from the town of Constantine in Algeria, an inscription has been found listing local relics, one of which is a fragment of the True Cross. The inscription is dated 359 AD.'

  I thought, The jigsaw's complete. 'So wood from the Cross was recovered around 327 AD. It's reliably known that some of it was chopped up and spread around shortly thereafter. We know that some went to a monastery in the Atlas Mountains and was returned, one way or another, to Constantinople. It was made the centrepiece of a holy triptych whose description we have from some late Byzantium outpost. The description matches exactly that given by Ogilvie.'

  Zola said, 'Bingo.'

  'And a Crusader in the direct lineage of my client, de Clari, took this triptych as
plunder from the Byzantium church, and it's been hidden by some members of the Picardy family for centuries.'

  Dalton said, 'In my opinion it's a piece of wood from the True Cross. The only piece we can feel secure about.'

  Sir Joseph said, 'The king of holy relics.'

  Zola said, 'Carbon dating would settle the question.'

  Dalton said, 'First catch your icon.'

  Sir Joseph smiled thinly. 'Precisely, Mr Blake. After all, it's still lost. Which brings me to a proposition.'

  I was used to spending £1,000 in the search for £500 maps and had all but taken vows of poverty. I tried to appear nonchalant while awaiting a proposition from one of the wealthiest men in England.

  He said, 'If this really is a bit of the True Cross, or even likely to be venerated as such by a large proportion of the population, then the commercial possibilities are immense. Imagine what a museum could do with it.'

  Not a word about its religious significance, I noticed.

  'I would like to commission both of you to find this icon if at all possible. I will give you full financial backing, as much as you need. If you find it, and carbon-14 dating dates the icon to the time of Christ, then we have it independently valued. I buy it at one half of its monetary value, to be divided as you wish between yourself and your colleagues.'

  'And if the dating shows it to be a medieval fake, contrary to our expectations?'

  The man smiled. 'Then I have lost some money and you have wasted some time.'

  'Out of the question. If we find the icon it becomes my client's property. In any case, the Getty Museum would be in a position to offer well over valuation, and probably would, if necessary, to acquire it.'

  'But can you find another backer at short notice?'

  'Actually, yes. My client.' I was probably lying. It was more likely that the capital in Debbie's estate would be tied up for months, while the lawyers crawled through the fine print and Uncle Robert stuck his oar in wherever possible.

  Sir Joseph sighed. 'Very well, let me make another proposition. Allow me to finance your inquiry, and in exchange give me first refusal on the Cross. If Getty or the Vatican offer more, the loss is mine.'

  Zola was nodding her head.

  I said, 'No again.'

  'I could send Dalton out in competition with you. It's not at all clear to me that your client is the true owner of the relic. It could be a case of finders keepers. It would be much better if we co-operate and agree a division of spoils beforehand.'

  Zola said, 'I'd like to have a word with Harry in private.'

  Outside, the sky was grey and the air was chilly. We sat on the car park wall. 'What the hell are you playing at, Harry? Look at the stakes! We need to get out there right away.'

  'I was looking for expert advice on the triptych, not a financial backer. Debbie will finance us. We don't need this guy muscling in.'

  'The backing of a major museum could be very important, Harry. We might need this Dalton's expertise. I'm not sure I'd even recognise this holy triptych after four hundred years.'

  'But can we trust this Dalton? He's acting for Sir Joseph. If we find the icon he might just disappear with it, leaving us high and dry.'

  'Come on, Harry, I've known Joe for years. It's high time you started to trust someone.'

  'But I can't agree to a damn thing without Debbie's permission. She's entitled to everything if she's the legal owner.'

  'If. So telephone her.'

  'With Uncle Robert on the prowl? If he gets a whiff of this he'll cut us out. More to the point, he'll cut Debbie out.' I added, 'Which maybe explains why he's so keen to get the journal and keep me away. Let's go back inside. And leave me to do the horse-trading.'

  In the pub, I told Sir Joseph, 'Your proposition would not be in my client's interests.'

  'But your client, I understand, cannot be reached and you need the money now. Others may be on the same trail. It seems that realism calls for a little flexibility. In any case, the ownership of the icon is one which, I'm sure, could be disputed for years at great expense.' He was hinting at something.

  'I have an obligation to a client.'

  'Which you cannot fulfil for lack of capital. Will your client be happy if you lose the item altogether to another party?'

  I spoke to Dalton. 'If this triptych still exists, somewhere in Jamaica, where would you start looking?'

  'I guess the Jamaican lawyer would be a good starting point.'

  'Exactly. But with Tebbit as his client he wouldn't speak to you. You're screwed up before you start.' I turned to Sir Joseph. 'I have a counter-proposal.'

  A cautious 'Yes?'

  'I look for the item in question, with my client's interests at heart, and you finance the whole operation. In exchange for this I advise my client to give you first refusal on the item, based on an independent valuation. That way you don't get into a bidding situation with the Getty Museum or the like.'

  'You assume your client will own the icon if it is found. But it's not clear that she will have any right at all to the property. There may be other claimants and complications to do with treasure trove, landowners' rights and God knows what else.'

  'The icon has been in her family for a thousand years.'

  'We could make lawyers very rich arguing about this. And what if your client is unwilling to take your advice? Perhaps even unwilling to sell, assuming she even owns it?'

  'You take that chance. You have to, otherwise I pull the plug on the whole investigation.'

  There was silence while Sir Joseph calculated the odds. Then he was saying, 'Your deal could leave me with nothing but a bill for Jamaica.'

  'Correct. We're all taking chances here. And I have one further condition. Put twenty thousand pounds sterling into my client's account in advance, to cover the expenses. I'll ask her to transfer the money through to Jamaica once we're there.'

  'I too have a further condition. Dalton here will accompany you. He will represent my interests. And I will put the question of ownership to an independent silk should you retrieve the icon.'

  'What do we get out of it, Harry?' Zola asked.

  'We'll negotiate separately with Debbie. We'll agree a percentage of the sale, once Sir Joseph has bought the icon.'

  'You're a tough negotiator,' Sir Joseph said.

  'What we all lack is time. There are others on the trail of this thing.'

  Dalton said, 'I guess we're a team, then. I'll try to get flights to Jamaica.'

  I said, 'I'd better get back to Lincoln. Passport, toothbrush, stuff like that. What about you, Zola?'

  'Passport's in my handbag, and I'll pick up travel stuff on the way.'

  Zola and I passed the pub a few minutes later, having done a U-turn to avoid a traffic jam. Dalton and Sir Joseph were still there. They were in intense conversation with a third man.

  CHAPTER 22

  Around nine o'clock on a grey, wet morning, Dalton was waiting for us inside Manchester Airport. The conservative grey suit and black shoes were gone. In their place were calf-length trousers and an over-long turquoise sweater and sandals.

  'Where are your dreadlocks?' I asked.

  He grinned. 'I keep them in a box.'

  The first surprise of the day came in the international departure lounge. Dalton and Zola disappeared into the duty-free shop and I wandered aimlessly along the concourse. Somehow, out of the hundreds of people milling around, my eye was drawn to a young woman, with brown sweater and over-tight elastic slacks, staring out of a window at the rainswept tarmac. She was chatting into a mobile phone. Her outline and hairstyle looked vaguely familiar, a fact which at first I put down to my increasing paranoia. But as I approached, she turned and there she was, Ms Debbie Bloody Tebbit. She gave me a wave and a big smile and was off the phone by the time I reached her.

  'What the hell!' I didn't need this sort of complication.

  'Hello, Harry. You might say you're pleased to see me or something.'

  'Debbie, you're not coming with us. I wan
t you to go home. Leave this to me.'

  'Why?'

  'Because you're paying me to do it. Because you must have family affairs to see to.'

  She gave the same teenage-angst pout I'd seen her use in her father's study. 'Father was buried yesterday, if that's what you mean.'

  'I'm sorry. Look, if your Uncle Robert finds out, he'll have me up for child abduction.'

  'Harry, you said we're in competition for this icon.'

  'We are, Debbie, and with some extremely nasty people. Which is another sound reason for keeping you out of it.'

  'That's just awesome, Harry. Awesome paternalism. You should have been a Victorian mill owner or something.' She slipped the mobile into her handbag and sat down, gazing at me with big, brown, speculative eyes. 'You think they killed my father, don't you?'

  'No, of course not.'

  'I thought so. Maybe I'll get to meet them.' She spoke the words casually.

  This was getting out of hand: the last thing I needed was a homicidal teenager on the team. I tried to keep the worry out of my voice. 'Don't be absurd, Debbie. Please go home.'

  She rolled her eyes but otherwise didn't bother to reply.

  Surprise number two hit me somewhere just short of the mid-Atlantic ridge, to judge by the map on the video screen showing the aircraft's position. Debbie's unexpected appearance had been an unwelcome complication, but number two was deadly.

  Introductions over, Dalton and Zola had shared what Air Jamaica called lovebird seats on the Airbus. Debbie was dozing, stretched out on a row of seats by herself, and I was making my way to the toilet at the rear of the aircraft.

  This time, the unexpected female was Cassandra. She was at a window seat on her own. She glanced up from a magazine as I passed, gave a slight, cold smile and carried on reading.

  In the toilet, I locked the door, put my head against it and shut my eyes, feeling drained.

  I had no way of knowing whether she had followed Debbie, somehow tapped into her phone, or whatever. Had she seen me in the concourse, speaking to Debbie? Did she know about Zola and Dalton? More to the point, was she alone? Would we be met by nasty people at Montego Bay? I thought not: I hadn't known myself we were Jamaica-bound until yesterday. Maybe Cassandra's job was to keep track of us until help arrived. In that case we would have to move swiftly. I toyed with fantasy images of armed Jamaican Yardies waiting for us at the airport, maybe even Jamaican police arresting me because of some story concocted by Uncle Robert.