The Simeon Scroll

by Neil Howarth

  The rocky caves and the region between the Judean hills and the Dead Sea were the settings for some of the most dramatic biblical stories. Back when he had been in seminary, he had often thought about this place. The intense heat of the desert, David fleeing from King Saul, seeking refuge in the desert’s mountain caves, and Jesus, rejecting the temptations of the devil. For thousands of years, the Judean Desert had held secrets buried in its sands. What secrets would it reveal now?

  After another hour of bone shaking travel along almost nonexistent tracks, a tree appeared out of the barren landscape, and then another, and quickly an oasis of vegetation sprang up out of the desert. They rounded a corner, and the white walls of a monastery appeared, standing proud on the hillside, surrounded by lush green trees.

  Khalid parked the 4x4 beside the main gate.

  “Wait here,” Fagan said. “We shouldn’t be long. If anyone else turns up, honk the horn.”

  Khalid flashed a grin. “No problem, Father.”

  As Fagan and Frankie climbed out, the gate opened, and a solitary monk came out to meet them.

  “Greetings,” the monk said as they approached. “We get few visitors all the way out here, but you are most welcome.”

  “Greetings brother. My name is Father Joseph Fagan, and this is my friend Miss Lefevre. I’m on a mission from the Vatican. I need to speak with the Abbot.”

  “Welcome to you both. I am Brother Ferdinand. I would gladly ask the Abbot to speak with you, but he has business in Jerusalem and will not be back until tomorrow. Perhaps I can be of assistance. But first.” He gestured towards the open gate. “Please, come in out of the hot sun. We can talk inside.”

  Brother Ferdinand led the way through the arched gateway into a large, peaceful courtyard paved with large, flattened cobbles and surrounded by lush green trees.

  “The vegetation out here in the desert is unbelievable,” Frankie called out.

  The monk stopped and looked back at her. “It seems a miracle, and maybe it is. But a geologist friend of mine tells me it is because we sit on a major tectonic fault line that runs all the way from the north, down beneath the Dead Sea. Deep inside the earth, below where we are standing, the rock has fractured and allows water to rise to the surface. It was the reason our founder built the monastery here in the 12th century.”

  Inside the main building, it was pleasantly cool. The monk led them out to a partially covered cloister. A carved stone fountain with running water stood in the center. The faint, sweet scent of eucalyptus hung in the air.

  “What a beautiful place.”

  “We like to think so. Our founder discovered this oasis in the desert and created a monument to God.”

  “Was Saint Martial the founder?”

  “No, our founder was a monk named Ademar. He came on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Unfortunately, his ship ran into a storm off Cyprus and sank. Brother Ademar though no longer a young man was able to swim ashore and also to save the life of a wealthy merchant. The merchant wanted to reward him, but Ademar explained that it was not him, but the Lord who had saved his life, and persuaded him to pay for the building of this monastery.

  Brother Ademar named the monastery after his own patron saint, Saint Martial. It was a fortunate disaster. Now, please sit,” The monk gestured to a wooden bench with a small table in front. “May I get you some tea?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” Fagan said and settled onto the bench.

  “No trouble at all.” The monk disappeared into the monastery.

  Fagan turned to Frankie. “Let me do the talking.”

  “Yes, boss.” She tipped him a mock salute and sat down beside him.

  Brother Ferdinand reappeared carrying a tray. He poured them mint tea in glass cups and then sat back with his own. He took a sip then looked across at Fagan.

  “Now, how can we be of assistance to the Holy Father?”

  Fagan gave him a reassuring smile. “We’re trying to trace the movements of a monk who was doing research work at the École Biblique about a month ago. We believe he came here. His name was Brother Thomas, he was from the Abbey de Saint Bernadette, in France.”

  “Brother Thomas? He stayed here with us for three or four days. He did some work for us. Unfortunately, his trip was cut short.”

  “Really, why was that.”

  “We had an earthquake, well I think technically it was an earth tremor. We get them often, but this one was quite severe. Brother Thomas could have been badly injured. I hope he is well.”

  Fagan put down his cup. “I’m sorry to say, Brother Thomas was killed in a road traffic accident, a couple of weeks ago.”

  The monk shook his head. “I am sorry to hear that.”

  “The reason I’m here is that Brother Thomas was a close personal friend of the Holy Father, and Pope Salus is interested to know what Thomas was working on when he was here.”

  Brother Ferdinand blew up his cheeks and then expelled the air through his lips. “The Abbot invited him here to examine a manuscript from our library. We had hoped it was an original document written by our founder, but it turned out that it was merely a copy. We did not expect him to make a special visit for us, but we hoped that on one of his visits to the École Biblique he would find time to visit us. But as it turned out, he had a special interest in all things related to St Martial, so he made a special visit. I am sorry to say, he had a wasted journey. And then the earthquake. He probably wished he had never come. Strangely for us, it turned out to be a fortuitous event.”

  “How was that?”

  “The earth tremor tore open part of the basement of the monastery. It revealed a room that had been covered by a similar event centuries ago. It contained the founder’s tomb. Poor Thomas, it was almost the end of him, he fell in.”

  Fagan tried not to let his face reveal his thoughts.

  “It is interesting you ask about this event. As I told you, we have few visitors here, but about three weeks ago we had two visitors. They said they were from an international foundation and had heard that the monastery had been damaged in the earthquake. Within days they had workmen here, and the whole area was repaired. The ancient crypt was completely restored along with the founder’s tomb.”

  “Wow, that was a stroke of good fortune,” Frankie said.

  “We like to think that the Lord guided them here.”

  “Who was this foundation?” Fagan asked.

  “You may have heard of them. The De Vaux International Foundation.”

  “Of course,” said Fagan. “They do good works all around the world.”

  “Well, they were certainly a blessing for us.”

  Frankie interjected. “Do you think we might see the crypt?”

  “Certainly,” Brother Ferdinand got to his feet. “Follow me.”

  The monk led them into the monastery and down a stone staircase. He reached for an electric light switch, and illumination flooded a narrow passageway. He turned to Fagan and Frankie. “When they did the renovation work they installed electricity down here.” He continued ahead, and at the end descended a few steps into a small, brightly lit, stone walled room.

  “This is the founder’s crypt. As you can see, the tomb has been repaired, and the founder sleeps peacefully once more.”

  “Did you find anything when the tomb was opened, any relics?”

  Ferdinand shook his head. “Sadly not. We had hoped that the founder had been buried with some of his treasures, as legend told. But there was nothing.”

  “Treasures?” Frankie couldn’t hold back. “What was this legend?”

  Brother Ferdinand smiled. “Forgive me, a little joke on my part. Our founder is held with great affection, and he was an extremely devout man, but he did have something of a reputation. Which is something we would not normally reveal. I did not even reveal it to Brother Thomas. However, based upon our recent good fortune it would seem that God has forgiven Ademar for his indiscretions.”

  “Indiscretions?” Fagan was intrigued.


  “Ademar believed that God spoke to him. He believed he told him to write down the events of history - as God himself told it. In his way, he was an artist. Unfortunately, history will remember Brother Ademar as the finest manuscript forger of his time.”

  43

  The Monastery of Saint Martial, Judean Hills.

  Khalid was waiting nervously beside the Subaru when Fagan and Frankie emerged.

  “You were so long. We must leave now if we are to get back to the city before it gets dark. After that, many more patrols, many more checkpoints.”

  “Khalid, we’re all yours,” Fagan said.

  Khalid quickly jumped into the driver’s seat, Fagan climbed in beside him, and Frankie got in behind. Khalid took the Subaru away in a huge cloud of dust, his foot hard on the gas.

  Fagan swung around to Frankie. She was about to speak, but Fagan gave a brief shake of his head and looked towards Khalid who was concentrating on the track ahead. Frankie nodded and Fagan settled back into his seat.

  What had just happened back there? What the hell was that all about?

  Fagan had no chance to contemplate it further.

  Khalid swung round a bend and hit the brakes, sending up huge plumes of dust. A military Land Rover was parked across the road, blocking their way.

  Khalid brought the Subaru to a halt. Two uniformed men stood out front, one of them pointing an Uzi, the other holding up a hand.

  “This is unusual,” Khalid said. “A checkpoint this far out.”

  “We should have known.” Fagan looked back at Frankie. “They were watching the Monastery.”

  The soldier holding up his hand approached Fagan’s side of the vehicle. Fagan wound down the window.

  “Identification.” The soldier demanded in English.

  Fagan handed over his Vatican passport. “I am a representative of the Vatican. My friend and I have been visiting the Monastery of Saint Martial.”

  The soldier studied his passport.

  “Get out,” he said.

  “Is there a problem?”

  The soldier’s eyes remained fixed on his. “Out. Now.”

  Fagan did as he was told. The soldier held a pistol, aimed directly at him.

  “Hey, steady now. You realize that is a diplomatic passport? I have diplomatic immunity.”

  The rear door of the military Land Rover opened, and a familiar figure got out, talking into a radio. His name was Bobby, and they had last seen him sitting on his hands back at the cliff. He walked towards them a broad smirk on his face. He nodded at the soldier holding the pistol on Fagan.

  “No.” Fagan shot out an arm, jolting the soldier’s hand as he pulled the trigger. The sound seemed deafening in the quiet of the early evening. The bullet screeched off the door pillar on the driver’s side. Fagan stepped in close, getting a firmer grip on the gun hand, and smashed it hard against the open window frame. The soldier let out a yell and dropped the gun inside the car. He aimed a head butt, but Fagan deflected it and pulled him to the ground. He rolled over pulling the man between him and the advancing Bobby who had pulled out a gun and was trying to get a clear shot.

  The rear door of the Subaru burst opened and Frankie dived into the dirt. Bobby quickly snapped off a shot, but Frankie kept rolling then came up with the SIG gripped in both hands. She put a single shot in the middle of Bobby’s forehead, then swept her aim around and put two bullets in the one standing further back holding the Uzi.

  The soldier grappling with Fagan pulled his hand free. It came up holding a knife. Fagan rolled aside as the man whipped the blade towards him. The soldier scrambled to his feet and dived for the Uzi his companion had dropped. He came up with the gun in his hand catching Fagan cold. A bullet from Frankie’s SIG Sauer punched a hole in the center of his chest and he staggered backward into the dirt.

  Frankie got to her feet and started brushing the dust from her shirt.

  Fagan shook his head and stood up. He went to check on the men. They were all dead. Part of him was horrified at what had happened, but the other part recognized that Frankie had just saved their lives - again.

  “Joseph, we have a problem.”

  He turned around. Frankie was looking in through the driver’s window. He scrambled over towards her. Khalid was hunched in his seat. His face drained of any color.

  Fagan opened the door. “Khalid, speak to me.”

  The driver’s hands were holding the lower left side of his chest. Blood was seeping through his fingers. Fagan pulled off his jacket and folded it quickly into a compact pad. He pulled aside Khalid’s hands and pressed it against the wound. “Hold this tight.” He put Khalid’s hands back in place. He turned to Frankie. His face was grave. “We need to get him help.”

  “What about the Monastery?”

  Fagan shook his head. “Our friend Bobby was on the radio. We can expect reinforcements appearing at any moment.”

  Fagan opened the back door then returned and put his arms around Khalid. “Just relax.”

  Khalid groaned as Fagan lifted him. Fagan moved as gently as he could and laid him on the back seat. He turned back to Frankie. “You’re going to have to drive.”

  He sprinted down the road to the Land Rover and jumped into the driver’s side. The keys were still in the ignition. He started the engine and maneuvered the vehicle into the side of the road. He switched off the engine, jumped out, and ran back to the bodies. He took a deep breath, then manhandled them to the side of the road. He started to head back, then stopped and ran back to the Land Rover. He hoped this was a genuine military vehicle. He opened the rear hatch and immediately found what he was looking for, a green box with a red cross - a military first aid kit. He grabbed the box and hurried back to the Subaru.

  He jumped into the back with Khalid, Frankie was already sitting behind the wheel.

  “Go,” he called out.

  Frankie didn’t need a second bidding. She took off down the dirt track.

  “See if you can work out that GPS system,” Fagan called.

  He rechecked Khalid’s wound. There was a neat entry hole but no exit wound. He opened the first aid kit and found a pack of morphine auto-injectors. He pulled one out and injected it into Khalid’s thigh. He pulled out a roll of cotton wool, wiped the wound clean, then found a bottle of Betadine antiseptic and swilled it across it. Khalid let out a shriek.

  “Hang in there. That will stop it from getting infected.”

  Fagan packed the wound with cotton wool, then taped a patch of gauze across it. He took his coat, refolded it and placed it beneath Khalid’s head. He felt the pulse in his neck. It was weak.

  “How is he?” Frankie called out.

  “He needs urgent medical attention. Can you call Ari?”

  “There is no coverage out here. We have to get closer to the city.”

  Frankie was desperately trying to keep the Subaru on the road, which was nothing more than a dirt track clinging to the side of the mountain.

  “Merde.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “You were right about the reinforcements.”

  Fagan glanced up as a familiar black Range Rover seemed to fill the road as it rushed towards them. Frankie twitched the wheel and dived for a small gap between the Range Rover and the mountain. The gap seemed to disappear as they reached it, and the two vehicles came together, side on, with a huge bang and a screech of metal. Then they were passed, and the Range Rover disappeared in a massive cloud of dust.

  Moments later as Fagan watched out of the rear window, the Range Rover reappeared, closing in on them fast. A man was leaning out of the passenger side window holding an Uzi. Holes danced crazily across the glass as bullets cracked by the side of his head. Fagan instinctively ducked as more bullets slammed into the back of the Subaru.

  “Here,” Frankie called out.

  Fagan looked up, Frankie was holding a pistol, thrusting it towards him over the back of the seat. “Take it,” she said, her eyes still on the road ahead. “I
t is the one the soldier dropped inside the car.” She risked a quick glance back at Fagan. He was still staring at the gun. “Come on, use it or we are all dead.”

  Fagan continued to stare at the gun. He knew she was right, but it was as if he was unable to move his arms.

  “Joseph!”

  Fagan slowly reached out and took it. He felt the weight in his hand. It was an Israeli Jericho 941, a later version than the one he was familiar with, but essentially it was the same gun, and he remembered every detail.

  He took a deep breath then quickly ejected the clip and checked the load. The bullets were forty-fives, its owner had put one in Khalid’s lung, which left nine in the clip. He slotted it back into place and worked the slide to chamber a round, then climbed over the seat into the rear area of the Subaru. He lay on his back and kicked out the rear window then scrambled up onto his knees. He tried to push out of his mind that a man was hanging out of the Range Rover’s window shooting at him. He held the pistol in a two handed grip. He remembered the effective range of the gun as if he had read it yesterday.

  “I want you to ease up on the throttle but don’t hit the brake,” he called out to Frankie. “I need them just a little closer.”

  He felt the Subaru slow, and the Range Rover closed in. He popped two shots at the gunman to distract him, then concentrated on the driver. The Subaru was bouncing over the track, and the Range Rover behind was swaying back and forth. He expelled all the air from his lungs and let his subconscious take over. It seemed like the Range Rover would collide with them. Fagan squeezed the trigger, four rapid shots, without even noticing. The Range Rover swerved hard to the left and glanced off the steep mountainside. He could see the passenger dive to grab the steering wheel. The vehicle bounced back into the middle of the road then veered to the right, smashing out through the flimsy barrier and launched into space. It dropped rapidly out of sight. But Fagan heard it crashing below.