But Dominic Penitente had eyes only for the leather codex, examining the binding and then the leaves with the briskness of an expert.
“Professor St. Vincent,” he said. “Your credentials are known to me. What do you say?”
“I would not stake my reputation on any cursory examination. Carbon-14 testing is available, but will take some days. X-rays could also be useful.”
“All your sensible disclaimers are duly noted, professor, but it appears time is pressing. As is so often the case, the buyer must therefore make his best guess, risking his cash on only what our immediate senses can tell us.” He bent down and actually sniffed the pages, after which he breathed for a moment with his mouth open, like a big cat. “So I would still value your purely informal opinion, Professor St. Vincent, subject to change based on these tests. You’ve examined the book. From what you’ve seen to date, is this a modern fake, or is this binding a thousand years old?”
“That binding is a thousand years old.”
“Aha. And the leaves, the writing? The same age?”
“Age can be different from authenticity.”
“That’s true. In fact, as I’ve explained to Mr. Hunter, I suspect this is an early fake, and would buy it as such. But all I asked was whether the pen made these letters a thousand years ago.”
“The writing is older.”
“Older! Yes, I think so, too. Fourth century, in all likelihood. You have done well, my Egyptian brothers. Today your luck appears to hold. Two hundred thousand in cash, here and now. This is my offer.”
“What do you think, brother?” asked Hakim.
“Mattieu has seen the book. Even now I would trust his advice. What do you say, Mattieu? Is this book worth more? A million dollars, perhaps?
Matthew nodded. “If you can show clear title, if I could put color photos in a printed catalog, write up the proper description, explain the provenance, yes. Given two months at least to circulate it to the proper institutional buyers, at a formal auction in Boston or New York, a price of a million dollars is not out of the question. That’s not a guarantee, you understand. They’d want their own experts to examine the codex; the price could fluctuate enormously if the validity or the title is challenged.”
“Clear title,” Rashid said thoughtfully, “and a provenance.”
“Be careful, younger brother,” answered Hakim. “Some dogs from Cairo have been sniffing here, claiming the book should never have left Egypt, threatening to seize the book as property of the thieves at the Ministry of Culture of their Islamic Republic.”
“Yes,” said Rashid. “Cash in the hand is always better than a promise for tomorrow. I prefer the priest’s money, I think. I worry about these dogs.”
“As well you should, my countrymen,” said the gray-suited Egyptian Associate Minister of Culture, stepping from the shadows on the far side of the reading room, his large State Department bodyguard in the dark suit still close by his side. “We appreciate everyone’s help in confirming this is the stolen book in question. But I’m afraid we must now take charge of the codex, before allowing this to go any further. It’s a cultural artifact removed without official permission from the Islamic Republic of Egypt.”
“You can’t prove any provenance for that book!” shouted Lance White, more excited than Chantal had seen him — especially considering he was about to be outbid in a cash auction for the manuscript, anyway. “It’s been missing for hundreds of years! Handed down in the al-Adar family for generations, from all appearances.”
“Actually, he doesn’t have to prove shit,” said the tall bodyguard in the shiny shoes and the charcoal gray suit, his voice now that he’d finally spoken turning out to be a surprising Texas drawl. He pulled a wallet from his inside coat pocket and opened it to flash a gold shield. “This is a matter of national security, and I’m authorized to take this book into custody on behalf of the U.S. Department of State. If Mr. al-Adar has a claim for compensation, he’ll be welcome to file it through the proper channels.”
“You snake,” said Hakim al-Adar, reaching for his waistband beneath his loose-flowing shirt.
“Hakim,” said Matthew, with a tilt of the head. “Not today.”
“I see only one man,” snarled Hakim.
“That’s right,” said the State Department guy, returning his wallet to his inside coat pocket and leaving his right hand conspicuously inside that jacket, where you might expect any plainclothes G-man to be wearing a shoulder rig. “We’ve got a saying where I come from. ‘One riot; one ranger.’ Now young lady, I understand you’ve had plenty of provocation, I don’t take any offense. In fact, if you want to press charges against these two foreign gentlemen for man-handling you, my associate outside will be happy to take them into custody until the local police can arrive. But I’d take it as a personal favor if you’d put away that revolver, now. My name is Special Agent Charles Petrocelli, and I’ve got this situation under control.”
Chantal glanced briefly at Matthew, who nodded, and lowered her revolver. “No one will be pressing any charges,” she said, wedging the Lady Smith into her already bulging shoulder bag.
“That book belongs to the whole world,” tried the Rev. Lance White, still not ready to give up, pointing from where he still stood on the heavy oak reading table. “You don’t have any copyright on that book. It should be translated and released to the world!”
“Which is precisely what will be done with it,” simpered the Egyptian Minister of Culture and Church-Burnings, shaking out his powder blue pocket kerchief, wiping his face and blowing his nose. The waving of the handkerchief seemed to fill the room with the exotic scents of rose and patchouli. “It will be made available to qualified scholars, whose research will doubtless be published in a properly organized manner in due time. There can be no copyright on the text, as you say, but our information is that this particular volume was removed without permission from a monastery near Heliopolis, which makes it a cultural treasure of the Islamic Republic of Egypt.”
Chantal would have sworn some kind of knowing glance passed between the Egyptian government man and the big monk Dominic Penitente, who curiously had spoken not a word in objection to the seizure. Could it be he and his employer figured the Islamic Republic of Egypt would actually be an easier seller to deal with? Or that maybe he knew neither the book nor this Mubarak guy were fated to ever get back to Cairo, at all? Come to think of it, how had the government men known where the exchange was happening?
“And now, if you’ll excuse us?” At a gesture from the stout Egyptian minister, the tall State Department guy picked up The Testament of James, they both stepped around the table, and then their heels were clicking down the hallway toward the front door, which was opened from the outside before they reached it by another G-man, this one wearing a tan raincoat and carrying a rainproof plastic case into which they carefully slid the Testament. Outside, passing cars splashed through puddles in the street, and a light drizzle continued, though golden sunbeams were breaking through the clouds.
“We will meet again, you scented fop,” warned Hakim al-Adar, his jaw set in determination, the volume of his voice rising as the dapper bureaucrat drew away without looking back. “Perhaps in Cairo. And when we do, I will introduce you to a camel who is a particular friend of mine!”
As the Egyptian minister and his two bodyguards departed, they held the door for another person about to enter the building, a thin woman carrying a massive yellow umbrella and wearing a silver plastic slicker who stomped her feet just inside the door to help shake off the water. At first Chantal wasn’t sure who it was. Turning back to the reading room, she saw that Dominic Penitente was gone — a giant in a black cape had vanished as though he’d never been there, except that his length of rope still hung incongruously from the balcony railing.
Lance White still stood on his reading table, although his arms and his head all hung down in defeat, now.
“You OK, Reverend?” asked Chantal, pulling the can of Coke from
her purse, popping the top, and handing it up to him.
Lance White accepted it, took a swig, and handed it back. “Well, that’s done,” he said.
“Signorina,” whined the chubby Monk Number Three, pathetically.
“Go,” she said, “Go ahead; get out of here.”
“La mia pistola?”
“No, you can’t have your guns back. Get out of here,” she said. So he did.
“Cheer up, Reverend,” said Matthew, as Lance White used a chair to climb down from on top of his table. “It could have been worse; they could have seized it after you’d handed over the purchase price.”
“The testament of the brother of Jesus. The plot to survive the crucifixion, told first-hand. The miracle of the loaves, except now we’ll have to call it the Miracle of the Manna. The truth the Sanhedrin suppressed and that Jesus sought to reveal. The only Christian testament from before the destruction of the temple. And now it’s all going to be buried in some basement in Cairo?”
“Well, if it really was stolen from a monastery. . . ” said Chantal.
“No Christian monastery has operated near Heliopolis for at least a hundred years,” said the Rev. White, with a sad smile. He checked his cell phone for messages, now, held it to his ear for a few seconds. “Message from Marian,” he smiled. “She called to tell us Chantal had got the drop on ’em.”
The woman shaking and closing the massive yellow umbrella turned out to be Richard St. Vincent’s sharp-featured gatekeeper and Mistress of the Paperwork, the iron-willed Miss Finisterre.
“Professor,” she said. “I’m glad you weren’t caught out in the storm.”
“And I’m surprised to see you out in it, Miette. Something you forgot?”
“It’s an old building, professor. If there was water damage from the storm we’d want to know about it right away.”
“Quite true. Perhaps I’ll have another look in the rare book room.”
“It’s ironic,” said Lance White, who still looked a little stunned.
“What?”
“The thing Jesus taught that really got them upset was that the priests had hidden away the sacrament, the heart of their religion, until they even stopped using it themselves. And now we have another church with a huge hierarchy that opposes people going off and finding God on their own with any entheogen that really works. Called it sorcery, condemned them as drunks, massacred hundreds of thousands of Indians for using magic mushrooms and morning glory seeds. Instead they offer us wine and communion wafers.”
“Maybe they work,” offered Matthew, putting on his most innocent expression.
“Trust me,” the Rev. White replied, “the DEA does not group communion wafers with the Schedule One hallucinogens.”
“So Jesus wanted people to find God on their own, and in his name they’ve erected a church that condemns the holy plants and says you have to go through the priests, again,” Chantal sighed. “I don’t know whether to be angry or sad.”
“And there, little one,” said Matthew, “lies Sophia, the beginning of wisdom.”
“I don’t know if I like this growing wise. Back when I didn’t know so much, things seemed so much more clear and simple.”
“Yes.” Matthew hugged her around the shoulders. “But as a great philosopher once reminded us, age and guile will always beat out youth, innocence, and a bad haircut.”
“Matthew, if you don’t mind, the storm seems to have let up,” said a subdued Lance White. “I believe I’m going to go out for some fresh air. If I can meet you back at the store a little later, supper’s on me, supper for everyone, maybe some of your New England seafood; what do you say?”
“A good plan.”
“Gentleman, with any luck our cars are still just outside. I hope you thought to put up your windows. Shall we be going?” The Egyptian brothers shrugged and accompanied Lance down the hall to the door.
And here was Miss Finisterre again, storming out of her office as usual.
“A problem, Miss Finisterre? Water damage?”
“When will they agree to keep these offices locked after hours? I swear I’m going to put in a requisition for an alarm system!”
“More buttocks?” asked Chantal.
“Someone made seventy-two full color separations here earlier this afternoon, seventy-two, carefully calibrating for contrast, even using the ultraviolet illuminator, carried the files away on a disc along with the proofs, and didn’t properly log a single one. And on our largest format paper, too, it costs the world!”
“And no way to tell who the culprit was?” Matthew frowned.
“I can certainly narrow it down!”
“How’s that?”
“They ran a first proof before the machine was properly warmed up, and a piece of it snagged on the roller, which had to be cleared before they could proceed. The color balance is off, but even from this scrap they left behind I think you amateur Nancy Drews will agree we can narrow down the field of suspects considerably.” She dramatically produced the torn fragment of a color photocopy on heavy stock.
“Your culprit reads Hebrew.”
“Precisely.”
At which point Professor St. Vincent came ambling back from his rainwater inspection tour of his inner sanctum, whistling under his breath — the theme from Rawhide, as near as anyone could later remember.
“Ah, Miette,” he said, all smiles. “I meant to tell you, the reason I came back in today was to scan in a manuscript on your Japanese scanner. Bit of a rush, the owner wanted it back. But I’m afraid you arrived before I could log it in. Charge the copies to the research account, please.”
“Professor? How many copies?”
“Oh, must have been seventy full color separations, seventy-five, whatever your counter shows. I meant to log them but there was that awful thunderstorm, I had to go make sure we didn’t have any rainwater coming in under the dome. No harm done, surely. Would you like to join us for supper?”
“Supper?”
“The evening meal, Miette. It will be a large group, several members of the Cornish Horrors, very convivial I’m sure. Consider it research, and I believe I overheard Matthew’s client say he’ll be buying. Yes? I’ll call you from Matthew’s store and you can let us know.”
Matthew and Chantal fell in with the old man, who continued to show an uncommon bounce in his step, leaving alone in their wake in the reading room a motionless and still dripping Miss Finisterre, wearing an expression that said she, too, believed there was more here than met the eye.
“So, Richard, just what did you and the Reverend White get up to with that manuscript, before he came out and engaged the Dominican in all that sturm und drang in the reading room — which had the added effect of giving you an extra 20 minutes alone with the book?”
“Terrible thing, our own government turning over such a thing to a bunch of illiterate camel drivers. Do you know they actually consider it a violation of their faith to read anything but the Koran? Makes you wonder how they allow for restaurant menus.”
“And you must have noticed what a point the Reverend made of getting that Egyptian bastard to agree there couldn’t be any copyright on the actual content of The Testament of James, which would mean a scanned color facsimile, say, would be in the public domain.”
“Did he?” the professor asked, reaching and opening the door, where in the wake of the afternoon storm they looked out on a glistening, new-washed world. “Did he indeed?”
* * *
Lance White was as good as his word, showing up back at Books on Benefit with an offer to take everybody out for seafood at Hemenway’s, including the late-arriving Skeezix, only slightly damp.
Marian handed Matthew a package that had been dropped off for him by a very waterlogged young fellow. Fortunately, it had been sealed in a large plastic Ziploc, which she had swabbed dry with a hand-towel from the kitchen.
“What is it?” asked Chantal.
“The Tim Leary copy of Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas,”
Matthew replied, holding it out where they could all see it. “And there’s a note: ‘With appreciation for a struggle well joined, from a fellow book-lover. Perhaps we will meet again, when once more the game is afoot.’”
“Your friend the Inquisitor?”
“None other.”
“By the way,” said Marian, “there was a call from London earlier, Matthew. Gentleman said his name was Pinky, very aristocratic. You know how they talk without moving their lips? Sounded pretty urgent.”
“Any message?”
“He said the courier was attacked and a Koran is missing.”
“Unbelievable. You leave these people alone for one damned week . . .”
“Only, come to think of it, I don’t believe he actually said a Koran was missing. Could he have said the Koran?”
“The Caliphs did the same thing with the Koran that the early popes did with our New Testament.” Matthew shrugged. “After Uthman ibn Affan standardized the text in about 653, he ordered all varying copies burned.”
“But they weren’t all burned?”
“Oh no.” Lance White picked up the tale. “Of course not. In Kufa, Ibn Masud and his followers refused. And the personal copy of Hafsa, one of Mohammed’s widows, was also returned to her.”
“And they’re not the same?”
“Evidently not,” Matthew said. “Mohammed didn’t actually write the Koran, after all, he dictated it as it was revealed to him, so there had to be variants. But the more important question is, who doesn’t want us to find out?”
“You want me to book you a flight to London?” asked Marian, starting to pull up web pages.
Matthew looked at Chantal. Chantal smiled and fluttered her eyelids.
“Two seats first class tomorrow morning, Marian. Departing Green would be better than Logan. And book us a suite at the Russell.”
“Of course.”
“You and Les can handle the store?”
“With Skeezix and Mr. Cuddles here to help?” Marian laughed. “Absolutely.”
BE SURE TO TUNE IN NEXT TIME FOR ANOTHER EXCITING ADVENTURE FROM THE CASE FILES OF MATTHEW HUNTER AND CHANTAL STEVENS … ‘THE MISKATONIC MANUSCRIPT’!
The Testament of James (Case Files of Matthew Hunter and Chantal Stevens) Page 19
