RICHARD AND RACHAEL HELLER
THE 13th APOSTLE
Contents
Cover
Title Page
“You really have trouble with this trust thing, don’t you?” she asked.
Prologue
Professor Arnold Ludlow opened the ancient diary. The musty smell…
Chapter 1
In the dim light of the restaurant, Gil Pearson strained…
Chapter 2
Abdul Maluka stepped from the shower and stared at his…
Chapter 3
She slid into the chair next to Professor Ludlow’s, finished…
Chapter 4
Lucy used to say that, during the first year of…
Chapter 5
“Do you think we should leave him alone in there?”…
Chapter 6
Professor Arnold Ludlow struggled up the steps, two heavy suitcases…
Chapter 7
CyberNet Forensics was one of the top-rated, though not one…
Chapter 8
The top floor of CyberNet Forensics shuddered with the combined…
Chapter 9
Tuesday was Kids’ Day at The Shrine of the Book…
Chapter 10
Dr. Anton DeVris glanced down at the caller ID on…
Chapter 11
The cab pulled into the grand circle driveway. Beyond the…
Chapter 12
“Hold on.” DeVris spoke into the empty room. After a…
Chapter 13
“You’re late,” Sabbie said. She looked up casually, then returned…
Chapter 14
News of Ludlow’s death was shocking but not surprising. It…
Chapter 15
“It couldn’t be that simple,” Sabbie said softly.
Chapter 16
Gil had been hard at work since seven in the…
Chapter 17
Sabbie led Gil through the cave-like hall that he had…
Chapter 18
It only took four steps to cross the tiny office.
Chapter 19
He had completed his Internet searches and had been waiting…
Chapter 20
“This information is very important to us,” McCullum said. “But…
Chapter 21
Sabbie closed the door behind her but held onto the…
Chapter 22
Gil followed the directions Sabbie had written on the back…
Chapter 23
Each of the twin hulks was six-foot-six at least, with…
Chapter 24
“First, some ground rules. Give me your cell phone,” Sabbie…
Chapter 25
The sleeper car on the South West train from London…
Chapter 26
Many hours had passed before Hassan informed of McCullum’s unexpected…
Chapter 27
The Weymouth Limousine Service was the model of dependability, when…
Chapter 28
A break-in, whether at the Monastery or any other building,…
Chapter 29
As arguments go, this one was a beaut. And the…
Chapter 30
The walk through town had been easy; fair enough moonlight,…
Chapter 31
The side door of the Monastery offered no resistance. The…
Chapter 32
They were so close to finding it; incredibly close. They…
Chapter 33
Gil shook his head in disbelief. How could he have…
Chapter 34
Gil led the way down into the underground chamber. The…
Chapter 35
Sabbie spotted them at a distance.
Chapter 36
They needed a luxury sedan, Sabbie told Gil. A car…
Chapter 37
The cloths the young girl held in readiness for the…
Chapter 38
“Why did you stop reading?” Gil asked.
Chapter 39
Micah held back the tears until he reached the cave.
Chapter 40
Sabbie looked up from the scroll and caught Gil’s eye…
Chapter 41
Micah’s birthday outing was indistinguishable from any of his father’s…
Chapter 42
“If anything happens to me, there are a few things…
Chapter 43
No matter how he positioned himself, Micah’s back ached incessantly.
Chapter 44
He was tall for a Syrian and broad in the…
Chapter 45
It was a dream filled with terror. It disappeared even…
Chapter 46
They left Sarkami to do what he did best: to…
Chapter 47
The Apostles gathered in the old, abandoned farmhouse. Over a…
Chapter 48
Gil turned on the hot stream of water and washed…
Chapter 49
It was a very sexy dream. Her body melded with…
Chapter 50
Micah paused to catch his breath. He had been walking…
Chapter 51
Ten o’clock came and went and still no Sabbie.
Chapter 52
Joseph, face set, sat unmoving. “I need not ask you…
Chapter 53
Within half an hour, Gil had withdrawn all the cash…
Chapter 54
The figure of Joseph of Arimathea appeared in relief against…
Chapter 55
Gil struggled toward consciousness. The smell of sweat was so…
Chapter 56
It was a stupid decision, but he had no other…
Chapter 57
The door didn’t open again for quite a while. In…
Chapter 58
Gil looked across the Thanksgiving table at Sabbie. She smiled…
Chapter 59
“What the hell is a doorway to history?” Gil asked.
Chapter 60
Gil never got the answer to the obvious next question.
Chapter 61
When Gil would think back to the moment he first…
Chapter 62
Sabbie’s body lay sprawled on the floor.
Chapter 63
It was like waking from a terrible dream. In the…
Chapter 64
The hand that grasped Gil’s shoulder stopped him dead with…
Chapter 65
Perhaps it had been George’s weight or his greediness. Perhaps…
Chapter 66
Gil waited outside on the Library steps. He squinted at…
Chapter 67
Sarkami chose his position carefully. With his back to the…
Chapter 68
The sixth-page newspaper article testified to the fact that the…
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Other Books by Richard and Rachael Heller
Copyright
About the Publisher
Among the most sacred of texts it is written:
In each generation there are born thirty-six
righteous souls who, by their very existence,
assure the continuation of the world.
According to Abraham’s Covenant, once each
millennium, God shall return to earth and count
among the many, those who remain righteous.
Were it not for these tzaddikim, the righteous ones,
who stand in God’s judgment, mankind’s fate would
be in grave and certain peril.
These tzaddikim have no knowledge of each other;
neither have they an understanding of their own
singular importance. As innoc
ents, they remain
unaware of the critical consequences of their
thoughts, their faith, and their deeds.
Save for one.
To this tzaddik alone, is the granted knowledge
of his position, for to him is entrusted the
most sacred of tasks.
“You really have trouble with this trust thing, don’t you?” she asked.
“Yes, when I’m running to keep up with a woman with a gun who’s got my cell phone and has me call in a bomb scare to a world renowned museum and is now demanding my credit card without explanation, yes, I do have a problem with that, I guess.”
She stopped and turned to look at him. “Listen, I’m going to say this one time and it’s going to have to last. This isn’t a game. We’re playing with the big kids now. There’s more at stake than you can ever imagine. We’re not just talking about a mate to The Cave 3 Scroll. We’re probably looking at something far greater than a firsthand-account of Jesus’ life and death.”
Her words would have been enough to communicate the seriousness of the situation, but the look on her face brought it home.
“These people have probably already killed three times, four if you count Ludlow’s wife, Sarah, and that’s without knowing what the diary says about the scroll. Imagine what they’ll do when they find out what we know.”
Prologue
Six months ago, London
Professor Arnold Ludlow opened the ancient diary. The musty smell filled him with excitement. This was the manuscript that had eluded him for four decades, its existence supported by a few obscure references and unsubstantiated rumor. Still, he had not lost faith. Now he held it in his hands and translated, from the Latin, the words of one long dead.
The Courtyard of Weymouth Monastery
The First day of May 1097
There was no stake onto which the monks might secure the prisoner, so Father Abbot John gave orders that the heretic be tied to the great Elm. The tree was half-dead, having been struck by lightning last Spring. One half of the trunk had turned to dry, brittle wood and would provide a quick hot flame at the start. The other half had exploded with new green growth and would now ensure a constant renewal of the flames of salvation. With the application of enough oil to the dry wood, the fire would burn steadily enough to allow the prisoner to renounce his heresies and so, at the last moment, snatch his soul from the waiting hand of the devil.
With the conclusion of evening vespers, novice-master and three novitiates fetched the prisoner from his cell. The heretic walked among them, head held high, eyes forward. He did not protest as others had; neither did he beg for mercy.
Under the watchful eye of their instructor and the monastery’s full register of monks—more than a score in all—the three novitiates bound the heretic to the tree, hand and foot. Each took a turn, loosening the coarse jute, then pulling it taut. With every tightening, small pieces of flesh were torn from the prisoner’s wrists and ankles, leaving small rivulets of red in their wake.
The other monks drew closer and watched in silence. From time to time, each nodded his approval and, in solemn tones, expressed his hope for the heretic’s repentance. Yet, even, as they watched the novices secure ropes around the prisoner’s neck, waist, then across his groin, their breathing quickened. Although weighted down by heavy robes, Brother Jeremiah, the youngest of the monks, appeared to be greatly aroused.
At novice-master’s nod, each of the monks, in turn, made his way to the shed and returned with a large bundle of faggots so that each, by his contribution, might share in the glory of the redemption.
The parcels of sticks were placed carefully around the feet of the heretic, then piled high to his waist. The packing of the wood was critical. If faggots were too lightly mixed with straw, the fire might go out, requiring a second or third attempt; wood too densely packed would produce a fire so hot that it might bring too rapid a surcease of pain. Much practice and skill was required in order to produce the perfect flame with which to burn a man alive.
And still the prisoner stood motionless.
In silence, the monks prayed for the heretic’s soul. Only one among them did not.
I, alone, prayed for a miracle; some divine intervention that might spare the man whose soul needed no redemption; this brave knight who had fought so valiantly in the Holy Land and who now offered up his life, yet again, in service to God and his fellow man.
Head still bowed, I ventured one quick glance. Tears flowed from the prisoner’s eyes, yet he offered no protest. Though I stood well within his gaze, he did not look in my direction.
Guided by novice-master’s hand, the oldest of the novitiates ladled oil about the great pile of faggots, careful to spoon the greatest portion over the bottommost sticks, diminishing the application as he approached the top of the pile. The oil had been freshly rendered only that morning from the fat of the foulest of slaughtered livestock, a peasant’s old pig, diseased and pocked, that had gone to its death squealing in pain and terror, in full earshot of the prisoner’s cell.
Two rags soaked up the remainder of the oil. These novice-master used to anoint the heretic. As he smeared the foul-smelling viscous fluid over the prisoner’s bare shoulders and shaven head, he continued his instructions to his charges. The oil must be smeared evenly over the exposed flesh so as to encourage the start of a flame, then soaked into the jute to sustain the burning.
Amidst the instruction, the heretic continued in silence.
Novice-master signaled the novitiates to retreat, then stepped back to join the monks’ circle.
All waited, eyes cast toward the sky. In accordance with the Inquisitor’s Dictates for Redemption, the fire would be started at the moment when the light of the first star pierced the night. I beseeched God that, although the skies would grow dark, no star would appear. And, for a time none did.
In the fading light, three birds flew across the horizon and disappeared into the heavens, one leading the two. They called loudly into the approaching night, one to the other, staying in perfect formation, flying as one. I knew this to be a sign that One far greater than we mortals waited to guide the prisoner into heaven.
A single star blinked and was gone. This was the signal for which all had been waiting. Father Abbot emerged from the shadows and approached the circle, an oil-soaked torch in one hand, a candle in the other, his eyes fixed upon me.
With sudden terror, it came to me that the Abbot John might command me to light the fire. Could even he require me to enact such a deed in order to prove my fidelity? If so, I could not comply. Though my sacred vows to the Church would be broken, though the repercussions of my rebellion might echo through eternity, this, Dear God, I could not do.
But Father Abbot John had other intentions. He lit the torch with the candle then passed it to one of the other monks, motioning me to remain by his side. It seemed to me that a smile crossed the Abbot’s lips but nothing more was said. Then, in the light of that sputtering candle, he turned so that his prisoner could not fail to witness the only act that might yet bring a cry of repentance. From beneath his robes, the Abbot withdrew the moldering wooden box still wrapped in tattered cloth.
The heretic’s gaze fixed on the bundle and then found me. Only then did I see fear spring to his eyes; fear not for himself but for something far greater, that which lay within the crumbling wooden box. As we had in our youth, I shared with the man they now called heretic a single terror, like none other before. Might the Abbot yet commit an atrocity far greater than the taking of a single innocent life? Might he yet commit a sacrilege against man and against God too terrible to imagine?
Professor Ludlow frowned. Hints, suggestions, intimations. Nothing more. He eyes fell on a small piece of parchment that had been wedged into the hand-sewn binding. It had been hastily written, it seemed, but the ink remained dark and clear.
With care, the Professor inched the hidden message from the binding. He read the words, smiled, sighed deeply, and closed
the diary for which he would soon forfeit his life.
Chapter 1
Present day
Day One, early evening
The New York City Grille
In the dim light of the restaurant, Gil Pearson strained to check his watch. He’d give the Professor and Sabbie ten more minutes to show. No more. He was tired and hungry and wanted to go home, grab something to eat, and crawl into bed. This was the last sales pitch dinner that George was going to get him to agree to.
What a way to start a weekend.
“Do this one as a favor to me,” George had cajoled. “You know you’re the reason they come to us. All any client wants is a chance to meet the man who helped rid the world of CyberStrep. You’re a celebrity, for God’s sake. You know they’ll pay triple just to be able to brag to their friends they have you watching over their systems,” George added, trying to appear as endearing as his three chins would permit.
Although Gil hated to admit it, George was right. Since graduating top of his class from MIT two decades ago, Gil’s anti-hacking discovery had changed the way virtually every major data protection company in the world approached the securing of high-risk and top secret information. For three years running, he had been named Man of the Year by the National Association of Artificial Intelligence, yet no client ever referred to these accomplishments. Only when the New York Times reported that Gil was the creator of the computer program that had eradicated the data-eating virus that held the Internet hostage for almost a month, did anyone take notice. The whole thing might have faded if People magazine hadn’t jumped on the story. They spent three-quarters of the article describing his “rugged good looks” and barely mentioned his work.
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