13th Apostle

by Richard F. Heller

  Lucy had teased him unmercifully. Within days of the article’s publication, an ever-hungry storm of reporters and paparazzi began to beat a path to his—or rather to CyberNet Forensics, Inc.’s—door.

  The company’s worth had gone through the roof, Gil’s salary had more than quadrupled, and he had been dragged, kicking and screaming, from the privacy of his little computer room to the bright lights of celebrity.

  That had been four years ago. It couldn’t have come at a worse time. Lucy had just been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and, though every minute away from her felt like the greatest betrayal he could imagine, Gil had convinced himself that he had to cash in on his fame so that he could pump up his salary while he could. It was the only way he could be sure that Lucy would get the best possible care in the hard times that lay ahead.

  A sour taste of bile rose in his throat.

  Son-of-a-bitch doctor.

  Right from the beginning the bastard had known that Lucy didn’t have more than six weeks left. Had the quack told Gil the truth, he would have spent every precious minute with her. But, instead, the doctor had led him to believe that because of her youth and strength, Lucy’s decline would be unmercifully slow. Months—maybe a year—of painful deterioration were inevitable, the doctor had said; an unthinkable time in which Lucy’s pain could be eased by the best medical care that money could buy.

  Instead, she was gone in less than a month, only two weeks before her thirty-fourth birthday. Gil had spent much of that time away from her, in endless interviews, answering asinine questions posed by one stupid reporter after another. Less than a week after it was over, one tabloid cover sported his photo, snapped at the cemetery. The inside copy reported that he was recently widowed and implied that after a suitable time of mourning, he would be an excellent catch.

  Gil swallowed against the lump in his throat and forced himself to think about something else.

  I’m out of here.

  He rose and kicked his chair back hard. As he reached to keep it from falling, something caught his eye.

  Gray hair flying, short fat legs waddling, and looking a great deal like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, Dr. Arnold Ludlow, Professor of Antiquities and consultant on Early Christian Artifacts to the Israel Museum, arrived.

  Breathless and dripping, he pealed off his wet raincoat and draped it on his seat back then settled into the chair.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he began without introduction. “Your taxis, you know. You can never get one in the rain.”

  Gil managed a nod before the Professor continued an account of the many difficulties he’d confronted in a city that seemed bent on preventing him from making this meeting.

  “Sabbie didn’t show at the airport but no worries,” Ludlow added, “that’s not unusual for her.”

  Gil surrendered to the mounting wave of disappointment. It didn’t really matter anyway. He would sit and wait while the old man prattled on and, when enough time had elapsed so that he could do so without seeming terribly impolite, Gil would reach for the menu.

  But he never got the chance.

  Chapter 2

  A few minutes later

  Hotel Agincourt, New York City

  Abdul Maluka stepped from the shower and stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Black hair dripping, dark skin glistening in the bright light, he liked what he saw. He was short by Western standards, but every inch of his frame was pure muscle. He patted his flat stomach and surveyed his tan shoulders.

  Not bad for an old man of forty.

  The crescent-shaped scar across his right cheek was the perfect finishing touch. It made him look interesting. Even…sexy.

  He had sustained the injury as a result of one of his father’s infamous thrashings, in this case as a direct result of Maluka’s refusal to stand silently by as his father announced to the family that his advanced age no longer permitted him to participate in the Fast of Ramadan.

  “You are well enough to lay with your whore whenever she will tolerate you,” a twelve-year-old Maluka had sneered. “How can you say you cannot keep the Fast?”

  His father had attempted to stare the boy down. Maluka’s mother had been in easy earshot. The older man’s discomfort fueled Maluka’s outrage.

  “Surely, you can forgo some pleasure in the name of Allah. Or can you not even wait until the sun sets to bury your face in the flesh of that pig,” the youth had added with a laugh.

  His father had ripped the worn brown leather belt from the waist of his Western suit of clothes and had beaten the young Maluka with all the strength he could muster. Only when the boy fell to the floor under the torrent of blows, did his father’s fury subside.

  “You are not my real father,” the young Maluka had declared. “My father is the spirit of Islam. The poorest devotee to Allah is more my father than you.”

  His father added one final blow for good measure; one the boy would never forget. The sharp edge of the buckle caught Maluka across the cheek and left a gash from which blood poured. It was only then that his father smiled with satisfaction.

  “Let your faith heal that for you, boy!” he had said triumphantly, then turned, left, and never spoke of the matter again.

  Nearly three decades later, the token left by his father’s fury now declared to the world, proof of Maluka’s commitment to Islam. With age, the wound had transformed into a perfect crescent shape whenever he smiled. Not that he smiled all that often.

  Maluka pulled on a pair of finely tailored slacks and selected a new silk shirt delivered fresh from his New York shirtmaker, then entered the living room.

  Aijaz Bey looked up guiltily. His bulbous bald head, set on a thick neck and huge shoulders, would have made him look unintelligent even if he were bright—which he was not. At six foot six, weighing two hundred and eighty pounds, he was indeed as dangerous as he appeared—and as obedient; two essential attributes which made him the perfect assistant.

  The remnants of torn plastic wrappings, wadded up linen napkins, and empty plates, littered the rolling dining cart. Maluka shook his head in resignation. Although Aijaz’s huge hands were skilled at carrying out whatever delicate act with a knife was required, and his skill with a gun was quite remarkable, the man seemed incapable of removing his dinner from a room-service tray without making a mess.

  “Couldn’t wait,” Aijaz explained with a shrug and an obsequious smile.

  “No problem.”

  Aijaz breathed a sigh of relief.

  At the sound of the knock at the hotel door, both men straightened.

  Aijaz waited for instruction. Maluka raised his hand and silently signaled him to halt. At the second knock, Maluka nodded and Aijaz opened the door.

  Clearly startled by Aijaz’s bulk, the man hesitated, then entered. Though no more than forty years of age, his bent back and the downward thrust of his head betrayed the attitude of a man who had been broken on the rack of life. Tall and gaunt, his gray hair slicked back from an overabundance of grease or sweat, their guest offered his right hand to Maluka in greeting. Seeing that no such gesture was about to be returned, he hesitated, then withdrew his hand.

  “Sorry, I guess you chaps don’t shake hands,” he muttered with a nervous laugh. “My error.”

  When no smile was forthcoming, he checked his watch.

  “Look, I’m sorry if I’m a tad early. I just thought that with the weather being what it is, well, you know, better to be early than late. Of course, if I interrupted something…”

  His gaze darted from Maluka to Aijaz and back again, desperate for any indication of how to proceed. Maluka was pleased. Robert Peterson, assistant to Professor Arnold Ludlow, was not going to offer any resistance. It wouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes for Maluka to get all of the information he needed. Twenty at most.

  Chapter 3

  A few minutes later

  The New York City Grille

  She slid into the chair next to Professor Ludlow’s, finished her phone call
, and snapped her cell phone shut. She summoned the waiter and ordered her wine and, still, never acknowledged Gil’s presence.

  The special smile she flashed the Professor was returned with unabashed adoration. She settled back into her chair and, only then, set her gaze on Gil.

  “Have you ordered yet?” she asked, as if continuing an ongoing conversation.

  “No, not yet,” Gil answered.

  She was striking. Not beautiful, but remarkable looking; tall, with dark straight hair to her shoulders, and high, full breasts that strained against her ivory silk blouse. Gil forced himself to focus on her face.

  She was not what he had expected. From day one, Gil’s three-year Internet relationship with Sabbie Karaim had been strictly business. Sabbie was one of a dozen consultants around the world that Gil used as translators.

  Whenever he was conducting an investigation for an Israeli client, which was getting more and more frequent, Gil sent the data to Sabbie for translation from Hebrew into English. Her transcription formed the basis for all his analyses, for all of the testing that he hoped would reveal patterns of illegal activity that might help catch a cyber criminal dead in his tracks.

  He used her on his most important cases, as well. Whenever an Israeli government agency hired CyberNet Forensics to set up a sting that involved cross-national Internet coverage, Gil would design the English version of the Internet bait intended to lure the cyber criminal into taking the next and, hopefully, fatal step. Then he’d send the cyber bait to Sabbie for translation into Hebrew and for posting on the net. She’d never let him down.

  Her work was meticulous, and he had come to rely on her without question. She was not without her idiosyncrasies, however. Her rules were simple but firm: no communications outside Internet business. No matter how urgent the job, he was never to phone. And, surprisingly, she wanted no feedback after the cyber criminal had been caught.

  Unlike Gil’s other translators from South America, Germany, and France, who took great satisfaction in knowing that their the work had put a criminal behind bars, Sabbie had made it clear that her involvement ended when her translation was complete. She was a professional from head to toe and, as Gil felt his excitement rise, that particular head to toe suddenly took on a whole different meaning.

  Any erotic musings he might have been enjoying, however, were quickly expunged by Sabbie’s first words of greeting.

  “There’s one thing we should get clear from the start,” she began. “You’re used to giving the orders. The Professor has put me in charge so, on this job, you’ll be working for me.”

  Gil stared in obvious surprise.

  “If that’s a problem,” Sabbie continued matter-offactly, “I need to know that now.”

  That was it. Like she owned him. No smile, no “Hello, it’s nice to finally meet you.” Nothing. Just now hear this: I’m the boss. You’re the slave. Get over it.

  Ludlow rushed in to avoid a face-off.

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s not a problem, Sabbie. Mr. Pearson’s such a lovely young man. I’m sure you two will make an outstanding team, just like you always have. Now, where was I?

  “Oh, yes,” Ludlow continued, unabated. “Early Christian artifacts. That’s my area. Though officially I’m retired now, I still do a bit of consulting work at The Museum of the Shrine of the Book. In Jerusalem, you know,” he added proudly. “My colleague, Dr. Anton DeVris, actually he’s the Director of Acquisitions for the Israel Museum, well, he thought it would be best for me to speak to you in person…”

  Gil emptied his water glass in one long gulp then crunched the single remaining ice cube between his teeth. Ludlow was a gem; an antique from some bygone era. The old guy had probably convinced himself that his pathetically obscure discovery contained some extraordinary secret hidden away for centuries; most likely, a map to hidden treasure or the like.

  God, what people wouldn’t do for one last chance at immortality. George must have been out of his mind to get them involved in this. What could he have possibly been thinking? If Sabbie had come to Gil first, he would have turned her down flat. She must have known that or else she wouldn’t have gone over his head.

  Instead, she simply bypassed him and went straight to George. The shortest distance between two points, of course. She was smart. He had known that. And she had guts. He had known that too. What he hadn’t suspected, however, was how exciting the combination could be.

  Chapter 4

  A few minutes later

  The New York City Grille

  Lucy used to say that, during the first year of their marriage, she discovered Gil had an amazing talent: he had perfected the art of sleeping with his eyes open. Whenever Gil found himself on the receiving end of one of her stories, some incident that had marred or made her day, she could expect Gil to appear to listen intently, nod at just the right times, ask the appropriate questions, and have absolutely no idea of what she was talking about.

  Sleep-talking, as Lucy called it, was a skill that Gil had become rather fond of and one that had gotten him through almost every relationship since the first grade. But with Lucy it was different. He abandoned the practice long before their second anniversary. By then, he had discovered, much to his amazement, that he cared more about the little things that happened in Lucy’s day than his own desire to veg out.

  Now, in the restaurant with Ludlow droning on, he had been sleep-talking once again, letting the old man continue his monologue while retaining virtually none of the details.

  “…And so we have come to believe that the document might contain a hidden message that would tell us where a certain artifact is located—a copper scroll that dates back to the time of Jesus. The thing is, we’re not sure, it might just be a metaphor that the author of the diary used,” Dr. Ludlow concluded.

  “Of course,” Gil confirmed, nodding.

  “That’s where you come in,” Ludlow added.

  “Where…exactly?” Gil queried, trying desperately to appear as if he knew what the hell was going on.

  “Why, telling us if the text of the journal contains any sort of pattern that could be concealing a hidden message,” Sabbie interjected.

  “Do you mean a code?” Gil asked. “You know, I don’t do codes.”

  “No. Not a code, that’s the whole point,” Sabbie interrupted. “If we needed a cryptanalyst, we wouldn’t have called you.”

  “Well, thank you very much,” Gil snapped back.

  Ludlow interceded again. “Look, if we’re right, the person who wrote this journal would have been afraid to use an encrypting paradigm. He would have been concerned that, if he had embedded his message into a complex code, by the time the document was found—maybe centuries later—no one would have been able to decipher his message. We’re pretty sure he would have chosen a simpler means of concealing any message. We just haven’t been able to figure how he did it, and Sabbie said that with your talent in pattern recognition, well…”

  Gil straightened and began to fire one question after another, in hopes of bringing himself up to speed. Sabbie remained silent, perhaps trying to understand why Gil seemed so lost in a conversation that had seemed so clear. Fortunately, the Professor’s answers were long and detailed. They gave Gil just the information he needed to fill in the conversation he had missed.

  A diary, written by an eleventh-century monk, had been discovered at an ancient monastery in Weymouth, England, sold to a local dealer of antiques, who had contacted Ludlow, whom he knew would be interested in the crumbling journal. For the moment, the diary remained safe, back in England, in a place known to Ludlow alone. At the appropriate time, it was to be smuggled or, as the Professor put it, “relocated” by Dr. Anton DeVris to the Israel Museum.

  “DeVris says that until we know exactly what information the diary contains, it makes no sense to bring it to the Museum. He says that even though he’s the Director of Acquisitions, the Museum wouldn’t accept the diary without some proof of its relevance to religious history. I
suppose he’s right, though I would feel a great deal better if it were safe with them, under lock and key.” The old man shrugged his disagreement with DeVris’ decision to keep the diary to themselves but was apparently resigned to go along with the Director’s decision.

  “Do you think it’s wise? Holding on to so precious a document?” Gil asked.

  He had no clue as to what value this nameless old journal might hold, but he hoped that a little more wiggle room in the conversation might make him look like he was up to speed with the conversation. Ludlow’s response was anything but what he expected.

  “Well, it’s only a matter of days now anyway,” the Professor replied jovially. “As you know, George has assured us that, Monday morning, as soon as the last of the financial arrangements with CyberNet Forensics had been finalized, you’ll be on your way to Israel to join us.” Ludlow threw Sabbie yet another adoring glance.

  Gil stared blankly. He would have thought the old man crazy had he not known that George was more than capable of making such a promise. But Gil knew George. Too well.

  Sabbie surveyed Gil questioningly. “We were told you would be able to leave immediately.”

  The Professor and Sabbie waited for Gil’s affirmation, which he had no intention of giving. Damned if he was going be carted off to the Middle East at George’s whim.

  He wasn’t going and that was that. George could be counted on to go through his typical routine. He would argue that the company needed the revenue and without it, they’d be facing pay cuts or worse, layoffs. When that failed, George would pull some other manipulation out of his hat. The big guy had been alluding to the fact that since Lucy’s death Gil had become a recluse, so he’d probably argue that a little adventure would be good for Gil’s soul.