The Chi Rho Conspiracy

by Rene Fomby

  Mehmed stopped to stare out the side window of the helicopter, considering how to put it. “Okay, so, the traditional thinking in biblical academic circles has been that Mark was written first, probably around 70 CE. Well, when I say first, I’m ignoring the letters from Paul, which date back to, say, the mid 50’s. And then there’s a strong suggestion that there was another, now missing text—a lost gospel that we in the business call ‘Q’—that was the source of most of the stories and quotations of Jesus, from some time at or slightly predating Paul’s letters. The Gospels of Matthew and Luke are most likely from around 90 CE, and are quite obviously highly influenced by both Q and the Markan gospel. We call that the ‘Two-Source Hypothesis.’ The Gospel of John, in contrast, emerges from an independent, almost certainly oral literary tradition that springs from a different source, which may help explain the significant differences between John and the Synoptics.”

  Sam and Margaret exchanged another look. “I think you’ve lost us there,” Sam suggested.

  “Right. Sorry. All of this is pretty basic stuff to all of us religious studies types, but I guess it all must sound like Greek to you. Which, ironically, it mostly is. But the point is, Mark came first, so we would expect Mark to be the closest to the truth, the best source for complete and accurate information about Jesus’ life and his teachings. But here’s the problem. Even in modern texts, Mark never once discusses Jesus’ early life. More specifically, Mark never once mentions Jesus’ birth to a virgin mother Mary.”

  Margaret jumped in. “So maybe he didn’t think it was all that important, all that critical to what he really wanted to say. Maybe he just decided to leave it to Matthew to tell that part of the story.”

  “And that would make sense, if Matthew hadn’t been written roughly twenty years later. But, ultimately, that isn’t the biggest problem with the gospels as we know them today. The biggest problem lies with the contents of the Codex Sinai. And after that, the Codex Vaticanus, the second oldest copy of the Bible ever found. The key difference between these two ancient Christian Bibles, and the Bibles that appear many hundreds of years later.”

  Sam snorted with impatience. “Okay, you’ve got our attention. What’s so great about these two Bibles?”

  Mehmed leaned forward, his eyes almost blazing. “Because, Sam, unlike modern versions of the Gospel According to Mark, those two Bibles end with verse Mark 16:8. In other words, in the Codex Sinaiticus and the Codex Vaticanus, after Jesus is crucified and buried, his mother and Mary Magdalene come to his crypt, bearing spices to anoint his dead body. Just like pretty much happens in every other Bible. But, in these two Bibles—the oldest copies of the Christian Bible in existence—that is where it ends. No resurrection. No ascension into Heaven. The very part of the Jesus story that forms the entire underlying basis for the religion, the entire basis of the Easter story of Jesus rising from the dead to sit at the right hand of the Father. It just isn’t there. It’s as if Mark 16 verses 9 through 20 never even existed.”

  66

  Airborne into Ankara

  Margaret was shattered by Mehmed’s revelation. “So you’re saying the resurrection is all a fake?” she asked, pulling back a bit, suddenly very aware of this Muslim scholar’s blasphemy. A Muslim attacking the very foundations of her Christian faith.

  “No, no, not at all!” Mehmed immediately realized how everything he had just related to them must sound to a person raised since birth to never question the Bible or its most fundamental teachings. “I’m not saying it didn’t happen, I’m just saying that the resurrection and ascension simply don’t appear in the two oldest Bibles we’ve ever found.” He fumbled for the right words to turn this around. “Look, I have to apologize. I wasn’t thinking. I got kind of carried away, talking like a professor, talking about things that we comparative religion scholars love to argue about, and I forgot who my audience was. That you might hear a message that was very different from what I actually intended to say.”

  “No, I get it, young man,” Margaret scolded him. “You’re a Muslim, so it’s perfectly all right to tear down someone else’s religion, particularly Christianity right now. To try and paint your Islam as the real religion. But I’m here to tell you, I’m not having any of it!”

  Sam had managed to stay quiet throughout this exchange, still trying to figure out what she really thought about it all. Being raised Jewish, she didn’t really have any kind of emotional attachment to the Jesus story. And certain parts of it had always seemed a little fishy to her. But then, the same could be said for the Torah. Loading every animal on earth onto one boat, for example. “I think Margaret has a good point, Mehmed. It really isn’t fair to throw stones, when you live in a glass house yourself. Or, to use the old Christian story about the adulteress, when your own religion is far from innocent itself.”

  Mehmed looked profoundly apologetic, his face now flushed bright red. “Look, I’m really sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking, going into all of that without considering even once how you two would take it. But, to be fair, as a religious scholar, I’m equally as critical of the teachings of Islam, equally as likely to challenge Islam’s core beliefs and writings.” He paused. “Unfortunately, however, that is a topic I have to tread very lightly on, and never in public, always only among my closest associates. People I can trust to keep their silence on the subject.”

  “And why is that?” Margaret asked, still on the attack. “Because you might hurt your friend’s feelings? Because they might not like you attacking their own religion?”

  “No, Margaret, it isn’t that. It’s because of Salman Rushdie. And Kurt Westergaard, the cartoonist who drew the famous picture of Muhammud wearing a bomb in his turban. You see, in Islam, you are either with Allah, or you’re lined up with Satan to oppose Him. There’s really no middle ground. As a result, a legitimate religious criticism of the faith would never be tolerated. Not only would I lose my job right away, but quite possibly my life, and the lives of my friends and family would be at risk, as well.”

  “So why would you tolerate that?” Sam asked softly. “Why don’t you go teach somewhere that’s more tolerant of your ideas? More open to criticisms of Islam?”

  “And you think I haven’t tried?” Mehmed looked away, out the window. After a moment he spoke up again, his voice now low. “All my life I’ve been fascinated by the world’s great religions, fascinated by all their similarities, and yet, ironically, the way each religion clings to the belief that only they have the keys to the kingdom of heaven. And the more I’ve studied, the more I’ve learned, the more I’ve come to believe that there is fundamental truth to all of these religions, and that the differences between them rarely matter. And that is actually mainstream thought in the religious studies programs of most of the Western universities. But the problem is, the current world climate has made it virtually impossible for any major Western university to take a chance on someone like me. To even arrange for me to get a temporary residence in England, or America, or anywhere else. And that means I’m stuck teaching at a school that is starting to suggest very clearly that I need to align my ideas with Islam or, quite literally, get the hell out. But again, if I get out, where am I to go? Playing tour guide to the few tourists who are willing to risk coming to Turkey during the current troubles, tourists who are willing to risk getting splashed with acid, or kidnapped, or shot dead on the streets? What am I going to do, Sam, Margaret? What in the world am I going to do now?”

  Maddie spoke up. “You could come live with us. We have lots of room. Don’t we, Mommy?”

  The three of them laughed, the tension broken. “I may just have to take you up on that someday, Madeleine,” Mehmed assured her.

  Sam seized the opportunity to catch Margaret’s eye. Both women were struck almost mute by Mehmed’s quiet outburst, by the fear and hopelessness they could hear in his voice. But mostly by their own feelings of guilt. Sam was the first to break the ice. “I—I think maybe it’s we who should be apo
logizing, Mehmed. Here we were accusing you of religious prejudice, when evidently, you’ve been the real victim of that kind of prejudice all along.”

  He turned from the window, considering each of them carefully. Finally, he broke out into a wan smile. “No, Sam, I don’t mean to play that card. It’s just that some days—well, I have to be so careful all the time, and I guess it just felt nice to able to say what I thought for a change. To not keep my opinions guarded, locked up all the time.” He hesitated another long moment before continuing. “And the point I was really trying to make, by the way, is that religious scholars would really love to know what was in all those notes Eusebius spirited away with him when he left Nicaea. Because there are three equally good explanations for why those verses are missing from Mark. Did they simply not exist in the copies of the gospels Eusebius was using as source materials for his Bible? Are the Sinai Bible and the Vatican Bible themselves aberrant texts promulgated by breakaway Christian sects, like the Arians? Or did he intentionally leave out those verses? And if so, why? As I said, there are some strong indications that Eusebius was a convert to the old ‘Jesus is just a man’ argument, so leaving out the text of the resurrection would serve to reinforce that message. Who knows? But all that leaves us with a great many questions and no real answers. No wonder it remains one of the greatest mysteries in all of New Testament scholarship.”

  “What finally happened to the records stored in Eusebius’ library?” Sam asked.

  “No one knows for sure, Sam. But what we do know is that, sometime around the year 639 CE, the city of Caesarea was captured by the Arabs, who held it until 1101. That was when Baldwin the First led a Frankish army of crusaders to retake the city. Caesarea then became the seat of an archbishop, and a pretty diverse town for that time in history, housing not only Franks, but also Christians from the eastern church, plus a sizeable contingent of Muslims. Other than a few items that were sold off on the side, though—almost all of them private, unsanctioned deals—the library remained largely intact until around 1187, when the Muslim armies led by Salah Al-Din—Saladin, as he is popularly called in the West—captured the city of Jerusalem and then swept on into Caesarea. The Templar Knights, forced into retreat, loaded up wagons with everything they could retrieve from Caesarea and headed thirty miles north, to a harbor town called Acre, where they built a tremendous fortress that still stands to this day.”

  “And you think Eusebius’ library was relocated to Acre?” Margaret asked.

  “It makes sense. You have to understand, the role of the Templar Knights changed a great deal over time, but at their heart, they saw their primary mission as protectors of the secret mysteries of the faith. In fact, the Templar part of their name comes from Solomon’s Temple, which they excavated over a protracted period of time, long before Jerusalem finally fell to the Muslims. A great deal of smoke and noise has been made in the fictional accounts of the Knights about how they took possession of the Ark of the Covenant and other important and ancient treasures during that time. But what they were really after was Solomon’s real treasure. His library. One of the greatest religious libraries of all time. And repository to many of the most sacred documents in all of Christianity.”

  The pilot’s voice interrupted them over their headphones. “We’ll be landing in Ankara in about ten minutes. Be sure you’re buckled up securely.”

  Sam glanced out the side window and could feel their slow descent into the city in the pit of her stomach. “So what you’re saying is, the library at Caesarea would have probably been the greatest treasure of all. The last surviving documents recording the origins of Christianity.”

  “That’s exactly right, Sam. And ironically, for you at least, the knight who would have been responsible for moving the library to Acre was none other than Sir Guillaume de Tuiles.”

  “Why is that ironic?” Sam asked, making sure Maddie’s and Margaret’s seat belts were buckled for landing, then checking her own.

  Mehmed smiled at her conspiratorially. “Well, loosely speaking, one possible translation for ‘de Tuiles’ could be the modern English surname Tulley. Your last name. Funny, eh?”

  Sam’s breath caught in her throat. Oh my God. What are the chances? “And the first name?” she asked.

  “Oh, that one’s pretty straight-forward. Guillaume is the French equivalent of the English name William. So, in modern English, the name of the first librarian for the ancient Templar city of Acre would likely be William Tulley.”

  the shell game

  67

  Rabat

  Gavin had just laid the ten on a one-eyed jack when his phone rang, jarring him for a moment. He reached over and plucked it up, still carefully examining the computer screen for his next move.

  “Yeah, what’s up?” he asked, irritated that the call had interrupted what up until then had promised to be a record Klondike time for him.

  “Hey, boss man.” It was Rocky, the barrel-chested guard at the front desk of the embassy. “Got a lady here lookin’ for ya. Says she’s from the Navy.”

  Gavin stood up so quickly his chair scooted back across the cubicle and slammed into the credenza behind him. “Is she a tall blond, real good looker?”

  “That’s the one, boss. You want to meet her down here?”

  “Naw, that’s all right. Send her on up. I’ll meet her at the top of the stairs.” Gavin quickly tucked in his shirt a little tighter, checked his tie and headed down the hall to the stairway. Andy was halfway up the stairs when he got there, gazing up his way and beaming a wide smile.

  “You know, G, you don’t always have to dress like a Fibber when you’re in the field office. Or at least you could go with something other than a black tie.” Andy herself was decked out in a beige linen pantsuit with a light green silk blouse. But she could have been wearing an overstuffed camo jumpsuit and Gavin wouldn’t have noticed. All he could see were her eyes, the same deep azure as the Mediterranean Sea just five miles to the west. Suddenly he realized that she had said something to him, and he had missed it.

  “Wha—uh—did you say something?” he stammered awkwardly.

  “Yeah,” Andy answered brightly. “I said your fly is open.”

  “Oh! Sorry!” As he bent over to check, she burst out laughing.

  “You’re so gullible, McFly! How in the world did you ever get past the Fibber personality screening?” By now she had finished climbing the stairs and was glancing around at the sea of cubicles. “Is one of these yours, Larson, or do you just wander the halls all day?”

  “Right. Sorry. This way.”

  He turned and led her almost halfway down the long hall, then pointed her left toward his small workspace. Andy couldn’t help but notice the game of Klondike still glowing on his computer screen.

  “Well, at least you’ve risen in the FBI ranks to the highest level of your incompetence,” she chuckled. “Klondike? Really? Couldn’t even go in for a real brain teaser like Mahjong?”

  Gavin reached over and closed the game with his mouse. “Hey, it helps to pass the time, okay? Most days I’m lonelier up here than the Maytag repairman.”

  Andy plopped down into the one armchair available, crossing her legs and taking everything in with one quick sweep of her eyes. “Hmm. In that case, I may have some good news. The brass wants you to join me for another field trip. Back to Tunisia.”

  Gavin looked perplexed. “Back out into the desert? Are you sure that’s wise? There’s no way in hell we’re going to be able to fool those Tunisian army guards a second time. And they have got to be on notice by now about what we found.”

  “No, not the desert. This time we stay in Tunis.” Andy reached into her bag and grabbed a sealed manila envelope. Opening it, she reached inside and pulled out a bundle of papers, handing them over to Gavin. “When they dug up the grave, they found just under forty bodies. No identification was ever found, nothing at all to tie the bodies to any specific person or place. And, given it was Tunisia, DN
A and dental records were next to useless.” She reached over and pointed to one five-page report, stapled together in the top left corner. “Except for this guy. Yves Marchant. A doctor who had previously been active with Médecins Sans Frontières. Doctors Without Borders. They had a habit of keeping really top-notch ID records for anyone they sent into particularly turbulent, dangerous areas. Like Tunisia after the Arab Spring. Doctor Marchant evidently took a liking to the area, and after his assignment with MSF came to an end, he decided to stay behind and open up a clinic in the suburbs.”

  “Is this my copy, Andy? Okay if I take some notes on it?

  She nodded yes, so he pulled out a pen and started working his way carefully through the report.

  “So this guy disappeared completely off the face of the earth maybe two, three years ago,” Gavin said, underlining something on the report. “Is that about when the forensics guys date the bodies?”

  “Hard to get an exact number, but that would be ballpark,” Andy answered.

  “Hmm. Says here the clinic got reopened. Under new management. I think that may be the best place to start. See if anyone there remembers anything about the good doctor Marchant.”

  “I’m on the same page, Gavin. So, we have two tickets on a flight leaving early tomorrow for Tunisia. Nonstop, no end-around through Rome this time. In the meantime, I’m starving, and I bet you know just where to take a girl for a good time in this little backwater town.”

  “That I do, Lieutenant Commander. What’ll it be? Your choice, French or local?”

  “Why don’t we make it French? My stomach is still a little iffy from our last go-round out here.”