by Paul L Maier
“Let’s try again in ten minutes,” said Glastonbury, “and every ten minutes after that.”
They tried to manage appropriate small talk during the interims, but the mood around the conference table had all the carefree abandon of a séance. Lawton’s potential findings were part of the tension, failure to reach Ben-Yaakov the rest. His home phone continued to ring stubbornly.
Soon the door opened again, and Lawton suggested that the group follow him down the hall to his laboratory. When all had filed inside, he said, “We’ve separated the noncarbon particulate from the rest of the material and cleaned it as best we could. The microscope to the left is the Pompeii sample; the one to the right is the Weber sample. See for yourselves, gentlemen.”
Peering through the eyepiece of the left-hand microscope, Jon saw a brightly illuminated field strewn with jagged boulders of black, dark-brown, and red umber. Then he switched to the right-hand microscope and said, “Those boulders—or rather, granules—look very much like they could be from the same lot, though the color’s lighter in the Pompeii granules!”
Each, in turn, looked into the tandem microscopes and had to agree, except for Glastonbury, who shook his head and said, “They really don’t look the same to me. Sorry, Jonathan. Your lot is much darker.”
“Exactly what we’d expect from granules immersed in carbon pigment,” said Lawton.
“Oh! Well, of course!” Glastonbury huffed. “Stupid of me!”
“No, just another sign that you’d best hang it up, Reginald,” said a genial Paddington.
“I knew you’d say that, Tom. You’re ever so predictable!”
“Good work, George,” said Dunstable. “Do proceed with the next analysis programs.”
“When would you estimate the results?” asked Jon.
“I think two days should be sufficient. And I’d welcome your expertise in evaluating our analysis series, Dr. McHugh.”
Jon performed some quick calculations. Jennings should not have returned to Israel by then. “Fine,” he said. “And thank you, Dr. Lawton.”
The phone rang. The operator said, “I have Dr. Ben-Yaakov on the line.”
Jon took the phone, covered the mouthpiece, and said, “Pray for me, gentlemen!” Then he spoke: “Hello, Gideon. This is Jon Weber in London . . . Yes, in London . . . Yes, I know I wasn’t to leave the country, but I simply had to . . . How did I get out of Israel? Tell you later. Now, I’ll be returning by the weekend, and I’ll report directly to your office on Monday, Okay? We won’t have the results for two days yet, but preliminary tests seem to show a common origin for both samples . . . That’s right. Do you see the importance, now, of not going public with this? . . . What?! You do that and Jennings will learn! Then we may never have conclusive proof in our lifetimes, or probably ever! . . . Look, Gideon, at this point I don’t care what laws I’ve broken. You can throw me in the slammer the moment I see you, but don’t let the word out. Now, I don’t blame you for having gone to the prime minister with this, but please call him the moment we hang up and plead for confidentiality, at least for the next week. Can you? . . . Fabulous, Gideon! I’m indebted to you . . . Yes, that’s a promise! ’Bye.”
Then he looked at the others and said, “Well, Mossad won’t be necessary after all! Oh, oh, I take that back. Tom, can you get Mossad to clear me at Ben Gurion Airport? I’ll be arriving there as ‘Ernst Becker,’ and with no ‘Exit Israel’ stamp in my passport!”
“Done,” said Paddington, writing himself a memo.
“I hope you don’t mind if I haunt your laboratory over the next two days, Dr. Dunstable,” said Jon. “There’s nowhere else I could possibly be over the next forty-eight hours.”
“You’re more than welcome, Dr. Weber,” he replied. “We’ll resume first thing in the morning.”
“I’ll drive you to Claridge’s, Jonathan,” said Glastonbury. “We’ve reserved a suite for you and Dr. McHugh.”
They had no sooner unpacked than Jon suddenly said, “Darn! I forgot to phone Shannon.” A directdial call went through quickly enough. Jon fibbed to her that he’d been detained by the editorial work in Tel Aviv, but would return in several days.
“But Jon, where are you staying in Tel Aviv? I called your publishers, and they didn’t seem to know you were even in town.”
“Why’d you want to call me?” he asked, dodging desperately.
“I was lonely. I only wanted to tell you how much I love you.”
Jon’s eyes filmed. Exit falsehood, enter truth, even if it could cost him dearly. “Darling,” he said, “I’m . . . not in Tel Aviv. I’m not even in Israel.”
“Where are you, then?”
“I can’t tell you now, Shannon. All I can plead is . . . that you trust me. I promise to explain every-thing very soon.”
“Are you in some kind of trouble, Jon? Is any-thing wrong?”
“No, I’m fine. Please just try to believe me and not worry, Okay?”
There was a long silence.
“Please, Shannon. You’ll understand very shortly.”
“Well . . . all right, but—”
“Tell me, darling, has your father called at all from England?”
“No, I expect him to call tonight.”
“All right. Now, this is very important. In case he asks about me, or wants to speak to me, just say you don’t know where I am at the moment, Okay?”
“Is something wrong with Papa? ”
“No, no, no,” he laughed. “I just . . . have a little surprise for him, that’s all. Now, can you be a big girl and play mum?”
“Well! Of all the patronizing—”
“Just kidding, little Irish firebrand, just kidding! And I’m not asking you to tell a lie, because you really don’t know where I am, do you?”
“Oh, yes, I do,” she murmured. “Right here in my heart.”
“And that, my sweet, is where I hope to stay for the rest of my life. See you soon!”
The next morning, the testing program resumed at the Institute of Archaeology. Dunstable had interrupted all procedures there, so the comparative analysis of the samples could proceed immediately, with excruciating care but at full throttle.
“Electronmicroscopy shows that the noncarbon particles in both samples are indeed ceramic,” said Lawton. “We’ve separated the carbon and the ceramic in both samples, and we’ll now analyze all four lots via PIXE and ESCA.”
Over the next hours, Jon and Sandy went from computer screen to computer screen. A strong congruence between “Pompeii Ceramic” and “Titulus Ceramic” was growing increasingly evident.
“So far, Jonnie, me boy,” said Sandy, “it looks as if your little swim mayt have been waarth it after all!”
“Your awful brogue is coming back, Sandy. That’s a better sign than any of these tests!”
Late the next day, they all reconvened in the Institute conference room. Gladwin Dunstable summarized the results. “As you know, gentlemen, the carbon comparisons proved similar, though with slight differences easily explained by the one lot having been used in ink. I’m also glad to say that we have enough carbon left from both samples for TAMS testing at Oxford.”
“Great!” said Jon.
“But the ceramic comparisons are . . . quite remarkable indeed. PIXE indicates three trace elements as showing up in almost identical congruence in both samples.” He handed out copies of a graph and said, “This pinpoints the exact relative proportions of strontium, rubidium, and lead in each sample.”
“The ratio points for the Pompeii sample are indicated by cross marks from the three tests con-ducted,” Dunstable explained, “while small circles are the titulus scrapings.”
Glastonbury studied the illustration and said, “The points certainly fall in the same sectors, don’t they? What do the numbers mean?”
“Those are micrograms per gram—units of one-millionth of a gram. Each number is an average for the three tests.”
“Looks almost like two fingerprints of the same material
,” said Paddington.
“An apt comparison, Tom,” chortled Glastonbury, “considering your stock in trade. Well, what do you think, Jonathan? You’ve been rather quiet—”
“Well,” Jon replied, “the big question is this: would this laboratory be prepared to certify that our two samples came from the same source? If yes, our problems are solved. If not—” He stopped and merely held out his hands.
Lawton wrinkled his brow and looked out the window. “In my opinion, they do indeed have a common origin. But if I were hauled into court, I’m not sure my opinion would carry the case.”
“Why not?” Jon wondered.
“Lampblack from ceramic surfaces was a common source for ancient inks, not?”
“But with identical clay particles?”
“Can we ultimately prove that they’re identical? Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
“And we shouldn’t overlook the factor of coincidence,” said Paddington. “Even though I’m not Henri Berthoud, try this scenario on for size: conceivably, ink could have been manufactured at Pompeii from a similar ceramic source for soot and—who knows?—exported to Palestine, Pilate actually using it for the titulus and—once again—we’re back to authenticity.”
“I get the picture,” said Jon. “And it could be argued, I suppose, that someone else, not Jennings, got hold of that soot and did the job if it is a forgery.”
“You were there, Gladwin,” chortled Glastonbury. “Maybe you did it!”
He laughed, held up his hands, and said, “I’m the one!”
Jon shook his head, took a deep breath, and said, “Well, I was afraid it might come to this. There’s really only one ultimate solution to our mystery, gentlemen. I think I’m going to have to try to ‘smoke’ the truth out of Jennings, so the world won’t be left hanging for ages to come. Otherwise, we’ll have dogmatic declarations that Rama is authentic, and, oppositely, so many weird theories of fraud, it’ll make the Kennedy assassination look like a non-debatable axiom by comparison! You see, if our laboratory evidence is impeachable, the only final proof may lie in the mind of Austin Balfour Jennings.”
“Fine,” said Glastonbury, “but how do you propose to ‘smoke’ the truth out of him?”
“By confronting him in private and convincing him that I’m onto his scheme, but that I’ve not yet shared my suspicions with anyone else. I have to put myself in harm’s way. At that point, he may try something dangerous, but that would be self-incriminating, and we’d have the truth.”
“And if he’s innocent?” asked Dunstable.
“I can only plead for his pardon, confessing that my wits have been scrambled to the point of student turning against teacher. Perhaps he may one day for-give me.”
They all pondered the plan, as Jon continued. “You see, the shock to the Christian world has been so brutal that I’m not sure ‘tiny ceramic particles’ will prove that convincing, and this will be debated for centuries to come. So I think our one and only chance at the truth is that face-off, a one-to-one confrontation with Jennings, in which I may somehow get him to ‘misspeak’ himself or admit the truth.”
“If he thinks you’re the only one who knows,” said Glastonbury, “that could be very dangerous for you, Jonathan.”
“I know,” he sighed. “It may not even work. Or Jennings could very well be innocent after all. But do you know of any other way?”
No one responded.
Glastonbury saw “Ernst Becker” off at Heathrow. “Glad you gave in and let our people change your appearance, Jonathan. The Panama hat and glasses just didn’t do the job. That moustache and beard really look distinguished—almost as good as Becker’s new passport picture! From now on, when-ever you have to fly in or out of Israel undercover, go as Becker and go bearded.”
“Hope that won’t be necessary much longer. I’m not really cut out for these espionage capers.”
“Now, Paddington’s arranged for Mossad to meet you at Ben Gurion. They’ll whisk you through customs and drive you to Jerusalem.”
“Good. I didn’t exactly leave my car at the airport, you’ll recall! After I’ve made my peace with Ben-Yaakov, I’ll have him drive me to Ramallah. I should get there just in time to welcome Jennings back from Oxford.”
“If only he didn’t return in the meantime! Now Mossad’s liaison with MI-5 is Dov Yorkin—looks something like a Jewish Paddington. He’ll meet you at Ben Gurion, and he’s your contact if you need strategic help. Or in case of physical danger. You and he should rehearse some scenarios on the way to Jerusalem, don’t you think?”
“Right.”
“And where should I phone you the results of Dunstable’s Oxford tests—certainly not Ramallah?”
“No. Better leave a message at the Albright Institute in Jerusalem. I’ve adopted a secretary there named Linda!”
“Cheerio, then, Jonathan. I have to head for Buckingham Palace to keep the Queen informed. Have a good flight!”
Jon settled into his seat. The starboard jet engine began its escalating whine. The flight attendant had just latched the cabin door when she called to the cockpit, “Oh, oh, we’ve got a latecomer,” and reopened the door. There, filling the doorway, stood a tall figure, who was imperially bald. “The train from Oxford was delayed,” he explained and apologized for being late.
“Not at all, Professor Jennings,” said the flight attendant. “I’ll show you to your seat.”
Jon recoiled in horror and instantly pulled The Times high about his head. The seat next to him was empty! Please God, he implored, silently, if you have any interest in this affair—
But no. The attendant stopped next to him and said, “Here’s your seat, sir.”
Jennings started to sit down, but then changed his mind. “I say, you don’t mind if I sit at that row of empties back there, do you? I have some work I want to spread out.”
“No problem, sir.”
Jon could have sung the “Hallelujah Chorus.” But how providential Glastonbury’s concern for camouflage. Still, Jennings would have pierced his hirsute façade ten minutes into the flight. Jon hunkered down under blanket and pillows, thanking God that this was an evening flight.
At Ben Gurion, Jon waited until Jennings deplaned before leaving the jet. He would have to stay to his rear from now on. At customs he saw Dick Cromwell waiting to pick up Jennings and blessed Glastonbury once again for his beard. As he loitered behind the column of arriving passengers, a hand tapped his shoulder.
“Dov Yorkin . . . Mossad,” said the hand’s owner.
“Delighted to meet you, Mr. Yorkin,” said Jon. “Jonathan Weber.”
“No,” Yorkin smiled. “Ernst Becker.”
“Sorry! Do you suppose you can drive either of us to Ramallah before they get there?” he pointed to Jennings and Cromwell.
“No problem,” Yorkin laughed. “We’ll use a shortcut.”
“And you’ll have to explain to Gideon Ben-Yaakov why I wasn’t able to see him.”
“No problem.”
Yorkin and an associate whisked him out of the airport and into a waiting Mercedes. Blue lights flashing into the Israeli night, they burned the kilometers toward Jerusalem, but then avoided the city, using a curving, tire-squealing route over the hills and valleys of Judea. Just when Jon was starting to have second thoughts about Yorkin’s route, their Mercedes roared into Ramallah and delivered him to the door of the hotel.
Before Jennings and Cromwell arrived in the Peugeot, he even had time to fall into Shannon’s open arms and implore her to keep his absence confidential.
TWENTY-FIVE
So, Austin, how did it go at Oxford?” asked Jon over breakfast the next morning. “You got back earlier than planned—”
“We wound things up more quickly than expected. But the Rama Foundation meeting was no great delight, I’ll tell you. Several big contributors are dropping out. However,” he chuckled, “several others are signing on. The British Freethinkers Association is pledging us £10,000 annually!”
&nb
sp; “That figures!” Shannon tittered.
“What did you do while I was gone, Jonathan? Discover any problem in the evidence we’ve all overlooked?”
“Precisely that,” Jon felt like saying. But he replied, “No. I had to spend quite a bit of time in Tel Aviv with the epitome manuscript.”
“Anything wrong?”
“No, just those footnotes in seven languages.” He glanced at Shannon, praying she wouldn’t betray his trust, even to her own father. She looked at him with eyes of cool sapphire and said nothing. Cromwell, relieved that Jon had survived his harrowing trip to London, was, of course, no problem.
“Well, then, it’s off to the dig,” said Jennings. “I felt like a fish out of water in England. I suppose I’m a ‘dirt archaeologist’ in essence. No more, no less.”
They drove off to Rama. Sadly, Jon realized it would be their last normal day at the dig. He would confront Jennings late that night.
Long after supper, and just before Jennings retired, Jon knocked on the door and said, “Austin, I have a problem. Would you mind coming up to my room and discussing it with me over a glass of sherry?”
“Not at all. Be up shortly.”
Bottle and glasses ready, Jon paced his room, tingling with dread at the awful task ahead of him. He held out his hand. It was actually trembling. In the next minutes, he would be indicting a teacher, patron, and friend, a father-figure, and a probable father-in-law-to-be. In the process he would have to lie, deceive, and ensnare to spring the psychological trap, and all with the knowledge that the trap might snap shut, having caught nothing at all. As if prompted from hell itself, Ramallah’s favorite jackal chose that moment to start its howling, this time from a declivity just behind the hotel.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in, Austin.”
Pouring sherry for both of them, Jon launched exuberantly into small talk, avoiding the excruciating purpose of their tête-à-tête. They speculated over how the world would receive the epitome. They exchanged plans for the oncoming winter. They talked through a second glass of sherry each.
