by Will Adams
‘Exactly. And that’s precisely what Morton Smith did. He used a metaphor about salt, for example, that only makes sense with modern salt, not the rock crystal of Clement’s time. And Morton is, after all, about the world’s most famous brand of salt.’
‘That’s pretty tenuous.’
‘Yes, but then he didn’t want to be discovered, remember. He only wanted an alibi in case he was.’
‘And was he?’
Kostas shrugged. ‘Most academics immediately dismissed the letter as a forgery, but they were too kind or too timid to point the finger at Morton Smith. They claimed that it was most likely a seventeenth-or eighteenth-century forgery, though why anyone back then would have wanted to forge such a thing and just put it away in the shelves. … Anyway, even that won’t hold any more. Everything about the letter has been analysed with modern techniques. Handwriting, vocabulary, phraseology. Nothing stands up. There’s only one possible conclusion. It’s a modern forgery, and it was perpetrated by Morton Smith.’
Hard experience had taught Augustin that every time an academic controversy seemed settled, some new piece of evidence would come along to kick it all off again. But he kept his expression impassive; he needed Kostas to carry on talking. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘This letter is a contemptible scam. Now what exactly does it say?’
THIRTY-FIVE
I
Knox had rarely felt so isolated as he did walking along the footpath. The collective ill will from Farooq, Peterson and all the young archaeologists was palpable. But he strove to look confident all the same, scanning the rocky ground as he went, hoping to see something, anything. But he reached the fence without success. ‘It’s here,’ said Knox. ‘It’s somewhere here.’
Farooq glared daggers at him. ‘Somewhere here?’
He nodded south. ‘That way a little.’
‘I’ve had enough of this.’
‘It’s the truth. I’ve got photographs.’
‘Photographs?’ Farooq seized upon this. ‘Why didn’t you say?’
‘They’ve disappeared,’ admitted Knox.
‘Of course they have!’ scoffed Farooq. ‘Of course they damned-well have!’
‘Augustin saw them.’
‘And I’m supposed to believe him, am I?’
‘I swear it. My friend Gaille emailed them to me.’
‘The one who just got taken hostage, you mean? How very convenient!’
‘But they’ll still be on her computer,’ pointed out Knox. ‘And that didn’t get taken hostage. Call Hermopolis. Get them to check.’
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ sneered Farooq. ‘I’ll put you on the train down there so you can bring them back yourself.’
‘You have to listen to me. She’s got—’
The punch caught him high on his cheek. Saliva sprayed from his mouth as he staggered back against the fence. ‘I have to listen, do I?’ yelled Farooq, grabbing Knox by his hair, dragging him furiously back to his car, twisting and tugging viciously to make sure it hurt.
‘Will that be it, officer?’ called out Peterson from behind. ‘Or should I expect you again tomorrow? I can have tea ready, if you let me know what time.’
Farooq’s cheeks blazed but he didn’t look around. He bundled Knox into the car with unnecessary force. ‘Are you trying to make a fool of me?’ he hissed, as Hosni pulled away. ‘Is that what this is about?’
‘I’m telling you the truth. There’s something here.’
‘There’s nothing here!’ shouted Farooq. ‘Nothing! You hear me?’
They bumped their way out of the site, the car seething with silent rage, back onto the rural lanes to the causeway across Lake Mariut. Knox sank deep into despondency. His future looked unutterably bleak. He’d made an implacable enemy of Farooq. In half an hour or so, he’d be locked back up in his cell, powerless to help Gaille. And who could say when next he’d be let out?
A loud thump on the road ahead, the squeal of locked tyres. Horns blared, traffic slowed. ‘What now?’ snarled Farooq, as Hosni put on the brakes.
‘Some idiot lorry driver.’
The other side of the central reservation, oncoming traffic slowed to rubberneck. A black-and-gold motorbike stopped by the low dividing wall, engine humming like a bumblebee, two men astride in black leathers and crash helmets. The pillion passenger tapped the driver on his shoulder, pointed out Knox sitting prisoner in the back of the police car. He unzipped his jacket and reached inside.
A sudden memory of the night before, Farooq warning him about Omar’s family, how they blamed him for his death, their intent and capability. A perfect place for an ambush, this. He reacted without even thinking, throwing open the door while the car was still moving, leaping out, hitting the tarmac hard, crashing against the low wall of the central reservation, staggering dizzily to his feet.
Across the other side, the motorbike cut back into the stream of traffic, sped harmlessly away. A false alarm. Hosni screeched to a halt down the road. Farooq jumped out, gun drawn, face dark with fury. Knox held up his hands, but Farooq raised his gun all the same, aimed, braced to fire. Knox turned and fled across the central reservation, dancing between oncoming traffic, using it as a shield, then down the side of the causeway between two startled fishermen who grabbed their rods and ran. A ramp of sharp wet rocks sloped down into the lake, refracting beneath the surface to make it look impossibly shallow. A shot cracked out behind. He took a deep breath and dived into the dark lake waters.
II
Kostas plucked a large volume from his shelves, licked his thumb and forefinger, checked the index, then turned to pages of photographs of the original letter in handwritten Greek. ‘This is a forgery, remember,’ he warned Augustin. ‘A despicable forgery designed to enrich and aggrandize one man at the expense of the truth.’
‘Just tell me.’
‘Very well.’ He put on his reading glasses, squinted at the photograph, muttering each sentence to himself until he’d made a suitable translation that he then spoke out loud for Augustin’s benefit.
‘To Theodore.
Commendations on silencing these Carpocratians. They are those mentioned in prophecy, who fall from the narrow path of the commandments into chasms of lust. They boast of knowing the secrets of Satan, yet do not realize that they are casting themselves away. They claim they are free, but in truth are slaves of their desires. They must be opposed utterly. Even should they say something true, do not agree with them. For not everything true is the truth, nor should human truth be preferred to the truth of faith.’
Kostas looked up. ‘Clement goes on to acknowledge the existence of “secret” writings. Then he says:
‘So Mark wrote a second Gospel for those being perfected. He did not reveal the secrets or the sacred teaching of the Lord, but merely added new stories to those already written, and brought in certain sayings to lead hearers into the innermost sanctuary of truth.’
Augustin smiled. ‘The innermost sanctuary of truth!
‘Apparently the Carpocratians tricked some hapless presbyter into giving them a copy of this supposed Secret Gospel. Clement then cites some of the more perverse sections – an absurd thing for him to do when you think about it – which is where this whole thing turns so controversial. But you need some context, first. Are you familiar with the lacuna in chapter ten of the Gospel of Mark, between verses thirty-four and -five?’
‘Do I look like a Bible scholar?’
‘Well, the text reads: “And he came unto Bethany. And then they left Bethany.” You see the problem?’
‘Nothing happens.’
‘There’s also an unexplained switch from “he” to “they”. Scholars have long wondered whether some overzealous Church editor didn’t cut out some problematic episode; no doubt why Morton Smith seized upon it. Listen. This is his version.
‘They arrived in Bethany. A woman whose brother had died was there. She prostrated herself before Jesus and said, “Son of David, have mercy on me.” But his disciples—
’
‘What did you say?’ interrupted Augustin. ‘Did you just say “Son of David, have mercy on me”?’
Kostas frowned, perplexed by his sudden vehemence. ‘Yes. Why?’
Augustin shook his head. That same subscript had been on one of Gaille’s photographs. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Please go on.’
Kostas nodded and picked it up again.
‘But his disciples chastised her. And Jesus, angered, went with her to the tomb where the young man was buried. He reached out and raised him by his hand. But the young man, looking upon him, loved him and begged to go with him. And they went to the house of the young man, who was rich. And after six days Jesus instructed the youth, and he came to him that night wearing only a linen cloth over his naked body. And they stayed together, and Jesus taught him the mystery of the Kingdom of God. And then he went to the far side of the Jordan.’
‘Good God,’ muttered Augustin. Linen cloths, naked bodies, overnight stays; standard fare for a Greek mystery initiation, a worst nightmare come true for a homophobic Christian fundamentalist.
‘You can see why it generated such controversy,’ said Kostas. ‘But, like I say, it’s nothing but a malicious forgery. It can’t possibly have anything to do with this ancient site of yours.’
‘Maybe not,’ admitted Augustin. But what if Peterson didn’t realize that?
THIRTY-SIX
I
Farooq ran between cars and leapt up onto the causeway wall in time to glimpse Knox’s dark slim shadow beneath the surface, before he lost him in the sun’s reflection and the opaque churned water, so that he could only trace his progress through the diminishing trail of released bubbles. He aimed down, waiting tensely for Knox to resurface.
‘What the hell was that about?’ asked Hosni, stepping up onto the wall beside him.
‘What did it look like?’
‘Something spooked him,’ said Hosni.
‘Nothing spooked him,’ snapped Farooq. ‘He did a runner, that’s all.’
‘It was those two bikers. They put the fear of God in him.’ He glanced curiously at Farooq. ‘You didn’t spin him one of your gangster yarns, did you?’
‘Be quiet.’
‘You did!’ guffawed Hosni. ‘You told him that Omar was connected! No wonder the poor guy fled!’
Farooq turned furiously on his colleague. ‘I’ll only say this once. One word of that bullshit gets around, I’ll have your balls, understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Hosni soberly.
‘Good.’ Traffic had stopped both sides of the causeway. Farooq felt eyes upon him, mutters, sniggers. His cheeks blazed. He’d never hear the end of this! He felt an exquisite need to take it out on someone, anyone. His finger itched on the trigger, but Knox was still underwater: the man had the lungs of a whale.
‘Look!’ cried Hosni, pointing out across the lake. ‘There he is!’
II
Captain Khaled Osman had made sure to telephone the kidnap investigation team in Assiut bright and early that morning. He’d spoken to a senior officer, told him that he’d seen the coverage on the TV, and that Stafford and his crew had been filming in Amarna just the day before. The man had sounded deeply uninterested, the focus of his investigation clearly in Assiut. But he’d promised to send up a couple of cars to look around, take statements. Now here they were. ‘A terrible thing,’ he said, greeting each of them in turn, shaking his head sadly. ‘Truly terrible. Tell us what we can do to help. Whatever’s in our power, just ask.’
‘That’s very good of you.’
‘Not at all. Things like this make me feel sick.’
‘We’ll need to see where they went. Speak to everyone who met them.’
‘Of course,’ said Khaled. ‘You can use this as your interview room. And I’ll take you round Amarna myself. We’ll follow the exact same route they took.’ He cast a look up at the heavens. An overcast sky, a chill wind. One of Amarna’s rare but brutal storms was brewing. He beckoned Nasser across. ‘I’m going out with these officers,’ he said. ‘Let no one in until they’ve finished. No one. Understand. We can’t have souvenir hunters contaminating the site. Isn’t that right, officers?’
‘Sure,’ nodded one.
Khaled climbed in the back of the first car, pointed out which direction to head. ‘Making any progress?’
The driver shook his head. ‘Not much. They seem to be lying low.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘They can’t have realized what a hornet’s nest they’d stir up.’
‘That bad?’ asked Khaled, as a first few patters of rain stuttered on the roof and bonnet.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it. Assiut’s just a sea of uniforms. We’re going door to door right now. We’ve already taken a few hotheads into custody. They’re giving us some names. You know how it is. Trust me. We’ll have these hostages back safe and sound within a week.’
Khaled nodded earnestly. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said.
III
Knox was still heaving for air when he heard the gunshot and saw the plume of water spout away to his left. His chest was throbbing from where he’d scraped rock during his dive. His eyes burned from the sharp polluted water, so that he could hardly see as he looked around.
Lake Mariut’s northern bank was just a couple of hundred metres away, fringed by clumps of reeds that offered cover. He couldn’t see the southern bank at all, but he knew from memory that the lake was a good two kilometres across.
Another shot cracked, another spout of water. He couldn’t wait any longer. He kicked back underwater. The lake was shallow, just a metre deep in places. Its floor was littered with masonry, relics of the dilapidated piers that had been built out onto it over the millennia. He found a chunk of stone, held it against his chest, using it as a weight to hold himself down while he took on more air.
Farooq would surely expect him to come ashore on the northern bank. But the terrain was so bare and open he’d struggle to avoid recapture even for an hour. And avoiding recapture wasn’t enough. He needed to find that mosaic, establish his innocence, help Gaille. And the way to do that was by heading south, not north.
He oriented himself using the sunlight, clasped the stone against his belly, then headed southwest, propelling himself with smooth, even kicks, pausing every thirty seconds or so to take on more air.
THIRTY-SEVEN
I
Augustin was climbing back astride his motorbike when his mobile rang. ‘Doctor Augustin Pascal?’ asked a man.
‘Speaking,’ said Augustin. ‘Who’s this?’
‘My name is Mohammed. I shared a cell with a friend of yours last night. A Mister Daniel Knox.’
‘He asked you to call me?’
‘Yes. He wanted me to pass a message to you about your friend the woman Gaille, the one who’s been taken hostage.’
‘What message?’
‘After he saw her, he was very upset. I asked how I could help. Then this morning, before he went off to Borg el-Arab with Detective Inspector Farooq, he gave me this number.’
‘What was the message?’ asked Augustin.
‘I would have called earlier, but they only just let me out. It’s gone crazy around here. All the police are heading off to—’
‘Tell me this bloody message!’ shouted Augustin.
‘Okay, okay.’ He took a deep breath, as though trying to remember word-for-word what he’d been told to say. ‘Apparently the way your friend Gaille was sitting in the video was exactly the same as in the mosaic. Exactly the same. Mister Daniel said you’d know what that meant.’
Augustin’s skin tingled. Of course! How had he failed to spot it himself? ‘Where’s Knox now?’ he asked. ‘I need to speak to him.’
‘That’s what I was trying to tell you,’ said the man. ‘He went off to Borg with Farooq, hoping to find this mosaic. But word is they didn’t find anything; and now he’s done a runner.’
‘He’s done what?’
‘I wouldn’t be in his shoes. Not for anyt
hing. That Farooq is one mean bastard. He doesn’t like anyone getting the better of him.’
‘No,’ agreed Augustin ruefully. ‘And thanks.’ He ended the call, sat there a few moments, wondering what to do, how best to help. His first thought was to go look for Knox, but that was a tall order on his own and with the police out hunting. Anyway, if he knew Knox, he’d want him to go for the mosaic, because that was the way to help Gaille. The only question was how.
II
Knox hauled himself exhausted and dripping onto the craggy southern shore of Lake Mariut. He kept low as he hurried across the exposed rocky fringe, up a slight rise and into the shadow of one of the ubiquitous Bedouin pigeon houses that stood like huge, tar-covered bells.
He felt drained from his long swim, but he didn’t have time to recuperate. By panicking and running, he’d certainly quashed any lingering doubts Farooq might have had over his guilt. He’d humiliated him too. The word would already be out: a killer was on the loose. Egyptian police didn’t carry their guns as fashion accessories. They’d shoot on sight. And if he handed himself in, they’d simply go to work on him with their canes, and he was quite sore enough already.
He kicked off his shoes, stripped off his shirt and trousers, laid them against the shimmering hot surface of the birdhouse. Water vapour instantly began smouldering from the cotton. When they’d dried sufficiently on one side, he turned them over.
A sixth sense made him look around. A grizzled Bedouin farmer was standing a hundred metres or so away, leaning on his staff, watching him curiously. Knox shrugged his shoulders, not unduly alarmed. No self-respecting Bedouin would willingly talk to the police. But he needed to get moving.
