by Glenn Meade
“How did that make you feel?”
“To be honest, it felt special, Lela. Really terrific. As if somehow I’d managed to carry on where my father left off all those years ago, if that makes sense.”
“You must still miss your parents.”
Jack smiled. “Of course. Pretty much every day I visit their resting place. I sit a while, talk to them. And hope, as always, that they’re listening. I’d like to think that they do. That there’s something greater beyond all this. Even if on a bad day I get the hollow feeling there isn’t.”
Lela touched his arm and nodded. “Go on.”
“We were about to finish for lunch but Yasmin suggested that we open just one more hole for the heck of it, so we did.”
“But Yasmin’s not an archaeologist, is she? Just an interested amateur?”
“Like some people on this dig. The professor said she’s helped on a couple of excavations since high school, working with other members of her family. She’s worked as hard as anyone on the site, and with as much passion.”
“She’s an American, right?”
“Her passport’s American. Her father’s from New York but her mother was Lebanese.”
Lela kept up with Jack’s stride. “Keep going.”
“I’d found very little during the dig. We’ve been here since late January and done a lot of hard digging but mostly all we had to show for it were some ibex bones and pottery vessels and shards dating from the first century. My high point until today had been an ostracon I discovered—a piece of a broken pottery jug with what looked like an ancient grocery list written on it. That was normal practice at that time—people used junk broken pottery like slips of notepaper.”
“But this find was different?”
“You said it. I’d dug about a half a yard of soil when my trowel hit something hard. I saw immediately that it was the neck of a clay jar. Most of the important scrolls found in this region were stored in clay jars or urns, so I got excited. Sure enough, I’d struck it lucky. Inside the jar I found a linen wrap containing the scroll.”
“Could you tell how old it was?”
Jack nodded. “I’d examined other material found in the area and figured it had to be at least a couple of thousand years old. Carbon dating would have pinned it down more precisely.”
“Our forensics people found some flakes of parchment on the floor of the professor’s tent. It’s likely they came from the scroll, seeing as it was the only one found on this dig. But we’ll have the flakes analyzed and carbon-dated.”
“Good. Like so many of the scrolls found in this region they’re beyond monetary value, even if some dealers manage to put a price on them.”
“Which dealers are you talking about?”
Jack wiped his brow from the heat as they followed a track that led up an incline and toward a narrow chasm fifty yards away. “The ones who trade in stolen artifacts and parchments. There’s an entire industry that deals in plundered historical objects, even Dead Sea scrolls. I’m sure you know that.”
“Are you including the Bedu tribes?”
“Of course. They’re the ones who discovered many of the scrolls in this area. Some Bedu like to treasure-hunt for booty. They’d use some of the same indicators that we use to find buried artifacts.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like burrow holes, for instance. When wild creatures tunnel into the ground, they can leave pieces of pottery and coins behind them in the soil mound, which can be a good indicator that it’s worth digging in that location. Sometimes that’s how we find our material. So the Bedu pitch their tents out in the valley and under cover of night they’d dig down into the burrow holes. Sometimes they’d get lucky and find valuable objects. Then they’d fill in the holes, dismantle their tents, move on, and no one’s the wiser.”
Lela nodded. “I’ve heard about such practice.”
“They sell their more important finds to dealers, rich private collectors, or church representatives. Stuff like pottery, Roman or religious artifacts and documents. You name it.”
Jack slowed as they stepped up a rocky incline, then went on. “You might call it theft, but the Bedu would argue that they didn’t steal anything in the first place. These lands have been their stomping grounds for thousands of years, since way before Christ. They consider their finds to be rightfully theirs.”
“Do you think that the scroll’s theft could have been a motive for killing Professor Green?”
“Hey, you’re the cop, Lela. The professor’s dead and the scroll’s disappeared. It’s simple deduction that theft’s the motive. Why else would anyone kill him?”
“Have you anyone in mind?”
“No. But I can’t imagine any of the dig crew stabbing their director to death, no matter how much of a moody guy he was.”
“What about thieves who specialize in valuable artifacts?”
“Maybe. But how could they have learned so quickly that we’d made a valuable find?”
Lela considered the reply, then said, “Let’s get back to the contents. You told Mosberg that Green managed to translate some of the text.”
“The scroll seemed in remarkable condition and written mostly in Aramaic. Green didn’t unravel it entirely because of the risk of damage. But the first inked lines were legible and mentioned the name Yeshua HaMeshiah, Jesus the Messiah, Jesus Christ.”
“What exactly did the text say?”
Jack halted, removed his notebook, and flipped it open.
“This story concerns the man known as Jesus the Messiah. Having traveled from Caesarea to Dora, where his name had become well-known, he failed miserably to cure the blind and the sick, despite his promises to do so. Soon after, he was arrested in Dora by the Romans, tried and found guilty, and sentenced to be executed.”
Jack looked up. “Green thought the text bizarre and so did I. There’s absolutely no historical or biblical mention of Jesus ever having visited the towns of Dora or Caesarea, never mind being arrested in either. Jesus Christ was principally known to frequent a fairly small area in Judea. Dora and Caesarea were in different Roman provinces, over sixty miles away. We didn’t understand the reference to not curing the blind and the sick either. Like I said, it’s bizarre. Had we been able to fully translate the text, it may have shed new light on established biblical events.”
“Do you mind if I copy down your translation in my notebook?”
“Help yourself.” Jack showed her the note.
Lela copied it. “Do you think the text could have been significant historically? Perhaps even extremely valuable as well?”
“I think so, Lela.”
“Are there any other Aramaic experts on site?”
“Buddy Savage isn’t an expert but he knows enough. There’s a German guy, Wolfgang, who’s pretty hot on Aramaic but he was away in Munich. A couple of the Israelis are Hebrew experts. Why?”
“Did the professor consult Savage?”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “Are you kidding? He wouldn’t have even consulted Buddy about which shirt he ought to wear for dinner.”
“Why?”
“With respect, Green could be arrogant. He believed his own intellect was superior to everyone else’s and he rarely consulted anyone.”
“Sounds like he wasn’t the ideal team leader.”
“He raised the funds to cover the cost of the dig in the first place. He’s the one who got our sponsors, so Green was the boss.”
“Who are the sponsors?”
“Wealthy benefactors in the United States. I don’t get into the politics of it but I believe they’ve sponsored lots of digs in this area in the past. And don’t ask me who they are or why they do it. I think some of them may have wanted to remain anonymous. Buddy Savage may know more. He often helped Green with his paperwork.”
“What about religious convictions?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are many of the team here because of any particularly strong religious beliefs?”
Jack shrugged. “I guess about half are interested in religion, whether it’s the Christian, Jewish, or Muslim faith. The other half are here just to learn and appreciate the dig. But some among them, being young and carefree, are just here to party and have fun.”
Lela smiled. She removed her Ray-Bans as they came to a cliff face that rose at least a hundred feet in the air. At the bottom was a scattering of massive limestone chunks, once part of the cliff that had long ago collapsed. Jack led the way into a six-foot-wide chasm on the right. Twenty paces later their path ended at a cave mouth. Limestone debris had been moved to a mound on the right, a rockfall that had been cleared away.
“This is where we found our treasure. Do confined spaces bother you, Lela?”
“If you mean am I claustrophobic, the answer is … sometimes. It depends how small the space is.”
“Not too small, but maybe you better hold on to me. There are some holes where we’d been digging.” Jack held out his hand to her. “Ready?”
Lela’s eyes met his. “When you are.”
Jack winked at her, a tiny smile flickering on his lips, and then she took his hand, held her breath, and let him lead her inside the cave.
15
LELA SAW THAT inside the cave several holes had been dug into the ground. Jack stepped around them, leading the way, shining the torch. He halted when he came to a hole that was about a yard wide and the same deep. A mound of clay was piled behind it.
“This is where we found our trove.” Jack’s voice echoed inside the cave.
“You found only one scroll inside the jar? Is that usual?”
“Sometimes scrolls have been found singly, or sometimes we get a whole bunch of them in one place. It could be just a single page consisting of twenty lines, or dozens of pages all rolled together. There’s no rule.”
Jack shone the torch as Lela knelt to examine the bare, three-feet-deep rut in the ground where the jar had once lain. She plucked a handful of the gritty dirt, let it run through her fingers, then dusted her hands and stood. “Tell me when you last saw the professor.”
“We’d all had a few drinks to celebrate, then everyone began to head to bed between three and four A.M., me included, while the professor carried on examining the scroll. I was asleep when Yasmin woke me to say her uncle wanted to see me at once, that he had found something in the text he wanted me to look at. I stayed talking with Professor Green until five-forty A.M.”
“How did he seem?”
“Like he was walking on air. That’s the only way to describe it. He was thrilled.”
“No arguments?”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “Are you kidding? What was there to argue about? The professor believed that the find would help confirm the existence of Jesus Christ. Despite what you might think, archaeological evidence of that fact is thin on the ground. There’s the Bible, sure, but outside of that and the historian Josephus’s account of Christ, there are few ancient documents that actually corroborate his life. Finding a scroll like this one, mentioning Jesus and specific deeds relating to him, would be pretty powerful confirmation if proven to be genuine.”
“You really believe the parchment is genuine?”
“Yes, I do. It’s also truly remarkable. Archaeology has never produced anything that is a clear contradiction to the Bible. But this scroll does.”
“Did Green try to claim any credit for the discovery?”
“No, Lela. He seemed happy I’d hit the jackpot, and was full of praise.”
“You sound very sure you left the professor at five-forty.”
“I checked my watch as I left Green’s tent. I was trying to make up my mind if I’d go straight to bed or watch the sunrise. I was still excited.”
“Did you see anyone else in the vicinity of Green’s tent at that time?”
“Not a soul. Everyone appeared to have gone to bed.”
“Except Yasmin.”
“Obviously.”
Lela said quietly, “I heard that you and the professor had your differences.”
“Green could be a difficult guy sometimes. Temperamental, even aggressive. Sure, we had minor clashes. But I didn’t kill him, Lela.”
“The professor was found dead at six A.M. You were the last to see him alive.”
“So?”
“Mosberg said that one of the crew who arrived at Professor Green’s tent soon after you and the others had already got there claimed that you had blood on your hands, Jack.”
“So did everyone else who helped try to stop the bleeding from Green’s wound.”
“You mean Yasmin and your friend Buddy?”
“Not Yasmin; she blacked out. The sight of blood gets to her, apparently. Her uncle’s bloody torso must have been too much. But Buddy and I tried to resuscitate the professor. We weren’t a hundred percent certain that he was beyond help so we decided to try to restart his heart.”
“Who decided?”
“I did. But the knife kept getting in the way and we were too afraid to pull it out or touch it in case we did more damage. So the resuscitation was a pretty awkward attempt and we all got blood on our hands and clothes.”
“It was your knife.”
“I loaned it to the professor when he called me to his tent. He used it to delicately raise the parchment while he read the text. I was so tired I guess I forgot to take the knife back.”
“We found no prints on it. Not even yours. The hilt was wiped clean.”
“My prints are probably everywhere else. I was in the professor’s tent pretty much every day.”
“What were you doing before you headed up the slope to watch the sunrise?”
Jack said, “Wandering round the camp, finishing a beer, smiling to myself, disbelieving my luck.”
Lela, deep in thought, looked down at the gaping hole in the soil. “I’ve talked with your friends, Buddy and Yasmin. They both back up your story. But Mosberg tells me he’s walked from the professor’s tent to the top of the slope. He didn’t rush and it took him just under ten minutes.”
“So?”
“What time did you start to climb the hill?”
“Five-forty-five, I guess.”
“That means you got to the top about five before six. Yasmin says she joined you at six. I estimate there could be at least a fifteen-minute time gap when your whereabouts can’t be accounted for. Mosberg has suggested that those fifteen minutes could have been used to kill Professor Green, and he has a point. You were the last person we know of who saw the professor alive.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “I hear what you’re saying, Lela. But I’m innocent. I’m telling you the truth.”
Lela took one last look around the cave. “I’ve seen enough for now, Jack.”
He led the way out into sunlight.
Lela glanced toward the tents and cabins, then turned to face Jack. “I wanted us to get away from Sergeant Mosberg and the others so that we could talk alone.”
“Why?”
Lela regarded him intently. “Because we’re old friends, Jack, and I wanted you to be aware that we haven’t interviewed everyone yet, so we may still turn up a decent lead as to who killed the professor and for what motive. We’ll also put out a bulletin to Interpol for police agencies everywhere to be alert to anyone trying to sell ancient documents or scrolls. We’ll try to cover all the bases. That’s the good news.”
“And the bad?”
“Right now Sergeant Mosberg thinks you’re his strongest suspect.”
16
ROME
BEHIND THE VATICAN Library, near an open courtyard known as Cortile del Belvedere, is a sturdy granite building surrounded by high walls. It has no nameplate at its entrance. Those select few who have business there know it as L’Archivio Segreto Vaticano, the Secret Archives of the Vatican, whose vaults contain a vast collection of historical treasures and countless secrets of the Catholic Church.
It was just after two that afternoon when the cardinal stepped through the soli
d oak doors. Moving past the discreetly armed security guards, he entered a marble hallway. He ignored the custodian seated at a large oak table, bare except for the book that every visitor was supposed to sign before proceeding beyond this point. This visitor hadn’t signed the book in all the years since he had become a cardinal. Nobody had ever dared challenge him.
He had first come here as a young American priest, when he worked at the Pontifical Gregorian University in Rome and had to study the records of ancient judgments stored in the archives. In those days the furniture was medieval but now it was modern, complete with photocopiers and computer terminals, Coca-Cola dispensing machines and coffeemakers that gurgled all day.
He kept his head down, but he was conscious that the sudden entrance of a cardinal of the Curia made those who worked in the building nervous. Many were quite young and casually dressed, clerical scholars and custodians who presided over the most clandestine archives in the world. Here, in this same room, with its great clock and carved throne, was where the prefect of archives sat watching his assistants silently fetch and carry records for the few privileged scholars who were granted permission to inspect them, and only within the confines of this room.
Even then, there were limits to what they could see. Certain ultra-sensitive files required the special consent of the pope before they could be opened. The cardinal ignored the passing stares and moved toward the rear of the building.
The Vatican Archives was a storehouse of astonishing secrets.
Thirty miles of shelves were filled with books, parchment, and paper manuscripts of the greatest historical importance. Here were slips of paper detailing long-forgotten sins, broken promises, indulgences, and special exemptions from ecclesiastical law. Here were records from conclaves since the fifteenth century. And more, much more: documents from the Inquisition, thirteenth-century intelligence about the Mongols, church reports about Joan of Arc—correspondence that helped have her burned as a witch—and a vast repository of papers that ran from Napoleon to Hitler, from Luther to Calvin.
