by Glenn Meade
There were registers that contained nightmarish drawings of the world’s end, of devils and vampires and women with the bodies of nymphs and the faces of beasts, dating from the days of Innocent III. Files to do with UFOs, religious sightings and revelations, demonic possessions and exorcisms. Steel boxes containing extraordinary church secrets and prophecies.
The cardinal also knew of the remarkable holy relics and artifacts that the Vatican jealously guarded, and on which the church’s faith was built: a sliver of walnut wood, part of the headboard of the cross on which Christ was crucified, the skull of John the Baptist, the robe of Jesus, the Virgin’s cloak, Mary Magdalene’s foot, and even part of the foreskin of Jesus Christ, said to be the only known remains of the Savior, kept in an emerald and ruby-studded casket adorned by two solid silver angels in a safeguarded shrine in Calcate, north of Rome.
The cardinal moved on, carefully picking his way through the corridors of shelves into the heart of the building, knowing exactly which route to take to avoid most of the cameras, and past the small private chapel of the infamous Borgias. He crossed the high-roomed cavern called the Hall of Parchments, filled with tens of thousands of documents, many of them tinged with a violet-colored fungus that defied even the most scientific of treatments. It was a musty place and eerily reminded him of a funeral vault. But he knew the Secret Archives were more than the storehouse of a dead past.
Contained here were highly sensitive records of the church’s contemporary involvement: its business dealings, banking and financial affairs, its numerous investments—some of them highly controversial and illegal, which in several cases had involved the Mafia and had led to criminal prosecution and even murder. The cardinal knew all too well these hidden secrets: for five years he had occupied a senior position at the Vatican Bank. It was a dangerous time and they were black days he would rather forget.
Finally he had reached his destination, a small room at the back of the building protected by double oak doors, blackened with age. A plastic sign on the door said in Italian, ACCESSO LIMITATO. Restricted Access. The cardinal removed a bunch of keys from beneath his burgundy cassock. Selecting one, he inserted it in the lock and turned the key.
The door creaked open and he stepped into a room that looked forgotten by time. Paneled oak walls, dusty shelves, and two walnut desks with brass lamps. He moved into the room and flicked on one of the lamps. He knew exactly what he was looking for and when he found the cardboard box he plucked it down from one of the shelves, took it over to the desk, and placed it under the lamp.
Inside, on top of a collection of files, was a manuscript, bound with red twine and a wax seal the size of a large button. He broke the seal, and pieces of the wax scattered everywhere. He carefully picked them up, placed the fragments in his pocket, and opened the file’s hard cover. Inside on the first typewritten page it said:
REPORT INTO THE UNDISCLOSED SCROLLS AT QUMRAN.
It took only moments to scan through the headings on the next page, for he knew them well:
List of Qumran scrolls and parchment fragments kept secret.
Disturbing revelations contained within these scrolls (with accurate translations, and references to known historical and archaeological data).
The dramatic revelations concerning the Second Messiah and the significance of the original scroll discovered by Mr. Robert Cane.
Steps the church must take to prevent the publication of controversial/harmful scroll material in the future.
Conclusions and recommendations.
The cardinal slowly closed the manuscript again, puckered his lips, and sighed, as if a great weight were pressing on his shoulders. Then he quickly opened the buttons on his cassock and tucked the manuscript inside.
Theft of any item from the Vatican Archives was tantamount to a grave sin. But he was wedded to the church since those early days in the Catholic orphanage when he had sought and found God’s protective embrace. His pious loyalty had helped him rise from a meek orphan to a respected American cardinal, a prince of the church, and in return this was one sin he had no regrets about committing. No one could know what the manuscript pages contained.
Not ever.
The cardinal flicked off the brass lamp. Then he left the room as silently as he had entered, closing the door after him and turning the key in the lock.
17
QUMRAN
ISRAEL
BUDDY SAVAGE EASED on the brakes and the Toyota SUV halted in a cloud of dust. As it settled he studied the clusters of tents and coarse brick huts that passed for the village named Nazlat, then said back over his shoulder, “Okay, you can get up now, the coast looks clear. It always beats me how these people live like this.”
In the back seat, Jack raised his head, sat up, and grabbed a pair of binoculars. “Like what, Buddy?”
Buddy took a drag on his Marlboro Light and nodded to the rambling collection of tents and huts. “Sure, they’re mostly nomads and it’s a way of life that’s gone on for thousands of years, but it’s Trashville. No running water, no utilities, and when it rains the sand turns to mush.”
Jack aimed the binoculars toward Nazlat. “Think of the upside. No property taxes, no utility bills, no lawn mowing.”
Buddy took another drag on his cigarette. “What about having to take a shovel out in the desert every time you need to use the john?”
“You’re starting to get crabby in your old age, Buddy, you know that?”
“Hey, listen, after thirty years digging holes in the sand without much to show for it but calloused hands and a lousy back, I’m learning to appreciate the small comforts in life. Like electric light, a flushing john, ice-cold beer.”
Jack scanned Nazlat. He saw no police, only a scattering of grazing goats and camels. He spotted two dusty, battered Nissan pickup trucks, one red, one white, packed with worn plastic water containers.
“So how’d you get on with the inspector?” Buddy probed. “You still like her?”
“Lela and I were friends a long time ago, Buddy.”
Buddy grinned. “It’s about time you took more of an interest in women. For years you’ve been burying your head in work. Now all of a sudden you’ve got a couple of hots on the horizon. Talk about striking it lucky.”
“Lela’s here to do a job, not renew old friendships.”
“So what happened between you and her back then? C’mon, you can tell papa.”
Jack lowered the binoculars. “Give me a break, Buddy. It was twenty years ago and we were just a couple of teenagers. We’ve got more important things to think about.”
“Hey, quit worrying, there’s no way you or anyone else in the crew killed Green. The cops will figure that out sooner or later.”
Jack put away the binoculars. “Somehow I don’t think Mosberg shares that sentiment.”
Buddy said, “Then the guy’s got to be a dummy. What precisely did you and the inspector talk about?”
“We didn’t exactly cover old ground from A to Z since we last met. It was more businesslike, to do with the case.”
“So Mosberg thinks you’re the main suspect? What about Lela?”
“She said nothing. Which worries me even more. Somehow I’m going to have to convince her that I’m innocent.”
Buddy arched an eyebrow. “So that’s why you had me hide you in the back of the SUV. A guilty man would never do that, right?”
Jack snapped open the rear door. “Funny. I asked Yasmin to talk with the Bedu to see what she could learn. You know that the Bedu keep their mouths shut around the police. It’s like the Mafia’s omertà, the code of silence. But I’m hoping they might tell us anything they know.”
Buddy shrugged. “If you really think it’s worth a try.”
Jack climbed out of the Toyota. “If anyone asks after me back at the camp, tell them I’m catching up on some sleep. If it’s the inspector, hold her off until you can call me on my cell.”
“You’re sure you don’t want me to stay?”
/> “If all three of us vanish, Lela and Mosberg will get even more suspicious. I’ll fill you in when I get back. That’s a promise, Buddy.”
Savage shifted the Toyota into gear and tipped his forehead in a mock salute. “Watch yourself, you hear?”
“There you go again, Pops. Sounding like my old man.”
The Toyota drove away and Jack shielded his eyes from the sun as he strolled down the unpaved street. He passed a herd of goats cropping at the sparse desert grass. Half a dozen barefoot village children appeared and crowded round him, calling for money. “Salaam! Baksheesh! Baksheesh!”
“Salaam,” Jack answered, and he patted them on the heads, dug a hand in his pocket, and tossed a fistful of coins into the sand. The children scattered after the coins. He saw Yasmin come out of one of the large tents made of goat hair which he knew belonged to Josuf, the foreman in charge of the Bedu workers. Yasmin waved her straw hat and hurried over to him.
“Thank God you got here, Jack.”
“What’s up?”
She took Jack’s hand, leading him toward the tent. “You better hear for yourself. Josuf has some information that he didn’t want to share with the police. And you’re not going to believe what he has to say.”
18
QUMRAN
ISRAEL
THE ARAB WOMAN was at least in her nineties, with faded tribal tattoos on her wrists. Dressed in black, she was bent almost double with arthritis. She placed a bowl of ripe figs in front of them, and then poured piping red tea into glass cups. As she left the tent she cackled something to Josuf, seated cross-legged on a red carpet next to Yasmin and Jack.
Josuf wore a white dishdash gown, and a silver tooth flashed in his mouth when he spoke. “My mother remembers your parents with fondness, Mr. Cane, and the day of their deaths with great sadness.”
Jack sipped his hot tea and placed a hand over his heart. “I am touched by her kind words.”
Josuf fell silent. With his gray stubble and dark walnut skin, the Bedu chief looked close to seventy but rumor had it that he was only in his fifties. Other rumors suggested that he had eight wives and forty children. Judging by the number of his “sons” who worked on the dig—at least six—Jack was tempted to believe it.
The goat-hair tent that Josuf and his family lived in was scrupulously clean. On a low pinewood table, flower petals floated in bowls of water, and a lit amber-colored candle gave off a fragrant smell of honey.
Out of courtesy to his host, Jack burst open a fig and sucked on the red flesh. With the Bedu, you had to be patient. “What news do you have, Josuf?”
The Bedu chief helped himself to a fig. “I did not want the police-woman to know what I am about to tell you. To help the Israelis is not the way of my tribe. There are those among the Bedu who despise the Israelis for confiscating Arab lands.”
Jack heard the cluck of women’s laughter and children’s conversation off in another wing of the huge tent. “Tell me what you know, Josuf.”
The Bedu chief adjusted the folds of his gown, craning his neck to make sure that his mother was gone. “You are aware of the many valuable finds made in the Dead Sea area by Bedu tribes.”
“Of course.”
“We both know that some Bedu have found objects and sold them to private collectors for large amounts of money, without telling the Israelis. My people consider these lands to be theirs by birthright. That any objects they find rightfully belong to them.”
Jack nodded. He knew that the Israeli authorities could never hope to put a stop to illegal digging. “Where’s this leading, Josuf?”
“I have heard that the Israelis suspect you of being a killer, Mr. Cane.”
Jack figured there wasn’t much that Josuf didn’t hear about in his locality. But the speed at which the news had traveled surprised even him. “How did you know?”
Josuf waved the question away as if it were a fly. “I know that you are not a killer, Mr. Cane. It’s not in your blood. Such an accusation is unjust. That is why I want to help you. My youngest daughter knows something, Mr. Cane.”
Jack sparked. “Knows what?”
The Bedu chief clapped his hands together. The old woman returned, opening the tent flap, and Josuf said, “Bring Safa.”
19
THE GIRL WAS no more than ten and her cocoa brown eyes were strikingly beautiful. She wore a simple cotton gown and gauze headscarf and she bowed to Josuf. “Father.”
“Sit beside me, Safa. Tell my friends everything you saw.”
The girl sat by her father. When she hesitated, her father squeezed her hand. “Tell them, Daughter.”
The girl looked at Yasmin and Jack and spoke softly in Arabic. “Today I woke before sunrise with two of my brothers to tend to my father’s goat herds, as we always do. It is my job to tend to one of the herds that graze beyond the Red Rocks. This morning I saw someone leave your camp and walk past the rocks toward the desert.”
Jack knew where the girl meant. The Red Rocks were a half ring of massive rust-colored boulders that formed a natural boundary where the desert began.
“Go on, Safa,” her father prompted. “Who did you see?”
“I could not tell if the person was a man or a woman. The light was not good. But whoever it was they stopped just beyond the rocks where two men stood waiting by a car. The person gave something to the two men and then quickly returned to the camp. Then I saw the two men drive away.”
Jack felt a flutter of excitement and flicked a look at Yasmin before he said to the child, “Are you positive about this?”
“Yes, I am certain.”
Josuf interrupted. “It wasn’t the first time that my daughter saw the two men from the car, Mr. Cane.”
“What do you mean?”
Josuf nodded to his daughter. “Explain, Safa.”
“My uncle Walid knows the two men.”
Before Jack could ask Josuf to explain, the Bedu patted his daughter’s arm. “Leave us, Safa. Go back to your mother. I will explain the rest.”
“Yes, Father.”
The girl bowed and left. Josuf said, “What I have to say next is not for my daughter’s ears, Mr. Cane.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I have a confession to make. You do not know my brother, Walid. He lives not far from here. Over many years he has found small pieces of ancient parchment in these hills. However, Walid never told the Israelis. Instead, he sold the fragments of parchments to a Syrian black-market dealer.”
When Josuf hesitated, Jack inclined his head. “I’m listening, go on.”
“The two men my daughter saw sometimes came here from Damascus to buy Walid’s fragments.”
“How do you know that?”
“From Safa’s description of one of the men, and the old white Mercedes they drove. My daughter ducked behind some rocks as the car drove past. She managed to see the passenger’s face. He was a middle-aged man with a gray beard. He wore a broad white panama hat with a black band around it. It sounds like one of the men I often saw Walid deal with. He usually drove here in a white Mercedes.”
“Who are the men?”
“Criminals, from the Syrian underworld. They sometimes buy artifacts from the Bedu, to sell them in turn to wealthy collectors for a profit.”
“Are they Bedu?”
Josuf nodded. “Settled Bedu. They bribe border guards to help them cross frontiers.”
Jack said, “Do you know who they were working with?”
“No one from among my people, I am certain. I phoned Walid. He is in Jerusalem, visiting friends. He believes either these men came of their own free will to steal the scroll or that they planned it with someone working on the dig. Walid says that the men are ruthless enough to have killed the professor.”
Jack let the Bedu’s words sink in. Then he said thoughtfully, “How can your daughter be so certain they’re the same men? The light couldn’t have been great.”
“My daughter told me that the man with the hat had a lame
walk and a withered hand. That fits the description of one of the criminals Walid dealt with. You see, many years ago this man stepped on an Israeli land mine. He suffered serious injures to a hand and foot. In Arabic, he’s sometimes called by the name Slow Foot, because he drags his leg behind him. But he calls himself Pasha.”
Yasmin said, “You have to tell all this to the police, Josuf. For Jack’s sake.”
Josuf shook his head, his face troubled. “I can tell them nothing. My people would curse me as an informer.”
Yasmin met his stare. “Even if it meant an innocent man being imprisoned for a murder he didn’t commit?”
“It could also mean my throat being cut. But I want to help you find these two men. They are the real criminals. And I think I know where they can be found.”
“Where?” Yasmin asked.
“Walid told me of a Catholic monastery called St. Paul’s, near Maloula, outside Damascus.”
Jack considered. “I’ve heard of Maloula. It’s a mainly Christian town that dates from the fourth century. One of the few places in the world where Aramaic is still spoken.”
Josuf nodded. “The same language that Jesus spoke. The same language that’s written in many of the scrolls discovered at Qumran.”
“Go on.”
“Walid heard that an elderly priest there has worked translating scrolls and fragments for these black-market criminals. A religious man should have nothing to do with murder. Perhaps if he learns of the crime these men may have committed, his conscience will cause him to help you. For your sake, I hope so. I do not believe you are a killer, Mr. Cane. However, if you are to make the Israelis believe it, then you must go to Maloula and find out more about these men. It would take a half day’s journey across the desert through Jordan and Syria, no more than that.”
Jack said, “I have a visa that allows me to cross into Jordan from when the team visited Petra. But I’d be wasting my time trying to get into Syria. I have an Israeli border stamp on my American passport. There’s no way the Syrians will issue me a visa. They hate Israel and anyone who’s even been there.”
