by Glenn Meade
Caught off guard, Cassini felt a little anxious as he stepped into the gilded, exquisite papal rooms.
The pope slammed the door shut and struck an unfamiliar pose, his hands on his hips. “I’ll get straight to the point, Umberto. I have been followed by Sean Ryan this evening. I demand an explanation. Was this your idea?”
Despite the tables being turned, Cassini bristled with indignation. “Holy Father, I confess it was. But there were safety concerns. And may I make a point? You were seen entering the red-light district, and offering a woman money. What if a press photographer recognized you and took your photograph? Think of the scandal. I mean, with all due respect, you were seen in the company of a prostitute.”
“I seem to recall that so was Jesus. Would you have criticized him for that too, Umberto?”
Cassini was stuck for an answer and his face reddened. “Holy Father, I simply don’t know why you had to visit that area—”
The reproof was instant and sharp. “That is my business. Even though I am pope, my privacy is my own. And please don’t ever question who I keep company with, Umberto. Not ever.”
Cassini still bridled with frustration. “Very well, but I can assure you that what was done was for your own good and the Vatican’s. It’s normal to have security in the background, to watch His Holiness wherever he goes. There are hundreds of Vatican security officers whose sole task is just that.”
“Then it’s time I made some changes.”
“Holy Father?”
The pope spread his hands wide, indicating the opulent room. “Do we really need all this, Umberto? This gilded prison.”
“I’m not sure I follow?”
“All these trappings of power. All this material wealth. This vast, endless, often petty beaureaucracy. As pastors, we should have no need of such distractions.”
“I don’t see where this is going, Holy Father.”
“This church was founded in the name of a Nazarene carpenter who owned nothing, not even a bed he could rest his head on. Yet we who inherited his mission are surrounded by accumulated riches, by vast wealth. All over the world are barefoot, hungry men, women, and children with empty bellies. Yet we hoard our riches like misers and I am crowned with pomp and ceremony and live in gilded rooms. I am ashamed that the carpenter’s successor should live like a king.”
“Holy Father, the church has a reputation to preserve. Status and traditions to maintain.”
“No longer.” From behind his desk, Becket plucked a cheap canvas bag, the kind you might buy in one of the backstreets where he had fled. “I am leaving the Vatican, Umberto. I have packed the few belongings I will need.”
Cassini felt as if he’d been electrocuted. “Leaving?”
“As of tonight the Vatican is no longer my residence.”
52
QUMRAN
ISRAEL
“OKAY, PIERRE, MAKE sure the men are careful. Some of the stuff in these boxes is pretty fragile.”
“But of course, mon ami.”
Buddy Savage wiped sweat from his brow and jumped down off the back of the Fiat truck. He watched as one of the crew, a small, cheerful-looking Frenchman with an earring and a ponytail, began to supervise a group of Bedu workmen as they loaded packing crates onto the vehicle.
As Savage stood there wearing his grubby NYPD baseball cap, a voice said in accented English, “You look busy, Mr. Savage. I hope I’m not interrupting your work.”
Savage turned and saw Sergeant Mosberg. “Busy enough. The dig finishes this week. We’re getting ready to close down the site. We could probably close it down a lot quicker if we didn’t have the media sticking its nose in our face. They’re still buzzing around here when the mood takes them, asking questions.”
“You’re in a hurry to go somewhere?”
“No, but unless everything’s properly catalogued and the paperwork in order for your Department of Antiquities the dirt’s going to hit the fan.”
“No more digging for scrolls?”
Savage lit up a Marlboro Light and blew out a mouthful of smoke. “Our work’s done for the season. By spring, it gets too hot to dig, but a few of the crew will stay behind to tidy up. For the rest of us this tour of duty’s over. What can I do for you, Mosberg?”
The sergeant rapped his knuckles on one of the packing crates. “What exactly have you got in here, Mr. Savage?”
Savage dangled his cigarette from the corner of his mouth. “Hundreds of pottery shards, a variety of bones and coins, personal artifacts and jewelry, almost all of it from the first century A.D. In short, three months’ work. Why?”
Mosberg took a notepad from his pocket and flipped it open. “I’m afraid I need to ask you some more questions, Mr. Savage.”
Savage sighed and tipped back his baseball cap. “I can give you ten minutes, Mosberg, then I’ve got to get back to work. Want a Coke? I sure could do with one.”
“Very kind. I won’t say no.”
Savage flicked away his half-finished cigarette. “Follow me to my humble hacienda and excuse the mess.”
“One thing you might like to know. Forensics had the flakes of parchment from the floor of Professor Green’s tent analyzed. It’s definitely the same material found in other Dead Sea scrolls. They also had the flakes and the ink carbon-dated.”
“And?”
“There’s no question that they’re about two thousand years old.”
53
SAVAGE LED THE way to a cramped walk-in tent.
Mosberg said, “The experts said roughly between A.D. 25 and 50. You don’t seem surprised, Savage.”
“Why should I be? I never thought for a minute that the scroll was a fake. I’ve seen my fair share of parchments in my career. I knew it was genuine.”
Mosberg picked his way past a folded camp bed, a dented travel trunk, and more piles of packing crates. One crate was open and contained a collection of small bones next to a large clay pot. A tag on the crate said L.I.E. “Are they animal bones?” he asked.
Savage grabbed a couple of chilled Cokes from a blue plastic cooler at his feet and tossed a can to Mosberg. “Actually, they’re human. An infant, second century A.D. I’ll let you in on a secret, Sergeant. Whenever archaeologists dig here they often come across human bones like the ones you’re looking at. Thousands of years ago it was common practice to bury dead infants in clay jars. Even though they’ve been interred for millennia your Jewish religion still requires that we stop digging and perform a full and proper burial service. If they’re from a more recent period than the one we’re digging and they don’t interest us, we label the bones with a tag that says L.I.E.”
Mosberg arched an eyebrow as he plucked open his can. “What does that mean?”
“It’s short for late intrusive element. We classify them as animal bones so that way we can keep going with the dig and focus on the period we’re dealing with.”
“Isn’t that deceitful?”
“Sure, but the benefits outweigh the cost. And your Antiquities Department turns a blind eye. If they didn’t, things would grind to a halt.”
Mosberg examined what looked like a tiny, weathered rib bone. “To think this infant lived soon after the time of Christ. Remarkable.”
Savage gulped a mouthful of Coke. “Make any progress, Sergeant?”
Mosberg looked up. “I’m afraid not. You know what makes me curious? Why did Cane choose to dig at that particular site where he found the scroll?”
“In field fourteen? Simple. Rodents.”
“Pardon?”
“Creatures like rats and gophers, even wild dogs, burrow deep into the earth for shelter. That can be a blessing to archaeologists because they leave behind a mound of debris after they dig. Sometimes we get lucky and the mound contains coins and pieces of pottery shards, or other stuff of interest. A mound that Jack discovered at field fourteen contained pottery shards, first century A.D., so we decided to dig.”
Mosberg jotted some notes. “Interesting. And may I ask
where Mr. Cane is right now?”
Savage slumped into one of the chairs. “Your guess is as good as mine. The last time I saw him was here at the camp, yesterday afternoon.”
“You have no idea?”
“Sometimes he drives into Jerusalem to visit friends.”
“Which friends?”
“You’ve got me there. But I can only guess that’s where he’s gone.”
Mosberg eased himself into the chair opposite. “I hope you’re not withholding information from me, Mr. Savage?”
“Now why would I do that?”
“How long have you known Jack Cane?”
Buddy Savage raised the dented travel trunk, grabbed an old photo album, and tossed it on the table. “Does that answer your question?”
Mosberg flicked through sheaves of photographs in the album: many were of Savage and Jack Cane working on digs. Both men looked much younger in some of the snapshots, which obviously spanned many years. There were others of Savage with a man who resembled Cane, and some of the shots included an attractive, smiling woman, her arms around both men.
“The couple you see were Jack’s parents. They died twenty years ago in an auto accident near Qumran. I guess that’s why he keeps coming back here to dig. For years it’s been like a pilgrimage for Jack.”
“Why?”
“Are you familiar with the work of the Irish writer Oscar Wilde, Sergeant?”
Mosberg sipped more Coke and shook his head. “I can’t say that I am.”
“There’s a line he wrote. ‘The heart always returns to wherever it is most hurt.’ Or words to that effect. I think the same applies to Jack. This place, Qumran, was a watershed in his life. It scarred him. And shaped him, made him the man he is.”
Mosberg slapped the album shut and replaced it on the table. “Interesting. So you know Jack Cane a long time.”
“His father and I were buddies for years. We worked digs together, Jack too, ever since he was a kid. He’s a good man, Mosberg, not a murderer.”
“You sound very sure of that.”
“I am. He’s not the professor’s killer. Finding that scroll meant everything to Jack. It’s like a vindication of his parents’ life work.”
“You’re saying he really wanted to find a scroll?”
“Sure he did. Like everyone else on this site.”
“And he did find a scroll but now it’s missing. Then there’s the small matter of Cane’s own knife buried in the professor’s chest.”
“Listen, Mosberg, Jack wouldn’t jeopardize himself by getting involved in murder. He’s completely innocent. As for the knife, that’s a weapon more familiar to Jews and Arabs, so I’d look elsewhere if I were you.”
“We’ll see, Mr. Savage. Perhaps if I dig deep enough, I can find his motive.”
Savage tipped back his baseball cap and shook his head. “If you really believe that, then you’re a big dummy, Mosberg. But good luck to you, because you’re sure going to need it.”
Mosberg’s face flushed red with annoyance. He spread his arms and looked toward the excavation site, his tone icy. “Tell me, who pays for all this, Savage? The expense of the dig, the crew salaries?”
Savage sipped another mouthful. “The crew are mostly volunteers. Some, professionals like me, get a basic salary that’s nothing to write home about. As for the costs, most digs have sponsors. Ours are a number of wealthy international businessmen and a religious trust that pick up our tab.”
“And what do they get in return?”
Savage shrugged. “I’m sure there’s maybe a tax break or two in there for some of the sponsors. But mostly they just want to contribute.”
“To what?”
“Our knowledge of religion and of humankind’s history.”
Mosberg jotted more notes in his pad. “All very noble, but I’ll need a list of your sponsors, Mr. Savage.”
“Hey, I’m up to my plums in work right now, Mosberg, but you’ll get it, rest assured.”
“Today, please.” Mosberg handed over his business card. “You’ll see my e-mail and fax number at the bottom. May I ask what religion you are, Mr. Savage?”
“What the heck has that got to do with anything?”
“It’s a simple question.”
“There was a time when I could say Roman Catholic, but I’m afraid I fell from grace. These days I’m happy to settle for agnostic. What does it matter?”
“Where do you live when you’re not working on digs, Mr. Savage?”
“A bachelor pad in a small upstate New York town.”
“You find your work rewarding?”
“I’m not sure where this is going, Mosberg, but yeah, sure.” Savage held up his calloused, clay-stained hands. “Would I work these fingers to the bone if I didn’t love it? I’ve been doing this job for well over twenty years and with little reward except for the pleasure it gives me.”
“Really?”
“Really. Though at this stage in my life I’d probably settle for a condo in Florida, a Mustang convertible, and an accommodating lady. Now, if you’ve finished scraping the barrel, I still have work to do.” Savage stood and tossed his empty Coke can into a bin.
Mosberg rose. “When you found Professor Green you said he was already dead. Did you see anyone nearby or leaving the tent? Did you witness anything at all, no matter how insignificant it might seem? It could be important, Mr. Savage. Please think.”
“I already answered that question for Inspector Raul.”
“Please answer it again.”
“I saw nothing. Not a soul. I heard nothing. Now, are you done?”
Mosberg flipped shut his notepad. “For now, Mr. Savage.”
Savage watched Mosberg climb into a Nissan SUV and drive off in the direction of the Bedu village. He heard a noise behind him and turned.
Jack Cane stood facing him, his face drawn, his clothes crumpled and stained. “Hello, Pops.”
“What the heck?” Savage stepped forward and his arm went around Jack’s shoulder. “Boy, am I glad to see you. Sergeant Mosberg was just here, looking for you. Don’t worry, I told the guy nothing.”
“Has he any leads?” Jack’s face was beaded with sweat, his voice hoarse.
“You ask me, the guy’s as lost as a dog in long grass.” Savage noticed a rip in Cane’s inside right trouser leg, revealing a gauze bandage. The clothes’ stains were caked patches of dried blood. “What happened? And where are Yasmin and Josuf? What have you been up to?” he demanded.
Jack was barely able to stand, his face racked with pain. “I’ve lost some blood. Yasmin’s gone to find a fresh dressing in the first-aid kit. I need to sit down, Buddy.”
As Savage went to help him toward his tent, Jack collapsed into his arms.
54
“HERE, DRINK SOME of this, it’ll settle your nerves.” Buddy Savage splashed Wild Turkey into two glass tumblers and handed one to Yasmin.
Yasmin’s clothes were dusty, her hair mussed as she sat in one of the canvas chairs and accepted the glass. “Thanks. Though the condition I’m in, I probably look like I’ve had a few already.”
Savage grabbed another chair. “If you want my opinion, you all need your heads examined for crossing into Syria illegally.”
“It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, Buddy, something we got caught up in. Jack was desperate to try to find the parchment.” Yasmin looked behind her. “Does Pierre really know what he’s doing? Shouldn’t we just fetch a doctor?”
Savage followed Yasmin’s gaze to the room at the back of the tent. Jack sat in a canvas chair, one leg of his trousers cut away. Seated in front of him, the cheery Frenchman was engrossed as he worked on Jack’s wound, a first-aid kit open, next to it a plastic basin filled with steaming water.
“If we call a doctor he’d probably inform the cops. Don’t worry about Pierre. Believe it or not he was once a medic with the French Foreign Legion. He’s treated a few bullet wounds in his day, which is why he’s in charge of our first aid. He gave Jack a
morphine shot, so he can’t feel a thing. How about you finish your story?”
“After the men set the monastery on fire they forced us to drive out into the desert. I had to drive Josuf’s truck and he followed me in his Mercedes. Then the weather started to turn, a sandstorm blew up, and after about five miles we were made to halt and get out of the vehicles.”
“Go on.”
“We thought we were all going to be executed. The man named Pasha aimed at Jack’s head. But at the last moment he deflected the pistol and shot Jack in the leg instead. That’s when I blacked out. To be honest, the sight of blood freaks me out.”
“Go on.”
“Pasha slapped me awake. He said, ‘Let this be a warning to you all to keep your noses out of this business and forget about the scroll or you’ll regret it. If you come after me I’ll hunt each of you down and kill you.’ Or words to that effect, but we got the message. He scared the life out of me.”
Savage’s brow creased. “I’m astonished he released you all after you witnessed him killing the priest.”
“We didn’t understand it either. But we were grateful to escape with our lives. Then Pasha tossed away Josuf’s pickup keys and he and his bodyguard drove off. Josuf had a basic first-aid kit in his pickup and managed to put a dressing on Jack’s wound. It took us over an hour to find the keys in the dark before we drove back here.”
“Any difficulty crossing the border?”
“The Jordanians didn’t bother us but the Israeli guards seemed suspicious. They searched Josuf’s pickup before finally letting us through.”
“Did you learn anything useful from this priest, Novara?”
“Jack thinks he found some translations from the scroll. He spent most of the journey working on the notes he’d made in his notebook.”
Savage said eagerly, “Tell me more.”
“You better wait until you speak with Jack. He can fill you in better than me.”
Pierre came in, wiping his hands on a towel. He immediately helped himself to the Wild Turkey, splashing a generous measure into a glass.
