Maybry, a trusted compatriot who had worked with Bohannon and the mission on several other projects, walked over to one of the cabinets and began searching through the drawers himself. “You mean this stuff has been hidden up here all these years?”
“It could get even more interesting, now,” Bohannon said, pulling a file folder out of one of the drawers. “I think this is the combination for the safe.”
Both men turned to face the other side of the room, where the immense, antique steel safe dominated. The decorative touches at the corners had muted over time. The safe had to be more than eight feet wide and five feet high, barely under the low ceiling, and a good three feet deep. It had double doors on the front that, when opened, would give access to the entire safe. In the center of each door was a raised, decorative design, blooming, steel geraniums, red paint still dully visible in the crevices of the flower’s petals.
“If he kept his ledgers and records in these file cabinets,” said Maybry, turning to look at the oak cabinets, “I wonder what he could have kept in a safe that large.”
Bohannon drew a sheet of paper out of the file folder and stepped up to the steel door, his uncertainty and anticipation growing. It took a moment, but he realized that the dial for the combination lock had to be sitting under the large, floral-design ornament on the front of the door. Pressing here, pushing there, Bohannon finally located the spring switch, and the floral design swung away. He spun in the combination, heard the bolt drop, and pulled hard on the twin doors.
Bohannon moved more than the doors did. “Here, grab one side.”
With Maybry tugging on one side and Bohannon on the other, the doors creaked, squeaked, and barely moved. Then, like opening a vacuum-sealed can, they swung apart with a whoosh.
Bohannon stepped from behind the door and stood in front of the safe. His mouth dropped, his eyes popped, and his breath stopped—and not from the accumulated dust.
The safe was filled, packed to the edges, with what looked to be dozens of museum-quality books, scrolls, manuscripts, and pamphlets. There was more gold gilt in that safe than one would find at a convention of military despots. Without question, thought Bohannon, whatever the specifics of the contents, this collection could prove to be priceless.
“What are you going to do now?” Maybry asked. There was no answer from Bohannon.
Nondescript shadows in the night, the four men descended the gangplank. Few lights shone at this end of the vast dock on Staten Island. And at 3:30 in the morning, few people were moving in any part of the facility.
With the silent sweep of a serpent, the four men melted into the darkness separating staggering stacks of cargo containers. They paused at an unobserved junction.
“You know your targets. You have your directions.” Sayeed Farouk once again inspected the three men before him. He could find no detail that would raise an alarm. All of them were dressed in the colorless work clothes of veteran seamen. Though all of them were hardened in body and devoted in ideology, none of them projected the frenzy of a zealot. They looked foreign, but not frightening.
“Remember why we are here.” Farouk looked each of his brethren in the eyes. “We are here to restore the honor of the Prophet’s Guard. Now that the mullah has discovered this connection between the infidel Spurgeon and this mission, we have been offered this great opportunity to serve—perhaps to serve unto death and become a revered martyr.”
Farouk reached under his shirt at the neck and withdrew an amulet, a Coptic cross with a lightning bolt slashing through on the diagonal, and watched as the other three echoed his movement. Each man held his amulet firmly, next to his heart. “May Allah be praised!”
Slipping the amulets back under their shirts, the four men exchanged glances, then peeled away in four separate directions.
Thirty minutes later, stepping off the Staten Island Ferry at the awe-inspiring tip of Manhattan Island, Farouk casually wandered into Battery Park. He found an unoccupied park bench, well into the shadows, stretched out his body on the bench, rested his head on his seabag, and went to sleep. It was still dark when the policeman lightly struck the sole of his shoe with a nightstick.
“Come on, you can’t sleep here. You’ve got to move along.”
Wearily, Sayeed rose to a sitting position. “Officer, then, could you tell me how to get to the Bowery Mission?”
2
Joe Rodriguez was a down-to-earth guy. Lean, strapping, muscular, his 6-4 frame and intense brown eyes combined with a relentless stride and boundless energy. Raised in the South Bronx, the son of Puerto Rican natives, his “New York attitude” sometimes added an alarming edge to his already imposing figure.
Stepping across the void and onto the scaffolding at the rear of the Bowery Mission’s chapel, Rodriguez brought something much more important to his friend and fellow Yankees fan than his size, his attitude, or that he was Tom’s brother-in-law. Joe Rodriguez was also curator of the periodicals room in the massive, main research facility of New York’s public library system—the Humanities and Social Sciences Library—a historic, Beaux-Arts landmark building on Fifth Avenue that was often incorrectly referred to as the “main branch.” Rodriguez was both a computer wizard and one of the most highly respected apologists of library science in the country. He had worked his entire career for the New York Public Library System, the last fifteen years in the historic marble halls of the research mecca on beautiful Bryant Park, and had authored two acclaimed books explaining how to unlock the astounding research and information resources of the world’s libraries.
Rodriguez rapidly realized he would need all of that skill and experience if he was going to help his brother-in-law create a catalog of the volumes now before his eyes.
“I never expected this,” Rodriguez said, bending at the waist under the low ceiling. He stood close to the safe, intently inspecting what he could see of the books, scrolls, and other documents stacked throughout the interior. “Tom . . . this . . . is amazing.”
“That’s why I was so anxious to get you down here.” Bohannon stepped toward Rodriguez and leaned his hand on the door of the massive safe. “I don’t know what to make of this. But I need to have some solid information to give to our board.”
Rodriguez looked at his brother-in-law and realized he had never seen Tom so animated, or so nervous. Joe Rodriguez found a kindred spirit in Tom. Tom and his sister, Deirdre, were raised in a Catholic family. But when their parents became “born-again Christians,” it was Deirdre who was much more active in living her faith than her older brother. Tom was sort of lost in limbo. Joe could relate to that. He was a lapsed Catholic and the object of Deirdre’s constant prayers.
Rodriguez recognized that there was some of the kid, some of the investigator, some of the taskmaster present today as Bohannon eagerly watched him caress the volumes in the safe. Tom’s excitement meter was topping out. “Let’s get going, eh?” he said to Joe. “Let’s find out what we have here.”
“Tom, I’m sorry to disappoint you,” said Rodriguez. He stepped away from the safe, inched across the room, and rested himself against the old wooden desk, giving his neck a break. “But I can’t examine these books here. This place is filthy, and the contents of that safe could be worth—who knows what? We should get some of the airtight bins we have at the library and transport the entire contents of the safe back to the archival-recovery room at HSS.”
Bohannon stared at him blankly.
“Humanities and Social Sciences . . . the library on Bryant Park?” said Rodriguez.
The old plaster, broken through to create a rough door, smelled like decaying chalk. Rodriguez could feel the grit in his teeth. His throat was desperate for water. No more desperate than the look on Tom’s face.
“You can’t do that Joe . . . not yet.” Bohannon stood at the safe, his left hand resting on the top of the door. “I need to know what’s in here first. We—”
“We, nothing,” interrupted Joe. “C’mon, Tom, look around. The best thi
ng we can do for these books and documents is to get them out of here. Get them in an environment that’s a lot less threatening than this dusty attic. What’s the matter with you?”
Tom crossed the room and leaned on the desk next to his brother-in-law. His eyes were on the safe.
“Joe, I know these books can’t stay here,” he said. “But I need to know . . . at least have some information about . . . what we’ve found before we move anything. I report to a board of directors. There’s a ‘need-to-know’ factor involved here. I have a responsibility to tell them, but I don’t even know what we’ve discovered. Look, let’s get the stuff out of the safe. Make a list of what we’ve found, some assessment of what it’s worth, and then I’ll know what I’m talking about. After that, we can move the books to a safer place. Whaddaya say?”
The back of Rodriguez’s neck, where his spine met his shoulder blades, tightened into a knot. He looked around at the tight space, the dust of ages, and he shuddered. But he also had a boss to whom he reported.
“Okay . . . but this is how it’s going down,” emphasized Rodriguez. “First, we clean this place—with the safe doors sealed. We get some of the airtight bins from the library. We’ll catalog all this stuff, but”—he raised an index finger to punctuate his point—“anything I find that is precious or dangerously fragile goes in a bin and returns to the library with me, immediately. Is that a deal?”
Over the next two days, Rodriguez orchestrated a meticulous process designed to preserve and protect the books while creating a catalog of the safe’s contents. Their first challenge was to clean the office, removing as much of the dust as possible, and then to create within the office as many clean surfaces as possible on which to place the documents. Rodriguez set up his laptop and connected to WIFI, not only for record keeping, but also to help investigate and identify the contents through Libweb, the Worldwide Internet Library Network. They also secured the room with a solid door.
Then began the painstaking process of gently removing each item from the safe and minutely investigating it—first the cover and the edges, then the contents of the book, hoping to uncover its origin and pedigree.
Between the two of them, Rodriguez and Bohannon began closing in on some answers. The majority of the documents in the safe had been sent to Klopsch by his colleague, the nineteenth-century English preacher Charles Spurgeon, who had accumulated them during his many regular trips to the Middle East, or by those associated with Spurgeon whom Spurgeon had asked to forward biblical documents to Klopsch.
After the safe was emptied, Rodriguez inspected its various small drawers and cubbies. There were three small, inlaid drawers built upon the center shelf of the safe. The two smaller drawers were closed and locked, and they had yet to find a key among the contents of the safe or the office.
Opening the middle drawer, Rodriguez discovered a bundle wrapped up in a delicately designed silk covering—a purse that was fastened shut. As he opened the purse, a sheet of paper fell out and into the drawer. Rodriguez placed the purse on a shelf, picked up the paper, and began to read. “Hey, Tom . . . listen to this . . .”
Dear Louis,
I am enclosing a document of the utmost importance and sensitivity. Within it are written certain assertions, which, if true and verified, will dramatically alter our understanding of the past, our perception of the present, and our hope of the future—a future that may breathe of the same atmosphere you and I now draw into our lungs. It is also one of the most dangerous documents in existence. A document that I am convinced some men would commit murder to possess and other men would commit murder to destroy.
I convey it to you and place it into your sacred trust with a prayer to the Almighty for your safety and a hope that you may discover how to unlock the veracity or illegitimacy of the document and its claims, while at the same time avoiding any undue risk to your personal well-being and the well-being of that anointed endeavor you have undertaken along the Bouerie in New York.
You may place your absolute trust and confidence in Dr. Schwartzman of Trinity, a true friend of Christ and an able ally for your vital pursuit. Wire me with any revelations. May our Lord and Saviour hold you in His most faithful hands.
Charles
Perspiring from the cramped quarters in the small office, Rodriguez’s damp skin rippled with an icy apprehension as he watched Bohannon walk over to the shelf and pick up the silk purse. “What could this little package contain that would have Spurgeon fearing for his safety and the safety of his friend?” Bohannon asked. He turned it over in his hand, unfastened the clasp, reached inside, and withdrew a metal cylinder, about the girth of a midsized telescope. “Joe, what do you think this thing is?”
Reaching out his gloved hands, Rodriguez took the cylinder, gently placed it on the space he was using as a workbench, and pulled a lamp closer for more light. A round, engraved metal container, about four inches in diameter and about eight inches long, it had a thinner, metal rod running through the center. The rod had been turned on a lathe, producing knurls and nubs for decoration on both of its ends.
“This is a mezuzah,” said Rodriguez, “a scroll container. The most common type of mezuzah is the small container most Jewish families affix to the frame of their front door. You take a small piece of paper, write on it a segment of the law—the Torah—and insert it into the mezuzah. A religious person will touch the mezuzah and kiss his finger every time he leaves or enters his home.
“They can be made of many materials, but metal is one of the longest lasting and most common. This one looks like bronze. It’s not the most beautiful or ornate case I’ve ever seen, but it sure looks old. See,” he said, pointing to the side of the case, “the metal has begun to pit. What started out with a luminous shine is now streaked with age. And there are signs of hairline stress fractures along the surface.”
Gently turning the case over, Rodriguez scanned its surface. “You know, a religious mezuzah is never meant to be removed, never allowed to be discarded, because it contains the words of God.” He continued his examination while he contemplated what he knew about these scroll holders. On one side of the metal tube, tightly secured to the side of the container, was a thin, three-sided, metal appendage about the size of a pencil but in the shape of a “U,” with the open side against the cylinder. After some inspection, Rodriguez figured this metal addition was a handle of some type, but it appeared to be sealed to the side of the cylinder, apparently with wax.
“In order to get rid of a mezuzah, it has to be buried,” he said, gently inspecting all of the container’s pieces. “Many synagogues around the world have repositories where mezuzahs and scrolls are kept until there is a quantity large enough for an official burial. But some are never emptied. One was discovered in Cairo with scrolls written in the hand of Maimonides. Besides being used for religious purposes, a mezuzah was often a protection for important documents.”
Gently twitching the metal rod that ran through the middle of the cylinder, Rodriguez detected a tightening and slacking of something inside, a movement that also produced the slightest movement in the metal handle. “Hmm . . . there is something in here.”
Bohannon came closer, hovering over the table where his brother-in-law was so carefully working.
“There is definitely something inside,” Rodriguez said, “most likely a parchment that’s attached to the rod and released by pulling on the handle. But there appears to be only one way to get it open and get a look at the parchment inside. We’ve got to try and unroll it, using the handle.” He looked down to the metal case on the bench. “There’s just no guarantee what will happen. The parchment could break. Once we break that wax seal, the parchment will be exposed to air and humidity again and could begin to deteriorate.”
Bohannon looked him squarely in the eye. “It’s a risk, right?”
“Yeah,” said Rodriguez, nodding his head, “but Spurgeon must have risked opening it up. And it survived well enough for him to send it to Klopsch.”
&n
bsp; “It looks like a number of people have gone to extraordinary lengths to ensure the safekeeping of this mezuzah. If there is a scroll inside, they obviously wanted somebody to read it,” said Bohannon. “Seems to me it would be a crime not to take the risk. Go ahead. Let’s see what’s inside.”
With the metal case still resting on the workbench, Rodriguez took a small, sharp knife and cut into the wax seal. Then he grasped the metal rod in his left hand and turned it slowly until he felt pressure from inside. Like a thief trying to crack the combination of a safe, Rodriguez, his eyes closed, tried to sense the willingness of the parchment to move. As his left hand made minute moves to turn the metal shaft, his right hand slowly drew away the handle, pulling out the parchment. It was surprisingly easy.
“There is very little drag. The parchment inside is turning freely,” Rodriguez said, his eyes still closed. “I don’t feel any breaking or tearing.” Well before he had reached arm’s length, Rodriguez abruptly stopped.
“I think that’s it. There was a slight pull up on the handle,” Rodriguez said, opening his eyes.
“What is it?” Bohannon asked. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
The Spurgeon parchment lay on the table in front of them, stretched out between the engraved metal mezuzah and the small metal handle that had been on its side. Rodriguez stared intently at the handwritten characters on the surface of the scroll.
The parchment was about five inches wide and just short of two feet long. It was covered with twenty-one columns of symbols arranged in seven groupings—three vertical rows of symbols in each of the groupings.
“These symbols are unique,” Rodriguez puzzled. “I expected it to be in a language I didn’t understand. But this—I don’t even know what these characters are. They’re not Asian, they’re not Hebrew, and they’re not Cyrillic. It doesn’t look anything like Greek. And it certainly doesn’t look Roman. I’ve got to tell you: I don’t know what I’m looking at.”
The Sacred Cipher Page 3
