by Paul L Maier
“Ah! Good that you tell me. I have a friend or two there. I’ll call Al Jazeera immediately-the start of my long journey back into your good graces, Jon.”
“Fine, Osman. Be sure to keep me posted.”
Shannon, who had been listening intently to Jon’s side of the conversation, seemed relieved and sighed. “I do hope that’s the end of this bizarre business. How it can ruin a beautiful spring!” It was obvious that images of her husband being hanged in effigy had done very little to boost her spirits.
They turned off the TV, put on walking shorts, and headed down to the Atlantic shore. Perhaps a long stroll along the beach and many breaths of fresh sea breezes would clear their minds.
Jon and Shannon returned from their seashore promenade eager to check the progress of Jon’s story. “What was it Mark Twain said?” Shannon asked. “‘A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth even puts its boots on’?”
“Yes,” Jon replied. “I guess it’s a corollary to Murphy’s Law that wrong information-particularly of a sensational nature-gets front-page treatment in the press and opening-story status in the broadcast media, while the truth, by way of correction, shows up later with only the briefest coverage on page 6 of section D in the papers or as a small afterthought on TV.”
Gingerly they turned on the television evening news, flipped through the networks, and were happily surprised. Diane Sawyer of ABC, Katie Couric of CBS, and Brian Williams of NBC all opened with a story on the error in the Arabic text of Jon’s book, while CNN even showed footage of a perspiring Osman al-Ghazali heaping blame on himself, but even more on the typesetter in Cairo.
Later in the telecasts, however, Jon felt the clutch of concern return when the news programs shifted to reports from foreign correspondents. A firebomb had been lobbed into the first floor of Jon’s publisher in Cairo, scorching much of the reception area until the blaze was extinguished. Footage from Lebanon showed a long column of Hezbollah marching through downtown Beirut, clad in green and white and demanding revenge against “Web-air,” as they chanted the name again and again. In Tehran, where the offending sentence had been mistranslated into Farsi with an even stronger term for evil, enraged mullahs were preaching about possible jihad, while rioting in Pakistan had actually left five dead on the streets of Islamabad.
Jon held his head in his hands and muttered, “People getting killed? For nothing? Nothing? Good grief, it’s Salman Rushdie all over again! How many died in those riots after Ayatollah Khomeini put a fatwa on his head?”
“Not just Rushdie,” Shannon added. “There were dozens of deaths in the riots that followed the Danish cartoon of Muhammad with bombs in his turban. And the same after the pope’s address in Germany at Regensburg.”
The phone rang-inconveniently, since the evening news had not yet ended.
“Just let it ring,” Jon said.
Shannon paused, then shook her head and lifted the receiver. “Weber residence.” She listened for a moment before handing the phone to Jon.
“Yes?” he said into the phone, with a questioning look at his wife.
“Professor Jonathan Weber?”
“Yes…”
“This is Morton Dillingham, director of the Central Intelligence Agency.”
“The CIA? Right! And I’m Alex in Wonderland.”
“No, Professor. This is the CIA, and we have very serious matters to discuss. Are you free to speak?”
“Yes,” Jon replied, meekly, in case the call was authentic after all.
“Is your phone line secure?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Is anyone else there?”
“Yes, my wife.”
“No one else?”
“No. And by the way, how did you get this phone number? It’s unlisted.”
“We convinced your secretary that it was in the national interest and for your own personal safety.”
“Okay. Sorry about my levity.”
“Not a problem. Now, Professor Weber, here’s the situation. Our operatives in Tehran have just informed us that the grand ayatollah in Iran, Kazim al-Mahdi-their Supreme Leader-in consultation with his Shiite clergy, has just declared a fatwa on your head because of that Arabic translation business.”
“Ridiculous!” Jon nearly shouted into the phone. “Don’t they know about the translation error? And it’s in Arabic, not Farsi. In fact, do you even know about the error?”
“Of course I do-the CIA also watches the evening news! But no, evidently they don’t know about that mistake in Iran. And they decided to exploit the translation error for their own purposes, even if it was in another language.”
“Do you have any idea why Al Jazeera hasn’t announced the error?” Jon assumed the CIA also knew about the Arab TV network’s silence.
“We’re working on that one even as we speak.”
“Good.”
“But first things first, Dr. Weber, and that’s security for you and your wife. We hope, of course, that the fatwa will be lifted once they finally learn the truth in Iran, but meanwhile your lives are in some danger.”
“Oh, please; this can’t really be happening, can it?”
“I am not exaggerating, sir,” the CIA director said in a credibly serious tone. “Now, we have a direct parallel in the case of Salman Rushdie and his Satanic Verses novel that earned him a fatwa some years ago. We’ve already contacted Scotland Yard to learn how the British handled security in his case with such obvious success: although his fatwa has never been lifted, the man lives on! We intend something similar in your case, although-”
Jon erupted. “Rushdie was in hiding for months after the fatwa was announced, and I just can’t spare that kind of time!”
“A fatwa?” Shannon whispered. “Jon, what’s happening?”
He covered the phone with his hand and tried to reassure her. “I’m sure it’s nothing, darling. I’ll explain in a minute.” He spoke into the phone again. “I’m sorry, Mr…?”
“Dillingham. And that’s quite all right. But we do need to take every possible precaution to protect your life and that of your wife as well. You see, all we need is for just one fanatic to take the fatwa seriously and act on it. Your death would be his passport to paradise.”
Jon was stunned into silence. One stupid error was turning his life into a grotesque nightmare. Shannon’s too. Finally he asked, again rather meekly, “What do you suggest?”
“Since the FBI covers the home front and we the international, we asked them to send over a security detail immediately. In fact, they’d probably have been there by now if your secretary had told us where you are.”
Thank you, Marylou! Jon mused. Then he replied, “No, not here. It would disrupt the peace of the neighborhood… All right, my wife and I will return to our home in Weston, and you can incarcerate us there.”
“Well, we certainly don’t intend to-”
“Strike that; bad humor on my part. But seriously now, we’re grateful for your concern.”
“We do have your home address in Weston, but we’d really prefer to have you escorted there by-”
“No, I absolutely decline that. Categorically. But thank you, Mr. Dillingham. We’ll be leaving first thing in the morning and should return to Weston by, say, early afternoon.”
“I’d feel better if you left this evening.”
“No, morning will do just fine. The fatwa hasn’t been announced over here yet, evidently.”
“Well… all right. Thanks for your cooperation, Professor Weber.”
“Yours too. Good night.”
Jon hung up and turned to Shannon, who was hovering nearby with a worried look on her face.
“What is it, Jon? A fatwa? On you? You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m afraid not, sweetheart. That was the CIA. They want us to head home so they can put us under official protection, at least until this thing blows over.”
“Jon, fatwas don’t ‘blow over.’ At least Rushdie’s didn’t. What about our trip?
Our work? Oh, this is just ridiculous.”
“I know; I know. But when the truth finally sinks in at Tehran, they’ll lift it, I’m sure.”
“And if they don’t?”
Jon saw a tear or two glistening in her eyes. He tucked two fingers under her classically chiseled chin and said, “Then we’ll flee Weston and fly to Tahiti.”
Shannon made a conscious effort to shrug off the curdling climate of fear in their lives as they drove eastward to Chatham. She appreciated Jon’s attempts to cheer her up with a seafood dinner overlooking the Atlantic-one of her favorite things to do when they were staying at the beach house. It began with obligatory Lambrusco-the vintage they had shared on their wedding night-and went on to lobster for him, crab cakes for her.
Was it the edge supplied by danger? The wine at dinner? The gorgeous full moon floating over the eastern seascape? Whatever. The evening was a success as far as Shannon was concerned. By the time they returned to their hideaway, she had managed to put the fear and danger out of her mind. It was heavenly to return to their beachfront hideaway and forget, at least for the night, that anyone else existed outside the circle of their love.
They had missed the 11 p.m. news, of course. But during the morning drive back to Weston, they heard it all on the car radio. In the name of Allah, the Iranian clergy had declared an official fatwa on American professor Jonathan Weber of Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Muslim faithful were duty-bound to seek him out for apprehension, trial, judgment, and condemnation. And the penalty for insulting the Prophet, as Professor Weber had done? Death.
Jon and Shannon’s new roles as moving targets? Not a felicitous feeling. Jon was quiet, but he seemed to be checking the rearview mirror more often than usual, while Shannon found herself scanning each approaching vehicle with uncharacteristic scrutiny.
Jon finally broke the silence. “Well, it’s much too soon for anyone to try anything, sweetheart.”
“Oh, that’s some consolation,” she replied with a bite. “But in a short time, it’ll be open season on the Webers. So much for the joy you promised in our wedded life!”
“Think you made a mistake, Shannon?” His eyebrows were a pair of arches.
She put on her best imitation of a frown. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.” Then she whispered, “Oh, Jon, despite the crazy twists and turns life has taken since I met you, it’s a mistake I’d make again and again and again!” She reached over and squeezed his knee.
After crossing the bridge at the Cape Cod Canal, they headed northwest on I-495 toward the Boston suburbs. It was a luminous spring morning, the air nicely scrubbed from a shower the night before. But then an intrusion. Jon noticed it first in his left outer mirror: a dark green Cadillac Escalade was following their silver Buick LaCrosse, and it seemed to stay behind them, even when he slowed down to encourage passing.
He tromped on the accelerator to eighty miles per hour, and the distance between the two cars lengthened. But the Escalade suddenly sped up in order to reach its apparently chosen perch just behind their car.
Shannon knew what was happening without his saying a word. She peered back anxiously and exclaimed, “Jon! They’re wearing turbans -all four of them!”
Jon quickly looked back and saw that Shannon was right. An icy stab of terror rippled inside him. “It’s just not possible that anyone would try to act on the fatwa this soon, is it?”
“Who knows? Maybe we’ve been followed.”
“Stay cool. I have a plan.” Jon started slowing down to 50 mph, then 40 and even 35. The Escalade slowed also.
“Jon, have you lost your mind?” she wondered.
“Strategy, dear. I may even stop the car. But the moment they also stop and get out, I’ll floor it. Just hang on and keep your head down.”
His plan came to nothing. Suddenly the Escalade sped past them, four turbaned heads so busy in conversation that they didn’t even notice Jon and Shannon.
Jon broke out laughing. “We’re bloody fools, Shannon. They were Sikhs, not Muslims! It’s Sikhs who wear turbans.”
“Well, cut us some slack, Jon. A death threat is enough to turn anyone a little paranoid.”
When they arrived in Weston, they expected to find a security gate across their street, police patrolling the area, and angry neighbors wanting to know why they and their families were being imprisoned. But they saw nothing of the kind. The shady little lane was the same picture of tranquility they had left.
“Obviously, security hasn’t arrived yet,” Shannon observed.
Jon pressed the garage door opener and drove in. Just as he was inserting the house key into the lock, a man appeared out of nowhere and said, “Sorry to startle you, Professor and Mrs. Weber. Jim Behnke, FBI.” He flashed his credentials. “Do you mind if I join you inside to explain our security arrangements?”
Over coffee and rolls in the kitchen, Behnke laid it all out. “We’ve set up an electronic fence around your entire property-invisible, of course-that will alert us to any attempts at intrusion. Now, do you see that aging blue Dodge van parked across the street?” He pointed. “It’s really an electronic base with communications and radar. It will monitor everything in the area, including your phone calls. But just call this number first every time you need privacy, and we’ll tune out.” He handed them a card, then continued. “Anyone ringing your doorbell will be under the tightest surveillance. But don’t worry; we won’t bother the mailman or delivery people.”
The briefing went on for some time. Finally Behnke gave transponders to both Jon and Shannon with panic buttons to press in case of emergency.
“But what happens when we leave the house?” Shannon wondered.
“We’ll also install GPDs-global positioning devices-on both your cars so we can track your locations at all times.”
“Will we be tailed… followed?” Jon asked.
“Perhaps. But if so, you’ll never know it.”
As Behnke prepared to leave, Jon had one more question. “Okay, let’s imagine a worst-case scenario: what if they come here in force-more than one or two people?”
Behnke pointed out the kitchen window facing the backyard. “You have a pretty dense grove of trees behind your place. It rather conveniently hides our manpower at the western edge of your property. Not to worry!”
“Thanks, Mr. Behnke,” Shannon said. “We were concerned that our neighborhood would be disrupted.”
“Your neighbors won’t even know we’re here, Mrs. Weber.”
Maybe life could return to something resembling normalcy after all, they dared to hope. But one nagging concern remained: were their summer plans ruined? Both were determined to have the finest scholars in Greece examine what Shannon had discovered at Pella.
They decided to postpone their visit to Pella because Father Athanasius had written that, after an exhaustive search of their library, no other vellum sheets matching Shannon’s had been discovered. In place of Pella, they decided to visit Turkey along with Greece. Both were gorgeous peninsulas thrusting themselves into the sapphire Mediterranean. Both were scattered with scenic mountains and lakes, rimmed with golden beaches, and surrounded by Aegean islands boasting homes of gleaming white with roofs of royal blue. That’s what the tourist brochures promised, and yet there was so much more there.
Greece and Asia Minor were the cradles of classical civilization in the ancient world, both lands still studded with ruins of temples, colonnades, theaters, baths, aqueducts, and even latrines from antiquity. “People living in Greece and Asia Minor two and three millennia ago gave us more of our present culture than any other civilization,” Professor Weber reminded his classes again and again.
Yet there was still more. The Aegean world was also the second cradle of Christianity. It was here that St. Paul did most of his missions work, where many of the earliest church fathers held forth, where the first churches were built and the first creeds formulated. And perhaps most importantly, it was here that the earliest New Testament Scri
ptures were written. This was what most intrigued Jonathan Weber and the ICO that he had founded.
The Institute of Christian Origins, based in Cambridge, was a think tank for discovery rather than-as was so much of recent theology-a scholarly rehashing of evidence raked over many times in the past. Their symposia dealt with cutting-edge findings from the ancient world that impinged on Jesus of Nazareth and the church that he founded. Membership in the ICO-by invitation only-was an honor roll of many of the most prestigious scholars in the world, men and women not only with expertise in their specialties but with the flexibility and courage to draw unpopular conclusions, if necessary. They regularly had to blow a shrill whistle on the increasing fakery and fraud pseudoarchaeologists were foisting on the public, such as claims that wheels from the ancient Egyptian chariots in the Exodus account had been found at the bottom of the Red Sea. Similar targets were mistranslations of the vaunted Judas Gospel or wild claims regarding the so-called Jesus Family Tomb at Talpiot in south Jerusalem. And as for Noah’s ark, the ICO reminded the public that Noah must certainly have built a fleet rather than just one ship, since it had now been “discovered” twenty-one times in the last century!
At the most recent symposium of the ICO in April, Jon had told his colleagues, “So often we assume that any fresh information on Jesus and early Christianity will come from archaeological discoveries. And while that’s true enough, it’s not the whole truth. Perhaps we’ve overlooked another major source of potential evidence, and I’m sure you all know where I’m heading: manuscripts! Ancient manuscripts, wherever they might be found-whether via archaeological digs, hiding in medieval and even modern libraries, or lurking in neglected monastery archives.
“But here’s an important difference between these two sources: things not yet unearthed will hardly change over the millennia, but manuscripts will change. They’ll deteriorate. Papyrus and parchment will age, rot, and crumble. Rats and worms will diet on them; water and dampness corrode them; fires consume them. Looters may steal them for sale on the black market, or they can be destroyed during war or by natural disasters, like floods and earthquakes.
