by Linda Stasi
He didn’t answer and ran his fingers on the scribbles carved out.
“I assumed it meant the crucifixion,” I added, pointing, “but damn! Can it mean that He was one of the ones who was chained right here and that the secret is up there?”
Pantera knitted his brow, still without saying anything.
“No? Yes? Hello? Is that why the coordinates led here?”
He began mouthing some words—he seemed to be interpreting the words or whatever they were—and then without preamble (as in no warning, zero, zilch), he grabbed me and kissed me hard on the mouth.
25
I would have told him to back the hell off, but, well, I didn’t. It wasn’t because I would ever want him to kiss me like that ever again, absolutely positively most definitely not. For sure. Really. No, non, nyet. I didn’t tell him to back off because, well, this guy gave out compliments approximately once every lifetime, and I’d just been the recipient of his entire lifetime’s quota. That’s the only reason I didn’t shove him away. And of course, we were in a sacred place. And I really believed that was why. At the time, anyway.
Pantera let me go. He whistled and let out a quiet, “Holy shit!”
Well, maybe not so sacred. “What?”
“This graffiti?” he said. “It’s Aramaic all right, but a very ancient, rare form of Aramaic.”
“Yes, and…?”
He took out his bizarre-looking smart phone and started photographing the ceiling.
“Isn’t it too dark in here to get a clear shot?” I asked.
He showed me one photo. It was as clear as if National Geographic had sent one of their top shooters to capture the images.
“Remember I told you about sacred numbers?” he said, looking from the photos to the ceiling.
“Yes.”
“There,” he said pointing, “is the number thirteen, and right next to it, there? That says, ‘Judas’!”
“What? Are you kidding me?”
“Clear as day, ‘Judas’!”
“Was Judas here?”
“No. Maybe it’s the writing of Jesus Himself, or one of His followers who may also have been held here. Look at this,” he said, flashing his light on the ceiling.
“Those scratchings?”
“This says, ‘Fear not losing what you find.’” Then, “Here, look, seven spices and this looks like a bird of some kind.”
“And what is that one next to it?”
“It’s hardly visible. Something about the word of ‘Tetragrammaton’ being rotted, or rot, or rotten.”
“Who?”
“Tetragrammaton,” he answered. “Transliteration of Hebrew name of God or Yahweh. But I’m not really sure about the ‘rot’ part since it’s scratched over and worn.”
“An early atheist or disbeliever? Sounds like Judas himself. Couldn’t have been the scrawling of Jesus, then.”
“Not necessarily. Remember, Jesus was a very angry man. He wasn’t the lamb-petting, New Agey, love-is-all-you-need being he’s been mythologized into.”
“What about turn the other cheek?” I challenged like any good reporter.
“Remember, please,” he lectured as though five seconds ago he hadn’t kissed me passionately, “the stories in the Bible, like other histories of the time, were not actual history for the most part.”
“You sure know how to seduce a girl.” I laughed.
“Is that what I was doing?” he said, the haughty French bastard.
“You bet. Or you’re trying your best, at least,” I, the haughtier American, snarked back.
He continued, unfazed. “You’re probably right.” He laughed. Then, “In those days, history merely meant storytelling mixed with the truth. History is ‘his story.’”
“Similar to news nowadays,” I answered.
“You said it, not me.” He grinned. “But at least everyone back then knew these were stories, not truth—stories that have gotten twisted with time. For instance, many believe Jesus was referring to only other Jews when He said to turn the other cheek. In fact, He says in Matthew, ‘Do not think that I have come to bring peace on Earth. I have not come to bring peace, but the sword.’ And in Luke: ‘And if you don’t have a sword, sell your cloak and buy one!’ Does that sound like a pacifist to you?”
“No, it sounds like you!” I sure couldn’t argue Gospel with the man who’d been part of the team that had actually once cloned Jesus from the cloth that bears His image: il Volto Santo.
“But this,” he said, shining the light on the spices and something next to them, “these are Egyptian hieroglyphs. Very curious. Very, very curious.”
As we were studying them my cell rang, and I nearly tore my bag apart trying to get to it. Finally, word from home.
“I told you to keep your damned phone off,” Pantera seethed. “For Christ’s sake!” I ignored him completely.
“Hi, honey.” Mom.
“Mom! Hi. Everything OK?”
“I can hardly hear you,” she yelled.
“I’m in ah, a prison. Let me go back outside.” I could hear her demanding to know why I was in prison and thinking I might have scared the bejesus out of her. So to speak.
Pantera followed, but I signaled him that it was my parents. I didn’t want him to hear my conversation and said, “Hey, go grab us a falafel or something.”
He laughed and shook his head at me. “I’ll grab us a water,” he said and pointed to a coffee shop.
“Can the water, grab me a double espresso.”
“Right. Be careful, I’ll just be a minute,” he said as I nodded offhandedly, gesturing that I’d meet him right at the top of the stairs.
I found a spot where I could hear Mom clearly. She had put her phone on speaker. I could hear my dad moving things around in the background.
“What are you doing in prison?” she asked, not as panicked as I feared, since I’d interviewed everyone from Mafia dons to pacifist nuns in jails around the world.
“I’m not in prison,” I assured her. “Visiting an ancient one is all.”
“You’re sightseeing?” she asked, surprised.
“No, part of the trail. More importantly, how’s Terry?”
“Everything’s fine, dear. I mean, I assume it is. We’re in your apartment, but Terry and your neighbors aren’t back yet. Which apartment did you say they live in?”
“They’re in F right down the hall.”
“Oh, that’s what I told Dad and he went down the hall and knocked on their door but they’re not there, either.”
“I thought I told you they were taking Terry to some Norwegian thing at the U.N. or something. Should have been back by now for sure, though,” I said, a slight panic beginning to bubble up inside. “I left Dane’s cell phone number—he’s the husband—on the pad on the kitchen counter. Not that he knows how to use his phone.”
“They took a baby to the United Nations?”
People walking by the crowded ancient street took no notice of me because they were all on their own phones or staring into them or staring down at rosary beads. Even so, I was watching for anyone/anything that even hinted of suspicion.
“They want to show him off to their fancy friends, I guess,” I explained to Mom.
“I guess,” she repeated rather suspiciously.
“Please call me the minute they’re back.”
“Will do. We’re dying to see Terry. By the way, are you alone in Israel?”
“Not exactly. I met an acquaintance who’s helping me with the story.”
“That sounds mysterious. A man?” she asked hopefully, wanting me to get back to real life and stop pining over “that goddamned, irresponsible adventurer,” as she’d called Pantera even though she’d never even met him.
“Yes, a man,” I joked, exaggerating the “man” part.
“A man-man or a work man?”
“Both.”
“Oh boy.”
I’ve always had a hard time lying to my mother. For one thing she has supersonic
mom telepathy and could always tell when I was lying.
I figured I’d just get it over with. “See, the thing is, Mom? That man—the one I told you about who I thought was dead?”
“Not that goddamned, irresponsible adventurer?” She yelled so loudly half of Jerusalem could hear her through my phone. “The one you insist is my grandson’s father?”
“Yes, that one. The goddamned, irresponsible adventurer–slash–your grandson’s alleged father. He’s not as dead as I thought.”
I could hear the disgust before the explosion. “Run like your ass is on fire, Alessandra,” she exclaimed. I could feel her blood pressure rising on the other side of the world. “He’s trouble! Big, big…”
“Don’t I know it.”
“Well.” She sniffed. “Then why are you thousands of miles away with him?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I suppose you know what the hell you’re doing—not. You always pick the bad boys. You know if the creep has shown up now, when you’re onto something huge, that he’s only after the reward money for that relic.”
“I’ve got my suspicions, yes.”
“Don’t sleep with him!”
“Jesus, Mom, can’t you put a lid on it?”
“Of course not,” she answered. “Wait. Dad wants to talk to you.”
Dad was used to Mom’s outbursts and ignored it, just saying, “Hi, Ali. So, I think I’ll walk over to the Norwegian embassy and pick Terry up instead of waiting around.”
“OK, Dad, but you don’t have to…” I knew they’d had a long flight and he must be exhausted, especially since he’d had that bout of tourista, but I was also glad he’d offered. The sooner Terry was with Mr. & Dr. Grandparents, the better I’d feel.
“I insist. He is my grandson,” he tried to joke. “I don’t want any damned old fools teaching him otherwise.” It came out more like a concern than a joke.
Mom got back on. “Men,” she said, as though that explained away all the problems in the world.
We hung up with her assuring me that she’d call the second Terry was home.
Even though I had no reason to be concerned—not really—something was nagging at me. I tried to shake it off. Perhaps my father’s unease had made me unnecessarily uneasy, too.
As I turned, I spotted a Greek Orthodox monk in a brown robe heading toward the prison. Damn. Closing time. We need a few more minutes down there, I thought. I shouldn’t have asked for a coffee.
I went to check the hours-of-operation sign at the top of the stairs, but as I read: 5:00 P.M. DAILY, I felt a gun shoved into the back of my neck. “Move,” the monk said, and forced me back down the dark stairs, locking the gate behind him.
26
The monk shoved me hard and I fell on the stone steps, nearly tumbling down the whole flight. He yanked me to my feet by my jacket, and with the gun now against my temple, locked the door behind us.
He shoved me against the wall and ordered in broken English, “Put your hands up, bitch!” I did so, trying to figure out my options, if any.
With his free hand, he shackled me onto the carved-out stone handles that had shackled thousands of prisoners in the time of Christ. He turned over my bag and rifled through it, then dumped everything out onto the floor. Nothing of interest.
“Where are the pages?” he demanded.
“I don’t have them. Not with me.”
“Here’s the deal then, lady,” he said in an accent that I couldn’t recognize, but that sounded vaguely Spanish. “Two men have already died. Hand over the pages or the killings continue.”
“I don’t have the pages,” I insisted, struggling against the shackles.
“We begin with your son.”
“What do you know of my son?” I cried out, panic growing.
“I know you want him alive more than you want to hold on to the resurrection pages,” he said, waving the gun around.
“How can I get the pages to you if you kill me?”
“You tell me where they are, and if they are where you say they are, we won’t kill your son, and you might get to live, too. If you don’t or if you lie…”
“How do I know you won’t kill me as soon as I tell you where the pages are?”
He pointed the gun at me and shot. I could feel the bullet whiz by my head.
The prison was sealed, so you could probably set off a bomb in there and it wouldn’t have been heard from the outside. “I can get closer, Ms. Russo. It’s up to you. One bit of you at a time…” I instinctively turned my head toward the wall as another shot rang out. Again, I felt it whiz by but didn’t feel it hit me. Then another, which shot out the lightbulb, and then another. I felt blood splatter all over my face. Was this what it felt like to die? No pain?
I heard a thump and then a cry of pain. Had it come from me? How could it? I’m handcuffed to the wall.
I felt myself being unshackled and lifted up and over a man’s shoulder.
“It’s me. It’s OK,” he said.
“Pantera?” I asked, the pitch black obscuring everything.
He placed me gently on the steps. I could hear him hoisting the shooter and I heard groans and cries and the sound of metal scraping the wall.
He came back, and I heard him say, “Are you all right? Have you been shot?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so…”
He lifted me again and carried me up the stairs and unlocked the door, and then locked it again behind us. As soon as we emerged into the fading sunlight, religious people hurrying by, he felt my body up and down for wounds.
He put his fingers to the side of my head. “Your hair will grow back, and you’ve got a nasty black eye looming,” Pantera said as I touched my head where I’d felt the bullet whiz by. “But you’ll be OK.”
“What?”
“We need to get the fuck out of here. Now.”
“He said he’d kill my son…” I cried out, grabbing his shirt.
“Now he can’t.”
“How did you get in there? It was locked!”
“You didn’t think I paid two eight just for information, did you?” he asked, not expecting an answer, shoving the key back into an inside jacket pocket.
“But when they … whoever … don’t hear from him…”
He just grabbed my hand and hurried me out of there. We ran into a tailor shop that somehow had a hidden stairway inside that led us to the other side of the Old City and through the gate.
“I need to call home,” I insisted.
“Use this,” he said, handing me his satellite phone. “I took the chip out of your phone. You can’t be trusted,” he said. “That’s how we were tracked here.”
“It wasn’t my fault!” I argued against reason.
Using his phone, I called my dad’s cell and he picked up. “Dad, it’s me!”
“Almost at the Norwegian embassy now, Ali.”
“Dad, listen to me carefully. There’s a chance that some very bad people are after Roy’s relic. And Daddy? Those bad people are on to my whereabouts—and I’m panicked that they know Terry’s as well.”
He started to ask a million questions, and I asked him to just listen, as time was precious. “Go get Terry. Tell the Judsons not to walk home with you, as the thieves may in fact have a bead on the Judsons as well. Don’t panic when the cops show up. I’m calling now.”
“Dear God, Ali…”
I cut him off. “Dad, please hurry. You can’t call me back. I’ll call you. Please hurry.”
Next call was to Donald. I gave him a quick rundown and he said he’d have his cop friends on it immediately.
“They’ll surround the fucking embassy if they have to. Don’t worry, Larry used to work security over there.”
“Now I’m really worried. How could any country trust that fool?” I said. “And Donald? Any word on Roy?”
“Yeah, and it ain’t good. Don’t ask.”
“What?” Of course I asked.
“I said, don’t ask. You can’t do anything from Israel
, and he’s got Mad Dog on the case.”
“OK, but call Bob Brandt. Let him know I’ve got this situation and have him call the damned police commissioner if he has to.”
“On it.”
I next tried the Judsons, even though I knew Dane wouldn’t ever answer a phone. No answer.
I turned to Pantera. “I’ll feel better in a half hour from now when the baby’s home with my parents, and Donald’s got the cops on it.”
“Yes, you will,” he lied, and then before asking me for the fake passport, he sent out a text, which he also wouldn’t discuss. He then stopped next to a motorcycle, which had been parked on that other side of the gate, and hopped on. It had a plaque written in both Hebrew and English reading: ALL-ISRAEL TOURING COMPANY ל ישרא כל נסיעות תברח
He handed me a helmet with ל ישרא כל נסיעות תברח emblazoned on it, as well as a Star of David for good measure.
“Get on.”
“The last thing I want to do is weave in and out on the back of this thing with Snake Plissken,” I said, referring to Kurt Russell’s character in Escape from New York.
“It’s temporary,” he said, pointing to the patch. “Or so the doctors say.”
“I’m happy for you,” I retaliated, meaning no such thing, hands on my hips, feet planted firmly on terra firma. “You’re like a circus danger act, riding a bike in traffic with one eye!”
“Jesus Christ,” he said, really pissed off now. “Get on the goddamned bike, Alessandra,” he yelled above the roar, “so you can get home to our son.”
I reluctantly climbed on, grabbed him around the waist, and screamed just as loudly over the din, “My son. He’s my son!”
We sped out, me holding on for dear life, so I could get home to my son whose life I held so dear. The local streets, as expected, were very slow and packed with traffic at this hour. It was a Friday as well, and people were rushing to get home before sundown. The fact that everything would be closed for the Sabbath very shortly made it all the worse. The last thing we needed was to deal with a mostly shuttered city when time was of the essence, I told him.
