by Steve Berry
The lines at the corners of Haddad’s eyes deepened, and Malone watched as his friend seemed to struggle with his thoughts.
“Christians tend to focus on the New Testament,” Haddad said. “Jews use the Old. I daresay most Christians have little understanding of the Old Testament, beyond thinking that the New is a fulfillment of the Old’s prophecies. But the Old Testament is important, and there are many contradictions in that text—ones that could readily call its message into question.”
He’d heard Haddad speak on the subject before, but this time he sensed a new urgency.
“Examples abound. Genesis gives two conflicting versions of creation. Two varying genealogies of Adam’s offspring are laid out. Then the flood. God tells Noah to bring seven pairs of clean animals and one pair of unclean. In another part of Genesis it’s just one pair of each. Noah releases a raven to search for land in one verse, but it’s a dove in another. Even the length of the flood is contradicted. Forty days and nights or three hundred seventy? Both are used. Not to mention the dozens of doublets and triplets contained within the narratives, like the differing names used to describe God. One portion cites YHWH, Yahweh, another Elohim. Wouldn’t you think at least God’s name could be consistent?”
Malone’s memory flashed back a few months to France, where he’d heard similar complaints about the four Gospels of the New Testament.
“Most now agree,” Haddad said, “that the Old Testament was composed by a host of writers over an extremely long period of time. A skillful combination of varied sources by scribal compilers. This conclusion is absolutely clear and not new. A twelfth-century Spanish philosopher was one of the first to note that Genesis 12:6—at that time the Canaanites were in the land—could not have been written by Moses. And how could Moses have been the author of the Five Books when the last book describes in detail the precise time and circumstances of his death?
“And the many literary asides. Like when ancient place-names are used, then the text notes that those places are still visible to this day. This absolutely points to later influences shaping, expanding, and embellishing the text.”
Malone said, “And each time one of these redactions occurred, more of the original meaning was lost.”
“No doubt. The best estimate is that the Old Testament was composed between 1000 and 586 BCE. Later compositions came around 500 to 400 BCE. Then the text may have been tinkered with as late as 300 BCE. Nobody knows for sure. All we know is that the Old Testament is a patchwork, each segment written under differing historical and political circumstances, expressing differing religious views.”
“I appreciate all that,” Malone said, thinking again about the New Testament contradictions from France. “Believe me, I do. But none of it is revolutionary. Either folks believe the Old Testament is the Word of God, or they believe it a collection of ancient tales.”
“But what if the words have been altered to the point that the original message is no longer there? What if the Old Testament, as we know it, is not, and never was, the Old Testament from its original time? Now, that could change many things.”
“I’m listening.”
“That’s what I like about you,” Haddad said, smiling. “Such a good listener.”
Malone could see from Pam’s expression that she didn’t necessarily agree, but, keeping to her word, she stayed silent.
“You and I have talked about this before,” Haddad said. “The Old Testament is fundamentally different from the New. Christians take the text of the New literally, even to the point of it being history. But the stories of the Patriarchs, Exodus, and the conquest of Canaan are not history. They’re a creative expression of religious reform that happened in a place called Judah long ago. Granted, there are kernels of truth to the accounts, but they’re far more story than fact.
“Cain and Abel is a good example. At the time of that tale there were only four people on earth. Adam, Eve, Cain, and Abel. Yet Genesis 4:17 says Cain lay with his wife and she became pregnant. Where did the wife come from? Was it Eve? His mother? Wouldn’t that be eye opening? Then, in recounting Adam’s bloodline, Genesis 5 says that Mahalale lived eight hundred ninety-five years, Jared eight hundred years, and Enoch three hundred sixty-five years. And Abraham. He was supposedly a hundred years old when Sarah gave birth to Isaac, and she was ninety.”
“No one takes that stuff literally,” Pam said.
“Devout Jews would argue to the contrary.”
“What are you saying, George?” Malone asked.
“The Old Testament, as we currently know it, is a result of translations. The Hebrew language of the original text passed out of usage around 500 BCE. So in order to understand the Old Testament, we must either accept the traditional Jewish interpretations or seek guidance from modern dialects that are descendants of that lost Hebrew language. We can’t use the former method because the Jewish scholars who originally interpreted the text, between 500 and 900 CE, a thousand or more years after they were first written, didn’t even know Old Hebrew, so they based their reconstructions on guesswork. The Old Testament, which many revere as the Word of God, is nothing more than a haphazard translation.”
“George, you and I have discussed this before. Scholars have debated the point for centuries. It’s nothing new.”
Haddad threw him a sly smile. “But I haven’t finished explaining.”
TWENTY-ONE
VIENNA, AUSTRIA
2:45 PM
ALFRED HERMANN’S CHTEAU OFFERED HIM AN ATMOSPHERE reminiscent of a tomb. Only when the Order’s Assembly convened, or the Chairs gathered, was his solitude interrupted.
Neither was the case today.
And he was pleased.
He was ensconced in his private apartment, a series of spacious rooms on the château’s second floor, each room flowing naturally through the other in the French style of no corridors. The winter session of the 49th Assembly would open in less than two days’ time, and he was pleased that all seventy-one members in the Order of the Golden Fleece would be attending. Even Henrik Thorvaldsen, who at first had said he would not be coming, had now confirmed. The membership hadn’t talked collectively since spring, so he knew the discussions over the coming days would be arduous. As Blue Chair, his task was to ensure that the proceedings were productive. The Order’s staff was already at work preparing the château’s meeting hall—and all would be ready by the time the members arrived for the weekend—but he wasn’t worried about the Assembly. Instead his thoughts were on finding the Library of Alexandria. Something he’d dreamed of accomplishing for decades.
He stepped across the room.
The model, which he’d commissioned years ago, consumed the chamber’s north corner, a spectacular miniature of what the Library of Alexandria may have looked like at the time of Caesar. He slid a chair close and sat, his eyes absorbing the details, his mind wandering.
Two pillared colonnades dominated. Both, he knew, would have been filled with statues, the floors sheathed in rugs, the walls draped in tapestries. In the many seats lining the corridors, members bickered over the meaning of a word or the cadence of a verse, or engaged in some caustic controversy about a new discovery. Both roofed chambers opened into side rooms where papyri, scrolls, and later codices lay stored in bins, loosely stacked, tagged for indexing, or on shelves. In other rooms copyists labored to produce replicas, which were sold for revenue. Members enjoyed a high salary and exemption from taxes, and were provided dining and lodging. There were lecture halls, laboratories, observatories—even a zoo. Grammarians and poets received the most prestigious posts—physicians, mathematicians, and astronomers the best equipment. The architecture was decidedly Greek, the whole thing resembling an elegant temple.
What a place, he thought.
What a time.
At only two points in human history had knowledge radically expanded on a global scale. Once during the Renaissance, which continued to the present, and the other during the fourth century BCE, when Greece rule
d the world.
He thought about the time three hundred years before Christ and the sudden death of Alexander the Great. His generals fought over his grand empire, and eventually the realm was divided into thirds and the Hellenistic Age, a period of worldwide Greek dominance, began. One of those thirds was claimed by a far-thinking Macedonian, Ptolemy, who declared himself king of Egypt in 304 BCE, founding the Ptolemaic dynasty, capitaled in Alexandria.
The Ptolemies were intellectuals. Ptolemy I was a historian. Ptolemy II a zoologist. Ptolemy III a patron of literature. Ptolemy IV a playwright. Each chose leading scholars and scientists as tutors for his children and encouraged great minds to live in Alexandria.
Ptolemy I founded the museum, a place where learned men could congregate and share their knowledge. To aid their endeavors, he also established the library. By the time of Ptolemy III, in 246 BCE, there were two locations—the main library near the royal palace and another, smaller one headquartered in the sanctuary of the god Serapis, known as the Serapeum.
The Ptolemies were determined book collectors, dispatching agents throughout the known world. Ptolemy II bought Aristotle’s entire library. Ptolemy III ordered that all ships in the Alexandria harbor be searched. If books were found, they were copied, the copies returned to the owners, the originals stored in the library. Genres varied from poetry and history to rhetoric, philosophy, religion, medicine, science, and law. Some 43,000 scrolls were eventually housed in the Serapeum, available to the general public, and another 500,000 at the museum, restricted to scholars.
What happened to it all?
One version held that it burned when Julius Caesar fought Ptolemy XIII in 48 BCE. Caesar had ordered the torching of the royal fleet, but the fire spread throughout the city and may have consumed the library. Another version blamed Christians, who supposedly destroyed the main library in 272 CE and the Serapeum in 391, part of their effort to rid the city of all pagan influences. A final account credited Arabs with the library’s destruction after they conquered Alexandria in 642. The caliph Omar, when asked about books in the imperial treasury, was quoted as saying, If what is written agrees with the Book of God, they are not required. If it disagrees, they are not desired. Destroy them. So for six months scrolls supposedly fueled the baths of Alexandria.
Hermann always winced at that thought—how one of humanity’s greatest attempts to collect knowledge might simply have burned.
But what really happened?
Certainly, as Egypt was confronted with growing unrest and foreign aggression, the library became victim to persecution, mob violence, and military occupation, no longer enjoying special privileges.
When had it finally disappeared?
No one knew.
And was the legend true? A group of enthusiasts, it was said, had managed to extract scroll after scroll, copying some, stealing others, methodically preserving knowledge. Chroniclers had hinted at their existence for centuries.
The Guardians.
He liked to imagine what those dedicated enthusiasts may have preserved. Unknown works from Euclid? Plato? Aristotle? Augustine? Along with countless other men who would later be regarded as fathers of their respective fields.
No telling.
And that’s what made the search so enticing.
Not to mention George Haddad’s theories, which offered Hermann a way to further the Order’s purposes. The Political Committee had already determined how the destabilization of Israel could be manipulated for profit. The business plan was both ambitious and feasible. Provided Haddad’s research could be proven.
Five years ago Haddad had reported a visit from someone known as a Guardian. Israel’s spies had conveyed that information to Tel Aviv. The Jews had overreacted, as always, and immediately tried to kill Haddad. Thankfully the Americans had intervened, and Haddad was still among the living. Hermann was equally thankful that his American political sources were now negotiable, recently confirming those facts and adding more, which was why Sabre had moved on Cotton Malone.
But who knew anything? Perhaps Sabre would learn more from the corrupt Israeli waiting in Germany?
The only certainty was George Haddad.
He had to be found.
TWENTY-TWO
ROTHENBURG, GERMANY
3:30 PM
SABRE STROLLED DOWN THE COBBLESTONED LANE. ROTHENBURG lay a hundred kilometers south of Würzburg, a walled city encircled by stone ramparts and watchtowers straight out of the Middle Ages. Inside, narrow streets wound tight paths between half-timbered brick-and-stone buildings. Sabre searched for one in particular.
The Baumeisterhaus stood just off the market square, within shouting distance of the ancient clock tower. An iron placard announced that the building had been erected in 1596, but for the past century the three-story structure had hosted an inn and restaurant.
He pushed through the front door and was greeted by the sweet smell of yeast bread and apple-cinnamon. A narrow ground-floor dining hall emptied into a two-story inner courtyard, the whitewashed walls dotted with antlers.
One of the Order’s contacts waited in an oak booth, a thin puny figure known only as Jonah. Sabre walked over and slid into the booth. The table was draped in a dainty pink cloth. A china cup filled with black coffee rested in front of Jonah, a half-eaten Danish on a nearby plate.
“Strange things are happening,” Jonah said in English.
“That’s the way of the Middle East.”
“Stranger than normal.”
This man was attached to the Israeli Home Office, part of the German mission.
“You asked me to watch for anything on George Haddad. Seems he’s risen from the dead. Our people are in an uproar.”
He feigned ignorance. “What’s the source of that revelation?”
“He actually called Palestine in the last few days. He wants to tell them something.”
Sabre had met with Jonah three times before. Men like him, who placed euros ahead of loyalty, were useful, but at the same time they demanded caution. Cheaters always cheated. “How about we stop hedging and you tell me what it is you want me to know.”
The man savored a sip of his coffee. “Before he disappeared five years ago, Haddad received a visit from someone called the Guardian.”
Sabre already knew that, but said nothing.
“He was given some kind of information. A little strange, but it gets even stranger.”
He’d never appreciated the sense of drama Jonah liked to invoke.
“Haddad’s not the first to have had that experience. I saw a file. There have been three others since 1948 who received similar visits from someone called the Guardian. Israel knew about each, but all those men died within days or weeks of the visit.” Jonah paused. “If you recall, Haddad almost died, too.”
He began to understand. “Your people are keeping something to themselves?”
“Apparently so.”
“Over what period of time have these visits occurred?”
“About every twenty years for the past sixty or so. All were academics, one Israeli and three Arabs, including Haddad. The murders were all conducted by the Mossad.”
He needed to know, “And how did you manage to learn that?”
“As I said, the files.” Jonah went silent. “A communiqué came a few hours ago. Haddad is living in London.”
“I need an address.”
Jonah provided it, then said, “Men have been sent. From the assassination squad.”
“Why kill Haddad?”
“I asked the ambassador the same question. He’s former Mossad and he told me an interesting tale.”
“I assume that’s why I’m here?”
Jonah tossed him a smile. “I knew you were a smart man.”
David Ben-Gurion realized that his political career was over. Ever since his days as a frail child in Poland he’d dreamed about the deliverance of the Jews to their biblical homeland. So he’d fathered the nation of Israel and led it through the tumultuous years
of 1948 to 1963, commanding its wars and delivering statesmanship.
Tough duty for a man who’d actually wanted to be an intellectual.
He’d devoured philosophy books, studied the Bible, flirted with Buddhism, even taught himself ancient Greek in order to read Plato in the original. He possessed a relentless curiosity about the natural sciences and detested fiction. Verbal battle, not crafted dialogue, was his preferred mode of communication.
Yet he was no abstract thinker.
Instead he was a tight, craggy man with a halo of silvery hair, a jawbone that projected willpower, and a volcanic temper.
He’d proclaimed Israel’s independence in May 1948, ignoring last-minute admonitions from Washington and overruling doomsday predictions by his closest associates. He recalled how, within hours of his declaration, the military forces of five Arab nations invaded Israel, joining Palestinian militias in an open attempt to destroy the Jews. He’d personally led the army and 1 percent of the Jewish population had ultimately died, as well as thousands of Arabs. More than half a million Palestinians lost their homes. In the end the Jews prevailed, and many had labeled him a combination of Moses, King David, Garibaldi, and God Almighty.
For fifteen more years he led his nation. But now it was 1965, and he was nearly eighty and tired.
Even worse, he’d been wrong.
He stared at the impressive library. So much knowledge. The man who’d called himself a Guardian had said the quest would be a challenge, but if he managed to succeed, the rewards would be incalculable.
And the envoy had been right.
He’d read once that the measure of an idea was how relative it was not only to its time, but beyond.
His time had produced the modern nation of Israel, but in the process thousands had died—and he feared that many more would perish in the decades ahead. Jews and Arabs seemed destined to fight. He’d thought his goal righteous, his cause just, but no longer.
