by Jeff Spence
As she moved up into the higher ground, out past the lights of the town, far enough to ease her grip on the cold metal of the pistol and to move with more speed and less stealth, she glanced behind her at the growing plume of flame at the near edge of Trebxinje. The walls went up like wicks, the roof creaked and tilted, then crashed down upon the tomb like the capstone of a pyramid. When she had seen that, she turned her eyes and made her way up over the ridge and into the trackless places.
She would head south, to Dubrovnik, and maybe from there to Africa. She didn't know how far either place was, not really, but she was sure that if she could get over the water, to a new place — a warm place — she would be safe.
As her eyes adjusted and she picked up speed, leaving everything she had ever known behind her, a weight seemed to lift from her shoulders, and she cried. She looked up at the stars and everything else around her became blackness. A new weight descended where the old had left.
He had abandoned her to the darkness after all. And left her behind.
"Damn it!"
The sound came from the other side of the glass wall, the room where Ben worked and Leonard Kantor sat and watched him in silence. Marina pulled herself from the water and wrapped herself in the robe Alsandra had provided along with the bathing suit; a selection of new garments, purchased for guest use.
Inside, Kantor was on his feet, and Ben was sitting at the table, head in his hands. It was Ben who had cursed, she guessed, and went over to him.
"What's happened."
"I'm done."
"Isn't that good? You thought it would take all night.” She realised only after she’d said it, that it nearly had taken all night.
He handed her the yellow notepad. "See for yourself."
She took the notepad and began to decipher the wandering line of text amid the scribbles and notations from where it last left off.
When the victory is final and the deeds of the righteous inscribed upon the golden sheets by the finger of the anointed one of God, the tin shall be burned and the stones cracked, the copper read and the riches amassed at the feet of the righteous one, and the silver held aloft to open the eyes of all. We, the Sons of Light, have - - - - this, I, the scribe of silver, submit to this word and make - - - - laid it here, beneath the mountain of - - - - shall stand fast over it - - - - .
"The little lines of dashes?" She asked, "What are they for?"
"Missing portions," Ben sighed, "Look here." He took up the replica and pointed to the lower left- hand corner of it. "Hebrew is read right to left, top to bottom, so this is the end of the document," he pointed to the bottom left hand corner of the replica, "The very end."
It was missing a small, triangular portion. The photograph beside it was the same.
"And it's gone."
"Broken. Just the corner. It was so close, Marina. Look here," Ben became excited again, "it tells of a tin scroll. This one we've not yet found, or maybe it was destroyed by time, or found so long ago that it has since been lost again. Could even be somewhere on the black market I suppose — we don't know. But here, 'the copper read and the riches amassed at the feet of the righteous one,' That's all very much in alignment with other research. The Copper Scroll is a treasure map of sorts, and the Righteous One, is a recurrent character in the sectarian scrolls."
"The ones written at Qumran?"
"Yes, we think so. Even here, look! Mention of the Sons of Light; this is amazing. Absolutely a sectarian writing. The War Scroll tells of a final set of battles, when the Sons of Light battle the Sons of Darkness seven times. Each side wins three of the battles until they are at a stalemate, the powers of good and of evil equally matched. This dualism is normal in the sectarian writings… lots of Zoroastrian influence from Persia. It says that God even created the Angel of Wickedness, the source of all evil and unrighteousness, and allows it to have power more or less equal to that of the Angel of Righteousness. The fight is an even matchup. Then, during the seventh and final battle, at the last moment, God himself steps in and gives the victory to the Sons of Light and the Angel of Righteousness."
"So there is some good stuff there, but not…"
"Not the key we were hoping for," interjected Kantor. "It tells us of a mountain, but does not tell us which one. I wish I could tell you I have been holding back the broken fragment, but that portion has been lost. Too often we have recovered just the right fragment to give us great insight into past texts. It could be this is the time to pay for such good fortune and blessing… Jewish Karma, perhaps."
Ben muttered something under his breath, his disappointment obvious.
"It does no good to be dismayed, Professor Gela, archeology is a long game, and such disappointment is ninety-nine percent of it, as you yourself must know. We may not have the treasure the scroll tells of, if it even exists, but we do have the scroll itself, and that is priceless to me and to the Jewish people. And to others.”
"Still, it is a deep disappointment." Ben nodded, blowing out a long sigh, "To be so close, but miss the vital word."
"Do not worry, as I said. One cannot expect everything one desires, especially when trying to reclaim such ancient things as these. For now I suggest you rest. Recuperate. Sleep and eat. You have more than earned it. I will have my people escort you to the airport tomorrow and you can return in safety to your homes. I will also take the liberty of sharing the translation with Mr. Bass, if I may, and of assuring him that there is nothing more to be gained in threatening you or your families."
"That might not be enough to calm him down," Marina thought aloud, "He was pretty pissed when we bolted."
"Not to worry," Kantor continued, "He is a businessman, and will see reason with the right kind of persuasion. There is always risk in revenge, and he is not one to take on risk without some kind of reward at the other end of it, generally financial in his case, or a treasure of some kind. As a precaution, I will keep protection in place for you and your family until we know there is no danger of reprisal. Besides, I took you from the hotel after you had contacted him again — took you by force — you can hardly be blamed for that."
The two of them nodded and, at Kantor's gesture, followed Alsandra to the room that had been prepared for them. After they had left the living room, Kantor remained standing for a long time, staring into the empty hallway through which they had left. His expression was a blank, hard glare.
TWENTY-FOUR
They slid into bed without discussing the sleeping arrangements. The room at the hotel had had two double beds in it, but only one had been slept in. Perhaps Kantor had heard that from his men, or perhaps he had just assumed they were a couple. They had been holding hands, after all, when they had arrived at his house, and had been traveling together. But then Marina remembered the comment about their phone call to Bass.
"How did he know about the call to Bass?" She asked as she pulled the covers up.
"Shh!" Ben whispered, leaning in very close to her ear, "he might be listening." He glanced toward the doorway, then brought his face in close to hers again, his lips to her ear. "I think he was monitoring our room, at the hotel. He knew how far I had translated, that we were missing pages. He knew that we had called Bass, and it was just after that when…"
"I haven't had a good feeling about this all evening."
"Nor have I, but the scroll was there, and I had to figure out a way to get us out of this, to have both Kantor and Bass leave us alone."
"You faked the translation?"
"No, I couldn't do that, Kantor would probably know. Even Bass would figure it out eventually — I'm not the only Hebrew scholar around. And it's a lot of work to do the first translation, but once it's there, the text is easy enough to follow — like building a difficult puzzle once you know what the picture looks like. The next scholar to look it over will be able to skip the clear portions, improve other portions according to his or her expertise, and to easily judge the accuracy and quality of what was done. If I’d have faked something, the o
thers would soon know, and we’d never be free of this.”
"But then we are free of it, there isn't anything else on the scroll to move things forward. We know it's buried under a mountain, but we don't know which mountain."
"You're right. Without the missing fragment, there's nothing left to go on." He paused. "But…"
"But what?"
"How do you feel about a trip to Oxford?"
They boarded their flight, booked through London Heathrow to New York JFK, but they had no intention of completing the full journey that day. As Kantor's driver called to inform him that both Gela and Saalik had boarded and that the flight had left Tel Aviv, the businessman had a moment of self-doubt. He had been sure that the professor had been hiding something. He had considered putting an electronic tracker on him, but thought the better of it. Had they boarded the plane — and it seems they had — security may have detected it and there would have been an incident. Such an incident might derail the pair from what Kantor was sure would be the continuation of their rogue quest for the treasure told of in the scroll.
He had been up the rest of the night and through the morning, checking over the translations, especially the end sections. They seemed accurate to him. The broken fragment had revealed only that the scroll had originally held the location — and that a fracture a quarter of an inch further to the left would have revealed it. Bad luck, he thought, but he did not quite believe the reaction of the dedicated academic.
The joy at the striking contents was real, but the disappointment at the missing portions did not ring true in Kantor's ears. When he had closed his eyes and listened to the professor's explanation to the woman, he could not help but feel that it was part play-acting, more for his benefit than for hers. A little too much volume. Explanation more tuned to Kantor’s needs than to the woman’s.
He wished he had had their bedroom bugged, but he didn't like the presence of such things in this home. He had the place swept for surveillance devices at least twice a week. It was his oasis from the battle of the business world, from the realities of being an Israeli Jew in a land encircled by Arabs. He had never brought business into his home before. This was an extraordinary circumstance, requiring both security for the scroll and scholar, and an environment of friendly ease. All around him here was relaxation. Most things outside of the door brought stress.
But such stresses could be useful. They honed one's aptitude for detecting deception. He could not define the cause of his unease, but there was no doubt as to its existence.
He must keep an eye on the pair for a time yet. He would start with a call to a friend at the airline.
TWENTY-FIVE
Greg Bass stared at the broken glass in the corner and internally cussed himself out. He was not prone to those kinds of outbursts — he considered them evidence of weakness of character. He didn't see himself as having a weak character, not at all, and so the outburst had made him even angrier.
His PA had not entered the room at the sound of breaking glass, but when he called for her, she stepped in from the door and stood silently, calm and ready, and waited for his direction.
"Where is the plane?"
"Denver, sir. Scheduled maintenance."
"Have the helicopter pick me up. Book me from Dallas to Tel Aviv on the first available. You'll come as well."
She nodded and stepped from the room. There was no need to mention the broken glass; it would be cleaned up before he had made it to his flight in Dallas. There was no need to mention his packing, or the first class seat by the window; these were givens. Greg Bass ran a tight operation, smooth processes and well-trained staff. That’s the way he liked things: just so. He did not deal well with problems like Professor Ben Gela and that woman he ran with. It was time to get truly serious with the rogue academic. He picked up one of the burner phones from his desk and made a call from memory. The man who answered was concise.
"Yes sir?"
"The hospital. Both of them."
"Wet or clean?"
"Wet. Not dead though… yet."
"Understood."
Bass pushed the button and popped the tiny disc from the phone. It went into the shredder with the others, the phone back on the desk. When he returned from his trip, that too would have a new chip in it and be replaced in the drawer, ready for later use.
He liked a tight operation.
Leonard Kantor set his phone down on his desk and leaned back in his chair. Gela and Saalik had been on the flight from Tel Aviv, but they hadn't made their connection in London. A three-hour layover, but they'd missed their connection? Not likely, even in an airport the size Heathrow. Had it not been for the slight rustle at the edges of his instinct, he would have surmised that the two had decided on a romantic getaway in London prior to their return to daily life in the United States. Had it not been for that rustle he might also have assumed they'd stopped in a bar for a drink or two, maybe gotten carried away and lost track of time. If it hadn't been for the rustle, he wouldn't have checked up on them at all.
But then there had been that rustle.
Why the Uk? That was the question. Ben Gela had gone to school there of course. Could have been catching up with old friends. His professor, Vermes, had died a few years back, so maybe he would check up on the widow, stop to pay his respects at the grave maybe. But Kantor didn't think so. Gela had studied the scrolls at Oxford, rubbed shoulders with the world's top academics from all over the world, in a wide variety of specialties, but especially Second Temple literature and artefacts — like the Silver Scroll. Kantor himself loved Oxford, despite the occasional anti-semitic sentiment that hovered just below social decorum. Nothing unique to Oxford there. If he were in Gela's position, if he needed to find something out, his contacts there would be among the first he would call.
So what was it Gela needed to find out?
He leaned forward again, picked up the phone and made a call. A London number this time too. An old friend who owed him a favour.
"Hello?"
"Hi William, it’s Leonard."
"Ah Leonard my friend, how are things? Are you here in London? We can meet for lunch.”
"No, at home, but I need a little help with something."
"Just ask, anything I can do."
"There is an individual I am considering for employment, a professor from the United States."
"Yes…"
"He was up at Oxford for his doctoral research."
"Sounds promising."
"Yes. He worked with Geza Vermes, but of course he is no longer with us to assess the man. I have a few references as well as that one, but I was wanting to do a little special poking around if I might."
"Okay…"
"What I need from you is to know which other professors Dr. Gela worked with during his time there, especially as they relate to the Dead Sea Scrolls, or the history of the Levant in the same time period."
"So Second Temple period specialists, Roman or Jewish, who worked with — what is the name again?"
"Benjamin Gela, G - E - L - A. Anything to do with archaeology as well, might be useful."
"Mmm… okay. Yes, that shouldn't be difficult. I can email a list to you, with contact numbers, probably by the end of today."
"Thank you. You've been very helpful."
"Let me know when you are in the area again, Grace and I will meet you for dinner and drinks."
"Sounds lovely, I will do that."
They said their goodbyes and Kantor hung up the phone. His next call was on the land line, to an internal extension four floors below him.
"Hello."
"Gela is in the UK. Oxford, I suspect. I have more information on the way. I will have a plane waiting for you. Take backup or use locals, but you will need perhaps half a dozen. I want him found, and I want him detained."
"Detained… on British soil?"
"Keep me isolated from it, but I have some questions that need answers."
"Yes sir."
"Go now, we are a
lready far behind, I fear."
The man at the other end hung up the phone, poured the dregs of his tea into his mouth, and waved at two other men to follow him. He then stood with a soft grunt, picked up a magazine from a stack of a dozen or so on his desk, tucked it under his arm, and strode toward the elevator.
"Ben Gela, how lovely to see you!"
"And you, Martin. It's been a long time."
"A long time indeed. How have you been?"
"I've been alright, publishing here and there, and a book on the go."
"Wonderful. Good. I did hear about your lovely wife… I was sorry to hear about that."
"Thank you.”
The older man then turned to Marina. "And this is?"
"Oh, sorry, this is Marina Saalik. Marina, this is Martin Goodman, a professor of mine when I studied here."
"Nice to meet you Professor."
"Just 'Martin,' please. Nice to meet you as well. Well, what can I do for you? Just having a look around the old place?"
"Not really. It's more of a research trip."
"Hmm, something I can help with then?"
"I hope so. Do you remember when you brought in a fragment of silver with some Aramaic text engraved on it? It was a small triangular piece of silver."
"Yes, I do. Quite a nice little thing, if indeed it’s authentic. The 'Final Battle' fragment its owner calls it. Quite intriguing to think what it might have come off of. to enough there for to be of much use though, if I remember correctly.”
"Yes, that's the one. Do you know where it might be now? I'd like to take another look at it."
"I think so."
"Is it here?"
"Not right here, no. It's part of a private collection. The owner is a local fellow, bit of an eccentric I should say, which is saying something for this place.” He smiled at Marina as he said this, “His name is Eli Bannerman."