by Jeff Spence
"Is he a professor here?"
"No. Quite knowledgable in Jewish magic though, but never got his doctorate. His grandfather was a collector, and Eli is too. Haunts the halls at Blackfriars, and the Oriental Institute. Does some popular writing as well. He’s part of a local academic club, and I think that keeps him pretty busy.”
"Do you know where to find him."
"Yes, he lives in North Oxford, off of Banbury." He flipped through a small file box. "Ah yes, here. Park Town — he won't mind if I tell you, his home doubles as a kind of office for him. He'll be pleased that someone is interested — shall I write it down for you?"
"Yes, please, that would be great."
"It was good seeing him again," Ben said as they left the Oriental Institute building by the main entrance — into what could only be described as an alley in any modern city. In a medieval town like Oxford, it retained full street status. "He's a sharp fellow."
"Aren't they all, here?"
Ben chuckled, "Most. But he's considered the world’s best in two areas, and that’s not so common, even here. He’s a down to earth guy, too. That's even less common. And very helpful. If it weren’t for him, and one or two others, my time here would have been a lot less enjoyable."
"So you think this Eli person has the missing piece of the scroll?"
"Yes, I do. We didn't have a solid date for it, not enough text on it for that, and the provenance was not ideal. Taken altogether it makes serious study of the item a bit undesirable. Well that and the fact that it is too fragmentary to tell us much on its own. It was still fascinating though, especially since it was one of the first actual experiences I had with an ancient artefact. I remember holding the thing in my hand — it was part of what inspired me to specialise in the Copper Scroll. Inscribing into metal is not a common practice in the period I study, and I think it always indicated something particularly special and important."
"Isn't that why some people think the Copper Scroll is a forgery though?"
"Ah, you've been listening in!"
"Googling, actually." They turned the corner toward Banbury Road. Two figures in dark coats stepped out from behind a parked Bodleian Library van and followed, a dozen yards behind them.
"Well, some still think it's a fake, but I don't buy it, an nor do most of the Second Temple specialists. Yes, inscriptions on metals are rare, but that is actually a good argument for authenticity, too. If you were going to make a forgery, wouldn't it be best to make it look like other things from the period? Why make it unique? Not a good strategy for a forger."
"Big lies are the best lies."
"Yeah, maybe. I don't think it’s the case there though. I can't say whether the treasure it tells of is real, but I will stake my reputation on the scroll itself being authentic."
"And the Silver Scroll?"
"More difficult. It seems the real deal. The degree of decomposition feels right. Gold would be a little different, harder to tell because it holds its own better than almost anything, but the silver darkens, picks up particles… it has a great patina… and the scroll I saw at Kantor's was definitely old."
"Or an artistic fake."
"Or that. But if it is, it's one the best and most elaborate hoaxes I've seen — and why would it be kept so secret then? Hidden away and fought over by these almost anonymous collectors? No, I think they'd publicise it, like the Jordan Lead Codices a few years back, even if they kept the contents secret to buy time to find the treasure. They might even be able to get investors based solely on the rumour of a treasure to be found. It'll take a small army of specialists to really get at all the evidence one way or the other, but I'm pretty certain it fits the bill.”
“Codices are books, right?”
He nodded.
“What were The Jordan Lead Codices all about?”
“It was a similar situation to this, actually. Some lead books were found, extraordinary circumstances surrounding the finding of them, uncertain provenance, and in the end it was determined that they were fraudulent. The lead was old, but the inscriptions much more recent. That brings up another, even more difficult factor.”
“What’s that?”
“Forging valuable objects is nothing new. It’s been going on as long as human beings have been making objects for art and worship. Sometimes an item is a forgery, but the forging was done a thousand years ago, or more. Makes the usual scientific means of testing much more difficult. Luckily, the sophistication of the forgers is usually too low for them to get away with it. Some problem in the text is usually found, some inconsistency that allows us to disprove authenticity and uncover the fraud.”
"Hmm." She seemed to agree with him, though it occurred to her that any items good enough to fool them, would simply be considered authentic. They wouldn’t even know if they’d missed something, or even if the fake was so good that there was nothing to miss. Like that with everything though, she reasoned, nobody notices what they don’t notice.
They passed from the narrow street into the broad boulevard where the Banbury and Woodstock Roads split — or joined if one were walking the other direction — and turned to the left, heading northward to follow the Banbury branch. They crossed the Woodstock Road side on the diagonal, jogging a bit to stay clear of a tour bus on its way out from the centre of the city. They made it to the median and, as the bus passed them, Marina knelt to retie her shoe. Ben paused to wait, turning to look behind him, to take in the view of his old college, Blackfriars Hall. As the bus cleared their field of view, two men in dark coats made to dart across after them.
Eyes made contact.
They stopped. Just for a moment, but long enough to trigger every instinct in Ben's body that something was not right.
"Marina…"
"Yeah?"
“Run!"
TWENTY-SIX
She didn't need the words repeated. The two of them bolted northward, across a single lane of oncoming cars that fed the Banbury side of the southbound traffic. They leapt over the low wall surrounding a churchyard cemetery and ran for the open doors of the church itself.
"What is it?" Marina gasped, glancing behind to see the two men following at a run, dodging around a car that had come to an abrupt stop to avoid hitting them, "Who are they?"
"I don't know. Kantor or Bass's men, must be."
"But why are they still following us? How could they know?"
"I don't know, but we need to lose them. Quick, in here.”
He ducked inside and, beside the altar, pushed open a narrow wooden door. They passed through a small office and down a hall that ended in another solid wooden door. The architecture of these old churches was fairly uniform, in broad strokes, but each had its peculiarities. Ben had been in this one before, taking a casual look at the architecture and artwork, but it had been a brief visit, and years ago. He wracked his brain to remember anything that might help them now. With any luck, they could keep out of sight and the men following them would leave the building to hunt them on the far side.
Ben motioned for her to stop and he put a finger to his lips. His ear to the door, he waited. Nothing. They both turned to look as a low creak broke the silence from the direction they had come.
"Ben pushed the door and they stepped through. To the right was an exit, to the left a broad opening back into the sanctuary through which they had entered the building. Ben kicked the door to the right hard enough that it smacked back against the outer wall, but as he lunged to run through it into the open air, Marina pulled him back, deeper into the building, ducking around the corner into the sanctuary with their backs to the wall.
They waited. Footsteps came quickly and the two men burst through the wooden door just as the outer one gently latched back into place. They turned and shoved it open, looking both directions down the grassy alleyway beside the church.
"This way!" one of them hissed as they ran toward Banbury.
Ben and Marina slipped out of the building the way they had come, turned away from
their pursuers, and hurried back across the street. "Good move, he whispered, "I'll remember that one."
They headed straight into Little Clarendon Street and ducked into a French Bistro, panting and glancing behind them. The patrons and serving staff turned to look. Marina smiled and held up a hand in apology for the flustered entrance. She motioned for Ben to sit at a table back from the window. He did.
"We were lucky," she said, "That was close."
Ben nodded. "Let's wait a while, then we can head that way with more care."
"No, we can't."
"What do you mean?"
"They'll be there."
"They'll be looking for us. We've lost them. Once they realise that, they'll head back the way we came to look."
"I don't think they will."
"And why not?" he asked, waiving the waiter away from them, much to the young man’s annoyance.
"Because they were following us before we knew they were there. They saw the direction we were headed.” She picked up a menu, though her eyes stayed on Ben.
"But we've seen them. They know that."
"Yes, but… My friend's brother is a cop, and we used to have steak nights at his place, nearly every Friday night after work. A small group, four or five of us. Not a party thing, just sitting around, talking about whatever we felt like.”
"And?"
"So he was part of a team that responded to fleeing suspects, car chases. He told us about chasing down criminals. If they lost sight of a vehicle they were after, they wouldn’t waste much time racing around looking for them. They would go back to where they found it and follow along the route it was headed when the chase started. They'd find a spot to wait, down the road from there, where they would have wound up if they’d kept going, and then they’d sit there, drink coffee or whatever. Just wait. Sure enough, after the guy thought he had lost them and they'd given up, he would continue on his way. They'd wait until they saw a car of the same make and model, then hit the lights and sirens. They would always run again, he said. But the important part is that the professionals know what the criminals didn't: that they would go back on their way once they thought they were safe. Same direction, every time."
"So we're the criminals in this story?" He smiled.
"You see what I mean though."
"We're not in cars, but yes, I see what you mean. The trick makes sense. So if we can't continue, what do we do?"
The waiter stepped forward, "Might I suggest you order?"
Gulam Thoma knew what the visit to the Khoury household meant. It was always a fine balance, when undertaking any venture with another man's money, between keeping them emotionally invested and involved, and keeping them far enough away from the action to maintain control in one’s own hands. Perhaps with some men, those who had more money than sense, wresting control of it was an easy task. Thoma didn't know any such men. His brother in law was rich as a sultan — but held onto his wealth like a back alley moneylender. As the big car slid almost silently into position outside of the massive, manicured flowerbeds of the mansion, Thoma felt control sieve through his fingers like sand. He knew in his heart he was out of it. He was simply waiting to be told.
Khoury was casually reclined on a sleek, modernist swivel chair by the window, an uncharacteristically relaxed posture for the man, usually so elegant and formal when in the company of others. His back was to the room in which the newcomer stood. Thoma wondered for a moment if his initial impressions might have been mistaken.
Khoury began. "I heard about the shoot-out in Jerusalem."
No, not mistaken.
"I assume it was our people on one side or the other?"
Thoma nodded, a gesture that Khoury noted in the faint reflection on the window in front of which he sat, pretending to look out over the lawns. Then Thoma mumbled a "Yes, it was."
"I have decided that this venture is more important than I had first thought it might be."
"It is very important, brother. I am treating it most seriously."
"Yes. I can see that." Khoury swivelled the chair to face his brother in law and motioned for the latter to sit opposite him on a low divan. It was an unusual courtesy. “Don't be worried, Thoma, I did not call you here to take away my support, or to take over control, for that matter."
"I am grateful," though he did not believe the second statement.
"I do, however, want to be more involved. The violence in Israel might be traced back to me and, although in some circles such a thing would be beneficial to my business reputation, it would be damaging in other, more Western concerns."
"Yes, of course. I was very careful."
"Of course you were, I did not mean to imply otherwise. I have been impressed, in fact, with the level of secrecy you have managed to maintain, despite the violence that occurred.” Khoury drew in a long breath, “But these things are difficult. It is like DNA."
Thoma did not comment, waiting for the senior man to lay out his thought. Khoury picked up a cup from the table beside him and sipped from it, herbal tea this time. Still hot. Then he waited.
Damn it! Thoma silently cursed. He was being made to speak, or not to speak, at the whim of his wife's brother. It was a tactic over which he had no power. He was being shown his position, clearly but without either of them having to say so. He was the student, Khoury the master. "How is it like DNA, brother?"
"Everywhere we go, we leave traces behind us. We are like fleshly comets hurtling over the surface of the earth. Skin cells, hair, even the vapour breathed out from each exhalation has the unique signature each of us carries — our lineage, the apex to which that lineage has reached in us, and a sign of the potential of those who come after us. It is inevitable."
"I left no signs."
"We always leave signs, Thoma. Each of us. All of us. We cannot help it any more than we can cease shedding cells. I recognised your DNA in the events in Jerusalem, and anyone else who did would also recognise the DNA of the money required to hire the men with guns. Such resources would not be traced to you. They would not stop there."
"It was unfortunate, but my men were not the only ones armed. The others had security forces as well. What was I to do? I had no choice!"
"And that is your DNA, brother, to cry that you had no choice when there are always choices. Dozens, hundreds, thousands of choices we make each day. Each moment is a choice."
"You say this, brother," Thoma could feel the tension in his voice and fought to keep his fists from clenching in his lap, "But without the benefit of having been there. You do not know the full situation."
"I know this: you were not there either. I know that the other players, private or otherwise, are vying for a priceless artefact that might lead to an unfathomable treasure — and I can fathom a lot, I assure you — and yet you do not realise that armed confrontation is the lowest common denominator of the situation? Of course they are all armed. Would you be otherwise, in their situation? Did you send your emissaries in with empty holsters and pleasant intentions?"
"Of course not."
"Then not being there is an impotent excuse. Not an excuse at all. I saw your DNA in it as clearly as I saw the DNA of others involved. It is not a game of amateurs, being played out in the streets of Jerusalem, but one of deadly predators. Experts. Specialists in this type of intrigue.”
"Brother, I…"
"Do not mistake me, Gulam, I rebuke you in part, but it is not my intention to humiliate. This venture you brought to me, it is like every other business arrangement, from a single dinar to many billions of them. There are parameters to consider. Cost. Remuneration. Risk. And not least of all, strategy. It is as if you are trying to take over a company, but let me ask you this: have you taken any consideration for how to run the company once it has been procured? To be very clear, have you taken any steps for the transport of this item? For its preservation? For its protection from armed assaults once it is in your possession? For a double-cross on the part of those who take it for you? For even moving
it across the border from Israeli-occupied soil into the heart of Jordan?"
"I…"
"Gulam, you need not answer. I know already that you have not. You have taken money to pay for your own needs already, to secure a new car, for example," he held up his hand before Thoma could speak, "and this is not a wrong thing to do. Of course some of the money goes to you, I would have done the same. The issue is the timing. The American motto of 'pay yourself first' looks lovely in a book, and makes the greed-driven feel good about themselves, but this is before ever lifting a finger to earn respect, or demonstrate ability. Such behaviour reveals a deep flaw. You have paid yourself, but you have not yet done the work for which you have been paid."
"I have begun it."
"Payment is for success, not empty effort. Am I to pay for a house in full before it is more than a hole in the ground, empty of foundation, lacking is walls or roof? No, Thoma. Any such deal is made by a fool and, despite what you might think, I do not consider you a fool."
Thoma remained silent. Good, thought Khoury, He understands. He continued.
"I have been in touch with Jordanian Antiquities, and they will be ready, should we bring them anything in need of conservation." Thoma's jaw dropped and he leaned forward in his seat.
"Do not worry, I have not told them the nature of the item, nor the precise nature of procurement. In any case, they would accept the latter so long as they had plausible deniability regarding any foreknowledge of violence. After the fact, they can rightly claim to be in the same position as nearly everyone holding a scroll from the Jordanian finds — none of them has an undisputed right of ownership, as you well know."
"So you are taking over?"
Khoury took another sip of tea.
Thoma stood.
"Give all information you have to Soma, he will pass it on to me. Keep the money. It is a finder's fee now."
"It is not the money, brother… you wound my pride."
Khoury lifted his eyes, a hint of fire flickering in the dark pupils. "Then give the money back and I will repair your pride."