“I have been thinking of nothing else for the last week,” said Martens. They had entered the lab by this time, and he made a point of circling the room and looking at every artifact that they had retrieved from the chamber before turning to the opened scroll that was still spread out on the viewing table. He stared for a long time at the sword of Julius Caesar, and then read the will of Augustus, studying the strong, clear Latin handwriting for several minutes. Finally he went to the viewing table and carefully leaned over on his crutches, studying the ancient papyrus for a long time before he spoke.
“Quid est veritas?” he breathed softly. “Pilate spoke more than he knew, didn’t he, Joshua?”
Josh nodded, looking over his shoulder. It was still hard to believe that he was staring at the writing of the man who had sent Jesus of Nazareth to the cross! Martens carefully studied the scroll for about a half hour, and then turned to Josh. “I have to get off this leg,” he said. “And I will need a laptop and a yellow pad.”
* * *
Valeria Witherspoon wanted a scoop so bad she could taste it. She had dreamed of being a journalist ever since she was a teenager, but after graduating with a degree in photography and print journalism, the only job she could find was with the UK Tattler, a lowbrow tabloid that specialized in scandalous pictures of celebrities and royals, along with articles about space aliens and the Illuminati. She hated it with a passion, but it paid the bills, and every week she sent out résumés to respectable newspapers and magazines, hoping in vain for a return call. So far there had been none.
But the story of the Pontius Pilate scroll had captured the imagination of the sleaze industry just the same as it had everyone else’s. Jesus was still great copy in the UK, even if only fifteen percent of the population actually attended church. In the two years she had worked for the Tattler, they had run stories that Jesus was married, Jesus was gay, Jesus never existed, and that Jesus was a reincarnation of Buddha. Now they wanted to run a story on the Pilate scroll, and had sent one of their writers to Naples along with Valeria. Her job was to get the pictures that would go with the article.
That assignment had modified slightly after the press got wind of the burgeoning romance between the American archeologist and his Italian counterpart. Her job now was not just to get pictures of the ancient scroll, but also to try and get some personal shots of the two antiquarian lovebirds—preferably skinny dipping, making out, or otherwise cavorting in a manner that would draw the attention of the scandal-loving British public.
The problem was that the lab where the main work was being done was completely off limits to the press. The modern building sat behind the ancient Renaissance palace that housed the museum, across a small, highly restricted employee parking lot that was surrounded by a ten-foot-tall concrete panel wall. Part of that wall actually connected to the back of the lab building, but there were no windows or doors leading out onto the Via Aventine, the business district street that ran directly behind the lab. However, in doing some reconnaissance, she had discovered that one of the adjacent buildings actually had a second-floor window that opened onto the street about a meter above and half a meter to the left of the wall. She was convinced that if she could crawl out that window and step onto the top of the wall, she could run down its length to the roof of the lab and quietly perch there, getting numerous shots of the scientists and historians coming and going. Maybe even get a shot of some relics being transported to and from the main museum building! This could be the scoop that finally got her out of the tabloids and into the mainstream media, she thought. Tomorrow morning she would find out.
* * *
That evening Josh and Isabella treated Dr. Martens and Alicia to dinner. The two women had hit it off right away, and Isabella found out a great deal about Josh from Alicia– and found she liked him even more after hearing it all. To her surprise, she found that both Martens and his young bride were also as rock solid in their Christian faith as Josh was. Hearing the three of them go back and forth between the realms of science and faith took some getting used to. Isabella was still torn on the issue of personal faith. She had fallen in love with a man who loved his God more than he loved her, and somehow expected her to be all right with that. She wasn’t sure she could ever be so accepting of a love that transcended their affection for each other. But as she saw the clear adoration with which Alicia regarded her older husband, she began to think that these people had something that she was missing. Not only that, but something she wanted very badly.
* * *
Ali bin-Hassan—he would never be called by that other name again, he had decided when he left Capri—drove out to the storage facility that evening and looked over the truck. He paid the fee and told the attendant that he would take it out in the morning, but explained that he wanted to check out the cargo first. A few folded Euros and the bored employee disappeared back to his booth, and Hassan climbed inside the truck and began to work.
Each crate contained a thin layer of topsoil covering a 200-pound bale of ammonium nitrate, with a detonator at the bottom of each bale. All were connected with black wires that were virtually invisible against the black plastic sheets the crates rested on. The receiver set that would trigger the detonators was packed in a plastic bag and set on top of one of the bales, then covered with the same thin layer of soil. The remote that would activate the receiver was next to it, also sealed in a plastic bag. All Hassan had to do was turn on the receiver, drive to his target, and press the red button on the remote. Then the truck and all its cargo would explode with the force of several tons of TNT.
After he was done inspecting the deadly package, he climbed in his rented car and drove a short distance to a seedy motel, where he was to spend the night. There he carefully bathed himself and shaved his body, in the age old purification ritual of the jihad warrior. He bowed deeply toward Mecca and said the shahada with a passion and intensity he had not felt for years. He felt the mask he had worn for half a decade dropping away like a physical weight as he prepared for virtuous slumber. Tomorrow he would enter Paradise! He hoped that Sheik Osama would be proud.
* * *
Josh rose the next morning refreshed and ready for the day. He had discovered that he rather enjoyed the attention of the media, and most of all, he was looking forward to telling the whole world that the faith he had cherished his whole life was indeed based on real, solid history, not mythology and fairy tales! As he dressed, he reflected on what a wonderful, wild ride his life had become in the last two weeks. He had gone from being an unknown scholar in an obscure field to being one of the best-known archeologists in the world. And, to top it off, he had met the girl of his dreams in the process.
As he got dressed, he thanked God again for sending Isabella his way. He prayed, too, that she would find her way to the same saving faith that burned in him. He had always hoped to find his other half and get married someday, but now for the first time in his life he attached a name and a face to his prayers. Oh dear Lord, he thought. Let her be the one! Let her find You and love You as I do, so that we can be one with you together and forever!
His morning devotions complete, he grabbed a quick continental breakfast and made his way to the lab. He was one of the first ones there, with only Simone Apriceno and Giuseppe Rossini ahead of him. He greeted them with enthusiasm, and moments later Dr. Sinisi and Father MacDonald showed up also. MacDonald was carrying a two meter long, half meter wide plexiglass box with a sterilized aluminum base.
“That ugly thing?” Sinisi asked. “How can we present this priceless, ancient artifact to the world public for the first time ever resting on what looks like an old lasagna pan?”
“Sorry, laddie, but this is the bottom of the carrying case!” snapped the priest.
“Well, could we use it to carry the scroll into the briefing room, and then set the scroll on a piece of clear plexiglass and place the cover over it again?” asked Sinisi. “That way it will appear to be resting on the mahogany tabletop that will brin
g out its colors and textures so much better!”
MacDonald sighed. Sinisi’s obsession with style over substance would try the patience of His Holiness himself, thought the priest. But the man did have his uses, and MacDonald also wanted the ancient manuscript to look impressive when the media finally got a look at it. He thought for a moment.
“Tell ye what,” he said. “There is a good sterile sheet of clear plexiglass over there. I will load it in the bottom of the cart, and we can put the scroll on top, and then use the service tunnel to take it over to the press briefing room and see how it looks. Good enough?”
“Excellent!” said Sinisi. “I know it’s early, but let’s run it over there and take a look. We’ll use the service tunnel to avoid taking the manuscript into the sunlight.”
The tunnel ran under the parking lot, and was narrow and dimly lit, but it was perfect for transporting light-sensitive objects between the buildings. Virtually all personnel, however, preferred to walk across the restricted parking lot in the bright daylight. MacDonald carefully placed the scroll inside its portable display case and used a bungee cord to lash it to the top of the cart, since the tray stuck out a good bit on either end of the apparatus. Sinisi tucked the clear sheet of plexiglass under his arm and walked beside the priest as they rolled the cart toward the service elevator.
* * *
Hassan picked up the rental truck at 7:30 AM and made the drive across town as quickly as he could while scrupulously observing all traffic laws. It certainly would not do to be pulled over with 1,600 pounds of explosives in the back of the truck and a remote-controlled detonator in his front pocket! The route he had chosen, the Via Piscus, made a T-intersection onto the Via Aventine directly behind the museum. He could power across the intersection as soon as the light turned green, and then plow into the back wall of the lab as he punched the button on the detonator. The infidels would never know what hit them.
There was one detail left to attend to as he approached the intersection. The light was red and only one vehicle was in front of him, with its turn signal on. As soon as the light turned green and the vehicle was out of his path, he would floor the accelerator and begin his journey to Paradise. Knowing that it was too late for anyone to stop him, he took out his cell phone and dialed his computer back on Capri. The email program he had set up selected the message with his video manifesto attached and sent it to five major news organizations at once. There would be no speculation as to who carried out this attack.
The light was now green, and the Volvo in front of him turned out of his path. He picked up the detonator and jammed on the accelerator.
“Allahu Akbar!” he shouted as he the truck shot forward and he pressed the button.
* * *
Valeria Witherspoon was thrilled. She had paid the shopkeeper fifty Euros to gain access to the storage room whose window was right next to the wall separating the lab from the street. The concrete top of the wall was less than half a meter wide, but flat and smooth. She kicked her shoes off, climbed out the window, and held onto a sturdy drainpipe as her feet found the wall. Her camera was slung at her side instead of around her neck, so it would be less likely to pull her off balance. Quickly putting one foot in front of the other and looking at the laboratory roof instead of at the ground below, she traversed the distance in a matter of seconds without being seen. Once on the roof of the lab, she walked toward the side that faced the museum. She was in luck! The American archeologist Parker and his love interest, Dr. Sforza, were just leaving the lab. Witherspoon dropped to one knee and focused her camera on them. They paused just outside the back door of the main museum building to converse. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but her camera was out and snapping away as they talked. Then the tall American leaned down to plant a quick kiss on Sforza’s cheek, and Witherspoon caught the moment perfectly. She was already envisioning the caption that would go with the picture on the Tattler’s cover when she heard behind her the sound of an engine accelerating rapidly. She was turning to look over her shoulder when the world dissolved into a sheet of flame and smoke. She was vaguely aware of being tumbled upwards, end over end, her hair on fire and her camera flying away from her. Then she slammed into the back wall of the museum and slid down to the asphalt in a lifeless heap.
EXPLOSION AT ITALIAN MUSEUM
(UPI) BREAKING NEWS . . . A large explosion has destroyed the laboratory where the ‘Pontius Pilate scroll’ was being prepared for presentation to the public later this morning. Details are still emerging, but eyewitnesses have reported an enormous blast that leveled all but one wall of the research laboratory where the artifacts from the widely publicized dig on the island of Capri were being curated. At least one eyewitness says that the attack was the result of a truck bomb being driven into the rear of the lab at a high rate of speed.
Ambulances are on the scene and early reports indicate that there are numerous fatalities. The press conference about the Pilate scroll, scheduled for 11 AM this morning, has been postponed. Dr. Vincent Sinisi, publicity director for Italy’s Bureau of Antiquities, could not be reached yet for comment.
At the same moment the blast occurred, numerous media outlets received a video from a Muslim cleric calling himself Ali bin-Hassan, claiming responsibility for the blast in the name of Al-Qaeda. The person in the video claims to be Hassan, and also states that he recently lived on the isle of Capri under the name Muhammad al Medina. The video has been sent to Italy’s police and Interpol in an effort to determine the truth of these claims. Further coverage will follow as the details emerge.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
For the rest of his life Josh would struggle to recall exactly what he and Isabella had been talking about at the moment the lab exploded, but he was never able to. They had been walking over to the main museum, leaving Simone, Cardinal Klein, and Dr. Rossini in the lab, to see for themselves the setting in which the Pilate scroll would be presented later that day. The last thing Josh remembered was leaning over to give Isabella a quick kiss in the relative privacy of the parking lot when the blast grabbed them both and hurled them ten feet forward, into the back wall of the museum.
For a second or two, he was unable to hear, move, or see. Then he lifted his head and watched as burning rubble and bricks came falling from the sky like a grotesque hailstorm from hell. He crawled to Isabella as the rain of ruin continued, covering her body with his. Somewhere in the midst of the chaos he heard a sickening splatter and watched a mangled human body strike the side of the museum about twenty feet above his head, then flop to the ground a few feet away from them. Seconds later a burning camera, trailing its carrying strap, struck the pavement next to him and burst into shards of flaming plastic.
Isabella was weeping softly beneath him, blood streaming from a cut on her forehead. As the hail of debris ended, he pulled her to her feet.
“Are you hurt?” he asked anxiously.
She shook her head. “Shaken up a bit, but everything seems to be working,” she said. He could barely hear her over the roaring in his ears; both of them had ruptured eardrums, as it turned out.
He turned back to the ruined lab just in time to see the last of the ceiling collapse. The nearest wall to them was the only one still standing—the entire back half of the building was simply gone, replaced by a large smoking crater.
“My God!” he said. “Giuseppe! Simone!” They both began to run toward the destroyed lab, hoping against hope. Halfway there, Josh stopped cold, staring at the object on the ground before him. It was a human hand, with neatly polished nails. On one finger gleamed a ring made from an ancient Roman coin. Isabella burst into hysterical tears at the sight.
Josh swallowed hard and made his way to the lab’s front door, which hung crookedly on one hinge. The acrid smoke pouring from the hallway choked him, and he saw that the wide, carpeted hallway that had once led all the way to the rear lab barely went back ten feet now, blocked by the collapsed ceiling and walls around it. Then he saw two arms protruding
from beneath the rubble, a beam from the ceiling covering them. One of the hands was still moving!
“Isabella! Help!” he shouted, grabbing boards and ceiling tiles and throwing them aside. Flames were spreading rapidly through the destroyed structure, and he needed to get this person out quickly. In a matter of seconds they had each grabbed one end of the beam and levered it upward. Josh found a large chunk of concrete to prop it with, then he and Isabella each grabbed a hand and pulled hard. A bloodied figure, covered with white plaster and streaked with blood, emerged from beneath the wreckage. Both legs were smashed and mangled from the knees down, and blood poured from several wounds on his torso, but he was still alive. It was Dr. Rossini. Together they carried him out to the parking lot. He groaned in pain and opened his eyes, but could not speak. Josh pulled off his belt and used it as a tourniquet on one of his legs as the sound of sirens began to grow in the distance. Then he and Isabella put their backs to a parked car, ignoring the shattered window glass all around them, cradling their friend in their arms and waiting for help.
* * *
“All in all, you are a fortunate young man,” said the white-haired Italian doctor in passable English. His name tag identified him as Dr. Manuel Castrillon. “A mild concussion, two ruptured eardrums, and some bruises and cuts . . . considering your proximity to the blast, you could have come off much worse.”
Josh shook his head. He had not felt this groggy since he took a line drive to the forehead in Little League when he was twelve. “What about Isabella?” he asked.
The doctor smiled. “She’s in the next exam room,” he said. “She insisted I see you first, and I agreed because she appears to be fine except for that cut on her forehead, which has already been tended. I’ll go see her now.”
The Testimonium Page 29