Throughout Catholic history, a select few have been entrusted with maintaining this daunting archive. Donovan still marveled at how he had become its most trusted custodian.
It was a long road that had brought him from Belfast to Rome.
Straight out of the seminary, Donovan had joined Dublin's Christchurch Cathedral as a resident priest. But his passion for history and books had soon earned him recognition as a biblical historian. Two years later, he had begun a highly successful Biblical History program at University College, Dublin. His legendary lectures and papers on early Christian scriptures had eventually caught the attention of Ireland's preeminent Cardinal Daniel Michael Shaunessey. Shaunessey was quick to have Donovan accompany him on a visit to Vatican City where he introduced him to the cardinal who oversaw the Vatican Library. Collaborative projects followed, and less than four months later, a compelling offer was extended to Donovan for a position inside Vatican City, managing its archives. Though it was difficult leaving his aging parents in Ireland-- his only remaining family-- he had graciously accepted.
That was twelve years ago. And never did he expect that one day he would be intimately involved in the single largest scandal in Church history-- and all because of a book.
Poring over the yellowed, parchment pages of the Archive's latest acquisition, Donovan was scanning the leather-bound ancient codex entitled the Ephemeris Conlusio-- the Journal of Secrets. In recognition of the blood spilled acquiring the relic now being studied in the Vatican Museum, he needed reassurance that the ossuary had met all the criteria described in the text. Pausing to study a meticulous drawing of the ossuary, Donovan exhaled with relief when his eyes came across a precise match of the unique symbol that had been carved onto the box's side.
It was almost impossible for the librarian to imagine how he had come to this juncture-- a shocking series of events that had been set into motion by a single phone call he received one rainy afternoon just two weeks earlier...
* * *
Oblivious to the unseasonable rain drumming against his office window, Donovan was deeply absorbed in an eighteenth-century study on the nature of heresy when the phone rang. Levering himself out of the chair, he had answered on the fourth ring.
"Is this Father Patrick Donovan, the curator of the Vatican's Secret Archive?"
The voice was laced with an accent Donovan couldn't quite place. "Who is this?"
"Who I am is of no concern to you."
"Really." It wasn't the first time a reporter or frustrated academic had called under the guise of a potential seller to access some of the earth's most coveted books.
"I possess something that you want."
"I don't have time for opaqueness," Donovan responded. "Be specific." He was about to dismiss the caller as a crank, when three words escaped from the receiver: 'The Ephemeris Conlusio.'
"What did you just say?"
"I think you heard me. I have the Ephemeris Conlusio."
"That book is a legend," Donovan's voice cracked. "Pure myth." How could anyone outside the walls of the Archive or Jacques DeMolay's prison cell in Chateaux Chinon have discovered its existence? He began pacing nervously as he awaited a response.
"Your legend is now being held in my hand."
Donovan fought a wave of panic. It was only two years ago that a similar caller had offered up the Judas Papers-- ancient Coptic writings that recast the infamous disciple as secretly acting on Jesus's behest to faciliate his crucifixion. But the Vatican had considered the document's provenance to be highly suspect, forgoing the opportunity-- a grave miscalculation since shortly thereafter, the writings were published worldwide by National Geographic. Donovan was sure the Vatican wouldn't want to repeat that mistake. "If you really do possess the Ephemeris Conlusio, tell me in what language is it written?"
"Greek, of course. Care to be more specific?"
He detected a rhythmic tapping at the other end. "Who is the author?"
The caller told him and Donovan was amazed.
"Catholicism's prime enemy, am I not correct?" The caller paused. "Surely you can be more sophisticated than this?"
Outside the window, the sky darkened and the rain intensified.
On the spot, Donovan decided that only if the caller could reveal the book's most profound contents would he consider the claim credible. "Legend has it the Ephemeris Conlusio contains a map. Do you know what it's meant to locate?" His heart was racing.
"Please don't patronize me."
Donovan's lower lip quivered as the caller elaborated, providing a precise description of the legendary relics.
"Do you want to sell the book?" Donovan's mouth was dry. "Is that the purpose of your call?"
"It's not that simple."
Now Donovan feared the worst, painfully aware that this stranger could potentially wound the Church very deeply, perhaps even fatally. Before proceeding, it was essential to determine the caller's motive. "Are you trying to blackmail the Vatican?"
The man cackled. "It's not about money," he hissed. "Consider the possibility that I might be looking to help you and your employers."
"Neither your attitude nor your motive seems philanthropic. What is it you are after?"
The man had answered cryptically. "Once you've seen what I have to offer, you will know what I'm after. And what you have to do...and will want to do. That will be my payment."
"The Vatican would need to determine the book's authenticity before any terms could be discussed."
"Then I shall arrange for delivery," the caller had replied.
"I'd need to see a sample before that could happen. A page from the book."
The line was silent.
"Fax me a page now," Donovan insisted.
"Give me your number." The caller was hesitant. "I will stay on this line."
Donovan twice repeated his office's private fax number.
A long minute passed before the fax machine rang, picking up on the second ring and feeding paper from its tray. The printed message was spit out seconds later. Donovan held it close to the light. When he had finished silently reading the remarkably authentic Greek text, the words left him momentarily breathless. Shaking, he returned the phone to his ear. "Where did you find this?"
"That is not important."
"Why have you come to me in particular?"
"You are probably the only man at the Vatican who can understand the profound implications of this book. You know that history has tried to deny its existence. I have chosen you to be my voice to the Holy See."
There was another long pause.
"Do you want the book or not?"
There was a pause.
"Of course," he finally said.
Donovan had made arrangements to meet the anonymous caller's messenger two days later in the Caffe Greco on Via Condotti, near the Spanish Steps. Two armed plainclothes Swiss Guards sat at a nearby table. The messenger appeared at the agreed time and introduced himself by first name only, presenting a business card for any later questions. Donovan had sat with the man only briefly. No indication was given as to the identity of who had dispatched him.
A leather satchel had been discreetly passed over to him.
Though no explanations were provided, Donovan intuited that the man knew nothing of the satchel's contents. There had been no drama requiring the guards' intervention-- just a quick, impersonal transaction, and both men had left on their separate ways.
Opening the satchel in the sanctuary of his office, Donovan had found a handwritten note on plain paper and a newspaper clipping. The note had read: "Use the map to find the relics. Act quickly to find them before the Jews do. Should you require assistance, call me." A phone number was listed below the message. Salvatore Conte had later told him that it had been a one-time use cell phone and that each of his subsequent communications with the insider was routed to a new phone number or anonymous one-time use website-- all untraceable. Apparently, using these secure channels, the insider had coordinated with Conte to
procure explosives and certain tools needed to extract the ossuary.
The Jews? Confused, the priest read the clipping from the Jerusalem Post and realized exactly what had prompted this meeting. Digging deeper inside the satchel, his hands had come upon the smooth leather covers of the Ephemeris Conlusio.
22.
JERUSALEM
Outside Temple Mount's northern gate, Barton avoided the chaos of the Western Wall Prayer Plaza, angling along the narrow cobblestone streets that webbed gently down Mount Moriah.
He had actually managed to persuade Razak to let him take the scroll back to his office to see if he could translate its text. Apparently, the Muslim was anxious to find some answers.
Passing through the busy Muslim and Christian Quarters, he entered the Jewish Quarter along Tiferet Yisrael and banked left into the open expanse of Hurva Square, the harsh noonday glare sharper in the absence of any breeze. He glanced over at the sweeping Hurva Arch-- the Square's focal point and sole remnant of the grand synagogue that had once stood here.
Hurva-- literally meaning "destruction"-- was well named, Barton thought. Much like Jerusalem itself, the synagogue had been destroyed and rebuilt many times, the result of endless disputes between Muslims and Jews. On the eve of Israel's birth in 1948, the synagogue had been occupied by Jordanian Arabs and dynamited-- its final death blow.
Almost six decades later, the same violent struggle for control continued far beyond its confines-- a bitter turf war between Israelis and Palestinians. And somehow he now found himself caught directly in the middle of it all.
Though the main offices of the Israeli Antiquities Authority were located in Tel Aviv, a temporary satellite facility had been set up just three weeks earlier, here, inside the Wohl Archaeological Museum-- very near the apartment rented by the Temple Mount suspects.
Parked in front of the building stood a gold BMW sedan with police markings. Barton inwardly groaned as he hurried to the front door to be met by his intern assistant, Rachel Leibowitz-- an attractive twentysomething with flowing black hair, olive skin, and hypnotic blue eyes.
"Graham," she was urgent. "Two uniformed men are waiting for you downstairs. I told them to stay outside, but they insisted-- "
"It's all right, Rachel." Barton held up a hand. "They were expected." He caught himself staring at her lips. If the IAA was trying to do him a favor by assigning him such an attractive assistant, they weren't helping matters. At fifty-four, Graham Barton wasn't exactly the dashing young man he had once been. But in his small circle, he was a legend and that seemed to make good for an aging facade. And eager students like Rachel would do anything to get closer to him. "Please don't put through any calls for the time being." Smiling, he moved past her, trying to avoid the intoxicating smell of her perfume.
There had been no formal invitation for anyone to visit that day, but Barton knew his inspection of the crime scene would have the police and IDF breathing down his neck. Of course, they'd want to know every iota of his findings.
Descending into the Wohl's subterranean gallery, he moved past the restored mosaics and ritual baths of a lavish, excavated Herodian-era villa.
The IAA had recently launched a huge digitizing campaign to catalogue its enormous collection-- from vellums to pottery, pagan statuary to ossuaries-- creating a database with every relic's historical profile and 3-D images. Internet-based tools needed to be developed to allow the field archaeologists to decrypt ancient inscriptions. Having pioneered similar programs in the UK, Barton had been the ideal candidate to head up the initiative. It was here where he had begun piloting the digitizing program to establish a good workflow before continuing through the Israeli museum network, ending with its most famous Israel Museum.
Heading to the rear of the gallery, he made his way into a featureless square room painted in a dull white satin, his temporary office. Waiting for him there were the two men who had visited him only yesterday to ask for his help in the investigation-- the Jerusalem District police commissioner Major General Jakob Topol and the IDF's head of domestic intelligence, Major General Ari Teleksen. Each had claimed a metal folding chair on the guest-side of his makeshift desk.
"Gentlemen." Barton put down his briefcase and sat opposite them.
Teleksen was in his late fifties, thickset, with the face of a pitbull-- heavy jowls and puffy eyelids. He sat with his arms folded, making no effort to conceal the two missing fingers of his left hand. As Israel's most celebrated veteran counterterrorism agent, he retained a coldness befitting someone who'd seen far too much. Olive fatigues and a black beret displayed the IDF's insignia-- a golden Star of David bisected by an intertwined sword and olive branch, the epaulets on each shoulder marking out his rank. "We'd like to hear the results of your preliminary analysis." His voice echoed off the bare walls.
Barton stroked his chin as he gathered his thoughts. "The explosion breached the rear wall of the Marwani Mosque. The blast hole was very precise, very clean. Definitely professional."
"We know that," Teleksen impatiently replied, spinning his bad hand. "But for what purpose?"
"To access a hidden burial crypt."
"Crypt?" Topol was staring at him. Clearly the junior of the two, his uniform more befitted a commercial jet pilot-- a powder-blue collared shirt with rank-marking epaulets on each shoulder, and navy blue pants. Centered on his policeman's cap lay the Israeli police insignia-- two olive leaves wrapped around a Star of David. Middle-aged with a thick frame, his face was angular with deep-set eyes.
"A crypt," Barton repeated, as he pulled out one of the rubbings he'd taken. "See here. There was a tablet on the wall that listed all of their names."
The eyes of both lawmen leapt to the rubbing.
"What was stolen?" Topol's voice was gruff.
"I'm speculating, but it seems to have been a burial box. An ossuary."
Teleksen threw up his disfigured left hand. "Burial box?"
"A small stone vessel about this big." Barton outlined the ossuary's dimensions in the air. "It probably contained a disassembled human skeleton."
"I know what a burial box looks like," Teleksen replied. "What I'm interested in here is motives. You mean to tell me that we've lost thirteen IDF men for a box of bones?"
Barton nodded.
Teleksen made a dismissive motion. "Feh."
Topol coolly looked back at the image, pointing at the Hebrew names. "So which one did they take?"
Knowingly, Barton pointed to the defaced image on bottom. "This one. But as you can see, it's now illegible."
"I see," Topol said, clearly trying to mask his puzzlement. The night of the theft, when he had personally first visited the scene with his detectives, he specifically recalled the strange image that had been there-- a carved relief depicting a dolphin entwined over a trident. Such an odd symbol wasn't easily forgotten. Yet on Barton's rubbing, the symbol was gone. If the thieves hadn't done this, then who had? "What do you think the motive could have been?"
"I'm not sure yet." Barton drew breath. "The theft seems to have been coordinated by someone who knew exactly what the box contained."
"Motive, shmotive. What good would a box of bones be to anyone?" Teleksen interjected, making no effort to temper his scorn. He dipped into his jacket's breast pocket and pulled out a pack of Time Lites. Tapping out a cigarette, he skipped the formality of asking Barton if smoking here was okay and lit it up with a silver Zippo.
"Difficult to say," Barton replied. "We'd have to speculate on what could have been inside."
There was a very long silence. The two lawmen exchanged looks.
"Any theories?" Teleksen enunciated each word slowly. Holding the cigarette in his bad hand, he took a deep drag and exhaled, the smoke curling in tendrils from his nostrils.
"Not yet."
Topol was more levelheaded. "Is it at all possible that this wasn't a burial box? Was there anything else that could've been in the crypt?"
"No," Barton was emphatic. "It wasn't customary to lea
ve valuables in crypts. This isn't ancient Egypt, Major General."
"Did you find any evidence that could lead us to the perpetrators? Anything that might suggest Palestinian involvement?" Teleksen persuaded.
It seemed they would never understand that-- unlike many native Israelis-- Barton wasn't motivated by either religious or political allegiance. "As of yet, nothing obvious."
"Isn't there any way of tracking down this ossuary?" Teleksen was losing patience.
"Perhaps." Barton regarded both men levelly, though Teleksen's sour demeanor and cigarette smoke were eroding his patience. "I'll be monitoring the antiquities markets closely. That's the most likely place it'll turn up." He reached into his briefcase for another sheet of paper and pushed it toward Topol. "Here's a basic drawing of what the ossuary probably looks like, along with the dimensions and approximate weight. I suggest you circulate this among your men, particularly at checkpoints. And here are pictures of the other ossuaries found in the crypt."
Topol stowed them away.
"I think you might be missing a very important part of all this," Barton added quietly.
Both commanders raised their eyes.
"A crypt beneath Temple Mount would reinforce the Zionist notionthat a Jewish temple once stood above it. Perhaps you should share that information with the prime minister." Barton was playing off the idea that every Israeli Jew-- orthodox and secular alike-- clung to the hope that one day solid archaeological evidence supporting Jewish exclusivity to Temple Mount would be discovered.
Teleksen shifted uneasily, the metal legs of his chair scraping against the floor.
"So don't be too surprised if this investigation leads to a much larger discovery," Barton added.
"Anything else?" Topol queried.
For a split second, he thought about divulging his discovery of the scroll now back inside its cylinder, safely secured in his pants pocket. "Not at this point."
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