Book of Nathan

by Curt Weeden

  Russet redeposited the sheet of paper into her purse. “You’re one of a very few people who know about the Book of Nathan and the Book of Jehu discoveries.”

  Russet waited for a response. I didn’t cooperate.

  “It was common knowledge that Henri Le Campion was an avid Benjamin Kurios follower. Actually, that’s an understatement. Let’s call him a fanatical follower. We learned from an informant that when Le Campion told Kurios about his discovery, Kurios agreed to bankroll a lot of tests, including carbon-14 dating. The tests proved the animal-skin scrolls that Le Campion found are genuine.”

  “You seem to know a lot about went on between Le Campion and Kurios.”

  “We monitored Kurios for years. We were aware that he was in regular contact with Le Campion, but even so we knew very little about the scrolls. Then, for some unexplained reason, Le Campion got careless. He sent an open e-mail to Kurios. The hard copy I just showed you is a printout of part of that note. Not long after we found out that one of the scrolls included a definition of personhood, we learned Kurios was planning to go public with the English translation of the Book of Nathan at his Orlando meeting.”

  “His revival. Would have been interesting.”

  Russet reacted sharply. “Revival suggests that Kurios’s spectacle was to be a religious event. Hardly the case. Benjamin Kurios was more showman than a man of God. Orlando would have been a circus with the Book of Nathan as its main act.”

  Russet stood, her flabby body unfolding like an accordion. “We don’t have all the specifics, but we suspect Kurios was planning to tell the world that personhood doesn’t begin at the moment of conception. If he were to make that kind of announcement, the implications to Quia Vita, of course, are clear.”

  “Put you out of business, would it?” The question wasn’t intended to be impertinent even though it came out sounding that way. I was genuinely curious about whether a pro-life advocacy group could survive if there were Biblical evidence that one of its core beliefs was bogus.

  “You underestimate our commitment to do God’s work,’’ Russet growled. “Whatever lies Kurios might try to sell to the public would never have stopped us from doing what we know is right.”

  “How do you know you’re doing God’s work?” I asked. Again, I wasn’t trying to antagonize Russet. I was trying to get a better feel for how people like her became so convinced they were correct.

  “Don’t test my faith.”

  “Isn’t faith what we’re talking about here?” I argued. “Seems to me that when faith turns fanatical—”

  “Protecting the unborn is hardly fanatical, Mr. Bullock!”

  “From where I sit, a fanatic is somebody who doesn’t leave a little wiggle room when it comes to believing in things that can’t be proven. There’s not a lot of hard evidence about when personhood comes into play or when it doesn’t. Which means you could be right—or you may be wrong.”

  “We’re not wrong.” Russet’s words were fierce. “And I will tell you that if the Book of Nathan is contrary to what we know is right, then you can be certain the translation from Aramaic to English is inaccurate. In fact, Benjamin Kurios might have had the translation altered so it would serve his own purposes.”

  That brought back my confusion about just where Kurios stood on the abortion issue. I had Googled a list of articles about the evangelist and found Kurios had walked the murky middle ground whenever the topic surfaced. Kurios had been the king of caveats and qualifiers.

  “Maybe you read Kurios wrong. Maybe he was pro-life all along.”

  “Benjamin Kurios was pro Benjamin Kurios. A first-class opportunist. He’d take any position on anything if he thought it would be advantageous to him.”

  “And one of those anythings was the Book of Nathan.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Still, since you don’t know what the book says about personhood and abortion, it might not be out of step with Quia Vita’s point of view.”

  “If that were the case, Kurios would have come to us to promote his so-called revival,” Russet replied. “That didn’t happen. Draw your own conclusion. We did. Now let’s talk about Le Campion’s CD.”

  “I thought that’s what we’ve been doing.”

  “We want the disk.”

  “I already figured that out.”

  “We’re willing to discuss terms as long as we can verify that the disk is for real. And the deal needs to include the translation key that will allow us to decode the text.”

  “What makes you think I have the CD?”

  “Stop running in circles,” said Russet. “We have every reason to believe you’re trying to extort five million from Quia Vita in exchange for giving up Le Campion’s disk.”

  This was the time to lay the truth on the line. But Russet didn’t give me an opening.

  “Just for the record, we received your e-mail. Very clever the way you used a relay and routing system to hide your Internet address.”

  Whoever took the disk from Zeusenoerdorf’s hiding place was no fool. Coming up with the technology needed to keep a billionaire and an organization with deep pockets in the dark was impressive.

  “How will this work?” I asked, figuring it would be worth squeezing Russet for more details before convincing her I didn’t have the disk.

  “Reluctantly—very reluctantly—we accept your terms. You’ll break up Le Campion’s preamble to the book’s translation and e-mail us a few pages at a time. For each e-mail attachment we receive, we’ll pay you a portion of the preliminary two point five million if we consider the notes to be legitimate and of any real value.”

  The more I learned about the Book of Nathan, the more curious I became. But far more intriguing to me was Henri’s introduction to the translated disk. It had to be a masterpiece of seduction, luring both Silverstein and Russet. Whoever had walked off with Le Campion’s disk was chopping up the preamble into expensive little pieces. It was one elaborate, pricey, and ingenious tease.

  “Assuming we buy the full set of Le Campion’s introductory notes, we’ll consider paying you a second two point five million for the full encrypted translation of the book.”

  Russet went quiet, waiting for a reaction. I was too engrossed with my own thoughts to answer.

  “Do we have a deal?” Russet asked after several seconds. “If so, we need instructions on how to wire the money to your Cayman Island account.”

  “No, we don’t have a deal,” I answered. “And I’ll tell you why. I can’t deliver something I don’t have.”

  Russet tilted back in her seat and scrutinized me carefully. “The game continues, does it? This is a play for time, isn’t it? So you can move the bid higher. Well, here’s some advice: don’t go there. Our patience is already threadbare.”

  “You’re making an assumption that I’m a common crook,” I said. “But supposing I’m just a disinterested third party. Somebody who’s been sucked into this deal by accident?”

  “If that’s the case, you’ll need to be very careful.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’d be worthless. And to some, worthless people are expendable, particularly when they’ve been made privy to sensitive information.”

  I knew all about worthless people. It didn’t take sensitive information to make most of them expendable.

  “There are those who’ll do whatever it takes to protect their beliefs,” Russet went on. “Some are convinced that selective violence is appropriate if it’s a means to a justifiable end. You’re cruising into dangerous waters.”

  I got it. But the notion of sailing into a storm wasn’t enough to ward off a change in strategy. Instead of taking another stab at convincing Russet I wasn’t auctioning the Book of Nathan disk, I just shut up. Being falsely accused had its advantages. After all, I now had plenty of new information. For the time being, I decided to let Russet continue thinking I was behind the theft and sale of Le Campion’s CD.

  “Quia Vita wants to bring this to closure,” R
usset said. “I expect to hear from you tomorrow. Any delay beyond that would be ill-advised.”

  I watched Russet’s bowling-ball body disappear through the room’s narrow doorway. I let a few minutes pass before ungluing myself from my chair and making my way to the back door of the Nassau Club. En route, I passed four ancient men playing cribbage. They all looked near death, but I had a nagging feeling I’d be paying a visit to the pearly gates long before they would.

  Chapter 15

  A shallow, muddy stretch of the Raritan River is the divide between a suburb called Highland Park and New Brunswick.

  “Holy shit.”

  I shot Maurice a look of disapproval. He knew I had a thing about public profanity.

  “Sorry,” Maurice apologized. “But over there—I think that’s the—⁠” He stared into a thick Monday morning fog that lifted off the Raritan and made the Albany Street Bridge all but disappear.

  I followed Maurice’s eyes and got my first glimpse of a phallic-looking vehicle penetrating the dense wall of Monday morning river mist.

  I couldn’t stifle my own oath. “What the hell is that?”

  “I’ll tell you what it is. It’s the Wienermobile.”

  For some mysterious reason, Maurice was an expert on one of America’s most imaginative marketing inventions—the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile. I, on the other hand, knew nothing about the traveling hotdog and bun. Maurice gave me a quick tutorial while we hurried across Albany Street, a main drag that ran through the heart of New Brunswick. Until this unexpected diversion, we had been on our way to the Hyatt Hotel hoping to locate Yigal, whom I figured had to be taking full advantage of Twyla’s free room.

  “Oh,” Maurice gasped again as a gargantuan vehicle rolled into full view, a trail of dark gray smoke spewing out its back end.

  “Oh, oh, oh,” Maurice mumbled, grabbed me by my arm and began running toward the disabled conveyance. We were a bun length away when two men who may not have been old enough to buy beer climbed out.

  “Damn.” one of the men yelled and kicked the rear passenger-side tire.

  The other man was less distressed. He turned to Maurice and me who were now at his side.

  “Name’s Frank,” he said and stuck a hand at my belt buckle.

  I wondered if the kid was putting me on. “Frank?”

  “Yup.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “The junk heap’s been givin’ us trouble the last couple of days,” Frank explained.

  Maurice blinked a few times. “Is this . . . is this the Wienermobile?”

  “This thing?” Frank slapped the broken-down bun. “Nah. This is the Dubensko Kielbasavan.”

  “But it looks like—” Maurice moaned.

  “Yeah, I know—like the Wienermobile,” Frank broke in. “Get that all the time. Dubensko Polish Meat Products ripped off the idea and built this piece of crap to advertise its all-beef sausages. Oscar Mayer ain’t happy about it but so far that hasn’t kept this fat piece of kielbasa from travelin’ all over Jersey.”

  Maurice was too crestfallen to continue talking. I took up the slack. “So what happens now?” I asked with a gesture to the dormant sausage.

  “Well, we can’t drive it no more until it’s fixed. Know where we could park the thing?”

  I tried to find another sane-looking soul who might come up with a suggestion. Even though it was nine thirty in the morning and we were standing on one of New Brunswick’s busiest thoroughfares, there wasn’t a human in sight except Maurice.

  “Albany Street’s fairly flat,” I observed. “Might be able to push it back toward the river.”

  Frank cranked his head to the side. “Sweet. So we push the kielbasa backward into that side street over there.” He pointed to a road that ran parallel with the river. “Right?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “How about holdin’ up traffic?” Frank proposed to both Maurice and me. “You know, until we get on the side street.”

  “Will we get a whistle?” Maurice asked.

  The last time I recalled feeling I was in such a state of unreality was when I smoked hemp. “What are you talking about, Maurice?”

  “A whistle. The guys who drive the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile give away whistles that look like wieners. What about you? Got any whistles?”

  Frank turned to Maurice. “Yeah, man, we got whistles. Shaped like small sausages and ours come in different colors. Give you a handful if you want.”

  The revelation snapped Maurice out of his momentary depression. The Kielbasavan might not be the Wienermobile, but toss in a few whistles and it was close enough.

  A couple of minutes later, Frank, Maurice, and I were waving off inbound traffic while cranky driver number two jockeyed the Kielbasavan backward until it reached a side road called Johnson Drive.

  “This here road goes to that place, right?” Frank pointed to a gleaming white tower connected to a series of angular buildings resting on acres of manicured grass.

  “Seems to, yup,” I replied. To be honest, I had never before set foot on the road that led to the office complex.

  “So what is it?”

  “Johnson & Johnson.”

  “The baby powder company?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Frank seemed impressed. “This where they make the powder?”

  I was about to explain that this was Johnson & Johnson’s headquarters that made nothing but a lot of managers very, very comfortable.

  “They make tampons,” said Maurice, drawing this odd bit of knowledge from his undersized memory bank.

  “Really?” Frank was on the verge of pressing Maurice for more information when a city cop pulled alongside the Kielbasavan.

  “Get this thing out of the middle of the freakin’ road,” he yelled.

  Driver number two turned off the Kielbasavan’s engine and threw the key at the cop. The kid clearly had a problem with authority figures. “You want this thing off the freakin’ road? Then you move it!”

  The cop barreled out of his car. “Watch your smart-ass mouth, boy!”

  “Whoa!” Frank stepped between the two hotheads. “We’re not lookin’ for no trouble, Officer. We got a blown engine and this here thing can’t be moved until we get a tow.”

  The cop was too busy staring down the second sausage driver to hear much of what Frank was saying. The eyeball-to-eyeball standoff might have gone on for some time had it not been for another New Brunswick PD patrol car that had worked its way through a tangle of vehicles, choking Albany Street to a standstill.

  “Christ Almighty,” a cop with stripes on his arm shouted at the patrolman. “What the hell are you doin’? You let the city get tied up in knots because of this? I want this street clear—now!” He waved his arms at the snarled traffic. Cars and trucks were either stopped cold or slowing to check out the drama unfolding on the corner of Albany Street and Johnson Drive.

  “All right, goddamnit,” the junior cop relented. “I’ll call in a tow.”

  “Tow my ass,” the senior cop shouted back. “That’ll take another half hour. The road’s packed all the way to Edison. Since your car’s practically up the butt end of this thing, push the wiener or whatever the hell it is down Johnson Drive.”

  “It’s not a wiener,” Frank broke in. “It’s a Dubensko kielbasa.” Both cops gave Frank a killer look.

  The junior cop stormed to his city-owned Chevy, rammed it into gear, and slid the front bumper and hood under the back end of the Kielbasavan’s elongated bun. A perfect fit.

  “One of you boys get behind the wheel and steer,” the junior cop screeched at the two kielbasa drivers. Frank took up the passenger seat and driver two slipped behind the wheel. Once the Kielbasavan’s transmission was in neutral, junior cop gave the vehicle a whack and it made a slow turn onto Johnson Drive.

  “Where we goin’?” the driver with an attitude shouted at the senior cop who was now jogging alongside the kielbasa.

  The cop pointed to Johnson & J
ohnson’s main entrance. “The driveway up ahead. Turn left and park it there.”

  Junior cop gave the kielbasa enough momentum to navigate the turn into J&J’s property. The maneuver worked perfectly. The sausage and bun came to a stop about the same time a Johnson & Johnson security guard arrived on the scene.

  “What are you doin’? the guard screamed. “What are you doin’? What are you doin’?”

  The Kielbasavan had inserted itself into Johnson & Johnson’s sanctuary and the guard knew it was a nonconsensual act. No unauthorized vehicles were allowed to breach the boundaries of the corporation’s worldwide headquarters.

  “This here is staying put until we get a tow,” the senior cop informed the guard.

  “That’s not gonna happen!”

  “It’s already happened, bozo.”

  What little authority the guard had was fading fast. “Who said you could do this? Who said?”

  Frank pointed to me. “This man told us to take the side street and—”

  The guard cut off the explanation. “You,” he roared and glowered at me. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Just trying to help,” I explained. My mantra. As Doug said, “It’s what you do. If I weren’t planning to be cremated, the words would be etched on my tombstone.”

  “This can’t happen!” the guard insisted and unholstered a walkie-talkie to beep someone higher up the security chain. “They said to get it off the property!” he said a few seconds later, repeating an executive order from somewhere deep inside J&J’s command center.

  Whoever they were did nothing to intimidate the cop with the stripes. “It’s not goin’ back onto that goddamn street!” he bellowed back.

  The guard squawked into his radio one more time, but was clearly getting no help. Johnson & Johnson’s red-faced sentinel was on his own and the way he was sweating, dealing with a kielbasa wasn’t in his job description.

  “All right, all right!” the guard sputtered. “But you can’t leave it blocking the whole damn driveway.”

  “You got a better suggestion, genius?” the senior cop asked.

  “Pull it up more.”