As she stepped onto the tarmac, she spotted Ferguson at a stall about twenty yards ahead.
She did not acknowledge him. They had agreed he would make his own way to the restaurant, and keep an eye on it from a discreet distance. If he became concerned for any reason, he would investigate.
Ava walked in the opposite direction, breathing hard, not believing what had just happened.
What she had just left behind.
She made herself walk slowly. Whatever impression she had left with the Mexicans, she knew someone from the restaurant would still be watching her. Regardless of whether they bought her story – or whether they had concluded she was an imposter – they would now be taking a keen interest in who she was.
And that suited her just fine.
Whatever she had wanted when she entered the restaurant had just fallen way down her priority list.
The only thought in her mind now was that the names on the small piece of pottery – the nineteen short words – were enough to change the world.
Chapter 23
10b St James’s Gardens
Piccadilly
London SW1
England
The United Kingdom
“THE CHI-RHO is one of Christianity’s oldest symbols.”
Ava was sitting next to Ferguson on the sofa in her flat, re-drawing the shard of pottery she had seen at Borough Market onto a large piece of paper.
She was still trembling slightly, finding it hard to believe what she had seen.
“It’s called a Chi-Rho because it’s made up of the first two letters of the ancient Greek word Christos. The first is a chi,” she wrote the letter down:
“And the second is a rho.” She wrote it underneath the first:
“If you superimpose them, you get the Chi-Rho monogram, which the early Christians adopted as a symbol. People often think they’re an X and a P, but they’re not.” She wrote another word:
“We say ‘Xmas’ for Christmas, but it’s actually a Greek chi, short for Christos. In other words, Christ’s mass.”
“The Chi-Rho is often linked to the pagan Roman Emperor Constantine.” She was starting to relax as the adrenaline from the restaurant ebbed away. It was good to talk it through. “It’s said that in AD 312 he saw it in the sky, along with the words ‘en touto nika’, or ‘in this, conquer’. So he had the sign painted on his men’s shields before going out to win the crucial battle of the Milvian Bridge. In gratitude, he converted to Christianity, became the first Christian Roman emperor, and allowed Christians to practice their religion without persecution across the Empire. As a result, the Chi-Rho became a symbol of imperial Roman Christianity. You still see it all over churches.”
Ferguson nodded.
“But actually,” she continued, “it’s far older than Constantine. Long before Jesus, Greek scholars used it in the borders of manuscripts to mark passages they liked. For them, the chi and rho were the first letters of the very similar word chrestos, meaning ‘good’.”
“And how old was the pottery you saw it on today?” Ferguson pointed to the drawing Ava had completed while talking.
She had not yet told him what she thought the pottery shard actually was.
It seemed so implausible.
She still could not quite believe it.
“These things are notoriously difficult to place,” she hedged. “You have to look at the shape of the letters and the spellings, because they all change over time.”
“And what do you reckon?” He tapped the spiky letters she had drawn in Aramaic around the Chi-Rho, just as she had seen them at Los Tres Toros.
“It dates to the first century,” she answered softly. “Which means it’s the language of Jesus, his disciples, and his earliest followers.”
Ferguson looked impressed. “I assume that means it’s pretty rare?”
“Not just rare.” She paused. “Totally unique. One of the most important biblical artefacts ever found.”
She stood up and walked to the window, feeling a fresh wave of excitement. “If it’s what I think it is, it’s the earliest known reference to the story of Jesus.”
“But what about the Bible?” Ferguson looked unconvinced. “That’s pretty early, isn’t it?”
Ava smiled. This was always a fun topic. “That depends. If you want physical manuscripts of the books in the Bible, the oldest surviving fragment of the New Testament is a tiny scrap of the Gospel of Saint John, about as big as a credit card, kept a couple of hours from here, up in Manchester. It dates from AD 100 to 200, which is a long time after the traditional date of the crucifixion in AD 33. The earliest whole gospels date from the AD 200s. And the first full New Testaments start around the AD 300s. So they’re all pretty late, and all of them were written in Greek, which was the language of educated people in the Roman Empire.” She paused. “Not only is the pottery I saw today from the century Jesus lived, it’s also in Aramaic, his own language.”
Ferguson’s eyes widened. “Go on.”
She was almost afraid to say the words. “It’s a list of the twelve apostles.”
Ferguson frowned. “What’s so special about that? Everyone knows who they are.”
Ava walked back to the sofa and sat down next to him. “They don’t tell you this in religious studies lessons at school, but the different books in the Bible don’t actually agree on the names of the twelve apostles. There are differences, and there are more than twelve.”
“Seriously?” He looked incredulous. “How come people don’t know this stuff?”
She shrugged. “It’s all there for anyone who looks. If you count them up, you’ll quickly find the problem.”
She leant over to the shelves behind her and pulled down a large white hardback book. She flicked through it for a moment, running her finger down the pages. “Here we are. One: Simon Peter, the first pope. Two: Andrew, who some say was his brother. Three and four: James and John, the sons of Zebedee – John being the beloved disciple who may or may not have written the Gospel of John, the Letters of John, and the Apocalypse. Five: Philip. Six: Bartholomew. Seven: Nathaniel, who some people say was the same as Bartholomew, but there’s no real evidence for that. Eight: Thomas the twin, also called Doubting Thomas. Nine: Matthew the tax collector. Ten: James, son of Alphaeus. Eleven: Judas – often called Jude – son of James. Twelve: Thaddeus, who some say was the same as Jude, but again there’s no real evidence for that, apart from wanting to trim down the number of apostles to twelve. Thirteen: Simon the Canaanite. Fourteen: Judas Iscariot.” She closed the book. “If you add in Matthias, who was chosen to replace Judas Iscariot after the crucifixion, you get fifteen.”
Ferguson sat back in his chair. “Well that rather messes up the numerology, doesn’t it? I thought there were twelve apostles for the twelve tribes, signs of the zodiac, hours of the day and night, and so on?”
She nodded, feeling a burst of excitement again. “But the pottery has something else, far bigger than a definitive list of the twelve. And it’s going to create a serious storm.”
“Don’t tell me, one of them was a woman?” Ferguson smiled.
Ava shook her head. “More radical than that – we already know there were women in his group.” She pointed to one of the names. “This apostle is traditionally called Simon the Canaanite. But there’s always been a problem, because the Greek word people translate as Canaanite is actually nothing to do with the place called Canaan, which is spelled differently and had ceased to exist centuries earlier. It’s long been thought that the word might be linked to the Aramaic word for Zealot. In fact, elsewhere in the Bible, he’s explicitly called Zelotes in Greek, which is pretty unambiguous. The theory goes that some early Christians didn’t like the idea he was a Zealot, so played with the words and implied he was from Canaan instead. As nothing about the Bible is ever agreed by everyone, the debate has never been resolved.”
She tapped the name on the drawing, and looked at Ferguson, her eyes shining. “But one reason why that
pottery is going to change the world is that we’ve now got the name – for the first time ever – written in the original Aramaic. And it gives a clear answer.”
Ferguson looked down at the word Ava was pointing at.
“It’s Qan’ana’,” she announced, “which means – beyond a shadow of a doubt – that Simon was not from Canaan, but was a full-blooded Zealot, with a capital Z.”
“So he was a bit keen.” Ferguson shrugged. “Why’s that such a big deal?”
“Well, obviously…” she began, but then stopped herself. She forgot sometimes that other people did not live and breathe the ancient societies of the Middle East. There was no reason why he should have the first clue about its significance.
She leaned forward. “It doesn’t mean keen. The Zealots were an armed Jewish rebel group, rabidly opposed to the Roman military occupation of their country. When Jesus was a child, they became a serious problem in Judaea, especially around Jerusalem, where they had a reputation for violent insurgency.”
“Terrorism?” He looked surprised. “Back then?”
She shrugged. “Terrorism’s a modern word. It’s hard to apply it to ancient societies. But they killed and intimidated in order to change the politics of the region and force the Romans out.”
“I’d call that terrorism.” Ferguson sat back. “Textbook definition. And you’re telling me that one of Jesus’s followers was a member of this insurgency?”
Ava took a red marker pen and circled Simon the Zealot’s name. Then she moved to the next group of names, and circled another one.
“Not quite,” she smiled. “There were two.”
Ferguson stared at her in disbelief.
She tapped the name she had just circled. “Judas Iscariot as well.”
“But Iscariot sounds nothing like qan’ana’,” he protested.
“No,” she conceded, “but his name also has a disputed meaning. The Biblical Greek says Iscariotes or Iscarioth. It’s said to come from Ish Kerioth, meaning man from Kerioth. But for a long time there’s been a theory that it’s a veiled reference to a Jewish group known as the Siqarin in Aramaic or the Sicarii in Latin. The name comes from the Latin word sicae, meaning dagger.”
“Go on.” Ferguson was listening eagerly.
“The whole Zealot movement was into violence,” she continued. “But there was an inner group called the dagger-men. They had a reputation for mingling in crowds, especially at festivals, and for pulling daggers from under their cloaks to assassinate Romans and Jewish collaborators.”
“Occupation’s never pretty,” Ferguson muttered.
“The point is,” Ava continued, “people have claimed that Iscariot means dagger-man. Words in Arabic, Hebrew and Aramaic are all based on three-consonant patterns, and they say that Iscariot is derived from SCR, as is siqari’.”
Ferguson leant in. “So what does the original Aramaic on the pottery say?”
“Yehuda Siqari’,” she answered quietly. “Which means,” she paused, “it would appear that Judas was a political assassin.”
The doorbell rang.
Ava frowned as the interruption broke her train of thought.
Standing up, she walked into the hall, and looked through the front door’s small circular spyhole.
There was a white courier delivery van parked outside, and a large man in a worn blue FedEx uniform on the doorstep.
On her guard now, her eyes swept the road for other vehicles or activity.
Would they try again so soon?
The man put his hand slowly into his jacket pocket. She tensed immediately, straining to make out the shape of the object he was reaching for.
As she watched, he brought out a battered packet of chewing gum, and placed a small piece into his mouth, all the while trying not to drop the cardboard package and grey electronic tracking unit he was holding.
She watched him closely, noting that he looked severely out of breath from the simple effort of getting a sugar fix. If this was a hit, then he was the most out-of-shape and unlikely-looking assassin she had ever seen.
She relaxed, pulled the door open, signed for the package, and brought it indoors.
“Anything interesting?” Ferguson looked up.
“From Israel,” she read the label out. “Tel Aviv.”
She turned the package over in her hands, uncertain about it. “Museum mail always goes to the Museum. I don’t use this address.”
“Aren’t you going to open it?” He walked over to join her at the table.
She weighed the parcel in her hands. “It’s too heavy for papers.”
“I doubt a letter bomber is going to use FedEx.” He reached for the large envelope. “I’ll do it if you want.”
She shook her head and grabbed the slim perforated cardboard tab. She pulled, tearing off the detachable strip.
Putting her hand into the envelope, she felt something cold and smooth. Tipping it out, a brand new black touchscreen tablet slid out onto the table.
“Israeli electronics?” He looked over her shoulder, shaking his head. “Late night internet shopping? Unmissable deal?”
She turned it over for any indication who had sent it. Or why. But there was nothing. Just a small maker’s mark in Hebrew.
Holding down the power button, she watched for a few moments as the screen came to life, glowing a lighter shade of black. An instant later, one small word appeared starkly in bright green:
PASSWORD
“Go on, then,” Ferguson encouraged. “MASTER, LORD, 123456, QWERTY, STARWARS – try all the usual ones.”
She shook her head. “We’re not guessing someone else’s password. This was sent to me. For me.” She paused. “It’s going to be something they think I’ll use.”
She looked down at the screen and began typing:
BAGHDAD
Nothing. The screen remained unchanged.
“How well do they know me?” she muttered, trying again:
GILGAMESH
Still nothing.
She paused, then typed again:
IRON MAIDEN
“Seriously?” Ferguson raised an eyebrow. “I’d never have guessed.”
“Well, now you know.” She pushed the hair out of her face as she started typing again.
“Here,” Ferguson leaned over, “let me have a go”. He typed three letters:
AVA
Immediately, the screen dissolved, and a new instruction appeared.
WESTPHALIAN CASTLE YOU VISITED RECENTLY
Ava glanced up sharply at Ferguson.
No one knew about that.
Well. Very few people. And two of them were standing looking at the screen.
“Is this from you?” she asked.
Ferguson shook his head.
She had only been to one German castle recently. It had been with Ferguson, and it was not something she wanted to remember in a hurry.
She quickly typed a single word:
WEWELSBURG
The screen changed again to display a black home page with just one icon – the familiar stylized white and blue ‘S’ logo of Skype.
She tapped it, and the app quickly opened into an address book, disclosing just one contact:
CALEB
As she processed the name, the pieces of the puzzle clicked neatly into place.
There were a limited number of people who knew what had happened at Wewelsburg. And as far as she knew, only one of them had any connection to Tel Aviv.
Besides that, the name Caleb was not exactly subtle.
There were many Calebs in the world, but they were all named after a man in the Bible, in the ancient Hebrew book originally called In the Wilderness, but better known as Numbers, from its numbering of the twelve tribes of Israel. In it, Caleb was a Hebrew spy sent by Moses to reconnoitre the Promised Land, to report on how many Canaanites lived there, and to assess how best they could be conquered.
“What does he want?” she asked Ferguson.
“Caleb?” He frowned.<
br />
She shook her head. “Uri.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she tapped the Video Call button.
A VPN connection flashed up, then it switched to video camera mode as the call opened and the screen filled with the real-time image of a man in a slate-grey t-shirt sitting at a desk in a hotel room. He was athletic, with short dirty-blond hair. Beside him, she could see a wire trailing from a large grey satellite telephone towards what she imagined was his laptop.
She breathed in deeply.
Uri was an assassin. That was his job. The only reason he was not in a prison somewhere was that he killed for the State of Israel as part of Mossad’s elite Metsada division.
“You’ve hit the radar of some senior people here at the Institute,” he began.
“Nice to see you, too,” she replied, with no warmth in her voice.
“The file on you here is growing.” His tone was business-like.
“Haven’t you got anything better to do?” She did not have time for games. If he was trying to intimidate her, it was not working.
There was nothing new in intelligence agencies collecting data on the staff of other agencies. She assumed her time in MI6, and her subsequent extensive work in the Middle East, meant she featured on any number of classified databases in the region.
“Whatever you’re doing,” he answered blankly, “is not my area. I don’t do desk work.” He paused. “But I’ve been tasked to deal with you.”
She was starting to get angry now.
He had a nerve.
“Deal with me?” She was not some schoolchild.
He shrugged dismissively. “The point is – you’re upsetting senior people.”
She thought back to the ancient Aramaic shard of pottery she had been holding several hours earlier.
The Apocalypse Fire (Ava Curzon Trilogy Book 2) Page 16