“You want me to answer that?”
“Yes.”
“Matthew, Mark, and Luke.”
“Yes,” said Jim, smiling. “I’ve heard of the Gospels.”
“Not the way I have. May I go now?” said Sharon.
“Yes, and thank you.”
At the door she remembered something. The bones were now exposed to fresh air since the clay bricks had been broken through. The bones should be coated with polyvinyl to protect them. This would not only stop deterioration but would keep the bones in place if the coat was thick enough. She owed it to the dig to mention it. The bones, after all, were almost two thousand years old, and very fragile.
“Jim, I think there is something you should do right now.”
“Thank you, Sharon, I have my own schedule.”
“Well, all right,” she said. And left the office wanting to cry.
8
The Proof of Christ
Autumn heat stole moisture from the body in that part of the world. Jim Folan had been warned to drink more than he thought he needed, and rest at midday.
At noon, however, Jim set out for the apostolic delegate’s on the Mount of Olives, just beyond the Old City walls. It was a walk of several miles from the House of Isaiah on Agron Street.
His body did not want to move, and his legs dragged, and Jim Folan felt good about the strain. He had reasoned that if he pushed himself now in the heat, and suffered now, he would be able to function better in Jerusalem after the hard conditioning period.
Everything for him had required struggle before he succeeded. This would be no different, no matter how immense. He was like a little child again, he realized, making a deal with God—“If I suffer, therefore You have got to help me.”
But there was something else to pushing himself in the noon heat. This he could do. He could make his legs move. He could force himself to keep going. That was the one thing he could control.
As he reached Mamila Street, at the northwest corner of Suleiman’s walls, he could see brown and white bare walls beyond the distant Mount of Olives. That was the wilderness. When the Bible said Jesus went to the wilderness, it meant just that. There was no abbreviation of time there for a reader to imagine a long trip on a donkey. You walked out into the wilderness like a hike to the suburbs.
A man could fast out there for forty days because the wilderness was not a forest, which was a common misconception, but rather incredibly desolate desert hills. The word Zion itself meant “wall against the desert.”
Did Father Lavelle used to go out there by himself? Jim wondered.
His evening examination had uncovered lately that he really resented Father Lavelle for not disproving the find immediately, for not being the Church that Jim Folan’s mother had told him would always protect him. He felt Lavelle had failed not only himself but also his Church and ultimately Jim. And while Jim Folan knew better intellectually, did not believe this, it was something he had to acknowledge he felt to be at peace with himself and his God.
It also allowed him to more fully feel the compassion poor Father Lavelle so deserved. And that was good.
Jim tramped along in his pain, remembering boot training as a Marine. Well, he was a soldier of Christ, and soldiers had to know how to endure pain. At the end of the Old City walls he reached the Kidron Valley, the other side of which was the Mount of Olives. It was hot and his mouth was dry. He could see to his left a large black stone church, which looked dark with time. A sign along the road explained it was the church that marked the spot from which Mary was traditionally believed to have been assumed into heaven. On the right was a magnificent church with a grand mural, surrounded by a large garden of very old, gnarled olive trees.
Jim glanced at his little hand-sized map. That was the street he had to walk up to reach the delegate’s residence. The map also explained what the olive trees meant. The church and the trees were the Garden of Gethsemane, now looked after by Franciscans.
He could have rested by the walls of the garden, but he chose to push on up the hill. Gethsemane meant “olive press” in Hebrew, and Jim could hear in his imagination the stone press grinding olive and pit, Geth-Sem-Manee, Geth-Sem-Manee, round and round, stone against stone, crushing pit and meat, round and round Geth-Sem-Manee.
There was the cave to his right where Jesus and the apostles stayed before entering Jerusalem on that Passover which would become Easter forever after. Jim pushed on, the sweat now profuse upon his brow, his shirt wet at the arms and back, his breathing a rasping pain, his throat and mouth dry.
When he reached the cool stone-roof vaults of the apostolic delegate’s residence, people were running around to get him cool drinks, and Jim realized what a fool he had been. They wouldn’t let him move from his chair, and the apostolic delegate himself, a Canadian monsignor, brought him a water-soaked towel and a shirt of his own.
The whole walk in the noon heat had been a grandiloquent, self-centered exhibition for his own relief because he couldn’t take the emotional pressure. Not the least of which came from that hostile Israeli archaeologist who had every right to be angry with him, and whom he didn’t want to be angry with him. Some examens didn’t need preparatory prayer—they hit you in the face. The truth was either hidden or flagrant. Somehow it was never reasonably observant.
“Thank you, thank you. I’m all right. I did a foolish thing. I’m not used to the weather, and I walked several miles in the noon heat,” said Jim.
“Why did you do that?” asked the monsignor.
“Sometimes, I am not too bright,” said Jim, getting a grapefruit and carbonated water drink that was more quenching than anything he had ever tasted.
Bougainvilleas flourished along the yellow limestone walls, kept immaculate by Arab gardeners.
He drank several grapefruit and soda drinks, and realized the delegate himself was not the man he wanted. The monsignor, of course, would do everything in his power to assist, as per his Lord Cardinal Pesci’s instructions, and, of course, exert maximum discretion in all matters relating to Father Folan, officially an American citizen traveling on an American passport.
What the monsignor had to offer, however, was his assistant, a British priest named Father Walter Winstead, who handled all communications, courier and coded telex, and the delegate’s funds. Father Winstead had one problem, the monsignor warned Jim:
“He has a curiosity that tends to get the better of him.”
“Thank you for telling me, Monsignor,” said Jim.
Father Winstead’s office was a bright, window-lit room with immaculate red tiles on the floor and a counter separating Father Winstead from the world. Behind him was a room with dark machines and a sign in English, French, and Arabic saying that no one should enter.
Father Winstead was a pale man with thin, bony fingers and very dark eyes that gave Jim the impression the man would love nothing more to do with this American Jesuit visitor than to file him, probably under “American Jesuit Visitor.”
He wore a black cassock, and was very young. He had $500 he had been ordered to release from Cardinal Pesci’s office to Jim, at Jim’s request early this morning by phone to Father Winstead’s office.
“I am the one you spoke to. I am Father Winstead. You must be Pesci’s nephew. I’ve never seen funds authorized so quickly.”
The $500 was more than Jim had held in his hands since he had been a Marine. His own Jesuit allowance was less than $20 a week for personal expenses in one of the more costly American cities.
“It’s all here,” said Jim. “Thank you.”
“It certainly is. We couldn’t get that much so quickly if it were for the Second Coming. Money is so tight nowadays. The Church is in a financial bind today that it hasn’t been in since before the Second World War. It’s awful. I see you have an open-ended authorization from the Secretary of State for funds.”
“I think I had been told that, yes,” said Jim.
“Of course if something is important, that impor
tant, then it is worth it,” said Father Winstead.
He nodded to the room with the dark machines. “That’s the code room,” said Father Winstead. “We can send your messages directly to His Eminence in code if you wish.”
“Thank you,” said Jim. “I’ll remember that.”
“Although, frankly, anybody who cared probably could break our code with a pencil and a half hour’s experience,” said the priest. “I don’t know where Pesci thinks we’re operating, as though we are surrounded only by Jewish peddlers and Arab goatherds. This is a major event around here. These people are tops. When the Egyptians and the Israelis fought in the Sinai, it was the second largest tank battle in all history. The Israelis have more tanks than NATO. Did you know that?”
“No,” said Jim.
“And the Arabs have more tanks than the Israelis,” said Father Winstead. “You know the monsignor said to me the other day after a delayed transmission, he said, ‘Who do you think might be listening in on us?’”
Jim waited politely for Father Winstead to answer himself.
“I told the good monsignor, ‘Whoever wants to. Whoever wants to.’ And they wouldn’t have to delay our transmissions either. They could get them in milliseconds. So he said, ‘Why not change the code?’ And do you know what I answered?”
“No,” said Jim.
“I said, ‘Why bother? There is nothing I am going to come up with that they are not going to have broken immediately. I’d spend five days on a new code, and they’d spend five minutes breaking it. Not to mention the Russians.’”
“The Russians. Where do the Russians come in?”
“You have to assume the Russians, you just do.”
“So you don’t know for sure. It is an assumption.”
Father Winstead chuckled. “As sure as anyone can be, we are sure.”
“I guess you picked up something,” said Jim.
“If that would help you in your purpose, I would tell you,” said Father Winstead. “However, I don’t have the least idea what you’re about.”
“Right,” said Jim.
“I am not at liberty to let you know how we know, but I can tell you you are looking at the whole Vatican communications complex for the most crucial area of the Middle East.”
Jim smiled.
“Someone else known to be very good at these things let us know.”
“The Israelis?”
“Officially, we have no official contact with the Israeli government. However, we are very, very busy with many Israeli citizens who happen to hold government posts.”
“I would think that you would get more equipment,” said Jim.
“More equipment? I wouldn’t have time to use it. Between 4:30 and 5 P.M. I transmit, taking on the best in the entire world. Do you know where we have the most sophisticated code equipment, Father?”
Jim shook his head.
“Between the Vatican and Castel Gandolfo in that crucial war-strained area of central Italy connecting His Holiness’ winter residence with his summer one. Do you know why I am sure we are God’s Church? Do you know why?”
Jim smiled. He sensed what was coming.
“Because,” said Father Winstead, “there is no other reason for our survival. None.”
“Is this Russian thing recent? Stepped up or what?”
“You haven’t shown me your laundry, Father,” said Winstead.
“I can’t trade. I’m sorry. But your information could help this thing I am on. Although I don’t see how for sure. It’s something that would be good for me and the Church to know.”
Father Winstead shrugged, and Jim guessed that, like most good gossips, he enjoyed the giving as much as the receiving.
“Well, the Russians are always around, in a way, but about two weeks ago we were informed there was some increased form of Russian monitor on us. For what reason, I don’t know.”
“Are you sure it is Russian, not Arab?”
“These people who told us know the difference.”
“I see,” said Jim. “Do you know why?”
“They didn’t say.”
“The Israelis?”
“Who else?” said Father Winstead. He disappeared into another room and had Jim sign for two briefcases with the seal of the Secretary of State on them. Jim signed, but before he left the delegate’s residence he broke Pesci’s seal on both briefcases to make sure they were not empty. It was a mistake because inside one of the briefcases was still another case, and this one had a seal that sent more electric curiosity through Father Winstead than it seemed his dark eyes could handle.
“The papal seal,” said Father Winstead. “Are you here for the Pope?”
“C’mon, Father,” said Jim, closing both briefcases.
“You are, aren’t you?” said Father Winstead.
“Thank you for the money,” said Jim Folan, and took a ride from the delegate’s chauffeur back to Isaiah House and the room once occupied by Father Lavelle. As Jim had suspected, the papal seal covered a report on the Shroud of Turin. The Church had looked into it. And had decided to keep it quiet. The old Belgian priest was right.
Father Lavelle’s room overlooked a courtyard of eucalyptus and almond trees, and gravel walks between beds of flowers. To the right was the American Embassy for the old Israeli side of Jerusalem. To the left was an order of Arab nuns, devoted especially to the Rosary.
Most of Father Lavelle’s books were in French. Jim interspersed his own notes into Father Lavelle’s books. It was either this or rent giant safes and attract attention.
The Dominican brothers at Isaiah House welcomed a priest to say Mass for them, and did not ask too many questions, except about Father Lavelle himself. On that Jim used a mental reservation, saying he saw him in Rome and that he was still there.
Father Folan did not like these mental reservations. They were supposed to be in lieu of lies, but he had always felt that, if you meant to misinform, even using the truth was a lie. It was the Vatican Secretary of State’s province, however, to announce the suicide, not Jim’s.
The chapel in Isaiah House contained no statuary, just a giant missal in the center, where a crucifix ordinarily was. It reminded Jim of how the first Christians must have prayed, but he understood that this lack of statuary was in deference to both Muslim and Jew, who would feel uncomfortable in the normal Catholic Church. Statues and icons and incense came from the countries Christianity settled in, letting the local people use their own forms of prayer. In fact, the Latin used for so many centuries in the Mass was actually Vulgate Latin, or the Latin of the streets, used originally so that the common people could understand it. There was a story about a Catholic priest who, when ordered to use the common Latin of the streets in Rome, would wash his mouth out after every Mass.
In his first Mass in Jerusalem, Jim had prayed for Father Lavelle. His second, for his mission. And his third he offered up for himself.
A later message from Cardinal Pesci said any positive word would be appreciated, and that had to mean disproof. It also meant that the Pope himself wanted speed because Pesci had already come out for as much delay as Jim wanted.
In a way, this relieved Father Folan of a decision. Reasonable speed, he had discovered right away, required the help of Mendel Hirsch to cut through the Israeli bureaucracy. Hirsch had what was called “Vitamin P,” or “Protecksia.” It gave certain clerks and administrators that special impetus to do their jobs the way they were supposed to. Helpfulness seemed to be random. In one department he might have people running all over themselves to help him. In another, he could have been stricken with a heart attack and no one would have called an ambulance until he was sure it was his place in line.
The cure for all of this, to make service uniformly good, was Mendel Hirsch, who loved running interference for the representative of His Lord Eminence, Almeto Cardinal Pesci. Jim would have preferred to keep the Israeli government out as much as he could.
He had already planned to recruit his own patholog
ist, geologist, technicians for the tests, and, most of all, his own archaeologist. As much as possible, they would know as little as possible.
But in this phase of the investigation, Hirsch was a necessity. He forced the woman in the Department of Antiquities to get the exact slip prohibiting Nasir Hamid from building his basement until it was archaeologically excavated.
And then he made her get immediately the slips that came before and the slip that came after, something she had argued about but succumbed to. Jim never could have gotten that by himself.
Jim had seen some rough red gum marks on top of the authorizing slip, which meant it had come from a pad. Therefore, the one before should have left a writing imprint on Nasir Hamid’s prohibition, and his on the one after.
Jim held each up to the light. They matched.
If there were some kind of fraud, it was in just this sort of thing that it would show up, because then the slip would probably have been very carefully prepared in some office.
“It is a routine assigned dig,” said the woman angrily. But this was not quite so. Jim knew that any Israeli official being asked about this had to report who asked. Mendel had told him this was done as a precaution for His Eminence Cardinal Pesci.
“Who wrote out this slip?”
“I did. I do them all,” said the woman. She was not happy being pressured by Mendel.
“What did you eat that day?”
“Did I spill something?”
“No,” said Jim.
“As a matter of fact, it was a morning, and I had a tomato salad,” said the woman. There were more questions about the weather and what people wore that day. Jim got just the right mix of accuracy and confusion and contradictions that smelled of truth.
“Okay,” said Jim to the woman. “Now we’ve got this piece of mosaic, floor you say. And you said it was before 430 C.E. because it had a cross on it, and after that date Emperor Theodosius, Byzantine, said the cross is too holy to walk on. Right?”
The woman nodded.
“Well, I’m wondering why the laborer brought the tile to Tabinian in the first place.”
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