by Gregg Loomis
The Coptic Secret
In Memoriam: Lenora Holloman. I've lost my most ardent reader.
Prologue
I.
The Vatican
August 1510
Father Simon had found the key.
Well, if not exactly "found," borrowed, taken without its owner's knowledge long enough to have it copied. A very expensive process.
Another reason to suspect this man Buonarroti.
Why would an artisan, a mere artist, be entitled to such an elaborate key to his room? The Holy Father had granted other workmen laboring on the new St. Peter's Basilica lodging here at the Vatican. But none had such a costly key if they had one at all.
What need did carpenters, stonemasons and the like have to lock their rooms, anyway? Such simple men had perhaps an extra shirt and a sheepskin to shelter them from the weather, hardly anything worth locking away.
Buonarroti was different.
Five years earlier, he had fled his small studio behind the Piazza Rusticucci, hardly one of Rome's more prestigious neighborhoods, for Florence. Only the command of Pope Julius II and a heated written exchange brought him back to finish the business.
From his return to Rome to the present, il papa had granted the man special privilege.
First, Buonarroti's experience was as a sculptor, not a painter.
Second, the man had a foul disposition. Years ago, as a mere apprentice, had he not quarreled with his master, the well-known Ghirlandaio? Even now, he had nothing but harsh words to say about the widely popular Raphael, the architect of the entire rebuilding program. And his shouting arguments with the pope himself were common scandal.
Admittedly, Julius's temper was legendary. At any one time, half the Vatican staff exhibited scars and bruises from His Holiness's cane. So how could he not punish a mere artisan for literally throwing timbers from the chapel's scaffolding at God's anointed pope himself?
Then there was the matter of Buonarroti's piety, or lack thereof. The man attributed his admitted talent not to a bountiful God but to the alignment of planets on the day of his birth some thirty-eight years ago. More pagan than Christian. And there was always the feeling the man knew more than he was telling, that he had some special knowledge gained from sources other than the church's interpretation of the Holy Scriptures, an illicit source that caused him to sneer at church doctrine. Had he not been essential to Julius's plans, the Inquisition might have taken an interest in him.
For all of these reasons Father Simon had become suspicious and sought a duplicate key.
As a member of the Fabbrica di San Pietro, essentially the Vatican's housekeeping organization, no one would think it unusual to see Father Simon in the upper-floor halls of the east wing of the basilica, where many of the workmen were housed. It would not be strange should someone see him doing his job of inspecting the various living quarters.
Still, he paused outside the room, trying to probe the shadows of the corridor, a hallway largely sheltered from the fierce sun of a Roman summer. Once he was certain no one was in this part of the hallway, he inserted the key, fumbled for a moment and pushed the door open.
At first he saw nothing unusual. A bed across from a small fireplace. At the foot was an oak chest, locked and bound in brass, no doubt to hold the ten ducats a month, the outrageous pay this man had demanded from His Holiness. A rough chair, a table littered with brushes, paint pots and pestles in which to grind pigment.
Then he stopped, unsure of what he was looking at. Figures, forms that...
Father Simon felt the back of his neck prickle. Surely he was not seeing what he thought.
Surely.
If so, this man was a heretic at best, a demon at worst.
This man who called himself only by his first name: Michelangelo.
II.
Jabal al-Tarif
Near Nag Hammaddi
Upper Egypt
December 1945
Muhammad Alf al-Salman and his brother Hassam Mustafa wanted revenge. Not only did family honor demand it, their grief at the murder of their father had become a hatred simmering like hot coals.
But first the sabakh, the soft soil used to fertilize the crops, make them grow in the dry, barren sand. They had ridden the two old camels out here to the mountain where they were using mattocks to dig around a boulder.
The daggerlike blade of Hassam's pick hit something harder than soil but substantially softer than rock. Both men knelt to use their hands to scoop away the surrounding dirt until they uncovered the neck of what looked like a large earthenware jar,
Hassam made a futile attempt to wipe the dust from his beard. "Perhaps, brother, Allah has smiled upon us. Perhaps there is treasure inside. Else why would someone hide it here at the base of the mountain?"
Muhammad sat back on his haunches. As the older of the two, he made the important decisions. "Just as likely a jinn lives inside."
Ever since childhood, both men had heard stories about the evil spirits that had been captured by heros of old and confined to jars. Those foolish enough to let the malevolent creatures escape had usually lived to regret it.
Hassam pointed a jagged, dirt-encrusted fingernail at a spot just below the neck of the vessel. "But see, older brother, there is a crack. A jinn could have easily gotten out long ago."
Muhammad thought about this. More likely treasure than a jinn. Standing, he used his mattock to break open the jar.
It was instantly obvious the thing contained neither genie nor treasure. Instead, there were thirteen leather packets. Hope of instant riches quickly fading, the two men unwrapped each to find a number of crumbling papyrus books.
"I cannot read them," Hassam said, staring at the incomprehensible writing only dimly visible.
"Of course not," Muhammad snorted. "You cannot read."
"But these marks are unlike the writing I see in the marketplace. They must be in another language."
Muhammad glanced over his shoulder, seeing nothing but the familiar rolling dunes and craggy mountains. "They are old, very old."
"Perhaps their very age gives them value."
"Such old things are forbidden to keep."
Both men had heard stories of their fellow bedouins who had found objects of great age and, supposedly, greater value, only to have them confiscated before the finder could seek a sale to an antiquities dealer in Cairo.
Hassam grinned, showing as many empty sockets as teeth. "Forbidden only if the government knows."
Silently, the two began to fill the sleeves of their billowing robes with the codices.
Chapter One
I.
The British Museum
Bloomsbury
Great Russell Street
London
1842 Hours
Present Day
Langford Reilly was thankful his friend Jacob had insisted he buy a tuxedo for the occasion. From the cab's window, he could see that even a tailored business suit would leave him woefully underdressed. Every man was formally attired. Haute couture dictated the women's gowns. Dior, Chanel, Valentino and smaller houses were well represented in one-off garments that, along with the accompanying jewelry, represented the price of the average home.
All of the guests were invitees to what might be the venerable institution's premier event of the young century. Lang even thought he recognized the faces of a couple of film or television stars whose names he could not recall if, in fact, he had ever known them.
That was the thing about the glitterati: They came and went so fast, it seemed pointless to bother with names. Stardom, trouble with the law or the Politically Correct Police, rehab, cover of People magazine, descent to the front page of the tabloids and obscurity. The journey was as swift as it was predictabl
e.
And it made way for new, heretofore unknown celebrities.
Climbing out of the taxi, Lang stopped and stood erect. The classical facade of the world's oldest public museum only hinted at the treasures inside. For years he had promised himself a full day to explore the museum's timeless riches rather than the few hurried hours he had stolen from periodic business trips to London.
There was a gentle push at his back. "Along with you, now, 'r we'll be missing the sodding presentation."
Lang turned, grinning. "Don't worry, they won't run out of champagne or caviar for hours, presentation or not."
Behind him was Jacob Annulewitz, barrister, longtime friend, confidant.
And former Mossad operative.
Son of Holocaust victims, Jacob had emigrated to Israel, serving his military obligation in the intelligence agency where he had met Lang here in London. Though a number of the foreign services were aware of Jacob's connection, few knew his actual specialty: explosives. With equal skill and equanimity, he could disarm a ticking time bomb or build a device that could blow someone's head off without spoiling his necktie.
Jacob returned the smile, a hint of mischief in it. "You're sure of that, are you?"
Lang reacted back to pull Jacob abreast so the two could make their way through the tide of visitors entering the museum. "That's what Eon told me, anyway."
Eon.
Sir Eon Weatherston-Wilby, entrepreneur, investor and multibillionaire who had evaded England's near confiscatory taxes by making his fortune in more business-friendly climates. He headed a number of charitable institutions. In addition to his law practice, Lang ran a single nonprofit institution funded by arguably the world's wealthiest, though least known, corporation. The limited number of self- sustaining philanthropic institutions ensured the two men would meet. They had become mutually admiring acquaintances if not fast friends.
Jacob shook off Lang's hand and straightened his cummerbund. "He's the chap that should know. It's all his show tonight. But exactly what are we going to see?"
Lang stepped around a small man in tux jacket and kilts who was holding the hand of a woman wearing some sort of expensive fur. Not even the jacket concealed several strands of diamond necklace. The effect was like a fuzzy Christmas tree.
"Some of the missing Nag Hammaddi Library."
Jacob's immediate disinterest was apparent. "Bloody hell! You mean I got all frocked out to see something I can't even read just to rub elbows with a bunch of toffs? Besides, I can't imagine them looking like anything other than the bloody photographs I've already seen."
Lang stopped at the door to display an engraved invitation to an uniformed guard.
"You're thinking of the Dead Sea Scrolls."
"There's a difference?"
They entered the Great Court. Covered by a dome, it was London's first indoor public square.
"The Dead Sea Scrolls were scraps of parchment found in caves above Khirbet Qumran between 1947 and 1955. As far as is known, all wound up eventually at Hebrew University or Jordan's Palestine Archaeological Museum. Political and academic rivalries kept them from the public for decades."
Jacob snorted. "Cheeky academics! You'd think they'd want to disseminate knowledge, not fight over it like two sodding hounds with a single bone."
The observation was consistent with Lang's experience.
"Anyway, the Nag Hammaddi Library consists of a number of leather-wrapped writings found in Egypt in a jar by two Arabs. They were written in Coptic, that is, in the Egyptian language but with the Greek alphabet. Somehow the old parchment was in pretty good shape, although dating back to fourth-century Coptic Egypt. They took the bound books home and their mother used pages to start the family cooking fire. Seems the two guys were in trouble with the police for avenging their father's death and they were afraid the authorities would discover their find. So they sold a number of the volumes to a Cairo antiquities dealer"
Jacob's hands were restless, the idleness of a smoker denied his habit. Lang was thankful there were enough no smoking signs posted to keep his friend's foul-smelling pipe in his pocket. Finally, Jacob helped himself from a passing tray of champagne flutes. "How many?"
"That's just it. No one knows how many of those near- priceless books there were to begin with."
Jacob smacked his lips, satisfied with the quality of the champagne. "And the subject matter of the books we do know about?"
"Apparent copies of some of the original Gospels, including some not in the Bible, the Gospel of Judas, for instance. This particular work is known as The Secret Gospel of James' because it supposedly contains secret revelations made to James by Jesus. There's also the Book of James, or protevangelium, which in many ways parallels the gospels of Luke and Matthew."
Jacob was already searching for another tray when a tall man with collar-length silver hair pushed his way through the crowd, hand extended. "Langford Reilly! I'm truly flattered you could make it to my little party!"
"Eon!" Lang smiled with genuine pleasure as he took the hand. "Wouldn't have missed it."
Particularly since he had business in London anyway.
He turned to Jacob. "This is my friend Jacob Annulewitz. I figured one more body wouldn't matter."
"Not at all," Eon said, shaking Jacob's hand. "Just water down the champers a bit. So what have you been up to?"
"Same old, same old," Lang replied. "Running the foundation and trying to keep my hand in with the law practice."
"Still doing ... what do you call it? Ah, yes, the white- collar criminal defense. Making sure rich criminals never get their just desserts."
In a single motion, Jacob placed his empty glass on a tray and removed a full one. Eon and Lang helped themselves.
"Better to represent the rich and powerful," Lang observed good-naturedly, "than the poor and oppressed. They pay better. I didn't know you were in the antiquities business."
"Mere happenstance. I came across what might be the only existing parts of the Nag Hammadi Library not in the Coptic Egyptian Museum in Cairo." He shrugged modestly. "Seemed fitting to donate them to the British Museum."
More than fitting. Two centuries of colonialism had given the British ample opportunity to plunder the best of ancient Egyptian artifacts. For years, the Egyptian authorities had been trying to recover some of them, including the Rosetta stone and a colossus of Ramses II.
A bell tinkled behind them.
Eon turned his head. "Ah! My moment has arrived. Time to make the presentation."
"A brief one, I hope," Lang joked.
"I can promise you that, although I fear I can give no such pledge on behalf of the museum's curator."
He spun around on the heels of pumps for which at least one crocodile had perished. "The ceremony, such as it is, will take place in the special exhibit hall, room seventy, the one between here and the Reading Room."
Lang and Jacob merged with the crowd slowly filling a long, narrow room. In the center, a half moon of velvet cord separated an exhibit table covered with a white cloth. Behind the table Eon stood with a portly, bespectacled man whom Lang guessed was the potentially long-winded curator.
A smiling Eon was nodding to familiar faces in the crowd. He raised a hand. "May I have your attention, good people!"
The sound of conversation dimmed to a buzz, then there was silence.
"First, I want to thank—"
From somewhere behind him there was the unmistakable sound of a shot.
Lang and Jacob glanced at each other and began to move toward opposite sides of the room.
One of the uniformed guards stepped into the room, staggered and fell facedown across the velvet ropes. Immediately blood began to puddle from under his head.
A woman screamed.
Eon took a step back. "Bloody hell!"
Four men, two on each side of the room, appeared, each sweeping the room with pistols, each face covered with a black balaclava.
Wordlessly, they motioned the crowd back, incl
uding two helpless and unarmed guards. Eon and the curator were more than willing to step away from the draped display case.
The armed men's movements had clearly been choreographed. While two kept Eon's guests covered with their weapons, the other two snatched the cover from the case, removed the contents and slid them into a plastic trash bag before they backed toward the exit. Just before leaving the room, the two other men each took one of Eon's arms, pulling him with them.
There was a second of total silence before bedlam erupted. Everyone seemed to be shouting instructions to everyone else while a man and a woman rushed to the fallen guard. A battery of cell phones appeared. Lang doubted anyone could hear above the general clamor.
He and Jacob nodded to each other as they slid along the wall to the nearest exits in the direction the armed men had taken.
Lang peered around a corner into the Reading Room, restored to the Edwardian furnishings that had hosted the likes of Marx, Gandhi and George Bernard Shaw. Void of their daytime occupants, the empty chairs stood sentinel at the oak tables, casting rigid shadows in the faint overhead light.
At the far end, Lang saw a flicker of movement.
Jacob had seen it, too. He was moving in that direction.
Uncertain what he could do, Lang crossed the room, using the high-backed chairs for whatever cover they offered. The SIG Sauer P226 9mm, a souvenir of his agency days before the law practice, was resting uselessly in a bedside table an ocean away. Even if he had the prescience to bring it, how helpful would it have been against four armed men, with the possibility of hitting Eon? Still, he couldn't simply wring his hands and stand by doing nothing.
He wore his long-ago training like an old but much loved jacket. There were some things never forgotten. Back against the wall, careful not to give a clear target in the dim light nor present a silhouette. The dead guard was evidence that the men who had taken Eon had no reluctance to shoot. The guard had been unarmed, perhaps sacrificed to intimidate the guests. They surely wouldn't hesitate to take a shot at any pursuers.
Lang still had his back against a wall as he took a cautious peek around the next door.