The Jerusalem Puzzle

by Laurence O'Bryan

  At times my words were jumbled as I spoke, and my answers sounded stupid to me. As if such things as I was speaking about couldn’t have happened.

  Pains in my arms and legs made them feel as if they weren’t mine. I started thinking at one point that Ariel and Mark’s death had been my fault as I answered another question. If I hadn’t come here they would still be alive.

  But it wasn’t me that had murdered them.

  If we hadn’t come to Israel, that bastard’s plan to blame the Palestinians for the burning of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre could well have succeeded.

  Finally, I was told I could leave. I shook hands with all the Palestinians. Then I was put in the rickety looking ambulance. I reckoned, from the way the police had been talking to me, that the two men who had sneaked forward after the shooting, who had pulled us out of the hole, had told them everything they’d seen, and had confirmed that what I’d done had been in self-defence, that I’d been looking for Isabel, to rescue her.

  The drive to the Israeli military checkpoint on the road to Jerusalem was, without doubt, the worst journey of my life. The side of my head was booming with pain at this point. It felt swollen too. The ambulance attendant had given me an injection, a painkiller I think, but it didn’t seem to work.

  Luckily, the Israelis let us through without many questions. An Israeli soldier looked in the back and when he saw me, he waved us on. As the back of the ambulance was being closed at the checkpoint I saw a Palestinian with his trousers down and his shirt up, showing he had no explosive suicide belt on, about twenty feet from us.

  Isabel was in the same emergency ward at the hospital. It was the same hospital I’d been in the evening before, but all the staff were different.

  I got moved to a bed beside Isabel as soon as I saw it become free. We were able to talk.

  Susan had been taken away for surgery. Apparently her eyelids had suffered burns and she was as close to death as you could be without actually dying.

  I spent the next few minutes thanking God that Isabel was alive. She was dehydrated, badly bruised – he’d hit her when she’d struggled – and she was in shock, but none of her injuries were life-threatening.

  She stared into space a lot of the time, but she was sitting up in her bed, though she was very distant, as if she was somewhere else in her mind. I started talking in a low voice, telling her everything we had done to find her, everything that had happened. After a while she turned to me and reached out her hand.

  I leaned out of the bed, and reached out mine. Our fingers touched. I could feel her warmth.

  ‘We made a good team,’ she said. We stared into each other’s eyes. She smiled.

  ‘I called the Foreign Office,’ she said. ‘Someone’s coming here soon.’

  She was wrong about that. It took them another hour to arrive. We told them, briefly and quietly, what had happened.

  They disappeared when a nurse came to take me away for an X-ray, but they were waiting when I came back. Twenty minutes later, after a doctor had reviewed my X-ray and had told me I was lucky to just be bruised, one of the British Embassy staff, the older man, asked me whether I would address a press conference at the King David Hotel the next day, Monday.

  I agreed. Apparently the Israeli media and other Western news media had been blaming a Palestinian terror cell for the fire and also blaming the Egyptians for providing the materials to enable the attack.

  After being kept in the hospital overnight for observation, we took a taxi to the King David. I was amazed they didn’t insist on keeping Isabel for longer. But she made it clear to them she was going to leave the hospital as soon as possible. She’d lost weight, had bruises and scratch marks, and the doctor had warned her that the psychological effects of being kidnapped would last a lot longer than the physical, but none of that seemed to bother her. She was advised, in the end, to see a trauma counsellor in London.

  I had a bandage on the side of my head, another on my ribs and I was spaced out from the painkillers they’d given me. Half my teeth felt loose, on the left side. And I could still taste soot in my mouth.

  But I was alive and so was Isabel.

  We held each other for a long time after we walked out of the hospital. I didn’t want to release her. People walked by us and we just stood there, holding tight. I knew then, without an atom of doubt, that I loved her.

  ‘All I want now is a soothing bath,’ said Isabel, as we got into a taxi.

  After we got to our room at the King David, I called Simon Marcus. The Foreign Office man had told us we had nothing to worry about regarding our deportation. An official request to rescind it had been approved at a senior level in the Israeli Government.

  I told Simon we were okay, that I’d found Isabel. He was delighted. I invited him to come to London.

  I told him that Susan had survived too. He was delighted. He told me his wife and daughter had returned. We promised to meet again. As I showered, carefully, I saw scorch marks and bruises in places I hadn’t realised had been damaged. My chest felt tight from inhaling smoke. Only the thickness of the wooden cart I’d been laid out on had saved me from being properly burnt. I felt deeply energised at having my life still in front of me after being so close to death.

  Isabel could have taken an air ambulance back to London, as she was borderline for such priority treatment, but she decided to fly back with me.

  Before we did that, I attended the press conference. A man from the British Embassy was waiting for me at the door to the meeting room. He advised me simply to tell the truth.

  ‘It will be better if you do this on your own,’ he said. ‘Just keep to what you saw and went through. Don’t speculate. What people want is the truth.’

  I think the thin bandages on my face and hands were probably enough to convince viewers I was telling the truth.

  There were only two TV crews in the room and three other journalists. I started by explaining who I was to the almost empty room. Isabel hadn’t come to the press conference. She didn’t want to be on TV. And I didn’t expect her to after what she’d been through. But she’d agreed it was good that someone would dispel the rumours that had been circulating.

  I told them why I’d come to Jerusalem, to look for Dr Susan Hunter.

  ‘Then my girlfriend, Isabel, went missing. I thought she would end up like Max Kaiser.’ I paused.

  ‘Why did you think that?’ asked one of the journalists.

  I remembered my fear at the time. ‘We knew Max. I was scared Isabel had been taken because we were investigating his death. And I was right. The man I found in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre is the man who murdered Max.’

  ‘You broke into the church,’ said one of reporters.

  ‘Please, let me tell you what happened.’

  I told them what I’d done, that the man I’d found was a European, that he’d been responsible for the fire and the murders in the church.

  There was a hush after that.

  ‘Why did he do all that?’ said the same journalist.

  ‘I’m not going to speculate about his motives, but what I do know is that Dr Susan Hunter created a video while she was kidnapped by him, claiming that Jerusalem belongs to Islam. Isabel was kidnapped and she would, I believe, have been murdered like Kaiser was, and for the same reason, to stop anyone who might reveal what he was up to. I don’t know how he found out we were poking around, but he did. And I am sure I was next on his list.’

  I spoke then about how a group of Palestinians had helped us rescue Susan and Isabel.

  A YouTube video of the press conference, ended up trending on Twitter. I was glad. People needed to know the truth.

  It was also on the six o’clock news that Monday night in the US, the UK and most other countries, so I read on the web later.

  I won’t say we stopped a war, but we certainly stopped a round of escalation. The Israeli bombing the morning before had resulted in the destruction of eight Egyptian F-16 fighters and the retaliatory destr
uction of a new Israeli border post in the Sinai. But further Israeli bombing raids expected that Monday night never took place.

  Later that day, according to the TV news, an Iranian submarine that had been in the Red Sea went home without incident.

  I have no idea if a coordinated attack on Israel had been planned, to allow someone in the Egyptian military to seize power in the aftermath, as was rumoured, but it was certainly a possibility. I read later that investigations had taken place into share price fluctuations in advance of that weekend, and I wondered who else had been involved in that bastard’s schemes and if they might have profited. I don’t know if anything that happened helped engender any goodwill, but I doubt it.

  It was early Monday evening when we flew back to London.

  Two mornings later, when Isabel started a series of post-traumatic stress sessions, I went with her. As we waited in an empty all-white waiting room Isabel turned to me. She had a serious expression on her face.

  ‘The doctor in Jerusalem told me I might not be able to have babies, because of what I’ve been through,’ she said.

  My mouth opened. I blinked. I felt hollow, as if something had been taken from me. I knew she’d been punched a few times, once in the stomach, and slapped, and that not eating properly or drinking had left her traumatised, but I hadn’t realised how serious the long term effects of what she’d been through might be.

  Then, weirdly, I remembered that early on in our trip she’d promised to tell me something when we got back to London. I asked her what it was. If I thought it would be a distraction, but I was wrong.

  ‘I was going to tell you I wanted to have a baby,’ she said quickly. ‘It was the first time in my life I’d really wanted one. I felt such a strong urge.’ The door of the room opened and a male nurse beckoned her. She stood. Her head was down as she went. I was sure I heard her crying. I went after her, but she turned, pushed her hand out, shook her head.

  I waited an hour and a half for her to come back. We went home in silence.

  Mark’s death affected Isabel deeply too. She felt guilty, that it was her fault he was dead. Over the next few days we talked about it all.

  ‘Someone you loved dying early seems like such a terrible waste,’ I told her, as we had breakfast one morning.

  ‘Life isn’t as easy as you read in novels,’ she replied.

  Those were not good days.

  I found out the following week that Xena had been released from hospital. She had recovered quickly. A friend of Mark’s came around to tell us about his funeral, and that Ariel’s had already been held. His name was Henry Mowlam. He seemed to know a lot about what had happened to us.

  He didn’t say much, but his questions were very interesting. He asked about what we made of the symbol in the book. I told him about finding it in Cairo, that I thought it was important, but that we still didn’t know what it meant.

  He asked me if I’d seen anything in Cairo about its use in funeral services.

  I told him I hadn’t.

  Mark’s funeral was in Maidenhead. We didn’t go to the grave as some of his family were looking at us sideways and Isabel didn’t want to be tempted to set them straight on how he’d treated her.

  He was a hero who had died for his country was all she said about him, when we were asked about what had happened. She told people she’d been advised by the Foreign Office not to give away any details of his work.

  But I had no problem saying he’d played a big role in Dr Susan Hunter being rescued. He deserved that.

  Dr Hunter was badly injured. We’d visited her in hospital in Israel, but she’d been unconscious, and we’d called the hospital every day from London until she woke up.

  She would probably regain her sight, although her eyes had suffered burn trauma, but it would be another two weeks before that good news was confirmed. A week after that we visited her in Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, where she’d been transferred.

  Isabel gave her the rose and pistachio chocolates we’d bought for her and we made small talk for a few minutes. Susan was sitting up and looking almost back-to-normal in the small private room. When the conversation flagged, I asked her what had happened to the translation and analysis of the manuscript we’d found in Istanbul.

  ‘I’ve passed that project onto a colleague,’ she said. She looked disappointed.

  ‘I couldn’t justify holding onto it. There’s pressure to get the work finished. But I will still be an advisor to the team who are taking over.’

  Isabel moved in her chair, as if she was uncomfortable. ‘I told Sean everything we discussed in that horrible hole in the Judean Hills,’ she said. ‘I don’t think he believes half of it.’ She smiled at me.

  ‘Can you tell him what you told me?’

  Dr Hunter didn’t even look at me.

  ‘It’ll all be in the report,’ she replied.

  I knew that Susan had said that a few pages in the manuscript were the original written record of Jesus Christ’s trial, in the hand of the official scribe who was present, and that it had been sewn into the manuscript we’d found in Istanbul at a later date.

  Isabel had told me Susan had been convinced it was all for real.

  I stared at Susan Hunter.

  ‘It could be a forgery,’ I said. Being in that hole would have reduced anyone’s scepticism, but I wasn’t going to say that.

  Dr Hunter kept staring at Isabel.

  ‘Findings like that should take years to verify,’ I said.

  She didn’t answer. I shrugged. I felt relieved. Discovering something of global significance, the verification of the existence of Jesus and of his death by crucifiction, would put a spotlight on us forever. The record of his trial might end up being hotly disputed and our story as to how we found it made into lies.

  I looked at Dr Hunter. Was she embarrassed that we’d come to ask her about all this?

  ‘We should go,’ I said, leaning towards Isabel.

  As I turned away Dr Hunter spoke. ‘I am the person who verifies such documents, young man,’ she said.

  I turned back to her. Her face was pale, but she looked determined.

  ‘And I will verify it again when I am asked. The manuscript you found, without doubt, contains a first-hand record of Jesus’s trial. The papyrus is verifiably from the correct period, that’s proven by the papyrus Kaiser found in Jerusalem, and the text is in the right cursive style. Even the ink has the right chemical composition.’

  ‘How long before the official report on the manuscript comes out then?’ I said.

  ‘It could be years,’ she said. ‘There will be a serious amount of academic interest in all this. The description of the events of his trial are different to what’s in the Bible.’

  My mouth opened. ‘Significantly?’ I said.

  She nodded. ‘Suggesting a slight variation from what’s in the Bible could have got you burnt at the stake a few hundred years ago. And there are still people out there who get violent if you try to disprove what they believe.’

  ‘Why would it have been in Istanbul?’ said Isabel.

  ‘A record of Jesus’s trial could have been sent from Jerusalem to Constantinople before Jerusalem fell to Islam. Constantinople ruled the empire Jerusalem was part of for hundreds of years,’ said Dr Hunter.

  ‘I must ask you not to repeat what I have told you to anyone,’ she went on, shifting in her bed so she could lean forward. ‘And be aware that I will not confirm any of this to anyone who contacts me. People will simply have to wait for the report.’

  ‘Why all the secrecy?’ asked Isabel.

  Susan sucked her breath in sharply. ‘There will be consequences from all this, my dear. There’s a lot of money and power in Christianity these days, and among its enemies too. I am simply being careful.’

  I understood then why Susan had been reluctant to talk. She was scared.

  ‘We won’t tell anyone,’ said Isabel.

  ‘People deserve to know what’s been found,’ I said. ‘Do
n’t they?’

  Susan looked pensive. ‘If you reveal anything, please do not mention my name, or my college, please.’

  We both nodded.

  Isabel and I sat in the bright busy coffee shop of the hospital for a long time talking about it all.

  I wanted the world to know everything, in case the academics tried to hide it all.

  ‘If this gets publicity, they won’t be able to hide the truth,’ I said.

  ‘You have a suggestion?’ she said.

  I leaned towards her, began talking. My head was aching. I hadn’t got past all the injuries. My skin was tight and still painful in places, but the relief at both of us having escaped, from what we’d got caught up in, was what I thought of first when I woke up each morning.

  ‘The important thing is that our names don’t get associated with it all,’ I said.

  ‘I’m happy you’re going to write down everything that happened,’ she said, ‘but promise me not to release any of it until you’re proved wrong?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Okay.’ Isabel nodded her agreement. She looked pale, and not that concerned about what I was suggesting.

  I was worried about her.

  You see, I had a question for her.

  EPILOGUE

  Dr Beresford-Ellis called me a few days after we met Susan. It had already been agreed that I would take some more of the holiday time I’d built up over the last few years.

  He was surprisingly pleasant on this new call. When I was feeling better, he asked, would I assist him with a new security project for a bank, a project that one of his old colleagues had passed onto the institute?

  My name had specifically come up in relation to it.

  I asked him the name of the bank. As he talked I looked it up on the web. I was interested immediately.