Greg looked hopeful. “Speak of the devil..."
Lisa ran to the door and paused. “Who is it?"
When she heard the answer, she flung the door open. A triumphantly grinning Farid lounged in the doorway. As soon as he saw both of them looking at him, he extracted a piece of curled brown paper from the pocket of his loose white trousers.
"You got it back!” cried Greg.
"I did,” said Farid smugly. “And I was lucky not to be killed.” He closed the door and flung himself into a chair. His smile disappeared. “Others weren't so lucky."
"What do you mean?"
"I didn't hear the intruder enter. I was concentrating so hard on hearing the final figure for the manuscript that the guy snuck up on me. He yanked out the light and was through the curtain before I knew it."
"Yeah, we know that part. What happened after I passed out?” said Greg.
"It was very confusing. I heard a cry and a thud, then felt someone passing me on the way out. I figured the papyrus had been stolen, so I dashed out of the shop."
"Were you following Mahmoud Hussein, or another guy?"
"I didn't know at that point. The thief was hurrying north toward the Damascus Gate. I lost him at the north end of Al-Wad Street. Then, as I passed a small mosque at the edge of the Muslim Quarter, I saw a dark shape bending over a bundle on the ground. I tiptoed closer and saw not a bundle, but an unconscious man. His attacker was groping in the pockets and inside the shirt."
"Then what happened?” asked Lisa.
"I yelled, and the man glanced up. He was a stocky man in a business suit, but the light was too poor to get a good look at his face. He ran away through the Damascus Gate into the newer part of the city. Then I turned over the unconscious man, and discovered it was Mahmoud. He had been knifed. I found the papyrus, and then I came here."
Lisa wondered how much of Farid's story was true. “Didn't you check to see if he was dead?"
"Of course—he was. I heard a siren approaching and figured I should not stay to explain why I was there, at the site of a murder,” finished Farid.
"So, the stranger took the papyrus that Yacoub Haddad had just sold to me, Mahmoud Hussein snatched it back, and the first man stabbed Mahmoud,” said Greg.
"Looks that way,” agreed Farid.
Except that they only had Farid's word for what had happened. Lisa still couldn't understand Farid's involvement. Hadn't his girlfriend, Salima Najaf, said that Farid had a connection with the Bedouins who had split up the Dead Sea Scrolls and sold them in multiple lots to make the maximum amount of money?
"How come you didn't stay to check on Greg—or me?” asked Lisa.
"I saw you get up from the floor, and I knew Greg could take care of himself,” replied Farid shortly.
Lisa was skeptical. She had a strong impression that Farid was working for someone besides the Israel Museum, but she had no proof at all. “What happened to the dealer?"
"Gone. He's probably skipped town—if he's still alive."
"Wait a minute, didn't Hussein say that Yacoub Haddad had a cousin in Beersheva?” asked Greg.
"So he did,” said Farid.
Greg raised a questioning eyebrow at Lisa.
"I guess we're going to Beersheva tomorrow,” she said. “Want me to check on buses?"
"No. I've got a car."
"Okay, but you can't drive with that lump on your head. You probably have a concussion. I'm driving, legal or not. Oh, wait a minute! I have to pick up Ellen at the airport in the morning! Can we leave in the afternoon, or the next day?"
"Let's go in the afternoon, after you get Ellen settled. She'll want some time to wander around and get over jet lag."
* * * *
AFTER LISA LEFT to return to her hotel, Farid raised his eyebrows at Greg.
"Ms. Donahue is beautiful. I see why you speak so much about her."
Greg grunted. He really didn't want to discuss Lisa, especially while his head felt like someone had used it as a football. “She's very attractive, yes, and nosy. She won't stop asking questions—I know her."
"And you are still in love with her."
Greg threw a pillow at Farid. “Mind your own business."
Farid placed his palms together and bowed, his dark eyes glinting. “She doesn't trust me, does she?"
"Why should she? She only knows that we are friends, not how long we have worked together. Don't worry about Lisa—I will handle her."
"I believe you,” said Farid, lighting another cigarette. “Now, what do I tell Ira?"
"First, we need to find out whether Yacoub Haddad actually skipped town. Secondly, where has he gone? Even more important, who was the guy who bonked me on the head? Presumably he represents a non-Bedouin interest, but who is it?"
Farid looked at him. “The violence—it is unusual. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
Greg tried to nod, but it hurt his head. “There's something special about this papyrus. Something that people will kill for. I am ... I am afraid my attacker was someone from Les Agents de Dieu."
"I, too, think this. They are our most likely opponents, and they are dangerous. I also think that they already have at least one fragment—that would explain why they bring out their killers so soon.
Greg groaned.
Farid looked at his friend with concern. “Do you need medicine? You look a little green."
"I'm okay. Lisa checked my eyes—I don't have one pupil bigger than the other. And I have painkillers."
"Do not worry. I will talk with Ira. We will arrange it all between us."
* * * *
GREG REARRANGED HIS pillows, wincing as the pain in his head showed signed of increasing. He padded into the bathroom and rummaged through the medicine cabinet until he found some Ibuprofen that was less than two years old. Shaking out three pills, he swallowed them down with water.
Returning to his bed, Greg lay down and closed his eyes. He wanted to charge out with Farid and track down Yacoub Haddad, but he was experienced enough to know that he was far from sharp physically and therefore dangerous to himself and useless to the cause. But he hated relying on others to do his work for him. Greg wasn't a traditional academic like his MD/PhD father, but he had a true scholar's head for detail and the tenaciousness that went with pure research.
What would his physician father think of Greg's lifestyle now? Probably not much. William Manzur had expected his oldest son to follow him into medicine like his uncles and brothers, but Greg had fallen in love with archaeology and history instead.
"What about law school?” his dad had asked, clinging to the hope of a respectable white-collar profession for Greg.
But Greg had already been on three excavations by the time he graduated from Princeton and was thoroughly hooked by biblical archaeology. Instead of the suits and white coats of his male relatives, Greg donned the archaeologist's uniform of old T-shirts and jeans and migrated to Israel to pursue his dream.
His father had no idea that Greg actually had a stable job with benefits and promotional opportunities. On the surface of it, Greg was a vagabond archaeologist, drifting from one excavation to the next, without even a steady university affiliation. But his salary came from a source that had to remain a secret.
Greg sighed. His father would never understand the choice he had made. Or that he enjoyed his lifestyle, with all its dangers and unexpected travel to remote parts of the Middle East.
He turned onto his side and let his thoughts drift to more pleasant topics. Lisa Donahue. Still anything but a dizzy blonde, still magnetic, argumentative, and sexy ... Perhaps he could persuade her to resume their old relationship, even for a short time? Her fiancé, Tom Henderson, was thousands of miles away.
But first he had to keep Lisa—and himself—from getting killed.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Eleven
Wise men, consider this: A man has a good tree (growing) up the heaven, to the lengths of the lands, yet it (pro)duces thorny fruits
. (Wisdom Texts, Dead Sea Scroll 4Q416-17)
ELLEN'S ROLL LEAPT off her tray and into her lap.
It was followed by her stomach, which flew up near her heart and then flopped down to knee-level as the turbulence subsided.
Amid shrieks from fellow passengers, Ellen Perkins scooped up her tomato and cucumber salad with her spoon and dumped it back into its little plastic tray. The stewardess, a pert Israeli with her hair in a neat pony tail, smiled at Ellen as she hurried down the aisle to help an old lady who was shrieking about spilt coffee burning her arm.
Ellen gazed out the narrow window at a huge cumulus cloud and rubbed her gritty eyes.
Ah, air travel. Squashed like a sardine in coach class with plastic food and pricey liquor. What she wouldn't give to afford Business Class—if only to be able to climb around instead of on top of her overweight seatmate.
Now they were descending through a perfect Mediterranean morning, headed for Ben Gurion airport outside of Tel Aviv. The local time was about seven a.m., but Ellen's internal clock said it was the middle of the night.
A different kind of turbulence jiggled her insides as she anticipated her first trip to the Middle East. She was meeting Lisa Donahue—her roommate, colleague, and best friend. They hoped to take a little vacation together near the end of the trip, but Ellen knew she would be on her own quite a lot while Lisa was working.
Ellen was always adventurous, but right now she was sleep-deprived, courtesy of the wailing baby across the aisle. The little darling had wriggled all over the laps of its exhausted parents, finally falling into the aisle at Ellen's feet. After the baby was soothed into sticky slumber, other passengers kept her awake by bumping her shoulder as they staggered down the aisle to the rest rooms.
The El Al plane landed with a soft bump and taxied to the terminal. Ellen tried to smooth the cotton jacket that was almost as rumpled as her mind. Giving it up as a lost cause, she looked at the palm trees swaying against a metallic blue sky, low tan buildings, and reddish-brown sandy soil. Now she knew she wasn't in Philadelphia.
They had arrived. Ellen descended onto the boiling hot tarmac with her bulging black shoulder bag banging against her right hip. Which pocket was her passport in? Suddenly she was nervous about going through Security and Customs. She found herself swamped in a stream of over-enthusiastic American Jews on a Holy Land Excursion.
"Moshe will meet us, God willin'..."
"Mama, I'm hungry!"
"You can grab you own bag, can't you, and help your mother with the big one..."
"Why aren't the Customs men more efficient? In New Yawk, you can get through in no time..."
In fact, the Israeli officials, flanked by green-uniformed soldiers wearing dark green berets and AK's over their shoulders, were frighteningly efficient. They coldly assessed each passenger's terrorism potential. El Al Airlines had the best security in the world, Ellen remembered—with British Airways a close runner-up. American and TWA didn't even make the list.
A curly-haired young man opened Ellen's passport and gave her the once-over, his dark eyes noting her trim figure as well as her nationality.
"Traveling to Israel for business or pleasure?"
"Pleasure. I'm meeting a friend in Jerusalem for a vacation.
"Tourist, eh? Where are you staying?"
"Hotel Beit Gesher, on King David Street in Jerusalem."
"Have a nice stay.” He stamped her passport, and she was through.
Ellen scanned the crowd for Lisa's tall form, but couldn't see beyond the barrier. The lobby was teeming with families waiting for loved ones, more soldiers carrying guns, and tourists from every nation.
She was eager to catch her first glimpse of the country that had so gripped the imagination of her best friend. Lisa often talked about her adopted country and her first excavation. She'd been more reticent about her boyfriend in Israel, the mysterious Greg Manzur. Ellen wondered if she would ever meet Greg. The man had obviously made a deep impression on Lisa.
Lisa was such a romantic. Everything took on bright colors and intricate patterns, especially in retrospect. She, Ellen, was of a more practical and mercenary disposition. But she couldn't deny the thrill she'd felt as the plane skimmed over the wine-dark sea of the Mediterranean, giving Ellen her first view of the Middle East and Jaffa, the old port of Tel Aviv.
She tossed her blond curls. Lisa had warned her about Israeli men and their intense interest in blond women, especially American or Scandinavian women. Ellen wasn't concerned; she was used to traveling alone. In fact, she was looking forward to a little adventure.
An Israeli soldier smiled at her. “Someone meeting you?” he asked. “Or can you have a drink with me?
"My friend is coming,” said Ellen, and pushed past him after a brief glance of admiration for his well-muscled forearms.
Men were put in the world for the enjoyment of women. This was the attitude Ellen's divorced mom had drummed into her while she was growing up. Ellen's dad, a trial lawyer, had left her mom for a younger woman—another lawyer—when Ellen was only three. Ellen's childhood had seen a procession of her mom's entertaining but lightweight boyfriends in their apartment. Ellen's mom, a patent lawyer with a healthy income, didn't stay with anyone long. Better not to depend on men, she said—for money, fidelity, or anything else lasting—but take advantage of the moment while stashing away resources for the future.
So for Ellen at twenty-five, men were like new outfits. Try them, wear them for a while, and then give them to Goodwill. She was always in the market for an unattached thirty-something guy.
Ellen hoisted her purse up higher on her shoulder, looking around her with cautious interest. Israeli soldiers gossiped with flight attendants. Orthodox men queued up to Passport Control, along with another group of New York tourists—instantly identifiable by their Nike running shoes and Brooklyn accents—and children whined and tumbled over piles of luggage.
Just when she was becoming impatient, she spied a familiar long braid.
"Lisa! Over here!"
Lisa navigated a knot of people and finally reached Ellen.
"Ellen, I'm so glad to see you, and I'm sorry it took so long. I took a taxi here, but the traffic was awful."
"It doesn't matter, I'm here!” Ellen hugged Lisa and then took a good look at her friend. Lisa was oddly pale for someone indulging in archaeology in her favorite country, and the skin around her eyes showed the pale purple shadows of too little sleep.
"Found some other curators to party with?” Ellen asked.
"Not exactly,” Lisa replied, her blue eyes wary.
Ellen frowned. She'd expected an enthusiastic welcome, but instead Lisa looked like the day after an exhibit opening.
"Well!” she said. “You should have seen the guy I sat with on the plane coming over. Dark, sexy, with these impossibly long eyelashes. He said he'd call me when I get back to the States."
"Way to go, Ellen,” said Lisa, with a weak grin. She led the way to the sherut stand, and soon they were speeding towards Jerusalem.
Ellen entertained Lisa with gossip about the museum world at home, raising a couple of chuckles in the process. She concluded that Lisa was overworked, again, and that what she really needed was some R and R. She began to plot how to get Lisa loosened up with some good food and wine and then to try some of the discos in West Jerusalem.
They paid the driver, and then Lisa helped Ellen hump her luggage up the narrow stairs.
They opened the door to total chaos.
Lisa's clothes and toiletries were strewn over the floor and the far bed. The mattress of Ellen's bed had been yanked out of place and the bedclothes stripped off.
Lisa went quickly to the phone and dialed a number.
"Are you calling the police?"
"No. I'm trying to reach Greg Manzur. This isn't an ordinary break-in."
"Greg! What does he have to do with this? What the hell is going on?"
Unsuccessful in reaching Greg, Lisa left a voice mail message and r
eplaced the phone. She collapsed on a tumbled pile of clothes. She met Ellen's eyes directly for the first time. “You're never gonna believe this."
"Probably not. But tell me anyway."
Lisa took a deep breath and began, “Well, it all started with the man on the bus...” She described her encounter with the Lebanese, the mysterious note at her hotel, and the reunion with Greg. “...And now I'm smack in the middle of a hunt for lost manuscripts wanted by at least two nations and at least one group of thugs."
Ellen, perched on the other bed, was mesmerized. “Whew!” she said, when Lisa had finished her tale. “I do believe you, but what a story! Here you are, hoping for a little vacation while you're sorting pots and filling in forms—and look what happens."
Lisa smoothed the stray hairs not captured in her long braid away from her face. “I suppose I should call the police about this break-in,” she said reluctantly. “But I have a feeling Greg would rather I didn't."
Oh ho, thought Ellen, and Greg's opinion matters!
Right on cue, the phone rang. Lisa picked it up. “Greg,” she said with relief. “My hotel room has been ransacked ... yes, she's here. We discovered it together ... okay, see you soon.” She hung up. “He's on his way."
"You and Greg were a hot item when you were here before, right?” Ellen said.
Lisa's smile twisted. “Yes, but that's all history now."
"Right. Just friends, huh? Would Tom like him?” She ducked as Lisa threw a shoe at her.
The two of them began piling clothes into some semblance of order and had remade both beds when they heard knocking.
Lisa ran to the door. “Greg? Is that you?” She opened it.
A compact, dark man with floppy hair and a serious demeanor strode into the room.
His brown eyes swept the room. “You've been cleaning up!"
"Well, yes. You said not to call the police, and to figure out if anything is missing. I can't tell what's missing without restoring stuff to their original places,” said Lisa.
Greg grinned suddenly, and Ellen saw how attractive he was. “I see what you mean,” he agreed, his glance taking in the piles of Lisa's underwear and cosmetics and Ellen's two suitcases.
The Dead Sea Codex Page 5