by Paul L Maier
After lunch, Michael Grossman mounted the disk on the Technion’s mainframe and pulled up the computer records from 1994. “Aha,” he said. “Here we are . . . which Levine do you want first?”
“Shimon,” replied Jon.
The registrar entered the name, and the screen quickly filled with everything the university knew about the man: name, address, phone number, birth date, identity number, transcript of classes, academic recommendations for employment, and alumni contribution record.
“Look, Gideon!” said Jon. “Look at Shimon’s identity number— 477286312. Ever see it before?” As with an American social security number, the Israeli version also had nine digits, but no dashes. Gideon turned to Shimon’s file, opened it, and read his identity number out loud: “477286312.” He shook his head. “Is that one of your hobbies, Jon? Memorizing strings of numbers?”
“No, it was just late last night that I took some interest in that particular number.”
“Okay, it’s settled. It’s the same Shimon.” He gazed over the others’ heads, lost in thought. “But I don’t think this violates anything either of them told you, even if they didn’t mention that they were classmates. In fact, in one of the transcripts—I think in volume one—didn’t Joshua even state that he and Shimon were old friends? Wouldn’t it be natural for him to choose a classmate as one of his associates?”
Jon puzzled for a moment, but then looked at the computer screen of information in Hebrew and pointed to the upper left-hand corner. “That says birth date, correct? That box?”
“Yes,” said Grossman. “May 31, 1973.”
Jon rubbed his chin pensively. Then he said, “Please bring up the record of that other Levine in the class, Baruch Levine.”
The screen filled with similar data. Jon grabbed Gideon’s arm and said, “Look at that identity number! It’s just one digit different from Shimon’s!”
He looked further, squinted in shock, and almost shouted, “And look at that birth date, Gideon: May 31, 1973! They were born on the very same day! Now let’s check out their home addresses!”
Somewhat startled at Jon’s excitement, Grossman said, “Well, this fellow’s home address, when he attended here, was . . . 8383 Herzl Avenue in Tiberias.”
“And Shimon Levine’s?”
Grossman exited his entry, keyed in the name of Shimon Levine again, and stared at the screen. “The other fellow’s address was . . . 8383 Herzl Avenue in Tiberias.”
“Great God in the mountains!” bellowed Jon. “They’re twins!” “Oh, yes—now that you mention it—I think I do recall the Levine twins,” said the registrar. “Is that somehow significant . . . that they’re twins?”
“Incredibly significant!” said Jon. “For two reasons. For one thing, it proves that Shimon lied to me, Gideon, when he claimed he had no brothers or sisters.”
Gideon’s eyebrows were arching.
“And the other?” asked Grossman.
“I . . . haven’t completely thought it through yet,” responded Jon warily, sensing that he had already said too much. “I would only plead with both of you distinguished gentlemen not to say a word about our visit or its results to anyone—not your wives, not your closest friends, not your colleagues. I know this sounds pretentious and entirely bombastic, but the fate of Western civilization could well be at stake here. I promise to explain everything later. But may I have your solemn pledge to secrecy?”
“Of course,” said Grossman, while Gideon nodded.
“I don’t wish to be presumptuous, Dr. Grossman,” said Jon,
“but . . . in view of the gravity of this situation, could we have a printout of everything we’ve seen on the computer screens regarding the Levine twins, as well as all the information you have on Joshua Ben-Yosef?”
The registrar frowned and said, “One of the reasons I can easily agree to seal my lips on this matter is that I, too, don’t want anyone knowing that I broke confidentiality on student records here. But if you really think it’s in the national interest . . .”
“It is! It is!” advised Gideon.
“I’ll print out the copies, then. But I must ask both of you for the same confidentiality that you asked of me.”
“Agreed!” said Gideon.
“In all honesty, however,” said Jon, “I should ask this: what if the day should come that these records had to be made public in order to avoid . . . what might be called an international cultural catastrophe?” Grossman thought for a moment and replied, “I would then ask that you first contact me, listing the reasons for this urgency. I, in turn, would try to secure permission from the Technion’s board of regents.” “Fair enough!” Jon smiled, extended his hand, and said, “Thank you for your . . . strategic assistance, Dr. Grossman.”
“Glad to be of help!”
On the drive back to Jerusalem, Jon looked at Gideon and said, “Well, you certainly know the other reason, the one I didn’t feel like exposing in front of Grossman.”
“Yes, I certainly do, Jon. It was the wildest, most extreme of the scenarios—as you call them—that you and I imagined on our drive up here. I thought you were daft when you first suggested it— absolutely bonkers! But now . . . I promise not to comment on your sanity in the future—except, of course, to endorse it!”
Jon smiled. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Gideon.”
There was a long silence that persisted almost back to Tel Aviv. “What are you thinking, Jon?” Gideon finally asked.
“I don’t know, my friend. It’s just incredible how your entire horizon can shift so . . . so dimensionally so quickly. Until eleven o’clock last night, I thought I was a true believer. Now I’m boiling angry. Or potentially so . . .”
“Which means . . . ?”
“I don’t have to spell it out for you, Gideon, since we’re both on the same wavelength. In this wild, wild business, I wouldn’t be surprised if maybe I ought to remain a true believer after all. There may be some valid explanation behind all this—even for Shimon’s lie. Meanwhile, of course, I’ll probably swing back and forth between the believer/unbeliever columns—like some crazed pendulum— about twelve more times before this is over.”
“Can’t blame you for that. But can you figure out any sort of motive for that wild scenario—if it finally turns out to be correct?” “Not in my wildest, Gideon, not in my wildest! Joshua crowing, ‘Lookee here, folks, at what I just brought off!’ just won’t cut it!” By now they were climbing upward on the road to Jerusalem, again tossing off various options in finding a solution. They were trying to strategize vertically, horizontally, directly, obliquely.
“I do have one bit of advice for you, Jon,” said Gideon.
“Which is?”
“Which is this: don’t try to put yourself in harm’s way again . . . the way you did in that Rama thing. You were a blooming fool then!” “But I got to the truth, didn’t I?”
“Yes, and we very nearly lost you in the process.”
“As they say, a miss is as good as a mile.”
“You won’t always miss, Jon. The law of averages doesn’t permit it.”
“I’ll be careful, Gideon.”
“No, this time you have to be more than careful. Too much is at stake here. All spoofing aside, what are you thinking of doing?”
“Obviously, I have to confront Shimon again—and, of course, Joshua Ben-Yosef.”
“Wrong, wrong, wrong, Jon! We have to confront them—you, I, Shin Bet and whoever. You can’t do this alone. Not like last time.” “If we get too many involved, our targets might clam up or even claim persecution. Jews would be arresting Jesus again, and get a third of the world on your backs in the process. And, of course, we still don’t have nearly enough answers. So much of what Ben-Yosef has done simply boggles the mind, and we haven’t proved anything wrong in his case yet—however suspicious things look at this point.”
“Well, at minimum, it should be you and I—and probably several from Shin Bet—at any confrontation. No more solo
performances!” “I’ll go along with that, Gideon. But we’ve got to chase down more information on all of Joshua’s associates, not just Shimon, and that’ll take some time. I desperately wish we could bring it all off before Vatican III, for obvious reasons, but that’s not possible now. So our confrontation will have to wait until we return from Rome. After all, we have to fly there in a couple of days.”
“Good! I’ll get to Friedmann and Shin Bet as soon as we get back to Jerusalem.”
“Meanwhile, everything has to stay perfectly normal as far as Joshua and his entourage are concerned. If they should suspect anything, it would ruin our efforts. Darn! Again, if only we had more time before Vatican III to solve this thing: we’d probably be sparing the world a lot of grief—if, that is, our scenario is correct. But, as of now, it’s still a big if.”
Jon drove into their garage at French Hill around seven, dreading another confrontation with Shannon. Already he could hear their dialogue. She (in demanding tones): “Where have you been, Jon?” He (in tones of injured innocence): “I’ll tell you if you tell me where you were last night!”
He had it wrong. Shannon met him at the door as if nothing had happened between them. In an upbeat mood, she smiled, hugged him, and said, “Oh . . . so glad you’re back, dear! I tried to reach you at the office, but Dick Ferris didn’t know where you were. Anyway, whatever you’ve got planned for tomorrow, you’ve got to drop it.”
“Oh? Why?”
“Joshua is calling a final conference to prepare for our flight to Rome. His women’s auxiliary, as you call it, is meeting at their place in Bethany. You men are joining him up at that retreat lodge along the Sea of Galilee where we were guests.”
“Separating the sexes, eh? Sounds like Joshua has turned into an orthodox rabbi! What time am I supposed to be there?”
“Ten-thirty tomorrow morning. Oh, Jon, I’m so excited! I just can’t wait to fly to Rome with Joshua. It will be a . . . a twenty-first-century recap of Jesus’ triumphal entrance into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday!”
“Will Alitalia permit you to take palm branches inside the plane? And where will they stow the donkey?”
“You silly, silly cynic!” she chuckled, as she pulled his face down to her lips for a long kiss.
He had difficulty falling asleep that night. While his body was bone tired from a daylong trip across half of Israel and back, his mind acted as if he had just had his third cup of strong morning coffee. Why hadn’t he asked Shannon where she’d been last night? Or better, why hadn’t she volunteered the information? Then again, why hadn’t she asked about his whereabouts that day, and why hadn’t he volunteered the information? Tit for tat.
Trying to put the best construction on everything, he assumed that Shannon was probably too embarrassed at her outburst even to remind him of it by way of telling him she was sorry. But why, for the first time, was he keeping secrets from his wife? Why hadn’t he reported to her the drive to Haifa and its potentially shocking consequences?
Tossing in bed, he quickly found answers to the last. He didn’t want to spoil her joy—at least for the moment. If truth were told, he was probably a bit of a coward too: if Shannon had previously blown up at his Judas-like probing, how great would her explosion be at this latest twist in his “traitorous plotting”? He could just see her vaulting out of bed and demanding to know where he had put them. What? he would ask. Your thirty pieces of silver, she would reply.
Time for all that later. Time for sleep now.
He was finally drifting off when he heard a little girl’s voice next to him.
“I’m so sorry about last night, Jon,” she said softly. “Can you please forgive me?”
So much for assigning wrong motives to a wonderful wife.
“Of course, darling!” he said and kissed her softly. After which he kissed her again, with gathering dedication.
TWENTY-TWO
As Jon breezed northward to Galilee for the meeting of what he called the “Master’s Men,” he thought back to his Sunday school days and how wrong he had been about the geography of the Holy Land. Galilee was at the northern edge of those color maps in the back of his Bible, and he had always assumed that if Jerusalem were, say, Los Angeles, then Galilee would be up around Portland or Seattle. In fact, it was only a two-hour drive, more like L.A. to Bakersfield—so small was that sacred park called the Holy Land. And how fortunate, Jon mused, since he almost seemed to be commuting between the two regions.
When he reached Tiberias and drove up the hillside road above Magdala, with its magnificent view of the Sea of Galilee, he recalled Joshua’s calming of the storm. He still had no explanation for that and many other wonders that Joshua had apparently accomplished, even if he and Gideon had perhaps solved one of them. Nothing in life had ever been so difficult as the belief/disbelief decision he had not yet irrevocably made. Somehow, Joshua himself would have to help in the solution—not immediately but shortly, after Rome and Vatican III.
Jon drove into the parking area behind the lodge, wondering why it was almost empty of cars. Had he come too early? He knocked on the door and was surprised when Joshua himself opened it.
“Welcome, Jon.” He smiled in greeting. “Come in, come in!”
Jon was puzzled. No one else was in the great room.
“But where are the others?” he asked. “Shannon told me that all the men on our flight to Rome would be up here for a final briefing.” “They’re coming at noon. I wanted some time alone with you before they arrive, Jon. That’s all right with you, isn’t it?”
“Of course.”
“Then let’s sit down for a fireside chat—even if it’s too warm for a fire.”
Joshua made a small Gothic arch out of his hands and asked, “Now, is everything in order for our flight? They’ll meet our delegation at the airport—the welcoming ceremonies, and all?”
“I’ve been over our checklist a dozen times. Everything’s fine.”
“Excellent! And thanks for the work you’ve done, Jonathan.”
“It was a great honor to be of service, of course.”
Joshua shifted in his chair, then focused his flaming sapphire eyes on Jon’s, piercing, it seemed, into his very essence. “I think it best to come right to the point. Why are you still playing the role of skeptic, Jon?”
“Ah . . . how do you mean, sir?”
“You know very well. On the surface you seem to be one of my loyal followers. But behind my back, you have this ‘investigation panel’ looking into my past, yes, and into the lives of my disciples too.”
Jon’s heart started accelerating to a mad tempo. Deception or subterfuge would no longer work because somehow, Joshua knew. Instead, he steeled himself to reflect perfect calm on the surface. “I’ll be glad to explain that,” said Jon evenly. “But first I’d like to ask: how did you learn about the panel?”
“Jon, Jon, Jon . . . how long have I been with you, and you still ask questions like that . . . do you still doubt?”
“If you’re referring to divine omniscience, why, then, are you using it to penetrate my privacy—something you promised not to do?” Again he was overwhelmed by the surreal nature of his own words. “Aha!” Joshua chuckled. “Good response! Well, I did keep my promise after all, Jon. It was your lovely wife, Shannon, who came to me the night before last. She was distraught by what she called your ‘blazing unbelief’ and told me in tears how conscience-stricken she was to have served on that panel, and would I please forgive her.”
Hot blood flashed into Jon’s head, and he felt its pulsing pressure at his temples. But again he struggled to maintain a mask of placidity. “Well, good for Shannon,” he lied, since the path of honesty seemed to be premature after all. “I certainly was going to inform you about the panel, but only after its work was completed. I thought that its results in finding your mission genuine would be accepted far more easily by skeptics across the world if you had known nothing about its activities beforehand. In that way, no one could claim any interfer
ence by you or your followers.”
Joshua thought for a moment, then replied, “All right, that’s plausible enough.”
“And frankly, I think that’s still the best course. I’d strongly suggest that you not divulge your knowledge of the investigation to any of your associates. Shannon and I will seal our lips also. The result will be much greater objectivity in the panel’s findings. In the long run, your cause—our cause—will have much greater credibility before the world because there was a strong investigation in the first place.”
Joshua nodded and was silent. For some time he continued staring hypnotically into Jon’s eyes before he said, “I’d like to believe you, Jon . . . but I really can’t. Yesterday, you and Gideon Ben-Yaakov drove to the Technion in Haifa, where you retrieved information on Shimon and his brother, Baruch, didn’t you?”
Now the blood seemed to drain away from Jon’s brain in total shock. His face turned ashen and he felt dizzy. For an instant he wondered: was this God in the flesh after all? “How?” he gargled, then tried again, “How did you know that?”
“With God, all things are possible!”
Some weeks earlier, he would have been frightened, terrified, or at least humbled by that phrase. But now he was boiling angry. He snapped back, “But with God, Joshua, some things are not possible, such as His supposed Son using a liar as His chief follower—a man who told me that he had no siblings!”
“But that was true, Jon: he had no living siblings because—”
“Because the one he had, Shimon Levine, was dead! Shannon and I even saw him die! And the fellow you supposedly resurrected on the Mount of Olives was his identical twin brother, Baruch! Now, I still don’t know how you managed to bring off all the other wonders, but we were fortunate to be able to solve your greatest miracle first. I’m sure that’s the capstone: remove it, and the others will collapse . . . crumbling away into the ash heap where they belong!”