by Paul L Maier
“First, of course, I studied every aspect of Christian doctrine and history to see where it was most vulnerable and where it had most departed from Judaism. The Levine twins, who were totally identical as you saw, agreed to provide the ‘resurrection,’ as it were. But which of them would have to die? They agreed not to decide that until later on in life. Either of them would have given his life for the cause, but, as it turned out, the Lord decided that for them—another sign that God sanctioned our cause! Schmuel, in turn, agreed to get ‘healed’ of many different maladies at various places. At Jerusalem he was the blind beggar only when tourists would see him. I mean, he didn’t spend his entire life at the Dung Gate!”
Jon forced a smile at the pleasantry while disguising a clump of anxiety within. He suddenly realized that the Twelve and the other men would not take his side in overpowering Joshua after all: he would never be able to convince them in time that their Master was a fraud. In fact, they would probably join Joshua in overpowering him! Perhaps he should escape now, before they arrived. Why had he not told Gideon about his trip to Galilee? He struggled to maintain serenity at the surface, even as he was wildly scrambling for options.
“What are you thinking, Jon?” The penetrating voice interrupted the pause in their dialogue.
“Just this: in trying to run your scheme parallel to Jesus’ life and ministry, there were some items you could not control. For example, your birth—in Bethlehem, no less—to parents named Joseph and Mary, as well as spending your early years in Nazareth.”
“Pure coincidence, Jon! Pure, unadulterated coincidence! Earlier in my student days, I used to joke with my friends and say, ‘Hey, you guys, I’m the Christian Messiah: I was born in Bethlehem and my parents were Joseph and Mary!’ It always brought a big laugh. See, it’s been over twenty centuries since Jesus was born, so, in that long a period of time, the law of averages just had to permit such a coincidence.”
“And did that coincidence help give you the idea for your plot?”
“Of course it did! It was almost a blueprint from God. But notice, too, that there was no exact parallel, which would have been impossible. My mother’s name was Mariam, not Mary. I was an only child, whereas Jesus had four brothers, two sisters. I grew up in Nazareth Ilit, not Nazareth, et cetera.”
“Speaking of your youth, how did you bring off the Sepphoris mosaic?”
“Baruch’s idea. He graduated from the Technion in chemical engineering, so it was no problem for him to play tourist at Sepphoris and retrieve some of the grout in the synagogue floor, matching it completely with the grout for our inscription. I thought the idea was hopelessly far-fetched when we planted the mosaic one night at the Sepphoris dig, but you people proved so cooperative in its discovery and interpretation.”
Jon nodded, feeling like a wooden marionette on the end of Joshua’s strings. Then he commented, “I won’t even ask how you generated the voice of God at the Galilee theater: tape with multi-track recording, plus bass overmodulation and gross amplification, of course.”
“Except we used a CD instead of tape. Of all my ‘miracles,’ that one, certainly, was the easiest to bring off.”
“Oh, yes, one more of your wonders isn’t explained: your famous Jesus Bulletin on the world’s computers. The best web people in the world haven’t figured that one out. They know it originated in Israel, but how in blue blazes did that work?”
“I love the cyberuniverse, Jon. If I hadn’t had more important things to do, I could have designed computers that would have made Bill Gates and Microsoft look like they were dealing in abacuses! So when instant messaging came along with those annoying pop-ups on the screen, it gave me the idea on how to handle John the Baptist’s role.”
“Wouldn’t an actual person have been less complicated?”
“Negative. Only four of us were involved in this great cause, and we wanted to keep it at that: the fewer the better.”
“But how did you do the cyberthing?”
“For all its enormous spread, the World Wide Web is controlled by very few main server software vendors across the globe. I devised an almost dimensionally different way to penetrate the entire web through those software programs, a way no hacker would ever have thought of. The servers, in turn, infected the entire web with harmless worms that would program all computers on-line to respond to language-coded instructions from the mainframe server I have in the basement here.”
“You have your own server here? You own this place, then?”
Joshua nodded, almost proudly.
Jon knew it was nearing noon, and the rest would be arriving imminently. Could he perhaps succeed in exposing Joshua before them, after all? Unlikely, and why take the chance? Might it come to violence with Joshua? They were rather evenly matched physically, and he was ready for a fight. But what if Joshua had a weapon hidden somewhere? Again, why take the chance?
Jon had been fingering the keys to his Peugeot in his right pocket. Fortunately, he had not locked the car: he would dash inside it, lock the doors instantly, and drive off. Jon knew it was a long shot that the old gimmick would work, but suddenly he jumped up, pointed with horror at the veranda windows, and shouted, “Watch out!”
While Joshua turned his back to see, Jon made a dash for the main door and flung it open. There stood the six-foot, four-inch frame of Baruch Levine, blocking the exit with both arms. Jon ran through the house to the back door. It was locked, apparently from the outside. He fought the knob and hurled himself against the door, but it wouldn’t open. Wheeling about, he ran to the glass doors opening onto the veranda, but before he could slide them open or crash through them, six hands grabbed him tightly. Someone he had not even seen before held his lower legs in a tight armlock, while Joshua and Baruch clamped both his arms and pinned him to the floor. Shackles were clamped onto his ankles, while handcuffs were slapped onto his wrists. The three then lifted him back onto one of the couches.
“I . . . regret any unpleasantness here, Jon,” said Joshua, smiling. “And do permit me to make the introductions. Baruch you already know, and our football ‘tackle’ here is Mr. Schmuel Sikorsky. Once he was blind at the Pool of Siloam, you may recall, but now—amazingly!— he seems to have regained his sight. Oh, and by the way, I didn’t tell you how I knew that you and Ben-Yaakov had driven to the Technion. By great good fortune, Schmuel here paid an alumni visit to his alma mater the same day. He was at the administration building that morning, purloining the computer mainframe tape for 1994.”
“Okay, Ben-Yosef,” Jon responded. “This was inevitable, of course. But you’ve claimed only four people were in on your plot: one’s dead; the other three are here. What will the rest of your cadre think when they get here and see me in irons? Or have you lied about that too?”
Joshua broke out laughing, and the other two joined in.
“Jon, Jon, Jon,” said Joshua, “the others would indeed be shocked, since what I told you is true: only the people in this room know. But I do confess to fibbing about them coming. They have no idea we’re even up here!”
A stab of horror pierced the very marrow of Jon’s bones, but he swore not to let his captors sense it as he replied evenly, “Well, then, I’m dreadfully sorry to have upset your plans, Ben-Yosef. The best thing you can do at this point is to call the police, come clean with your entire operation, tell the world how you did it, and go down in history as having pulled off the greatest caper in the annals of humanity. You’ll be famous for centuries, no, millennia to come!” “Sorry, Jon. I just can’t do that.”
“Why not, Joshua? Believe it or not, up to this point—in your whole weird and wild conspiracy—I really don’t think you’ve broken any laws . . . nothing for which they could send you to jail. Well, I guess I could sue you for false arrest here, but I won’t press charges . . . if, that is, you release me immediately. After that I’ll thank you for a most stimulating conversation this morning. To say it’s been enlightening is to understate. In the extreme!”
Jos
hua said nothing but merely unleashed a low smile at Baruch and Schmuel.
“C’mon, Ben-Yosef, use that marvelous intelligence of yours and take the high road: no jail time, writing an international bestseller telling the world how you brought it off, and enjoy the rest of your life in luxury. So take these lovely bracelets off, since I have to get going now.” He held up his arms. “Obviously, I won’t be accompanying you and the others to Rome.”
“No, that’s true.”
“So, then . . . what are your plans?” Jon was maintaining the air of insouciance as long as possible. “How long do I have to wear these lovely . . . iron accessories of yours?”
“Oh . . . just as long as it takes, Jon.”
“Which means?”
“Shall we say . . . for the foreseeable future?”
“Fine. But what will Shannon say when I’m not on that flight to Rome?”
“You will have gone there a day earlier to help prepare for my arrival, Jon. I suggested as much to Shannon, so she’ll not be concerned.”
“What about the people in Rome?”
“I’ll say that you were detained by urgent business here in Israel.”
“And what happens when all of you return from Rome? Having fooled the world, you’ll release me then?”
Joshua flashed him a wan smile and said, “You can’t be serious, Jon, can you?”
He swallowed hard and said, “Your scheme is impossible, Ben-Yosef. You ought to know that! The government, the academic community, the press corps . . . everyone will be looking for me.” He was about to add “Shin Bet also,” but thought better of it.
Joshua took a long breath and said, “They’ll quickly have a reason to . . . stop looking, Jon.”
An icy shiver tickled his nerves. “And what is that?”
Joshua avoided his eyes, looked down, and shook his head. “Jon, Jon, why couldn’t you simply have believed—like so much of the world? Again, you could so easily have become my prime apostle Paul—and Paul is even your middle name! But no.” He threw up his hands and sighed. “All right, then, have it your way. I’m really . . . dreadfully sorry, Jon. But the cause is . . . infinitely more important than any one individual.”
“Which means . . .”
“Which means that . . . when the authorities find your body, they’ll stop looking for you, of course. It’s as simple as that. Your suicide note will explain it all.”
An emotional tornado blowing inside made Jon cough. He hated that. He wanted to betray nothing, however dread the situation. Mastering himself, he had only the slightest waver in responding, “So what will my suicide note say? And, by the way, I hardly ever write notes: I just type memos and initial them.”
“Which will be very helpful for us. We’ll type the note on your letterhead, and I’ve already practiced writing your initials.”
“Where do you propose to get my letterhead?”
“We already have it. The day you interviewed ‘Shimon’ in your office—after his astonishing resurrection—he swiped several copies off your desk while you went out for coffee. Of course, he had no reason to suspect you at that time, but how very brilliant of you, Baruch, to see that all our bases were covered.”
“Yes,” he replied. “Some intuition made me do it.” Then he pointed upward and said, “God.”
“Well, that was clever, gentlemen,” said Jon. “But why in the world would I ever want to commit suicide? Where’s the motive?” “The most frequent motive for any suicide,” Joshua replied. “Grief and heartbreak over the loss of Shannon.”
Jon’s eyes blazed in fury. “If you do anything . . . anything to Shannon,” he yelled, “so help me God, I’ll—”
“Oh, no, no, no. I don’t propose to hurt her in the least. Quite the contrary! I intend to have her fall in love with me, because I’m already deeply in love with her. She is simply the most exciting creature I’ve ever encountered, Jon. And that, you see, will be the reason for your suicide.”
“You’re totally crazed, Joshua, do you know that? You’re whacko, off-the-wall! You’re living in La-La Land! If Shannon’s not suspicious before her flight to Rome, she certainly will be once I don’t arrive there. On the flight back to Israel, she’ll be in total panic.”
“True enough. But our women’s auxiliary, as you call it, will keep her busy enough in Rome. And we won’t sedate her until her complaining about your absence gets obnoxious—if, in fact, it ever does. Once she returns here, of course, your body and suicide note will solve it all. If she claims that you had no reason to write such a note, the authorities will simply interpret that as a woman covering her tracks for an illicit affair with someone else. The other ladies will report her reverent love for me, and I, of course, will do everything I can to help her surmount her grief, believe me!”
“You’re a fool, Ben-Yosef. And you’re taking her for a fool too.” “I don’t think so, Jon. Of course, if she fails to respond to my overtures in the months to come, or if she gets too suspicious about your suicide, well then—I deeply regret—hers must inevitably follow. Out of grief for you, of course.”
Jon strained at his chains. Fury vied with fright for control of his psyche, and at this point anger held the upper hand. “Throughout this weird sham of yours,” he seethed, “I’ve eliminated the satanic as in any way involved in your fake miracles, Ben-Yosef. But now, I think, it’s finally time to involve the devil—not to give you any powers you don’t already have, but to account for your own satanic intellect. You’re a depraved, damnable monster, Joshua. You do realize that, don’t you?”
Schmuel had been standing in the background, making no response whatever. Now, however, he snarled angrily. “May I please smash his face, Joshua, so that he shows you some respect?”
“Not necessary, Schmuel. Let’s just take him downstairs.”
They lifted Jon off the couch, Joshua carrying him at the shoulders, with Schmuel and Baruch at each leg. Jon twisted and jerked with adrenaline energy. On the stairs to the basement, he succeeded in shoving the three off balance, and they all slid most of the way down to the concrete floor. Jon got up first and tried to climb back up the stairs, but his shackles hobbled him, and he stumbled.
The others pounced on him and dragged him across the basement floor to a wine cellar. There they fettered his wrists to two three-quarter-inch wrought-iron chains embedded in the concrete wall.
“Why would anyone have chains in a wine cellar?” Jon asked, inanely under the circumstances.
Joshua replied, “We took appropriate precautions a month ago in case anything went wrong. Now, while Baruch and I fly to Rome, Schmuel here will keep you company. We certainly don’t want an early suicide to detract in any way from the great event at the Vatican. Now we ought to—”
“I wonder if I shouldn’t stay behind too,” Baruch suggested. “If Weber escaped, everything we’ve worked for all these years would be doomed.”
Joshua shook his head. “The world wants to see the man I raised from the dead. ‘Peter’ must certainly be present for our triumphal entry into the basilica named for him! You can handle this, can’t you, Schmuel?”
“Of course! I didn’t sit outside the Dung Gate of Jerusalem all those years to let this goy spoil it all!”
“Very well, then. Don’t release him from his chains under any circumstances whatever! If he tries to scream, gag him. Then again, why bother? We’re six kilometers from the nearest house. We’ll lock the gate on the entrance road down in the valley. The place is surrounded by motion sensors, of course, and will buzz an alarm if anyone approaches. In that case, use ether on him immediately. The bottle’s over there on the table.”
Then he turned to Jon and said, “Schmuel will supply your food and drink.”
“But what about entertainment?” Jon wondered, in a feeble attempt at humor.
“Hmmm. Oh, I have it, fellows: let’s bring down the smaller TV set upstairs so that our friend here may enjoy our Roman holiday also! All right with you, my colleagues?�
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“Fine.”
“The day after we return from Rome, then, we’ll reconvene here and offer Professor Weber a generous helping of wine, pasta . . . and, of course, potassium cyanide.”
“Not my favorite dessert, Ben-Yosef,” said Jon. “I think I’ll pass.” “In which case, some force-feeding may be necessary, good friend. Then we’ll take your body up to, say, Banias, and dump it at night into the headwaters of the Jordan. We’ll leave your suicide note on a picnic table nearby, and then get back to Jerusalem before your remains are even discovered. How do those plans suit you, Jon?”
“They certainly suit a maniacal psychopath! And what else would one expect from a homicidal fraud who thinks he’ll dupe two billion people?”
“Oh, I’ll convince them all right.”
“Your plan is full of holes, Ben-Yosef! I doubt if anyone would commit suicide using cyanide.”
“Hmmm. You may have a point there . . . well, we could always fall back on barbiturates—sleeping pills, overdosed, of course. Thank you, Jon. You’ve been very helpful on that point.”
“But I—”
“But you won’t swallow any? Well, then, we’ll put them into solution and use a catheter on you, I suppose.”
“You’re crazed, Ben-Yosef! Mad! Unhinged!”
“Ta ta for now, Jon. Enjoy the accommodations. See you soon!”
TWENTY-FOUR
The second week in July was almost ostentatiously beautiful. A limpid canopy of blue with a few cottony tufts of clouds hung over the entire Mediterranean basin, with fragrant southern breezes gently caressing all three of the great peninsulas on the north shore: the Balkans, Italy, and Iberia. Christians there knew well enough why the weather was superb: clearly, Joshua had arranged it for his historic reception in Rome.