13th Apostle

by Richard F. Heller

  Good for CyberNet’s coffers, you mean.

  Gil shook off the imaginary conversation. He had no intention of going anywhere. It was as simple as that.

  “Why would I be going to Israel if the diary is in England?” Gil asked, a bit argumentatively.

  “No matter. No matter. That’s where you’ll be doing your work.”

  Not on your life old man.

  He flashed the Professor his most sincere look. “You know, considering what’s involved, I think it would make far more sense to bring the diary to CyberNet’s facilities,” Gil explained. “So, with your okay, Dr. Ludlow, I’m going to recommend that CyberNet assign your project our best team here in New York. In that way, you’ll get the best minds…”

  “A team!” Ludlow gasped.

  “Well, yes, but don’t worry, it won’t cost you any more. Actually, for the cost of transporting and housing me, it might even be cheaper in the long run…”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Sabbie asked angrily. “How could you make such a suggestion? Either you’re a fool or you haven’t heard a word Dr. Ludlow has said. In either case, you’re wasting our time.”

  She rose, nodded to the Professor, and made her way toward the restrooms. Ludlow mopped his forehead with his napkin, excused himself, and followed in the same general direction.

  Gil shook his head in disbelief. What the hell had just happened? Had he really screwed things up that badly? Apparently so.

  He slumped into his chair, prepared to offer the required apologies as soon as they both cooled down and made their way back to the table.

  By the time the waiter came for their second drink order, Gil knew the bitter truth. Ludlow had walked out. And so had the girl.

  Gil’s eyes fixed on Ludlow’s dripping raincoat, still slung on the chair, and his umbrella lay half open on the floor under the table. Everything was exactly as it had been, save for the fact that Ludlow and Sabbie were gone. Gone from the table and, evidently, gone from the restaurant.

  Had he thought to look up from the three square inches of tablecloth that occupied his field of vision since their departure, he might have seen them leave. But he had waited, like a schoolboy, for his punishment; ready to make amends, so that he might go home, get some rest, and let George have it—but good—on Monday morning.

  Now, it appeared, there was no one left to apologize to. What started out as a bit of a pain-in-the-ass dinner had escalated into the meeting from hell. Gil’s gaze fell on Ludlow’s vacant chair. A single thought brought him to his feet and sent him striding in the direction he had last seen the Professor and Sabbie disappear.

  Sabbie would never have allowed the old man to leave without his coat and umbrella. Not on a night like this.

  Chapter 5

  A few minutes later

  Hotel Agincourt

  “Do you think we should leave him alone in there?” Aijaz asked anxiously. “I mean, he could just leave with the money. The stuff in the envelope could be worthless, right?”

  Maluka glanced at the bedroom door that separated them from Ludlow’s assistant in the living room and motioned Aijaz to keep his voice down.

  “No need to worry, my friend. Peterson isn’t going anywhere until we’re done with him. He may require our financial help again in the future and he knows it.”

  Ajiaz waited for clarification.

  Maluka tossed the thick envelope onto the bed. “This is of little importance. What I want isn’t in the envelope. What I want lies within the man in the next room.”

  Aijaz nodded, desperately trying to keep up.

  “Getting what you desire is easy once your adversary thinks he’s already given it to you,” Maluka explained.

  The big man looked down, not knowing what to say.

  “It’s okay, Aijaz. I take care of my part. You take care of yours.”

  Aijaz smiled with gratitude.

  “Now we wait just long enough. Another three minutes should do it.”

  Persuading noncooperative people to take seriously their moral obligations was Maluka’s forte. As a boy in Halab, Syria, he had been obsessed with playing “monks and demons,” a game that dated back to the fourth century. Having convinced one of his many cousins to dress in rags, Maluka would don his carefully assembled costume and assume the role of the holy man. With great ceremony, the young Maluka would summon the evil spirit that lurked within the heart of his playmate and challenge it to combat. Though small for his age, Maluka had been remarkably muscular, able to pin down a child several years his senior and to extract, at his demand, confessions of iniquity and promises of repentance. In so doing, Maluka invariably succeeded in exorcising the evil spirit and making the world safe for the Pure of Heart.

  Once having played the game with him, a child would rarely do so again. Maluka couldn’t have cared less. Having savored victory over any particular foe, he had no need for a rematch.

  Now, decades later, Maluka had transformed the physical game of his childhood into the psychological game he used in the service of his Faith. Whenever he had to resort to physical persuasion, however, he preferred to delegate that responsibility to Aijaz.

  Both men returned to the living room. The still-unopened envelope remained where it had been tossed on the bed.

  Ludlow’s assistant rose from his seat, waiting for Maluka’s judgment on the envelope’s contents.

  “Excellent. Excellent. You have managed to obtain some very useful documents,” Maluka began.

  A look of relief crossed Peterson’s haggard face and betrayed what Maluka had suspected. Peterson was frightened Maluka would discover that he had been given information that was virtually useless. Although Peterson must have included some of Ludlow’s personal notes on the diary, as Maluka had requested, and perhaps some background history on the Monastery at Weymouth where the diary was found, in all likelihood, Peterson had not included anything of any real importance. Maluka smiled with satisfaction. If there was one thing that he knew, it was people. He had no illusions about them, he could always expect the worst, and they rarely ever disappointed him.

  “So, you’ve met your part of the bargain and we’re all set,” Maluka concluded with a studied good humor.

  Peterson’s fingers reflexively patted the package of money in his jacket pocket. He smiled gratefully, stood, and walked toward the door, most likely convincing himself that he had been concerned over nothing.

  Maluka offered the handshake that had not been forthcoming at Peterson’s arrival. Peterson responded in kind and turned to go.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Maluka said offhandedly. “What is this business about a copper scroll?”

  Peterson’s smile faded.

  Before Ludlow’s assistant could respond, Maluka probed a little deeper. “I’m sure it’s not really significant or the Professor would have mentioned it in his notes more than that one time. I was just wondering if you included it because you thought it might be important.”

  This was the part Maluka enjoyed the most. He’d set the trap, caught the rat, and now he got to watch him slowly wriggle. Best of all, with each squirm, Ludlow’s assistant was providing Maluka with exactly the information he wanted.

  “Copper scroll?” Peterson asked innocently. “Oh, no. That’s not why I included that page. I forgot it was even in there!”

  Because you were so very careful to remove any possible reference to a scroll, weren’t you? I knew it! I didn’t even need to look at the pathetic pile of trash you tried to pawn off on me. You must truly think me the fool!

  Peterson continued, trying desperately to cover his tracks. “Don’t worry. The copper scroll thing’s not important. On one of the pages of the diary, Ludlow and DeVris apparently found some mention of a copper scroll being hidden somewhere in Weymouth Monastery. They couldn’t even agree if that’s what it really said. Ludlow is certain that it’s what the whole diary is really about. DeVris thinks it’s nothing more than a reference to a copy.”

  “A copy
of The Cave 3 Copper Scroll they found in Qumran years ago?” probed Maluka.

  “Right. And that you know is in the Book of the Shrine already. DeVris says the diary’s just talking about a copy of The Cave 3 Scroll, not a new scroll. The monks probably sold copies of The Cave 3 Scroll by the dozens to bored knights in search of treasure. Anyway, the only reference to any scroll, new or old, was on some old scrap of paper Ludlow found stuck in the binding, so how could it be what the whole diary is about?”

  “So DeVris says there is no scroll, or, if there is one, it’s nothing more than a copy of The Cave 3 Copper Scroll?”

  “Yes, nothing more than an old man’s wishful thinking.” Peterson straightened and set back his shoulders.

  “If you ask me, they’re both crazy. I mean, here are two intelligent men debating and transcribing, then going back and debating it all over again. Just like the fight about who would keep the diary—that went on for a month! The Professor won, of course, ownership is nine-tenths of the law. But now with DeVris in Israel and the diary with Ludlow in London, Ludlow spends half his day uploading bits and pieces of it onto a secret website on the Internet. If you ask me, it would have been a lot easier if he had just let DeVris keep the damn thing.”

  Maluka nodded and smiled. Fearful people explain too much. That always gives them away. If you can spot it, it always works in your favor. The greater the number of words they use to cover up their lies, the greater the opportunity to get more information.

  “Ludlow’s gone paranoid,” Peterson continued. “He keeps every e-mail, every printout, even his own notes, locked up like they’re the crown jewels.”

  Peterson explained that even if he had needed to work with diary-related information, he had to ask the Professor to retrieve it.

  “I must be confused. I thought you had access to Ludlow’s safe,” Maluka asked.

  “I do. I have access to his safe in the den. But there is another safe in the kitchen, in what looks like an oven.”

  “In an oven! Really?”

  “Yeah. The thing is bizarre. It’s got a fake back—the oven I mean—which releases if you enter the right numbers in the right succession on the oven timer. It’s one of those digital things—a smart board, Ludlow calls it—and you’d never know that it wasn’t part of the kitchen equipment.”

  Peterson explained that, on one particular occasion when he had attempted to heat his lunch in the oven, Ludlow’s wife happened upon him just in the nick of time.

  “She’s just a little old lady but she pushed me halfway across the kitchen. She said to never touch that oven again, that Ludlow built the safe inside to keep her valuables in,” Peterson explained. “As a child, she was a prisoner in a Gulag. You know, a Soviet forced labor camp, and apparently she’s still terrified that people will break in and take away everything she has. Not that she has anything worth stealing from what I can see.”

  “And now…” Maluka prompted.

  “And now, since Ludlow got hold of the diary, he’s taken to putting almost all of his papers in the oven safe, which I don’t have access to. Which is why I couldn’t get you more,” Peterson concluded with a half-apologetic grin.

  “No matter,” Maluka said congenially. “You’ve given me all that I needed. Chances are this whole thing will come to nothing. Most importantly, let’s hope the money you’ve earned gives your little girl the extra help she so desperately needs.”

  Peterson’s eyes shot to Maluka’s as if seeking to confirm the sincerity in his words. Maluka put on his most sympathetic face. Peterson smiled his gratitude, then opened the door.

  Maluka hesitated. He wanted to frame his next question carefully. He required only one final piece of information.

  “A safe journey to you, Mr. Peterson. I assume that you and Professor Ludlow are heading back to London in the next day or two?”

  “Yes. Tomorrow night. Though I’m not looking forward to the long flight.”

  “Yes, yes,” Maluka said brusquely and closed the door.

  Even as Peterson made his way to the street, Maluka had already snapped open his cell phone to reserve airline seats for himself and Aijaz on the first morning flight to London.

  Chapter 6

  Day Two, late evening

  Regent’s Park Tube Station

  Camden Town, London

  Professor Arnold Ludlow struggled up the steps, two heavy suitcases in tow. Sweat from the strain dripped into his eyes, and his back hurt like the dickens. A welcome bit of cool air wafted from the street above. He breathed it in, then with a sigh, renewed his climb.

  Sarah would be furious. She had begged him to arrange for a private car from the airport but he had refused. They had not put away enough money in the safe yet, he had protested. If Sabbie should need it…Neither Ludlow nor his wife had allowed themselves to linger on the thought.

  “Until there is a comfortable cushion of funds, the tube will suit me fine,” he had concluded. “Besides, the exercise will do me good.”

  Sarah had kissed him on the bald spot on his head and had given his shoulders a squeeze. Now, she’d be rubbing his back with her infamous Chapman’s Liniment for a week.

  “Bloody stuff is made for horses,” he would protest.

  “That’s what you get for acting like an ass,” she’d be certain to counter.

  Ludlow smiled.

  He had reached the street and, revived by the cool air, he headed toward Upper Harley Street and the pleasures of home.

  The walk was surprisingly invigorating and his apartment house greeted him like an old friend. Perhaps if his back hadn’t been hurting him so badly, he might have realized something was wrong. Perhaps he might have become alarmed at seeing the apartment windows dark when he knew Sarah would be wide awake and anxious to hear the details of his trip. In any case, he still would have walked unknowingly into their apartment and into the stark terror that awaited him.

  Two strong arms seized his and pulled him into the room, even as he struggled to free the key from the lock. They encircled him, and with one great wrench against his chest, left him breathless and in agony from ribs that splintered and gave way. Ludlow slumped to the floor. The room, suddenly flooded with light, seemed oddly filled with white. Two huge figures towered above him, each in clothes devoid of color and faces devoid of expression.

  Only Sarah brought color to the moment, her face, hands, legs, and nightgown, all covered with the sickening brown-red of blood. One eye was swollen shut, and a red trickle ran from her ear, but she was alive.

  “Please, take what you want. Take it all,” Ludlow pleaded. “Just leave us alone. We’re old. Take whatever you want and go.”

  “You know what we want,” the first intruder said softly.

  Sarah’s sob broke the silence that followed.

  While one tormentor held Ludlow’s head in place so that he would bear witness to the scene that was to follow, the other walked toward his beloved Sarah. The intruder hesitated for a moment, smiled at Ludlow, then kicked the prone woman full force in the side of the head.

  Ludlow heard the crack of her neck as it snapped the life out of her. For a moment, the room was silent, save for a tiny exhale of her last breath.

  “No!” Ludlow shrieked. He was on his feet, and his hands found the face of the executioner. Ludlow held him by his hair as one eye yielded its soft viscosity to his death grip. Ludlow’s screams of rage drowned out his victim’s cries of pain.

  The old man heard nothing, saw nothing, knew nothing. His body did what it had to do and continued grasping and flailing, even as the second intruder pulled him from the first and beat and kicked him until his body could no longer bring muscle and nerve together to move.

  “Now give it to us,” the murderer demanded.

  “I don’t know what you want,” Ludlow mouthed. His chest spasmed with unreleased sobs. “I don’t know what you want,” he whispered again.

  “The diary, you old piece of shit! Just give us the diary and we’ll let you di
e in peace.”

  “The diary?” Ludlow whispered, confused.

  Another kick to his back. “Like you didn’t know,” his torturer snickered.

  Ludlow struggled to clear his thoughts.

  That’s what this was all about? The diary! No, it couldn’t be. It was all too fantastic to imagine.

  He had warned DeVris that powerful people had powerful reasons to get control of the diary. DeVris had laughed at him. Sabbie had indulged him his secrecy and had gone along with his emergency preparations, though she had thought him a bit over the top about it. Sarah, too. But none of them had ever considered him anything but paranoid about the whole matter. Even he doubted his own concerns. And, now, son of a bloody bitch, he had been right all along.

  Ludlow smiled; a tiny raising of the corners of his mouth, an insignificant movement that echoed a greater victory than any round of cannon fire.

  He had what these murderers so desperately wanted, but they had left him with no reason to give it to them. They had taken everything; his Sarah, his desire to live, and his body’s ability to continue to endure their abuse. He was dying and he knew it. Yet this, the only thing they really wanted, they would not get.

  Chapter 7

  Day Four, early morning

  CyberNet Forensics, Inc., New York City

  CyberNet Forensics was one of the top-rated, though not one of the highest-grossing, Internet Investigative Services in the country. While the identities of clients were usually kept pretty hush-hush, all of the company’s top cybersleuths, including Gil, knew that their clients were some of the most powerful individuals and agencies in the world.

  CyberNet’s website claimed their computer programs had helped spot, prosecute, and put an end to more identity theft, online child pornography, money laundering, fraud, and potential terrorist schemes than all the other Internet forensics companies combined. Oddly, though, according to the company’s annual financial reports, CyberNet continued to remain in the red.