Clark waited for Herranz to finish, dispassionately. Herranz continued, “Bennett, we do appreciate all of your work on this, but a representative of the Holy See, I can tell you, the thousand year schism will not heal. Mommy and daddy are not getting back together.”
Clark’s face did not register a response. He took a deep breath and said, “That’s too bad.” Molino looked at Cullinane. Clark continued, “Let me tell you a story from when I was a boy.”
“Here it comes,” Molino whispered to Cullinane.
“I went to prep school at St. Thomas Aquinas in Arlington,” said Clark. “There, I took a theology course taught by Father Roy Hubbert. Father Hubbert was passionate about the subject, and his enthusiasm was infectious. At one point, he invited us to his apartment on campus to continue the discussion we had in class. About six of us started going each day after class. He would serve us a glass of wine, saying the Lord didn’t mind. After a few weeks, the group winnowed down to two of us, my friend John and me. We would talk about theology, but Father Hubbert also started asking us questions about our personal life. It all seemed okay, Father Hubbert was as much a friend as he was a teacher. Then one day John couldn’t make the discussion group because of a sports commitment. That afternoon, it was me and Father Hubbert alone in his apartment. We talked some, and he gave me more wine than he did before. He might have doped it, I don’t know. I started feeling drowsy. I nodded off. When I looked up, my pants were at my knees and Father Hubbert was fellating me. I was scared, I tried to get away. But Father Hubbert, who was a big man, rolled me over and, there on the couch in his living room, he raped me.”
Tears were starting to well in Clark’s eyes. “I was fifteen years old!” he cried. “And he raped me.” Clark took a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and wiped his eyes. The room was positively still. Metropolitan Theodosius was weeping. Cardinal Herranz had a look of abject shock on his face. Clark continued, “When he was done, he tried to kiss me. When I wouldn’t let him, he said to me, ‘You’re a fag now. You can’t tell anyone about this because everyone hates fags.’ And can I tell you something? I am gay now, but not because of that fucking rapist. It’s just who I am, but I have struggled with that day...all my life. Since then, anything I have done or accomplished has been to see this moment. Now, for me and for every child who has ever been raped by clergy, is when I get my revenge.”
Clark rotated his chair to face the Knights of Malta delegation. A man in the front row handed Clark a manila folder.
“I have here a report dated March 24, 1978 from the Archdiocese of Munich and Feising. We obtained it from a friend who worked there at the time. It is a report about a certain priest, and we all know who he is, who had been accused of several separate instances of child abuse. To wit: rape.”
The Vatican delegation began to stir.
“This report, written to Archbishop Joseph Ratzinger, outlined the known instances of rape, and recommended that this priest be defrocked and the authorities be notified. We also have a letter, written by Archbishop Ratzinger a week later, reassigning this priest to, of all things, a primary school. We also have the testimony of four victims who went to that primary school, all between the ages of six and ten at the time, of how this priest raped them.”
Phillips slumped in his chair. This was unbearable.
“We all know that this priest is now dead. What you might not know, though, is that we have friends in the Munich public prosecutor’s office, one of whom advises us that, for crimes of this nature, there is no statute of limitations, and there is no immunity. In other words, gentlemen, if this report becomes public, the Munich police will obtain a warrant to arrest Pope Benedict for conspiracy to commit child abuse.”
“You wouldn’t,” said Herranz.
“Watch me,” said Clark.
“But the Munich police searched for these records and couldn’t find them,” said Herranz.
“Oh, that,” said Clark. “We also have a 1999 letter from Cardinal Ratzinger requesting that all the original records of this priest be sent to Rome for an ecclesiastical inquiry, which by the way, didn’t exist. The response, from our friend in Munich, was that they had all been destroyed. This apparently was met with satisfaction by Cardinal Ratzinger. What His Holiness does not know is that our friend lied, because he knew that Ratzinger didn’t have an ecclesiastical inquiry, he knew that Ratzinger intended to bury the file. Our friend is prepared to come forward with these documents and attest to their authenticity.”
The look of shock faded across Herranz’s face, replaced with a cold sense of pragmatism. “What do you want?”
“Simple,” said Clark. “One, Benedict resigns. Two, a Jesuit is elected to the Papal Throne.”
“But a pope hasn’t resigned in over five hundred years,” said Herranz.
“I know,” said Clark ominously, “they usually die in office.”
Herranz recognized the threat in Clark’s observation. “May we have a moment?” Clark nodded. Herranz swiveled around and nodded at a priest in the first row of the Vatican delegation. The priest stood and stepped to the back of the room, dialing what looked to Molino like an encrypted satellite phone. The remaining delegations were whispering among themselves. The telephone call lasted quite long, over five minutes. When it was over, the priest returned, whispered in Herranz’ ear, and sat.
Herranz looked to the Knights of Malta delegation. “Herr Wittelsbach,” he said, “Are you in agreement with this proposal?”
From the back of the knights’ delegation, an ancient man stood, with some difficulty, and addressed the cardinal. “I am,” he said, and was assisted back to his seat.
Cardinal Herranz seemed deflated. “There you have it. It is done. There will be a sede vacante in time for next year’s Easter season. When sede vacante is declared, these Munich papers will be destroyed.”
Clark nodded in approval. “Oh, one more thing.”
Phillips and Cullinane leaned forward, expectantly, as if they were watching a play.
“The Gospel of James will be published,” said Clark.
There was a stir throughout the room.
Metropolitan Theodosius reacted. “You realize that only we have the book, and the great harm that publishing it would cause.”
“No one has ever been harmed by the truth,” said Clark. “Publish it and let the truth find its own way. Of course, after, a donation – a very generous donation, will find its way to the see in Constantinople.”
Herranz was alarmed. He swiveled and spoke to the first priest in the Vatican delegation. That priest then turned to the back row of the Vatican delegation, where Cullinane, Phillips, and Molino sat, and whispered, “the cardinal wants a counter-proposal.”
There was stirring among all three delegations. One person proposed destroying the books. Another suggested an ecumenical council to edit the book before publication. Cullinane wanted it to be published, arguing it could be announced, and then released couched in thick academic prose, to minimize the popular impact, like they did with the Dead Sea Scrolls. Phillips pointed out that tactic was quite risky.
Molino had another idea, which he suggested to the first priest. He seemed impressed, turned and nodded at Cardinal Herranz.
“We have a suggestion,” said Herranz.
The priest turned and nodded at Molino, who rose and spoke to the combined delegations. “Why not publish it as historical fiction?” Clark leaned forward squinting, trying to understand the proposal. “It’s easy,” said Molino, “publish the Book of James as historical fiction, see how the public reacts. Let’s face it, people won’t care where the words came from. If there is truth in the book, it is in the words. If there is truth in the words, the people will respond.”
Clark swiveled and faced his delegation. The delegation of knights were speaking among themselves. As they spoke, an elderly priest in the back row of the Eastern Orthodox section rose.
“Excuse me,” said the older man. “May I speak?”
Clark smiled warmly, “Of course Father Abdau, please speak up so we can all hear.”
The man, thin with thick round glasses, raised his bent stature to make the most of his voice. “My name is Ibrahim Alfonso Abdau, and I own these books. I bought them with my own money. It is because of my sacred vow of obedience that these books have not yet seen the light of day. For sixty years, I have studied these books, and I know them better than any human alive. I am old, and in my lifetime I want to see these books see the light of day.”
Several priests in the Eastern Orthodox delegation shook their heads in furrowed brows at the suggestion that they were the ones that had suppressed the books.
“Father Abdau,” said Clark, “What would you suggest?”
“I agree that publishing James as a historical fact would be unwise, even if phased like the books found at Qumran. It must be made delicately, giving us license to add context. I think the historical fiction idea is splendid. The book does speak for itself. I would only add that, in fifty years, the church acknowledge that it was fact. I would also suggest that the other books I found in Aljoun should be released together – now, as historical fact. They are not nearly as controversial as James, and the historical importance of this find by far outweighs our institutional concerns.”
There was further discussion among the Knights of Malta delegation. Then, with a gesture, they agreed. Clark looked at Herranz, “and the Vatican?”
Cardinal Herranz rolled his eyes. “Agreed.”
Then Metropolitan Theodosius weighed in: “The copy of James will be untraceable to its source, and it will be a translation. There will be a phased release of the other books, through Phanar Greek Orthodox College, who will retain rights to the books in accordance with Father Abdau’s bequest.”
Clark nodded.
“And who will write this...fiction?” asked Cardinal Herranz.
“I have a partner who wants to break into writing,” said Clark. “Which is all well and good, because he’s not a very good lawyer. I’ll give it to him.” Theodosius and Herranz both chuckled. “Father Abdau, you’ll get the copy to me by next week.” Everyone nodded. “Very well then,” said Clark, reaching down beside him. He pulled up box 52, marked in black ink with the letter Q. “Here’s your box, cardinal. No need to thank us for returning it. Because we are among friends, there will be no need for a memorandum of understanding. I call this council adjourned. I hope that you can spend the rest of the afternoon with us, we have a wedding to celebrate.”
Molino, Phillips, and Cullinane left the conference room, stunned. They had just seen the fall of the world’s most powerful prelate, and they were among only twenty-five people in the world who knew it. They assembled in Molino’s suite to discuss it all. Phillips was convinced that Benedict’s resignation had been Clark’s objective all along. Cullinane was disappointed that James would be released as historical fiction, for him that was intellectually dishonest. Molino mentioned that Cullinane would be free to talk about the real origins of James, but all agreed that only crackpots would believe such a fantastic story, and James deserved better.
There was a knock from the hallway. Molino opened the door, it was Metropolitan Theodosius. Molino ushered him in. He sat in a club chair and politely accepted a glass of water.
“I just spoke with Clark,” said Theodosius. The men waited to hear what this was about. “He agreed that security for the transfer of the translation of the Gospel of James must be of the highest order. I am uncomfortable with an electronic transfer. Mr. Clark suggested that you, Captain Molino, be the one to carry the physical copy from Istanbul to Rome.”
Molino looked at his companions, who were agitated at the chance to actually see the book. “I will if I can bring Father Phillips and Professor Cullinane along,” he said.
A wry smile came across Theodosius’ face. “Clark and I knew you would suggest that. I also spoke with Father Abdau and, Professor Cullinane, he is most keen to have you view his collection. After sixty years of study, he is eager to discuss his life’s work with someone outside of the patriarchate, especially someone of your reputation. And of course, Father Phillips, your curatorial advice would be very well received. All you need do is agree that, for the time being, what you learn in Father Abdau’s library will stay in Father Abdau’s library. He is too old to be drawn into controversy.”
Cullinane, Phillips , and Molino surveyed one another with glances and nods. “Agreed,” said Molino.
Twelve
The Church of St. George was small, given its place as the seat of the senior patriarch of the Eastern Orthodox Church. That was because Turkish law required that churches for dhimmi – non-Muslim “protected” persons, must be smaller than mosques. As a result, the exterior was plain, white stone done with a neo-Classical influence.
It was eight in the evening. The church had closed to visitors at four. Molino pushed on the door and found it open. He, Phillips and Cullinane walked inside. A security guard, carrying an Uzi, asked “Officer Molino?” Molino nodded and flashed his badge. The guard waved them in.
Phillips and Cullinane sat together in a pew, in silent thought. Molino looked around.
In contrast to the plain exterior, the interior of the Church of St. George was lavish. Gold gilded panels lined the walls. Icons and reliquaries lined the perimeter. A fragment of the pillar which Jesus was bound as he was flagellated before his crucifixion sat behind the iconostasis. There was also the reliquary of St. Euphemia, a martyr killed by bears after the lions refused to maul her. At the Council in Chalcedon, legend has it that the church fathers wrote two decrees, each outlining their differing positions on the natures of Christ. They placed each decree in St. Euphemia’s reliquary. When they opened it the next day, one decree rested in her hands, the other decree had fallen to her feet. The council declared the former decree orthodox, the latter heretical.
After a few minutes, they heard a door open and shut from behind the altar. The sound of slow deliberate footsteps came from the shadows where Father Abdau emerged. With the assistance of a cane, he walked up to the three men and greeted them. “Welcome, gentlemen.” He led them back past the altar, out the door, and across a small courtyard to Phanar Greek Orthodox College. “This has been my home for sixty years. It is humble, but it has served me well.”
The building was anything but humble. It was built in the 19th century and, although it was a school, it was often referred to as the fifth largest castle in Europe. A large dome was used as an observatory. The school itself, dating back to the 15th century, was the premier school for prominent families of the Ottoman Empire. Princes of state and commerce were educated there.
Father Abdau led the men through the front entrance, into an ornate lobby, then through a series of corridors to an elevator, which took them down several stories. The hallway was plain and dark. It smelled of cleaning agents. Molino heard keys rattle. “You are the first westerners I’ve ever had here,” said Abdau as the sound of a key turning the heavy barrel of a lock echoed down the hallway. There was a loud clunk as the handle was turned, and a crack of light split the darkness. The priest pushed the door open and the men entered a room lined with bookcases. In the middle was a desk, and to the side was a bed. Next to it was a kneeler and a small altar. “I spend my days here, in study and in prayer,” said Abdau. A single lamp sat on the desk, illuminating papers and books.
The men stood as Abdau took the only chair in the room, behind the desk. Molino quickly gathered that Abdau didn’t have many guests. Abdau pulled open a drawer and pulled out a manila folder.
“Here it is,” said Abdau, handing it to Molino. “The Gospel according to James, English translation by yours truly.” Molino looked in it. It was a stack of plain white sheets, with double spaced Times Roman print. It could have come off of any computer in the world. “I am old,” said Abdau. “This text is my child, I ask you please to treat her well.”
Molino handed the folder to Phillips, who held it gingerly. �
�We are only couriers, Father. We will see it gets to Rome safely. What happens after that is not up to us.”
“I know, I know,” said Abdau. “They told us that I could only give you the translation, but they said nothing about what I could show you.”
“Father,” said Cullinane, “my colleague and I would very much like to see the books from Pella.”
Abdau nodded in agreement. “Come this way.” He led them through a small door in the corner of the room. It led into a bunker of sorts. The walls were plain concrete, and looked heavily reinforced. A single ceiling light illuminated the room, which was empty but for a book case and a lectern. The bookcase was in the middle of the room. It had glass doors, the glass looked quite thick. There were filtered vents at both ends, with low-voltage fans silently circulating air through the case. A dehumidifier sat below the bookcase.
“It was 1946. I was a young priest, visiting the Saturday market in Aljoun, my hometown. My parish was there, my visits were subtle reminders to the faithful that mass would be the next day. I rarely bought anything, but this one day there was a table with these books, ten of them. Boys from the hills were selling them for a pound twenty. This is what I found.”
He flipped a switch and low-powered halogen lights lit up the bookcase. There were three shelves with about twenty codexes on each, all bound in leather. There were scroll boxes on another. “The boys told me there were more, so the next day I visited them at their home, far into the hills. The parents were good people, but ignorant. The boys had retrieved twelve clay jars from the cave, but that was three months before I arrived. I was told the jars all were filled with books. When I arrived, half of them were empty. They had been using the pages to light fires.”
Phillips and Cullinane gasped.
“Yes, I know,” said Abdau. “What I bought at the market was the contents of one jar. On the spot, I bought the other five for 100 pounds. The parents were, to say the least, pleased. The boys carried the jars to the rectory for me. My Greek was not very good back then, and I didn’t yet know Hebrew, Aramaic, Coptic or Nabataean, but just looking at them, I knew that this find was important.”
Book of James: a novel Page 8