A Skeleton in God's Closet

by Paul L Maier

  “Yes, but let’s get to your dad.”

  Abbot Kalaramas and the dozen younger monks he had brought along hurried to the edge of the precipice and dangled a shoulder harness down to Jennings. With some difficulty, he slipped into it, and they slowly pulled him to safety. Jennings hugged his daughter, and Jon too, before his shaky legs gave out and he had to sit down. One of the monks poured glasses of very cold orange juice for them from an insulated canister. Another tended to Jon’s wounds.

  The abbot now unloaded a barrage of angry Greek on Alexandros, who provided tearful replies in the same tongue, the other monks standing in something of a judicatory circle around him, a gathering look of horror on their faces.

  Finally, the abbot stepped over to them and issued the most sadly abject apology Jon had ever heard. Then he asked, “Do you wish to press charges with the police in Abu Zenima?”

  Jon looked to Jennings for a reply, but Jennings shook his head. “No. No, that won’t be necessary. Your brother needs help, much help, and I’m sure that can best be provided here.”

  “His brilliance, I fear, is driving him mad,” the abbot explained. “As archimandrite, he used to be head of this monastery, but I had to replace him. And what is this terrible document he speaks of, one that could destroy the cause of Christ?”

  “The . . . ah . . . brother was overreacting,” Jon replied. “Much, much work lies ahead before this could be a threat of any kind. Meanwhile, it would be best for all of us to keep this matter confidential. At least for now.”

  “I understand. It is gracious of you to be so for-giving after . . . after the terrible thing that has happened. This is the way of Christ indeed!”

  By now it was becoming unbearably hot, and they all hurried down the mountainside in silence. Just after lunch, when they were leaving, an anguished Alexandros sought out Jon to plead for forgiveness.

  “Pray for me,” the monk said, in a trembling voice. “But pray for the faith also!”

  They were driving back through the arid wilderness, all three too stunned by their brush with death to say very much. Shannon wondered if they shouldn’t have pressed charges. “That weirdo would’ve killed us! He should’ve been put away for life!”

  “The last thing we’d need would be to get the police involved,” said Jon. “Alexandros would use the papyrus as his defense, and the world would know. I think the brothers will keep a lid on him. Besides, we may yet need his fevered brain for the papyrus.”

  Jennings, in the backseat, suddenly reached for his Hebrew Bible and translated from Exodus 19, the giving of the Ten Commandments. “Listen,” he said, “to how Moses warned his people about Sinai: ‘Be careful not to go up the mountain or touch the foot of it. Whoever touches the mountain shall be put to death!’”

  “I guess that prohibition must still apply,” Shannon commented. “Look what happened to us. Or almost happened.”

  “That infernal papyrus!” Jon muttered. “It’s taking control of our lives. Some are even ready to kill for it!” He kept shifting about in his seat, trying to reduce the pain from his injuries. “But now, Shannon,” he added, “tell us, at long last: How in the world did you ever stop the mad monk?”

  FOURTEEN

  Claude Montaigne had a morning appointment with them at the Rockefeller a week after their Sinai trip. He and Jon, armed with Alexandros’s final definitions, would edit an authorized translation of the papyrus text. They found him poring over the papyrus under a strong light.

  “Find anything amiss, Père Montaigne?” asked Jon.

  “No. But I am still convinced that . . . that this thing is not genuine.”

  “Are you speaking as a scholar? Or as a man of faith?”

  “I try not to separate the two.”

  “That was unfair. Sorry! But now let’s try out the remaining definitions from Alexandros. He surely is a genius, albeit a disturbed one.”

  “Disturbed? What do you mean?”

  “It’s a long story. Quite a story! But let’s finalize the translation first. Then I’ll tell you.”

  For the next hour they worked on the wording, Shannon taking dictation and Jennings providing the most apt English synonyms, like the living Oxford English Dictionary he clearly was. The authorized version was not much different from Jon’s original translation, but now all idioms had been properly rendered.

  Afterward, they all went to lunch at the Seven Arches Hotel on the Mount of Olives, overlooking Jerusalem. Sipping Carmel red table wine along with the salad, Montaigne asked about their Sinai experiences, and Jon proceeded to relate the full, incredible tale.

  Strangely, though, Montaigne did not seem unduly shocked by Alexandros’s murderous con-duct. “I fear we shall see more of such violence if the world learns about the papyrus,” he warned. “You are witnessing only the tiniest tip of a monstrous iceberg, mes amis. Have you really thought about all the . . . the ramifications of your discovery? Non-Christians will be unaffected, of course. And among Christians, many liberal theologians, critics, and sophisticates will have little trouble, even if every-thing proves authentic. But this group, for all its influence, numbers less than 1 or 2 percent of world Christendom. The great majority of believers confess that Jesus materially—physically—rose from the dead, and your discovery will lead to a devastating crisis of faith throughout the Christian world.”

  “We’re fully aware of that, Père Montaigne,” Jon assured him. “It’s been a burden on our minds ever since we first deciphered the document.”

  “I’m sure it has. But I also foresee mass despair, collapse of religious and perhaps political authority, suicides—”

  “Isn’t that a little premature, Father Montaigne?” Jennings remonstrated. “We still have many other tests to perform.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. But this fraud seems to be so diabolically clever that the other tests may not reveal the hoax either, and then—”

  “Please don’t use terms like fraud or hoax until—”

  “But of course, but of course. However, I am sure they apply. Or will apply! Nothing is more certain to me! And so, to avoid giving horrible offense to the whole Christian world, I . . . I must respectfully implore you to destroy the papyrus, all of the photographs, the negatives, and the titulus, and then rebury the remains in the sarcophagus where they were found. Seal up the cavern and finish the other sectors of your dig instead.”

  Jennings, Jon, and Shannon exchanged glances of amazement. Montaigne pressed the case. “Or failing that, at least destroy the papyrus. If you must have a ‘great discovery,’ let the world think Joseph of Arimathea has, in fact, been found.”

  Jon was angry. “I bitterly resent your suggestion that we ‘must have a great discovery’ at our dig. We merely—”

  “Forgive me, mes amis! That was . . . that was unworthy of me.” Montaigne dropped his eyes. “It’s just a terrible thing to see our faith under such attack. I ask you again, will you consider destroying the papyrus? The titulus too, I think, because it could lead to speculation as to the remains you discovered?”

  Shannon looked at her father, then at Jon. Jon looked at Jennings, who finally responded, “It is a thought, Jonathan. It is a thought. We’d spare the world a lot of agony—”

  Jon could scarcely believe his ears. Was this a scientific archaeologist caving in? “All this talk is premature!” He sliced his syllables, emphasizing premature so loudly that several dining room guests turned to stare. “We won’t make any such decisions until all the tests are completed!”

  “Spoken as a true scholar, my friend,” said Montaigne. “But we have an extraordinary, an unparalleled situation here, for which we must take extraordinary measures. Please, I implore you to consider destroying the papyrus!”

  Jon merely shook his head.

  Montaigne paused as the waiter brought the main course. Then he resumed, “Well, then, I am prepared . . .” he faltered, “I am prepared, on behalf of the agency I represent, to offer you the sum of five million dollars if you
will give me the papyrus. I have revealed nothing to this agency, other than to state that a certain document could falsely subvert the Christian faith, if not destroy it.”

  Jon’s jaw sagged. He shook his head as if to dispel a bad dream. “You cannot be serious, Père Montaigne. Please tell me you jest—”

  “I do not jest. I am absolutely serious.”

  “I find this in extremely bad taste. What agency do you represent, the Jesuits? No,” he corrected himself, “that’s not their style today.”

  “The Society of Jesus is not involved. But please take me very seriously—you will receive five million dollars.”

  Jennings’s eyes widened, while Shannon stared incredulously at Montaigne. Again Jon gave the response for the group, no longer bothering to check with Jennings. “No. Not for five million or whatever sum you try to bribe us with!”

  “I resent the term bribe. This is merely a gift of appreciation from the agency in question to prevent the faithful from suffering horribly because of a fraud!”

  “What agency? I ask you again.”

  “I’m . . . not at liberty to say.”

  “And we’re not at liberty to ‘sell’!” Jon shot back.

  “I raise the offer to ten million dollars. Ten mil-lion! Imagine how that would underwrite your archaeological campaigns for many years to come.”

  “I can’t believe a scholar of your international reputation resorting to huckstering! I simply can’t believe this conversation is taking place!”

  “Nor can I, mon ami! But, as I said before, we have a unique problem here in the world’s history, for which we must devise unique solutions.”

  “Are you certain you can’t tell us the agency involved?” Jennings asked. “What if we swore to keep the information confidential? Otherwise, your offer has no credibility.”

  Montaigne pondered the point for some time. Then he looked up and said, “Will you give me your word to keep it confidential?”

  “We will,” Jennings responded.

  “It’s some very wealthy members of the Opus Dei—the Spanish branch—who are acting on their own.”

  “Well,” Jon replied, “now you have credibility!” The organization of extremely conservative Catholics was known the world over for dedicated—some thought fanatic—efforts in behalf of the faith. “Nevertheless, I’m opposed to any sellout,” Jon affirmed. “Categorically.”

  Silence was mandated as a waiter cleared the table of the main course. The bizarre conversation resumed over coffee.

  Montaigne now pressed his palms together, almost in a mode of prayer, and said, firmly, “You must leave, my friends, as must I. But I shall now make the only further offer I will ever make in this regard. Henceforth I shall never raise the issue again. Indeed, I shall have to deny that this conversation ever took place, and will cheerfully do so if I’m ever accused of it. I am authorized to offer you fifteen million dollars, to divide as you see fit, for possession of the papyrus, the titulus, as well as all relevant photographs and negatives.

  “Before you respond, I would remind you again of how such an endowment could support not only your future campaigns, Professor Jennings, but also your Institute of Christian Origins, Dr. Weber.”

  Jennings’s eyes widened further. “You said fifteen million dollars?” he exclaimed. “Do you mean nine or ten million pounds sterling? ”

  “Absolument! Not a sou more, not a sou less!”

  Jennings’s hands trembled a bit as he slurped his coffee and looked a little anxiously at Shannon and Jon.

  My Lord, is he weakening? Jon thought to himself.

  Several times Shannon had bit her tongue to keep from intruding into the grotesque dialogue, but she could restrain herself no longer. “I find this all surrealistic,” she said. “So what if we would sell you those items for fifteen million? What would prevent our telling the world about the papyrus anyway? Or hiding a negative or two to prove our story?”

  Montaigne smiled, for he had thought of such a possibility in advance. “I certainly rely on your sense of honor in that regard, ma chère mademoiselle. But, more than that, I know that you would never tell anyone about this transaction, let alone the world.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because your reputations as archaeologists and scholars would be destroyed. In our profession, one never sells, hides, or disposes of anything, particularly something as important as this.”

  “Yes, he’s right, of course,” Jennings admitted. “So, then, my colleagues, do we sell out at fifteen million and enjoy the rest of our lives? Or keep the papyrus and bring pandemonium on the world, while wishing fanaticism, hatred, and bodily harm—up to and including assassination—on ourselves? And if you think that’s farfetched, I give you the Salman Rushdie affair and what Muslims did after his Satanic Verses was published.”

  Jon clenched his fist and said, “You put that beautifully, Austin. It sounds to me like a directed verdict to sell!”

  “Oh, not really, dear boy. It’s just that I’m getting a bit unnerved by it all. Hanging over that abyss at Mount Sinai was hardly sipping a glass of gin-and-Schweppes at Wimbledon! No, let’s be democratic about all this. There are three of us, so no tie is possible. How do you vote, Shannon?”

  “No, Austin, it’s your dig,” Jon interposed. “You decide.”

  “No, I insist. Your desires, Shannon?”

  Shannon looked at her father, then at Jon, and replied, slowly, “I . . . I could never live with myself after selling out. I don’t care what they offer. I vote no.”

  Jon smiled, reached over, and squeezed her hand.

  “And I vote no too,” Jennings quickly responded, “so it looks like hard luck if you wanted to sell the papyrus, Jon.” He had a twinkle in his eye, as Jon broke out laughing in relief.

  “I think it is only fair to warn you,” Montaigne sulked, “that under no circumstances do I want my name connected with this project in any way. I want no mention of my participation in the translation, or in consultation, or in—”

  “Thanks for your help thus far, Dr. Montaigne,” Jon seethed. “We’ll respect your wishes to the letter. And now take your fifteen million dollars and stuff them up . . . no, on second thought, why not use them over there,” he pointed down toward the Hinnom Valley. “Use them to buy another potter’s field, next to Judas’s!”

  Jon sent Montaigne a note of apology the next day for having overstepped his role as dispassionate scholar. Montaigne’s conduct had been no better, of course, but the French Dominican had, after all, provided strategic help in translation. Montaigne was equally gracious in reply and now registered his mortification that he had ever gone along with the Opus Dei offer. “But that papyrus seems to be turning all of us inside out,” he wrote.

  Jon had to agree. It was time for a vacation to soothe everyone’s nerves. It was now the end of August, and the students at the dig were returning to their universities. Jon had planned to drive up to Galilee with Jennings and Shannon, but Jennings backed out at the last minute. “I want to scout out a possible new dig site near Qumran, and I need Clive along before he has to return to England,” Jennings explained. “But don’t change your plans on my account.”

  “You still want to go, Shannon?” asked Jon.

  She thought for a moment, then replied, “Why not? Sounds like fun.”

  And so it proved to be. Galilee was easily the most picturesque section of Israel, the least spoiled by time and the urban sprawl that characterized Judea. Jon and Shannon drove along the Mediterranean coastal road, through the Megiddo Pass, around Mount Tabor, and they finally reached their first night’s destination at Tiberias on the Sea of Galilee.

  They had reservations at the Plaza in Tiberias, right on the seashore. After checking into adjacent rooms, they dined by candlelight in the restaurant overlooking the Sea of Galilee, a magnificently romantic set-ting for any but Shannon and me, thought Jon—an improbable couple trying to flee their consuming secret. Here was easily the most famous body of wa
ter in the world—the very lake where Jesus presumably walked on the water, stilled the tempest, and produced the miraculous haul of fish. Near it he delivered the Sermon on the Mount and fed the five thousand. But all of it, all of it, would be grotesquely undermined if their papyrus proved genuine.

  “Shannon,” said Jon, looking out over the lake, “do we really have the . . . the right to destroy people’s faith? This responsibility thing is creeping up on me.”

  “Me too. For a while it was fun-and-games try-ing to sleuth out the truth. Maybe it still is. But if word ever gets out, say good-bye to all peace, tranquility, and sanity.”

  “And all orderly scholarship. Yes, any premature revelation would be the worst-case scenario.”

  “Jon, did you ever wonder if maybe Montaigne was right after all? I mean, not because of the money, but his motivation—not wanting to hurt people?”

  Jon gritted his teeth. “Yes, I’ve thought about that. More than I care to admit.”

  Suddenly she chuckled. “Wouldn’t it be ironic if we all decided to save Christianity and destroy the papyrus anyway, after letting fifteen million dollars slip through our hands?”

  “At least we could live with ourselves . . . I hope,” Jon laughed. “We didn’t do it for cash, we did it for principle.”

  At the moment he found himself entranced once again by the changing moods playing across the face of the ever-so-beautiful woman looking at him across the candlelight. She toyed with a strand of her lustrous hair that spilled generously onto her shoulders. Whenever she spoke, the coral pink of her lips danced invitingly before a backdrop of perfect teeth, parting for smiles that effortlessly took him captive. The laughing sparkle in her eyes set fire to his soul. He fiddled with the stem on his wine glass, trying valiantly to return to the mainstream of their conversation.

  “Who knows?” he said. “Maybe something will still turn up in the other tests—”

  “Do you really think anything will? Tell me the truth.”

  The arrival of their entrée mercifully cancelled his need to reply. “Let’s talk about something happier, Shannon,” he said. “You, for instance. Let’s have your life story!”