Rabbi Gabrielle Ignites a Tempest

by Roger Herst

  "I would think so," Gabby interjected. "What's he told you?"

  "At the moment, nothing. Our relationship is so sour, he’s not likely to tell me or one of my associates anything. It just occurred to me that you might be the perfect person to have a word with him."

  "Why should he be open with me?"

  "You know he's a good drinker. You may not know he's also a ladies man. I have no idea what he does or doesn't do in the bedroom, but we know he enjoys the company of attractive women. The idea of having you talk with him came to me when you opened the front door."

  Gabby let the compliment slip by without acknowledgment. "What would I ask him?"

  "If he knows where Tim Matternly is."

  "And if he doesn't?" "Then I'd like to learn what he knows about recent activities at Qumran. Information on new artifacts. Cave looters. Church gossip."

  Gabby scuffed her foot over the parquet floor before answering. "I've already put a call to him. His receptionist said he was in retreat and unavailable."

  "A very secretive man," Arad mumbled. "My guess is that he'll return your call, but will take his time about it. If you hear from him, I'd like to know."

  In the swirl of events since her return to Jerusalem, a simple idea had eluded her. While arranging and rearranging what she knew about Tim's disappearance, she had overlooked what should have been obvious from the beginning. Because his laptop was not in the apartment, she assumed he had access to e-mail. Though she had become pessimistic about receiving a reply, she nevertheless clung to the hope that at some point he would reach out. It occurred to her that she had forgotten to tell him that she was now in Israel.

  HI, TIM. I'M HERE AT THE APARTMENT IN JERUSALEM, she pecked out on her keyboard. She thought briefly about revealing the confidences Itamar Arad had shared with her, then decided to make an excuse for coming earlier than scheduled. PROFESSOR KRAMALAKOV AT U C IS UNDERGOING RADIATION ON A MALIGNANT PROSTATE AND HAS SUSPENDED HIS SEMINARS FOR TWO MONTHS. I THOUGHT THIS A GOOD OPPORTUNITY TO LOOK AT SOME OF THE MEDIEVAL COMMENTARIES ON MAIMONIDES DEALING WITH PROPHECY. THEY'RE SCATTERED AMONG A HALF-DOZEN LIBRARIES HERE. She didn't wish to make demands Tim couldn't meet. To end the message, she wrote: KEEP IN TOUCH. LOVE, AS ALWAYS, GABBY, then punched a key dispatching her message into cyberspace.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Early Sunday morning, Gabby walked to the plaza outside the Jaffa Gate leading into the Old City and selected a metallic gray Mercedes taxi with green license plates marked with a large P permitting the driver to transport passengers through military barriers to the West Bank. "Can you take me to Bethlehem?" she asked the Palestinian driver, a blue-eyed, blond man in his early thirties, uncommonly clean-shaven except for an almost transparent moustache.

  The driver lifted his chin to study her through glasses for his astigmatism, as if to ask, “Why would a woman like you go to Bethlehem?" Obviously, the white headscarf and a demure black cloak with flat leather shoes she wore had failed to convince him that she was a Christian Arab.

  "I must attend mass at the Church of the Nativity."

  "Depends on the roadblocks," the driver casually responded. "If they're in a bad mood, the soldiers can ruin my day. No guarantees they'll let us enter the city. It's open one moment, closed the next. I could get stuck there. So you pay for the delays, Lady, which could be a long time. If I can't leave, you pay for a full day. I can make more money by staying here in Jerusalem."

  "Sounds fair to me," she said, and climbed into the back seat.

  Despite the driver's misgivings, the barriers presented few obstacles, perhaps because it was Sunday. When a young bearded Israeli guard in a scruffy olive uniform—backed up by a teenage female recruit, who carelessly pointed her automatic weapon at the taxi driver—asked Gabby where she was headed, she told him she was going to church, which wasn't a lie.

  Once in the biblical city, she directed the taxi past Father Benoit's École Biblique, knowing it to be closed for the Christian Sabbath, and instead followed a hunch based on what Tim had told her about its director. On several occasions, he had spoken of Father Benoit as a "fish out of water," an ardent student of history who fit more comfortably into the first century, than the twenty-first. When this priest spoke of Jesus, it was less about the august son of God than a contemporary friend who once trod ancient Galilean pathways. To think and feel like people in the days when Jesus preached, he had lived for two years with a Bedouin tribe, speaking their regional Arabic and emulating their nomadic existence. Though a citizen of France and a loyal servant of the Roman Church, he considered himself primarily a son of the desert. Why, Gabby reasoned, would this devout priest from Bethlehem attend Sabbath mass in any lesser sanctuary than the oldest church in Christendom, built by Constantine's mother, Helena, over the historic manger and birthplace of Jesus?

  The taxi driver dropped Gabby off on Manger Square fronting the Nativity Church. She entered this imposing limestone house of God administered in the name of Christianity by Orthodox, Armenians, and Franciscan clerics, through a low medieval portal purposely constructed in the fourteenth century to prevent arrogant Templar Knights from entering the holy of holies on horseback. In a peripheral courtyard named for St. Jerome—where Orthodox, Armenian and Catholic clergy in black, brown, and white robes were bustling about in preparation for a series of simultaneous masses—she spotted a black frock with flowing folds belonging to the Dominican order. A series of quick steps brought her alongside where she tugged at the wearer's woolen sleeve.

  The churchman slowed to turn his head, then stopped when she introduced herself as a Bible student from Chicago. His silky white skin glistened like polished porcelain; his cheeks enlarged in a friendly, almost toothless smile as he heard mention of the Windy City. "Oh yes," he said, "I have a cousin who immigrated to Illinois. That's near Chicago, yes?"

  After gently correcting the cleric's geography, she asked, "Do you know Father Benoit Matteau, from the École Biblique?"

  "Of course. Everybody in Bethlehem knows him. When he's not excavating in the desert, he attends mass here and gives lectures on biblical history. His collection of archeology slides makes you feel you're right there, centuries ago. We always invite him for lunch but he seldom accepts."

  "Is he here this morning?"

  "Don't know. You can't miss him because he wears an Arab djellaba at mass. He tells us if we want to think and feel like our Savior, we should dress like him, not like modern clergy. Look for a short man in a gray djellaba."

  Gabby thanked the priest, adjusted the scarf far over her forehead to conceal errant strands of hair, then marched from the Orthodox and Armenian sanctuaries through a darkened corridor to the adjacent Franciscan church of St. Catherine and, once there, stepped into the nave to find a pew among rows of worshipers, as far forward as possible. It struck her that, while the young choirboys were bareheaded, the clerics lined in rows behind them were hooded, their heavy winter robes concealing all but their noses and mouths.

  The choral music was Gregorian; the pervading aroma, that of Greek spices. As the mass began, she observed the Franciscan and Dominican brothers leave the altar through a side door to descend fourteen steps to a subterranean grotto marking the manger and birthplace of Jesus. With smoldering incense vesicles in hand, they returned to their previous places in the Franciscan church. From the distance, she could only guess which, if any, might be Father Benoit, either in a black robe or a gray djellaba.

  As soon as the liturgy concluded, she rushed forward to the low-lying, narrow passageway leading out to Manger Square. People clustered ahead, waiting patiently to file under the low lentil. Among those nearest the low aperture, she caught a glimpse of what looked to be the gray cloth of a djellaba, and a white and black Palestinian kafia that the wearer had released from his head to rest on his shoulders. She thought about calling over the worshippers waiting patiently to leave, but hesitated because the man was already near the passageway. Instead, she concentrated on not losing sight of hi
m, noticing how he rudely elbowed his way forward through a cluster of children impatient to seek sunlight beyond the darkness of the church. A moment later, the man ducked his head under the threshold and disappeared.

  It happened so fast Gabby found herself muscling forward through the pack of bodies. Determined steps brought her forward where she used her shoulders to edge past those waiting patiently to leave. Her head dipped under the lintel and a moment later, she plunged into Manger Square, showered by warm morning sunshine. Father Benoit was nowhere in sight. Clerics were traversing the wide plaza headed in different directions. In the middle of the square, an enormous Orthodox monk with an untamed beard, his head crowned with a blood-red skullcap, was straddling a Vespa motor scooter, scanning passersby as though a police officer searching for a criminal. The little scooter appeared ready to collapse under his massive weight. Bodies moving in different directions confused Gabby. In a snap decision, she stopped looking for a djellaba and instead sought a short, heavyset cleric. With only a moment before those currently on the square were likely to disperse, she selected the shortest churchman and dashed in his direction, catching him on a cobblestone walkway leading to a street lined with souvenir shops. Bright sunlight had misled her because, as she raced forward, the brown habit she was chasing turned out to be gray.

  She accelerated until she caught up and addressed the priest from behind, "Father Benoit?"

  He barely slowed his pace, twisting his torso to observe who was talking. The moment he jogged his chin upward, she knew she had made the right choice.

  "I'm Rabbi Lewyn, Tim Matternly's friend," she said. "I met you with him at Fink's Bar in Jerusalem."

  Benoit came to an abrupt halt and turned fully toward her. "Mais oui, why of course." He spoke with the uplifting pitch of his French mother tongue.

  "I don't wish to intrude, but I've come to talk with you about Tim."

  "I'm afraid I have a pressing appointment. Perhaps you could return in a few days. Et oui, have lunch with me?"

  "I have questions that can't wait. Tim has disappeared and I have no idea where."

  Benoit's dark eyes studied Gabby's face before nodding his head negatively from side to side. His eyes were distracted over her shoulder, toward the center of the square where the Orthodox monk was now standing alongside his scooter like a piece of public statuary. She noticed the priest's eyes narrow and his lips purse. It looked as if his attention returned to her only under duress. After an awkward moment, he asked, "No contact with Timothy? A note? E-mail? A phone call perhaps?" "Nothing. Is there another woman in his life?" she pursued, seeing how the priest had other things on his mind. "I wouldn't like that, but then I also don't like that I can't find him. If it's bad news, I need to know now, not months from now."

  "I would doubt that," Matteau said in a tone of dismissal, as if to say that domestic matters were not his field.

  "Is he all right?"

  "Is there any reason to think otherwise? Timothy and I see each other only when we have a matter of scholarly interest. At such times, we're inseparable, but for the present, matters that concern us are quiet. It's been more than four months I would think."

  She knew too much from Itamar Arad to believe that a preeminent scholar with numerous contacts in the region would characterize the present state of archeological affairs as quiescent. "Please," she said, testing Benoit with a question whose answer she partially knew. "Have there been any recent archeological discoveries that might affect Tim?"

  She thought she saw his eyebrows rise slightly as he said, "There are always rumors. Most are spurious, of course. Nothing I can confirm at this moment."

  "Thank you, Father," she replied, uncertain how to interpret his response.

  "Do come and have lunch with me, Rabbi," he said, turning on artificial charm. "As I recall, you're working on prophecy. I'm eager to learn what you've come up with."

  "I've made considerable progress since we met."

  "Well, then you absolutely must come. Contact my secretary, Simi, at the École. Salam alekum." A mottled, fleshy hand shot out from his djellaba to seize hers.

  He was away in an instant. She was about to move into a side street and hail a taxi when struck by the image of Benoit's eyes riveted over her shoulder. She pivoted toward the center of the square where the Orthodox monk was now vigorously pumping the starter peddle on his Vespa, maximizing his entire weight and strength. No matter how hard he attacked the kick-starter, the engine stubbornly refused to turn over. As Father Benoit disappeared from the public square toward a narrow row of shops, the monk threw his arms over his head as if cursing the heavens.

  ***

  Orthodox Friar Hilarion, whom Gabby had noticed at Manger Square, had driven a Vespa belonging to the Monastery of St. George through three Israeli checkpoints from Jericho to Bethlehem to deliver a message from Tim. Sworn to the silence of his ecclesiastical order, he refused to answer when Father Benoit took possession of an envelope and released a torrent of foul curses, blaming the messenger, not Tim, for unnecessarily compromising their pact of secrecy. The fact that the monk had made a public spectacle of himself by parking dead center in the middle of Manger Square compounded Benoit's rage.

  When he cooled down, the Dominican priest offered the unfortunate man fruit juice, then dismissed him with instructions not to return immediately to Jericho. A cleric of his size driving a motor scooter was certain to attract unwanted attention. Instead, Benoit proposed that he visit the Church of the Holy Sepulture in Jerusalem then, as his guest, have a leisurely lunch at a restaurant in the Abyssinian Quarter of the Old City. He should return to the monastery only after sundown.

  The envelope contained a handwritten message from Tim Matternly.

  COME IMMEDIATELY. URGENT!

  Benoit struggled to read between the lines. Why was it important for him to leave Bethlehem for Jericho, forging a trail that might later be followed? In the thirty-one day interval since a scanner, computer, and server, along with other office equipment, had been delivered to the monastery, it was impossible for Tim to have completed the task of sorting, scanning, and coding the fragments from Qumran. And it was equally impossible for him to have compiled them into a decipherable form. The only plausible explanation for this impatience was that something important had been discovered. Benoit could have used his mobile phone to contact a representative of St. George in Jericho, but that would have established an undesirable phone trail, particularly since he had long suspected how Israeli officials were eavesdropping on his calls. And there was now an additional danger that the police might be listening to conversations originating from the monastery.

  Normally, a Palestinian chauffeur drove Benoit around Bethlehem in the École's vintage maroon Buick. For security reasons, this afternoon he drove himself north to the eastern outskirts of Jerusalem, then veered to the northeast in the direction of Jericho where he stopped on a promontory to survey the Judean wilderness through binoculars. The sun, dropping in the western sky, cast the desert in ochre and rust, punctuated by patches of yellow and white wildflowers sprouting in the wake of the winter's extraordinary rains. The desert's beauty stirred in him a familiar sense that this was not just any desert, but the holiest of lands, sanctified by having given birth to humankind's spiritual history. Beneath his sandaled feet, Benoit could almost feel legions of Christian believers preceding him. Their ghosts still lived in the soil of this precious geography and their spirits were still carried by the desert winds.

  Benoit had toiled in the garden of biblical archeology his entire career, primarily editing books and articles written by his colleagues, adding his expertise to the compendium of knowledge about life in the time of Jesus. When an archeological site bequeathed artifacts from the past, he had tirelessly labored to place them in an historical context. But there were many fallow years in which nothing of significance was unearthed. During these long droughts, he kept himself occupied by compiling and reexamining past assumptions.

  Despit
e the scholarly acclaim he had achieved, he was left with a dim view of his life's work. Though commentator and editor of countless scholarly papers and author of five complete books, he had never discovered a single original artifact, leaving him to feel that his professional life had been squandered looking over the shoulders of others while they, not him, pioneered in building major bridges to the past. His sponsors in Rome knew nothing of his frustration. Even less did his colleagues in the Holy Land sense how he envied their achievements. As the years of his scholarly career neared an end, he prayed fervently for a personal discovery, some tiny artifact of history to secure his place between generations of the faithful. Yet come each new year, his prayers remained unanswered.

  On this afternoon, Father Benoit interrupted his ruminations to concentrate on more mundane matters, searching for Israeli patrol vehicles along the border between Israel and Jordan. A white lorry emblazoned with large black letters marking it as a United Nations vehicle was heading eastward toward the Jordanian frontier. A stream of taxis and small trucks moved at what appeared breakneck speed to and from the Allenby Bridge fording the Jordan River. Figuring that no one on the highway would take special notice of his car, he adjusted his position behind the wheel and maneuvered the gearshift from Park to Drive.

  Before actually entering the ancient city of Jericho, he veered from the bituminous highway onto an unmarked dirt track, swerving westward from the desert floor into the Judean foothills. Two cars and an all-too-familiar Vespa belonging to the Monastery of St. George were parked where this potholed track ended five kilometers later. He eased his Buick behind the second car and cut the ignition, then removed a leather bag from the backseat before starting on foot along a rocky path that sometimes offered crude stairs cleaved from the limestone outcropping. A banister rope provided support for the steepest portions. He paused on three occasions to rest, thinking that in his younger days he could have made this climb without stopping to catch his breath.