by Roger Herst
Zabronski dipped his chin to take a closer look over the top rim of his sunglasses, squinted, and cocked his head to reveal that he had not expected a female rabbi and certainly not one this attractive. His first English sentence marked him as an immigrant from Brooklyn, alerting Gabby that, while he wore a religious skullcap, he was probably unlike other zealous American Jews who had taken up residence in the Holy City for the sole purpose of talking directly to God. Zabronski struck her as someone far more interested in talking with fellow Jews.
A few moments later, the major flashed his identification card to a dark-skinned guard in a rumpled and ill-worn police shirt who fumbled with a locking mechanism to a five-meter high chain-link gate. The guard then pointed along rows of sun-blistered cars and vans whose symmetry was occasionally broken by a bus heavily caked in desert dust. After being locked inside the compound, the trio marched down the rows of vehicles and eventually found a baby blue Hyundai Tucson with tinted windows and a partially open trunk hitched to the car's frame with packing rope.
Despite his earlier inclination to dismiss Bar Jehoshua's suspected link between the cave at Qumran and the murdered Bedouin, Zabronski was now reconsidering. He opened the driver's door to the SUV and knelt down to examine dirt on a rubber floor mat, making a mental note to have it tested by his forensic lab. "Have you seen this car before?" he asked Gabby.
The moment she set eyes on the vehicle, a familiar tremor, commonly caused by anxiety, rippled through her arms. In her professional life, she had learned to conceal this by placing her hands into whatever pockets were handy. When nerves got the better of her while speaking in public, she would plant her palms firmly on a flat surface and press down until the tremor passed. Fortunately, this morning she was wearing a khaki vest with large side pockets. Her hands disappeared immediately beneath the flaps.
The model, color, and damaged rear-end dashed her hopes that the vehicle she had come to identify would not be Tim's. But how could she deny it? The thought of protecting him with a declaration that she didn't recognize this SUV flashed through her mind. But she was too levelheaded to believe that such a bald lie would hold up. She responded to Major Zabronski by nodding yes, then quickly opened the driver's door to inspect the dashboard. From that angle, the sun was blinding so she pulled the door fully open and dropped into the front seat, her trembling hands now clasping the steering wheel for support. Attached to the sun visor was a paper clip Tim used for handwritten notes and hanging from the rear-view mirror by a piece of yellow yarn, a spent container of automobile disinfectant. An empty Ziploc bag rested on the rubber floor mat in front of the passenger seat.
"How did it get here?" she asked Zabronski as she hauled herself back up.
"A Palestinian tried to drive it across the border into Jordan. Our people spotted fake registration papers."
"Where did he steal it?"
"From a bad neighborhood in Bethlehem. The thief claimed he got it from a third party and that he was only a middleman. They always say that. Just wind'em up and out comes a canned response. Now we're certain it belonged to Professor Matternly."
"Where did the thief get a key?" asked Gabby.
"There are more locksmiths in the West Bank than bakers."
Gabby's nerves were beginning to calm. At least now she understood why Tim's Hyundai wasn't parked in its usual spot on the street outside their apartment. Without wheels, he was probably somewhere nearby. Not in Haifa, his favorite Israeli city, or in crowded, noisy, polluted Tel Aviv, which he avoided whenever possible.
Itamar Arad, who had remained silent to let Zabronski make the identification, said to Gabby, "This doesn't look good for Tim Matternly. We know this vehicle was hidden in the desert near Qumran at the time the looting occurred. His absence is more suspicious than ever."
As she regained control over her initial shock, she experienced a flush of determination to counter Arad's summation. "I can see the direction of your thinking," she said with a stern, uncompromising tone, but I know something about this that you apparently don't."
"Why hold back?" Arad said.
"That whatever the apparent circumstances, Tim Matternly stole nothing. I've known him for about twenty years now. Rather intimately, I'm proud to state. And he wouldn't steal anything because he's not now, nor never was, a thief."
Itamar respectfully pondered the conviction with which Gabby spoke and decided not to argue. Instead, he suggested that, since they had no more business in the desert where it was becoming unbearably hot, that they return to Jerusalem and talk more over lunch.
At Maale Adumim, en route to Jerusalem, Major Zabronski used the siren on his police cruiser to lead Arad and Gabby in the Antiquities Authority Toyota through a crowd of Orthodox Jews in black frock coats and heavy fur Sabbath streimels blocking the road. Placards deplored government restrictions on further construction in the district, though the current building codes in Maale Adumim were already generous by Jerusalem standards. Outside the two vehicles, the angry demonstrators threatened with their fists, occasionally slapping rotten eggs against the windows to show their contempt for government officials, no matter that neither the Border Police nor the Antiquities Authority had anything to do with building permits. To help move through bodies from the road, an armored police car plowed a path by gently shoving the demonstrators aside.
An hour and a quarter later, in Café El Mundo off Jaffa Road, Zabronski was already seated at a corner table when Gabby and Itamar entered, a half-poured bottle of grapefruit juice before him. After a few words in Hebrew about the unpleasant scene on the road, the three slipped into their shared English mother tongue. First things first: Gabby and Arad placed food orders at a nearby counter then returned to Zabronski's table. The police officer lowered his voice so that other diners could not overhear. Speaking directly to Gabby, he said, "What I'm about to say will upset you. Arad and I debated whether it was necessary, but unfortunately there's no alternative. It's dangerous to keep you in the dark about Professor Matternly."
Gabby paused, unfolding a paper napkin, glanced at Arad then back to the police officer, who said, "Until you identified that SUV, we weren't sure what Matternly was doing out there in the desert."
"And you still don't," snapped Gabby. "A stolen car doesn't make Tim into a cave robber."
Zabronski allowed the suggestion of a smile to part his lips. He knew his skill at putting the right question before a witness. "All right, Rabbi Lewyn, then perhaps you can provide us with a plausible explanation for Matternly's presence near Qumran at that critical moment. Maybe a special project that he was working on?
Tim's e-mail came to her mind as she struggled to formulate a credible reply. "His primary contribution has been with the Dead Sea scrolls. I'm sure he would be interested in any new discoveries. Perhaps he heard that something was brewing there."
Zabronski appeared impatient and said, "It seems many people learned about this before we did."
"I'm sorry, that's not my problem," Gabby said. "I know this doesn't put Tim in a good light."
"I'm afraid it makes him a major suspect," Zabronski snapped in a harsher tone.
"I've already told you guys that I have no idea where he is. He certainly hasn't returned to our apartment."
"But he might in the future," the major said. "There are things that a fugitive needs and can't get without exposing himself."
"Like what?" she asked. "Something as mundane as a toothbrush. If you don't have a toothbrush, you have to buy one, and that takes money. A change of clothes, perhaps. You can't live day in and day out in the same rags. Or how about medications? Does Matternly take prescription drugs? They're not easy to replace on the run."
She knew that an American cardiologist had insisted Tim take Lipitor to lower his cholesterol. An orange prescription bottle filled with white capsules was sitting on the bathroom sink. Arguing to herself that this was a private matter, which had no bearing on the cave at Qumran, she said nothing to the policeman.
Zabronski stopped to accept a pita filled with grilled chicken from a waiter who, in haste to serve other tables, almost dropped it in his lap. Another pita sandwich went to Itamar, and a plate of hummus and a small salad for Gabby, who requested a glass of iced tea. Once the waiter left, Zabronski followed up, "You'd be surprised what fugitives do. We don't know how much money your friend has to purchase necessities. If he's in Jerusalem, the easiest place to get what he needs is his apartment."
Itamar placed a hand on Gabby's arm, saying, "This makes you uncomfortable. We understand your desire to help Tim, but it's imperative you understand how withholding information will make you a conspirator. And now that you know something about what Tim's been up to, you can't argue before a court of law that you were an innocent bystander. If you were married to Dr. Matternly, you'd have some built-in immunity. But not as an unmarried woman."
Gabby dropped her eyes over her hummus. Of course, she had been thinking about this, but now it was out in the open.
Itamar said, "That Matternly is obviously hiding doesn't say much for his innocence. I must give you an official warning. Since we have his car spotted at the scene of a crime, he's now a fugitive. We know you would like to help him. Don't. It will only get you into big trouble. "
The amicable feeling Gabby felt for Itamar and Zabronski was replaced by a sense of mistrust. She was about to question the soundness of their position when Zabronski added, "Which brings up another issue. I've had the unpleasant job of delivering to his tribesmen the remains of a Bedouin youth murdered near Qumran, just about the time the cave was looted. The murder of a Bedouin invariably triggers tribal vengeance. An eye for an eye. The government has attempted to intervene in such matters, but we never succeed. The Bedouin say to us 'Mind your own damn business and we'll mind ours.' No matter how much we threaten them, they do what they want. When I went to their encampment to speak with Sheik Telfik banu al-Fahl, I delivered the warning he expected. I drank a half-dozen cups of coffee and ate unmentionable parts of a sheep. The elders don't like Jews, but, when in their company, they're officiously hospitable. We all know they won't heed my warning. The tragedy is that they're not terribly sophisticated. Half the time they don't get the guilty party, though that doesn't seem to matter much. For them, it's enough just to spill blood when blood has been spilt."
"So what you're saying, major, is that they'll find someone to murder in place of the youth?"
"One way or the other. The only thing that works in Matternly's favor is that Bedouin are a timeless people. They'll move slowly before striking."
"What exactly are you implying?" Gabby asked.
"That if Professor Matternly is involved in the death of the Bedouin youth, he's a target. He'll have a better chance staying alive if we find him before the Bedouin do."
This alarming state she hadn't considered. "I presume he's only exposed to that danger in the desert."
"That's the way it used to be. But these days, Bedouin kids go to schools in the city. A few study at the university. Revenge can have a long reach. And it gets worse. If Matternly's working with stolen antiquities, he ventured into the domain of organized criminals."
"Dr. Arad here isn't certain the mafia's involved,” she interrupted. “Do you feel the same way?" "As a policeman I'm trained to be suspicious. We know that the cave was looted. That's the kind of work these people do."
"So Tim's now a target of both the Bedouin and the mafia?" Gabby declared as though asking a question. "Is that correct?"
"Afraid so," Zabronski said. "That's why we need to tell you. We don't want you hurt through association."
"Thanks. I'll take a stiletto wherever I go," she almost growled.
Itamar said, "Don't be a martyr. Professor Matternly may have started as a humble academician interested in scholarship, but he's now involved in a very dangerous venture. I've seen many an honest scholar corrupted by Mammon or glory. You shouldn't suffer because of it."
Later, walking Gabby along King David Street in the direction of the archeological library of the Hebrew Union College, Itamar allowed his shoulder to touch hers in a gesture of protection. She recoiled and failed to conceal her exasperation.
"Where are you going with all this?" she asked as they were about to part on the library steps.
"I intend to find Tim for his welfare as well as yours."
"Got any new leads?"
"Trade secrets, I'm afraid."
"Lot's of ifs," she said, suddenly wanting to retreat into the silence of the library where she could think. She wondered if Tim were aware of the dangers. But just as important, she sensed how he had boxed her into an impossible situation. From now on, anything she did on his behalf would make her complicit with him. Itamar and Zabronski seemed genuinely concerned for her welfare. But for how long could she count on their sympathy?
"I'd love to see the cave at Qumran," she said.
There's nothing there to see. Looters got nearly everything. My people removed what little they left behind." "My thesis deals with prophecy in ancient times and I devote two chapters to the Roman era." She paused before doing what did not come naturally—bargaining like an Arab shopkeeper in the bazaar. "Take me to the cave, then I'll do my best to help you find Tim."
"It's out of bounds, secured by the army."
"And you're the director of the Antiquities Authority. How can the army keep you out?"
"I can't promise. Before taking anyone there, I would have to get permission from the IDF. And to see anything, we'd need trekking outfits and rappelling lines. Equipment like halogen lamps and water—a lot of water. Entering a cave like this is dark, dusty, and, I can’t overemphasize, claustrophobic. There's barely enough space to breathe. Would you be prepared to crawl in thick—and I mean thick—dust?"
"To visit a Dead Sea cave? Are you kidding?"
CHAPTER FOUR
Tim compelled himself to think of Father Benoit not as the deceitful man he had come to know, but more charitably as a soldier defending a different church. In contrast to his own views of the Carpenter's Son as a man to be modeled, not worshipped, the Benoit's faith was anchored in Catholic doctrine of a human body inhabited by a divine spirit. Earlier, he and Benoit had agreed to overlook their theological differences because they needed each other. But three words on a fragment of decaying parchment had abruptly ended their mutual reliance. To Tim's mind, they had entered the cave at Qumran as partners, but left as adversaries.
With the exception of what was taped to the small of his back, he accepted the impossibility of removing two picnic coolers filled with fragments from the monastery of St. George. Unassembled, these scraps of animal skins were nothing but a scramble of words and letters, revealing almost nothing about life in the first century. The electronic record he now possessed on a pair of DVD disks was an entirely different story. Based on his past work with fragmented documents, he was confident it was possible to reconstitute these data into readable text. His lust to study, but not to possess, the parchment records from the dawning of Christian history had remained unchanged from the instant he entered the Qumran cave, making it easy for him to leave Father Benoit with the dubious honor of fighting over ownership of the original documents with the Israeli authorities.
From the workroom, Tim made his way to his sleeping cell and climbed out of his scrub suit, donning the light desert clothing he had worn at Qumran. Over that, he wrapped himself in the monk's woolen frock, loaned to him when he first arrived at St. George. The heavy garment was bulky and hot, but provided a measure of anonymity.
Shortly after his encounter with Father Benoit, he noticed a sea change at the monastery. Monks, who previously averted their eyes when he strode through the passageways, now stared at him suspiciously. He feared that soon Benoit would discover what he had removed from the workroom and, given his friendship with Abbot Afanasieff, prevent him from leaving. And the longer he remained in the monastery, the more difficult it would be to escape. He knew of no secret corridors leadi
ng beyond the exterior walls, thus he was obliged to plan a getaway using the lift. That led to a difficult question: could he count on monks to operate its pulley system?
He moved along the stone paths toward the courtyard to re-familiarize himself with the lift's operation. In the past, the gondola had rested on the cobblestone floor, unlocked and ready for use, but he now discovered a rusting padlock bolting it to the wooden platform. And to make matters worse, the crank handles necessary to operate the gears were nowhere in sight. What he feared most had come to pass; the monastery, once a retreat promising peace and serenity, was now his prison.
He scanned a nearby wall to confirm the presence of a rack holding keys to the cars parked outside the walls. Two pairs, he knew, belonged to the brothers of St. George while the third probably operated Father Benoit's Buick, evidence that the Dominican priest had not departed for Bethlehem as he had previously declared.
Aware that the wooden door to his sleeping cell could be locked from the outside by a simple latching mechanism, he refrained from returning there. There was no evidence that Abbot Nicholas or Father Benoit actually intended to lock him inside; nevertheless, it was prudent not to give them an opportunity. He kept on the move, meandering along the monastery's passages and inventing escape scenarios, each time returning to the lift as the only means of descending from the parapets to the ground outside. Now that the gondola had been locked, he was certain to find no monks willing to cooperate.
A working plan came to him on his third reconnaissance of the courtyard when he noticed that, while the gondola was locked to the platform, its hemp lines remained braided through the pulleys. If he could cut away enough line, he might use it to rappel off the monastery wall. But to accomplish this required enough time to severer and secure it. And time was a precious luxury he didn't have. Tim turned his attention to the monastery's schedule.