The Thirteenth Apostle

by Michel Benoît

  “Tremendous! But… is this letter really so terrible?”

  “It’s short, and I know it off by heart. Origen was right – it provides irrefutable proof that Jesus did not rise from the dead as the Church teaches. So he isn’t God: the empty tomb in Jerusalem, on which the Church of the Holy Sepulchre is built, is a decoy. The real tomb, the one containing Jesus’s remains, is somewhere out in the desert.”

  Leeland was stupefied.

  “In the desert! And where, exactly?”

  “The thirteenth apostle refuses to indicate the place with any precision, so as to preserve Jesus’s body from human covetousness: he simply mentions the desert of Idumaea, a vast zone to the south of Israel whose limits have varied through the ages. But archaeology has made considerable progress: if you use the right tools, you’ll find what you’re looking for. A skeleton placed in an abandoned Essene burial ground located in that zone and bearing traces of crucifixion, carbon-14-dated to the middle of the 1st century, would have a shattering impact on the West.”

  “Are you going to publish the results of your research, make this epistle known to the public, and join the archaeological digs? Nil, do you really want this tomb to be found?”

  Nil was silent for a while. Satie’s melody was trotting round and round in his head.

  “I will follow the thirteenth apostle right to the end. If his testimony had been preserved by the history, there would never have been any Catholic Church. It was because they knew this that the Twelve refused to accept him as one of them. Remember the Germigny inscription: there must only be twelve witnesses to Jesus, for all eternity, alpha and omega. Are we to question, twenty centuries later on, the edifice they have built over an empty tomb? The burial place of the apostle Peter today marks the centre of Christianity. An empty tomb has been replaced by a full tomb, that of the first among the Twelve. Then the Church created the sacraments, so that everyone on the planet might be able to enter into physical contact with God. If we take this away from believers, what will they be left with? Jesus asks us to imitate him day by day, and the only method he proposes for that is prayer. But the multitudes, and an entire civilization, can only be swayed by concrete and tangible evidence. The author of the epistle was right: placing Jesus’s bones in the Holy Sepulchre would mean transforming that tomb into a unique object of adoration for the credulous masses. It would mean forever turning away the humble and the lowly from access to the invisible God via the means that they have always been given: the sacraments.”

  “So what will you do?”

  “Inform the Holy Father of the existence of the epistle, and tell him where it is. He will be the keeper of yet one more secret, that’s all. Once I’m back in my monastery, I will bury away the results of my research in the silence of the cloister. Except for one, which I want to publish without delay: the role played by the Nazoreans in the birth of the Koran.”

  On the floor below, Mukhtar had been scrupulously recording the two Gymnopédies of Satie, then, after Nil’s arrival, the start of the conversation. At this particular moment he quickly put on his headphones.

  “Has the letter of the thirteenth apostle taught you anything new about the Koran?”

  “He addressed his letter to the Churches, but in fact it was meant for his disciples, the Nazoreans. At the end, he adjures them to remain faithful to his testimony and his teachings about Jesus, wherever their exile may lead them. He thus confirms something I already suspected: after taking refuge for a while at Pella, they must have hit the roads again, probably fleeing from the Romans in 70 ad. Nobody knows what happened to them, but nobody seems to have noticed that, in the Koran, Muhammad often mentions nasara, a term which has always been translated as ‘Christians’! In fact, nasara is the Arabic translation of ‘Nazoreans’!”

  “What do you conclude?”

  “Muhammad must have known the Nazoreans at Mecca, where they had escaped to after Pella. Attracted to their teaching, he almost became one of them. Then he fled to Medina, where he became a warlord: politics and violence took the upper hand, but he remained forever marked by the Jesus of the Nazoreans, the Jesus of the thirteenth apostle. If Muhammad had not been devoured by his desire for conquest, Islam would never have been born, and Muslims would be the last of the Nazoreans – the cross of the prophet Jesus would be floating on the flag of Islam!”

  Leeland seemed to share his friend’s enthusiasm.

  “I can guarantee that in the United States, at all events, academics are going to be really excited about your research! I’ll help to spread the word back there.”

  “Just imagine, Remby! Muslims might finally accept the fact that their sacred text bears the mark of someone close to Jesus, someone who was himself excluded from the Church for denying Jesus’s divinity – just as they do! It would be a new basis for a potential rapprochement between Muslims, Christians and Jews. And probably the end of the Jihad against the West!”

  Mukhtar’s face had suddenly darkened. Overwhelmed by hatred, he was now only half-listening: Nil was now asking Leeland what his plans were, and what he would do to conceal all this from Catzinger. Would he be able to resist the pressure and give nothing away? What would happen if the Cardinal enforced his threats and made his close relationship with Anselm public?

  They were babbling away like women: the Palestinian had lost interest, and took off his headphones. The two men had just crossed the forbidden limit: nobody touches the Koran. Christian scholars could dig out secrets buried away in their Gospels if they wanted to – that was their problem. Never would the Koran be subjected to the methods of their impious exegesis; the Al-Azhar University drew its strength from rejecting them. Nobody dissects the words of Allah as transmitted by his Prophet, blessed be his name.

  Muhammad – a secret disciple of a Jew, Jesus! The Frenchman would apply his infidel methods to the sacred text, and he would publish the results with the help of the American. In the hands of America, Israel’s lackey, his work would become a terrible weapon against Islam.

  Frowning, he rewound the tapes and remembered a sentence he often quoted to his students:

  “The infidels, seize them, kill them wherever you find them!”

  Mukhtar felt relieved: the Prophet, blessed be his name, had made his decision.

  80

  All day long it had been raining. Swathes of mist were slowly rising up the slope of the Abruzzi on our side, then seemed to hesitate for a moment before crossing the crest and disappearing in the direction of the Adriatic. The flight of the birds of prey seemed as if drawn towards the horizon.

  Father Nil had given me shelter in his hermitage cut into the rock. A straw mattress thrown down onto a bed of dried ferns and a small table in front of the tiny window. A rudimentary fireplace, a Bible on a shelf, some bundles of wood. Less than the essential – for here, the essential lay elsewhere.

  He told me that we were coming to the end of his story. It was only after it had all happened, in the silence of these mountains, that he had understood all of its twists and turns. He betrayed emotion only once, and I perceived this from the trembling in his voice: when he told me about Rembert Leeland, about the inner torment that he had endured and that had led to such a tragic end within just a few hours.

  As soon as he had laid hands on the lost manuscript, events had started to happen very fast. By exhuming this text from a bygone age and bringing it out of oblivion, he had opened the sluice gates. Behind them, men unknown to him were waiting grimly, each of them defending his own cause with a relentlessness whose violence still remained incomprehensible to him, even today.

  81

  That same evening, Mukhtar had telephoned Lev Barjona, arranging to meet up with him, in a bar this time. They ordered drinks and remained standing at the counter, talking in low voices in spite of the hubbub of conversation around them.

  “Listen, Lev, it’s serious. I’ve just handed over to Calfo the recording of a conversation between Nil and Leeland. The Frenchman has found the ep
istle – it was indeed in the crate of brandy that the Metropolitan Samuel had told you about. He has read it and left it in its place, in the Vatican.”

  “Good, very good! Now we just need to go about things nice and slowly.”

  “We need to act now, and act quickly. That dog claims that the letter contains the proof… or rather, confirms his deeply rooted conviction that the Koran was not revealed to Muhammad by God. He thinks the Prophet was close to the Nazoreans, before relapsing into violence when he went to Medina. He thinks Muhammad was blinded by ambition… You know what that means: you’ve known us since forever. He has crossed the line beyond which any Muslim will immediately react: he needs to be eliminated. Quickly, and his accomplice too.”

  “Calm down, Mukhtar – have you received any instructions from Cairo telling you to do as much? What about Calfo?”

  “I don’t need any instructions from Cairo, in this situation the Koran dictates how believers should act. As for Calfo, I don’t give a damn. He’s a depraved old fool, and the stories Christians concoct leave me indifferent. Let them sort out their own problems and get involved in whatever dirty little tricks they fancy: I have to protect the purity of the message transmitted by God to Muhammad. Every Muslim is ready to shed blood for this cause; God will not tolerate his name being sullied. I will defend God’s honour.”

  Lev signalled to the barman.

  “What do you intend to do?”

  “I know all about their movements, the routes they take. In the evening, Nil returns to San Girolamo on foot, it takes him an hour – he goes down the Via Salaria Antica, which is always deserted at dusk. The American goes part of the way with him, but then retraces his steps and goes for a walk round Castel Sant’Angelo, where he dreams in the moonlight – there’s never anyone there. Will you join me? Tomorrow evening.”

  Lev sighed. A slapdash operation, carried out under the impulse of anger, with no lucidity. When Mukhtar’s fanaticism went to his head, he lost all sense of proportion. The Bedouin hopped onto his camel and galloped off to wash away the insult with blood. Waiting was a sign of weakness, something that went against the law of the desert. The Arabs’ pride, their inability to control themselves when honour was at stake, had always allowed Mossad to win out over them. And he remembered the instructions from Jerusalem, firmly transmitted by Ari: “No more action for you”.

  “Tomorrow evening I’ve got a rehearsal with the orchestra for my last concert. They know I’m in Rome: nobody would understand it if I didn’t turn up. I have to keep my cover, Mukhtar. Sorry.”

  “So I’ll act without you: first the one and then the other. Father Nil is as fragile as china, he’ll break at the least little shove. As for the American, I’ll just have to frighten him, he’ll die of fear without me even having to touch him. I won’t need to dirty my hands on someone like him.”

  When they went their separate ways, Lev headed towards the gardens of the Pincio. He needed to think.

  As night fell, the Rector called an urgent meeting of the Twelve. When they were seated behind the long table, he rose.

  “My brothers, once again we are here with the Master, just as the Twelve were in the upper room. This time it is not to accompany him to Gethsemane, but to offer him a second triumphal entry into Jerusalem. Father Nil has found the last and only remaining copy of the letter of the impostor, the so-called thirteenth apostle. It was simply in the secret collection of the Vatican, among the manuscripts from the Dead Sea that were stored away there permanently in 1948.”

  A murmur of intense satisfaction ran through the gathering.

  “What has he done with it, Brother Rector?”

  “He left it in place, and intends to inform the Holy Father of its existence and whereabouts.”

  Their faces darkened.

  “Whether he does so or not is of no importance: Nil will go through Breczinsky to get to the Pope. The twelfth apostle has the Pole under his thumb – isn’t that so, Brother?”

  Antonio nodded gravely, in silence.

  “As soon as Breczinsky has been informed by Nil – probably tomorrow – we will swing into action. The Pole is at our mercy, and will lead us to the letter. In two days, Brothers, the letter will take up its rightful place in front of us, safeguarded by our fidelity as by this crucifix. And in the months and years to come, we will use it to obtain the means we need to accomplish our mission: to crush the serpents who are bruising Christ’s heel, to stifle the voice of those opposed to his reign, to restore Christianity in all its grandeur, so that the West may regain its lost dignity.”

  As he left the room, he silently handed Antonio an envelope: it contained a summons to see him in Castel Sant’Angelo two days later, in the morning. This would give Nil time to talk to Breczinsky.

  And enable him to keep his mind completely free for tomorrow’s evening session with Sonia, a session from which he was expecting a great deal. Things could not have turned out any better. Thanks to her, he would be imbued with the strength he would be needing. The inner strength that a Christian receives when he identifies with every fibre of his being with Christ crucified on his cross.

  Antonio slipped the letter into his pocket. But instead of heading back to the city centre, he turned off to the Vatican.

  The Cardinal Prefect of the Congregation always stayed up very late in his office.

  82

  Rome lay stretched out in the morning sunshine. It was still distinctly nippy, but the approach of Christmas lured the Romans out of doors. Standing at his window, Leeland gazed absent-mindedly at the spectacle in the Via Aurelia. The day before, Nil had informed him of his decision to return to France without delay: what he considered a mission he had been given by Andrei had come to its conclusion with the finding of the epistle.

  “Have you ever thought, Remby, that the area of desert situated between Galilee and the Red Sea has given birth to the three monotheistic religions of the planet? It was there that Moses had his vision of the burning bush, there too that Jesus was radically transformed, and there that Muhammad was born and lived. My own desert is going to be on the banks of the Loire.”

  Nil’s departure cast a harsh light on the emptiness of Leeland’s life. He knew that he would never reach his friend’s level of spiritual experience: Jesus would never fill his inner void. Nor would music: one plays in order to be heard, to share the music’s emotion with other people. He had often played for Anselm, who would sit at his side and turn the pages for him. A wonderful communion would grow between them at those times, the violinist’s handsome features bent over the keyboard as his hands moved up and down it. Anselm was lost to him for good, and Catzinger had the means to plunge both of them into an ocean of suffering. “Life is over.”

  He gave a start on hearing a knock at the door. Nil?

  It wasn’t Nil, but Lev Barjona. Surprised to see him here, Leeland was just about to start asking him questions, but the Israeli placed a finger on his lips and murmured:

  “Is there a terrace on top of your apartment block?”

  There was indeed, as on most apartment blocks in Rome, and it was deserted. Leeland allowed Lev to lead him to the side furthest from the street.

  “Ever since Nil arrived in Rome, your apartment has been bugged. I’ve just found out. Every least little conversation you have is recorded and immediately transmitted to Mgr Calfo – and to other, far more dangerous people.”

  “But…”

  “Let me have my say, time is pressing. Without knowing it, you and Nil have started to play the ‘great game’, a game on planetary scale, one you have no idea about, know nothing about – so much the better for you. It’s a dirty game played between professionals. You two are like school kids in short pants, leaving your playground to wander slap bang into the yard where the big boys play. And they’re not playing marbles. It’s a violent struggle, always with the same objective in view: power – or its visible form, money.”

  “Forgive me for interrupting – do you still play that p
articular game?”

  “I played it for a long while, with Mossad, as you know. You never get out of that game, Remby, even if you’d like to. I won’t say any more about it, but Nil and you are in great danger. By warning you like this, I’m playing against my own side, but you’re a friend, and Nil is a nice guy. He’s found what he was looking for: the game can now carry on without the two of you. If you want to keep on living, you need to disappear, and quickly. Very quickly.”

  Leeland was staggered.

  “Disappear… but how?”

  “You’re both monks: hide out in a monastery. There’s a killer hot on your heels, and he’s a professional. Leave – leave today.”

  “Do you think he’d kill us?”

  “I don’t think: I know. And he’ll do it without delay, while he’s got you at his mercy. Listen, I implore you: if you want to stay alive, leave today – by train, plane or car, it doesn’t matter – and make yourselves invisible. Warn Nil.”

  He clasped Leeland in his arms.

  “I’ve taken a risk in coming here: in the great game, they don’t like those who don’t respect the rules, and I’d like to stay alive to give lots more concerts. Shalom, my friend: in five years, in ten years, we’ll meet again. No match in the game lasts for ever.”

  And the next minute he was gone, leaving Leeland on the terrace, stunned.

  83

  Mukhtar had granted himself a lie-in: for the first time he didn’t need to be at his post at daybreak, headphones on, listening in on the least conversation in the studio above.

  So he didn’t see Leeland hurrying out of the apartment block on the Via Aurelia, hesitating for a moment and then heading for the stop where he could catch a bus to the Via Salaria. The American stood anxiously waiting for the first vehicle to come along and jumped on board.