The Christos Mosaic

by Vincent Czyz

As you know, I never married. Instead of rearing children, I have watched my students mature, embark on careers of their own, publish, and make names for themselves. It fills me with immense gratification. Be that as it may, with a single exception, I never grew as emotionally attached to any of them as I have to you. I believe that I can sum up what I am trying to say rather succinctly in this way: If I had had a son, I would have wanted him to be like you—slothful tendencies and all. Oh, I could sit here and list your endearing qualities, your formidable intellectual gifts, and so on, but it goes beyond list-making. You are simply a wonderful presence. There should be more of you in our classrooms … and our lives.

  With love,

  Stephen

  Drew pushed the heel of a hand against the corner of one eye and smeared wetness over his cheekbone.

  “Be hurry,” Kadir said. “We must go for seeing Amal.”

  Drew signed out of his e-mail. “Yeah, I just—I need a minute.” Shrugging a shoulder to his face, he wiped his nose on his T-shirt.

  To distract himself from Stephen’s e-mail, he glanced again at the website for the Ebionite church. At Father Hawass’s smile and white teeth. Drew recalled something Nathan had said yesterday and slammed the desk with the flat of his hand. “He couldn’t have been!”

  “Ne?” Kadir and Zafer were both looking at him.

  “Jesus couldn’t have been the Messiah.” Drew felt like Descartes emerging from a nightlong meditation with the cornerstone of his philosophy. “The Dead Sea Scrolls,” he said without explaining. “That’s why the Ecole Biblique refused to let scholars look at them for so long. That’s why the Sicarii want the Habakkuk Commentary so desperately. And that’s why Stephen said Jesus was not the Savior.”

  The two Turks just stared.

  “It’s obvious.” Drew pressed his palm heels to his forehead. “It’s so obvious.”

  5: 6

  THE BOOK OF NUMBERS

  A HORSE-DRAWN CART loaded with empty propane tanks clanked past in the cramped Islamic Quarter. Drew couldn’t help being reminded of the Gypsies in Istanbul—distant cousins—who had fitted the same wooden carts with car tires, hitched them to horses, and rode through the streets as though they’d just emerged from another century.

  Using the mosques as landmarks, most of which seemed to be famous for one reason or another, Zafer led them through the warren of narrow streets and alleys, stone houses, apartment buildings, and medieval workshops whose fronts opened like garages. Men with arms blackened from hand to elbow glanced up from machines and tools that looked like they belonged in a museum. Leaning against the wall of one shop was a broad sheet that was so black with grease and dirt only the splintered edges were identifiable as wood.

  Zafer, as usual, had the satchel slung over a shoulder. Drew lugged a duffel bag that Zafer had packed.

  “This is it. This is where she lives.”

  Three children looked up from their play, a dusty, yellow ball between them. It had been scuffed by their impetuous feet, the walls and cobbles it bounced off of, the harsh sunlight. There was no space between houses here. All made of the same stone, which, beneath the uneven coating of grime, was honey-colored. A street of old gold, tarnished like those icons he’d seen more than a decade ago in Professor Wittier’s office—the gold of late afternoon sun through a dusty shop window, of ancient maps and gilded rose compasses. Gold wasn’t supposed to dull, but somehow it had, and the treasures of the tombs, as well as the word itself, Egypt, no longer called up the splendor they once had.

  The double-winged door they stopped in front of, its bottom ragged with rot, was plain. The stone archway above it, however, was an astonishing display of intricately chiseled leaves, vines, grapes, and Islamic designs. Directly above the door a shuttered gamba was obscured by laundry that had been hung across its width to dry.

  The house directly across from Amal’s was apparently abandoned, the handles of its doors were chained and several uncurtained windows broken.

  They went through one wing of the outer door, which led to a tiny courtyard and a stairway. At the top of the first flight of stairs, Zafer knocked on the nearest door.

  The door only opened a few inches, but it was enough for Drew to get a good look at Amal. Younger than Drew had expected, she was covered entirely in black except for her face. She was also more attractive than he’d expected. Black bangs protruding from under her headscarf, she had high cheekbones and full lips. Like a handful of other Egyptian women he’d seen, her eyes, thickly outlined in black, were a startling gray-green—all the more startling in contrast to her dark skin.

  Zafer greeted her in Arabic, and she opened the door.

  The apartment was not as depressing as the building’s exterior. High ceilinged, the rooms were otherwise small but comfortable. Handsome carpets covered the floor, and, though the paint had faded, the walls were clean. Framed photographs and Arabic calligraphy had been tastefully arranged.

  Zafer and Kadir sat on a low couch while Drew took a cushioned stool and set the duffel bag down at its feet. Amal brought in a tray with glasses, tea, and two tin bowls. One was heaped with almonds the other with dates.

  Drew accepted a glass of tea and thanked Amal—”Shukran.” It was one of the few Arabic words he’d picked up. The tea was syrupy with sugar and mint.

  Kadir, who always drank his tea plain, tried to hide his disgust.

  Speaking in Turkish while Zafer translated, Kadir offered his condolences. He had Amal alternately smiling and wiping at tears as he extolled Tariq’s virtues and told little anecdotes, including the one of how they met in Souq al-Gama’a, where Kadir was bargaining for scraps of ancient papyrus. Even Drew, recalling the pleasant man he’d met in Kadir’s shop, began to feel a certain affection for Tariq.

  Finally, Zafer took a sheet of paper out of the breast pocket of his shirt. Pressing a finger to his lips, he handed it to Amal.

  After she had read the note, Kadir asked, “Did you know that Tariq had two scrolls?”

  “Aiwa.” She nodded. Her gray-green eyes were watery and red.

  “I have one. Do you know anything about the other one?”

  Bracelets clinking as she reached for another tissue, Amal gave a lengthy reply.

  Zafer translated. “The men have been here looking for it. First, an Egyptian came to talk to her. She told him she had nothing to do with her husband’s business. He offered her one thousand Egyptian pounds to look through her husband’s notes and book of numbers—” Zafer halted, realizing he had mistranslated. “His phonebook. She refused. When the offer went up to two thousand pounds, she gave him the phonebook.”

  “Hay Allah! We came too late.”

  Zafer held up a finger. “Wait …”

  Amal put down her tea and folded her small brown hands in her lap.

  “She said there was nothing in the phonebook she gave the Egyptian. That was not Tariq’s business phonebook. He always kept that with him. It was returned with Tariq’s other belongings and his body.”

  Amal sipped tea from a water glass while Zafer translated.

  “About a week after she was given two thousand pounds, the house was broken into while she and the children were in the marketplace. The place was turned upside down, but nothing was taken. She thinks they were looking for the other phonebook.”

  “Ya, did they find it?” Kadir asked.

  Zafer shook his head. “Tariq was a good husband. He didn’t stay out with his friends to late hours without calling. He never gambled. His family was his life.

  “This man who gave me two thousand pounds … I know this was one of the men who took my husband from me. The ones who took from our children their father. We gave Tariq a proper burial with insurance money. Because of my husband’s wisdom, we are not poor at the moment. But no amount of money can give a wife back her husband or give children back their father.”

  “But the phone book?” Kadir whispered harshly.

  Zafer’s glare let Kadir know that he was being un
speakably rude. Nonetheless, he translated some version of Kadir’s question.

  “I burned the phonebook so they would never get it.”

  Kadir threw up stubby arms. “Hay Allah!”

  Turning over the note Zafer had handed her, Amal wrote something down.

  Zafer slapped his thighs. “Looks like we came a long way for nothing.” He took the note from Amal, glanced at it, and nodded. Tucking it in his pocket, he began writing his own note.

  “Ya, isn’t there anything you can tell us?” Kadir sounded truly desperate. “Did he do business with someone besides Nabil? Someone who might know?”

  Zafer translated, but didn’t look up from what he was writing. “She didn’t get involved in her husband’s business.” He handed the note to Amal.

  Amal stood up and excused herself.

  Drew wondered why she was leaving the apartment, but since she left the door ajar, he assumed she would be back. He glanced at Zafer, but the Turk just held a rigid finger over his lips.

  Lowering his hand, Zafer looked at Kadir. “Well,” he asked in Turkish, “what now?”

  Kadir shrugged. “We talked with Nabil, and he told us talk with Amal. Amal isn’t know anything so we may as well go back to Istanbul.”

  Drew watched Zafer fold a one-hundred dollar bill in half and put it under his empty tea glass.

  “Then what?” Zafer asked.

  “How I am able to know? If we cannot find one scroll, it is better to sell the other.”

  Zafer smiled and held up a thumb.

  Amal returned as quietly as she had left, pulling the door closed softly behind her. She nodded at Zafer. When she sat back down, she saw the money and began to protest. The back-and-forth with Zafer seemed to encompass more than a simple refusal of money. Kadir joined in, speaking in Turkish, and for the next few minutes, the little salon became as noisy as a coffeehouse.

  Amal finally accepted the gift with profuse thanks and began to cry again.

  “She says Tariq was lucky to have you as a friend, Kadir.”

  A little bored with the next few minutes of polite conversation, Drew almost jumped when he heard the mechanical wail of a police siren.

  Amal went quickly to the window and peered through the slats of the shutters; they had been designed to allow women to look out on the street without being seen.

  Zafer went to look for himself. Turning to Drew and Kadir, he smiled. “A police car at each end.” He grabbed the duffel bag and quietly unzipped it. Tapping a rigid finger against his lips to remind Drew not to speak, he threw a wadded-up jalabiya at Drew. A red-and-white-checked keffiyeh to cover his head followed.

  I’m going to look like a Kurdish peasant, Drew thought. While he put the gown on over his clothes, he heard an electronically amplified voice speaking in Arabic. A cop was talking into his car’s loudspeaker.

  Drew looked at the keffiyeh, wondering how he was going to put it on, but Zafer pulled it out of his hands and, as though knotting a tie for a child, deftly wrapped Drew’s head. Then, motioning for Kadir and Drew not to move, he went back to the window.

  A small crowd had gathered at both ends of the narrow street, which was about fifty yards long. A policeman in short sleeves was taking a huge pair of lock clippers out of the trunk of a car, but another officer with a walkie-talkie shouted at him.

  The two policemen took off at a run, bystanders parting as they sprinted past.

  Zafer was glad the Egyptians had had the sense to send a man around back. Tipping his head toward the door of the flat to indicate they were leaving, he stepped away from the window.

  After the three men had exchanged farewells with Amal, they dropped down the chipped stone stairs. Zafer stopped in front of the door to the street.

  “If the Sicarii are smart, they’ve put spotters in a few places. It’s almost impossible to hide a dwarf, but we’ll give it a try. Kadir, you go first. Take a right out the door and then another right at the end of street through that little tunnel. I’ll go next. Drew, you’re last. No more than three meters behind me. Scream like a bitch if anybody stops you.”

  “Scream like a bitch?”

  Zafer grinned.

  Drew wondered if that was what Zafer thought of him.

  A couple of seconds later, Zafer and his grin were gone.

  Drew hesitated. What the hell am I afraid of? Neighbors are all over the street, the cops are here, and Zafer is five steps away.

  Waving away a pair of flies, Drew stepped out into the sunny day. Zafer had gotten too far away. Walking briskly to make up the distance, Drew saw the police round the corner with a man handcuffed between them. He looked European. Jean Saint-Savoy? Drew glanced peripherally, trying to be nonchalant, but the Sicarii stared him down to let Drew know he’d gotten a good look at him.

  Drew turned the corner and entered the short tunnel that allowed the narrow street to bore through an apartment building. As dark as a cave, it was littered with broken stone, empty bottles, and crumpled papers. Zafer and Kadir were waiting for him.

  “I think I saw Jean Saint-Savoy.”

  Zafer nodded. “So did I.”

  “So let me see if I have this figured out … you knew the Sicarii would use that abandoned house across from Amal for surveillance. You knew her house was wired and her phone was tapped. So you wrote her a note telling her to call the Egyptian police from a neighbor’s phone and say, what?”

  “I told her to say a man is watching her and taking pictures. In Egypt if anyone but the police catch you, that’s enough to get you killed.”

  Zafer smiled. “I’ll give my friend at MIT a call and see if he can get the Egyptians to pin something on Jean to keep him locked up.”

  “Is that why we didn’t meet Amal somewhere else? So you could play your little chess match with the Sicarii?”

  Zafer shook his head. “If they were listening, they know she burned Tariq’s business phonebook. They’ll leave her alone now.”

  “What about that slip of paper she gave you? What did she write?”

  “A number and a name. Before she burned Tariq’s book, she memorized them. We’re going to Antakya.”

  “Turkey?”

  Zafer nodded. “I recognized the area code.”

  “Who are we going to see?”

  “Iorgos Serafis,” Kadir said. “A famous seller of antiquities.”

  “But before we do that, I want to see if we can draw the Sicarii out of hiding.”

  “How are we supposed to do that?”

  Zafer put a hand on Drew’s shoulder. “We put you out for bait.”

  5: 7

  THE GAME

  BEFORE HIS FIRST TRIP TO CAIRO, Drew had imagined a city of palm trees and untrammeled desert light. He had imagined Nile sunsets with the silhouettes of the pyramids looming on the horizon. Staying in downtown Cairo, however, was more like living in a basement with dirty windows. No view of the Nile or the pyramids unless you could afford one of the swank hotels along the riverfront. No view of anything, really, aside from other buildings—generally taller than the one housing the hotel—and the packed streets.

  This morning, leaving their first hotel, Zafer had pointed at a street-sweeper. “That’s the most important man in Cairo. Without him, the city would be buried by sand in about six months.”

  The sweepers were always out early with thatch brooms that looked like small, denuded bushes tied to handles. The sand they missed, if left to accumulate against the curb long enough, became so black and clumpy it looked like it had been used to filter oil.

  Cairo’s downtown was organized around “squares,” which tended to be circular and, fed by an overpass or two, were particularly good at snarling traffic. The city was like a Gulliver tied down by its own system of roads. What made things worse was the Egyptian penchant for beeping. If they had to choose between a car with no wheels and one with no horn, Drew was sure they’d take the car without wheels. At 1:00 a.m., even with wads of waterlogged toilet paper plugging his ears, Drew was so
metimes awakened by a spate of horn-blowing.

  They were in Orabi Square now, not far from their second hotel, and back in their own clothes. They’d changed in the taxi, the driver casting bewildered glances at them.

  “Why am I the bait?” Drew complained. “Why not you? You can handle the Sicarii a lot better than I can.”

  Zafer looked at him critically. “You want me to rely on you for backup? And forget about dangling shorty out there—he won’t do it.”

  Kadir shook his head. “There is no chance of this.”

  “Besides, if he needs to run, he’s not exactly an Olympic sprinter. No, it’s you.”

  Drew sighed in resignation. “So…?”

  “We find an Internet café. You sit there for twenty minutes, half an hour. I’ll watch the door. You’ve got your new cell phone, and you handled Nabil’s gorilla, right?”

  “What if there are two or three Nathans?”

  “Don’t worry, you’re no good to them dead. They want a bargaining chip. So keep your eye on the door and don’t let anyone stand behind you.”

  Drew shook his head. “I really don’t like this.”

  “Keep your cell phone out. If it rings, you know it’s me. Except for Kadir, no one else has your new number. But if I call, you better answer.”

  Drew’s hands, even in the Egyptian heat, had turned to ice. He took a deep breath and let it out. “Okay.”

  “Now, as you’re walking, stay away from the street. If a car pulls up anywhere near you—run. Fast. We don’t want them to force you into a car before I can get there. All right?”

  “Yeah. All right.” He tried to calm down by telling himself it was a game. An oversized game using Cairo and Istanbul for the board. But recalling that both Tariq and Stephen had been killed in this game, he didn’t feel any better.

  Zafer jerked his chin. “Get going.”

  5: 8

  JESUS AND JOHN: WHO BAPTIZED WHOM?

  DREW NAVIGATED the crowded sidewalk, casting nervous glances over his shoulder and eyeing traffic. He remembered the sign he’d seen at the airport and wondered, was he going in a wrong way? Hadn’t his father always worried he’d take after his Gypsy heritage and make his money through underhanded dealings of one kind or another?