The Christos Mosaic

by Vincent Czyz

  Kadir grinned up at Drew. “Istanbul’da olmaktan memnum oldum.” I’m glad to be in Istanbul.

  A chime announced that the doors were closing. Drew was dying to look at the door, but he kept his eyes on Kadir. “So am I.” Even gazing down at the dwarf, however, he knew the blond man had beaten the hissing doors.

  The train pulled forward with a jerk.

  Drew’s hands felt like he’d been making snowballs without gloves. As casually as he could, he glanced up. Zafer was near the doors looking bored. The blond man was just opposite him. He checked his watch as though he were late for a meeting.

  Although the train was air-conditioned, sweat trickled down the small of Drew’s back. Blades of sunlight sliced through the windows as they emerged from beneath the airport. The train made its second or third stop, and the car began to fill with passengers. Zafer and the blond man held their positions.

  The doors swished open again at Zeytinburnu, and villagers from eastern Turkey pushed their way in before disembarking passengers could get off.

  The chime rang.

  Drew glanced up. Zafer worked his way closer to the blond man as the last passengers squeezed themselves in. The Turk moved so fast when the chime went off Drew almost missed him grabbing the blond man by the lapels of his jacket, ramming his forehead into his face, and shoving him off the train.

  There were raised eyebrows from the men, a collective gasp from women layered in scarves and clothing in spite of the heat.

  The doors closed.

  “Bana burcu var!” Zafer shouted. He owes me money.

  Some of the men smiled and nodded.

  Zafer made his way to the back of the car.

  “Christ, Zafer. He could have been a tourist.”

  “Oh yeah? Where’s his luggage?” Zafer scanned the car as though there might be someone else he needed to toss.

  “Okay, so he’s on a regular commute …”

  Zafer shook his head. “He’s meeting people here. By now the Sicarii have their own safe house in Istanbul.”

  The trio got off at the last stop in Aksaray and walked to a taxi stand.

  “Don’t put anything in the trunk,” Zafer said. “Keep your bags on your laps.”

  He told the driver they were going to Zeytinburnu—the direction they’d just come from.

  “What—?”

  “When the car stops, get out.”

  They hadn’t gone far when Zafer yelled at the driver to pull over.

  “Let’s go!” Zafer threw a five-lira note on the seat and jumped out. “Across the street!” He grabbed Kadir’s bag.

  A grassy island divided the four-lane road, but dodging the traffic— all of it speeding—was a tricky. Zafer, who made one car come to a screeching stop, waved them on.

  On the other side, he stepped in front of a taxi and criss-crossed his arms.

  The driver was shouting at Zafer as the three of them got in.

  “Ajelemiz var!” Zafer shouted back. We have an emergency!

  The driver forgot his anger and pulled away.

  Zafer scanned the other side of the street. “Well,” he said in English, “unless they’ve got a helicopter, I think we’re … how do put it?”

  Zafer’s English was so good, Drew sometimes forgot he wasn’t a native speaker. “In the clear.”

  “That’s it. In the clear.”

  The taxi took them over Galata Bridge and the Golden Horn, dropping them off at the base of the hill crowned by Taksim. A broad flight of concrete stairs had been built into a steep slope.

  “Ya, I don’t want to climb over steps,” Kadir whined.

  Zafer took his bag. “Come on.”

  With Kadir sweating and cursing, they went up the weathered steps. Near the top they switched to a narrower stairway that ended at a gate. Kadir bitched right up to the gate.

  Three boys with dark faces and stained shirts hanging out of their pants were playing on a cement landing. They looked up inquisitively as the men passed.

  Zafer led the way along winding streets until they emerged on Istiklal Caddesi—as usual, awash in foot traffic. Zafer let Kadir get out front, and the dwarf ducked into a passage beneath a building that opened onto a small courtyard. Couples sat at tables in the cobbled square drinking tea, Turkish coffee, sodas, but Drew didn’t see Kadir anywhere; the little guy was easy to lose in a crowd.

  Zafer took Drew into a small arcade of clothes shops. At the back of the last of these, Kadir was talking to a man behind the counter.

  “How are you, Atanur?” Zafer asked.

  Atanur smiled. “Passing through?”

  Zafer nodded.

  Atanur pulled aside a rack of clothes hiding a fire exit.

  Following Zafer and Kadir, Drew found himself outside again.

  They followed a series of narrow streets until Zafer stopped in an End-of-Empire neighborhood a lot like Drew’s. White curtains billowed out of an open window, brushed against a stone sill, and retreated back inside. With some of these buildings, it was amazing that weather still broke against their worn edges, that the carved masonry, which was at its most impressive when given the excuse of a window or a door to frame, was still intact. The Turks who lived here were like squatters who inhabited a palatial past.

  Zafer entered a tiny, gated alley between two buildings. This brought them out onto a short street with three hooded lamps hanging from cables strung between buildings. “Here we are.”

  “I’ve lived in Istanbul for years,” Drew said, “and I have a pretty good idea of where we are, but I couldn’t have tailed you. Even without that little stunt in the clothes shop.”

  “That’s the point.”

  Wide by Istanbul’s standards, the building looked like it was about to collapse. There were no jumbas although the windows were set off by blocks of elaborately worked stone. Once an optimistic yellow, the paint was now jaundiced and streaked with soot. Plaster had crumbled away in patches, and underneath the first floor windows—caged in wrought iron—teenagers had spray-painted their names. Another piece of European architecture eroding like an oversized tombstone, its cracks filling not with the green of moss or lichen but the black of pollution.

  A huge double-door was crowned by half a rusty starburst. Zafer unlocked one wing and pushed against the steel.

  The foyer was dank and full of debris—wood, unused tiles, the blade of a shovel, bottles filled with grime.

  “No light in the hall, so be careful.”

  A zigzagging staircase took them to a steel door on the third floor. It was the one thing in the building that didn’t look like it pre-dated the twentieth century.

  “I’m the only one renting a flat here.”

  “You’re the only one who would.”

  Stepping inside, Zafer punched a combination on a small keypad. “Welcome to the Office. This is home until this business is finished.”

  Drew bent down to untie his sneakers, but Zafer said, “No point in taking off your shoes. I don’t.”

  Not a window open, the air was stifling and dusty. Drew dropped his bag by the door and wandered around the rooms. It was one of the biggest flats he’d ever seen in Istanbul. The ceiling was unfinished, exposing the joists and the boards of the floor above. In a living room almost as spacious as Drew’s entire apartment were two worktables, each with its own goose-necked architect’s lamp—each with enormous magnifying glasses built into them. The worktables were cluttered with pencils, pens, papers, tubes and bottles of glue. Most of the shelves were metal. There were also filing cabinets, a photocopy machine, a fax machine, and a computer.

  Zafer opened a window and a breeze swept through the apartment.

  Although the finish on the parquet was dull with wear, the floor didn’t have a creak or a loose slat in it. There were no rugs to warm the place up or to get in the way of the push broom Drew imagined Zafer used to sweep up paper scraps. Three things kept the walls from being entirely bare: a cork board with various papers tacked to it, a map of Turkey,
and a huge street map of Istanbul.

  The only homey touches were a couch, a wooden stand for the TV, and an odd-looking coffee table that had a rough slate top and sides like a chest, rather than legs like a table.

  “I got document training in Special Forces because sometimes that’s what we were after, documents.” Zafer swept a hand in an arc to take in his worktables. “I went a little above and beyond the call of duty and learned forgery techniques as well.”

  “This is how you make money?”

  Zafer nodded. “I put official signatures and stamps on paperwork for people who don’t want to waste hours in line. I do passports, driver’s licenses, IDs. A good passport—Canadian say—to the right buyer … you’re talking 30,000 or 35,000 US.”

  “Damn. I hope you’re not selling to terrorists.”

  “I charge them extra.” He smiled. “It’s usually a miserable Turk who just wants out. Americans really don’t know how lucky they are. Most of you woke up on third base and you think you hit a triple.” He disappeared into another room.

  Drew thought for a second. “That’s about right.”

  Zafer came back into the living room and threw something at Drew.

  He caught it with both hands because, judging from the way Zafer had tossed it, it was heavy. He was holding an automatic pistol.

  6: 2

  CHOOSE YOUR WEAPON

  THE THREE OF THEM STARED down at a small cache of weapons—Zafer, with his hands on his hips and a paternal glint in his eye, Kadir, as though he were wondering how much money he could get for the collection, and Drew, in sheer amazement.

  “Glock 9 millimeter, M9 Beretta.” Zafer pointed at a pair of pistols. “AK-47s. Half a dozen grenades. A few smoke grenades.”

  Zafer kept the weapons hidden in the odd-looking coffee table. He and Kadir had lifted off the slate top and let it sink into the couch cushions.

  “Are you planning to invade a country?”

  “You think I joined the military because I’m an Ebionite?”

  “How about a little paranoid?”

  “I’m not paranoid.” Zafer grinned. “I’m prepared.” He lifted his chin at the pistol in Drew’s hand. “You know what to do with that?”

  With his thumb, Drew depressed a button near the trigger-guard and, as the clip slid out, caught it with his free hand. It was empty. He pulled back the slide to make sure the chamber was empty, too. The slide made a satisfying sound as it rammed home—the sound of metal parts machined to fit together perfectly. Holding the hammer back with his thumb, he pressed the trigger and eased the hammer into place. Then he handed the pistol and the magazine to Zafer, who nodded appreciatively.

  “So you at least know weapons etiquette.”

  “My dad has a .45, a shotgun, and an old, bolt-action 30.06. My mother said if he was going to have guns in the house, he had to teach us how to use them. Once a week, every week, for a whole year, he made me, my sister, and my brother handle them.”

  “He have any military background?”

  Drew shook his head. “Lyndhurst isn’t particularly rough. He just wanted a little insurance. But if you don’t mind …” Drew waved a hand. “I’d rather not deal with one of those.”

  Zafer shrugged. “As long as you know how to use one. In case you change your mind.”

  “What about Jesse?” Drew asked.

  “You trust her?”

  “I, uh, kind of had a crush on her back in college.”

  “I’m pretty sure you still do. Before you answer, think with the right head: do you trust her?”

  “Yeah I do. She’s a scholar of comparative religion, so the political ramifications of an ancient manuscript don’t matter to her.”

  “So, if we need to, we can use her the way we used the professor?”

  “Exactly.”

  “All right. Just be careful. I don’t care how much you trust her, if she starts asking you questions in bed, she’s using you. Do you understand that? It means she wants information, not kids and a life happily ever after. The other thing is, you’re making her a target by involving her. And we can’t bring her here—”

  “Why not?”

  “Bad enough you’re here. Besides me, you and Kadir are the only two people who have ever set foot in this place. Ever. If the Sicarii somehow get hold of her, she’d lead them right to us. How long’s she going to be in Cairo?”

  “She’ll be in Aleppo tonight. Maybe she can give us a better idea of what the Habakkuk Scroll is worth.” He was actually hoping Jesse could come up with something in the scroll that would keep it off the black market. “It’s already a Dead Sea Scroll, but if it has important information scholars have never seen before, the Israelis will pay more for it. Maybe we can start negotiations with them before we talk to Serafis.”

  Zafer looked at Kadir.

  “It doesn’t important who we sell the scroll to. Price is the important.”

  Jesse, Drew realized, was the only ally he had. Nathan was a possibility, but he might be Sicarii. There was another problem: Zafer had Nathan’s card. Drew had no way to contact him. But then, even Zafer had to sleep some time.

  6: 3

  ENCRYPTIONS

  SITTING AT THE COMPUTER on Zafer’s desk, Drew sorted through his e-mail. There were three messages worth opening: one from his friend in New York, one from Yasemin, one from Jesse. Business first.

  “Okay, here’s an update for you,” he called to Zafer. “My computer geek in New York says the Ebionite website has been up since two thousand. The last time the home page was altered was about two years ago.”

  Zafer was standing beside the steel door. “All right, but we still keep Nathan at arm’s length.”

  “Where’re you going?”

  “To check up on those business cards we got from Nabil, see if the Ecole’s number is valid. It’s not hard to print up a business card.” He smiled. “Take it from a forger.”

  Kadir was on the couch, feet dangling above the floor, reading The Stars, My Destination for the fifth time. His vest was draped over an arm of the couch like the hide of an animal that had recently been skinned.

  Zafer hovered in the doorway. “Don’t leave the flat. Don’t answer the phone. Ever. I’ll be back in a little while.”

  Zafer closed the heavy door behind him, and Drew heard the deadbolt click into place. Now they couldn’t leave the flat. Unless Kadir knew where to find a second set of keys or they jumped out a window.

  Drew opened Jesse’s message.

  I still can’t quite believe that, after all these years, we wound up at the same hotel in Cairo, not to mention this business about a Dead Sea Scroll! I’m unbelievably excited. A find like this is something scholars barely have the courage to dream about, let alone hope for. I’m a little scared, but this is my field, and, no offense, Drew, but you’re not qualified. You’re smart as hell, but you don’t have the training. You NEED someone like me. This is the kind of thing on which lasting reputations are founded—why not mine?

  No one could say she lacked ambition.

  Glad to see, by the way, that you haven’t cut your hair. You might not believe this, but I used to envy you back in college. If I try to grow mine out, it just frazzles at the ends. Are you part Native American or something?

  Now she was flirting. Zafer had warned him.

  I really enjoyed our breakfast at the hotel, and although we weren’t all that close in college, from time to time (even when I was married), I used to wonder what you were up to. I went on to get my PhD, but it seems you’ve managed to get hold of a far more valuable document.The Lord really does work in mysterious ways. Please let me know what our next move is. I’m DYING just to see the photographs you’ve got.

  Jesse.

  Our next move. As sure of herself as ever. Drew began typing.

  My colleagues here are giving me a hard time, but they’ve agreed to let you look at the photos of the scroll before putting it on the black market. We have to keep them from doing that. I�
�m not sure how, but I’m working on it. It was great to see you, too. In fact, since you came clean about your long-hair envy, I may as well admit I had a major crush on you back in university. The last time we talked—December rain, the mall—remember? I was seriously disappointed to find out you had a boyfriend. He isn’t by any chance the guy you wound up marrying, is he?

  All for now - Drew

  PS – not Native American, Gypsy

  Drew wasn’t flirting. He hadn’t enjoyed sitting across from someone so much since he’d met Yasemin. Just seeing her in the hotel sabotaged his equilibrium, as though he’d stepped off a carnival ride. But his infatuation for Jesse was incipient; it was nothing like what he’d felt for Yasemin—for years. Even as he clicked on his ex-wife’s message, his hands were a little shaky.

  Drewjuh’um,

  All it took was adding the Turkish juh’um—roughly the equivalent of the English my dear—to make his stomach feel as papery as a wasp’s nest.

  When are you going to be back in Istanbul? I read your last letter three times! There is so much of *us* in there, so much history together, and though a lot of it is painful, so much of it is beautiful. I really need to talk to you. In person.

  Call me as soon as you get back. The waiting is killing me.

  Yasemin.

  No “love” this time. She’d cooled off. Drew sighed and glanced at the clock on the computer. She was still at work.

  “Hey, Kadir …”

  “Yes, infidel, what is it?” He lowered his science fiction novel. “You think Zafer will let me out of here tonight? Yasemin wants to see me.”

  “It is possible. Ask to him.”

  Sensible enough.

  Sitting down to re-read his notes, Drew noticed something odd. The Essenes and the Pharisees were both virulently opposed to Maccabean rule. The Maccabees had taken power after they overthrew the Hellenized Syrians in 164 BC. Under Judas Maccabee, the Temple was cleansed of Greek elements and rededicated—an event now celebrated during Hannukah. While the Jewish people overwhelmingly supported a Maccabean king, the Essenes and the Pharisees were furious that the Maccabees had appropriated the office of high priest for themselves—an office that rightfully belonged to a Zadokite. Having a dynasty that was not of the line of David, it seemed, was acceptable to Jews. Having a high priest who was not a Zadokite was not.