The Christos Mosaic

by Vincent Czyz

  “We know how much the scroll is cost.”

  Drew looked at Kadir. “According to Nabil. Maybe it’s really worth seven, eight million dollars. How do you know it’s not worth ten? Serafis went up to four-and-a-half million pretty quick, don’t you think?”

  Zafer sank into the edge of a bed. “He wouldn’t offer that kind of money unless he already had a buyer lined up.”

  “The Ecole Biblique?”

  Zafer shrugged. “Or the Vatican. Who else is going to front that kind of money?”

  “Okay, then. If he’s already got that kind of money lined up, you ought to be able to squeeze another half million dollars out of him—if not more. Especially if Jess can find something in the scroll that’s damaging to the Church.”

  Kadir had taken off his shirt, balled it up, and was using it to wipe down his face. The muscles in his short arms tightened into knots as he plied himself with the makeshift towel.

  “But you need to know what you’re going to do before you make your phone call tomorrow morning. Once you agree to his price, that’s it, bargaining’s over.”

  Kadir tossed the shirt on the floor and exchanged looks with Zafer.

  Zafer turned the corners of his mouth down and raised his eyebrows. “Half a million dollars for a couple of taxi rides might be worth it.” He exhaled heavily. “All right, go ahead, take the photos over, but don’t stay the night. And call me before you come back. I’ll meet you in front of the archaeological museum.”

  Drew offered a silent prayer of thanks. “No problem.” He grabbed the satchel; its unexpected weight reminded him that Zafer’s pistol was still in it. He hesitated.

  “Take it,” Zafer said. “You might need it.”

  “No, I don’t think—”

  “Better to have and not need, than to need and not have.”

  “What about—?”

  “I have another one.”

  Drew didn’t like the idea, but he let the weapon stay where it was.

  He slipped the strap of the satchel over a shoulder. The steel lump bouncing against his hip, he opened the door. “See you in a couple of hours.”

  He felt a little silly stepping off the elevator in sandals, jeans, a button-up shirt and a keffiyeh, but the hotel manager offered only a perfunctory smile.

  The night air was sultry. The hotel was on a quiet street a couple of miles from the center of town. He found a public phone about a block away and punched in Jess’s number.

  “Where have you been? I have been waiting all day for you to call.”

  “I’m lucky Zafer didn’t break my ribs. I had to tell him about you.”

  “He didn’t—?”

  “No, I’m fine. Where are you?”

  “The Hotel Orontes. On Istiklal Jaddesi.”

  “What’s your room number?”

  “Three-twelve.”

  “See you in five.”

  Trotting back to their new hotel, he hopped into a cab that had just dropped off a well-to-do Turkish couple.

  Although Antakya didn’t have much nightlife, tourists in shorts and sandals mixed with locals on the streets, and restaurants were still open.

  They passed the Old Bridge—one of the few river crossings that accommodated cars—and a small plaza dominated by kunife shops whose chairs and tables overflowed onto the stone tiles. Kunife, a pastry made with syrup-soaked shredded wheat and a buttery cheese, was an Antakyan specialty. More than once Drew had shared a table here with Stephen. It was hard to believe, on this end-of-summer night in a quiet Turkish city, that he would never sit across from him again, never hear him carry on about some obscure fact he’d unearthed in his research, never hear his clear laugh.

  The Hotel Orontes was a block or two from the river. Drew had barely stepped out of the taxi when he sensed the urgency of the footsteps approaching him from behind. By the time he lowered himself into a wrestler’s stance and whirled around, it was too late. The night blurred as he grappled with an opponent whose moves were precise, fluid, and unfamiliar. Drew hadn’t been on a mat in more than a decade. His reflexes were off, and this guy was good—really good. After a trip combined with a throw, finished off with an arm-lock, Drew found himself on his back, the pistol in the satchel smacking loudly against the sidewalk.

  When he looked up, he recognized the swarthy face and the broad grin.

  “What the fuck, Nathan…?”

  7: 7

  CHURUK ELMA

  ZAFER CALLED GÖKHAN from the same payphone Drew had used a few minutes earlier.

  “Kankardeshim, I need a favor.”

  Gökhan sighed. “What else is new? Look, Zafer, I know this black market business of yours is worth a nice piece of change, but I have to watch my ass. If anything backfires, I can’t take the heat for you. You’re my kankardeshim, but I’d be telling you this even if you and I had the same mother.”

  “Understood. I’ll make sure nothing can be traced to you. All I need right now is a little information. There’s a guy named Iorgos Serafis who deals in antiquities. I met with him today. He’s as dirty as they come. He’s got himself a villa here in Antakya and another in Istanbul. No way he can be set up like this without paying somebody off.”

  “And you want me to find the churuk elma, right?” Rotten apple.

  “Someone is on the take in the Department of Smuggling and Organized Crime, and I need to know who.”

  “I’ll tell you this much, the antiquities police here are as tough as any except the Italian Carabinieri. In a good year they’ll recover something like 10,000 artifacts.”

  Zafer nodded to himself. “See if you can find someone in the Istanbul or Antakya branch who’s under investigation. Maybe you can say you’ve got a tip from one of your informants. But don’t tell anybody what you’re looking for. I don’t want the bad apple implicated in any way. See what you can dig up on Serafis while you’re at it.”

  “I’ll take care of it, but give me a clue here—what’s going on?”

  “I’m going to sell something for a lot of money—and some of that will be coming your way. The trick is going to be not to get arrested.”

  “Make sure you don’t because if you do, you’re on your own.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  7: 8

  THE PAST EXHUMED

  NATHAN’S EYES WERE ON the satchel. “What’s in the bag, Drew?”

  Zafer had been right: Nathan was Sicarii. But what raised the hairs on the back of Drew’s neck in spite of the warm night breeze was the realization that Jesse must have set him up.

  “Photographs.”

  Nathan snickered. “Something else? A little heavier?”

  “A Glock 9 mm.”

  He shook his head in parental disapproval. “Keeping the wrong company.” Stepping back, he tugged Drew to his feet by the arm he’d trapped.

  “So what was the point of racking me up like that?”

  Nathan held up an index finger as he walked toward the street. “Wait here.” Opening the door of a gray Opel parked in front of the hotel, he leaned inside. Drew took a good look at the Opel, just in case it showed up somewhere else.

  “Here.” Nathan held out the envelope. “A few more Sicarii.”

  Still trying to get me to trust him? Drew stuck the envelope in his satchel without opening it. “Thanks.”

  “Did you sell the scroll to Serafis?”

  If Nathan was Sicarii, he’d know. Either that or the Ecole hadn’t approached Serafis about the offer. But they must have.

  “No. It’s not even in Antakya. How the hell … how did you find me?”

  That bright smile in his dark face again. “You found me.”

  “What?”

  “Jesse. We started following her in Egypt.”

  “You mean, after the Internet café, you tailed me to our hotel?”

  Nathan shook his head. “My partner, Josh, tailed you.”

  “But … Zafer. He’s always jumping out and switching taxis, taking pedestrian overpasses—”<
br />
  “All well and good. Unless you have a dwarf and a guy with long hair with you. Then, a few inquiries to doormen at various hotels or nearby shopkeepers, and even in a city the size of Cairo, you can get lucky. Especially when you’ve got a couple dozen well-meaning Ebionites at your disposal. They’re useless for tailing someone like Zafer, but since they have the patience of monks—some of them are monks—they’re pretty effective when you put them in front of a hotel and tell them to watch the door for a few hours.” Nathan lifted his chin to indicate the keffiyeh. “That was pretty clever. Although you still have to take a dwarf around with you.”

  We have you there, smart-ass.

  “We knew sooner or later you’d be coming here, and when Jesse showed up in Antakya …” Nathan shrugged. Then the expression on his face changed. “Drew, you have to find a way to keep them from selling. It’ll go to the Sicarii and disappear in a vault under the Vatican. If they don’t burn it.”

  “Why? What the hell is so important about the Habakkuk Scroll?”

  Nathan sighed. “You really want to know?”

  “That’s a rhetorical question, right?”

  Nathan nodded as though he were being forced to do something against his will. “There are a few controversial lines in the copies of Habakkuk that scholars have seen, but they still date it to about the end of the first century BC—well before Jesus was born. In the full scroll though, the one Kadir has, there’s proof it was written after the destruction of the Second Temple, in 70 AD. The author of Habakkuk recognizes the Teacher of Righteousness as the Messiah, but never mentions anyone resembling Jesus. That’s the most important reason the Sicarii need this scroll to disappear.”

  “How can you possibly know that without the scroll?”

  “We’ve had the photos for years. But without the original, they’re worthless.”

  “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “There are a lot of things I don’t tell you, but that’s neither here nor there. Drew, you have to find a way to keep them from selling to Serafis.”

  “What do you think I’m doing here?” He opened his arms to the hotel. “I’m hoping Jesse and I can put our heads together and come up with an alternative.”

  “Steal it.”

  “What?”

  “Steal it, and get it to me. I’ll turn it over to the Israeli government. The publicity and the photos we already have will do wonders for the Ebionite church. Of course, after you steal the scroll, Zafer or Kadir might come at you with a kitchen knife—”

  “Zafer doesn’t need a knife to kill me.”

  “You’re right about that.” Pulling out his wallet, Nathan handed a card to Drew. “Let me know when and where the sale is going to be, and I’ll steal it. Then you’re in the clear. I’ve tracked you this far, haven’t I? Who’s to say I didn’t figure out how the sale was going down?”

  That could work, Drew thought. Nathan and his partner nail Serafis; Zafer and Kadir make off with the Ecole’s money; the Ebionites get the scroll. It was perfect. “What’s the other reason the Sicarii want the scroll?”

  “It shows that Paul of Tarsus murdered Jesus’ brother.”

  7: 9

  THE DEATH OF JAMES

  “WHAT IS THAT doing on your head? You look like you lost your herd of goats. And what took you so long?”

  Drew didn’t know if it was Jesse’s freckles or the front teeth that were slightly rabbit-like because of the curl of her wavy upper lip or maybe the white shirt that she filled out in what was probably considered an unscholarly way, but he was having trouble focusing on the business at hand. A blade of guilt under his ribs reminded him of the conversation he’d had with Yasemin earlier in the day.

  “You’re being followed. And this …” He pulled off the keffiyeh. The air-conditioning made it feel like he’d dunked his sweaty head in a cool stream. “… makes me less visible.”

  “I’m being followed?”

  “Since we met in Cairo.”

  “Okay … by whom?”

  “The Ebionites.”

  “The Ebionites? They fell off the face of the Earth by the fifth century. And even if they were still around, why would they follow me?”

  Drew took a deep breath. “I’ll explain …”

  “Here …” Jesse pulled a chair away from a small desk for him and took the edge of the bed for herself. She listened, barefoot and in shorts, while Drew filled her in on Nathan and the Ebionites.

  “This guy’s outside my hotel?”

  Drew nodded. “I just lost a wrestling match with him.” He took the scroll photos out of the satchel. “Here. What you’ve been dying to see.”

  She took the 8 x 10s but still had an eye on the satchel. “What’s in there that’s so heavy?”

  “You don’t need to know.”

  “You know why I’m a scholar, Drew? Because when I ask a question, I want to know the answer. Even if it takes years. This one better not.”

  Drew sighed. “A pistol.”

  “You brought a gun into my room? A gun? Drew this isn’t—”

  “I told you in Cairo what you were getting into. I didn’t want to bring it. Zafer insisted.”

  “Can’t you … put it somewhere?”

  “You want me to leave it in the lobby with the receptionist?”

  “I just don’t … like it.”

  His forearms resting against his inner thighs, he watched her leaf through the photos.

  “Wow. The quality is fantastic.”

  Drew straightened up in the wooden chair. “You mind if I use your laptop?” Sitting on the desk, it was open and plugged in.

  She didn’t look up from the photograph she was holding. “Go ahead.”

  She’d already forgotten he was in the room. He turned to the computer. He knew there were two accounts of James’s death, and they didn’t match up. In Josephus’s version the Jewish Sanhedrin had been convened, sentence had been pronounced, and James was stoned to death in 62 AD. Clement and Saint Hegesippus, however, had James—at the insistence of the scribes and the Pharisees—addressing a crowd from the pinnacle of the Temple on Passover. When James was asked about Jesus, he replied Why do you ask me about the Son of Man? I tell you he is sitting in heaven at the right hand of the Great Power, and he will come on clouds of heaven.

  This was not what the scribes and Pharisees wanted to hear.

  So they went up and threw down the righteous one. Then they said to each other “Let us stone James the Righteous,” and began to stone him, as in spite of his fall, he was still alive. But he turned and knelt, uttering the words: “I beseech Thee, Lord God and Father, forgive them; they do not know what they are doing.” Saint Hegesippus, Clement, and Josephus agreed James had been stoned to death; they disagreed on the circumstances. But either way Drew couldn’t see how Paul could have been James’s murderer. Unless Paul—

  “Drew!”

  Jesse’s voice startled him.

  She was on her feet and flapping a photograph as though trying to shake the letters from it. Floorboards creaked under the Turkish carpet. “This scroll could be late first century AD. It mentions that the Kittim— the Romans—”

  “Sacrifice to their standards?”

  Jesse deflated a little. “Yes.”

  “Which means it wasn’t the republic. Rome had an emperor.”

  “You knew?”

  Drew nodded. “So, all the stuff about the Liar, the Wicked Priest, and the Teacher of Righteousness in the scroll fits in pretty well with Paul, Ananus, and James the Righteous?”

  “I still think it’s a long-shot. The Dead Sea Scrolls aren’t my specialty—at all—but scholars have been over every millimeter of the Habakkuk Scroll, and the general consensus is that it is late first century BC, not AD.”

  “So I heard. Nathan says there’s something in there that shows up in the full scroll but not in the version scholars currently have.”

  Jesse held out a photograph. “This must be what terrified the
Church and the Ecole Biblique—a scroll written in the first century AD that mentions the Teacher of Righteousness but not Jesus. The Gospels, the histories, even Josephus have been tampered with but not these.”

  “Well,” Drew said, “I think I figured out how Paul killed James.”

  She sank into the edge of the bed. “Somebody e-mail that to you? Last I heard, Ananus had James killed, and Paul wasn’t even in Palestine anymore.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not so sure. James was stoned to death, whether by order of the Sanhedrin or a Temple mob. That much we know. But let’s suppose Josephus is right—”

  “He is,” Jesse assured him. “His account fits much better with what we know.”

  “Then all it takes is for Paul to be in collusion with Ananus in convening the Sanhedrin, and he’s just as guilty. That must have been why Professor Cutherton had counted Ananus as a key player.

  The air conditioner hummed.

  Jesse shook her head skeptically. “There’s one little problem … in 62 AD Paul was awaiting trial in Rome. We know because Acts tell us that Festus, the Roman governor of Judea, sent him there. And James was killed shortly after Festus died.”

  Drew smiled. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  “Oh really?”

  Drew closed the laptop. “Let’s try recreating the scene. Around 60 AD, after years of preaching among the Greeks, Paul returns to Jerusalem, where he meets up with James. As always seems to happen when Paul is around, there’s trouble … Paul is accused of casting aside the Law of Moses and bringing uncircumcised Greeks into the Temple. There’s a riot, Paul’s arrested by a Roman centurion and brought before the governor of Judea, Felix. And what happens?”

  Jesse hesitated. “Nothing.”

  “That’s right—nothing. Although Paul is a Roman citizen, nothing happens for a full two years. At which time Festus takes over for Felix, and he doesn’t do anything either. Instead, he ships Paul off to Rome.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “Acts of the Apostles ends abruptly—without ever mentioning a trial or an outcome for Paul.”