The Christos Mosaic

by Vincent Czyz

  The waiter set the glass down on the table.

  There she went, the woman he’d been pining for for two years. Reconciliation had been just a few nods of the head and a couple of promises away, but he knew that if he was the only one who apologized and acknowledged his mistakes, the cycle that had ended in divorce would start all over again.

  He glared out at the water, feeling like something had been amputated.

  Her shortcomings weren’t tragic, but if she admitted them, she would have some rebuilding to do. Maybe it was easier for her to let the marriage go.

  “You always got so upset about a broken tea glass or a cracked chair,” he said under his breath. Why didn’t you ever notice the things that were breaking inside. Both of us.

  “Drew.”

  He turned around.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You go off your meds again?”

  “No. Or I wouldn’t have come back.”

  He waited.

  “Drew, if I take you back and you leave again, I might not get over it this time. I love you too much.”

  “I won’t leave again.”

  “Even if I go off my medication? Even if I do the same things that made you leave in the first place?”

  “I’ll sleep at a friend’s a house if I have to, but I’ll come back. No more divorce court.”

  “Listen Drew … for two years I convinced myself it was over. I never fell out of love with you, but I believed—really believed—you were out of my life. I learned how to live without you. How to be a divorced woman in Turkey. How to think about having a future with someone else. And now … I want you back, I do, but I’m afraid. That’s why my emotions are so volatile. I only wanted to be married once in this life, Drew, you know that.”

  “Do you want to sit back down?” He stepped around to pull out her chair.

  “No. Not tonight. Let’s take a little time. Both of us. Let’s really think this through. No distractions, no one else. I’m done with Mehmet—that was a mistake. Can we do that? Give it some time and see how we feel?”

  He put his hands on the back of his chair. “Sure.”

  “I have to go now. I have to be alone tonight.”

  He nodded.

  “Love me?”

  “Always.”

  “Then wait for me. And I’ll wait for you.”

  He glanced at the sea, indifferently reflecting the moon. “I’ll wait.”

  8: 7

  GAME PLAN

  BY THE TIME DREW got out of bed, Kadir was at the stove atop a pair of vegetable crates making menemen—undercooked scrambled eggs, peppers, tomatoes, cheese and a Turkish pepperoni called sujuk. In the last few days, Kadir had taken it upon himself to do most of the cooking and all of the dishwashing. Spatula in hand, he grinned at Drew. “Today we are going to be riches. Five million dollars!”

  Drew nodded sleepily. “Where’s Zafer?”

  “He is making recon.”

  Drew blinked. “Reconnaissance?”

  “Evet.”

  Drew looked over the dwarf’s shoulder. “Smells good. You make enough for me?”

  “Ne eshek seni! Burasi Turkiye.” What a donkey you are! This is Turkey.

  He was right. It was unthinkable for a Turk to ignore his friends when it came to food. All these years and Drew still wasn’t used to Turkish hospitality.

  Kadir tipped his head toward the table. “Otursana.” Drew took a seat. “After the breakfast we are getting to the scroll.”

  “Where you been keeping it all this time?”

  “In the bank. In a safety box.”

  “In a safe deposit box?” Drew’s voice rose in alarm.

  “Don’t worry. It is very dry. You will see.”

  The tips of his fingers tingled as though with the caffeine buzz that came with gulping a liter of coffee. In a few hours he would be up close and personal with a Dead Sea Scroll, one that only a handful of people had ever seen.

  After a steaming heap of Kadir’s menemen, half a loaf of bread, and pint of orange juice, Drew got on the computer and checked his e-mail. Jesse had sent him a message.

  Dear Drew,

  I just about laughed in your face when you told me in Antakya that Paul had murdered James. If he had, it might suggest Paul was the Liar in the Habakkuk Scroll and that the High Priest Ananus, who actually DID convene the Sanhedrin and have James stoned to death, was the Wicked Priest.

  As you probably know, the Wicked Priest wasn’t killed by Jews but by Gentiles who defiled his corpse. Look at this passage from the scroll:

  “And the gentiles inflicted horrors of evil sickness and took vengeance upon his body of flesh …”

  This is interesting because Ananus was killed during the revolt of 66 AD by the Idumeans—the Edomites—and his body was thrown over the walls of Jerusalem and left for the dogs and crows. This is an unthinkable desecration for a Jew. Gentiles killed the High Priest and defiled his corpse!

  But what got my scalp tingly is this: “After the death of the Teacher, the Man of a Lie was banished to the land of the Kittim.” We know that Kittim is code for the Romans, and we know that Paul was sent to Rome around the time of James’s death. This is NEW, from one of the missing sections. So current scholarship has never seen it—and it’s a LOCK. Paul is a dead ringer for the Liar! I hate to say it, but I’m beginning to think James the Just really might have been the Teacher of Righteousness.

  I guess that’s what that Ebionite meant when he told you we’d find proof in the Habakkuk Commentary that Paul had murdered James.

  There is also a passage about the “the last priests of Jerusalem”

  “whose riches and plunder” fall into the hands of the Romans. This sounds tantalizingly like the destruction of the Second Temple under the command of Titus in 70 AD. (the Temple wasn’t plundered under Pompey in 63 BC). There’s a problem though. Most scholars consider this a prediction, not a record of what actually happened, but that’s a lot less likely if Paul is the Liar.

  That, Drew realized, must have been one of the controversial passages Nathan had mentioned in Antakya.

  Looks like your dwarf pal is holding a late first-century scroll that mentions the Teacher of Righteousness, but NOT Jesus. It’s invaluable to scholars, Drew. Please tell me you’ve figured out a way to keep it out of Serafis’s hands.

  Call me when you get this.

  Jesse.

  While he was debating whether or not to ring Jesse, Zafer walked in. A motorcycle helmet under his arm, he was dressed in the red and yellow of a DHL courier.

  Drew smiled. “That was your cover, huh?”

  He held up the helmet. “I can see out, nobody can see in.” He walked over to Drew and looked over the computer monitor. “What’re you working on?”

  A pop-up in a corner of the computer screen announced: JesFen has just signed in.

  “Oh.” Zafer nodded. “Focused on business I see.”

  Drew? You there?

  “Jess is part of business.”

  “Yeah.” Zafer snickered.

  “The fun part.”

  Drew messaged back: Here.

  Any news?

  Drew thought for a moment. “Everything’s over with Yasemin. Ended it last night.”

  Zafer looked confused. “You did?”

  Drew waved a hand to shut Zafer up. “I just want to get her reaction.”

  “That’s some devious shit.”

  Zafer’s slang still surprised him.

  Won’t pretend I’m sorry, Jesse replied.

  A straightforward enough answer although it was just as likely she was playing him.

  Missed you the minute you left yesterday. Okay, yeah, I had a Dead Sea Scroll to keep me company … speaking of which, did you read my e-mail?

  Yes, Drew typed back. Told you so.

  But what about the scroll?

  Sorry, Jess. They’re unloading it today.

  Zafer nodded. “Good boy.”

  Drew! That scroll could rewrite th
e New Testament. Not to mention our current understanding of Christianity. If the Church gets it, it’ll never see the light of day.

  Jess, I don’t even know where Kadir keeps it. Miracles are a little out of my league.

  Zafer held up a thumb in approval.

  What about the photos? Can you salvage those?

  They’re part of the deal.

  This bastard gets EVERYthing?

  I’m sorry, Jess.

  UGGGH!! This is so UNFAIR. I guess there isn’t much you can do, though, is there? You’re not a CIA agent, are you?

  Mossad, actually. No.

  It’s so hard to believe we came SO close …

  I know.

  Today, huh?

  Yeah.

  This isn’t done. I don’t know how … but this isn’t done.

  Drew didn’t know how to reply.

  Call me so I know you’re safe.

  I will. What did she mean, ‘this isn’t done’?

  Please be careful, Drew.

  I will. Talk to you soon.

  Good luck. XO

  Drew logged off.

  Zafer slapped Drew on the back. His hand felt like a slab of wood.

  “You’re finally getting in character. Stonewall everybody.”

  “Thanks.” Drew was about to sign out of his e-mail, but a new message had come in: From Raymond. Chills shot up his spine and broke out in goosebumps on his upper arms. He turned around to look at Zafer.

  “Open it.”

  “How did he get my e-mail?”

  Zafer shrugged. “Hacked into the professor’s e-mail account or found it in his address book. What does it say?”

  How are you, mon ami? This is a message for the Saracen.

  “What the hell’s a Saracen?” Zafer asked. “That’s what Christians called Muslim soldiers during the Crusades.”

  Tell him God has chosen me to be His champion. It is inevitable that we meet. Tell him I look forward to that time.

  Raymond.

  Drew shivered through another wave of chills.

  “Don’t worry.” Zafer whacked him again—this time on the shoulder. “He’s just trying to rattle your cage.”

  “It’s not my cage I’m worried about.”

  “All right, forget about Raymond. Here’s the game plan … we meet Serafis at his house, which is a lot like the one in Antakya. The exchange takes place at 2:30. I already contacted Ozatalay and told him to keep an eye trained on the front door—from at least 300 meters. When we come out …” He pointed at Drew and himself. “He and his boys go in.”

  Drew nodded.

  “We’re out of here at 1:30. Any questions?”

  “Yeah … isn’t this kind of stupid? All the Sicarii have to do is shoot us when we walk in the door, and they save five million dollars.”

  “Except they still want the other scroll. And they’re hoping we’ll lead them to it.”

  Drew shook his head. “You’re making an assumption that might get us all killed.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That the Sicarii haven’t already found the other scroll. Maybe we’ve evaded them so far because they’ve been putting most of their effort into the other scroll. Maybe that’s why Serafis didn’t bargain all that hard with Kadir. These guys are fanatics—zealots, just like the original Sicarii. As long as they get these scrolls, they’ll all go to their graves smiling.”

  “You done?” Zafer dipped his head and lifted his eyebrows. “While you were out burning your wick at both ends, Kadir over there was gathering a little intel for us.”

  Drew glanced at Kadir, who was grinning at him.

  “Remember the bar we went to in Cairo right after Nabil turned on us? Remember the Egyptian Kadir met in the bar? His name is Jamal.

  A small-time runner, like Tariq. We had Jamal call Nabil and tell him that he had a lead on the other scroll. Now, if you remember, when we sat down with Nabil in the coffeehouse, we promised him a five-percent finder’s fee if he came up with the scroll. I knew that Raymond and Saint-Savoy had already promised him more, so he’d go to them first. Sure enough, Nabil insisted on checking out the lead immediately. Jamal was evasive. Jamal waited a day and then called Raymond—we gave him the number—and insisted someone meet him in person.

  “Jamal never showed up for the rendezvous. Well, technically he was there, but he was watching from a safe distance. An Eygptian—probably an interpreter—and one of the Sicarii took the bait. If the Sicarii are willing to fly to Cairo at a moment’s notice, it means they’re still hot for the missing scroll. Any more questions?”

  “Yeah … you got an extra bulletproof vest?”

  8: 8

  THE EXCHANGE

  DREW HAD NEVER IMAGINED that Kadir had been keeping the scroll in a bank in Levent—a suburb of Western architecture, brick fences, and green yards. Nor did he imagine that the exchange would take place, not after hours on some secluded backstreet in a dilapidated hotel—light from the chandelier in the lobby blurred by cigarette smoke—but on a sunny afternoon in a villa with a hillcrest view of the Bosporus.

  The scroll, still sheathed in disintegrating leather, was in a plain wooden box. The bottom of the box was strewn with those packets of desiccants that sometimes turned up in the pockets of new clothing like tiny teabags with DO NOT EAT written on them. Not high tech, but effective. Drew had been dying to see the scroll in the bank, but Zafer had shaken his head. “You’ll get to see it at Serafis’s.”

  Long and narrow, the box wasn’t more than five inches deep and was stowed in an aluminum brief case. There were two briefcases, identical. The idea was to go into Serafis’s house as if they were carrying the money with which to buy the scroll. Inside, they would transfer the money to the briefcases and walk out as though, for some reason, the exchange hadn’t taken place. After they came out, Ozatalay would send men around the sides and back to make a noose. Once Drew and Zafer had pulled away, the police would move in, Serafis and whoever was with him would be arrested, and the scroll recovered.

  The three of them were headed to Tarabya Ustu in a gray Audi. Drew was armed with a .22 caliber Beretta pistol. Zafer drove. Serafis’s house was located just below the top of a hill along a steep road that wound its way down to the European shore of the Bosporus. As in Antakya, a gated driveway of about one hundred yards led to Serafis’s house.

  “Hard to be inconspicuous in this neighborhood,” Zafer said. “One road and a few rich neighbors with watch dogs and private security guards and nosy wives sunning themselves beside the pool or having friends over for tea.

  “By now Ozatalay has replaced security guards with policemen, some gardener probably has an automatic weapon under his coveralls, and there are a couple of men peering from bedroom windows with binoculars.”

  Pulling up near the gate, but beyond the line of sight of the two surveillance cameras mounted on the brick walls, Zafer took out the hush puppy. He took aim through the open window. There was a pop from the gun followed by a soft crash—as if two toy locomotives had collided—and the tinkle of falling glass. He took out the second camera the same way.

  He dialed Serafis on his cell phone. “We’re here.”

  “What happened to my cameras?”

  “Sorry, no pictures. We’ll compensate you for the damage.”

  “What kind of way is this to do business?” Serafis yelled.

  “Do you want the scroll or not?”

  The wrought-iron gate jerked open and rolled aside on a track. The house was similar to the one in Antakya—a two-story, stone block—but this one had narrow jumbas decorated with carved pilasters.

  Zafer pulled the Audi down the long drive but instead of parking beside the two cars already there, he turned around and positioned the car so that it was blocking traffic in or out. Then, well out of the sight of the security camera over the beautifully carved double doors, he took out the hush puppy and popped that one, too.

  “He’s probably going to scream like he’s passing a kid
ney stone,” Drew said. Although he was sweating, his hands were icy. In each he held the handle of an aluminum briefcase.

  Zafer collected the ejected shell casing and replaced the pistol’s clip. He looked at Drew. “Just in case we need a full one.” He unscrewed the silencer.

  Drew realized his knees were shaking. Ashamed, he commanded them to be steady and walked stiff-legged a step behind Zafer. His stomach was a nest of fluttery activity. Rather than reassuring him, the weight of the gun against his body made him that much more anxious. His breathing rapid and shallow, he remembered a baby bird he’d once held in his fist, the needle-thin ribs pressing against his hand as the bird hyperventilated with panic. You can do this, he said to himself.

  The door opened so abruptly Drew almost reached for his pistol.

  “Just who exactly gave you permission to destroy my property!” Serafis screeched. His anger was slightly comical to Drew, partly because, with his wall-eyed gaze, it seemed to have no focus.

  Zafer grinned. “Smith and Wesson.”

  “Smith and—?”

  “Never mind. I told you you’d be compensated.”

  “This isn’t the way business is done.”

  Drew and Zafer stepped inside. “Let’s get on with it, Iorgos.”

  Serafis looked down at their feet.

  Zafer shook his head. “Sorry, we won’t be taking off our shoes.”

  “No, it seems protocol’s been thrown over the side today.”

  Serafis led them into a sitting room with a floor of cream-colored, hard-baked tiles. Glass cabinets stuffed with urns, vases, and elegantly shaped ceramics lined the walls. There were also five monitors stacked against one wall; three of them were blank. As they entered, two men who had been seated at what might have been a dining room table for eight stood up: Jan Miskovicz and Kurt Hohenzollern. Sicarii.

  Miskovicz had an unruly mop of white hair with a few glints of gold still left. Bespectacled and gaunt, he looked frail.

  The German, with his sharp cheekbones accentuated by a military haircut and the slot-like mouth, was more intimidating in person than he had been in his photo. An expert on ancient Hebrew, Aramaic, and Syriac paleography, he’d undoubtedly been chosen to verify the scroll’s authenticity. The Pole was probably there to second his assessment.