by Vincent Czyz
He had to be hot under all that.
“Welcome to Deir Anba Bishoi, the Monastery of Saint Bishoi. I am Brother Yusuf. This way.” The monk led them along a passage between buildings nestled against the outer wall on the left and what were probably the monks’ quarters on their right. Brother Yusuf stopped and spread his arms.
“Here is the resting place of our beloved saint whose body remains uncorrupted after all these centuries. It is a miracle! Here also is the Well of the Martyrs. So called because during a Bedouin attack, forty-nine monks were killed, and the brigands washed the blood off their swords in the well.” His rehearsed English was heavily accented but perfectly clear.
“A donation for the monastery.” Zafer handed him fifty Egyptian pounds. “We’re interested in someone who lived here as a boy. He left about twenty-five years ago.”
“A boy who lived here?”
“His name was Tariq Soufanati.”
“We would have to check the records …”
“If there’s a fee, we’ll be happy to pay it.”
The monk shook his head. “I don’t think that will be necessary, but we must see Father Al-Masri.
A girl, being chased by her sister or a friend bumped into Drew, her forehead colliding with his waist. She glanced up at him and then ran off, screaming happily.
Brother Yusuf led them to a courtyard taken up mostly by a lush garden that had been planted with a variety of palm trees, tropical flowers, and cactuses.
They found Father Al-Masri in an office that looked more like a storage room, the walls lined with bookshelves that held rows of faded ledgers. A small man with gray woven through his coarse beard, he sat at a large desk. A single window opened onto the courtyard behind him.
Brother Yusuf spoke in what Drew assumed was Coptic—it wasn’t Arabic. The older monk looked at the two visitors, nodded gravely, and rose from his chair. He pulled down several ledgers from a shelf. One by one he opened them and followed his index finger up and down the pages. He shook his head after he had closed the last one and spoke briefly to Brother Yusuf, who translated into English: “No one by that name lived here.”
Zafer thanked Father Al-Masri in Arabic.
“Scratch that one,” Drew said as they headed back toward the parking lot.
Deir el-Sourian, Monastery of the Syrians, was next on their list. It was only about half a kilometer away. Architecturally, it was nearly identical to the first monastery although the walls were even higher. According to a sign written in English, the church had been built around a cave once inhabited by Saint Bishoi. The monk who came out to greet them wore the same long robes and odd cap with stars and moons on it, but also had a silent partner whom he glanced at from time to time.
Zafer spent another fifty pounds, and they were guided to another dingy office—this one without windows—and the same record-keeping system. One of the monks turned on a standing fan. The mechanical breeze felt good against Drew’s sweaty face, but didn’t do much to deter the flies.
“Please, if you will wait here. I will return in a moment.”
They were left with the silent monk. Drew wondered why he was the only monk who didn’t have a real beard, just three or four days’ growth. Maybe he just joined up.
The monk smiled at Zafer, showing poorly cared for yellow teeth.
Zafer smiled back.
The Turk moved so fast Drew wasn’t quite sure what hit the monk— probably a palm heel. The Egyptian fell against the bookshelves and sagged to the floor. Zafer caught him across the temple with a knee, and the Egyptian collapsed.
“What the fuck—?”
“Stand in front of the door. About two meters back—there, in front of the desk. Put your pistol in the waistband of your shorts, in the back.” Zafer pulled up the robes of the monk, searched around and came up with an automatic pistol.
“How did you know?”
Zafer dragged the monk, who was starting to wake up, to the other side of the room and cuffed his wrists with Kevlar. “Look at his shoes.”
They were black loafers. “So?”
“He’s the only ‘monk’ I’ve seen today who isn’t wearing sandals.”
“You attacked this guy because he’s not wearing sandals?”
“He’s the only ‘monk’ with trouser legs sticking out under his robes.”
Drew hadn’t noticed that, either.
“And he’s the only monk without a beard. We walked in on somebody snooping for information just like us. Somehow, they made us, stripped a couple of monks, and had plans to interrogate us.”
“They?’
“There’s at least one more. Maybe two or three. Don’t worry. They all have to go through the same door.” Zafer grinned. “It’ll be like Thermopylae.”
Bait … again.
“When the door opens, expect a gun to be pointed at your chest. Just put your hands up. I’ll do the rest.”
Zafer positioned himself on the hinged side so that as the door swung open it would hide him. A few seconds later, two monks entered, one of whom, despite his coffee-brown complexion, looked a bit ashen. When he was pushed out of the way by the monk behind him, Drew saw why: the gun Zafer had warned him about was pointed at his face. For about a millisecond.
Zafer shot out from behind the door, grabbed the monk’s wrist with one hand, the pistol with the other, and twisted violently. The gun came away in one hand; with the other hand, Zafer turned the monk’s palm to the ceiling, which meant the elbow was also facing up. Zafer brought his armpit down on the Egyptian’s upper arm. Arms, Drew was well aware, did not bend that way. With pressure exerted up on the wrist, but down on the upper arm and the elbow forced in the wrong direction, the Egyptian fell to his knees with a groan. Zafer let go of the wrist and cracked the monk in the forehead with an elbow. It was a light blow, just enough to leave him dazed. When the Egyptian looked up again, his own pistol was pointed at his nose.
Zafer smirked. “Shall we talk?”
9: 3
SLEEPING WITH A BLIND MAN
TO HIS AMAZEMENT, Drew recognized the Egyptian Zafer was cuffing with Kevlar. “That’s the guy who clubbed Kadir in Cairo.”
Zafer nodded. “Now we know who sent them and how they made us.”
“I can call the police now, yes?” asked the real monk.
“Please don’t, Brother…?” Zafer waited for the monk to offer his name.
“Haddad.”
Zafer took out his wallet and flashed his MIT identification. “I’m with the Turkish government. Would you let me handle this?”
Brother Haddad looked impressed as he scrutinized the ID held out to him. The fact that it was written in Turkish didn’t seem to bother him. “Yes … yes, of course.”
“What did they want?” Zafer tucked his wallet in the back pocket of his shorts.
“They asked about a …” He made a circular motion with his two index fingers as if he were rolling something up.
“A scroll?”
“Yes. They wanted to know are there any ancient scrolls in our library. Not written in Coptic, but Aramaic.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
Zafer walked over to Nabil’s men. “Why are you looking for the scroll here?” he asked in Arabic.
Neither of them answered.
Zafer squatted down in front of the one who had attacked Kadir. “Do you want to walk out of here, or would you prefer to be carried?” He snatched one of the man’s ankles. Placing one hand on the ankle and another higher on the leg, he twisted.
The Egyptian flipped his body back and forth like a hooked fish. “Nabil!” he shrieked.
Zafer relaxed his grip.
“Nabil found out Tariq lived in a monastery as a boy. He thinks the monks have the scroll.”
“Much better.” Zafer turned to Brother Haddad. “Is there, uh … somewhere I can put these two for a little while? While you and I talk?”
The Copt looked down.
The men were both sitti
ng on the floor, gazing up like dogs imploring their master.
“Well … yes …”
After Nabil’s men were padlocked in a storage closet, Zafer, Drew, and Brother Haddad returned to the windowless office.
“They’re just guessing where the scroll is,” Zafer said to Drew.
“So are we.”
Zafer turned to Brother Haddad. “Was Tariq Soufanati here? Maybe twenty or thirty years ago?”
The monk went through a set of peeling ledgers but failed to turn up any record of Tariq.
“Could I ask you a very important favor?” Zafer said. “Please forget Tariq’s name. Even if the police want to know. Just tell them we were looking for a scroll.”
The monk nodded. “Aiwa.” Yes.
“Could we ask one more favor of you? Could you wait three or four hours before calling the police? This is an extremely urgent and confidential matter involving Egyptian antiquities and Turkish nationals. It’s best if our investigations remain separate.”
“I see.” He smiled weakly. “It seems a small favor to ask of me in return for a very great favor from you.”
Zafer thanked him profusely in Arabic before he and Drew left.
The black asphalt of the parking lot looked like it was on the verge of melting. How the hell do they live in this dustbin with all these flies? Drew wondered. He opened the door of the Renault, and a blast of hot air rose up to meet him.
“You know what this means, don’t you, Drew?” Zafer started the engine and hit the air conditioner.
“If Nabil can get this close, so can the Sicarii.”
“Right. I think you should go back to Alexandria.”
“What?”
“If the Sicarii find that scroll before we do …” Zafer shook his head. “No more insurance policy. It’ll just be head shot from a rooftop. If they even think they can find it without us, we’re dead. Even if we actually somehow manage to pull this off, you’re probably going to have to get into a witness protection program … or spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder.”
“I’ve been thinking about that.”
“You’ve got almost a million dollars. Go back to Istanbul, buy all the books you want, sit in your jumba, smoke your narghile, and watch the sun set on the Golden Horn.”
“What about you?”
Zafer shrugged. “The worse the odds are, the more interested I am. I can’t help it. And I’ve got training. You don’t.”
Drew shook his head. “I don’t have any illusions that this scroll is going to change all that much, but it’s another piece in a huge puzzle. It’s a little more of the truth. I want to know. Scholars should know. I’m in.”
Zafer smirked. “Körle yatan, shashi kalkar.” Sleep with a blind man, wake up cross-eyed.
Drew nodded. “Yeah, I guess.”
“There’s one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Maybe Nabil’s man recognized me, maybe he didn’t. But with that long hair, he definitely fingered you. And by tonight the Egyptian police will have a description of us.”
“What’re you trying to say?”
“The hair, Drew … it’s gotta go.”
9: 4
EZEKIEL’S EXODUS
THE MONASTERY OF THE VIRGIN of El Baramouse looked like an oasis. The extensive grounds were irrigated and green, and two tour buses were baking in the parking lot. In the surrounding fields, a monk rode a tractor.
Drew jerked his thumb in the direction of a bookstore on the edge of the parking lot. “Just let me poke my head in there for a minute.”
Zafer frowned. “A minute.”
It wasn’t much of a walk, nor was it much of a bookstore. A few kitschy icons, some thin books about local history in poorly rendered English, some cheap crosses. But the back of the store seemed too small for the building housing it, and, nosing around, Drew discovered a second shop, hardly a third the size of the first. It wasn’t manned by a Coptic monk. At least he wasn’t dressed like the rest of them. Which meant any minute now, Zafer might break the guy’s nose with a palm heel.
“Welcome.” The old man dipped his shaggy head. He had a beard worthy of an Old Testament patriarch and an abundance of wiry gray hair. His eyes were set under crags of bone overgrown by snowy eyebrows. Wearing a white jalabiya and sandals, he couldn’t have been more than five feet tall.
“You’re not a monk?”
“The monks are very kind to let me keep my shop here. I am Jewish. My name is Shimon.”
Drew remembered the synagogue near their first hotel in Cairo; the Egyptian police kept it under twenty-four-hour guard.
Shimon had a wide assortment of items for sale, everything from the usual tourist trinkets to what looked like genuine antiques. The ceiling was hung with an array of lamps. The ones dangling from the eaves clinked and ting-tinged when the hot breeze stirred them.
“You know who that is?”
Drew was looking over a mosaic depicting a bearded god. “Serapis?”
“Very good. What do you know about Serapis?”
“A man-made god.”
“They’re all man-made.”
“Touche.” The beginnings of a smile put a curve in Drew’s lips. “I thought you said you’re Jewish.”
“We’ll get to that. Tell me about Serapis.”
It had taken Drew all of two or three minutes last night on the web to get a bio on the god. “Let’s see … when Ptolemy took over after Alexander the Great died, he put together a composite of Osiris and a couple of Greek gods. Serapis was the husband of Isis, just as Osiris had been, and his animal was the bull, like Osiris, but whenever he was depicted—” Drew pointed at the mosaic—”the likeness was clearly Zeus … bearded, curly-haired, Greek. The idea was to unite Egyptians and Greeks in worship.”
It was now obvious why the professor had led Drew to Serapis: it illustrated how, in the first-century Levant, it was entirely acceptable to found a new religion. It was routine. The Mystery religions, of which the cult of Serapis was one, were all classic examples. The Pythagorean Mysteries had taken the Mysteries of Osiris and replaced the Egyptian deity with a Greek one—Dionysus. It even worked on a local level: the Eleusian Mysteries near Athens venerated not Dionysus but Demeter and her daughter Persephone, while Artemis was at the center of the Mysteries in Ephesus. Using a familiar god as the front man—or woman—was a simple but effective way of adopting an alien religion or creating a new one.
Virtually unthinkable in the twenty-first century, Ptolemy’s strategy had worked. Serapis became enormously popular and his cult spread well beyond Egypt, yielding some of the most astonishing temples in the ancient world.
“Well done.” Shimon nodded. “I see you are not merely a tourist.”
Zafer, after a cursory glance at the wares, lifted an impatient eyebrow at Drew.
“Alexandria was the greatest city of the ancient world—not Rome, not even Jerusalem,” Shimon said as though he were offering the city itself for sale. “The Mysteries were practiced here but without secrecy. Judaism flourished beside Hellenism. Serapis was accepted by both Egyptians and Greeks. Here, the heart was open. The greatest of all the Alexandrian theosophers, Philo, wrote here. Perhaps you would like to see some of his books?”
Drew raised a hand and shook his head. “I have Philo.”
“Ah, a rare customer. Then you must know that here in Alexandria Yaweh was not a vengeful, jealous god, but a symbol of the forces of the universe. Yahweh belonged to all.”
Drew was nodding, looking for a way to leave without being rude.
“You ready, Drew?” Zafer asked in Turkish.
“Evet.”
“You are Turkish?”
Zafer answered: “Yes. Türkche biliyormusunuz?”
“I know only a few words. But my Hebrew, Arabic, and English are quite good. I also have some knowledge of Aramaic and ancient Greek. Here in the desert, there is plenty of time for learning languages.”
“Impressive
.” Drew pretended to look over the wares as he drifted toward the parking lot.
“Here, you know, is where wisdom literature was born.”
Drew held up a finger to Zafer. “Bir dakika.” One minute. Q1 was a form of wisdom literature, and Q1 was what they had come for. “In Alexandria?”
“But of course. One god melded into another in Alexandria. People looked for similarities—not differences—and the old barriers between nations disappeared. What was important was the distinction between the wise and the foolish. Here they took great pleasure in uniting humanity, rather than dividing it. Would you like to see for yourself?”
Shimon waved a hand at the back of the store, which was lined with shelves crammed with books in various stages of decomposition. Some looked healthy enough, but others had moth-eaten covers and pages falling out of bindings—something like the prayer books in Kadir’s stall in Istanbul.
Ah, here comes the pitch. “No, I don’t think—”
“Did you know the story of the Jewish exodus from Egypt was made into a Greek tragedy?”
“By a Greek?”
“No. A Jew named Ezekiel.”
Ezekiel’s Exodus. The one keyword that hadn’t shown up in any of his web searches.
“Here …” Shuffling over to a shelf, Shimon extracted a large volume with a rough cloth cover. “This is the book you want.” The old man lifted a worn cover and began to read. “All Wisdom cometh from the Lord, and is with Him forever. Who can number the sand of the sea, and the drops of rain, and the days of eternity? Who can find out the height of heaven, and the breadth of the Earth, and the deep, and Wisdom?”
A breeze turned the brass lamps hanging from their chains into chimes.
“That’s from Ezekiel’s Exodus?”
Shimon shook his white head. “Jesus ben Sirach. Unfortunately, the Book of Sirach is often considered apocryphal, almost heretical. Do you know why?”