The Second Messiah

by Glenn Meade

  He swallowed a mouthful of liquor. “Thanks.”

  “What’s the bet that the parchment’s going to cause a sensation among the scholars? Who knows, it may contain information that challenges or even refutes established traditions, perhaps even something compromising? In fact, I’d like to propose a toast.”

  “To what?”

  Green smiled, clinked their glasses. “That whatever else this find of yours contains, it knocks their socks off.”

  9

  A MOMENT LATER the tent flap opened and a striking young blond woman came in. She looked as if she had Arab blood in her veins with her amber eyes and long black lashes, but everything else about Yasmin Green was westernized. She wore khaki shorts that bared her slim, tanned legs, her shirt tied in a knot above her waist, exposing her smooth belly. She smiled, then said in an American accent, “Aren’t you two going to get some sleep? You must be exhausted, Uncle Donald. You too, Jack.”

  Green, still bubbling with excitement, stared back at his niece as if she were mad. “Sleep? Who can rest after this find? Have another drink, Jack.” He splashed more Wild Turkey into their glasses.

  “Go easy, professor.”

  “Yasmin?”

  “Not for me. I’ve just spent the last half-hour picking up empty Heineken cans after the crew. Crew like me, who are not lucky enough to be archaeologists, just mere interested amateurs, always seem to get stuck with the housework.”

  She tapped her watch at her uncle. “I know you told me this is the most incredible discovery you’ve ever been involved with, but it’s also well after five A.M. The rest of the crew bedded down hours ago. If you want to be in the full of your health when the Israeli Antiquities Department visits tomorrow, you ought to get to bed.”

  Jack finished his drink in one swallow. “Yasmin’s right, professor. I think I’ll hit the hay.”

  The professor grinned. “That’s it, chicken out just when a guy’s beginning to enjoy himself.”

  Yasmin winked at Jack. “Try and convince my uncle to get to bed, will you? I’m going to finish tidying up and hit the sack. Congratulations again, Jack.” She gave him a final smile as she went out, her blond hair and amber eyes an arresting combination.

  Jack watched her figure retreat into the dusk. Green noticed his stare and closed the tent flap. “She’s a good-looking young woman, isn’t she, Jack?”

  “She sure is.”

  “My brother’s Lebanese wife was always something of a beauty, which explains Yasmin’s looks. The union of the Middle Eastern and the Western can produce quite an exotic mix. And of course, Yasmin’s had the benefit of a Western education, which can make her all the more alluring.” Green gave a tight smile, then knocked back his liquor, put down his glass, and filled it again from the bottle. A sudden, irritated edge crept into his voice. “I’ve always had a soft spot for the opposite sex, as you probably know. Three marriages and a weakness for a pretty woman wearing a short skirt say it all. However, can I give you a friendly word of advice?”

  “What’s that, professor?”

  “I promised my brother I’d watch over his daughter like a hawk while she was working on the dig.” Green took a gulp of Wild Turkey and made a face, as if the alcohol suddenly tasted nasty. “But maybe I should just tell you the truth and be done with it …” His words trailed away, as if he’d instantly regretted them. “Never mind, forget it.”

  “What truth?” Jack asked. “Forget what?”

  Green appeared embarrassed. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that most of the guys working on this site are a bunch of skirt-chasers. Me included. Not that I’d be inclined to count you among them, Jack. I’ve known you too long a time to suggest that.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I have my moments.”

  Green smiled weakly. “Haven’t we all where women are concerned? But I don’t want Yasmin being taken advantage of in any way. You understand?”

  “Yasmin’s what … twenty-five, professor? I’d have thought she was old enough to make up her own mind about whatever it is she wants.”

  “Well, sure, but—”

  Jack put down his glass, too tired to take it any further. “Why don’t you cork that bottle until another day and get some rest, professor? Me, I think I’ll take a walk to clear my head before I turn in.”

  Green sounded a little drunk as he slapped a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Okay, but I wanted to say well done, Jack. I know your parents would have been proud. It’s just a pity they’re not here to witness this moment. It’s hard to believe it’s twenty years since they’ve gone. I still miss them.”

  “We both do.”

  Green’s hand fell away. “Good night, Jack.”

  “Good night, sir.” Jack pulled back the tent flap but Green’s voice stopped him.

  “By the way, I guess you’ve been too busy to hear the news?”

  Jack looked back. “What news?”

  Green drained his glass. “The American priest who worked at Qumran at the time your folks died.”

  Jack nodded. “John Becket. What about him?”

  “He’s got himself elected pope.”

  10

  IN THE BEGINNING, there was only darkness and then God created light.

  As the sun’s blush peeked above the horizon, Jack climbed up a rocky slope, his solitary figure silhouetted against the dawn’s orange glow. He was thinking of those ancient words, how they seemed so appropriate to the moment.

  But since he was feeling a buzz after drinking Wild Turkey, those other words of a stand-up comic he’d once heard in New York also came to mind: In the beginning there was nothing, and then God created light. There was still nothing but you could see it a lot better.

  That always made him crack a smile. When he reached the top of the slope, he paused to stare at the view of the Judean desert toward Jordan and get his breath. His chest pounded, not from exertion but the exhilaration that sped through his veins.

  The rising sun was lost behind the mountains of Edom. Jack shivered. The desert air was still cold after the night and he looked out at rust-colored rock and parched stony mountains, Bedouin camps in the distance, dotted with camel and goatherds. Past a palm-fringed wadi, he saw that a ring of massive rocks that formed a boundary with the surrounding desert were stained by the sunrise.

  I love this land. Love its mystery, its coppery light, its incredible history.

  He sat cross-legged on a huge boulder, breathing slowly. At dawn, the Dead Sea valley, at more than thirteen hundred feet below sea level, was tranquil. A desolate landscape, but strangely it was where Jack felt closest to God. Not that he was deeply religious. More spiritual.

  As his father used to put it, sometimes religion is for those who are afraid to go to hell, but spirituality is for those who have been there.

  Except here in the Holy Land, it seemed easier to understand belief. History was like a scent in the air. You breathed it every time you sucked in a lungful. Here was the land of Abraham and Jacob, and where Christ was born, the sky he slept under, the soil he was crucified upon. To the north lay Jericho. And twenty miles behind him, to the west, Jerusalem’s gilded temple.

  Jack heard a clatter of stones and turned, seeing Yasmin Green’s figure moving up the slope from down in the camp, her long blond hair tinted by the amber rays. He was pretty sure every man on the dig had been having the same fantasies about Yasmin Green since she had joined the excavation two months ago. She saw him, waved, and called out, “Hi, Jack!”

  He waved back, his heart beating a little faster, and waited for her to join him.

  She reached the top and sat next to him on the boulder, curling her bronzed legs. She carried two cans of Heineken and handed Jack one. “The last two. I thought you might like to join me in one final nightcap?”

  “I guess I may as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.”

  She giggled. “I know I told Uncle Donald to rest but I couldn’t get to sleep. You?”

  Jack
took a swig of the chilled Heineken. “I’m still on a high since our discovery. I wanted to take a little exercise to help me unwind.”

  “Me too. You seem miles away. What are you thinking about, Jack?”

  “Honest?” He looked out at the view. “Twenty years ago when I was nineteen my father worked on a dig not far from here, and I sometimes sat on a hill much like this, with a pretty girl by my side. Her name was Lela Raul.” Jack nodded toward the horizon. “She used to live in an Israeli settlement, over there. Her father was a local police sergeant.”

  “Do you know what became of her?”

  “It was a long time ago, Yasmin. But the last I heard she was a cop, like her father, though they’re long gone from the settlement.”

  “I heard you went to visit the place where your parents died. Is that what got you thinking about the past?”

  “Probably.”

  Yasmin put down her beer, touched his arm a moment. “Your friend Buddy’s always spoken very highly of your parents. And my uncle Donald does too. You must miss them?”

  “There were only the three of us. I guess we were extremely close.”

  Yasmin bit her lip and her lipstick glistened. “I saw you come up here and thought I’d join you. I hope you don’t mind. Or maybe I’m intruding on your thoughts?”

  Mind? The sight of her only added to Jack’s elation. He could smell her subtle perfume. He glanced at her exquisite skin, golden in the dawn light. She was one of the few women on the dig who bothered with her appearance. Two of the females on the excavation were Orthodox Jews and wore long, modest dresses while digging.

  The other women, students and college grads of various nationalities, none of them afraid of wielding a shovel, forgot about makeup and wore loose clothes and scruffy old work boots. But somehow Yasmin always managed to look good even after they had spent the day cave-crawling and scooping dirt out with gufas, homemade rubber buckets made out of half tires. She was a magnet for men’s attention.

  Jack said, “To tell the truth, I’m glad to have the company.”

  “Has Donald finally gone to bed?”

  “I hope so. But he was still up when I left him.”

  Yasmin smiled, put a hand out, and touched his arm. “You must be thrilled. Donald said that for centuries archaeologists have been searching for concrete proof of Christ’s life, with no success. He said that’s why Christians placed great significance on things like the Turin Shroud and relics from the cross. But he’s got a gut feeling that the scroll may turn out to be a groundbreaking historical document. How do you feel?”

  Jack was aware that her hand lingered on his arm. “As if all my lottery numbers have come up.”

  Yasmin reached into her pocket, took out a wristband made of leather and polished steel, holding it in her palm. “I hope this doesn’t seem too juvenile, but this is for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Something silly I bought in a Jerusalem market. They inscribe them to order. Read what it says.”

  In the dawn light, Jack could just make out the wristband’s indented letters: ARCHAEOLOGY ROCKS. He put down his beer, slipped the band on his wrist, and smiled. “It’ll remind me of you. Thanks, Yasmin.”

  She patted his arm playfully. “Hey, I’m not playing the dig groupie just because you’re the man of the moment. But I wanted to say that I think you deserve whatever fame and lecture tours come your way after this.” She leaned across and kissed him on the cheek. “I really mean that. You work so hard.”

  Jack put a hand to his face, felt the ghost of her lips. “Now I really do feel like I’ve won the lottery.”

  Yasmin giggled and brushed a strand of hair from her face.

  Jack thought, She’s over ten years younger than me. Or does it really matter? He wanted her to kiss him again and knew it wasn’t just the alcohol. There had been women over the years, some that mattered, and some that didn’t. None of them yet the right one. He didn’t honestly know if Yasmin Green could ever be that, but he had been a long time without female company, and he hungered for the softness of a woman’s touch. But then a thought struck him.

  “You’ve gone very quiet. Are you okay?” Yasmin asked.

  “Did Buddy Savage put you up to this? The dawn visit. The kiss.”

  “Buddy? Why on earth would you say that?”

  “He’s a prankster. Sometimes he’ll dare people to do things for a joke. Once in a Mexican bar during a Mayan dig he got me drunk and tried to shave off my eyebrows.”

  She laughed. “You and Buddy are close?”

  “At times he sounds like he’s my old man. That’s when I call him Pops.”

  She reached out and took his hand between her palms. Then she bit her lip and said quietly, “No one put me up to it, Jack. I can prove it.”

  She leaned in close and kissed him on the mouth. Jack felt the sensual press of her lips. His pulse raced, and then Yasmin drew away, smiling. “Convinced now? I like you, Jack Cane. If that’s okay with you.”

  “Can I be honest? I sensed something between us in your uncle’s tent. When I left, I was hoping you’d still be awake, that we’d meet and talk. But Donald seems a little overprotective.”

  Yasmin traced a finger across his lips, kissed his mouth softly, her voice husky. “Who cares about Donald?” Yasmin picked up the Heineken cans, stood, and winked at him. “You’ve made a tired girl very happy, Mr. Cane. But it’s time we both slept.”

  Jack rose to his feet. “Will you tuck me in, or is that asking too much on a first date?”

  “You just never know your luck. Watch your step on the way down.”

  Jack felt her soft, slim fingers mesh with his and it felt good. He dusted his Chinos but before he started down the slope after Yasmin he suddenly saw Josuf, the chief Bedouin digger, scrambling up the rocks, clutching the hem of his gown. “Mr. Cane, Mr. Cane—I have been looking everywhere for you.”

  Jack and Yasmin waited until Josuf reached them.

  The man’s cheeks were puff ed after the climb, his chest heaving. “Please—Mr. Cane, you both must come with me. Something terrible has happened.”

  The Bedouin went to clutch at his arm to drag him, but Jack said, “Calm down, Josuf. What the heck’s so important?”

  Josuf’s words came tumbling. “It’s Professor Green, Mr. Cane. He’s been murdered and the scroll is gone.”

  PART THREE

  11

  QUMRAN

  ISRAEL

  THE BELL HELICOPTER with Israeli police markings descended with a swirl of dust as it came in to land.

  As the swish of the blades died, Inspector Lela Raul climbed out of the passenger seat. She was in her late thirties with chocolate brown eyes, her dark hair tied back in a ponytail.

  She noticed a group of journalists gathered nearby, a couple of TV camera crews among them, all of them being herded back by the police.

  Three police Fords were parked a short distance away and half a dozen officers from the local police station stood around, chatting and smoking cigarettes. Lela Raul walked toward them, slipping on a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses. A herd of Bedu goats grazed on a distant slope and all around her were parched cliffs and craggy hills.

  A second later an Israeli Air Force F-18 screamed up the valley, then shot skyward and climbed like a bullet, sending out a shock wave followed by a massive clap of thunder. It scattered the distant goats and echoed through the surrounding Dead Sea cliffs. Air patrols were common this close to the Jordanian border.

  Lela looked back toward the journalists and camera crews. She saw that one of the policemen talking with them was a plump sergeant with a beer gut. He had a pencil clenched between his teeth and a notebook in his hand. He peeled away from the crowd, took the pencil from his mouth, and tipped his cap respectfully. “Inspector Raul, thanks for coming.”

  “Sergeant Mosberg. I see the media jackals are already picking over the carcass.”

  Mosberg smiled. “Bad news is always good news for some. There’s a
lot of interest, even a few foreign correspondents drove out from Jerusalem. Murder and archaeology don’t often go together, I guess. The body’s over there, in the nearest tent.”

  A hundred yards across the landscape, Lela saw a collection of canvas walk-in tents. Two policemen stood guard outside the nearest. Off to the right, two SUVs and a blue Opel passenger van were parked beside a pair of temporary portable cabin buildings and toilets, a row of shovels and picks stacked against one of the walls. Lela saw a group of civilians of mixed ages standing outside one of the cabins, watching her arrival.

  Mosberg said, “In case you’re wondering, they’re all part of the archaeological team. You probably know our forensic pathologist, Yad Hershel. He’s almost finished his examination. Are you familiar with this area, Inspector?”

  Lela nodded. “I think you could say that. I lived in a nearby kibbutz and grew up trudging these hills. Tell me about the victim.”

  “Your chief didn’t tell you?”

  “Most of it, but I want to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

  Mosberg took a pipe from his pocket. He cupped his hands, lit the pipe with a cheap plastic lighter, and took a couple of puff s. “The stiff’s an American professor named Donald Green. He was the director in charge of this archaeological dig.”

  Lela followed the sergeant as he walked toward the tents. “How did he die?”

  “A little before six A.M. he was found with a knife buried in his chest.”

  Lela asked, “Anyone’s knife in particular?”

  “Turns out it belonged to one of his fellow crew, an American named Jack Cane. He claims he loaned it to Green when the professor was examining an artifact that Cane discovered.”

  Lela raised her eyes. “What kind of artifact?”

  Mosberg pointed across the valley. “He found a leather scroll contained in a clay vase right over there, near the bottom of the cliffs, to the south of the dig location known as Area A. Qumran is sectioned into areas. The campsite is in Area B3, for example.”