Mortlock leapt to his feet again, provoking a chorus of tutting from the other members. ‘Andrew, we weren’t born yesterday. Do you really expect us to believe that a fragment from a hoard stolen in Italy just happened to turn up on William Sunday University’s doorstep by chance? Go tell it to the Marines.’
Irvine turned his attention away from the sleeve of his shirt and fixed Mortlock with an icy blue gaze. ‘I’ll say it again for those of you who haven’t been paying attention for the last hour. Professor Sumter was present in Pompeii at the invitation of the Italian authorities, working on a priceless body of previously unknown first-century document fragments when the robbery happened. Somehow, and I’m hoping we’ll find out how very soon, these young men were able to obtain some of the pages from the thieves. I can only assume money changed hands – maybe bad things were done with good intentions, who knows?’ He raised his hand once more in response to a volley of questions. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for questions later, so please let me finish. Now, I’ve shown you copies of the digital photographs the Professor managed to take before the theft; sadly, he was only able to record a fraction of what’s now been lost, but its significance is beyond description.’
The representative of the Kentucky United Evangelist Congress raised his hand to speak. ‘But, Doctor Irvine, the Reverend Mortlock has a good point. The good name of this college, and by association the entire evangelical movement, has been dragged through the mud by the media.’ More nodding of grey heads. ‘Like it or not, these two students of yours have gotten us connected with the theft in Italy and the media have already found us guilty by association. What do you propose to do?’
‘Why, to turn it to our advantage of course.’ Irvine’s words set off another buzz of conversation. His smile brimmed with self-satisfaction. ‘We show Christian penitence for having missed the completely unsuitable nature of the two young men responsible and we use our new-found position in the media spotlight to escalate the battle against those who seek to undermine the truth of the Gospels. We’re going to take the fight to them and we’re going to win.’
A snort of derision came from the far end of the table. ‘So how’s that gonna work? Are you telling us two of your students went off the rails, got everyone here involved with receiving stolen goods and now you’re going to try and spin your way out of it?’ asked an octogenarian pastor, his voice barely audible above the general hubbub.
The same smile; this time edged with steel. ‘There’s no need for spin as you put it, sir. It was only as he began the arduous work of deciphering and translating the texts, that Professor Sumter realised the importance of what he’d found. For reasons I’m sure you’ll all understand, not least of which are the robberies from Pompeii and also from this very university, the Professor decided to keep the knowledge of the finds confined to a small group of people, including the two students who were helping him translate and catalogue them. It appears that the zeal of youth over-rode common sense and somehow they made contact with the criminals in a misguided quest to retrieve the rest of the finds.’
The piping voice cut across the muttering that broke out when Irvine stopped talking. ‘That’s all well and good, boy, but you still ain’t answered my question.’
Irvine had to shout to make himself heard. ‘Gentlemen, if you please. You asked me how this works, sir, and I’ll explain everything, but right now – and I make no excuses for repeating this – you must understand that we are under attack, gentlemen. This is war, make no mistake. The forces of Satan have rallied against us before and this time their weapons are bogus science and silver-tongued tricksters well versed in misusing the media – the Christian church has beaten worse foes than this before and in answer to your question, we make it work by turning their own arms against them.’
The old pastor shook his grey locks. ‘Well, that sure sounds good, son, but how will I know the elephant when I see it?’
Irvine smiled, waiting just long enough for the tension to build before replying. ‘Evidence. I’m from Missouri, so show me. Understand?’
‘Nope, not a darn word,’ drawled the veteran, turning up his hearing aid and causing it to emit a high-pitched squeal. ‘We’re simple folk in my part of Georgia, son: the flag, this great country of ours and the King James Bible; outside o’ that, we’re inclined to struggle.’
Irvine levered his angular frame out of the chair and began to pace the oak boards of the refectory. He turned once more to confront the expectant faces looking up at him. ‘In this modern, secular world, the need for evidence – tangible, laboratory-tested, repeatable proof – has elbowed faith aside but now we get to play them at their own game.’ He paused, his taut features lit as though by an inner radiance. ‘What I am about to tell you is nothing short of earth-shattering.’ He stopped once more: perfect silence, the assembled clergymen scarcely daring to breathe. ‘Thanks to the documents that Professor Sumter was able to photograph, we can now validate the existence of a cannon of early Christian writing that proves beyond any doubt that the New Testament represents a true, eye-witness account of our Saviour’s life and works. Clear, irrefutable proof that our faith is based in solid, verifiable reality and not, as some would have the gullible believe, on the few scraps that science hasn’t gotten around to working out yet.’
Irvine’s voice was drowned out by an excited buzz of chatter. ‘And what’s so wrong with faith?’ called out a cadaverous individual whose plucked-chicken neck would have fitted five times over into his ecclesiastical collar.
‘Nothing,’ replied Irvine, turning to face the questioner. ‘It’s what’s sustained us for the last two thousand years. But we’ve all heard it, haven’t we? “Faith in something that’s not there” – that’s what our detractors say of us. But we know they’re wrong – hey, the President said so himself on TV not ten days ago – only now we have the means to prove it and at the same time show them we have something they don’t; the one thing they always demand: tangible evidence.’
‘What if Sumter’s wrong?’ asked the representative of the Florida Baptist Union in tones that left his opinion of the great man in no doubt.
‘Professor Sumter, if you please, Henry,’ said Irvine, bringing up a new series of images on the projector screen. ‘He isn’t wrong. These are photographs he took of the documents at Pompeii before they were stolen.’ Heads nodded around the table in approval. ‘Probably like me, you don’t know Aramaic or ancient Greek well enough to understand them, but when his work is complete and the findings published, we’ll have unshakeable evidence that Titus Flavius Josephus was in possession of writings that prove the Saviour’s divinity beyond any shadow of a doubt.’ He paused for effect, nodding gravely as he paced in front of the raised dais. ‘The prophecies are coming true, gentlemen, and I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that we may be nearing the End of Days.’ A chorus of “amen to that” rippled around the assembly.
‘Let’s see ’em argue with that,’ shouted Mortlock, banging a bony fist on the table in delight. ‘When do we let ’em have it?’
‘All in good time,’ replied Irvine with a half-smile. ‘We’ve waited two thousand years for this after all. Even if the authorities don’t recover the remaining documents, Professor Sumter is confident that we’ll soon have sufficient material to go ahead with a full disclosure of the facts.’
‘What about The Seven Stars?’ shouted Florida, struggling to make himself heard above the din of whooping and back-slapping.
Irvine returned him a knowing look, confident now that the group was under his spell. He called for quiet and waited, hands clasped behind his back, for complete silence. ‘For those of you who didn’t catch that, our brother in Christ from the State of Florida has raised the question of The Seven Stars. You’ll be pleased to know that Professor Sumter has news for us there too. It appears that a work of that name was indeed written by Titus Flavius Josephus, who, as you know, was no friend of our Saviour nor of his apostles.’ He stopped pacing and wa
gged an admonitory finger in the air as though trying to scold the Judean from down the years. ‘A Jew,’ he spat, leaving his listeners in no doubt of what that meant. ‘A man, remember, who by his own admission was a turncoat, a liar, a traitor to his own people and who did his utmost to suppress the truth of the Messiah’s life and resurrection.’
By the end of his tirade, his audience’s reaction to Josephus’ name was like the greeting accorded to a pantomime villain. Waiting once more for them to quieten down, he continued. ‘Professor Sumter believes that Josephus may have begun work on The Seven Stars in response to writings subsequently found in the remains of his villa at Pompeii, the very writings that prove the truth of the New Testament. So ashamed was he of what he was doing, Josephus decided to write most of it in a code of his own devising – many later versions exist and these mis-transcribed copies are what we all know as “The Devil’s Codex” – but thanks to the work done at this very university, we are now able to read some of it and we’ll shortly be showing the unbelievers that it was nothing more than self-justifying cant from a bitter man who felt he’d been denied his true status in life.’
‘So what are we supposed to do?’ asked sceptical Florida. ‘Keep this stuff quiet or go tell our parishioners?’
‘Every journey starts with a single step,’ replied Irvine, basking in Sumter’s reflected limelight. ‘And that single step will start with each one of you. The Professor would prefer you to wait for now – there’s nothing to be gained by rushing. But once he gives the signal, word of mouth borne on the wings of prayer will have the media beating a path to your doors.’ He nodded to the small group of TV evangelists sitting just to his right; sleek, contented creatures with capped, whitened teeth and expensive hair implants. ‘And you, gentlemen, will be key to our success.’ Four well-practised smiles shone back at him in response. ‘What’s more,’ he added. ‘I’m sure that success will be amply rewarded in this world as well as the next.’
‘Amen to that,’ they chorused in return.
Irvine looked around the room with satisfaction: nothing succeeds like telling people what they want to hear.
From his vantage point behind a half-open fire door Donald Sumter had heard every word. Just a few loose ends to tie up and then they could begin.
***
Pompeii
‘So where is she?’
Moretti looked across the table at his dinner companions – two short, heavily-built men of indeterminate age, their faces wrecked by a diet of cigarettes and alcohol. One was almost entirely bald and his pate shone under the stark light of the bare neon tubes overhead. The other, as if in deliberate contrast, sported a full head of jet black hair, combed straight back from a heavily-lined forehead in an Elvis quiff. The last of the diners had gone home and the owner of the restaurant began piling chairs onto tables but making sure to keep well away from the trio.
‘She told me she was going to stay another couple of nights in Rome and then come back here,’ said Moretti.
‘One of you is lying,’ said Elvis. ‘How about you tell us who it is?’
Moretti looked at them pleadingly. ‘I’m telling you the truth, that’s all I know.’
Elvis shook his head and smiled in the same way a crocodile might smile at its next meal. ‘Then how do you explain that she checked out of the hotel but hasn’t been seen at the airport? We’ve got people watching Fiumicino and Ciampino and they’d have seen her for sure. You sure she didn’t tell you where she was going and why?’
‘Yes, Rome. No, London… I mean, that was after she’d come back here… she didn’t say why…. Look I’ve told you all I know.’ Flustered, he put his head in his hands and tried to think.
‘Francesco, be calm,’ said the bald one, reaching out a bear-like paw and resting it just a little too heavily on his shoulder. ‘We want to help you. You want to be with Anna, so we know you’ll help us. We’re not asking you to break any laws.’
A bit late for that, thought Moretti, racking his brains for an excuse to change the subject. ‘Someone from the police collected her things from the Hotel Sorrento so we know she’s not coming back here,’ Elvis said.
‘So why are the TPC taking so long to question her and why Rome rather than here or Naples? Come on, Francesco, what story does she have that takes three days to tell? What does she know that you don’t?’
‘How the hell am I supposed to know? I’m not a mind-reader!’ shouted Moretti.
‘Shh, not so loud,’ said Elvis with a smile that was half-way to an unpleasant leer. ‘You’ll upset the other clients.’ Moretti assumed this was the nearest the man ever got to a joke and glanced over at the owner who abruptly looked away, busying himself with his broom, studiously rearranging the dust in between the cigarette burns on the cheap laminate flooring.
‘OK,’ said Elvis. ‘Let’s try again. When Lombardi was questioning you two, what did he ask, what was his angle?’
Moretti shook his head, trying to show a casual indifference he was a long way from feeling. ‘He gave the impression they knew who robbed the dig and smashed up the lab, but he said they didn’t know why.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I said the robbery looked like a classic tombaroli job, but I couldn’t understand why anyone would destroy the lab and our entire IT system.’
‘And Kemble?’ asked Elvis. ‘What did she tell them that was so important that they took her to Rome and left you behind?’
Moretti thumped his elbows down onto the grimy plastic tablecloth and buried his forehead in his hands once more. ‘Look, I’ve told you a dozen times, she’s a palaeographer; an historian, a linguist, an expert on ancient languages and on the chemical and biological process of dating and validating documents. She’s one of the best in the world. That’s why I asked her to come and help: this find could’ve been globally important.’
‘But that still doesn’t explain why they’ve been keeping her for all this time in Rome.’
Moretti looked up, fixing Elvis straight in the eye. ‘Then why don’t you leave me the fuck alone and go and ask her yourself.’ He immediately cursed himself for saying it.
‘What an excellent suggestion,’ said the bald one, shooting a quick glance at Elvis. ‘Do you know where she works?’
Moretti half choked and took a deep breath, trying to maintain his crumbling facade of bored irritation. ‘Sure. Oxford University. Why?’ The look on the bald man’s face told him his worst fears were about to be realised. Please, God, no, not that. ‘And where does she live? Do you have an address?’
‘No, I’ve no idea where she lives,’ he lied, fighting back a wave of nausea at the thought of what could happen to him and possibly to Anna if these two caught him out in such a simple untruth.
‘Then I suggest you find out for us,’ said Elvis, all vestiges of humour gone from his voice. ‘Remember, your loyalty is to Anna and not to Flora Kemble. We just want to have a quiet word with her that’s all.’
Just like the “quiet word” you had with Greco before you slit his throat, thought Moretti.
The following day, the subject of their conversation, travelling on her own passport, checked in at Fiumicino for the 1145 BA flight to London. A queue of frustrated travellers streamed back from the only two security checkpoints which were manned. Just before her turn came she noticed two men standing on the departures side of the security barrier. The years fell away and her training kicked in: something in the way they looked at her wasn’t right. Flora was used to men giving her the once-over, but this was different – nothing she could describe, just different. Heart pounding, she swallowed hard and tried to remember Mike Hayek’s words about the presence of The Friends: nothing about these two looked at all friendly. She let her gaze rest on them just a fraction too long. One nodded to the other and the two men disappeared though a service door. This didn’t look right.
Mind racing, she considered an about-turn and a dash for the taxi rank but as she craned her neck, looking for t
he easiest route to safety without drawing attention to herself, she spotted the second pair. No doubt about it, no need for training where these two were concerned: they didn’t even look away when her eye caught theirs. She’d seen armed police on arrival in the booking hall so there should be others air-side: find one and stand next to him until the flight’s called, that’ll work, she thought.
Once through the detector arch the security guard gave her the all clear and she rushed over to the moving belt, fumbling with nerves, to gather up her belongings.
Flora glanced to her left, but to her horror there was no sign of them. Where the hell were they? With trembling hands she pulled at the zip of the laptop bag which refused to budge and so leaving it half open, bundled her things under one arm, planning her dash into what she hoped was the safety of the crowds in departures when she felt a hand grasp her arm. Spinning round in horror, she was about to scream for help when she did a double-take. Rather than the two men who’d been watching her, she saw what she could only think of later as an unmade bed. The man was over six feet tall and with such a huge pot belly that he seemed to be in imminent danger of falling over forwards. His hair stuck out from beneath an ancient straw hat in frizzy white clumps and his clothes, right down to the odd socks poking between the straps of his sandals, looked like the result of a bungled night-time raid on a charity shop. ‘Flora!’ he boomed, hugging her so tightly to his chest that she couldn’t breathe. Then, ‘Just pretend you know me from Oxford, I’m a friend of Giles Smith’s,’ he whispered. ‘How simply splendid,’ he said aloud. ‘What a lovely surprise.’
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