The Seven Stars

by Simon Leighton-Porter

  ‘But what if somebody spots me in New York?’

  ‘They won’t. They probably won’t even come looking – this is just a precaution.’

  ‘I’m not sure whether I should feel happier now,’ she said.

  ‘Listen, when we get to New York, unless I say otherwise, stay in the background and duck if anyone points a camera at you: good practice for guns.’ Flora scowled and made no reply.

  The FBI accommodation at Quantico was basic and functional – liveable but not the Marriott, she thought as she unpacked for the second time in two days. Later she decided to go for a walk but on strolling out through the reception area, her eye was caught by the headline of the Washington Post. “Evangelicals claim fresh evidence on New Testament”. Underneath was a photograph of a beaming Donald Sumter holding aloft a piece of paper. According to the caption, it was a copy of an early first-century parchment fragment. The article went on to cover Sumter’s claims that it was but one of many, recently translated by the team at William Sunday University and which “proved beyond doubt”, as Sumter put it, that the New Testament, was founded in documented fact.

  The article repeated the same line she’d seen him give on the TV show, but as she read on her mouth fell open in disbelief at his claims of having single-handedly saved much of the document hoard found at Pompeii for posterity. He alone had possessed the foresight to photograph many of the fragments subsequently stolen during the raid. Flora snorted with disgust: you kept that one to yourself, didn’t you, Donald? she fumed. Typical bloody Sumter, just the kind of thing he’d do. On the inside pages was a feature on the Professor, describing him as the Republican Party’s favourite evangelist. Challenged – relatively gently – by the interviewer over his failure to condemn the recent spate of threats and attacks aimed at pro-choice groups, stem-cell research labs and doctors who carried out abortions, his response took the form of a counter-attack against Roe v Wade and the “baby-killers in our midst”, as he called them, with just enough criticism of the recent murder of two doctors in Michigan to keep himself onside.

  Midtown Manhattan

  The New York salerooms of Christie’s are in the Rockefeller Center and Flora sat in the back row watching in fascination. The first lots under the hammer were figurines and pottery from Asia Minor. Cohen, in his guise as Benjamin Grossman, made sure everyone knew he was there by bidding enthusiastically and helping the price along but then, with an uncanny knack, dropping out just three rounds short of the sale price. Later, he made successful bids for papyrus and parchment fragments preserved in air-tight glass blocks and for a series of Akkadian clay tablets inscribed with cuneiform script.

  Just after twelve thirty they took a break and Cohen led the way, turning into East 50th Street, weaving his way through the lunchtime crowds with Flora struggling to keep up. He checked, halted by a bump with another hurrying New Yorker. Both men apologised and moved on. Flora caught a glimpse of the other man – small, wiry, with close-set features and dark, slicked-down hair – just another face in the crowd, and she wove her way through a gaggle of tourists, finally reaching Cohen’s side. ‘In here,’ he said, showing her through a nondescript doorway and up a flight of steps. ‘Best food in Midtown.’

  They ordered and settled down to discuss the lots that had gone under the hammer during the morning session and also the phenomenon that was Donald Sumter. According to Cohen, the Professor had also made the New York Times. ‘Seen anyone of interest in the sale room, Ben?’ asked Flora, eager to change the subject.

  ‘Not so far, and I don’t really expect to. And hey,’ he said, adopting his Israeli accent once more, ‘don’t be getting so familiar: it’s Mr Grossman, Lavinia, and don’t you forget it.’

  ‘Whoops,’ she said. ‘Sorry about that.’

  He smiled and reverted to his normal way of speaking. ‘In here it’s not a problem, but I don’t want you letting it slip when we get back to the sale. And coming back to your original question, I’d be very surprised if I recognised anyone here; I’m hoping people will start to recognise me –’ He paused, distracted by his cell phone announcing the receipt of a new text message and put his hand inside his jacket pocket to silence it. ‘What the fuck - ?’

  Flora looked up, ‘What’s happened? Bad news?’

  ‘I dunno,’ Cohen replied, pulling a folded piece of notepaper from the same pocket. He read the handwritten message and handed it across the table to Flora. ‘Looks like things have started moving already. This just turned up in my pocket.’ She read: “I see you’re a buyer. I’m selling. Call me.” Underneath was a telephone number. ‘It’ll be a prepaid cell-phone,’ he said. ‘Dollar to a dime when I call it’ll bounce to voicemail. Let’s give it a go.’ Cohen dialled the number. ‘Yeah, hi, this is Grossman. I’m interested. Call me at this number.’ He rang off and turned once more to Flora. ‘Did you get a look at the guy I bumped into just before we got here?’

  ‘Sorry, no.’

  He held up the piece of paper between forefinger and thumb. ‘Well, whoever he was, he’s a damn good pickpocket to pass me this without my noticing.

  ‘So now what happens?’ she asked.

  ‘I call in the number to my colleagues in DC, just in case it’s known, then I wait for a call-back, we’ll set up a meet and take it from there.’

  From opposite him came a sharp intake of breath. ‘Does that “we” include me?’

  ‘Yup, I’ll need you to validate anything they bring along. But don’t worry,’ he said. ‘We’ll have company.’

  Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn

  Raymond picked up his cell phone and dialled Irvine’s number. As expected, the call diverted to voicemail. ‘Hi, this is Raymond, we met a while back and I think you should get in touch with me. I know you prefer to write but this is urgent: I have another customer, an Israeli gentleman by the name of Grossman – I assume you know the name. My offer of first refusal still stands but if you’re not interested, please let me know and I’ll take my business elsewhere. A very good day to you, sir.’

  ‘Think it’ll work?’ asked Luzzo. ‘What if Grossman’s not interested? What if he goes to the police?’

  ‘Don’t panic. He won’t go anywhere. After all, Grossman left you a voicemail, didn’t he?’ said Raymond, lighting a cigarette. ‘So long as he offers enough to cover our losses, we can wave goodbye to Irvine and the Alabama Rednecks and get on with our lives. I’ve had enough of their bullshit.’

  ‘You want I should talk to anyone back home about this?’

  ‘No. They’ll only get excited and start shooting at people. That’s not how I operate. Just set up the meet.’

  ‘Where? D’you wanna use the offices again?’

  Raymond thought for a moment. ‘Yeah, why not? Just in case friend Grossman isn’t legit. It’ll be safer.’

  Midtown Manhattan

  During the afternoon session Benjamin Grossman put in bids for four more lots, buying a set of Assyrian cylinder seals carved from lapis lazuli. Flora stuck to her briefing and kept to the back of the room, making sure she wasn’t photographed. Grossman, although networking and handshaking as though his life depended on it also managed to keep his face out of shot.

  They’d barely arrived back at their hotel when the call came. The screen on Cohen’s cell phone showed “number withheld” and he made a great show of tracking down something to write on, then more time was lost while he searched for a pen that would work, all in the hope that his colleagues in the technical division were triangulating the caller’s location. ‘Look, if you’re going to waste my time, you can forget it,’ said Raymond after yet another pen was dismissed as useless.

  ‘No, it’s OK,’ replied the heavily-accented voice. ‘I got a pencil now. Let’s meet at my hotel…you don’t want that? OK, where do you want to meet?’ Cohen jotted down the address on the East Side: it was walking distance from the hotel. ‘No, I’m busy tomorrow. How about Friday?’ They bickered over the date and finally Cohen yielded. ‘Yeah, OK, h
ave it your way, ten AM tomorrow if we have to. What are you selling?’

  ‘First century stuff. Latin, Aramaic and Greek manuscripts plus a few Coptic pieces. Rock-solid provenance: been in the same Syrian family for years.’

  ‘Family provenance ain’t worth ass-paper. I want my assistant to verify it,’ replied Cohen.

  ‘Your assistant you say? Hold on,’ Raymond muted the call and spoke to Luzzo. ‘I thought you said he was on his own?’

  Luzzo shrugged. ‘He is so far as I know.’

  ‘Says he wants to bring his “assistant” to verify the goods. I don’t like the sound of it.’

  ‘A cop?’ asked Luzzo, a worried frown on his face.

  ‘Could be. Wait a second.’ Raymond unmuted and continued. ‘Mr Grossman, I had assumed any meetings would be one-to-one: a third party adds an… an increased level of risk. As a fellow private collector, I’m sure you realise that…how shall I put this, “misunderstandings” can occur and false accusations of all sorts can lead to tiresome conversations with the authorities. Conversations I’m sure neither of us has time for –’

  ‘Now just you wait,’ interrupted Cohen. ‘First, I don’t even know your name and second I don’t like people suggesting my assistant is a cop or that I’m setting you up. Benzona, screw you, I’ll take my business someplace else –’

  ‘No, don’t hang up, Mr Grossman, please. It was rude of me not to introduce myself: my name is Raymond and I can assure you I had no intention of insulting either you or your assistant. If you could just let me know his name so I can tell reception to expect you both –’

  ‘Her name: he’s a she. Miss Lavinia Crump of the University of Bologna if you want to check her out. And anyone less like a cop, well, you’ll see when you meet her.’ Cohen laughed out loud at the thought and then jotted down a few last details before the conversation ended. ‘Bingo,’ he said, smiling at Flora who tried without success to smile back. ‘We’ve found Raymond. Ten o’clock tomorrow and it’s only a couple of blocks from here. Everything I say on this phone is recorded and now all we have to do is hope like hell we can talk my supervisor into organising a backup team for the arrest at short notice.’

  ‘Couldn’t you delay it?’ Flora asked.

  ‘You heard,’ he said. ‘I tried. This Raymond guy knows what he’s doing. He figures that if I’m a cop I won’t have time to put together a sting in under twenty four hours and he won’t meet in a public place which isn’t a good sign either.’

  ‘Can you put a team together in time?’ she asked, her hand trembling as she put her glass down on the bar.

  ‘They’ll push back on budget but I’ll give it my best shot. I feel happier having back-up just in case things go wrong.’

  ‘You don’t think they will go wrong, do you?’

  ‘Not a chance. These guys are fences, middle-men, house cats. You’ll be fine.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked, hoping he’d say something like “stay in the bar until I come back”.

  ‘The next task for this evening is for you to take a look at some mug-shots to see if you recognise the guy who bumped me today. Let me take a shower and get the laptop set up and I’ll give you a call.’

  William Sunday University, Alabama

  Donald Sumter strode down the corridor of William Sunday University’s administrative block; head down, brows knitted, he made the perfect caricature of a rhino who has just spotted a particularly annoying Land Rover for the third time that day.

  Without breaking stride he pushed open the door to Irvine’s office and stormed in, slamming it behind him. ‘Do come in, Donald,’ said Irvine, looking up from behind his immaculately tidy desk. ‘My door is always open so there’s no need to knock.’

  Sumter ignored him and threw himself down into one of the armchairs in Irvine’s book-lined study. ‘We’ve got a problem. Morley.’

  ‘Who’s Morley?’.

  ‘The Reverend Morley. Remember?’

  Irvine scratched his head. ‘Vaguely. Remind me.’

  Sumter rolled his eyes. ‘The handover at the church. The shooting. He’s the pastor. Remember?’ Irvine’s icy calm was starting to grate on his nerves. ‘This is important, Andrew. Please look at me when I’m talking to you.’

  With a sigh, Irvine took off his glasses. ‘Go on, Donald, get it off your chest. I’m listening.’

  Sumter ground his teeth. ‘The wretched man’s just spent the last hour in my office telling me about the terrible sin he’s committed in not telling the police the truth about what he saw.’

  Irvine sat bolt upright, the mask of indifference gone. ‘Donald, if there’s even a hint of scandal, the campaign’s finished. We’ve taken enough risks already. If the police start nosing around again… well it doesn’t even bear thinking about.’

  ‘He’s seen Raymond and his people face-to-face: if he picks them out of a police line-up, then what? He knows about the shooting. Now you understand why I say there’s a problem.’ Sumter thumped the arm of the chair, sending up a cloud of dust.

  ‘Yes I do and the solution’s simple. I take it you tried to reason with him?’

  Sumter waved his arms in a gesture of exasperation. ‘Of course I did. He’s going to think about it over the weekend and come and see me on Monday.’

  ‘Good, that at least gives us time,’ said Irvine.

  ‘Time for what?’

  ‘Leave it with me. You don’t need to know – quod non videt oculus, cor non dolet.’ What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over.

  ‘Andrew, too many people have been harmed already. This has to stop,’ said Sumter.

  ‘Thank you, Donald, for the lesson in morality,’ he replied. ‘Don’t you worry, neither you nor I will be required to break the sixth commandment. Just let me handle it.’

  Sumter sniffed condescendingly. ‘And what about this wretched Israelite that your friend Raymond mentioned? Grossman, isn’t it? What if he offers a better price?’

  ‘Let me talk to Raymond again. If he’s willing to be reasonable then Mr Grossman can huff and puff all the way back to Israel for all we care.’

  Sumter made a snort. ‘Raymond hasn’t been very reasonable so far. What if he digs his heels in?’

  ‘Then,’ said Irvine, ‘we make Mr Grossman go away. And not back to Israel either. We’ve got too much riding on this to let Jews, atheists and backsliders stand in the way of the Lord’s will.’

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Judea AD 65

  The voyage from Ostia along the coast of the eastern Mediterranean was tedious and punctuated by frequent stops to caulk a series of leaks in the Demeter’s aging timbers. As days turned into interminable weeks under a baking sun and capricious winds, determined, or so it seemed, to prevent the ship ever reaching Herod’s great port at Caesarea, so Josephus’ anger and sense of injustice festered. Aware that Nero’s support could never be taken for granted and that their mutual hatred of the Chrestos cult came from entirely different motivations, Josephus fumed at the irony of the emperor’s own superstitions causing this sudden unwillingness to confront another far more dangerous one. Five of the Seven Stars were still at liberty and the cult was spreading like a cancer.

  So much for Roman rationality, he thought, watching the Demeter’s sail as it flopped in the barely perceptible air currents. Without oars, all they could do was wait and then wait some more. Somewhere to the east and lost in the haze lay the city of Ephesus.

  On arrival in Caesarea Josephus found a city in chaos. In the taverns and the markets, truth mingled with half-truth and half-truth with rumour making it impossible for the traveller to know what to believe. Some blamed bandits while others spoke of fanatical sicarii behind every rock, waiting to pounce on the unwary, but more general consensus blamed first the Greeks and second the Romans for not keeping the Greeks in order. Whoever was to blame, tales of entire caravans disappearing without trace and of individual travellers meeting gruesome ends were enough to convince him no
t to risk the overland voyage across Samaria to Jerusalem but to continue by sea down the coast to Joppa.

  Things were little better in Jerusalem. Tension between Jews and Greeks simmered just below boiling point, no thanks to a disinterested and undermanned garrison of third-rate Roman infantry. All his family could talk about, once the initial excitement of reunion died down, was the “fourth sect” or Zealots as they styled themselves. So far as Josephus could make out, the Zealots were nothing more than a bunch of young idiots whose religious fervour was being manipulated by their leader, Judas of Galilee, into a murderous cult that used the sicarii as its shock troops.

  Word of his return spread quickly among Jerusalem’s aristocratic families and everywhere he went Josephus was feted as a returning warrior prince. At first, he took pains to play down his achievements, crediting his success to the hand of the God and the help of others, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, he grew into the role, basking in the adulation, which, after a while, he convinced himself he did perhaps deserve after all. The source of these stories – tales which grew more fantastic with each telling – turned out to be Giora and when finally they met, for the first time since he’d left Rome, Josephus was overcome with delight at seeing his old friend.

  As they walked in the cool of the evening along the walls of the city, Josephus told him of his expulsion from Rome and his fears that the current turmoil in Jerusalem would prevent him finding the remaining five apostles as they now called themselves.

  Giora heard him out. ‘Well, you’ve two less to worry about.’

  Josephus’ face lit up. ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘Yehudas and Simon Kananaios. I’ll spare you the details, but the new governor of Colonia Berytus is a friend of my father’s. I take it you got my letter?’

  ‘I did: seems they were causing even more trouble than I’d feared.’