‘Well they won’t be causing any more,’ said Giora. ‘I went to Berytus in person and as luck would have it, the governor already knew all about what happened in Rome after the fire so he didn’t take much persuading that Nero would look favourably on their disappearance.’
‘So what did he do to them?’
‘Had them sawn in half in the arena.’ Josephus shuddered. ‘And no, and I didn’t stick around to watch, either,’ said Giora.
‘My family is forever in your debt, Giora,’ Josephus said. ‘Only three left to find, two if I’m honest because Didymus is in India from what I’ve heard. With any luck the barbarians will eat him. Philippos is somewhere in Anatolia and Matityahu seems to have disappeared altogether, I don’t even know if he’s still alive.’
‘What worries me is the mob,’ Giora said as they reached the towers guarding the Upper Gate.
‘What? In Rome?’
‘No. Here. Everything’s up in the air. Just look around you: the old order is held in contempt and every servant knows better than his master. The Zealots are killing anyone who opposes them and the Romans do nothing. It can’t end well.’
Josephus looked at the familiar western face of Herod’s Temple. To him, its marble flanks, glowing in the last rays of the sun spoke of permanence and of God’s covenant with his chosen people. ‘It’ll blow over. You’ll see. If the Romans so much as stamp their feet, all these vermin will go scuttling back down their holes faster than you can blink.’
‘I only hope you’re right,’ replied Giora.
Chapter Thirty-two
Manhattan, NY
Cohen swore and stuffed the cell-phone back into his pocket. ‘Assholes couldn’t get a fix on the phone. VOIP routed via a series of proxy servers. “Call us again in three weeks, we’re kinda busy”. I ask you. Fuck!’
Flora did her best to blank out the diatribe.
Cohen dialled again and within seconds of the conversation starting, Flora was treated to one side of a blazing row. ‘Well find them, for Christ’s sake,’ he yelled into the receiver. ‘I know it’s late but you’re not the one who’s gonna get his ass shot off if we don’t have cover. Call me back when you’ve got something.’ He stabbed at the disconnect button. ‘Assholes!’
‘Who’s going to get their arse shot off?’ Flora asked as soon as the shouting match was over.
‘It’s a figure of speech,’ he said, aiming a kick at the wall. I want the backup team in the offices on the same floor where we’re meeting Raymond, but those idiots can’t find anyone who works there to give us authority let alone a set of keys. None of the building’s facilities numbers are answering either.’
Without a sound, Flora’s patience snapped. She folded her arms and narrowed her eyes: anybody who knew her well could have told Cohen this wasn’t a good sign. ‘So, if I can summarise,’ she said calmly. ‘This has gone from a simple sting and arrest of a “minor player” as you called him to something requiring the seventh cavalry and all the king’s horses just in case we’re the ones walking into a trap –’
‘Flora, please, you don’t understand, I’m under a lot of pressure here.’
‘Ben,’ she said, raising her hand to silence him. ‘Ben, will you listen to me a second? I really think you should.’ Cohen stopped in mid-rant and took a nervous pace backwards as she walked towards him. ‘Sit down, shut up and listen to me,’ she said in that voice which Englishwomen normally reserve for recalcitrant children or badly-behaved Labradors. He obeyed straight away and she continued. ‘You want your back-up or whoever they are in the next office, correct?’
‘Correct.’
‘And you can’t find anyone to give you the keys?
‘That’s right.’
‘Do you have an address?’
‘Yes. Out in Hoboken,’ he replied, avoiding eye-contact.
‘So, Einstein, get the landline number.’ Cohen said something she didn’t catch. ‘Say that again!’ she shouted at him.
‘I said it’s an unlisted number. He’s not in the goddam phonebook,’ he shouted back.
‘God, you’re hopeless. Can you get a car or do we take a cab?’
‘I’ll get a car.’ He reached for his phone once more
‘Good. Now we’re getting somewhere,’ said Flora. ‘You show your badge, you take the keys, his staff get the day off and your supervisor can square things after the event. Alternatively, you can meet Raymond on your own and I can get the next flight back to London.’
The trip to get the keys took just under an hour.
‘What we just did was illegal. My supervisor will kill me for this,’ said Cohen as they drove back to the hotel.
‘I would have killed you far more painfully,’ said Flora staring straight ahead from the passenger seat.
He swallowed and then blurted out, ‘There is one more thing I forgot to mention.’
‘Go on, I’m listening.’
‘I’ll need you to wear a wire.’
‘Not on your nelly.’
‘What?’
‘It’s English for no.’
‘Look, Flora, there’s something you need to know.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘The people we’re meeting.’
‘What about them?’
‘How do I put this?’ said Cohen. ‘Without a definite on who we’re meeting then there’s a possibility they’re likely to be… well…’
‘They’re likely to be armed. Please, Ben, if you try and patronise me once more, I’m not joking, I will stop trying to help you. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, but –’
‘Not “yes but”. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Flora.’
‘Good. Now shut up and listen. You’re worried he thinks you’re police, right?’
‘Right.’
‘So he’s likely to search you. Therefore, you can’t carry a weapon and you can’t wear a wire. You’re meeting on his ground and at short notice, so you haven’t got time to put in cameras or microphones or whatever it is they do in the movies. Taken you for a bit of a mug, hasn’t he?’
‘I wouldn’t put it like that,’ replied Cohen.
‘Wouldn’t you? I bloody well would,’ she replied. ‘You want me to wear the wire because I can refuse to be searched.’
‘Something like that.’
‘What about your pistol?’
‘You said it yourself, Flora. I’ll have to go in unarmed. That’s why we need the back-up.’
‘And this famous back-up team, can they get across the room faster than the proverbial speeding bullet?’ she asked.
‘N-no, of course not.’
‘Well then if things get rough, they’ll be in time to find two dead bodies, won’t they? At least we’ll still be warm.’
They stopped at the next set of lights. ‘What are you saying?’ he asked.
‘I’m saying one of us needs to be armed.’
Cohen turned towards her, his jaw practically on the steering wheel. The lights went red and the cars behind started hooting. ‘You can’t,’ he said as they weaved away from the junction. ‘You’re a foreign national –’
‘I’m not foreign, I’m British.’
‘You know what I mean,’ he spluttered. ‘It’s just not allowed. I’d be breaking the law.’
‘I’d give it back to you afterwards,’ she replied. ‘Oh, and by the way, a short-barrelled .38 revolver should do the trick: none of that heavy artillery you people seem so attached to.’
He looked at her with a mixture of amazement and respect. As for Flora, her main concern was that she’d let him see too much of her training.
The alarm went at six thirty and Flora crawled her way unwillingly to the surface of the new day. Dressed once more as frumpy Lavinia she joined Cohen for breakfast. Choosing a table well away from the other early-risers he gave her an update.
‘And the weapon?’ she asked.
‘Got that too. But for God’s sake, if you have to use it, hand it to
me as soon as you can.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she replied. ‘I don’t want to go to jail.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t care less about you getting locked up,’ he said, laughing, treating her to a little of her own medicine. ‘It’s the paperwork I’m worried about.’
Uncomfortably aware of the transmitter pack digging into the small of her back and the tiny microphone rubbing against the skin of her neck at each movement, the previous night’s bravado was miles away as she signed in with a “L. Crump” at reception. The elevator stopped on the eleventh floor and he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. ‘Knock ‘em dead,’ said Cohen.
‘Not how I’d have put it, but thanks anyway.’
‘Just remember, Grossman and Crump. Collectors of fine art.’ he whispered as they approached the frosted glass door bearing the name “Sunlight International Trading Inc”. The door on the other side of the landing showed it belonged to “Zeus Consulting Inc”. Behind it, were seven armed FBI agents, waiting on Cohen’s word to spring the trap.
He pressed the buzzer and a tinny voice from the intercom asked what they wanted. ‘Mr Grossman and Miss Crump. We have a meeting at ten o’clock,’ said Cohen in reply.
With a click, the door opened and they walked in. Waiting for them stood two men: one black and in his mid-forties; tall, slim, well-dressed and with just enough grey at the temples to add a touch of distinction. They shook hands and he introduced himself as Raymond. His colleague, Mr Luzzo, was half a head shorter but what caught her attention was the butt of a pistol protruding from his waistband. Raymond noticed her look of alarm. ‘Don’t worry, Miss Crump,’ he said, with a disarming smile, ‘just a sensible precaution until we get to know each other better.’
‘I appreciate that, Mr Raymond,’ she said, but is a gun really necessary for a simple transaction like this?’ As she’d hoped, the FBI team leader, fifty feet away across the lobby heard her loud and clear in his headset.
While Luzzo bustled about in the kitchen making coffee the three chatted amiably. From the corner of her eye, Flora could see Raymond sizing his visitors up, and sat with her hands folded in her lap, hoping that their double-act was working.
Luzzo returned with the coffee: thin, bitter and watery, it left Flora wincing from the first sip. Still, she was supposed to be an uptight, humourless blue-stocking, so her reaction to the plastic cupful of unpleasantness fitted the image rather well she thought. ‘Now,’ said Raymond, getting to his feet. ‘First things first. I’m sure you know the score, Mr Grossman, Miss Crump, but I need to make sure you’re who you say you are. Just a formality,’ he added by way of reassurance. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time I’d met a collector who turned out to be a thief or a policeman down on his arrest numbers looking to put a hard-working member of my community in the frame. Could I ask you to stand up for a moment, Mr Grossman.’
Cohen grumbled and chuntered but complied none the less. Luzzo kept his hand on his pistol and watched carefully. ‘Thank you, Mr Grossman,’ said Raymond. ‘Now, Miss Crump. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I need to search you.’
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Flora said.
‘I really must insist –’ she could feel his resolve beginning to show the first, tiny flicker of weakness.
‘Insist all you like, Mr Raymond, you are not searching me, I am neither a common criminal nor a policewoman.’ She stood up and turned to Cohen. ‘Mr Grossman, I strongly suggest we leave at once.’
‘OK, OK, I’m sorry,’ said Raymond, nodding to Luzzo who disappeared into the next room. ‘No offence, ma’am. Please sit down.’
Flora pursed her lips in a way she’d seen her mother do dozens of times when irritated with Flora’s father. ‘Your apology is accepted, Mr Raymond. Now please may we continue, neither Mr Grossman nor I have time to waste.’
Luzzo returned with a folder which he opened and placed on the table. ‘Here are some copies of what we’ve got on offer,’ said Raymond. First and second century Greek, Aramaic and Latin. A mixture of intact codices and scroll fragments. Also some pages from the Devil’s Codex with which I’m sure you’re familiar.’
Flora fought back the desire to leap on the copies but instead, drew out her reading glasses with a display of studied indifference and began reading. From the very first line, she felt sure they would notice her hand shaking, for in it she held what was without any doubt a photocopy of the original Aramaic copy of Antiquities of the Jews, lost since antiquity and stolen from the lab at Pompeii. ‘Yes, quite interesting,’ she said. ‘Obviously I can’t tell from a copy but given the calligraphy, sentence structure and grammar it looks genuine: I couldn’t possibly date it from a copy of course.’ Raymond smiled dutifully. Flora picked up the next copy. Again, Josephus’ style was unmistakable. ‘And how did you come by these documents?’ she asked as nonchalantly as possible.
‘I have contacts in Italy.’ He watched her for a reaction but Flora remained stony-faced.
‘And do they have more where this came from?’
He smiled. The rapport was building nicely as both played the other. ‘I’m led to believe so.’
‘Tombaroli,’ she said.
‘I prefer the term “freelance archaeologist” myself,’ said Raymond.
‘Let’s not argue over terminology,’ Flora replied. ‘We both know where these came from. They’re from Pompeii, aren’t they?’
Raymond leant forward in his chair. ‘Yeah, but so what? Does it matter where they’re from?’ She’d got the admission he knew the finds were stolen, now came the hard part.
‘Provenance is what interests me, that’s all,’ she replied. ‘Now may I see the originals?’
The speed with which she pitched the question into the conversation caught Raymond off guard. ‘Um, yeah, of course,’ he hesitated for a moment. ‘You must understand that some of these pieces are too fragile to be moved around, particularly in this weather. The more valuable pieces are being professionally conserved.’
‘I’m very pleased to hear it,’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Now, the originals please. We haven’t got all day.’
‘No. No, of course not,’ he replied and nodded once more to Luzzo who returned with a cardboard box which he set on the table. He reached in to take the top document from the pile and Flora delivered a slap to the back of his hand.
‘Mr Luzzo,’ she said in outraged tones. ‘Do not even think of handling those pages with bare hands.’ He immediately sprang back like a scolded child and Flora reached into her large, unfashionable handbag and drew on a pair of white cotton gloves. Taking a magnifying glass she gazed in wonder at the parchment in front of her. One side was written in Greek and on the other side was a jumble of Greek characters, many of them crossed out and replaced: clearly an early exercise in encryption, possibly done by one of Josephus’ scribes. So lost in wonder was Flora that she almost forgot the role play. Luckily, she caught herself in time and said, ‘These are wonderful. They’re just the pieces we’ve been looking for.’ An innocuous-sounding phrase, but one she and Cohen had pre-arranged as the signal that they’d found pages from the robbery in Italy.
Cohen in turn gave the code-word for the team to move in. Speaking loudly and in Grossman’s version of English he said. ‘Yes, this is the work from the dig at Pompeii. I am happy.’
His words crackled in the team leader’s earpiece. On his sign the squad moved soundlessly to the door of Sunlight Trading where he took out the cloned swipe card. It didn’t work. Precious seconds ebbed away. He stood aside and gestured towards the back of the group and two agents stepped forward with a door-breaking ram. The noise made by the team as they prepared to take out the door was audible inside. Luzzo shot a nervous glance at Raymond and pulled out his pistol, pointing it first at Flora and then at Cohen. ‘Stay right where you are.’ Cohen froze.
The outer door exploded into fragments, but before the team had taken more than three paces, they heard Luzzo shout from inside. ‘Stop! One step further and they�
�re dead. Now just back the fuck off.’ A voice replied. ‘Federal agents. Lay down your weapons and you will not be harmed.’
‘Screw you!’ Luzzo laughed and swung the pistol again. From outside, the team leader heard a gunshot and immediately, a woman’s voice screaming.
Chapter Thirty-three
Judea AD 67
“Now Vespasian desired greatly to destroy Jotapata, for he had obtained intelligence that the major part of the enemy’s army had retired there, and that the fortress was, so he was told, a place of great security to them.”
— Flavius Josephus, The Wars of the Jews, Book 3
Vespasian’s army showed no mercy to the defeated: the city of Gadara was razed and its male population butchered. The massacre of the Roman garrison at Jerusalem and the rout of Legio XII Fulminata under the indecisive Cestius Gallus, were fresh in his officers’ minds, so no more chances were to be taken.
The rebel forces under Josephus had fortified nineteen towns, but one by one they fell as their inhabitants surrendered without a fight, desperate to avoid the fate of the thousands at Gadara who had paid the ultimate price for resisting the might of Rome’s legions. When the citizens of Tiberias not only refused to fight but drove Josephus and his army out beyond the city walls, he had no option but to retreat to Jotapata, his supposedly impregnable headquarters. The weakness of Josephus’ hilltop fastness against prolonged siege was its lack of water. However, that year the winter rains had filled the cisterns, grain was plentiful and the need for rationing was accepted by all with only minor grumbles. Furthermore, after the defeat of an initial attempt to take the city by the Roman commander, Placidus, morale was high.
Vespasian’s army made camp outside the northern walls and almost immediately launched an assault. Not only was it beaten off, but sallies by the Jewish fighters caused him to withdraw to a safer distance.
The crushing heat of high summer beat down on the barren uplands around the city so now it was merely a question of which side would run out of water first. Advantage always lies with the besieger and despite a few successful attempts to bring supplies in by night across the Roman lines, Josephus and his lieutenants finally accepted that after six weeks of bombardment, defeat and death for the tens of thousands packed within the walls of Jotapata was only a matter of days away. The Romans would put civilians to the sword straight away, but as rebel commanders, suicide at the last moment of resistance was their only alternative to a slow, agonising death in front of the crowds in Nero’s circus.
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