"I'm sure you didn't come to talk with us about the bombing," Jack began. "Mr. Corsini, please tell me what we can do for you."
"Perhaps, it will sound strange to you," the reporter said. "But I have been following your work for some time. Since I am a rather typical Italian Roman Catholic, I never read the Bible until I stumbled across a book describing the issues of textual and form criticism, which reported your work with the Scriptures. I found myself hooked on the problems of correctly translating Scripture. I have been following the subject ever since."
"Well, Mr. Corsini," Jack said. "Many Christians don't even know this area of debate exists among scholars, but it has long-range consequences."
"Please, call me Mario. I am honored to be here talking with you." He smiled modestly. "I was taken with how ancient Greek was originally written in one continual line with no break between the words and scholars must deem what is appropriate to pull apart in figuring out the true meaning." He picked up a pencil and wrote GODISNOWHERE on his notepad. "This is an example of what caught my attention because it can be broken apart into 'God is no where' or 'God is now here'. Your job is to come up with the correct translation."
"Very good," Michelle said. "These are the types of issues that Jack and I deal with."
"I read the book the two of you wrote titled An Answer to the Cynics. You certainly answered some of the hard questions raised by people who doubt the Bible."
"I am impressed with your reading, Mario," Jack said. "Michelle and I worked on a number of these problems during our time in Tübingen. We felt it was important to study with some of the harshest critics if we were going to defend the faith as we believe it should be upheld."
"Yes," Mario said. "You certainly have a strong confidence in the Scripture. I understand that you are working on a new project. I came today to see if there might be a story for my newspaper."
"I am flattered," Jack said. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Dov Sharon had stopped working on the codex and was listening. Corsini's visit had grabbed his attention and that was unusual. "In our own way, Michelle and I are dealing with the problems asserted by some scholars who say that modern humanity can't really believe in Jesus. The discipline called formgeschichte, or form criticism, in many cases has attacked the veracity of the Scriptures, and we are hoping to answer these charges."
Mario Corsini leaned forward and picked up his pen. "In what way, Dr. Townsend, are you at work on such problems? I sense that I might have a story I can write about Americans in Rome solving ancient biblical problems. I can't imagine a better place to think about the past than to have offices next to Santa Maria Church. The edifice is the most amazing collection of bones that I've ever seen. Good heavens! You are working on top of an open cemetery. Something important ought to be down there somewhere." He held his pen ready to write.
Jack chuckled. "Well, I think Michelle and I can be candid about our current project. Have you ever noticed that the average Bible has three possible endings for the Gospel of Mark?"
Corsini blinked several times. "What?"
"Yes," Jack said. "You might find this interesting to check out for yourself. Take a Revised Standard Version for instance. It will clearly distinguish these three possible conclusions and lay them before you for your choice."
"I didn't know that," Mario Corsini said.
"Yes, my friend, and what makes this fascinating is the internal evidence in the actual Greek text. The eighth verse ends with the Greek preposition γαρ or 'for' and is an incomplete sentence, which would indicate that the original ending of the Gospel had been torn away. My hunch is that the other two optional endings were added later by scribes to make the Gospel feel more comfortable and complete for readers. I base this on the fact that I studied the oldest entire manuscripts of the Bible in existence. One is kept in the Vatican Library. Codex Vaticanus agrees with this position as does Tischendorf's Codex Sinaiticus taken from St. Catherine's monastery at the foot of Mount Sinai in the desert of the Holy Land. These manuscripts extend at least back to the Emperor Constantine and possibly beyond."
"That is amazing!" Corsini kept scribbling on his notepad.
"My wife and I have an unusual contention, Mario. We believe that during the early persecution of the church, the original ending was torn off. From our reading of the earliest Church Fathers, we believe the first ending of Mark's manuscript is hidden here in Rome, and we are trying to find it."
"Absolutely astonishing! Yes, I knew you'd have a story for me. Excellent. Do you know where this fragment of the manuscript is?"
Jack winked at his wife. "Can't talk about that today. I can only say that we are currently looking. How about my letting you know when we turn up something?"
Mario Corsini leaped to his feet. "Excellent! Yes, my newspaper would be most delighted to obtain such a story." He fumbled through his coat pockets looking for a card. "I want you to call me immediately. I am your humble servant. Don't worry. My paper would love the story." He thrust his calling card into Jack's hand.
"Wonderful, my friend." Jack put his arm around the man's shoulders. "Mario, we will let you know when we are ready to have the story published."
"Excellent!" Corsini made a slight bow in Michelle's direction and started toward the door. "I will stay in touch."
Following him out, Jack closed the door behind Michelle and himself. Both waved as Corsini walked away.
"We'll be watching the newspaper," Jack said and turned to his wife. "Well, we've had a busy little morning thus far."
"Do you think you should have told him what we're after, Jack?"
"Why not? A little publicity won't damage our work. Having a few cardinals read that story in the Il Messaggero won't hurt us in having continuing access to the Vatican Library." Jack pulled his wife closer. "By the way, I haven't given you a midday I-love-you kiss yet."
Jack kissed his wife passionately, and she put her arm around his neck. He whispered in her ear, "I haven't smelled any fragrance this good since the roses budded out."
Michelle grinned. "Aren't you the lover boy?"
"I try to be."
Michelle stepped back and shook her head. "I don't know. Something about all of this business with Corsini bothers me. Maybe it was the conversation about the bombing that really upsets me."
"I was afraid you'd react to the terrorist attack."
Michelle stiffened. "You didn't tell me about that explosion, Jack. Were you keeping the story from me because I become so frightened?"
"I truly didn't know the details until I saw the paper when I stopped at the Dar Poeta café for coffee this morning," Jack flinched, realizing what he had just said.
"Dar Poeta! So that's where you were!" Michelle planted both hands on her hips. "That's why you were late!"
Jack grimaced. "Actually, I was."
"Drinking coffee and watching people walk by," Michelle cut him off. "I swear! She looked at him fiercely, but grinned. "You're worse than a child." Michelle laughed. "But you and your taste for artichokes are certainly predictable."
"Maybe you'll have to punish me tonight." Jack grinned. "Think so?"
"Honestly!" Michelle opened the door and they walked back inside.
Dov Sharon got up from his desk and limped over to Michelle and Jack's conversation. "I couldn't help overhearing what the reporter said. We still don't actually know where the ending to Mark's Gospel is hidden." He raised an eyebrow. "Do we? I mean isn't our work something of a secret?"
"Yes and no," Jack said. "We don't go around sharing all our insights, but it won't hurt for us to pick up a little free publicity. We are funded by a foundation in America, and they'll be glad to learn that the press is following us, but we're still in the speculative phase. We don't want to talk about our hunches or about where we might eventually dig."
"That makes sense," Dov said. "Just checking. I think I'll run down the street and grab something to eat. I missed breakfast this morning."
"Sure," Jack said. "We'll be
here."
Dov closed the door behind and Jack could see him walking away from their offices.
"Do you think Dov is really on the up and up?" Michelle whispered.
"Why do you ask?
"I don't know, Michelle's voice trailed away. "Sometimes he seems so distant like he's not telling everything he knows."
Jack looked at her with a puzzled frown. "I don't know what to say. I really like the man."
"I certainly don't dislike Dov. It's just that something bothers me about him."
4
Uncertainty and fear rumbled down the ancient streets of Rome. The police had not found significant clues to identify the perpetrators of the terrorist crime during the three days following the bombing in the subway. With the police stymied, the citizens of Rome became more agitated over what might happen next. Yet, the furious speed of cars on the narrow boulevards and overcrowded thoroughfares did not diminish. The press of Rome's always urgent business of merchants and tourism continued to hammer out a daily tempo that never slackened. Constantly studying the social terrain through glasses thick enough to be prisms, Dr. Albert Stein understood these facts well.
Stein had moved to Rome from Munich, Germany, a few months before and had taken up residence in a flat on Via del Gracchi not far from Vatican City. Having studied at and departed from Tübingen five years before the Townsends arrived, the short, thick professor had completed his PhD studies at Stuttgart and then gone on for more detailed work in biblical form criticism at Oxford, England, before coming to Rome. He had selected the small residence on Via del Gracchi because it was not ostentatious and the location gave him close access to the Vatican's vast library. A harsh critic of Scripture, Albert Stein had been smitten with the desert discoveries near the village of Nag Hammadi in Egypt. Studying the Gospel of Thomas as well as The Gospel of Judas had captivated his interest. Subsequent ancient tracts like The Gospel of Truth and The Gospel of the Egyptians pulled Stein into Gnosticism. Brilliant, Stein remained equally caustic and acrimonious. Hoping to become a renowned household name with worldwide recognition, his lack of notable achievement had left him frustrated.
As the recovery of the automobile business climbed after World War II, money had poured into the Stein family coffers more by good fortune than by design. Having been part of the Nazi war machine, their manufacturing industry fell with the state. The Steins expected harsh reprisals from the Allies, but the Americans needed the Stein factories for the rebuilding of Germany, and out of the ashes a new promise had risen. With the private fortune of the Stein family's holdings in Germany's automobile industry behind him, Albert Stein had the resources to pursue his private interest in any direction he chose. Nevertheless, the Stein family maintained an irrational hatred for all things American. Six decades later, Albert Stein still carried an abiding disdain for anyone from the United States.
Albert knew that a streak of cruelty ran through his personality. In sharp contrast to his academic achievements, a hidden malevolent urge could erupt when he became highly agitated. For years he had tried to control these outbursts, but when the surge of rage overpowered him, he was capable of murderous responses. With time he had written off the problem with the quip "everybody has their problems."
The loud honking of a car in the street below his balcony interrupted his reading. Stein looked at his watch and walked to the window. Another tie-up in traffic had shut the street down, but he needed to take a break from his work to keep an appointment he had made earlier. Putting out the cigarette he had been smoking, he reached for the files on his desk and pulled out a manila folder marked "Klaus Burchel." Satisfied after making a quick survey of the contents, he grabbed a sport jacket and stopped in front of the mirror beside the front door, which he always did to make sure his appearance was proper.
Albert could see that his blond hair and the unusually thick lenses in his glasses made him look somewhat older than forty-eight, but he had an Aryan face for which the Germans maintained pride. His high forehead fit the aristocratic background he liked to claim. Albert picked up the black fedora he habitually pulled low over his eyes to cover his face. The reflection always told the same story of man with a well-defined nose that suggested a forceful personality. Because of his disposition that could explode in violent behavior, Albert knew he needed the appearance of the elite to cover this flaw in his character. Even with his financial resources, beating someone with a cane could turn into an enormous problem. His elegant dress attempted to add to the appearance of a patrician. The mirror seemed to say he looked dapper and was ready for a stroll down to the restaurant.
The explosive side of his personality seemed to have developed out of nowhere. Of course, his father had a nasty habit of beating the children, but the savage tendency had been fed by his conflicts with Albert's older brother Rune. Whatever superiority that age gave Rune, Albert had learned that ferocity could equalize. Time and repetition had ingrained these tendencies. Obviously, few PhD's had a disposition for cruelty, but he did. Forget it. Life had to go on as it was.
Albert paused and glanced around his small living room at the strange assembly of electrical equipment he had accumulated for his secret project. Mix-and-match surveillance camera equipment sat next to weatherproof security cameras. Infrared light sources had been stacked in one corner with splitters and audio recovery monitors. A digital video recorder stood on a small antique table. Boxes with small microphones were pushed together. Wires and cables lay strung out on the floor. Albert smiled, knowing he was prepared for serious espionage.
Closing the door behind him, he hurried down the stairs and out onto the street, walking toward Ristorante Il Matriciano. The family-run establishment specialized in uncomplicated country fare, which Stein always enjoyed. Their classic bucatini alla matriciana, richly flavored with bacon, tomatoes, and basil, remained one of his favorites. Albert intended to arrive early before his contact showed and take time to glance at a newspaper. He increased his pace and quickly found an outdoor table to his liking. Sitting down, he snapped his fingers at a man selling papers and signaled for him to bring one over.
"A Signor!" The vendor hurried over. The old cap pulled down over his head modestly shielded his eyes. "A newspaper?"
Stein nodded, and the man handed him the paper. Albert placed one euro in his hand then brushed him away. The man tipped his hat and humbly returned to his stand.
The headlines remained the same, shouting their reports on the subway tragedy. Albert scanned the big stories and quickly turned the page. After reading about a blast in a subway, he pressed on. Suddenly he stopped. The smaller headline read, "Americans Track Lost Scripture." Stein lunged forward and caught his breath. It was a story about Jack and Michelle Townsend doing research in Rome. With a hard thrust of his fist, Stein pounded the table.
If there was anyone that Albert Stein despised, it was Jack Townsend. He had been a stumbling block for Stein's research for the last several years. Constantly posing questions that made Stein's insights seem shallow, Townsend inevitably kept Albert from the recognition he thought his work deserved. Albert had printed a book contending that during the period of oral tradition immediately following Jesus' death, the actual story of his life had been fabricated and twisted by his followers. It was not possible to know anything Jesus actually said from the Gospels that were written a generation later at the earliest. Stein would place their creation in the second century, although this was contested by many scholars. Townsend had countered that the words of Jesus were inseparable from his person. Jesus and his teaching were not like the oral transmission of the scribes because he always remained present in his words. That argument had cost Stein and created in him a hatred for Townsend that simmered to this very moment.
One of the reasons Stein had come to Rome was to get the jump on Jack and Michelle Townsend. When he learned they were headed for Rome, Albert immediately anticipated arriving in the city ahead of them and spying on what they were researching. While he had other
work to do, he had to beat them to the punch, particularly with such a project as described in the Il Messaggero newspaper. Now this article splashed the Townsends' enterprise all over the world! Stein's endeavors deserved such headlines, not these upstart Americans.
The edges of the newspaper curled up in Albert's hands and his fists tightened. How could it be that Jack Townsend had gotten ahead of him again? It was the exact thing he hated. The Townsends were not only scholars at the opposite end of the theological scale, they were Americans, which made the injury a double insult. The denazification program that followed Germany's World War II defeat had been an affront that lay buried in Stein's soul. Nothing about these arrogant Americans sat right with him. The story in the newspaper only inflamed an already chronic wound.
Albert abruptly crushed the paper in his hands with a loud crackling noise. Other customers turned to see what caused the sound, but Albert threw the newspaper on the sidewalk. The vendor who had sold him the newspaper looked up in surprise. Stein returned a hostile glance, knowing that his thick glasses made his anger appear even more intense.
Albert crossed his arms over his chest and cursed under his breath. This was the last thing he expected. He glanced at his watch; his appointment should be showing up. If there was ever a time when he needed an assistant, it was now.
Albert visually scoured each person walking down the sidewalks, looking for the man. Ambling down the street in a slow shiftless pace, Albert could see a skinny young man who looked to be around thirty, shuffling along in worn tennis shoes and torn blue jeans. From his right eye the remnants of a nasty scar ran down the side of his cheek. The injury made him easy to identify, but it also meant he had been a risk taker and Stein needed a daredevil more than an invisible man. As he drew closer, Albert could see that his shaved head added to a sinister appearance, but time or a wig could erase the lack of hair. The young man had large, strong looking hands with calloused sides that supported his claim to skill in Karate. He looked exactly like the surveillance report said he would. Albert raised his hand to signal Klaus Burchel to come in his direction.
Shrouded In Silence Page 3