THE
SACRED
CIPHER
TERRY
BRENNAN
The Sacred Cipher: A Novel
© 2009 by Terry Brennan
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To my wife, Andrea,
and to my children,
Michael, Patrick, Meghan, & Matthew
Only love is eternal
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Part One: Cipher’s Call
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Part Two: City of God
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Part Three: Prophecy Fulfilled
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Author’s Note
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, I must thank God for the gift of writing. As Joan Baez has said, the gift is from God. My job is only maintenance and delivery.
There would be nothing on paper without my wife, Andrea. Not only does she keep me focused on the important, sane, and healthy, but she also willingly sacrificed a year of Saturdays so this dream could have life. Without her, I am but a shell.
To Andrea, again, and Meghan who were my first readers and shared only excitement.
To Marlene Bagnull, whose selfless dedication to other writers is legend. The dream was born and nurtured at her writers' conferences in Philadelphia and Colorado.
To Wanda Dyson, who believed in me when all I had was an idea, and who gave so much, so freely, to make the idea a reality.
To all those along the way:
Angela Hunt and Nancy Rue—faithful teachers and encouragers;
Kathy Vance—who blessed me with volumes of information about the archaeology and history of Jerusalem, along with a firsthand view of the current politics and social conflicts in Israel. I pray you will soon return to the land of your dreams;
Rachelle Gardner—agent, friend, and truth-teller;
All the great folks at Kregel Publications—Miranda Gardner and Steve Barclift, who were my early champions and extended so much grace when the project was endangered; Dawn Anderson, editor extraordinaire, sweet and gentle with a rookie author, who invested so much to make this book so much better; Cat Hoort, thanks for the cover and your infectious enthusiasm;
Fred, Steve, and Mike—my spiritual brothers, so quick to laugh at me, and themselves, who kept me grounded and gave me hope;
Bobby Watts and William Jin—how blessed is a man with true friends.
PROLOGUE
1889 • ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT
Only three types of buyers entered the Attarine—the foolish, the fraudulent, and the forewarned. The foolish, who acted on whim instead of wisdom and expected to fleece an ignorant Egyptian native; the fraudulent, expert in identifying well-crafted forgeries, anxious to pass them on for great profit; and the forewarned, who searched for treasure but were wise enough to employ someone who knew the ways, and the merchants, of the seductive but evil-ridden Attarine.
Spurgeon knew the risk. But treasures awaited in the twisting, narrow stone streets snaking away from the Attarine Mosque.
He had Mohammad, he had a gun, he had money—and he had God.
Peering down the darkened alley, Spurgeon worried that, perhaps, he didn’t have enough.
Mohammad entered the alley and disappeared from view. The alley was gray-on-gray, denied sunlight by overhanging, second-floor balconies adorning almost every building, their shuttered windows barely an arm’s length from each other. Joining with the dark was a riot of refuse; crazed, cadaver-like dogs; and powerfully pungent, unknown odors.
The Attarine District was home to the greatest concentration of antiquities dealers in Alexandria, both the illicit and the honorable. A person could buy almost any historical artifact along the ancient streets of the Attarine. Some were even genuine. And Charles Haddon Spurgeon was on a treasure hunt.
He held his breath; he held his heart; and he stepped into the dark.
At the first fork, Mohammed Isfahan was waiting. Spurgeon’s heart slowed its pounding pace. Mohammed confidently led the way, weaving in and out of the shoppers and the strollers who clogged the tight byways. It was early morning, before the sun began to scorch the stones, and Spurgeon was grateful for the moderate breeze off the Mediterranean. At his size, the heat sapped his strength and soaked his shirt within minutes. Though the morning was warm, Spurgeon hoped to get back into his hotel, under a fan in a shaded corner of the dining room, long before the withering heat began blowing from the Sahara. On one of his regular trips to the Middle East, Spurgeon was trolling for ancient biblical texts and Mohammed, recommended by the hotel’s concierge, promised he knew where to look.
Now fifty-six, he was England’s best-known preacher, and he grudgingly accepted the considerable influence and power he had earned as pastor of London’s famed New Park Street Church for the last thirty years. Spurgeon was the first to admit preaching was his passion.
But S
purgeon was also the first to admit that books were his weakness. He typically devoured six books per week and had written many of his own. Now, scuttling through the twilight of the dusty alley, Spurgeon sought to slake that hunger in the shops of the Attarine.
Rounding a curve in the street, Mohammed paused alongside a curtain-covered doorway, pulled aside the curtain, and motioned for Spurgeon to enter. Inside the shop, not only was the atmosphere cooler, but it also carried the rich scent of old leather, soft and smooth like musty butter. Mohammed bowed reverentially as the proprietor emerged from the rear of the shop. He was a small man of an indeterminate age. What defined him were hawklike, ebony eyes overflowing with wisdom, discerning of character, and surrounded by a brilliant white kaffiyeh. Mohammed spoke rapidly in Arabic, bowed again, and then stepped back as the proprietor approached Spurgeon.
“Salaam aleikum,” he said, bowing his head toward Spurgeon, who was startled when the man continued in perfectly cadenced English, “and peace be with you, my friend. It is an honor for my humble shop to welcome such a famous man under its roof. May I be permitted to share with you some tea and some of our little treasures?”
Wondering about the origin of the shopkeeper’s English, Spurgeon responded with a bow of his own. “Salaam aleikum, my brother. You honor me by using my language in your shop. But I must ask, how have you any knowledge of me?”
“Ah, the name of Spurgeon has found its way down many streets. I am Ibrahim El-Safti, and I am at your service. My friend Mohammed tells me you are interested in texts that refer to the stories of your Nazarene prophet, is that correct?”
“I would be honored to review any such texts as may be in your possession,” said Spurgeon. He took the chair and the tea that were offered by El-Safti and waited quietly as the shopkeeper sought and retrieved three books. While Spurgeon studied the books, one in Aramaic, one in Greek, and the last in an unknown language, Mohammed and the shopkeeper retired through the doorway, stepping outside the curtain.
Spurgeon slipped into a scholar’s zone, focusing intently on the words before him. But the breeze turned, pushing aside the curtain in the door and carrying the words of Mohammed and El-Safti into the shop and up to Spurgeon’s ear—one well trained in Arabic, among many other languages.
“What of the scroll?” Spurgeon heard Mohammed ask.
“Do not speak of that scroll in front of this infidel,” El-Safti countered, his voice stronger and more virile than it had been earlier. “You know what our tradition holds; this scroll would be of great benefit to the infidels, both the Jews and the Christians. We are to hold it in trust and keep it out of their hands at all costs.”
“You speak like an imam,” Mohammed said. “No one knows what is on that scroll; no one has been able to translate its meaning. How do we know what it contains?”
Spurgeon forgot the books in his lap. He heard a more interesting story floating on the breeze.
“If it can’t be read, is there any difference in whose hands it rests? I believe the English preacher would pay handsomely for the privilege of owning something he doesn’t understand. Ibrahim,” said Mohammed, “look at me. It could pay for your daughter’s wedding.”
“Do not tempt me, Mohammed,” El-Safti said. “That scroll has remained here for two generations, and no one has ever requested to see it. Quiet, now, and let us see what may interest the Englishman.”
Spurgeon attempted to return his attention to the books, but his eyes were pulled back to the men as they entered through the curtain. El-Safti reverted to his perfectly subservient composure as he stepped before Spurgeon. The only thing out of place was an amulet—a Coptic cross with a lightning bolt flashing through on the diagonal—that slipped from the neck of his robe as he came through the doorway.
“Do these books meet with your interest?” El-Safti asked.
Spurgeon rose from the chair and handed the books back to El-Safti. “I am disappointed to tell you, my friend, that you may have been swindled. The book in Aramaic is a fraud, and a poor one at that. The Greek, I have two copies in my library. And the third is in a language I have not seen before, but does not appear to be Semitic. Tell me, do you not possess anything more authentic?”
A moment’s silence passed through the shop. El-Safti’s pitch-black eyes flickered with offense.
“My humble apologies,” El-Safti said. “Your reputation as a scholar is well earned, Dr. Spurgeon. But perhaps I do have something that you would find interesting. It is very old, but of indeterminate age.” El-Safti walked to the back of the shop. “It is an infidel’s mezuzah, nicely etched, wrapped in a very colorful piece of Moroccan silk.”
Disappointed in the books, Spurgeon’s interest increased at the mention of silk. His niece’s birthday would be upon him when he returned to England. Perhaps there was a prize here, after all.
El-Safti slipped into a small closet at the rear corner of the shop and could be heard snapping the hasp on a lock and moving a chain. Silence, then a stream of Arabic epithets, as El-Safti recoiled from the closet.
“Forgive me,” he said, his wild eyes looking first at Spurgeon and then at Mohammed. “It is gone. The scroll, it is gone.”
First fear, then unbelief, fought for dominance in El-Safti’s weathered face. His hands trembled as he wrung them together.
“Allah has punished me for my greed,” El-Safti said, slipping back into Arabic. “Mohammad, remove this infidel. And hurry back. We must think. We must find the scroll. We must find it before it is lost forever.”
Three days later, Spurgeon wandered through the Alexandrian bazaar, his work for the trip complete and his passage for London booked on a ship leaving the next morning. But his mind kept drifting back to El-Safti and the nearly hysterical look on his face when he discovered this mysterious scroll had disappeared.
What could have caused the man such fear? he wondered, his hand exploring vibrant textiles and metal trinkets as he strolled through the bazaar. It appeared he was willing to sell. Even if it had been stolen or lost, why react so severely when he was about to sell it anyway?
He was about to turn a corner and walk away from the bazaar, when a soft voice coming from a shaded corner of a building caught his attention.
“Effendi, Dr. Spurgeon, please, may I have a moment of your time?”
As Spurgeon turned to the sound of his name, an elderly man in well-worn, but once-fine, clothes stepped out of the shadows, bowing deeply from the waist.
“Please forgive this unwarranted intrusion, but I knew of no other way.”
“How do you know who I am?” Spurgeon asked, taking no step toward the man, who looked more like a beggar than a prince.
“You have walked these streets many times, Dr. Spurgeon, searching for treasures in books and letters. What has been more memorable for my people, why you are well known and highly regarded, are the many kindnesses you have done for our children, so many who have been healed by the doctors you sent. It is why many in this city watch out for your safety.”
Spurgeon’s curiosity spiked. “So, what can I do for you?”
“More than likely, it’s what I can do for you,” said the old man. “A few days ago, you were in the Attarine. There was some discussion about a scroll. Allah be praised, I believe I may be able to help you.”
The old man, whose face was deeply wrinkled and the color of old leather, pulled from within his kaftan a brightly designed piece of silk. Spurgeon took a step toward the elderly Arab, then another, joining him in the half-light of the building’s shadows in spite of a gnawing unease.
“I had the good fortune of being in the Attarine at the same time you were in the shop of one El-Safti,” said the old man. “I think you were quite fortunate that the document El-Safti sought was no longer in his possession. I think, had you purchased this document, you never would have left the Attarine with it in your possession.”
“So you stole it?”
“Effendi,” the old man demurred. “I am only the recipient of
Allah’s provision and a defender of your highly esteemed person. If, however, you have no interest in this trinket, perhaps I should take it elsewhere?” As the man began to return the silk-draped object back into the depths of his kaftan, Spurgeon quickly stepped even closer and laid his hand on the man’s arm.
“Please, my friend,” Spurgeon said, looking into the old man’s peaceful eyes. “It would not be appropriate to send you away without at least examining the gift you bring me.”
“Many thanks,” said the old man. He bowed his head but never took his eyes from the Englishman. “Here, please join me by this table so that I may display to you this treasure.”
Overcoming his reluctance, Spurgeon stepped to the small table that stood in the shadows of the building. The old man opened the silk cover, a purse of some sort, withdrew an engraved metal tube, and laid it on the table. Moving closer to the table, Spurgeon began running his fingers over the silk purse, fascinated by its color and the strangeness of its designs, symbols of long, swooping lines dancing across a bloodred sea.
“Ah, yes, it is a beautiful purse, is it not?” the old man said. “But I believe you may be even more intrigued by what is inside.” With that, the old man took hold of the handle on the side of the cylinder and, turning the metal shaft that extended through its center, began extracting a rather plain, parchment scroll. What was on the scroll, however, was far from plain.
Spurgeon leaned over the table, adjusting his spectacles for a better look. The parchment itself, probably sheepskin, was remarkably well preserved, indicating a majority of its life had been spent in a dry climate, not here in Alexandria where humidity would have destroyed it. On the surface of the parchment were written twenty-one columns of symbols arranged in seven groupings—three vertical rows of symbols in each of the groupings. It was an odd construction. Spurgeon, however, was more intrigued by the symbols themselves, a series of simple, yet stylistic, characters. “What is it?” he asked.
The old man shrugged.
“I don’t know what language that is,” said Spurgeon “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything like it. Tell me, what do you think it means?”
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