by Steve Berry
There had to be a link.
“I was in England recently,” the vice president said, “and was shown the Sinai Bible. They told me it was from the fourth century, one of the earliest Old Testaments still around. Written in Greek.”
“There’s a perfect example,” he said. “Do you know the story?”
“Bits and pieces.”
Hermann told his guest about a German scholar, Tischendorf, who in 1844 was touring the East in search of old manuscripts. He visited the monastery of St. Catherine, in the Sinai, and noticed a basket filled with forty-three old pages written in ancient Greek. The monks told him they were to be burned for fuel, as others had been. Tischendorf determined that the pages were from the Bible, and the monks allowed him to keep them. Fifteen years later he returned to St. Catherine’s on behalf of the Russian tsar. He was shown the remainder of the biblical pages and managed to return them to Russia. Eventually, after the revolution, the communists sold the manuscript to the British, who display it to this day.
“The Sinai Bible,” Hermann said, “is one of the earliest surviving manuscripts. Some have speculated Constantine himself commissioned its preparation. But remember, it’s written in Greek, so it was translated from Hebrew by someone utterly unknown to us, from an original manuscript that is equally unknown. So what does it really tell us?”
“That the monks at St. Catherine’s are still ticked off, more than a hundred years later, that their Bible was never returned. For decades they’ve petitioned the United States to intervene with the British. That’s why I went to see the thing. I wanted to know what all the fuss was about.”
“I applaud Tischendorf for taking it. Those monks would have either burned it or just let it decay. Unfortunately much of our knowledge has met a similar fate. We can only hope that the Guardians have been more careful.”
“You really believe this stuff, don’t you?”
He debated whether he should say more. Things were progressing rapidly, and this man, who would soon be president, needed to understand the situation.
He stood.
“Let me show you something.”
Thorvaldsen became instantly concerned as Alfred Hermann rose from his chair and tabled his drink. He risked another peek below and saw the Austrian leading the vice president across the hardwood floor toward the spiral staircase. He quickly surveyed the upper catwalk and saw that there was no other way down. More window alcoves broke the shelves on the remaining three walls, but there’d be no way he and Gary could seek refuge within any of them.
They’d be spotted in an instant.
Hermann and the vice president bypassed the stairway, however, and stopped before a glass case.
Hermann motioned at the lighted case. Inside rested an ancient codex, its wooden cover pitted, as if attacked by insects.
“It’s a fourth-century manuscript, too. A treatise on early church teachings, written by Augustine himself. My father bought it decades ago. It carries no historical significance—copies of it exist—but it looks impressive.”
He reached beneath the podium and depressed a button disguised as one of the stainless-steel screws. From an axis at one corner, he swung the top third of the case away from the remainder. Inside the bottom two-thirds rested nine sheets of brittle papyrus.
“These, on the other hand, are quite precious. My father also bought them, decades ago, from the same person who sold him the codex. Some were written by Eusebius Hieronymus Sophronius, who lived in the fourth and fifth centuries. A great church father. He translated the Bible from Hebrew into Latin, creating a work known as the Vulgate that ultimately became definitive. History calls him by another name. Jerome.”
“You’re a strange man, Alfred. The oddest things excite you. How could those wrinkly old sheets have any bearing today?”
“I assure you, these have great relevance. Enough to perhaps change our thinking. Some of these were also written by Augustine. These are letters between Jerome and Augustine.” He saw that the American still was not impressed.
“They had mail in those days?”
“A crude form. Travelers heading in the right direction would take messages back and forth. Some of our best records from that time are correspondence.”
“Now, that is interesting.”
Hermann came to the point. “Have you ever wondered how the Bible came to be?”
“Not particularly.”
“What if it was all a lie?”
“It’s a matter of faith, Alfred. What does it matter?”
“It matters a great deal. What if the early church fathers—men like Jerome and Augustine who shaped the course of religious thinking—decided to change things? Remember their time. Four hundred years after Christ, long after Constantine sanctioned the new Christian religion, at a time when the church was emerging and eliminating philosophies contrary to its teachings. The New Testament was just then coming into being. Various Gospels assimilated and arranged into a unified message. Mainly that God was gentle and forgiving, and that Christ had come. But then there was the Old Testament. What the Jews used. Christians wanted it to be part of their religion, too. Luckily for those early church fathers, Old Testament texts were few, and all were written in Old Hebrew.”
“But you said this Jerome translated the Bible into Latin.”
“Exactly my point.” He reached into the case and lifted out one of the tanned sheets. “These are written in Greek, the language of Jerome’s time.” Beneath the parchments lay typed pages. He lifted them out. “I had the letters translated. By three different experts to be sure of the work. I want to read you something, then I think you’ll see what I’m referring to.”
I am aware what ability is requisite to persuade the proud how great is the virtue of humility, which raises us, not by human arrogance, but by divine grace. Our task is to assure the human spirit is lifted and that the message is clear through the words of Christ. Your wisdom, offered when I began this task, has proven correct. This work that I labor over will form the first inter pretation of the ancient Scriptures into a language that even the most uneducated could understand. For there to be a connection between the old and the new seems logical. For these Scriptures to be in conflict seems self-defeating and would only elevate the Jewish philosophy to a superior position, since it has existed much longer than our faith. Since we last communicated, I have struggled through more of the ancient text. The progress is made difficult by so many double meanings. Once more I seek your guidance on a critical point. Jerusalem is the sacred city of the old text. The word yeruwshalayim is used often to identify the location, yet I have noticed that nowhere in the old text is ìyr yeruwshalayim ever used, which clearly means “city of Jerusalem.” Let me demonstrate the problem. From the Hebrew, in Kings, Yahweh says to Solomon, “Jerusalem, the city/capital that I have chosen in it.” Farther on, Yahweh states, “so that the city in Jerusalem recalling the memory of David be fore me—the city where I have chosen to establish my name—may be pre served.” My brother, can you see the dilemma? The ancient text speaks of Jerusalem not as a city but as a territory. Always it is the “city in Jerusalem,” not Jerusalem itself. Samuel actually speaks of it as a region where the Hebrew says “the king and his men set out for Jerusalem against the Jebusites who in habited the region.” I have struggled with the translation, hoping for some error to be discovered, but it is consistent throughout the Hebrew usage. The word yeruwshalaim, Jerusalem, always refers to a place comprising a number of cities, not to a single city by that name.
Hermann stopped reading and stared up at the vice president. “Jerome wrote this to Augustine while he was translating the Old Testament from Hebrew to Latin. Let me read you what Augustine, at one point, wrote to Jerome.”
He found another of the translations.
My learned brother, your work seems both arduous and glorious. How amazing it must be to reveal what scribes gone for so long have recorded and all with the divine guidance of our most glorious God. You are c
ertainly aware of the struggles that we all endure in this most dangerous of times. The pagan gods are dying away. The message of Christ is growing. His words of peace, mercy, and love ring true. Many are discovering our new message simply because it is be coming available. Which makes your effort to bring to life the old words that much more important. Your letters clearly explained the problem you are facing. Yet the future of this church, of our God, rests with us. To adapt the message of the old with that of the new is not a sin. As you have said, the words possess many double meanings, so who is to say which is right? Certainly not you or I. You asked for guidance, so I shall give it. Make the old words true to the new. For if the old be different from the new, we surely will be at risk of confusing the faithful and fueling the fires of discontent, which our many enemies keep burning. Yours is a great task. To be able for all to read the old words will mean much. No longer will scholars and rabbis possess control over so important a text. So my brother, work hard and be well knowing that you are doing the work of the Lord.
“You’re saying they intentionally changed the Old Testament?” the vice president asked.
“Of course they did. Just this reference to Jerusalem is a good example. Jerome’s translation, which is still accepted as correct today, denotes Jerusalem as a city. Jerome’s Kings reads, Jerusalem, the city that I have chosen. That’s absolutely contrary to what Jerome himself wrote in the letter. Jerusalem, the city/capital that I have chosen in it. Huge difference, wouldn’t you say? And this description of Jerusalem is used throughout Jerome’s translation. The Jerusalem of the Old Testament became the city in Palestine because Jerome made it so.”
“This is crazy, Alfred. Nobody’s going to buy any of it.”
“It’s not necessary that anyone buy it. Once the proof is found, there will be no denying.”
“Like what?”
“An Old Testament manuscript penned before Christ should be definitive. Then we can read the words without the Christian filter.”
“I wish you luck.”
“Tell you what. I’ll leave the governing of America to you and you leave this to me.”
Thorvaldsen watched as Hermann replaced the sheets into the display case and closed the compartment. The two men lingered for a few minutes, then left the library. The hour was late, but he wasn’t sleepy.
“They’re going to kill the president,” Gary said nervously.
“I know. Come, we need to leave.”
They descended the spiral staircase.
Lamps still burned in the library. He recalled how Hermann liked to boast that there were some twenty-five thousand books, many first editions dating back hundreds of years.
He led Gary to the case containing the codex. The boy hadn’t seen what he had. He reached beneath and searched for a switch, but felt nothing. Bending down would be difficult. One of the handicaps of a crooked spine.
“What are you looking for?” Gary asked.
“There’s a way to open this case. Have a look and see if there’s a button underneath.”
Gary dropped to his knees and searched.
“I doubt if it will be obvious.” He alternated his attention from the case to the door, hoping no one came inside. “Anything?”
A click, and the case separated slightly about one-third of the way down its length.
Gary stood. “One of the screws. Pretty neat. Unless you poke it, you’d never know.”
“Good job.”
He revealed the hidden compartment and saw the stiff sheets of papyrus with writing from edge to edge. He counted. Nine. He stared around at the bookshelves and spied some oversized atlases. He pointed, “Bring me one of those large books.”
Gary retrieved a volume. Carefully he slid the papyri and translations into the pages to both conceal and protect them.
He reclosed the case.
“What are those?” Gary asked.
“What we came for, I hope.”
SIXTY-FOUR
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 7
9:15 AM
Malone leaned back against the bulkhead in the cavernous C130H transport. Brent Green had worked fast, hitching them a ride on an air force supply flight out of England bound for Afghanistan. A stop in Lisbon at the Montijo Air Base, supposedly for a minor repair, had allowed them to board with little fanfare. A change of clothes had awaited them; Malone, Pam, and McCollum now sported army combat uniforms in varying shades of beige, green, and brown, along with desert boots and parachutes. Pam had been apprehensive about the chute, but accepted his explanation that it was standard equipment.
The flight time from Lisbon to the Sinai was eight hours and he’d managed a little sleep. He recalled with no affection other flights on other transports, and the pall of oily jet fuel that hung in the air brought back memories of when he was younger. Staying away far more than being home. Making mistakes that hurt him even now.
Pam had clearly not liked the first three hours of the flight. Understandable, given that comfort was the least of the air force’s concerns. But finally she’d settled down and fallen asleep.
McCollum was another matter.
He’d seemed right at home, donning his parachute with expert precision. Perhaps he was ex–special forces. Malone hadn’t heard from Green as to McCollum’s background. But whatever was learned would soon be of little consequence. They were about to be out of touch, in the middle of nowhere.
He stared out the window.
Dusty, barren soil stretched in every direction, an irregular tableland, tilting ever upward as the Sinai Peninsula narrowed and erupted into craggy brown, gray, and red granite mountains. The Burning Bush and the theophany of Jehovah all supposedly occurred down there. The great and terrible wilderness of Exodus. Monks and hermits for centuries had chosen it as their refuge, as if being alone brought them closer to heaven. Perhaps it did. He was curiously reminded of Sartre’s Huis Clos vision.
Hell is other people.
He turned from the window and watched McCollum leave the loadmaster and walk toward him, taking a seat on the aluminum frame that stretched across the bulkhead. Pam lay ten feet away, on the opposite side, still sleeping. Malone was eating one of the meals ready to eat—beefsteak with mushrooms—and drinking bottled water.
“You eat?” he asked McCollum.
“While you were sleeping. Chicken fajitas. Not bad. I remember MREs all too well.”
“You do look at home.”
“Been here, done this.”
They’d both removed their earplugs, which provided only minor insulation from the constant drone of the engines. The aircraft was loaded with pallets of vehicle parts destined for Afghanistan. Malone imagined that there were many similar flights each week. Where once supply routes depended on horses, wagons, and trucks, now the sky and sea offered the fastest and safest routes.
“You look like you’ve been here, too,” McCollum said.
“Does bring back some things.”
He was watching his words. Didn’t matter that McCollum had helped get them out of Belém in one piece. He remained an unknown. And he killed with expert precision and no remorse. His redeeming quality? He held the hero’s quest.
“You’ve got some pretty good connections,” McCollum said. “The attorney general himself arranged this?”
“I do have friends.”
“You’re either CIA, military intelligence, or something along that line.”
“None of the above. I’m actually retired.”
McCollum chuckled. “You keep that story. I like it. Retired. Right. You’re up to your eyeballs in something.”
He finished the meal and noticed the loadmaster eyeing him. He recalled that they could get touchy as to how MREs were trashed. The man motioned and Malone understood. The container at the far end of the bench.
The loadmaster then flashed his open palm four times.
Twenty minutes.
He nodded.
SIXTY-FIVE
VIENNA
8:30 AM
Morning was free time for the members, as the next gathering of the Assembly was not scheduled until late afternoon. He’d kept the parchments inside the atlas beneath his bed all night. Now he was anxious to learn more. Though he could read Latin, his Greek was minimal, and his knowledge of Old Greek, which surely would be the language of Jerome and Augustine, was nonexistent. He was thankful that Hermann had commissioned the translations.
Gary sat across from him in another chair. “You said last night these may be what we came for.”
He decided the boy deserved the truth. “You were kidnapped so as to force your father to find something he hid away years ago. I think that and these papers are linked.”
“What are they?”
“Letters between two learned men. Augustine and Jerome. They lived in the fourth and fifth centuries and helped formulate the Christian religion.”
“History. I’m starting to like it and all, but there’s so much to it.”
Henrik smiled. “And the problem today is we have so few documents from that time. Wars, politics, time, and abuse have devastated the record. But here are writings straight from the minds of two learned men.”
He knew something about both. Augustine was born in Africa to a Christian mother and a pagan father. Eventually, as an adult, he converted to Christianity and recorded his youthful excesses in The Confessions, a book Thorvaldsen knew was still required reading at most universities. He became the bishop of Hippo, an intellectual leader of African Catholicism, and a powerful advocate for orthodoxy; he was credited with formulating much of the church’s early thinking.