by Paul L Maier
Reaching into the suite’s mini refrigerator that was stocked full of overpriced goodies, Jon pulled out several mini bottles of cabernet and poured glasses for all who wished. “You’ll recall that there was an unfortunate accident with our original bottle,” he added, trying hard to add a bit of levity to the general mood that had all the gaiety of a seance in Transylvania.
Again the phone rang. It was Morton Dillingham of the CIA. After several remarks in the I-told-you-so category, his comments quickly focused on a predictable theme. “Now, how are we going to get you out of there?”
“But we’re not ready to go back yet,” Jon advised.
“So here’s what we’ve arranged,” Dillingham continued, brushing off Jon’s comments as those of a madman. “We’re text messaging your homeward itinerary, flights, and times over our high-security line, since we don’t trust the phones-”
Jon chose his words carefully. “With all due respect, Mr. Dillingham-and with gratitude for all your efforts on our behalf-Shannon and I have no intention of leaving Istanbul for at least a week.”
A long silence ensued. “Are you out of your mind?” Dillingham finally responded.
“Ordinarily, we’d be glad to go, but something of phenomenal importance has just come up here that we simply have to deal with. It’ll require about a week-well, maybe only five days-after which we’ll be delighted to have you arrange our transportation.”
“Nothing could be that important, sir!”
“Oh, but it is.”
“More important than your life? And that of your wife?”
Jon pondered for a moment, then replied, “Yes… that’s exactly the case.”
Dillingham lost all control of his tongue, blurting out, “ Listen , Weber, whatever your ding-dong, dad-blasted reason may be, we’re sick and tired of tryin’ to keep you outta trouble when all you do is go out of your dag-blamed way to find trouble! You don’t stay in touch; you don’t follow the rules-what are you, some kind of suicidal jerk? Hey, maybe we should just wash our hands of you and let the terrorists use your blessed body for target practice! Yeah, that’d be a lot less expensive for us, and never mind that you’d be toast!”
Jon cringed but made no reply. Better to let Dillingham’s steam get vented.
Finally Dillingham cleared his throat. “Well… sorry, Dr. Weber. That was… that was rather unprofessional of me.”
“No apologies necessary, Mr. Dillingham. I realize I’ve been an exasperating case for all of you. I’m very sorry about that.”
Dillingham sighed. “Don’t mention it. I still feel bad about how I blew off. Let me try to show you that I’m not some pompous federal idiot. And please call me Mort rather than Mr. Dillingham, all right?”
“Fine-if you call me Jon.”
“All right, then. But what detains you, Jon? What’s so blasted important?”
“It involves a manuscript…”
“A manuscript, you say? What sort of manuscript?”
“Awfully sorry, but that’s all I can say at this point.”
Dillingham released another sigh of frustration. Then he said softly, “One last time, Jon; if they don’t catch the gunman, he’ll try again. And there may well be more than one out there. After that debate today, you’re not exactly a hero in the Muslim world.”
As Jon pondered the point, Dillingham asked again, “So-this manuscript of yours-is it really worth your life?”
“It really is, Mr. Dill-er, Mort. You’ll understand when I can finally explain it all.”
After a few moments of silence, Dillingham finally said, “Well… have it your way, then. We’ll postpone your return arrangements for exactly one week. But only if you follow the added security measures I’m going to text message to our people.”
“We’ll do exactly that… Mort.”
When he hung up, Shannon observed, “Sounds like you were speaking for both of us, Jon.”
“Uh-oh, you’re right.” Jon looked at her. For a time, the room was silent. Then he asked, “Do you really want us to go back immediately?”
“Yes, I’d really want to- if we hadn’t come across that manuscript!”
Relief washing over him, Jon gave her a big hug. Ferris and al-Ghazali wanted to know all about “that manuscript,” whatever it was.
Swearing them all to total secrecy, Jon and Shannon launched into the story for the second time that evening, Kevin Sullivan adding further comment with the sort of enthusiasm only the Irish can generate. The Vatican ace didn’t even have to change his plans for the flight back to Rome the next morning. He rather served as guinea pig for the escape route from the hotel that Jon and Shannon would use on a daily basis that week.
Several hours after Sullivan’s jet had left Turkish airspace, Jon, Shannon, and their security took the service elevator down to the Hilton’s basement parking garage. They climbed into a special Citroen that looked like a surviving specimen from the 1970s, but in fact had armor-plated sides and bulletproof glass. Anyone peering inside would have seen not the Webers but a Turkish couple, the husband with tanned skin and Muslim headdress and the woman veiled. The cars preceding and following them were equally nondescript, but they all had a common destination: the Eastern Orthodox Patriarchate.
Inevitably, Patriarch Bartholomew invited Jon and Shannon to a celebratory breakfast. The churchman was overflowing with appreciation for Jon’s defense of the faith, which he thought an inspiration for all Christians living in Muslim lands, particularly for those in Turkey. Jon, in turn, thanked him in advance for editing the Greek translation of the debate for both the DVD and print versions. After a final coffee, Jon explained that-with the patriarch’s kind permission and that of Brother Gregorios-they wished to finish their research in the archives, which might take several days.
“Certainly, dear professor,” the patriarch agreed. “And do let me know if you find anything of… of particular interest.”
Of particular interest? Jon mused. How about a manuscript codex that will become one of the great landmarks of biblical research? But for now, he simply agreed.
Brother Gregorios readmitted them to the patriarchate’s geniza, though Shannon preferred to call it the “Manuscript Retirement Home.” He stood in the doorway for a minute or two but then generously returned to his own duties. Jon’s pulse was at a swift gallop as they made their way to the southwestern corner of the room. There it was-the ancient bookcase… and its bottom row of dilapidated materials… and the Constantine Codex.
Wordlessly, and almost worshipfully, Jon put down his attache case that was crammed with photographic equipment and, with exquisite care, lifted the volume off the shelf. Then he opened it with a gentleness he usually reserved for Shannon.
For her part, Shannon opened her own case, which contained several photo lights-including ultraviolet and infrared-spare batteries, 6.0 gigabyte flash drives, filters, and dozens of 35mm film canisters-yes, film, since they would photograph each page both digitally and via film emulsion. A random static electric charge could destroy the memory cards if they went only the digital route or if they were, say, hit by lightning. “We would die, of course, but the film would most probably survive,” Jon had explained, helpfully.
Both put on white cotton gloves to prevent any of their skin oils from touching the vellum of the codex. Gently they opened the tome and, for the first time, were able to examine material beyond the title page in some detail.
“Incredible, Shannon!” Jon exclaimed. “Just look at that magnificent writing-it’s biblical uncial-just like the Sinaiticus and Vaticanus. And four columns per page versus three in the Vaticanus.”
Shannon shook her head in awe. “It’s stunning, absolutely stunning . And ancient, all right; look at all those words run together. I still wonder why they didn’t have enough sense to separate words in the early documents.”
“It’s called scriptio continua. And it’s the same with the Greek and Latin you find on most of the monuments in the ancient Mediterranean worl
d. Actually, it was the Hebrews who had the great idea of separating words.”
Jon turned on his mini tape recorder and dictated. “September 4: In what we term the geniza -the decaying manuscript repository of the Eastern Orthodox Patriarchate in Istanbul-we are examining an extraordinary document, a codex with pages of vellum sewn together inside a front cover of thin wooden board layered over with thick dark tan vellum. The back cover is missing. This codex is most probably one of the fifty commissioned by Constantine late in his career and prepared by Eusebius. It is written with a very fine hand on leaves of vellum parchment-probably antelope or donkey skin, I think. Each page is about-” he pulled out a pocket tape measure-“about thirty-eight centimeters wide by… thirty-five high-similar to the Sinaiticus. There are four carefully justified columns per page, with slight variations in the lengths at the end of each line. There are about… twelve to… fourteen Greek letters in beautiful biblical uncials in each line, without serifs or any adornments. The lettering seems very similar to that of the Sinaiticus in the British Library in London-hence early fourth century. This accords very well with statements on the title page.”
They now carried the precious codex over to a table nearby, where they would carefully photograph each page. First, they had to see how many pages there were and which biblical books were included-or excluded. Again Jon pressed the Talk button on his recorder.
“The title page was found almost separated from the rest of the material but still joined at the highest sewn stitching. I suspect that the missing back cover is the reason this codex landed in the geniza. The page of material following the title page begins: “TO
KATA MATHAION AGION EYAGGELION.”
“The Holy Gospel According to Matthew,” Shannon whispered. Jon heard the emotion in her voice, which echoed his own.
Shifting the heavy pages of the large codex from right to left with extreme care-almost as if they were a volatile mix of nitroglycerin threatening to explode-Jon came to the last page, which had only two columns and ended with a postscript: APOCALLYPSIS IOANNOU
TOU THEOLOGOU
“The Apocalypse of John the Theologian,” Shannon again translated. “That’s the book of Revelation! We probably have the whole New Testament here, Jon!”
Jon nodded, eyes momentarily closed, breathing a prayer of thanks to God for having permitted such a discovery as this. Wiping his eyes, Jon had a catch in his voice as he said, “First we should survey the whole document. Only then the photography.”
Now began the painstaking process of paging through the codex. The plan was easy, the accomplishment difficult. Time and less-than-ideal storage conditions over its probable seventeen-hundred-year history had apparently glued some of the pages together, likely due to excess humidity. These they would have to deal with on the morrow, but as they paged through the accessible text, their excitement was only compounded, because Kata Mathaion was followed by Kata Markon, next Kata Loukan, and then Kata Ioannen -Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John-the same order of the Gospels as in all later versions of the New Testament.
Nay, more. In turn followed Acts, Romans, 1 and 2 Corinthians, and the rest of the Pauline corpus, the general epistles of James and Peter-virtually the same order of canonical books that appeared in contemporary Bibles. This was beyond all expectation, since the great Sinaiticus, while it also had all of these books, included the apocryphal Epistle of Barnabas and the Shepherd of Hermas too.
“I counted 151 pages, Jon. And you?”
“The same. Exactly.”
“You say this is vellum. So how many animal hides do you think were necessary to create this codex? A dozen or two?”
Jon thought for a moment, then replied, “No, more like eighty or ninety animals had to die for this codex-and that’s just for our New Testament segment here.”
“Incredible! Don’t tell the SPCA about this!”
“Sad, but true. It’s been estimated that the cost of one of these codices was a laborer’s lifetime earnings. That’s why they used papyrus instead of parchment as much as possible for biblical manuscripts. But even a papyrus scroll was expensive-not because of the material cost-reeds are cheaper than animals-but the huge effort in copying.”
Shannon nodded. “And that’s one reason, I suppose, that each of the Gospels is comparatively short.”
“Exactly. The early church had very limited resources.”
To test their equipment and the lighting, they took a small number of photographs in both digital and film. Then they carefully lifted the tome off the table and replaced it on the basement shelf.
They called it a day-but what a day! On the drive back to the Hilton, they said very little-both caught in the wonderment of their discovery.
When Ferris and al-Ghazali invaded their suite that evening, they brought a huge sheaf of media reports on world reaction to the debate. Predictably, most Western reviews in the print and broadcast media were “categorically certain” that Jon had won the debate, while reports from the Islamic world claimed victory for Abbas al-Rashid. Pleasant, though, were the reactions from neutral and Third World countries, which clearly gave the nod to Jon.
All remaining meals in Istanbul would be catered to their suite, according to the new arrangements, and Morton Dillingham phoned them periodically with further security plans. At ten o’clock that night, however, came a most welcome telephonic interruption. It was Adnan Yilmaz with news that the would-be assassin had been arrested. He turned out to be the brother of the student hothead from Bodrum who had cursed Jon rather vocally inside Hagia Sophia. Both militants had driven to Istanbul in a VW microbus well stocked with hate-America pamphlets, as well as assorted fireworks that included eight pipe bombs, four pistols, five rifles, and enough ammunition to supply this arsenal. Under separate interrogation, the brothers implicated no one else and proudly claimed to be “the only men in Turkey who served Allah properly.”
For some time, the conversation in their suite centered on how the shooter could have known Jon was staying at the Hilton or where they would have dinner that night.
“That’s really no mystery,” Ferris opined. “With all the press hanging around the entrance to the Hilton, it was pretty obvious. I think Hurriyet even wrote that you were staying here.”
“Yes, but that kid was just a little too bright, figuring that we’d also be dining at the hotel restaurant. I wonder if he was tipped off…”
While they pondered that possibility, Jon suddenly slammed his fist on the table. “No, he wasn’t. It just came to me. I noticed that during his tirade, the hothead was standing at the aisle of the ninth or tenth row at Hagia Sophia on the Islamic side. And who was sitting directly opposite him on the Christian side? Kevin Sullivan! When the debate resumed, I had asked Kevin to come to the Hilton for dinner. The shooter, the brother of the loudmouth, must have been sitting next to him and overheard.”
That was plausible, even probable, and a welcome blanket of relief seemed to descend on everyone, especially when Yilmaz called again to say that both brothers would be in prison for weeks before they were even arraigned in Turkish courts.
Dick Ferris, however, wondered why Jon and Shannon were not more enthusiastic about the debate triumph or more relieved that the would-be assassin and his brother had been caught and that theirs seemed to be a solo operation. “Do you have something else on your minds?” he asked.
Jon just smiled at him. Of course, the men knew what Jon and Shannon had been up to, but he was not going to divulge any more information than was absolutely necessary at this point.
When everyone had left that night, Jon and Shannon transferred the photos they had taken of the codex onto Jon’s laptop. When they appeared on screen, he had no trouble enhancing the images using only the contrast control of his favorite photo program.
“Great!” he commented. “These will print out with razor-sharp clarity.”
“But what about the pages that are stuck together?”
“Yeah, I’ve been worried ab
out that. Tomorrow let’s use something as simple as steam. If that doesn’t work, then we simply have to declare our find to the patriarch, and he’ll have to bring in a team of his own museum restoration people. But I’d hate to have to do that before we know what’s actually in the text of the codex. Still, we dare not destroy a single line-a single word-so if steam doesn’t work, we’ll photograph the rest of the codex and then let Bartholomew in on the greatest manuscript find of the twenty-first century.” He grinned at her. “Or am I exaggerating?”
“Probably not, provided it’s authentic.”
“I know, Shannon. We’ve been duped before. But not this time. No one on earth could ever have managed to forge all that.”
She nodded. “That, and its totally accidental discovery. No wonder you had your mind on this rather than the debate, my darling.”
Her use of such a tender term in the context of cold scholarly research added sudden, renewed warmth to their relationship. That, combined with their natural elation over the codex was all they needed to call it a night. There simply was nothing like love to banish all concern and restore the soul.
En route to the patriarchate the next morning, Jon and Shannon’s security escorts maintained the same dispassionate silence they had observed from the start, never bothering to ask why they were making this daily trip as Jon surely thought they would. Real professionalism, he thought. They raised no questions even when Jon asked the driver to stop at a hardware store, where he purchased a hot plate, a teakettle, some flexible tubing, a hose clamp, a screwdriver, a roll of paper towels, and a long extension cord. Somehow, he managed to pack it all into Shannon’s tote bag so that when they arrived at the patriarchate, no curiosity was aroused. Again, Brother Gregorios admitted them into the geniza without asking any questions. But how long would that last?
When he had left them, Jon searched for an electrical outlet. It was maddening; he could find none. And why would you need one in a manuscript morgue in the first place? He felt the same ugly frustration he had encountered at so many airports when the battery in his laptop was draining, but could he find an outlet at any of the gates? Evidently, the miserly masters of the aerodrome were afraid of losing three cents’ worth of electricity.