The Second Messiah (20 page)

The others followed as Jack flicked on the flashlight and walked over to the oak doors. The ancient wood was split by wide cracks. A square view-hole in the door was protected by a metal grille, a bellpull next to it. Jack shone the powerful beam through one of the cracks and
saw
a lush courtyard garden beyond, silvered by lunar light, a stone fountain bubbling away.

Yasmin asked, “What do you see?”

“Take a look for yourself,” Jack answered.

“It looks deserted,” Yasmin said, peering inside, and then Josuf did the same.

“Let’s find out if anyone’s home.” Jack yanked the bellpull and a tinkle sounded somewhere in the darkness.

When no one appeared, he pulled the bell again until finally they heard echoing footsteps scurrying toward them. A bolt scraped, the view-hole opened, and Jack’s torch lit up the face of a young monk wearing a worn white habit. He said hoarsely in Arabic, “Yes? What do you want?”

“We’ve come to speak with one of your priests.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Jack Cane, and this is Yasmin Green and Josuf Bin Doha.”

The young monk frowned. “There is only one priest here: Father Novara. The rest are brother monks.”

“Then I guess it must be Father Novara we need to see. We have important business to discuss with him.”

The monk was reluctant. “What business?”

Jack said, “It’s private, for his ears only. If you could please tell the priest that we need to talk with him urgently.”

The monk glanced out warily at their pickup. “You must wait,” he answered, and closed the view-hole. They heard his footsteps fade away but they returned after a few minutes and the view-hole snapped opened again. This time it was a much older, gray-bearded monk wearing a white habit. He had a broad, intelligent-looking forehead and his face was full of strength, firm and pious. He spoke perfect English with no trace of an Italian accent. “I am Father Vincento Novara. What do you want here?”

Jack said, “It’s complicated, Father. But if you could spare us a little of your time we promise to explain everything.”

“You’re not Syrians. Where are you from?”

“We’ve traveled a long way to find you, Father. I’m American, Josuf here is Bedu, and—”

“I’m very sorry, but it’s late.” The priest interrupted impatiently. “And I am about to start evening prayers. Come back tomorrow.”

“Father—”

“Please respect my wishes.”

The priest turned to go, but Jack said, “I believe you’ve translated a number of ancient scrolls for certain Syrian friends of yours, Father.”

The monk’s jaw dropped in response. “Who—who told you this?”

“Let us in and I’ll explain everything. Otherwise, I’ll have to involve the police.”

The priest turned ashen. “Let me see some identification.”

They handed their passports through the grille and the priest’s face disappeared a few moments, but they saw his features illuminated by the flicker of an oil lamp as he scrutinized their documents. Father Novara frowned as if trying to make up his mind, then he fumbled for something. They heard a rattle of keys, a bolt was slid, and the gates opened into a beautiful stone-flagged courtyard, decorated in the Arab style, full of bubbling fountains and water features.

Father Novara stood there, a tough, gnarled little man with a powerful physique and a head too big for his body. His frayed white habit had a knotted cord at his waist from which hung a cross. He carried an oil lamp and a bunch of keys in his hand.

“It seems,” he said bleakly, “that we need to talk.”

FATHER NOVARA LED
them across the fountained courtyard, his habit flapping as he walked. They moved under a darkened archway and came to a solid wooden door. The priest held up the oil lamp as he ushered them through the door. “This way, please.”

They entered a room with whitewashed walls. A table and a couple of benches were set in the middle, the floor covered in worn stone slabs. Novara seemed uneasy as he closed the door.

Jack tried to draw him out. “You speak excellent English, Father.”

“I ought to, it’s my native tongue. Despite my surname I was born in England, of Italian parents. I studied archaeology and ancient languages at Cambridge many years ago, before I came here.”

“It seems an interesting old monastery.”

The priest shrugged as he used his lamp to light another that hung from a nail in the wall. “It was an Arab citadel until the ninth century before becoming a Catholic monastery, though nowadays there are only a few of us monks left. But that’s not what we’re here to discuss. Tell me exactly why you came.”

Jack said, “We’re interested in a couple of black-market Syrian dealers. One in particular, a man with a withered hand. He’s known to us as Pasha. I believe he’s a friend of yours.”

A muscle twitched in the priest’s cheek. “Who told you this?”

Jack said, “That really doesn’t matter. But we need to find him.”

The priest put a palm to his forehead as if in deep thought, and let it rest there a moment, his intelligent eyes studying each of his visitors in turn before his hand fell away and his gaze returned to Jack. “You are merely fishing for information, aren’t you? Trying to find out what
I
might know. But I really don’t know what you are talking about. You have been misled.”

Yasmin said, “I don’t think so, Father. We know that you’ve helped this man translate stolen Dead Sea parchments.”

Father Novara looked indignant. “That’s preposterous. A total lie. I helped no one do such a thing.”

“Maybe you’d like to reconsider, Father? Josuf’s brother once did business with the man, sold him ancient scrolls. He knows that you helped to translate them.”

The priest’s face muscle twitched again but he was steadfast. “He can say all he wants but I deny it.”

Jack took out his cell phone. “In that case, you won’t mind if we call the police.”

The priest was defiant as he held up their passports. “Perhaps you can tell them what three people with Israeli stamps on their passports are doing in Syria. Like me, I’m sure they’d be interested to know.”

Jack started to punch in numbers on his cell. “I think they’d be even more interested to know that you’re involved in a brutal homicide, don’t you, Father?”

“Homicide? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Jack stopped punching the keypad and fixed the priest with a stare. “Early this morning a man was stabbed to death at Qumran, in Israel. His name was Donald Green and he was in charge of an important archaeological dig. He was also my boss. A valuable scroll I unearthed was stolen during the murder. There’s an international police alert already under way to help solve the crime. But if you don’t want to help us, it might be better if you deal with the police. After all, you could be an accomplice to murder.”

Father Novara’s eyes widened, his confidence vaporized, and he grasped Jack’s wrist to prevent him using his cell phone. “No, please, wait. I’m an accomplice to nothing.”

Yasmin urged, “Father, we need your help to find these men.”

The priest nervously bit his lip, then moved to open the door. “I—I must ask permission from my abbot to talk further. Please wait here.”

“How long?”

“Five minutes, no more,” Novara said, and closed the door after him, his footsteps echoing out in the stone courtyard.

At the end of the courtyard Father Vincento Novara came to a winding granite staircase. Using his lamp to guide him he climbed up one floor. He was trembling, his legs barely able to carry him. He reached a landing with a stone archway. He stepped through and entered a large room with vaulted wooden ceilings that served as his private office.

Crammed with bookshelves, the room also held a simple wooden chair and desk set against one wall. Novara’s eyes were drawn to the desk, the wood shiny with age. On top lay a foot-long pinewood box. It was fitted with secure metal clamps that held a hinged lid in place. He stepped over to the box but paused beside the rows of bookshelves, stacked with leather-bound books and rolls of ancient parchments, some of them centuries old.

Novara knew those musty books and parchments as intimately as he knew his own life. His was a life dedicated to scholastic research ever since as a young priest he had studied to become an expert in ancient Aramaic and Hebrew documents. These were reference works to aid his research, and samples of ancient script that went back thousands of years.

Novara placed the oil lamp on the desk and felt a bead of sweat drip from his brow. He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and noticed that his hands trembled. Next to the pinewood box was a lab microscope and a magnifying glass with a cracked ivory handle. He anxiously licked his lips, released the metal clamps on the box, and lifted the hinged lid.

Inside was an unraveled, sepia-colored scroll.

Using scissors, he had cut out a pair of thin Perspex sheets, which now sandwiched the scroll for protection. Some portions of the parchment were worn and patched with holes, but it was still in reasonably good condition and most of it legible.

He had translated so many manuscripts in his lifetime, but in truth
none
was as intriguing as this ancient scroll that he had finished translating an hour ago. It was truly astonishing.

But then so was the arrival of his three visitors.

Novara closed the pinewood lid and snapped shut the clamps. He moved across the room to another door, opened it, and climbed some stone steps onto a large roof battlement. He lifted his habit, removed a Siemens cell phone, and flicked it open. Twenty feet away was a miniature satellite dish to ensure that he always had a signal. And up here on the roof the signal strength was best. Novara punched the cell phone keypad and called the number in Damascus.

8:32
P.M.

“FATHER NOVARA SEEMS
to be taking a long time.” Jack stepped over to the door and listened.

Yasmin said, “Tell me more about these collectors who buy ancient artifacts. What do you know about them?”

“They’re usually wealthy individuals who get a kick out of possessing rare and precious artifacts all to themselves. Some pay millions for the privilege. And they couldn’t care less if the artifact’s been stolen because no one’s ever going to see it except them. That’s what gives them their big thrill.”

“Do you know of any collectors who might want your scroll?”

“I’m sure there are lots.” Jack turned to listen at the door again. “There’s not a sound out there. I wonder where the heck Novara’s got to.”

Yasmin said, “Do you ever get a chill on the back of your neck when something isn’t quite right? I get the same feeling about Novara.”

Jack nodded. “You might be right. I wouldn’t count on him telling us the truth either. I think he may know a lot more than he’s saying.”

Josuf said, “Maybe I should get my knife from the pickup?”

Yasmin said, “Why?”

“To loosen the priest’s tongue.”

Jack moved to the door, opened it a crack, and listened. “No, stay here, Josuf. Take care of Yasmin.”

“Why, where are you going?” Yasmin asked.

Jack stepped out into the deserted courtyard. “To take a look around for Novara.”

Jack walked to the end of the courtyard. The monastery appeared deserted, the only sound his own echoing footsteps and gurgling water from the fountain. Overhead, stars burned silver in the desert night, the air clammy.

He came to a granite staircase that wound upward into darkness. He peered up, listened, but heard nothing. He moved up the staircase, pressing his hands to the side of the smooth stone walls to keep his balance, and came out into an enormous, sparsely furnished chamber.

The room looked to be a private study or office, an oak door at the end. The air had a dank smell. A crucifix was nailed high into one of the bare stone walls. He approached a wooden chair and desk set against a wall. On top lay a pinewood box.

Jack startled when he thought he heard a faint voice in the distance. He listened again. Silence, except for the faint creaking of the floor-boards.

Nearby, a long row of wooden shelves sagged under the weight of leather-bound books and rolls of withering parchments. Some were obviously many centuries old. Below the shelves, a clutch of what appeared to be parchment scrolls were laid out on a broad table, each under a sheet of Perspex.