Virgin (15 page)

But the portly
dealer's manner had changed abruptly when one particular customer arrived.
Mahmoud greeted the German-speaking man warmly, ushered him to a secluded
corner where they spoke in whispers, then led him up a flight of stairs at the
rear of the store. That would be where the items of real value were stored,
Kesev decided.

During an
apparently casual perusal of the artifacts and rickety third-hand furniture
that passed for antiques, Kesev had surreptitiously surveyed the premises and
found no security device more sophisticated than a bell attached to the inside
of the front door.

Now, in the
shadowed recess of that front door, Kesev used a slim piece of plastic to slip
the latch on the rickety, post-World War II lock. Gently he eased the door open
a few inches, spit the gum into his palm, reached inside and used it to fix the
clapper to the side of the bell.

Once inside, he pulled a penlight from the folds of his jellaba
and wound his way among the dealer's wares to the stairs at the rear. He had
spent most of the evening mulling the best way to proceed from here. He'd heard
the squeaks and groans from the old wooden staircase as Mahmoud and his
customer had ascended this afternoon, so sneaking up was out. That left a more
direct approach.

Kesev switched the penlight to his left hand and pulled a
silenced Tokarev 9mm from his robe. Then he took a backward step and charged up
the stairs, taking them three at a time. He threw his shoulder against the
upper door and smashed through to the second floor. Days of watching had told
him that Mahmoud lived alone and slept in the room overlooking the street.
Kesev barreled straight ahead, burst into the room in time to find a very
startled and frightened Salah Mahmoud sitting up in bed, reaching into the top
drawer of his night table. Kesev kicked the drawer closed on the dealer's wrist
and jabbed the business end of the Tokarev against his throat as he began to
cry out.

"Not a
sound, Mr. Mahmoud," Kesev said softly in Arabic. "I have come to rob
you, not to kill you. But I am not adverse to doing both. Understand?"

Mahmoud nodded
vigorously, his jowls bulging and quivering under his chin, his eyes
threatening to jump from their sockets. He looked like a toad that had just
come face to face with the biggest snake it had ever seen.

"Wh-whatever
it is you want," Mahmoud said, "take it. Take it and go!"

"That's a
very good start."

Kesev allowed
him to remove his hand from the drawer. As the dealer cradled his injured wrist
in his lap, Kesev switched on the bedside lamp. He removed Mahmoud's snub-nose
.38 from the drawer and tossed it under the bed. Then he produced the scroll
he'd coerced from Tulla Szobel and dropped it on the sheet.

"I want
the original," Kesev said. Mahmoud stared at the scroll, then looked up.
"I don't know what you are talking about."

Kesev felt his
anger flare but controlled it. He forced himself to smile. It must have been a
disturbing grimace because Mahmoud flinched.

"Before I
came here," Kesev said evenly, "I decided I would allow you one lie.
That was it. Now that it's out of the way, you may answer truthfully. Where is
the original?" "I swear I don't know what you are talking
about." He struck the dealer a backhanded blow with the Tokarev.

Mahmoud fell on
his side, a mass of quaking blubber, moaning, clutching his cheek. Blood seeped
between his fingers.

Kesev's arm
rose to deliver another blow but he reined his fury and lowered the pistol.
Instead he grabbed the front of Mahmoud's nightshirt and pulled him close. He
turned the broad face so that they were nose to nose. He wanted the dealer to
look into his eyes, to see the fury there to feel the truth of what Kesev was
going to say.

"Listen to
me, Salah Mahmoud, and listen well. The original of that scroll was stolen from
me. I intend to retrieve what is mine, and for the past four years I have been
searching for it. You are merely the latest phase of that search. Now, you can
be a stepping stone or you can be a stumbling block. The choice is entirely
yours."

Mahmoud opened
his mouth to speak but Kesev pressed the barrel of the Tokarev's silencer
against his lips.

"But let
me warn you. I will not tolerate lies. This is extremely important to me and I
have already expended enormous time and effort in my search. I am out of
patience."

He pressed the
silencer more firmly against Mahmoud's mouth.

"This
pistol has a seven-shot clip loaded with 9mm hollow point bullets. Do you know
what a hollow point does after it enters the body? It breaks up into a thousand
tiny fragments. Each of those fragments continues forward, tearing through the
flesh in an expanding cone of destruction. The bullet enters through a little
hole and exits through a gaping maw. It is not a pretty thing, Salah
Mahmoud."

Sweat beaded
the dealer's forehead, dripping into his eyes.

"So . . .
here are the ground rules: I will ask questions and you will answer truthfully.
The first time I think you are lying I will shoot you in the left knee."
The dealer stiffened and shuddered.
"The second lie will earn you a bullet in
the right knee. The third in your right elbow, the fourth in your
left. The fifth bullet I will use on your manhood. By that
time I will have decided that you are either a pathological liar, or you really
don't know anything. I will then leave you. Alive. And you will spend the rest
of your days unable to walk, unable to use crutches or a wheelchair, unable to
feed yourself or wipe yourself, your urine running through a tube into bag
strapped to your leg. Is that what you want?"

Mahmoud shook
his head violently, spraying drops of perspiration in all directions.

"Good," Kesev said.

He straightened
and stepped back from the bed. He had no particular desire to shoot this man,
but he would do so. He had to retrieve that scroll.

He pointed to
the forged scroll on the bed.

"Now tell
me: When did you get this scroll?"

Mahmoud
hesitated. His nightshirt was soaked with sweat. His eyes darted about the
room, like a rabbit looking for a hole to run to.

Kesev worked
the slide to chamber a round.

"No!"
Mahmoud cried, trying to curl into a ball.

Kesev pulled
the trigger once. The Tokarev jerked and gave out a
phut!
as a bullet
tore into the mattress near the dealer's face.

Mahmoud thrust
out his hands amid the flying feathers and began to whimper. "Please don't
shoot me! I'll tell you! I'll tell you everything!"

Kesev lowered
the pistol a few degrees. "I'm waiting."

"I made
that scroll," Mahmoud said.

Kesev raised
the pistol again.

"It's
true!" the dealer cried. "I copied it myself from a crumbling
original!"

"Really.
And where did you find the original?"

"I-I
didn't. Two nephews of my father's uncle's brother discovered it in a cave in
the Wilderness. I don't know if it's true, but they claimed one of Saddam's
missiles uncovered it."

Now we're
getting somewhere.

Kesev felt
relief begin to seep through him, but he
resisted
it just as he'd resisted the rage. He could not let down his guard, not until
the scroll was safely back in his hands.

Mahmoud was
still talking, babbling, flooding the room with rapid-fire Egyptian-flavored
Arabic.

"Their
father brought their find to me: a written scroll that was heavily damaged--the
boys had been in a hurry and did not know how to care for it--and a sealed jar
with two unused scrolls within. I laid out the written scroll as best I could
and copied what was left of it onto the blank parchments." He shrugged,
almost apologetically. "I. . . I've done this before. I have formulae for
all the ancient inks. I was especially careful with the copying because 1 knew the
parchments would pass the dating test." His attempt at a smile was a
miserable failure. "I figured, why sell one scroll when I could sell
three?"

"Did you
read it? Did you understand it?" Kesev held his breath as he waited for
the answer.

"I tried.
But my Aramaic is rudimentary at best; there were words I could not translate.
And besides, the scroll was incomplete. Fragments were out of place and some
were missing completely. I reassembled them the best I could but--"

"Where is
that original now?"

"It . .
." His voice shrank to a whisper. "It's gone."

Sudden rage
crackled through Kesev's brain. He leaned forward and jammed the muzzle of the
silencer against Mahmoud's thigh.

"You
sold
it?"

"No-no! Please! It's gone! Whisked away into the air!"

"I warned
you about lying!"

"Please! I
swear by Allah! The wind took it! It happened in the back room, not ten meters
from here, just as I was finishing the first copy. Suddenly all the windows in
the building crashed inward and a blast of icy wind tore through the halls and
rooms. The winds seemed to gather in my workroom. They rattled my walls,
knocked me to the floor, and upset my worktable. The scroll fragments swirled
into
the air in a whirling column, then they
blew out the window and were gone."

Kesev's rage
cooled rapidly, chilled by the dealer's words. A wind . . . filling the halls
and rooms . . . stealing the fragments in a miniature whirlwind . . .

"You must
believe me!" Mahmoud wailed. "Every word is true!"

Kesev nodded
slowly, almost absently. The fat forger wasn't lying. He wouldn't make up
something so fantastic and try to pass it off as the truth.

And that meant
that the original scroll had been destroyed, reduced to scattered,
indecipherable bits of parchment . . . but not before it had been copied.

"How many
copies did you make?" Kesev asked finally. "Two," Mahmoud said.
"There were only two blank scrolls. I forged the second copy from the
first."

How many
scrolls had been in the sealed jar? Two
sounded
right but he couldn't be sure. He didn't remember.
Two copies: one here in Kesev's possession, and the other
in America. That thought would have panicked him if
he
hadn't known it had been branded a forgery.

He had a sense
that events were spinning out of control. An odd progression of incidents--the
errant SCUD, the theft of the scroll, the copies, the destruction of the
original. Especially unsettling was the last incident. An unnatural wind had
whirled the scroll fragments into oblivion, but only after they had been
copied.
After.
Unfortunate happenstance, or design? He sensed a power at
work, a deft hand moving behind the scenes. But what power? And to what end?

He had to stay on guard. The scroll in America was probably rolled
up and sealed in a glass case, just like Tulla Szobel's. A curio. Something to
be looked at but not touched. And besides, how many Americans knew Aramaic?
Highly unlikely that anyone would realize what it was about.

But something was happening. Once again he was overwhelmed by the
sensation of giant wheels turning, ready to crush him if he stepped the wrong
way.

Increased
vigilance was the key. He'd have to find a way to keep a closer watch on the
Resting Place. And be ready to deal swiftly and surely with any curious
Americans he found wandering in the area.

So here sit I, alone, a filthy cave for a home and only
locusts, wild honey, a few goats, and figs for sustenance. I who once dwelt in
luxury. Who once wore the striped blue sleeve and had free access to the
Temple.

I am alone and mad. And
sometimes I imagine I am not alone. Sometimes I see her walking. Sometimes she
speaks to me. But it isn't her. Only a fever-dream of my madness.

I pray that each day is
the Lat Day, but each day ends like the one before it. When will it end? Dear
Lord, when will you allow it to end for me?

from the Glass scroll

Rockefeller Museum translation

11

Manhattan

Dan awoke with
a start--bright light in his eyes and an excited voice in his ear.

"Dan! Wake
up! Wake
up!"

He blinked.
Carrie . . . leaning over him . . . dark hair falling about her face . . .
bright eyes wide with excitement. God, she was beautiful. She made him want to
sing though he knew damn well he couldn't carry a tune. How had he spent his
whole life without this woman--not any woman . . .
this
woman? Celibacy
was an unnatural state for a human being. He didn't care what the Church said,
he was a better person--a more compassionate, more understanding, more fully
rounded man--and therefore a better priest, because of Carrie.