Chase Baker and the Seventh Seal (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 9) (4 page)

Her hand still pressing against my shoulder, she says, “I’ll tell you a little secret, Mr. Baker. Cross just thinks the world of you. He sees you as so adventurous and worldly and talented. Like the Most Interesting Man in the World on those Mexican beer commercials. A real Renaissance man if there ever was one. Everything he would like to be.”

She slips her hand off while I look her in the eye.

“Let’s hope that what I’ve brought him is the real thing.”

“I’m sure it is,” she says. Then, winking before leaning in toward me, so close I can smell her lavender scent. “I happen to fancy the adventurous type myself,” she whispers. Pulling slowly back, she moves on past me toward the back office.

Half a day ago, I was fighting for my life inside a train car speeding through the Austrian Alps. Now, I’m being touted as the next best thing since Guttenberg press. I guess I can chalk it all up to a day’s work for Chase Baker — Renaissance man and lover.

Cross’ back office also doubles as a secondary bookshop, stuffed with volumes too rare and, in some cases, too priceless to be housed on the general floor. The room is rectangular with windows at the far end protected from intruders by vertical iron bars. A mahogany desk that surely cost more than my apartment is set in front of the window. To my right is a fireplace that looks like it still works. Two leather chairs have been placed in front of it. To my left, the wall is covered in floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Hung in the center of the bookcases is an old oil painting of a white-bearded man wearing a black suit and old-fashioned collar and tie.

I find myself drawn to the man.

“That’s the original shop owner,” Cross says. “Man by the name of . . . get this . . . Herbert Lepenhagen. Started the store just after the end of the First World War. Brought over dozens of volumes from Germany including one of the original King James volumes dating back to 1613.” He elbows me. “You wanna see it?”

My pulse picks up. Just like it always does at the mere mention of precious antiquities.

“You gotta ask?” I say.

“Right on,” Cross says. “But first, let’s see what you’ve brought me.” Then, to his attractive helper. “Yo, Mag, why don’t you open up a bottle of champagne?”

I’m a little surprised to see that Magda knows the place so well. I’ve been working with Cross on and off for a number of weeks, and I’ve never met her until now. I guess I must have missed her whenever I came to the shop. She shuffles over to the far inside corner of the room where a small refrigerator is attached to a larger bar. She opens the fridge, pulls out one of the dozen or so chilled bottles inside.

Pulling off the leather bag, I carry it to a long table that’s set up behind the two chairs, set it down. Unlatching the two belts that secure the bag flap, I carefully pull out the old leather sheath, and set that down beside the bag.

“Cross,” I say, “maybe you should do the honors.”

You can practically feel the excitement oozing out of his pours. Digging into his jeans pocket, he comes back out with a pair of white gloves and slips them on. Carefully opening the satchel flap so that the dry leather doesn’t break, he reaches inside and delicately pulls out a stack of papers that also includes carbon copies.

He takes a step back to read the title on the very top page.

The Feast
, by Ernest Hemingway is clearly visible.  

There’s some handwriting on the top of the page. It’s very faded but legible. It reads,
Maybe new title. Bitch of a novel so far. Rewrite like a son of a bitch
.

Cross reads the handwriting aloud. Then, “Sounds like something Ernest Hemingway would write. Hang on.” He goes to his desk, pulls something off the desktop. It’s one of those telescopic monocle devices that looks like a shot glass and enlarges the print by maybe one hundred times. Or is it one thousand? Anyway, it’s probably an instrument Mr. Lepenhagen would recognize.

He places the device to his eye then, bending over, places the bottom of it onto the handwriting. When he straightens back up, he exhales.

“No doubt in my mind,” he says. “What we have here is genuine. Hemingway’s lost manuscripts.”

“How can you tell?”

“The handwriting, the aging of the pencil, and this.”

He hands me the shot glass. I put it to my right eye and lean over the manuscript. He directs me with his index finger precisely where to place it, which is directly above the word “The.”

“You see the typescript?” he says.

“Yah,” I say. “So what?”

“That’s a 1921 Remington portable, the exact make of typewriter Papa was using at the time. What’s more, the paper, judging by its stitching, is most definitely the same stock and make as that he was using on the cheap while living in a cold water flat on the Left Bank in Paris. But you know what the real convincer it, Chase?”

“What’s that?” I ask, standing up straight.

“At the time Hemingway was writing these stories, he was living above a sawmill. Guess what exists in trace amounts on the paper.”

I feel myself smiling as the answer slaps me upside the head with all the force of a Hemingway uppercut.

“Sawdust,” I say.

He makes a fist, holds it out.

“Give me the rock, mofo,” he says.

I punch his fist. At the same time, I must admit, Cross might look like a college ne'er-do-well, but he’s a freaking genius. 

Carefully, he begins to sift through the pile. By the time he’s done, the table is filled with one partial novel, seven short stories, ten vignettes like the kind that would appear in the master’s
In Our Time
collection, plus their carbons.

“Magda, yo,” he says, tears visible in his eyes, “how’s that champagne?”

She carries it over to the desk, pours three glasses.

Cross raises his glass.

“To the literary find of the century,” he says.

We drink. I consider telling him about Vanessa, the woman who fought me almost to the death while attempting to steal the precious material from me. An act of desperation which, in itself, should have indicated the manuscripts’ authenticity. But then I think to myself,
why ruin the moment for the rich young hipster?

I set my empty glass down on the edge of the desk.

“Cross,” I say, “it’s been a pleasure. You’ve got my bank information. Pay me whenever you want. But for now, I’m going to head back to my apartment and grab some much-needed sleep.” Turning my attention to Magda. “It’s also been a pleasure meeting you. Maybe we can meet for a coffee one afternoon if you’re free?”

Chase the slick.

She smiles warmly. “I would very much like that. In fact, I’m giving a lecture this evening at the NYU auditorium on the science behind Jesus’ crucifixion. Why don’t you stop by.”

“I’ll definitely try,” I say on the outside. But on the inside I’m screaming
“I’ll be there!”

Turning, I take one more glance at Hemingway’s legendary, long lost writing, and I find it incredible to believe that I played a part in its recovery. Of course, I nearly got my brains blown out in the process.

Sawdust. Well, I’ll be damned . . .

I make my way to the door. Before I get to it, Cross calls out for me once more.

“Chase,” he says.

Me, turning. “What is it?”

“You can’t leave yet.”

“And why’s that, mofo?”

“Because, I’ve got another job for you.”

The look on his face is more serious than a coronary. It raises the fine hairs on my neck.

“What sort of job?” I ask.

“It makes your last job look like child’s play.”

Hemingway’s long lost manuscripts child’s play . . .

“How so?”

“A rare book. In fact, a series of rare books. So rare and ancient, they’re rediscovery just might alter the course of Christianity and the Judeo-Christian future as we know it.”

Mouth goes dry. I try to swallow, but it takes a great effort.  “What exactly are we talking about, Cross?”

“The lost Bible codices, Chase,” he says. “The books of the Seventh Seal.”

For a long moment, we stand silent inside the office while, outside the window, the sound of New York City traffic fills the void. I glance at Mr. Lepenhagen. Maybe he’ll clear his throat and shatter the quiet.

“Think I’d better stay for another glass of champagne,” I say, breaking quiet on my own.

“Good idea,” Cross says.

CHAPTER 8

It takes the consumption of one entire bottle of champagne for Cross to explain the details of the assignment.

Here’s the short of it: Several years ago, it was announced that seven metal books were uncovered in a cave in a remote part of Jordan. The area is the same place Christian refugees were known to have fled to after the fall of Jerusalem in 70 AD by Titus’s Roman legions. According to Cross, the books are said to not only be the biggest find since the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls in 1947, but they also stand the chance of being bigger.

“What exactly are these seven codices or books?” I ask. “What do they look like?”

Cross digs in his pocket for his wallet. He opens it, slips out a credit card. An Amex.

“From what I’m told, the pages are no bigger than a credit card. There are images, symbols, and words embossed on them.”

“What symbols?” I say.

Magda takes a step forward, her smartphone in hand. She holds it out for me, the digital screen bearing a photo of what appears at first glance to be a tin or metal plate that has browned and rusted over time. There’s something that looks like a tree embossed on it. But the more I look at it, it takes the shape of a cross.

“You have to use your imagination a little, Chase,” she says, lowering the phone, “but the symbols described on the plate are that of the early Christian cross. It’s possible there are scenes of the crucifixion and the resurrection.”

Cross’ eyes light up.

“There’s even speculation that the word ‘Messiah’ appears several times on the plates. Plus, a detailed map of first century Jerusalem.” Digging in his pocket for his e-cig device which he flicks on and holds up to his lips. “But what’s incredible is that the scene of the crucifixion, if it does indeed exist, could very well be depicted by a firsthand witness to the event. It’s almost like finding out that a photographer was present. That’s crazy stuff, yo.”

I try to wrap my head around what they’re telling me. What amounts to a secret Bible has been discovered in the Middle East. If authentic, it contains visual proof of the historical Jesus, His crucifixion, and possibly even His resurrection. But then, so does the traditional Bible. The New Testament, anyway. So, what is it that they’re not telling me? What’s the big mystery that would make Cross come to the conclusion that the metal books are something that could alter the face of Judeo-Christianity as we know it?

It’s exactly how I put it to Cross and Magda.

He inhales on the vaping device, exhales a stream of blue steam, his demeanor noticeably more relaxed with the sudden injection of nicotine. He turns to Magda.

“Let’s open the safe,” he says.

“Herbie,” she says, crossing the room and positioning herself directly before the portrait of Herbert Lepenhagen. 

Cross goes to the opposite side of the room, takes his place beside Magda, grabs hold of the gold gilded painting frame, pulls it open on its set of hidden hinges revealing a large safe. The safe is equipped with an old fashioned style dial opener. Cross cups his hand around it, spins it to a fro several times in a specific series of numbers. Immediately after landing on the final number, I make out the sound of lock tumblers dropping. He twists the latch open with his opposite hand and reveals the safe’s interior.

I’m standing a few feet away, but I can make out several volumes, plus stacks of cash, a semi-automatic (a 9mm by the looks of it), and something else too. A Bible. A very big, old Bible.

Once more, placing the white gloves over his hands, he reaches in and grabs hold of the Bible, carries it with him over to the table where the Hemingway manuscripts are laid out. Magda and I follow.

“This is the old St. James Bible I told you about,” he says, opening the book with tender loving care to Revelations. He waves his hand over his shoulder. “Come closer.”

I do.

Using his finger as a pointer, he says, “What do you see here? Read it for me.”

I look down at the passage. It’s beautifully scrawled in calligraphy. But the
olde
English words elude my twenty-first century sensibilities.

“Looks like Greek to me, Cross,” I say.

Magda giggles.

“Oh yeah,” he says, grinning. “Not having been schooled in ancient languages and old English you might be more lost than Hansel and Gretel. I’ll read it for you.”

“Well, you are one talented motherfucker,” I say. Then, locking eyes on Magda. “Pardon my French.”

“No worries,” she smiles. “That’s his favorite word besides
yo
.”

Cross clears his throat.

“Chapter 6, The Scroll and the Lamb,” he reads directly from the text. “I saw a scroll in the right hand of the one who sat on the throne. It had writing on both sides and was sealed with a seventh seal. Then I saw a mighty angel who proclaimed in a loud voice, ‘Who is worthy to open the scroll and break its seal?’”