The Resurrection File (11 page)

MacCameron nodded. “Yes. Everyone calls him ‘Tony.' But—”

“Exactly,” Hunter affirmed. “He was the antiquities dealer in Bethlehem. Before his death, Tony handled a lot of ancient artifacts, a number of them quite valuable. One day, he called me to come in and take a look at something. When he unwrapped it and showed it to me, I immediately knew this was going to be an earth-shaking find. Tony told me that this papyrus fragment he was showing me had been brought in by a Bedouin. Apparently, the man had found it in a cave at Qumran when he lived by the Dead Sea as a boy and had kept it under wraps for some fifty years. Then he finally decided to take it to Tony, who was some kind of shirttail relative, to find out what he could get for it. And then, well, poor Tony…” With that, Hunter's voice began to tremble.

“Yes, I heard he had committed suicide,” MacCameron said quietly. “I was very sorry to hear that.”

“That was certainly the story that was given out. Both the Israeli and the Palestinian police came to the scene, but the Palestinians had jurisdiction. They ruled it a suicide—apparently they found a revolver near the body, and they said that he had put the revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Their report indicated that he had been despondent over his marriage. The strange thing is that he had been separated from his wife for a long time, and the last contact I had with him, he was in a very chipper mood. Certainly he kept a revolver. But then, most antiquities dealers do. I am telling you, Angus—this was no suicide.”

“What
are
you telling me?” MacCameron asked.

“I am telling you that the same people who killed him are trying to get to me. They are trying to get the fragments I've got.

“I want you to meet me, Angus, in four days at my apartment here in Jerusalem. I've got to fly out of Tel Aviv tomorrow morning back to England. I am hoping to meet with the staff at the British Museum—if everything goes well, I know I can get their support on this project. I am telling you, Angus, this fragment is so powerful that men will kill over it.”

As the waiter came to take their orders, Hunter whispered, “Come to my apartment in four days and I will show you.” Then he shakily rose to his feet and walked rapidly up the stone stairwell that led out of the restaurant.

Will was trying to digest the story he had just heard. After a moment he asked, “Did the meeting ever take place?”

“No,” MacCameron said with a sigh, then he shook his head and explained how three days later he had received a phone call from the Jerusalem police. They had found Hunter's body in his office. He had been shot to death, and the office had been ransacked. Considering Hunter's
occupation, the police concluded that the motive was probably robbery. Antiquities, after all, were always a lucrative business for thieves.

“Why did the police call you?” Will asked.

“Richard had scribbled my name and telephone number in his calendar—apparently to remind himself of our meeting,” MacCameron added. “Poor Richard must have been under incredible stress, knowing that his life was in danger.”

By this time Will was feeling confused and uncertain about MacCameron's case. He stood up to stretch his legs and walked over to the window that faced St. Andrew's Episcopal Church.

The church across the street dated back to the time of the Revolutionary War. In its graveyard, officers who had fought in that war were buried under stone grave markers rubbed smooth and illegible with the years. Its tall steeple housed a bell that had rung two-and-a-half centuries ago to celebrate the news of General Washington's victory at Trenton, New Jersey, after he had led his troops across the frigid Delaware River. The bell had continued to toll every day since then, its ropes pulled by hand.

The great bell started slowly gonging to mark the hour as Will looked out the window, his back to his client.

“Look,” Will said to break the silence. “We are going to have to schedule several more meetings so I can get a good feel for all the facts of this case.”

Will found himself going on automatic pilot—giving his “I am your lawyer and you are my client” speech, against all of his better judgment.

“But let me give you the two ground rules for this game,” Will continued, still ignoring the little voice in the back of his head.

The voice was saying,
Why not just blow this strange guy off—let it go—cash out what's left of your investments and go on a long holiday? Decide what you want to do with your life. Maybe travel. Or take up mountain-climbing. Or wildlife photography.

“So here are the rules,” Will heard himself explaining. “They are very simple. First rule—I will try very, very hard to win your case.

“The second rule is also very simple. You pay my legal fees in order for me to try very, very hard to win your case. I focus on the first rule—and you have to focus on the second rule. Those are the rules of the game. And now I need to talk some specifics about my fee structure.”

“I must tell you something,” MacCameron said, sounding a little agitated. “I know you are the lawyer. And I am the client. And I do get the point of your little recitation about the two rules of the game. But I must tell you this is not a game. No, not at all. This is deadly serious business. I consider this to be a struggle of titanic proportions. I believe that the very
angels in heaven are bending down with listening ears, waiting to find out what happens in this case.”

Chambers took a second to respond.

“Look,” the lawyer said, “when I use the word ‘game,' let me explain what I mean. There are always two sides to every game. When the gladiators went into the ring with animals during the time of the Roman Empire—to the gladiator it was the ultimate game of life and death. But to the animal, well, it was just another opportunity for dinner. With me it's a game. That's how I win—I keep myself focused on the fact that even though I am fighting for justice, I have to win it like any other game. Preparation, perspiration, perseverance—as my high school football coach used to say. So for you it's not a game—but for me, well, it's the game I've been playing most of my adult life.”

“Tell me, Mr. Chambers,” MacCameron asked. “When they put the Christians in the Coliseum with the lions—do you think that was a game, too?”

Will studied his client. He really had no desire to debate with the Reverend. Now he simply wanted to finish the arrangements for the retainer fee and get home.

“No, that was not a game,” Will replied.

“Wrong!” MacCameron exclaimed. “It
was
a game.”

Will looked at him with a blank stare.

“You see, it
was
a game—for someone. It was a game for the pagans up in the stands. To see the Christians thrown to the lions. They came to watch because they thought it was wonderful sport.”

Will raised an eyebrow.

“And do you want to know something else, Mr. Chambers?” MacCameron went on.

Will Chambers had the feeling that this persistent Scot was going to make his point whether he wanted to hear it or not.

“Tell me,” Will responded with a little resignation in his voice.

“That game is still going on today—the Christians and the lions. Metaphorically, of course. I would be the Christian,” MacCameron noted with some measure of self-satisfaction.

“And I suppose,” Will noted, “that Reichstad and his lawyers, they are the lions.”

“You're catching on, my boy!” MacCameron shouted out. “And the courtroom—that is our coliseum.”

“And what would that make me?” Will asked, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer.

“Oh—well, I will tell you,” MacCameron said. “Yes, I will tell you. You are the gladiator. You're paid to defend me against the lions. Only, eventually you will have to ask yourself that all-important question.”

“And what would that be?”

“When the time comes to choose—and believe me, Mr. Chambers, that time always comes and you'll have to answer this question—will you be standing with the Christians, down in the blood and sand, when the lions come charging—or will you be up in the stands, cheering with the pagans?”

Will was still doubting whether he ever wanted to climb into the arena to find out.

11

T
HE HUGE STADIUM WAS FILLED TO CAPACITY
. Tens of thousands of teens, college kids, and “twenty-somethings” had flooded into the rock concert from the greater Los Angeles area that evening. The crowd, illuminated under the stadium lights, was on its feet, screaming in one massive wall of sound. Curt Razzor, lead singer of the rock band Zylon-B, was on the stage trying to quiet them down. But he was enjoying it, and was grinning and nodding his head violently up and down, absorbing the tidal wave of adulation.

Hundreds of musclemen with headsets, dressed in black T-shirts with white lettering that read “BEHOLD THE NEW CENTURY,” paced up and down through the aisles.

Razzor stepped back from the microphone. His head was shaved in a bald circle on top, like a monk's, but he had long tangled dreadlocks cascading down from the sides and back of his head, and as he walked away from the microphone, bouncing his head to some unheard beat, the long ropes of hair swung wildly over the shoulders of his black spandex jumpsuit covered with yellow lightning bolts.

The crowd screamed louder. Razzor said something to the members of his group, who were all hanging back by the drum set that was poised on the raised platform at the rear of the stage. And then he laughed and walked back to the microphone. After a few more minutes he quieted down the ocean of people.

“I know why you are here. I know you have come so you can really trip on the music.”

Screams began to rise up from the illuminated heads and arms and waving hands of the army of forty thousand.

“Now you have to shut up and listen. Okay? There is something really powerful coming down here. I'm like this historian of music. Okay? And I read about how the Beatles went over to India because they wanted to trip out on some spirituality from the Maharishi Yogi. That was the '60s.”

The screams were getting louder again.

“Shut up, shut up,” Razzor yelled mechanically, his voice reverbing over several acres of humanity.

The screams started dying down.

“That was the '60s. Now, we're not there anymore, are we? I mean, this is called evolution. We are out of the '60s, so listen up. Because there is someone who's going to talk to you. This dude's name is Warren Mullburn. He is like one of the most wired guys in the universe. And don't trash him with a lot of noise—cuz if you do I'm not coming back to end this show. Got it? So, you got to listen to him. But I'm telling you—I think he's got a shock-trip for you—he can blow your minds in ways that you can't believe. I personally have been consuming the power trip from this guy's ideas myself. So listen up.”

Razzor walked to the rear of the stage, where he quickly disappeared down the back catwalk with his group.

The rock promoter, a man in a Hawaiian shirt and jeans, ran up to the mike.

“For just a few seconds I want to tell you something about Warren Mullburn, who is going to talk to you for just a few minutes, that's all it will take, I promise. Now, how many of you went to see the movie
The Planet Eaters
last year?”

There was a mild yell from the crowd.

“Great sci-fi horror flick. It's up for two special-effects Oscars this year. Well, the guy who wrote the book and then it was turned into the screenplay—the guy who wrote the story was none other than Warren Mullburn.

“Now, Mr. Mullburn is a true genius. He has been rated as the third-richest man in the world. He holds degrees from MIT and Stanford University. He has written a dozen different books. He speaks four different languages. The
International Financial Times
calls him ‘the closest thing to an economic spirit master we've got.' The
Greenwich Village Echo
says ‘despite his incredible wealth—one might even say
obscene
wealth—he may actually be a kind of contemporary prophet of what he calls the “new-century generation.”'

“He is going to talk for only ten minutes. That's all. And in ten minutes, I guarantee you that, if you listen carefully, you will be able to see the way to change your life as you now know it.

“So now. I present to you Mr. Warren Mullburn.”

Suddenly the lights went out, plunging the entire coliseum into darkness. A few shrieks were heard. Then a few seconds later, blazing lights flooded the stadium from the back of the stage—blinding, dazzling lights shining out into the crowd. There was a symphonic crescendo of timpani drums. Music was rising and getting louder as a figure approached the front of the stage, framed within the molten lights that backlit him like a sun.

Then suddenly, the stadium lights went back on. The man was alone on the stage.

Warren Mullburn did not go to the microphone but began strolling slowly across the front of the stage, taking in the audience, smiling and waving. Mullburn was slightly balding. His hair was blondish-grey on the sides and was trimmed neatly. He was wearing blue jeans and had a trim waist. His forest-green shirt was stretched over a muscular body that looked like it belonged to a twenty-five-year-old rather than a man of sixty years. His face and arms were tan. He walked with the energetic gait of an athlete.