The Second Messiah (11 page)

Lela’s eyes met his. “When you are.”

Jack winked at her, a tiny smile flickering on his lips, and then she took his hand, held her breath, and let him lead her inside the cave.

LELA SAW THAT
inside the cave several holes had been dug into the ground. Jack stepped around them, leading the way, shining the torch. He halted when he came to a hole that was about a yard wide and the same deep. A mound of clay was piled behind it.

“This is where we found our trove.” Jack’s voice echoed inside the cave.

“You found only one scroll inside the jar? Is that usual?”

“Sometimes scrolls have been found singly, or sometimes we get a whole bunch of them in one place. It could be just a single page consisting of twenty lines, or dozens of pages all rolled together. There’s no rule.”

Jack shone the torch as Lela knelt to examine the bare, three-feet-deep rut in the ground where the jar had once lain. She plucked a handful of the gritty dirt, let it run through her fingers, then dusted her hands and stood. “Tell me when you last saw the professor.”

“We’d all had a few drinks to celebrate, then everyone began to head to bed between three and four
A.M.
, me included, while the professor carried on examining the scroll. I was asleep when Yasmin woke me to say her uncle wanted to see me at once, that he had found something in the text he wanted me to look at. I stayed talking with Professor Green until five-forty
A.M.
”

“How did he seem?”

“Like he was walking on air. That’s the only way to describe it. He was thrilled.”

“No arguments?”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Are you kidding? What was there to argue
about
? The professor believed that the find would help confirm the existence of Jesus Christ. Despite what you might think, archaeological evidence of that fact is thin on the ground. There’s the Bible, sure, but outside of that and the historian Josephus’s account of Christ, there are few ancient documents that actually corroborate his life. Finding a scroll like this one, mentioning Jesus and specific deeds relating to him, would be pretty powerful confirmation if proven to be genuine.”

“You really believe the parchment is genuine?”

“Yes, I do. It’s also truly remarkable. Archaeology has never produced anything that is a clear contradiction to the Bible. But this scroll does.”

“Did Green try to claim any credit for the discovery?”

“No, Lela. He seemed happy I’d hit the jackpot, and was full of praise.”

“You sound very sure you left the professor at five-forty.”

“I checked my watch as I left Green’s tent. I was trying to make up my mind if I’d go straight to bed or watch the sunrise. I was still excited.”

“Did you see anyone else in the vicinity of Green’s tent at that time?”

“Not a soul. Everyone appeared to have gone to bed.”

“Except Yasmin.”

“Obviously.”

Lela said quietly, “I heard that you and the professor had your differences.”

“Green could be a difficult guy sometimes. Temperamental, even aggressive. Sure, we had minor clashes. But I didn’t kill him, Lela.”

“The professor was found dead at six
A.M.
You were the last to see him alive.”

“So?”

“Mosberg said that one of the crew who arrived at Professor Green’s tent soon after you and the others had already got there claimed that you had blood on your hands, Jack.”

“So did everyone else who helped try to stop the bleeding from Green’s wound.”

“You mean Yasmin and your friend Buddy?”

“Not Yasmin; she blacked out. The sight of blood gets to her, apparently. Her uncle’s bloody torso must have been too much. But Buddy and I tried to resuscitate the professor. We weren’t a hundred percent certain that he was beyond help so we decided to try to restart his heart.”

“Who decided?”

“I did. But the knife kept getting in the way and we were too afraid to pull it out or touch it in case we did more damage. So the resuscitation was a pretty awkward attempt and we all got blood on our hands and clothes.”

“It was your knife.”

“I loaned it to the professor when he called me to his tent. He used it to delicately raise the parchment while he read the text. I was so tired I guess I forgot to take the knife back.”

“We found no prints on it. Not even yours. The hilt was wiped clean.”

“My prints are probably everywhere else. I was in the professor’s tent pretty much every day.”

“What were you doing before you headed up the slope to watch the sunrise?”

Jack said, “Wandering round the camp, finishing a beer, smiling to myself, disbelieving my luck.”

Lela, deep in thought, looked down at the gaping hole in the soil. “I’ve talked with your friends, Buddy and Yasmin. They both back up your story. But Mosberg tells me he’s walked from the professor’s tent to the top of the slope. He didn’t rush and it took him just under ten minutes.”

“So?”

“What time did you start to climb the hill?”

“Five-forty-five, I guess.”

“That means you got to the top about five before six. Yasmin says she joined you at six. I estimate there could be at least a fifteen-minute time gap when your whereabouts can’t be accounted for. Mosberg has
suggested
that those fifteen minutes could have been used to kill Professor Green, and he has a point. You were the last person we know of who saw the professor alive.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “I hear what you’re saying, Lela. But I’m innocent. I’m telling you the truth.”

Lela took one last look around the cave. “I’ve seen enough for now, Jack.”

He led the way out into sunlight.

Lela glanced toward the tents and cabins, then turned to face Jack. “I wanted us to get away from Sergeant Mosberg and the others so that we could talk alone.”

“Why?”

Lela regarded him intently. “Because we’re old friends, Jack, and I wanted you to be aware that we haven’t interviewed everyone yet, so we may still turn up a decent lead as to who killed the professor and for what motive. We’ll also put out a bulletin to Interpol for police agencies everywhere to be alert to anyone trying to sell ancient documents or scrolls. We’ll try to cover all the bases. That’s the good news.”

“And the bad?”

“Right now Sergeant Mosberg thinks you’re his strongest suspect.”

ROME

BEHIND THE VATICAN
Library, near an open courtyard known as Cortile del Belvedere, is a sturdy granite building surrounded by high walls. It has no nameplate at its entrance. Those select few who have business there know it as L’Archivio Segreto Vaticano, the Secret Archives of the Vatican, whose vaults contain a vast collection of historical treasures and countless secrets of the Catholic Church.

It was just after two that afternoon when the cardinal stepped through the solid oak doors. Moving past the discreetly armed security guards, he entered a marble hallway. He ignored the custodian seated at a large oak table, bare except for the book that every visitor was supposed to sign before proceeding beyond this point. This visitor hadn’t signed the book in all the years since he had become a cardinal. Nobody had ever dared challenge him.

He had first come here as a young American priest, when he worked at the Pontifical Gregorian University in Rome and had to study the records of ancient judgments stored in the archives. In those days the furniture was medieval but now it was modern, complete with photocopiers and computer terminals, Coca-Cola dispensing machines and coffeemakers that gurgled all day.

He kept his head down, but he was conscious that the sudden entrance of a cardinal of the Curia made those who worked in the building nervous. Many were quite young and casually dressed, clerical scholars and custodians who presided over the most clandestine archives in the world. Here, in this same room, with its great clock and carved throne, was where the prefect of archives sat watching his
assistants
silently fetch and carry records for the few privileged scholars who were granted permission to inspect them, and only within the confines of this room.

Even then, there were limits to what they could see. Certain ultra-sensitive files required the special consent of the pope before they could be opened. The cardinal ignored the passing stares and moved toward the rear of the building.

The Vatican Archives was a storehouse of astonishing secrets.

Thirty miles of shelves were filled with books, parchment, and paper manuscripts of the greatest historical importance. Here were slips of paper detailing long-forgotten sins, broken promises, indulgences, and special exemptions from ecclesiastical law. Here were records from conclaves since the fifteenth century. And more, much more: documents from the Inquisition, thirteenth-century intelligence about the Mongols, church reports about Joan of Arc—correspondence that helped have her burned as a witch—and a vast repository of papers that ran from Napoleon to Hitler, from Luther to Calvin.

There were registers that contained nightmarish drawings of the world’s end, of devils and vampires and women with the bodies of nymphs and the faces of beasts, dating from the days of Innocent III. Files to do with UFOs, religious sightings and revelations, demonic possessions and exorcisms. Steel boxes containing extraordinary church secrets and prophecies.

The cardinal also knew of the remarkable holy relics and artifacts that the Vatican jealously guarded, and on which the church’s faith was built: a sliver of walnut wood, part of the headboard of the cross on which Christ was crucified, the skull of John the Baptist, the robe of Jesus, the Virgin’s cloak, Mary Magdalene’s foot, and even part of the foreskin of Jesus Christ, said to be the only known remains of the Savior, kept in an emerald and ruby-studded casket adorned by two solid silver angels in a safeguarded shrine in Calcate, north of Rome.

The cardinal moved on, carefully picking his way through the corridors of shelves into the heart of the building, knowing exactly which
route
to take to avoid most of the cameras, and past the small private chapel of the infamous Borgias. He crossed the high-roomed cavern called the Hall of Parchments, filled with tens of thousands of documents, many of them tinged with a violet-colored fungus that defied even the most scientific of treatments. It was a musty place and eerily reminded him of a funeral vault. But he knew the Secret Archives were more than the storehouse of a dead past.

Contained here were highly sensitive records of the church’s contemporary involvement: its business dealings, banking and financial affairs, its numerous investments—some of them highly controversial and illegal, which in several cases had involved the Mafia and had led to criminal prosecution and even murder. The cardinal knew all too well these hidden secrets: for five years he had occupied a senior position at the Vatican Bank. It was a dangerous time and they were black days he would rather forget.

Finally he had reached his destination, a small room at the back of the building protected by double oak doors, blackened with age. A plastic sign on the door said in Italian,
ACCESSO LIMITATO
. Restricted Access. The cardinal removed a bunch of keys from beneath his burgundy cassock. Selecting one, he inserted it in the lock and turned the key.

The door creaked open and he stepped into a room that looked forgotten by time. Paneled oak walls, dusty shelves, and two walnut desks with brass lamps. He moved into the room and flicked on one of the lamps. He knew exactly what he was looking for and when he found the cardboard box he plucked it down from one of the shelves, took it over to the desk, and placed it under the lamp.

Inside, on top of a collection of files, was a manuscript, bound with red twine and a wax seal the size of a large button. He broke the seal, and pieces of the wax scattered everywhere. He carefully picked them up, placed the fragments in his pocket, and opened the file’s hard cover. Inside on the first typewritten page it said:

REPORT INTO THE UNDISCLOSED SCROLLS AT QUMRAN.

It took only moments to scan through the headings on the next page, for he knew them well: