Richard Heller and Rachael Heller
The 13th Apostle

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual

persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

http://www.harpercollins.co.uk

A Paperback Original 2007

THE 13TH APOSTLE. Copyright © Dr Richard Heller and Dr Rachael Heller 2007. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Richard and Rachael Heller assert the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN-13: 9781847560407

Ebook Edition © September 2008 ISBN: 9780007236909

Version: 2018-05-17

The 13th Apostle is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, or organizations, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

As each character, organization, or institution is either fictional or portrayed in a purely fictional manner, the perceptions, beliefs, motivations, actions, beliefs, portrayals, and histories of each character, organization, or institution should be considered products of the authors’ imaginations and should not be construed as reflecting any aspect of reality. In the same way, character’s perceptions, motivations, actions, beliefs, and histories do not, in any way, reflect the perceptions, motivations, actions, beliefs, or histories of any organization or institution, nor do they reflect the perceptions, motivations, actions, beliefs, or histories, of any character’s religious, ethnic, racial background, affiliation, or national origin.

Dedication

To Charles D. Besford,

For his fine mind, caring heart,

and generosity of spirit.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Eight

Fifty-Nine

Sixty

Sixty-One

Sixty-Two

Sixty-Three

Sixty-Four

Sixty-Five

Sixty-Six

Sixty-Seven

Sixty-Eight

A Conversation With the Authors

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Among the most sacred of texts it is written:

In each generation there are born thirty-six

righteous souls who, by their very existence,

assure the continuation of the world.

According to Abraham’s Covenant, once each

millennium, God shall return to earth and count

among the many, those who remain righteous.

Were it not for these tzaddikim, the righteous ones,

who stand in God’s judgment, mankind’s fate would

be in grave and certain peril.

These tzaddikim have no knowledge of each other;

neither have they an understanding of their own

singular importance. As innocents, they remain

unaware of the critical consequences of their

thoughts, their faith, and their deeds.

Save for one.

To this tzaddik alone, is the granted knowledge

of his position, for to him is entrusted the

most sacred of tasks.

PROLOGUE

Six months ago, London

Professor Arnold Ludlow opened the ancient diary. The musty smell filled him with excitement. This was the manuscript that had eluded him for four decades, its existence supported by a few obscure references and unsubstantiated rumor. Still, he had not lost faith. Now he held it in his hands and translated, from the Latin, the words of one long dead.

The Courtyard of Weymouth Monastery

The First day of May 1097

There was no stake onto which the monks might secure the prisoner, so Father Abbot John gave orders that the heretic be tied to the great elm. The tree was half-dead, having been struck by lightning last spring. One half of the trunk had turned to dry, brittle wood and would provide a quick hot flame at the start. The other half had exploded with new green growth and would now ensure a constant renewal of the flames of salvation. With the application of enough oil to the dry wood, the fire would burn steadily enough to allow the prisoner to renounce his heresies and so, at the last moment, snatch his soul from the waiting hand of the devil.

With the conclusion of evening vespers, novice-master and three novitiates fetched the prisoner from his cell. The heretic walked among them, head held high, eyes forward. He did not protest as others had; neither did he beg for mercy.

Under the watchful eye of their instructor and the monastery’s full register of monks—more than a score in all—the three novitiates bound the heretic to the tree, hand and foot. Each took a turn, loosening the coarse jute, then pulling it taut. With every tightening, small pieces of flesh were torn from the prisoner’s wrists and ankles, leaving small rivulets of red in their wake.

The other monks drew closer and watched in silence. From time to time, each nodded his approval and, in solemn tones, expressed his hope for the heretic’s repentance. Yet, even, as they watched the novices secure ropes around the prisoner’s neck, waist, then across his groin, their breathing quickened. Although weighted down by heavy robes, Brother Jeremiah, the youngest of the monks, appeared to be greatly aroused.

At novice-master’s nod, each of the monks, in turn, made his way to the shed and returned with a large bundle of faggots so that each, by his contribution, might share in the glory of the redemption.

The parcels of sticks were placed carefully around the feet of the heretic, then piled high to his waist. The packing of the wood was critical. If faggots were too lightly mixed with straw, the fire might go out, requiring a second or third attempt; wood too densely packed would produce a fire so hot that it might bring too rapid a surcease of pain. Much practice and skill was required in order to produce the perfect flame with which to burn a man alive.

And still the prisoner stood motionless.

In silence, the monks prayed for the heretic’s soul. Only one among them did not.

I, alone, prayed for a miracle; some divine intervention that might spare the man whose soul needed no redemption; this brave knight who had fought so valiantly in the Holy Land and who now offered up his life, yet again, in service to God and his fellow man.

Head still bowed, I ventured one quick glance. Tears flowed from the prisoner’s eyes, yet he offered no protest. Though I stood well within his gaze, he did not look in my direction.

Guided by novice-master’s hand, the oldest of the novitiates ladled oil about the great pile of faggots, careful to spoon the greatest portion over the bottommost sticks, diminishing the application as he approached the top of the pile. The oil had been freshly rendered only that morning from the fat of the foulest of slaughtered livestock, a peasant’s old pig, diseased and pocked, that had gone to its death squealing in pain and terror, in full earshot of the prisoner’s cell.

Two rags soaked up the remainder of the oil. These novice-master used to anoint the heretic. As he smeared the foul-smelling viscous fluid over the prisoner’s bare shoulders and shaven head, he continued his instructions to his charges. The oil must be smeared evenly over the exposed flesh so as to encourage the start of a flame, then soaked into the jute to sustain the burning.

Amidst the instruction, the heretic continued in silence.

Novice-master signaled the novitiates to retreat, then stepped back to join the monks’ circle.

All waited, eyes cast toward the sky. In accordance with the Inquisitor’s Dictates for Redemption, the fire would be started at the moment when the light of the first star pierced the night. I beseeched God that, although the skies would grow dark, no star would appear. And for a time none did.

In the fading light, three birds flew across the horizon and disappeared into the heavens, one leading the two. They called loudly into the approaching night, one to the other, staying in perfect formation, flying as one. I knew this to be a sign that One far greater than we mortals waited to guide the prisoner into heaven.

A single star blinked and was gone. This was the signal for which all had been waiting. Father Abbot emerged from the shadows and approached the circle, an oil-soaked torch in one hand, a candle in the other, his eyes fixed upon me.

With sudden terror, it came to me that the Abbot John might command me to light the fire. Could even he require me to enact such a deed in order to prove my fidelity? If so, I could not comply. Though my sacred vows to the Church would be broken, though the repercussions of my rebellion might echo through eternity, this, Dear God, I could not do.

But Father Abbot John had other intentions. He lit the torch with the candle then passed it to one of the other monks, motioning me to remain by his side. It seemed to me that a smile crossed the Abbot’s lips but nothing more was said. Then, in the light of that sputtering candle, he turned so that his prisoner could not fail to witness the only act that might yet bring a cry of repentance. From beneath his robes, the Abbot withdrew the moldering wooden box still wrapped in tattered cloth.

The heretic’s gaze fixed on the bundle and then found me. Only then did I see fear spring to his eyes; fear not for himself but for something far greater, that which lay within the crumbling wooden box. As we had in our youth, I shared with the man they now called heretic a single terror, like none other before. Might the Abbot yet commit an atrocity far greater than the taking of a single innocent life? Might he yet commit a sacrilege against man and against God too terrible to imagine?

Professor Ludlow frowned. Hints, suggestions, intimations. Nothing more. He eyes fell on a small piece of parchment that had been wedged into the hand-sewn binding. It had been hastily written, it seemed, but the ink remained dark and clear.

With care, the Professor inched the hidden message from the binding. He read the words, smiled, sighed deeply, and closed the diary for which he would soon forfeit his life.

ONE

Present day

Day One, early evening

The New York City Grill

In the dim light of the restaurant, Gil Pearson strained to check his watch. He’d give the Professor and Sabbie ten more minutes to show. No more. He was tired and hungry and wanted to go home, grab something to eat, and crawl into bed. This was the last sales pitch dinner that George was going to get him to agree to.

What a way to start a weekend.

“Do this one as a favor to me,” George had cajoled. “You know you’re the reason they come to us. All any client wants is a chance to meet the man who helped rid the world of CyberStrep. You’re a celebrity, for God’s sake. You know they’ll pay triple just to be able to brag to their friends they have you watching over their systems,” George added, trying to appear as endearing as his three chins would permit.

Although Gil hated to admit it, George was right. Since graduating top of his class from Massachusetts Institute of Technology two decades ago, Gil’s anti-hacking discovery had changed the way virtually every major data protection company in the world approached the securing of high-risk and top secret information. For three years running, he had been named Man of the Year by the National Association of Artificial Intelligence, yet no client ever referred to these accomplishments. Only when the New York Times reported that Gil was the creator of the computer program that had eradicated the data-eating virus that held the Internet hostage for almost a month, did anyone take notice. The whole thing might have faded if People magazine hadn’t jumped on the story. They spent three-quarters of the article describing his “rugged good looks” and barely mentioned his work.

Lucy had teased him unmercifully. Within days of the article’s publication, an ever-hungry storm of reporters and paparazzi began to beat a path to his—or rather to CyberNet Forensics, Inc.’s—door.

The company’s worth had gone through the roof, Gil’s salary had more than quadrupled, and he had been dragged, kicking and screaming, from the privacy of his little computer room to the bright lights of celebrity.

That had been four years ago. It couldn’t have come at a worse time. Lucy had just been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and, though every minute away from her felt like the greatest betrayal he could imagine, Gil had convinced himself that he had to cash in on his fame so that he could pump up his salary while he could. It was the only way he could be sure that Lucy would get the best possible care in the hard times that lay ahead.

A sour taste of bile rose in his throat.

Son-of-a-bitch doctor.

Right from the beginning the bastard had known that Lucy didn’t have more than six weeks left. Had the quack told Gil the truth, he would have spent every precious minute with her. But, instead, the doctor had led him to believe that because of her youth and strength, Lucy’s decline would be unmercifully slow. Months—maybe a year—of painful deterioration were inevitable, the doctor had said; an unthinkable time in which Lucy’s pain could be eased by the best medical care that money could buy.

Instead, she was gone in less than a month, only two weeks before her thirty-fourth birthday. Gil had spent much of that time away from her, in endless interviews, answering asinine questions posed by one stupid reporter after another. Less than a week after it was over, one tabloid cover sported his photo, snapped at the cemetery. The inside copy reported that he was recently widowed and implied that after a suitable time of mourning, he would be an excellent catch.

Gil swallowed against the lump in his throat and forced himself to think about something else.

I’m out of here.

He rose and kicked his chair back hard. As he reached to keep it from falling, something caught his eye.

Gray hair flying, short fat legs waddling, and looking a great deal like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, Dr. Arnold Ludlow, Professor of Antiquities and consultant on Early Christian Artifacts to the Israel Museum, arrived.

Breathless and dripping, he pealed off his wet raincoat and draped it on his seat back then settled into the chair.

“Sorry I’m late,” he began without introduction. “Your taxis, you know. You can never get one in the rain.”

Gil managed a nod before the Professor continued an account of the many difficulties he’d confronted in a city that seemed bent on preventing him from making this meeting.

“Sabbie didn’t show at the airport but no worries,” Ludlow added, “that’s not unusual for her.”

Gil surrendered to the mounting wave of disappointment. It didn’t really matter anyway. He would sit and wait while the old man prattled on and, when enough time had elapsed so that he could do so without seeming terribly impolite, Gil would reach for the menu.

But he never got the chance.

TWO

A few minutes later

Hotel Agincourt, New York City

Abdul Maluka stepped from the shower and stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Black hair dripping, dark skin glistening in the bright light, he liked what he saw. He was short by Western standards, but every inch of his frame was pure muscle. He patted his flat stomach and surveyed his tan shoulders.

Not bad for an old man of forty.

The crescent-shaped scar across his right cheek was the perfect finishing touch. It made him look interesting. Even…sexy.

He had sustained the injury as a result of one of his father’s infamous thrashings, in this case as a direct result of Maluka’s refusal to stand silently by as his father announced to the family that his advanced age no longer permitted him to participate in the Fast of Ramadan.

“You are well enough to lay with your whore whenever she will tolerate you,” a twelve-year-old Maluka had sneered. “How can you say you cannot keep the Fast?”

His father had attempted to stare the boy down.

Maluka’s mother had been in easy earshot. The older man’s discomfort fueled Maluka’s outrage.

“Surely, you can forgo some pleasure in the name of Allah. Or can you not even wait until the sun sets to bury your face in the flesh of that pig,” the youth had added with a laugh.

His father had ripped the worn brown leather belt from the waist of his Western suit of clothes and had beaten the young Maluka with all the strength he could muster. Only when the boy fell to the floor under the torrent of blows, did his father’s fury subside.

“You are not my real father,” the young Maluka had declared. “My father is the spirit of Islam. The poorest devotee to Allah is more my father than you.”

His father added one final blow for good measure; one the boy would never forget. The sharp edge of the buckle caught Maluka across the cheek and left a gash from which blood poured. It was only then that his father smiled with satisfaction.

“Let your faith heal that for you, boy!” he had said triumphantly, then turned, left, and never spoke of the matter again.

Nearly three decades later, the token left by his father’s fury now declared to the world, proof of Maluka’s commitment to Islam. With age, the wound had transformed into a perfect crescent shape whenever he smiled. Not that he smiled all that often.

Maluka pulled on a pair of finely tailored slacks and selected a new silk shirt delivered fresh from his New York shirtmaker, then entered the living room.

Aijaz Bey looked up guiltily. His bulbous bald head, set on a thick neck and huge shoulders, would have made him look unintelligent even if he were bright—which he was not. At six foot six, weighing two hundred and eighty pounds, he was indeed as dangerous as he appeared—and as obedient; two essential attributes which made him the perfect assistant.

The remnants of torn plastic wrappings, wadded up linen napkins, and empty plates, littered the rolling dining cart. Maluka shook his head in resignation. Although Aijaz’s huge hands were skilled at carrying out whatever delicate act with a knife was required, and his skill with a gun was quite remarkable, the man seemed incapable of removing his dinner from a room-service tray without making a mess.

“Couldn’t wait,” Aijaz explained with a shrug and an obsequious smile.

“No problem.”

Aijaz breathed a sigh of relief.

At the sound of the knock at the hotel door, both men straightened.

Aijaz waited for instruction. Maluka raised his hand and silently signaled him to halt. At the second knock, Maluka nodded and Aijaz opened the door.

Clearly startled by Aijaz’s bulk, the man hesitated, then entered. Though no more than forty years of age, his bent back and the downward thrust of his head betrayed the attitude of a man who had been broken on the rack of life. Tall and gaunt, his gray hair slicked back from an overabundance of grease or sweat, their guest offered his right hand to Maluka in greeting. Seeing that no such gesture was about to be returned, he hesitated, then withdrew his hand.

“Sorry, I guess you chaps don’t shake hands,” he muttered with a nervous laugh. “My error.”

When no smile was forthcoming, he checked his watch.

“Look, I’m sorry if I’m a tad early. I just thought that with the weather being what it is, well, you know, better to be early than late. Of course, if I interrupted something…”

His gaze darted from Maluka to Aijaz and back again, desperate for any indication of how to proceed. Maluka was pleased. Robert Peterson, assistant to Professor Arnold Ludlow, was not going to offer any resistance. It wouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes for Maluka to get all of the information he needed. Twenty at most.

THREE

A few minutes later

The New York City Grill

She slid into the chair next to Professor Ludlow’s, finished her phone call, and snapped her cell phone shut. She summoned the waiter and ordered her wine and, still, never acknowledged Gil’s presence.

The special smile she flashed the Professor was returned with unabashed adoration. She settled back into her chair and, only then, set her gaze on Gil.

“Have you ordered yet?” she asked, as if continuing an ongoing conversation.

“No, not yet,” Gil answered.

She was striking. Not beautiful, but remarkable looking; tall, with dark straight hair to her shoulders, and high, full breasts that strained against her ivory silk blouse. Gil forced himself to focus on her face.

She was not what he had expected. From day one, Gil’s three-year Internet relationship with Sabbie Karaim had been strictly business. Sabbie was one of a dozen consultants around the world that Gil used as translators.

Whenever he was conducting an investigation for an Israeli client, which was getting more and more frequent, Gil sent the data to Sabbie for translation from Hebrew into English. Her transcription formed the basis for all his analyses, for all of the testing that he hoped would reveal patterns of illegal activity that might help catch a cyber criminal dead in his tracks.

He used her on his most important cases, as well. Whenever an Israeli government agency hired CyberNet Forensics to set up a sting that involved cross-national Internet coverage, Gil would design the English version of the Internet bait intended to lure the cyber criminal into taking the next and, hopefully, fatal step. Then he’d send the cyber bait to Sabbie for translation into Hebrew and for posting on the net. She’d never let him down.

Her work was meticulous, and he had come to rely on her without question. She was not without her idiosyncrasies, however. Her rules were simple but firm: no communications outside Internet business. No matter how urgent the job, he was never to phone. And, surprisingly, she wanted no feedback after the cyber criminal had been caught.

Unlike Gil’s other translators from South America, Germany and France, who took great satisfaction in knowing that their the work had put a criminal behind bars, Sabbie had made it clear that her involvement ended when her translation was complete. She was a professional from head to toe and, as Gil felt his excitement rise, that particular head to toe suddenly took on a whole different meaning.

Any erotic musings he might have been enjoying, however, were quickly expunged by Sabbie’s first words of greeting.

“There’s one thing we should get clear from the start,” she began. “You’re used to giving the orders. The Professor has put me in charge so, on this job, you’ll be working for me.”

Gil stared in obvious surprise.

“If that’s a problem,” Sabbie continued matter-of-factly, “I need to know that now.”

That was it. Like she owned him. No smile, no “Hello, it’s nice to finally meet you.” Nothing. Just now hear this: I’m the boss. You’re the slave. Get over it.

Ludlow rushed in to avoid a face-off.

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not a problem, Sabbie. Mr. Pearson’s such a lovely young man. I’m sure you two will make an outstanding team, just like you always have. Now, where was I?

“Oh, yes,” Ludlow continued, unabated. “Early Christian artifacts. That’s my area. Though officially I’m retired now, I still do a bit of consulting work at The Museum of the Shrine of the Book. In Jerusalem, you know,” he added proudly. “My colleague, Dr. Anton DeVris, actually he’s the Director of Acquisitions for the Israel Museum, well, he thought it would be best for me to speak to you in person…”

Gil emptied his water glass in one long gulp then crunched the single remaining ice cube between his teeth. Ludlow was a gem; an antique from some bygone era. The old guy had probably convinced himself that his pathetically obscure discovery contained some extraordinary secret hidden away for centuries; most likely, a map to hidden treasure or the like.

God, what people wouldn’t do for one last chance at immortality. George must have been out of his mind to get them involved in this. What could he have possibly been thinking? If Sabbie had come to Gil first, he would have turned her down flat. She must have known that or else she wouldn’t have gone over his head.

Instead, she simply bypassed him and went straight to George. The shortest distance between two points, of course. She was smart. He had known that. And she had guts. He had known that too. What he hadn’t suspected, however, was how exciting the combination could be.

FOUR

A few minutes later

The New York City Grill

Lucy used to say that, during the first year of their marriage, she discovered Gil had an amazing talent: he had perfected the art of sleeping with his eyes open. Whenever Gil found himself on the receiving end of one of her stories, some incident that had marred or made her day, she could expect Gil to appear to listen intently, nod at just the right times, ask the appropriate questions, and have absolutely no idea of what she was talking about.

Sleep-talking, as Lucy called it, was a skill that Gil had become rather fond of and one that had gotten him through almost every relationship since the first grade. But with Lucy it was different. He abandoned the practice long before their second anniversary. By then, he had discovered, much to his amazement, that he cared more about the little things that happened in Lucy’s day than his own desire to veg out.

Now, in the restaurant with Ludlow droning on, he had been sleep-talking once again, letting the old man continue his monologue while retaining virtually none of the details.

“…And so we have come to believe that the document might contain a hidden message that would tell us where a certain artifact is located—a copper scroll that dates back to the time of Jesus. The thing is, we’re not sure, it might just be a metaphor that the author of the diary used,” Dr. Ludlow concluded.

“Of course,” Gil confirmed, nodding.

“That’s where you come in,” Ludlow added.

“Where … exactly?” Gil queried, trying desperately to appear as if he knew what the hell was going on.

“Why, telling us if the text of the journal contains any sort of pattern that could be concealing a hidden message,” Sabbie interjected.

“Do you mean a code?” Gil asked. “You know, I don’t do codes.”

“No. Not a code, that’s the whole point,” Sabbie interrupted. “If we needed a cryptanalyst, we wouldn’t have called you.”

“Well, thank you very much,” Gil snapped back.

Ludlow interceded again. “Look, if we’re right, the person who wrote this journal would have been afraid to use an encrypting paradigm. He would have been concerned that, if he had embedded his message into a complex code, by the time the document was found—maybe centuries later—no one would have been able to decipher his message. We’re pretty sure he would have chosen a simpler means of concealing any message. We just haven’t been able to figure how he did it, and Sabbie said that with your talent in pattern recognition, well…”

Gil straightened and began to fire one question after another, in hopes of bringing himself up to speed. Sabbie remained silent, perhaps trying to understand why Gil seemed so lost in a conversation that had seemed so clear. Fortunately, the Professor’s answers were long and detailed. They gave Gil just the information he needed to fill in the conversation he had missed.

A diary, written by an eleventh-century monk, had been discovered at an ancient monastery in Weymouth, England, sold to a local dealer of antiques, who had contacted Ludlow, whom he knew would be interested in the crumbling journal. For the moment, the diary remained safe, back in England, in a place known to Ludlow alone. At the appropriate time, it was to be smuggled or, as the Professor put it, “relocated” by Dr. Anton DeVris to the Israel Museum.

“DeVris says that until we know exactly what information the diary contains, it makes no sense to bring it to the Museum. He says that even though he’s the Director of Acquisitions, the Museum wouldn’t accept the diary without some proof of its relevance to religious history. I suppose he’s right, though I would feel a great deal better if it were safe with them, under lock and key.” The old man shrugged his disagreement with DeVris’ decision to keep the diary to themselves but was apparently resigned to go along with the Director’s decision.

“Do you think it’s wise? Holding on to so precious a document?” Gil asked.

He had no clue as to what value this nameless old journal might hold, but he hoped that a little more wiggle room in the conversation might make him look like he was up to speed with the conversation. Ludlow’s response was anything but what he expected.

“Well, it’s only a matter of days now anyway,” the Professor replied jovially. “As you know, George has assured us that, Monday morning, as soon as the last of the financial arrangements with CyberNet Forensics have been finalized, you’ll be on your way to Israel to join us.” Ludlow threw Sabbie yet another adoring glance.

Gil stared blankly. He would have thought the old man crazy had he not known that George was more than capable of making such a promise. But Gil knew George. Too well.

Sabbie surveyed Gil questioningly. “We were told you would be able to leave immediately.”

The Professor and Sabbie waited for Gil’s affirmation, which he had no intention of giving. Damned if he was going be carted off to the Middle East at George’s whim.

He wasn’t going and that was that. George could be counted on to go through his typical routine. He would argue that the company needed the revenue and without it, they’d be facing pay cuts or worse, layoffs. When that failed, George would pull some other manipulation out of his hat. The big guy had been alluding to the fact that since Lucy’s death Gil had become a recluse, so he’d probably argue that a little adventure would be good for Gil’s soul.

Good for CyberNet’s coffers, you mean.

Gil shook off the imaginary conversation. He had no intention of going anywhere. It was as simple as that.

“Why would I be going to Israel if the diary is in England?” Gil asked, a bit argumentatively.

“No matter. No matter. That’s where you’ll be doing your work.”

Not on your life, old man.

He flashed the Professor his most sincere look. “You know, considering what’s involved, I think it would make far more sense to bring the diary to CyberNet’s facilities,” Gil explained. “So, with your okay, Dr. Ludlow, I’m going to recommend that CyberNet assign your project our best team here in New York. In that way, you’ll get the best minds…”

“A team!” Ludlow gasped.

“Well, yes, but don’t worry, it won’t cost you any more. Actually, for the cost of transporting and housing me, it might even be cheaper in the long run…”

“Are you out of your mind?” Sabbie asked angrily. “How could you make such a suggestion? Either you’re a fool or you haven’t heard a word Dr. Ludlow has said. In either case, you’re wasting our time.”

She rose, nodded to the Professor, and made her way toward the restrooms. Ludlow mopped his forehead with his napkin, excused himself, and followed in the same general direction.

Gil shook his head in disbelief. What the hell had just happened? Had he really screwed things up that badly? Apparently so.

He slumped into his chair, prepared to offer the required apologies as soon as they both cooled down and made their way back to the table.

By the time the waiter came for their second drink order, Gil knew the bitter truth. Ludlow had walked out. And so had the girl.

Gil’s eyes fixed on Ludlow’s dripping raincoat, still slung on the chair, and his umbrella lay half open on the floor under the table. Everything was exactly as it had been, save for the fact that Ludlow and Sabbie were gone. Gone from the table and, evidently, gone from the restaurant.

Had he thought to look up from the three square inches of tablecloth that occupied his field of vision since their departure, he might have seen them leave. But he had waited, like a schoolboy, for his punishment; ready to make amends, so that he might go home, get some rest, and let George have it—but good—on Monday morning.

Now, it appeared, there was no one left to apologize to. What started out as a bit of a pain-in-the-ass dinner had escalated into the meeting from hell. Gil’s gaze fell on Ludlow’s vacant chair. A single thought brought him to his feet and sent him striding in the direction he had last seen the Professor and Sabbie disappear.

Sabbie would never have allowed the old man to leave without his coat and umbrella. Not on a night like this.

FIVE

A few minutes later

Hotel Agincourt

“Do you think we should leave him alone in there?” Aijaz asked anxiously. “I mean, he could just leave with the money. The stuff in the envelope could be worthless, right?”

Maluka glanced at the bedroom door that separated them from Ludlow’s assistant in the living room and motioned Aijaz to keep his voice down.

“No need to worry, my friend. Peterson isn’t going anywhere until we’re done with him. He may require our financial help again in the future and he knows it.”

Ajiaz waited for clarification.

Maluka tossed the thick envelope onto the bed. “This is of little importance. What I want isn’t in the envelope. What I want lies within the man in the next room.”

Aijaz nodded, desperately trying to keep up.

“Getting what you desire is easy once your adversary thinks he’s already given it to you,” Maluka explained.

The big man looked down, not knowing what to say.

“It’s okay, Aijaz. I take care of my part. You take care of yours.”

Aijaz smiled with gratitude.

“Now we wait just long enough. Another three minutes should do it.”

Persuading noncooperative people to take seriously their moral obligations was Maluka’s forte. As a boy in Halab, Syria, he had been obsessed with playing “monks and demons,” a game that dated back to the fourth century. Having convinced one of his many cousins to dress in rags, Maluka would don his carefully assembled costume and assume the role of the holy man. With great ceremony, the young Maluka would summon the evil spirit that lurked within the heart of his playmate and challenge it to combat. Though small for his age, Maluka had been remarkably muscular, able to pin down a child several years his senior and to extract, at his demand, confessions of iniquity and promises of repentance. In so doing, Maluka invariably succeeded in exorcising the evil spirit and making the world safe for the Pure of Heart.

Once having played the game with him, a child would rarely do so again. Maluka couldn’t have cared less. Having savored victory over any particular foe, he had no need for a rematch.

Now, decades later, Maluka had transformed the physical game of his childhood into the psychological game he used in the service of his Faith. Whenever he had to resort to physical persuasion, however, he preferred to delegate that responsibility to Aijaz.

Both men returned to the living room. The still-unopened envelope remained where it had been tossed on the bed.

Ludlow’s assistant rose from his seat, waiting for Maluka’s judgment on the envelope’s contents.

“Excellent. Excellent. You have managed to obtain some very useful documents,” Maluka began.

A look of relief crossed Peterson’s haggard face and betrayed what Maluka had suspected. Peterson was frightened Maluka would discover that he had been given information that was virtually useless. Although Peterson must have included some of Ludlow’s personal notes on the diary, as Maluka had requested, and perhaps some background history on the Monastery at Weymouth where the diary was found, in all likelihood, Peterson had not included anything of any real importance. Maluka smiled with satisfaction. If there was one thing that he knew, it was people. He had no illusions about them, he could always expect the worst, and they rarely ever disappointed him.

“So, you’ve met your part of the bargain and we’re all set,” Maluka concluded with a studied good humor.

Peterson’s fingers reflexively patted the package of money in his jacket pocket. He smiled gratefully, stood, and walked toward the door, most likely convincing himself that he had been concerned over nothing.

Maluka offered the handshake that had not been forthcoming at Peterson’s arrival. Peterson responded in kind and turned to go.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Maluka said offhandedly. “What is this business about a copper scroll?”

Peterson’s smile faded.

Before Ludlow’s assistant could respond, Maluka probed a little deeper. “I’m sure it’s not really significant or the Professor would have mentioned it in his notes more than that one time. I was just wondering if you included it because you thought it might be important.”

This was the part Maluka enjoyed the most. He’d set the trap, caught the rat, and now he got to watch him slowly wriggle. Best of all, with each squirm, Ludlow’s assistant was providing Maluka with exactly the information he wanted.

“Copper scroll?” Peterson asked innocently. “Oh, no. That’s not why I included that page. I forgot it was even in there!”

Because you were so very careful to remove any possible reference to a scroll, weren’t you? I knew it! I didn’t even need to look at the pathetic pile of trash you tried to pawn off on me. You must truly think me the fool!

Peterson continued, trying desperately to cover his tracks. “Don’t worry. The copper scroll thing’s not important. On one of the pages of the diary, Ludlow and DeVris apparently found some mention of a copper scroll being hidden somewhere in Weymouth Monastery. They couldn’t even agree if that’s what it really said. Ludlow is certain that it’s what the whole diary is really about. DeVris thinks it’s nothing more than a reference to a copy.”

“A copy of The Cave 3 Copper Scroll they found in Qumran years ago?” probed Maluka.

“Right. And that you know is in the Book of the Shrine already. DeVris says the diary’s just talking about a copy of The Cave 3 Scroll, not a new scroll. The monks probably sold copies of The Cave 3 Scroll by the dozens to bored knights in search of treasure. Anyway, the only reference to any scroll, new or old, was on some old scrap of paper Ludlow found stuck in the binding, so how could it be what the whole diary is about?”

“So DeVris says there is no scroll, or, if there is one, it’s nothing more than a copy of The Cave 3 Copper Scroll?”

“Yes, nothing more than an old man’s wishful thinking.” Peterson straightened and set back his shoulders.

“If you ask me, they’re both crazy. I mean, here are two intelligent men debating and transcribing, then going back and debating it all over again. Just like the fight about who would keep the diary—that went on for a month! The Professor won, of course, ownership is nine-tenths of the law. But now with DeVris in Israel and the diary with Ludlow in London, Ludlow spends half his day uploading bits and pieces of it onto a secret website on the Internet. If you ask me, it would have been a lot easier if he had just let DeVris keep the damn thing.”

Maluka nodded and smiled. Fearful people explain too much. That always gives them away. If you can spot it, it always works in your favor. The greater the number of words they use to cover up their lies, the greater the opportunity to get more information.

“Ludlow’s paranoid,” Peterson continued. “He keeps every e-mail, every printout, even his own notes, locked up like they’re the Crown Jewels.”

Peterson explained that even if he had needed to work with diary-related information, he had to ask the Professor to retrieve it.

“I must be confused. I thought you had access to Ludlow’s safe,” Maluka asked.

“I do. I have access to his safe in the den. But there is another safe in the kitchen, in what looks like an oven.”

“In an oven! Really?”

“Yeah. The thing is bizarre. It’s got a fake back—the oven I mean—which releases if you enter the right numbers in the right succession on the oven timer. It’s one of those digital things—a smart board, Ludlow calls it—and you’d never know that it wasn’t part of the kitchen equipment.”

Peterson explained that, on one particular occasion when he had attempted to heat his lunch in the oven, Ludlow’s wife happened upon him just in the nick of time.

“She’s just a little old lady but she pushed me halfway across the kitchen. She said to never touch that oven again, that Ludlow built the safe inside to keep her valuables in,” Peterson explained. “As a child, she was a prisoner in a Gulag. You know, a Soviet forced labor camp, and apparently she’s still terrified that people will break in and take away everything she has. Not that she has anything worth stealing from what I can see.”

“And now…” Maluka prompted.

“And now, since Ludlow got hold of the diary, he’s taken to putting almost all of his papers in the oven safe, which I don’t have access to. Which is why I couldn’t get you more,” Peterson concluded with a half-apologetic grin.

“No matter,” Maluka said congenially. “You’ve given me all that I needed. Chances are this whole thing will come to nothing. Most importantly, let’s hope the money you’ve earned gives your little girl the extra help she so desperately needs.”

Peterson’s eyes shot to Maluka’s as if seeking to confirm the sincerity in his words. Maluka put on his most sympathetic face. Peterson smiled his gratitude, then opened the door.

Maluka hesitated. He wanted to frame his next question carefully. He required only one final piece of information.

“A safe journey to you, Mr. Peterson. I assume that you and Professor Ludlow are heading back to London in the next day or two?”

“Yes. Tomorrow night. Though I’m not looking forward to the long flight.”

“Yes, yes,” Maluka said brusquely and closed the door.

Even as Peterson made his way to the street, Maluka had already snapped open his cell phone to reserve airline seats for himself and Aijaz on the first morning flight to London.

SIX

Day Two, late evening

Regent’s Park Tube Station

Camden Town, London

Professor Arnold Ludlow struggled up the steps, two heavy suitcases in tow. Sweat from the strain dripped into his eyes, and his back hurt like the dickens. A welcome bit of cool air wafted from the street above. He breathed it in, then with a sigh renewed his climb.

Sarah would be furious. She had begged him to arrange for a private car from the airport but he had refused. They had not put away enough money in the safe yet, he had protested. If Sabbie should need it … Neither Ludlow nor his wife had allowed themselves to linger on the thought.

“Until there is a comfortable cushion of funds, the tube will suit me fine,” he had concluded. “Besides, the exercise will do me good.”

Sarah had kissed him on the bald spot on his head and had given his shoulders a squeeze. Now, she’d be rubbing his back with her infamous Chapman’s Liniment for a week.

“Bloody stuff is made for horses,” he would protest.

“That’s what you get for acting like an ass,” she’d be certain to counter.

Ludlow smiled.

He had reached the street and, revived by the cool air, he headed toward Upper Harley Street and the pleasures of home.

The walk was surprisingly invigorating and his apartment house greeted him like an old friend. Perhaps if his back hadn’t been hurting him so badly, he might have realized something was wrong. Perhaps he might have become alarmed at seeing the apartment windows dark when he knew Sarah would be wide awake and anxious to hear the details of his trip. In any case, he still would have walked unknowingly into their apartment and into the stark terror that awaited him.

Two strong arms seized his and pulled him into the room, even as he struggled to free the key from the lock. They encircled him, and with one great wrench against his chest, left him breathless and in agony from ribs that splintered and gave way. Ludlow slumped to the floor. The room, suddenly flooded with light, seemed oddly filled with white. Two huge figures towered above him, each in clothes devoid of color and faces devoid of expression.

Only Sarah brought color to the moment, her face, hands, legs, and nightgown, all covered with the sickening brown-red of fresh blood. One eye was swollen shut, and a red trickle ran from her ear, but she was alive.

“Please, take what you want. Take it all,” Ludlow pleaded. “Just leave us alone. We’re old. Take whatever you want and go.”

“You know what we want,” the first intruder said softly.

Sarah’s sob broke the silence that followed.

While one tormentor held Ludlow’s head in place so that he would bear witness to the scene that was to follow, the other walked toward his beloved Sarah. The intruder hesitated for a moment, smiled at Ludlow, then kicked the prone woman full force in the side of the head.

Ludlow heard the crack of her neck as it snapped the life out of her. For a moment, the room was silent, save for a tiny exhale of her last breath.

“No!” Ludlow shrieked. He was on his feet, and his hands found the face of the executioner. Ludlow held him by his hair as one eye yielded its soft viscosity to his death grip. Ludlow’s screams of rage drowned out his victim’s cries of pain.

The old man heard nothing, saw nothing, knew nothing. His body did what it had to do and continued grasping and flailing, even as the second intruder pulled him from the first and beat and kicked him until his body could no longer bring muscle and nerve together to move.

“Now give it to us,” the murderer demanded.

“I don’t know what you want,” Ludlow mouthed. His chest spasmed with unreleased sobs. “I don’t know what you want,” he whispered again.

“The diary, you old piece of shit! Just give us the diary and we’ll let you die in peace.”

“The diary?” Ludlow whispered, confused.

Another kick to his back. “Like you didn’t know,” his torturer snickered.

Ludlow struggled to clear his thoughts.

That’s what this was all about? The diary! No, it couldn’t be. It was all too fantastic to imagine.

He had warned DeVris that powerful people had powerful reasons to get control of the diary. DeVris had laughed at him. Sabbie had indulged him his secrecy and had gone along with his emergency preparations, though she had thought him over the top about it. Sarah, too. But none of them had ever considered him anything but paranoid about the whole matter. Even he doubted his own concerns. And, now, son of a bloody bitch, he had been right all along.

Ludlow smiled; a tiny raising of the corners of his mouth, an insignificant movement that echoed a greater victory than any round of cannon fire.

He had what these murderers so desperately wanted, but they had left him with no reason to give it to them. They had taken everything; his Sarah, his desire to live, and his body’s ability to continue to endure their abuse. He was dying and he knew it. Yet this, the only thing they really wanted, they would not get.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.