Bahir’s eyebrows arched. “Oh, yes! Longinus was the Roman soldier who prevented Jesus’ legs from being broken. To hasten death, the soldiers, men who grew tired waiting for the crucified to die, would break the bones in the legs. That meant those hanging on the cross couldn’t use their legs to push up. Longinus thrust the spear into Christ to prove he had already died. This man, Longinus, was an old soldier, half blind. When the blood spilled from the wound in Christ’s side, it is said a tiny bit fell into Longinus’s eyes. The old man could see well for the first time in years. Not only could he see things more clearly around him, he looked up and saw that even in death, Christ had opened Longinus’s eyes to what is and what can be. He devoted the rest of his life to spread that word. He would die rather than renounce his new faith.”
Marcus was quiet. He didn’t blink listening to Bahir. Then he looked down at the words on the screen again. His voice was just above a whisper. “…a clean force released deliverance from the heart of our Lord…” His mind quickly rearranged each word. “…a clean force…clean can spell l-a-n-c-e. A lance force released deliverance from the heart of our Lord…” he paused, his eyes lifting back to Bahir. “How did you know where in this jumble of words to direct me?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know damn well what I mean. Every reference you made had something to do with a veiled meaning…a coding within a code. This disorder of text on the screen was what I decoded from interwoven passages out of the Bible against what I uncovered from Newton.” Marcus heart hammered. “Corinthians…Isaiah…John…Matthew Daniel…Revelation, seemingly unrelated verses from the Bible, but by using a decryption formula I worked out from Isaac Newton, it reveals this…” Marcus moistened his lips. “And then you point me subtly in a direction to pick up key words. Why?”
“I don’t know all the things your computer speaks. Maybe it understands how to sing in harmony with the Song of Songs. Ah, what a lovely song that would be! Music that rocks the cradle of man with a sweetness of verse that is from the heart. It tells us we are not swallowed up in the emptiness of infinity, and in nature our worth is measured and returned by the love we have for others.”
Marcus shook his head, pinched the bridge of his nose and pushed back in the chair. “Understanding you is like cracking some damn code. It’s frustrating.”
Bahir’s eyes drifted away.
Marcus said, “Why don’t you just go on and spell out the rest? And while you’re at it, see if you can find out the name of the man who killed my family.”
“I wish I knew that, Paul, but I do not.”
“You seem to know a lot…more than you’re telling me.”
Bahir said nothing.
Marcus used the palms of his hands to rub the fatigue from his eyes. “What does it mean when it reads that ‘from the plot of those using oil from pressed olives, from the five crosses, to the head of the garden, one eye weeps for man, one sees revelation in the direction of the temple measured by Solomon…a rose without thorns blooms under a new sun. The truth is found fewer than two hundred shadows of the moon, for the shadow is to the seeker as the seeker is to the shadow.”
“I can only guess.”
“What’s your guess?”
“Gethsemane.”
“What?”
“It could be the garden near the base of the Mount of Olives. The word Gethsemane, in the Syriac language, means oil press or a place olives are pressed for oil. Gethsemane is where Christ was taken prisoner the night before he was crucified.”
Marcus concentrated on the words displayed on screen. “It reads…‘plot of those using oil from pressed olives…’ Is it referring to plot of land or a plot as in to conspire?”
“Some refer to a garden as a plot of land.”
“The word Longinus…it can spell out guns n oil. But what does that mean? It concludes with. ‘The truth is found fewer than two hundred shadows of the moon, for the shadow is to the seeker as the seeker is to the shadow…from the five crosses, to the head of the garden.’ ”
Marcus closed his eyes for a moment, his thoughts focusing. “Maybe there’s something at the head of the Gethsemane garden that’s weeping, pointing toward a nonexistent Solomon’s Temple.”
Bahir nodded. “Perchance it is another temple with the dimensions laid out by Solomon.”
“What temple? Where on earth would that exist?”
“I do not know. Something at the head of a garden may point the way.”
FORTY-SIX
Bill Gray wasn’t looking forward to the meeting. The phone call had been abrupt, almost accusatory. How long had it been since he’d seen his former Georgetown classmate? Four, maybe five years? Gray sat on a park bench overlooking the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool and waited for Liam Berenson to arrive. The wind across the water was cold, the surface of the pool rippling like aged skin over the dark pewter water. Gray watched a leaf fall from a cherry tree, one of the few leaves remaining in the tree as nature stripped down for the change of seasons.
“Right on time, as usual.”
Gray turned around as Berenson approached. He sat on the bench, glanced at Gray and said, “Good to see you, Bill.”
“How’s the CIA treating you?”
“Probably not as good as NSA is treating you.”
“What’s this about, Liam? Neither of us is in the field anymore.”
Berenson’s narrow face was wind-burned, his cheeks flushed. He looked over the tops of his glasses, his eyes watery, gunmetal grey irises intent. He said, “Paul Marcus has or may be turning.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ve been following one of Iran’s best operatives. She has half a dozen aliases, of course, but her real name is Taheera Khalili. One of her emails, after bouncing from servers all over the world, went to a cell phone we traced to Paul Marcus.”
“If Paul received a message from this operative, it’s probably because it has something to do with what he’s doing, which is the last thing from some kind of breach.”
“What’s he working on, Bill? Beyond the cry of wolf in the alleged assassination attempt of the prime minister, less than a few hundred yards from where we’re sitting right now, what’s he really doing there? No one in all the channels of protocol is completely clued in to what our controversial Nobel Prize guy is doing…except you. Why the hell is one of NSA’s best former cryptographers contacting an Iranian field agent?”
“She probably solicited him. Paul’s no hack. I told you that he’s researching some lost papers from Isaac Newton that were donated to the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. He’s there by invitation. The Iranians, for that matter, and most covert agencies know who he is and now probably where he is, too. I’ve asked Paul to keep his ears and eyes open, that’s all. It’s that simple.”
“Not anymore. You reel him in, and do it quickly, or we’ll have him shipped back to Langley.”
“What’s going on, Liam? Who’s making this call and why?”
“Do us both a favor and bring Marcus in for a thorough debriefing.” Berenson nodded, got up, and left. He walked fast by the reflecting pool, a flock of pigeons scattering beneath his brown wingtip shoes.
FORTY-SEVEN
Marcus walked through the narrow streets of the Old City, the sidewalk merchants sitting by Persian rugs and trays of jewelry. Rainbow colors of scarves and shawls hung at eye-level from walls and clotheslines strung between the aged storefronts. Some of the barkers waved tourists over to them with smiles and body language that suggested they had the lowest prices.