“This pistol has a seven-shot clip loaded with 9mm hollowpoint bullets. Do you know what a hollowpoint does after it enters the body? It flattens and widens, tearing through the flesh in an expanding cone of destruction. The bullet enters through a little hole and exits through a gaping maw. It is not a pretty thing, Salah Mahmoud.”
Sweat beaded the dealer’s forehead, dripping into his eyes.
“So...here are the ground rules: I will ask questions and you will answer truthfully. The first time I think you are lying I will shoot you in the left knee.” The dealer stiffened and shuddered. “The second lie will earn you a bullet in the right knee. The third in your right elbow, the fourth in your left. The fifth bullet I will use on your manhood. By that time I will have decided that you are either a pathological liar, or you really don’t know anything. I will then leave you. Alive. And you will spend the rest of your days unable to walk, unable to use crutches or a wheelchair, unable to feed yourself or wipe yourself, your urine running through a tube into bag strapped to your leg. Is that what you want?”
Mahmoud shook his head violently, spraying drops of perspiration in all directions.
“Good.”
Kesev straightened and stepped back from the bed. He had no particular desire to shoot this man, but he would do so. He had to retrieve that scroll.
He pointed to the forged scroll on the bed.
“Now tell me: When did you get this scroll?”
Mahmoud hesitated. His nightshirt was soaked with sweat. His eyes darted about the room, like a rabbit looking for a hole to run to.
Kesev worked the slide to chamber a round.
“No!” Mahmoud cried, trying to curl into a ball.
Kesev pulled the trigger once. The Tokarev jerked and gave out a phut! as a bullet tore into the mattress near the dealer’s face.
Mahmoud thrust out his hands amid the flying feathers and began to whimper. “Please don’t shoot! I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you everything!”
Kesev lowered the pistol a few degrees. “I’m waiting.”
“I made that scroll.”
Kesev raised the pistol again.
“It’s true! I copied it myself from a crumbling original!”
“Really. And where did you find the original?”
“I-I didn’t. Two nephews of my father’s uncle’s brother discovered it in a cave in the Wilderness. I don’t know if it’s true, but they claimed one of Saddam’s missiles uncovered it.”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
Kesev felt relief begin to seep through him, but he resisted it just as he’d resisted the rage. He could not let down his guard, not until the scroll was safely back in his hands.
Mahmoud was still talking, babbling, flooding the room with rapid-fire Egyptian-flavored Arabic.
“Their father brought their find to me: a written scroll that was heavily damaged—the boys had been in a hurry and did not know how to care for it—and a sealed jar containing two unused scrolls. I began reassembling the fragments of the written scroll as best I could. So many pieces! It took me years—years—to complete the task. When I had finished I copied what was left of the text onto the blank parchments.”
“Copied? Copied how?”
He shrugged, almost apologetically. “I...I’ve done this before. I have formulae for all the ancient inks. I was especially careful with the copying because I knew the parchments would pass the dating test.” His attempt at a smile was a miserable failure. “I figured, why sell one scroll when I could sell three?”
“Did you read it? Did you understand it?” Kesev held his breath as he waited for the answer.
“I tried. But my Aramaic is rudimentary at best; there were words I could not translate. And besides, the scroll was incomplete. Fragments were out of place and some were missing completely. I reassembled them the best I could but—”
“Where is that original now?”
“It...” His voice shrank to a whisper. “It’s gone.”
Sudden rage crackled through Kesev’s brain. He leaned forward and jammed the muzzle of the silencer against Mahmoud’s thigh.
“You sold it?”
“No-no! Please! It’s gone! Whisked away into the air!”
“I warned you about lying!”
“Please! I swear by Allah! The wind took it! It happened in the back room, not ten meters from here, just as I was finishing the first copy. Suddenly all the windows in the building crashed inward and a blast of icy wind tore through the halls and rooms. The winds seemed to gather in my work room. They rattled my walls, knocked me to the floor, and upset my work table. The scroll fragments swirled into the air in a whirling column, then they blew out the window and were gone. Years of work—gone.”
Kesev’s rage cooled rapidly, chilled by the dealer’s words. A wind...filling the halls and rooms...stealing the fragments in a miniature whirlwind...
“You must believe me!” Mahmoud wailed. “Every word is true!”
Kesev nodded slowly, almost absently. The fat forger wasn’t lying. He wouldn’t make up something so fantastic and try to pass it off as the truth.
And that meant that the original scroll had been destroyed, reduced to scattered, indecipherable bits of parchment...but not before it had been copied.
“How many copies did you make?” Kesev asked finally.
“Two. There were only two blank scrolls. I forged the second copy from the first.”
How many scrolls had been in the sealed jar? Two sounded right but he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t remember.
Two copies: one here in Kesev’s possession, and the other in America. That thought would have panicked him if he hadn’t known it had been branded a forgery.
He had a sense that events were spinning out of control. An odd progression of incidents—the errant SCUD, the theft of the scroll, the copies, the destruction of the original. Especially unsettling was the last incident. An unnatural wind had whirled the scroll fragments into oblivion, but only after they had been copied. After. Unfortunate happenstance, or design? He sensed a power at work, a deft hand moving behind the scenes. But what power? And to what end?
He had to stay on guard. The scroll in America was probably rolled up and sealed in a glass case, just like Tulla Szobel’s. A curio. Something to be looked at but not touched. And besides, how many Americans knew Aramaic? Highly unlikely that anyone would realize what it was about.
But something was happening. Once again he was overwhelmed by the sensation of giant wheels turning, ready to crush him if he stepped the wrong way.
Increased vigilance was the key. He’d have to find a way to keep a closer watch on the Resting Place. And be ready to deal swiftly and surely with any curious Americans he found wandering in the area.
So here sit I, alone, a filthy cave for a home and only locusts, wild honey, a few goats, and figs for sustenance. I who once dwelt in luxury, who once wore the striped blue sleeve and had free access to the Temple.
I am alone and mad. And sometimes I imagine I am not alone. Sometimes I see her walking. Sometimes she speaks to me. But it isn’t her. Only a fever-dream of my madness.
I pray that each day is the Last Day, but each ends like the one before it. When will it end? Dear Lord, when will you allow it to end for me?
--from the Glass scroll
Rockefeller Museum translation
TEN
Manhattan
Dan awoke with a start—bright light in his eyes and an excited voice in his ear.
“Dan! Wake up! Wake up!”
He blinked. Carrie...leaning over him...dark hair falling about her face...bright eyes wide with excitement. God, she was beautiful. She made him want to sing though he knew damn well he couldn’t carry a tune. How had he spent his whole life without this woman—not any woman...this woman? Celibacy was an unnatural state for a human being. He didn’t care what the Church said, he was a better person—a more compassionate, more understanding, more fully rounded man—and therefore a better priest because of Carrie.