They went round and round until she finally agreed to accompany him to En Gedi in return for a promise to come straight back to the tav at first light.
The downhill trip going was shorter by hours than the uphill trip coming, but it seemed much longer. Carrie hardly spoke a word the whole way.
‡
En Gedi
They lay side by side in their double bed in the local guest house. Dan’s arms and legs were leaden with fatigue as he floated in a fog of exhaustion. Here they were, in bed together in one of the world’s most ancient resorts, a green oasis of grasses, vineyards, palm trees, and even a waterfall in the midst of the barren wastelands. A beauty spot, a lovers’ rendezvous, mentioned even in the ancient Song of Solomon, and all he could think of was sleep.
Not that Carrie would have been receptive to any romantic advances anyway. She’d seemed more than a bit aloof since they’d left the tav.
That and the knowledge that they’d be returning to the Wilderness tomorrow only heightened Dan’s fatigue.
Hal had been no help. As soon as they had arrived in En Gedi, Dan called him and explained that they needed a way to get a five-foot-long artifact out of the country.
“Quietly, if you know what I mean.”
Hal had known exactly what he meant and gave him a name and a telephone number in Tel Aviv. He’d said he was very interested and wanted to see this artifact when it reached the states. Dan had thanked him and hung up.
Yeah. Thanks a lot, Hal.
Nothing was working out the way he’d hoped. He’d expected Hal to tell him to forget it—no way to get something that size past the inspectors. Instead of no way, it was no problem.
Damn!
Carrie had remained in a sort of semi-dream state. What little conversation she’d initiated had been whispers of “Can you believe it? Can you believe we’ve actually found her?” as they stocked up on twine, blankets, work gloves, a pry bar, a lantern, and hundreds of feet of rope.
And now, beside him in bed, after a long silence...
“I’ve been thinking...”
“Great.” Dan dragged himself back from the borderlands of sleep. “Does that mean you’re giving up this ca-ca idea of bringing that corpse home?”
“Please don’t refer to her so coarsely. Please?”
“Okay. Just for your sake. Not because I believe it.”
“Thank you. Now tell me: Who do you think wrote the scroll?”
“A clever, phony bastard.”
“All right,” she said with exaggerated patience. “Let’s humor Sister Carrie and assume that the scroll is genuine. Who wrote it?”
“We’ve been over this already. A Pharisee. An educated man.”
“But what of that passage where he says ‘I do not fear killing. I have killed before, slipping through the crowds in Jerusalem, stabbing with my knife. And I fear not damnation. Indeed, I am already thrice-damned.’ That doesn’t sound like a Pharisee.”
“What’d you do, memorize that translation?”
“No. But I’ve read it a few times.”
More than a few, Dan bet.
He said, “Some of the upper-class Israelites, a few Pharisees among them, got involved with the anti-Roman rebels, some with the zealots. These were a rough bunch of guys, sort of the Israelite equivalent of the IRA. They mounted guerrilla attacks, they murdered collaborators and informants and generally did whatever they could to incite revolt. These were the guys who gathered at Masada after the fall of Jerusalem. They held out for three years, then all 950 of them chose to die rather than surrender to the Roman siege. This scroll writer is patterned after that sort of zealot.”
“He was a pretty tough cookie then.”
“Extremely. Not the kind you’d want to cross.”
“I wonder what happened to him?”
“He’s probably hanging around, laughing up his three-striped sleeve, waiting for someone to chase the wild goose he created.”
He regretted the words immediately, but he was tired, dammit.
Carrie yanked the sheet angrily and turned onto her side, her back to him.
“Good night, Dan. Get some sleep. We’re out of here at dawn.”
“Good night, Carrie.”
But exhausted as he was, thoughts of the forger kept sleep at bay. And the more Dan thought about how this slimy bastard had sucked Carrie in, making her believe all this nonsense, the more he wanted to get back at him.
And removing that corpse or whatever it was from its cave was the perfect way.
Then it wouldn’t matter who came searching for the secret atop the tav rock—the New York Times, the Star, or even a mission from Vatican itself—all they’d find was an empty cave. The tomb is empty! There’d be no turmoil, no orthodox confusion, no Catechismal chaos. And the forger would be left scratching his head, wondering where his clever little prop had disappeared to.
Dan smiled into the darkness. Two can play this game, Mr. Forger.
Tomorrow Carrie would have enthusiastic help in her efforts to smuggle the forger’s prop out of Israel.
After that, Dan would have plenty of time to coax her back to her senses. If he could. He was more than a little worried about Carrie’s mental state. She seemed to be drifting into some religious fantasy realm. He sensed some strange chemistry between her and that body that he could not begin to comprehend. A switch had been thrown inside her, but what circuits had been activated?
Maybe it all went back to her childhood. Maybe it was all tied up in the abuse by her father. Little Carrie had been a virgin and no one had protected her; now here she was with what she believed to be the Virgin Mary and the grown-up Carrie was going to become the protector.
More parlor psychoanalysis. But perhaps it gave some clue as to why this artifact was so important to her.
Too important, perhaps.
And that frightened him. How would she react when it finally became clear—as it must eventually—that the body she thought belonged to the Blessed Virgin was a hoax? What if she cracked?
Whatever happened, he’d be there for her.
But what if he couldn’t bring her back?
He stared into the darkness and wished Hal had brought him another sort of gift from the Holy Land. Anything but that damned scroll.
‡
Tel Aviv
Kesev watched the morning news on TV while he sipped his coffee and considered the journey ahead of him. Oppressed by some nameless sense of urgency, he’d left Devorah’s in the early morning hours, fighting the urge to jump into his car and drive into the Wilderness.
Instead he’d driven home and attempted to sleep. Wasted hours. He’d had not a minute of slumber. He should have driven to the Resting Place. He’d have been there by now and all these vague fears would be allayed.
He’d called into Shin Bet with an excuse about a family emergency that would keep him from the office all day, but he wondered if this trip were even necessary. He’d be on the road all day, probably for nothing. Only 80 air miles, but three times that by car. And for what? To satisfy a nameless uneasiness?
Idly, he wondered if he could get a helicopter and do a quick fly-by, but immediately discarded the idea. He’d made a spectacle of himself back there in ‘91 during the Gulf War when he’d refused to leave the SCUD impact site until all the investigations had been completed. He’d actually camped out there until the last missile fragment had been removed and the final investigator had returned home. There’d been too many questions about his undue interest in that particular piece of nowhere. If he requested a copter now...
He sighed and finished his coffee. Better get moving. He had a long drive ahead of him, and he’d know no peace until he’d reassured himself.