13th Apostle (12 page)

“That was a euphemism, you moron. I implied that I'd be giving you some incentive to work harder.”

“And he doesn't object to that sort of thing?”

“Who? DeVris? Are you kidding? He'd sleep with you himself if it would get the job done.”

“And when we don't come back for the rest of the day?” Gil asked.

“He'll figure you were just getting that much more motivated.”

When Gil asked her
why
she had set up DeVris not to expect them back at the Museum that afternoon, she said it was important that she and Gil get enough lead time to get to Weymouth Monastery before DeVris realized they were missing.

She arranged all this before she ever saw McCullum. She is good. Really good
. Whatever she was up to he was glad she was on his side.

“So, what's next?” he asked.

They'd be landing in London in less than five hours, Sabbie said. She held out her hand, palm up. “Give me your passport for safekeeping.” He thought to protest, but let it go. After all, what's she going to do with it, sell it on the black market?

“Get some sleep while you can,” she said. “You'll be needing it.”

Of course he would. Of that, he had no doubt.

Later that evening
London

The sleeper car on the South West train from London to Weymouth was empty except for a sprinkling of passengers in the first few rows of their car. Gil took a seat next to Sabbie at the back of the coach. He relaxed into the leather recliner and pulled a blanket up to his chin. Tel Aviv or London time, either way you sliced it, it was the middle of the night.

“Shouldn't you be reading over the diary notes?” she asked.

“I've already memorized them. They say, go to Weymouth and use the good brains God gave you.”

“Then let's go over the itinerary, okay?” Her voice had softened. It was warm and held an intimacy he had never heard from her before.

She was so transparent. Obviously she couldn't sleep, but she didn't know how to say she wanted company.

Instinctively, he reached to touch her hair, then stopped short. The look of uncertainty on her face told him that he was moving in new territories. He thought of Lucy. The memory of her face was not as clear as it had been only a week earlier. His chest tightened with guilt.

Sabbie leaned over to turn on his reading lamp. Her breast brushed his arm. She seemed not to notice; he pretended as well.

“So here's how we're going to handle Weymouth,” she began.

“I'm all ears.”

“We'll be lovers,” she explained with a mischievous smile.

Gil laughed out loud.

“What, it seems so impossible to think we are lovers?” she asked in a mock tone of challenge.

“No, not at all. After all, technically…”

She cut him off. “Good, then we shall be very intimate. Enthralled with each other. That way, should we go for a long moonlit walk, no one will think it odd. We will have a perfectly acceptable reason to not want to talk with anyone. You shall have eyes only for me.”

“And what about you?”

“I shall have eyes on everything that is going on around us,” she answered.

“That doesn't seem fair,” Gil continued. He was unwilling to let go of the banter.

“This is important. We must be convincing as lovers. It's not as easy as you think,” continued Sabbie.

“I can bite the bullet if you can.”

She deftly changed the subject. “Let me fill you in on what I know about Weymouth and the Monastery.”

Gil nodded unenthusiastically.

“The Monastery at Weymouth was one of the first in Europe. Over the years, it has gone through some extraordinary changes. It survived ten centuries and some pretty rough times—though maybe saying it survived is giving it too much credit. Except for one section, the whole thing had to be torn down, repaired, or rebuilt. They were able to stay true to the architecture and to salvage a few of the statues and most of the tapestries but, other than that, very little of the original Monastery remains; just a lot of reconstructed walls laid out according to what architects believe was the original floor plan.

“Still,” she continued, “the town considers the building to be the same Monastery that it has always been
and
—I'll tell you more about this, later—some of the townsfolk have reported some unusual happenings.”

Gil began to drift off to sleep.

She shook his arm to rouse him.

“Anyway,” she continued, “the town of Weymouth is situated about two hours southwest of London by bus, when the bus is running, which it doesn't after 6:45 in the evening. That's why we had to take the train which, of course, takes four hours instead of two.”

She explained that the Monastery was a good forty-minute walk from the center of the town—an apparently important point because it guaranteed a bit of solitude. According to her Internet printout, there was only one road to the Monastery and the best way to identify it was to use the oldest pub in town as a starting point.

Gil started to fade once more and let his head fall back onto the headrest.

She shook him again, harder than before.

“You're a cold woman.”

Sabbie continued, leaning over him to speak into his exposed ear.

“The Monastery is generally deserted. There haven't been any monks there since the eighteen-hundreds. Volunteers give tours of the place, but their schedules are erratic, depending on how many people sign up. If we need info on the history of the place, we'll have to go to the Weymouth Library, which may seem odd given that we're supposed to be lovers on a romantic getaway but we'll think of something if we have to.”

Gil sat up, suddenly awake. “Wait a minute. Go back to what you were saying. Tell me about the strange happenings.”

According to local legend, she explained, there was a buried casket somewhere on the Monastery grounds. Some claimed that the casket was made of silver, while others claimed it to be of gold or copper. The townsfolk were divided on the spiritual nature of the casket. Some claimed it was evil, a trap set by the Devil. Others said it was a gift from God. A few believed it to be blessed by Christ and that it held the power to heal.

“They swear it bears the formula for eternal life which Jesus himself imbibed, even as he was being crucified,” Sabbie continued. “Visitors from the surrounding countryside pay regular visits to the Monastery Chapel, which is still intact. Some come out claiming that they have been healed or have found a renewed sense of peace by the simple act of praying. They believe themselves to have been in the casket's presence even though they have no idea where it actually resides.”

According to what Sabbie had read, there was one old couple who supposedly moved to the town because the woman was dying of some rare cancer. They believed that if they went to the Monastery every day, she'd be cured.

“What happened?” Gil asked.

“That was eight years ago. They still walk the grounds every day.”

“Anything else?”

“Nope, that's it,” she said. “What do you think?”

“It's incredible. The best thing you could have said.”

There is a pattern to the way people think, Gil explained. Whether they were trying to hide something for someone to discover a thousand years later or simply deciding what to eat for dinner, people followed patterns. When it came to making up stories, people continued to follow predictable patterns. Scratch the surface of a myth and you discover a real event. It may have been twisted and used by vested interests for ulterior purposes but, at its start, it was real.

“Let's start with fact number one,” Gil said. “In the diary, Elias wrote that the scroll his brother brought from the Holy Land was encased in a wooden box.”

“A casket!”

“Exactly. And the townsfolk think it's evil…”

“Because they burned William at the stake!”

“And the rest, the part about Christ?” he prompted.

“Don't tell me that you think…”

“Don't you? Doesn't it fit perfectly with what Elias wrote?” he asked.

“Things are never that simple,” she said.

She was a tough cookie, he'd give her that, but she didn't fool him. She was hoping just like he was, that the Weymouth myth was all about Elias' scroll. And neither of them could wait to find out. Side by side they sat in silence, listening to the rumble of the train, rushing toward Weymouth.

Gil watched her eyelids fall and her breathing grow deep and relaxed.

And your patterns, Sabbie, hot and cold, caring then distant, sexual without intimacy, control at any cost. What do they say about you? A hard life even before the rape. Pain and betrayal. No one could be trusted. Only special, safe people like Ludlow and his wife. Now, they were gone, too.

He understood her. Like Lucy in her last days, when there was no one left to blame, she blamed herself. It was a hard choice and a very lonely one. To all the world it looked as if she had no need for anyone. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

An old familiar ache rose in Gil's chest. He wished he could be certain that he'd be able to lead her to the secret that had waited two millennia to be set free. He knew how desperately she wanted to find it and protect it. He wanted to tell her to sleep well, that everything would work out. He wanted to promise it all. But he knew things were never that simple.

Later that evening
Muslims for World Truth (MWT)
Video Production Studios
London

Many hours had passed before Hassan informed Maluka of McCullum's unexpected appearance. Precious hours in which Maluka might have taken action, now lost because Hassan had failed in his duty. Perhaps Hassan was becoming as self-indulgent as those he had been sent to observe. Perhaps their greed and indolence had seeped into his soul. Or perhaps, as he claimed, Hassan had been so ill as to require a nap in the storeroom of the Museum.

The final thought would have given Maluka the greatest peace of mind. Unfortunately, he had a difficult time believing it. Hassan had never missed time at work due to illness, either at Maluka's video studio or at the Museum. Neither high fever nor racking cough would have kept him from completing his duty. It was one of those things by which some men define themselves and in which they take great pride.

If it were not for the particularly bad timing of Hassan's so-called infirmity, Maluka might have been merely surprised. As it was, a sudden illness that prevented Hassan from knowledge of McCullum's arrival at the Museum, however, seemed more than coincidental.

Maluka had answered Hassan's phone call with caution. This was not the time of their prearranged communication. An unexpected call could not be expected to bring good news.

“I don't know what to say,” Hassan began. His voice cracked with apparent emotion. “If only I had been here, I would have called you immediately.”

Maluka remained silent as Hassan offered the few details he was able to glean from the other maintenance staff.

“McCullum arrived with two bodyguards,” Hassan began.

McCullum's choice of Power Angels would reveal the purpose of his visit. Each of McCullum's three pair of Power Angels bore a name taken from angelic folklore or scripture, usually from Talmudic and Islamic teachings, a particularly ironic twist given McCullum's contempt for both traditions. Each bodyguard was chosen with care, paired with another of similar yet complementary talents, then groomed to perform a singular function.

If McCullum arrived accompanied by Nakir and Munkir, named for the questioning angels who, according to tradition, decided whether a soul goes to Heaven or Hell, one could assume that the intent of McCullum's visit was information gathering. On the other hand, if Ahadiel, who bore the name of the angelic angel enforcer of the law, and Azareel, the heavenly curer of stupidity, were seen at McCullum's side, one could expect that there would be a meting out of his particular type of punishment. Two other Power Angels were said to remain at WATSC headquarters, their help enlisted only as required. Their names and special attributes remained a mystery to almost all outside the elite members of the White Americans To Save Christianity organization.

“Whom did he bring?” Maluka asked.

“Nakir and Munkir, the fair-haired twins,” Hassan answered.

“So, McCullum came only to question DeVris. Most likely about the diary. What else?” Maluka asked.

“I discovered a book on DeVris' floor, one that is particularly precious to him, one which he would never leave lying about. A few of its pages were bent and there appeared to be a spray of blood on the back,” Hassan reported.

DeVris must have not been forthcoming with his answers and McCullum had deemed it necessary to offer some incentive.

“And when I asked DeVris if I might empty his wastebasket, he did not hear me. He claimed to have an ear infection.”

McCullum's blow must have been to DeVris' head.

“And the outcome of the meeting?” Maluka asked.

“Strangely friendly. McCullum was said to be smiling, his arm around DeVris' shoulder, as he left.”

So, DeVris revealed everything, for the time being, McCullum is satisfied that there is some plan in the works that offers promise of attaining the diary and, perhaps, the scroll.

Next, Maluka inquired as to the progress of Sabbie and Gil. Hassan explained that they had taken the day off.

“They told DeVris they were not making significant progress and needed time away from the confines of the Museum for quote, unquote, research purposes,” Hassan concluded with a disdainful grunt.

Maluka straightened in surprise. The news was the worst Hassan could have given him. Of all he had heard, this was the most alarming. Sabbie would never abandon translation of the diary for a mere sexual encounter. If she were not at the Museum, it was probable that she had learned what she needed from the diary and, in all likelihood, was in pursuit of the scroll.

DeVris was blind to Sabbie's power and determination. In light of the American's reported lack of progress, DeVris would have probably seen her request for a day off as unremarkable. As far as the Director was concerned, he and McCullum were the only game in town. He would have assumed there was no reason to rush the translation.

Sabbie probably suggested to DeVris that she would maintain more control over Gil as long she continued to provide the promise, or reality, of her favors. All the more reason to allow them some time off together.

DeVris would have granted them leave, allowed himself to linger on what carnal deeds they might engage in, and have thought no more of the matter. Maluka, on the other hand, recognized in Sabbie a resolve that, under certain circumstances, could easily make her a most prodigious opponent.

“She has left and has either taken the American with her or has disposed of him. She has almost a full day's head start. That is of great concern!”

Maluka's instructions to Hassan were precise. If they acted quickly, they might yet be able to recoup the time they had lost and might yet overtake her. After all, Sabbie had no awareness of Maluka's existence, much less his involvement.

If all went as planned, she and the American would make the discovery of the millennium, experience an exhilaration that few would ever know, then deliver the prize into Maluka's waiting hands.

But now there was so much to arrange. He had lost precious time. The question of Hassan's loyalty would have to wait for another day.