13th Apostle (3 page)

A few minutes later
The New York City Grille

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 had 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.

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 gone 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.