Gospel (12 page)

“May I help you?” asked a new woman behind the desk.

“Uh, yes,” Lucy said, surprising herself. “I am Dr. O'Hanrahan's assistant from the University of Chicago.”

“Oh, him.”

“Yes, I am to collect for Dr. O'Hanrahan the books he ordered up yesterday and put on reserve.”

“I see,” she intoned.

“Of course,” said Lucy, taking advantage of the universal dread of O'Hanrahan, “if you would rather set things up, I could have him come down here and tell you what he required himself—”

“I'll get the books right away,” she whispered. Lucy surveyed the library staff, every last one of them wearing glasses with chains, older women without wedding rings in conservative English clothes.

The pile arrived. It included Sir E. A. W. Budge's
Contendings of the Apostles,
which Lucy noted was in Amharic. Copyright 1901. Next book: something by Flamion, in French,
Les Actes apocryphes de l'Apôtre André,
Louvain 1911. Next was a photostatic reproduction of an ancient book, which had the
Andreas
in Anglo-Saxon, and blazoned on its leather binding: Cynewulf, a Roman numeral showing the text was 1623. Origen's
On Luke.
Clement of Alexandria's
Stromateis.
The Collected Hippolytus, the Collected Sophronius.… She dutifully took down these titles on her notepad.

“Do you have a copy of the Bible?” Lucy asked the woman at the desk.

“About 546. Which century and language did you have in mind?”

“A current Bible will do.”

The woman directed her to a reference shelf that had the King James and the RSV. Lucy flipped the page of her pad and listed the disciples according to
Matthew:

Unexpectedly, there was no list of the Twelve in John's gospel. What's more,
John
listed another disciple, Nathanael, who wasn't in the others. The Church considers Nathanael the same as Bartholomew, but Lucy wondered if O'Hanrahan knew something the Church didn't. Likely, his name was Nathanael bar-Tolomai.
Luke
listed an extra Judas, son of James bar-Alphaeus. So Judas must be Thaddeus.
Mark
and
Matthew
probably changed his name so it wouldn't be confused with Judas Iscariot. Lucy remembered an inkling of a Catholic prayer card to St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes:
St. Jude, glorious Apostle, faithful servant and friend of Jesus, the name of the traitor has caused you to be forgotten by many, pray for me who am so miserable,
and so forth.

Six guesses, hm?

Well, Judas Iscariot is probably out. The idea of a Judas gospel is intriguing but sure to be fictional, and even if he wrote one, who would believe it when they read it? Lucy suspected she could lose Simon the Zealot as well. Jewish independence propaganda wouldn't have been saved by the Church … unless he gave up his zealoting ways. And a Simon gospel could explain the rabbi's interest. Bartholomew, maybe. It seemed to her that there
was
an apocryphal
Gospel of Bartholomew
she had seen somewhere.

She looked up Bartholomew in an ecclesiastical encyclopedia. Sure enough, there existed a 4th-Century copy of a Greek
Gospel of Bartholomew,
but the writers of the entry cast doubt on its authenticity, as did an impressive list of Church fathers, Jerome following Origen. It was banned in the Gelasian Decree. Didn't look promising. But maybe O'Hanrahan had found an earlier copy of it, something more authentic.

“Hello, Miss O'Hanrahan,” said a wry voice beside her, making her startle. It was Rabbi Hersch. “I see we have a list of the Twelve,” he observed, taking a minute to look it over. “I wouldn't bet on your working it out.”

“You never know,” she said. “I might wiggle it out of Dr. O'Hanrahan yet.”

The rabbi was looking casual today, tan and fit, a tweed coat with leather elbow patches, some remnant of late '60s academia. “Let's have some tea, shall we?”

They walked to the Queen's Lane Cafe on the High Street, across from the Examination Schools, where presently a flurry of uniformed students gathered to spray champagne on fellow examinees about to emerge. This little nook was crowded this lunchtime, but the rabbi and Lucy with brimming cups of tea pushed their way to a table by the window.

“Now let's get this straight,” Rabbi Hersch began. “You're over here from Chicago to drag Paddy home? Slap his wrists?”

“Rabbi sir, you can imagine what they're thinking back at the department. I mean, he's climbed out on a limb really.”

The rabbi motioned for her to go on and explain.

“Dr. O'Hanrahan sold his house. Cashed in his life insurance policy. Closed his bank accounts. Went through the department credit card and is now, as I see it, heading to the end of his own card's limit.”

The rabbi rubbed his forehead. “Nu nu nu nu nu, why didn't he tell me? Sold his house, did he? On a grant—he tells me he was on a grant.”

Oops, thought Lucy, the rabbi hadn't known any of this.

Lucy began, “No, I'm sure there's no grant involved. But if I could make a good report to Chicago, they might help him, maybe send him some money—”

“Bah, never! Too much bad blood there.” The rabbi pulled on his neatly groomed gray beard. “He's sick, you know. Not well.”

“Really?”

“His liver, his blood pressure, his arteries—well, how he enjoys himself you have seen.”

“That's a shame.”

“And I'll tellya something else, little girl. Since…” Lucy nodded, showing he didn't have to go into detail; she knew O'Hanrahan had lost his family, a wife and son, an only child, in some accident years back. “… since the accidents, he went into a tailspin. I thought he was a goner. But he's back! The risen O'Hanrahan, alive and full of energy as I've never seen him. I don't want to see that stop. Him squashed or held back, I don't want to see. On one level, I don't care if he ever finds this gospel, but as long as he has the hope of finding it he'll stay alive, have something to live for, you got that?” He pointed an accusing finger at Lucy. “
You
I don't want for to get in the way.”

“No, sir.”

He reached into his jacket pocket. Out came a slim billfold for traveler's checks and a wad of £20 notes. He counted out five, six … ten notes, £200. He pushed it across the table to her gingerly. “Now you tell him Chicago sent this as a goodwill gesture, okay?”

Lucy acquiesced, putting the money in her purse. “That's very kind, Rabbi.” He started to get up and leave. “Uh wait, sir, can I ask you two questions?”

Rabbi Hersch sank back in the chair impatiently.

“One, what did you guys need to see Father Keegan for last night? It seemed very important.”

The rabbi shrugged. “What of a Catholic priest should I know?”

Lucy didn't find this denial convincing. “Two, what happened to Gabriel O'Donoghue, his assistant?”

“I can't help you there. I really don't know what happened with that kid. A real nebbish, that boy.” Lucy looked disappointed so he elaborated a bit:

“Something happened in Rome. Paddy, after months of arrangements, was supposed to purchase the scroll we've been hunting for from a shady antiques dealer, the … the, what was it, the Alberti Brothers. Crooks, through and through. This scroll, little girl, was bought by Hebrew University in July 1948 and stolen from us that September. It's had a dozen owners since then who never realized its value, and in Rome we sniffed it out one more time. Paddy raced to Italy to take a look at it.”

“You were going to buy it?”

“Though Hebrew University was loath to pay for the thing twice, in this case we were willing. But I didn't want to buy a fake, so as I said, Paddy and Gabriel went to Rome to make sure it was for real.”

Lucy sipped her tea. “What happened then?”

“The go-between in this sleazy hand-off was none other than your little friend Gabriel. He hands over the certified check, picks up the scroll, and is supposed to go back to O'Hanrahan's hotel room. He doesn't. He disappears.”

“Gabriel?”
Lucy couldn't reconcile anything so exciting with her old friend.

The rabbi continued: “Paddy was broken-hearted. He thought Gabriel had been shot or kidnapped. Or worse. He contacted INTERPOL, the carabinieri, the embassy. And then Gabriel called Paddy from the station and apologized for escaping with the scroll, but he didn't explain why.”

“Doesn't sound like Gabriel at all.”

“Ehh, who's to say what people will do, hm?” Rabbi Hersch decided to tell her a bit more: “Well, it didn't work. The antiques dealer had some, you know, family connections and Gabriel never made it out of the train station in Rome. The Alberti Brothers caught him, took the scroll back, and then wouldn't deal with O'Hanrahan or Hebrew University. In fact, they suggested Paddy leave town before with the cement shoes he ended up in the Tiber, right?”

“So who has it now?”

“It was purchased by a private collector, some rich German, two months ago. We don't know who, we don't know for how much, we're not sure if he's willing to sell.”

Lucy thrilled to all this. To be a part of it! “How much were you going to pay for this scroll?”

The rabbi shrugged noncommitally.

“I just wondered with Dr. O'Hanrahan going broke how you guys were going to pay off this German guy.”

“Ehh, we'd find the money,” he said evasively.

“Hebrew University is that loaded?”

He thought a minute before saying this. “No, but the State of Israel is.”

“This scroll is that important?”

“It's that important.”

“But why would some Christian gospel—”

The rabbi was standing. “Nice to have the tea time and to schmooze with you, Miss Dantan, but I've got an appointment with Kaballah in the Bodleian collection before
shabbes
tonight. Give the loot to Paddy, now, don't forget.” Lucy nodded, but was there some way to detain him? “And enjoy your flight back to America. If you're ever in the Holy City, should you be so blessed, gimme a buzz, hm?”

“Uh, yeah … thanks, Rabbi,” she said faintly as he sprinted to the door, waving bye-bye, his mind already on something else.

Lucy went out and walked around Oxford aimlessly, thinking and talking to herself. She looked up to the churning gray sky overhead. Funny, it was almost sunny when she and the rabbi went for tea. What on earth have these old codgers got wind of? How could Gabriel betray Dr. O'Hanrahan? How could Gabriel do
anything
so … treacherous and daring?

Back to O'Hanrahan's chambers:

“Who is it?” O'Hanrahan sang through the door, “as if I didn't know.” The professor opened the door, his eyes bleary and his white hair scattered about in all directions.

“I didn't mean to disturb your nap—”

“I wasn't sleeping,” he said unconvincingly, “I was working. Or rather, trying to get some work done around here. I thought you wouldn't come back until…” He saw her proffer a plastic traveler's-check billfold filled with pound-sterling bills. “Oh.”

“About $300, sir.” As he counted it, Lucy discreetly peered into the smoky chamber: texts were spread out on the desk, books of script opened and marked, a sloppy suitcase was opened on the bed with wrinkled clothes arrayed beside a large camera, next to notepads sprawled about, and a half-empty glass of Jamesons lay near the ashtray and a smouldering cigar. “Well, well,” he said, counting to himself. “And yet how insufficient this is when put against my vast expenses. You can go now,” he added, ready to close the door.

“Wait! My guesses.”

“You know,” O'Hanrahan groused, “for 300 bucks, I think these six guesses of yours are a bargain. Did we agree to $100 a guess?”

“No. We didn't.” She sighed as the door inched ever more toward closing. “I suppose … I suppose I could get some more money,” she added hesitantly, inwardly volunteering Cecilia's credit card.

O'Hanrahan's features lightened. “By tonight, Miss Dantan? Five hundred dollars or so?”

“Uh, it would be more like $300, sir. Now as for my guesses. I figure since Hebrew University is so interested and the rabbi is so keen, it may well be a writing of Simon the Zealot you're after, since Jewish Nationalism was—”

“Wrong.”

“Oh.” That seemed so reasonable. She decided to get two-for-one by guessing James without saying which one she meant.

“Alas,” said the professor, “neither
Maiorus
nor
Minorus.
There, you've had three—”

“No! I guessed
one
James.”

O'Hanrahan looked weary as ever an old man looked.

“This is really someone mentioned among the Twelve in the Bible, right?”

“Yes, goddam it, he's right there in the New Testament, one of the Big Twelve. You just don't have the facility to work it out and our business is at an end!” He placed his hand daintily on the knob of the door, ready to slam it.

“About Gabriel, sir—”

“To shut you up,” he said with strain, “I will tell you your little backstabbing friend has been following me since Rome. He's been everywhere I've been. I haven't seen him here in Oxford yet, but I haven't looked. So tell his parents, what manner of vermin they might be to sire such a rat, that their little Judas isn't dead. But he may be if he crosses my path again! Now to quote
Acts
15:29, ‘Farewell!'”