Skeleton 03 - The Constantine Codex (30 page)

The torrent of Greek spouting out of Bartholomew’s mouth as he spoke to Gregorios came too rapidly for Jon to decipher, but it sent the monk running out of the room. Then the Ecumenical Patriarch approached the codex, touched it gently, lovingly, and fell on his knees in prayer before it, doubtless thanking God for its discovery.

When he arose, Jon opened the codex to show him the four magnificently written uncial columns on each page of vellum. He had, of course, opened the tome to the newly found ending of Mark’s Gospel. Bartholomew read several lines, then broke out in tears. In silent, sympathetic reverence, Jon closed the codex and said nothing.

Gregorios returned with a large gilded blanket—probably from their liturgical supply room—but before he could wrap it around the codex, Jon asked him to wait a moment so that he could take final photographs of the cast of characters in this improbable drama: the Ecumenical Patriarch and Brother Gregorios, as well as Jon and Shannon with them. Only then did Gregorios reverently enshrine the codex in the blanket and carry it to the office of the patriarch.

Just as he returned to them in the main reception hall, the Turkish sentry called from outside to say that the government’s car convoy had arrived to transport Jon and Shannon to the airport. The farewells were genuine and even passionate. When Jon stooped to try to kiss the patriarch’s hand—as was customary among the eastern faithful—Bartholomew would not permit it. In most unliturgical fashion, he put his arms around Jon, and with tears in his eyes, he said, “All of Eastern Orthodoxy is grateful to you, dear Professor Weber, not only for defending our faith so brilliantly before a watching world, but also to you both for discovering a most priceless treasure of the church. God has been good to us through you!”

“We, in turn, are grateful for both your original invitation to Constantinople, Your All Holiness, and also for your extraordinary hospitality during our visit here. I know we shall be in frequent touch from now on. And so we say to you and Brother Gregorios, with all the sacred solemnity of our Lord’s use of the term on the night before he was betrayed,
ef charisto
!”

En route to Ataturk International Airport, Jon and Shannon regaled Dick and Osman with details of their delightful morning at the patriarchate. “Let me tell you, fellas,” Jon said, smiling broadly, “it was quite an honor to be hugged by no less than the eastern pope himself—and even be kissed on both cheeks.”

“I’m sure he won’t wash his face for weeks,” Shannon chirped.

Everyone in the car seemed to be in an expansive mood, and why not? They were finally returning home, knowing secrets that would make for a fabulous future.

When their motorcade arrived at the airport, the doors of the lead car opened, and out stepped Adnan Yilmaz, the Turkish minister of culture, with several aides. In a formal, nicely crafted little speech, he apologized to Jon and Shannon, in the name of the Republic of Turkey, for the terrorist attack at their hotel and hoped that they might return to Turkey with no bitter memories.

For his part, Jon was very genuine in his appreciation of how well the Turks had cooperated in terms of security before, during, and after the debate, and he apologized to all whose schedules had been brutally wrenched because of their visit—including especially their drivers. He would later say the same, of course, to all the CIA operatives—especially Click and Clack, who had kept them alive during their visit to a chancy part of the world.

Just before they checked in at the departure hall, Yilmaz said, “It should all go well from here on.” Then he handed Jon his card. “But call my cell if you have any problems.”

“Thanks much, Mr. Yilmaz!”

Bags checked and with boarding passes and passports in hand, Osman, Dick, and Shannon were ahead of Jon in the security line, which moved along better than they had expected. After shedding shoes, laptops, change, and sundry metallic items, they reached the metal-detecting doorframe. Jon asked that his camera bag full of film canisters and photo memory cards be passed
around
rather than
through
the frame. In earlier years, he had had too many high-speed films ruined by X-ray exposure in more primitive scanners. This looked to be one of them, and he didn’t trust it. If those photos were ruined, only one set on earth remained.

When Jon tried to hand the photo bag around the frame, the security guard said, “No. Must go through X-ray machine.”

“But I’ll be glad to let you examine everything inside this bag,” Jon replied.

“
No! Must
go through X-ray!” the guard fairly shouted and tried to take the bag out of Jon’s hands to pass it onto the belt going through the scanner. Jon held on for dear life.

The guard blew a shrill whistle. A squad of guards quickly surrounded the security line and was closing in on Jon. He snatched his cell phone before the gray plastic box with his metallic effects went through the scanner and madly reached in his pocket for Adnan’s card. That move prompted the guards to take out their revolvers and aim them at Jon. He held up both arms while trying also to dial Adnan, his photo bag between his legs. The other three looked on in horror. It was a very
bad
moment.

Yilmaz, thank goodness, answered his cell.

“This is an emergency, Adnan!” Jon yelled into his cell phone. “I’m being held at gunpoint in security because I wanted my films passed around the scanner, not through it!”

Adnan yelled some curse in Turkish, then said, “Dr. Weber, give your cell to whomever is in charge of security there. I’ll explain!”

Jon handed his cell phone to the officer who seemed to have the most metal on his shoulders. Frowning and skeptical, he put it to his ear and said,
“Merhaba . . .”
Since he knew no Turkish, all Jon heard was a long recitation of
“Evet. . . . Evet. . . . Evet . . .”
then a shocked
“Hayir!”

Finally the officer, now sheepish, handed the phone back to Jon. Said Adnan in the receiver, “I told him that if they didn’t release you
at once
—with apologies—my next call would be to the prime minister of this republic! I’m coming back now to make sure all is in order.”

“Thank you, Adnan—if I may. But I don’t think that will be necessary.”

While he had been talking, the officer stepped over to the rude security scanner, slapped him on both cheeks, and relieved him from duty. Then he returned to Jon and said, “In the name of Allah the All Compassionate, I ask your forgiveness, Professor Weber. This should never have happened.”

“It is nothing. Thank you for your help.”

Jon’s expansive mood returned when he saw his photo case being passed
around
the scanner and into his hands.

The next meeting of the Institute of Christian Origins took place a week after the four had returned to Cambridge. Now fully recovered from jet lag, Jon was eager to learn the American reaction to the debate, and the forty-some members attending that morning were only too happy to oblige.

It seemed that more Americans had watched the debate than the seventh game of the World Series the previous October, and far more than the Academy Awards in March—yes, despite the extraordinary length of the debate, which exceeded even that of the awards, Hollywood’s annual attempt to model eternity. With so huge an audience, every shade and stripe of response was being collated by several secretaries at the ICO, but Jon and Shannon got a general picture from the comments of institute members, prompting a long discussion over the next several hours.

A large secular sector of the viewing audience thought it “engrossing . . . good theater,” but no one expected such to join church or mosque once they had switched off their TVs. The general Christian response was overwhelmingly positive, although fundamentalists complained that Jon had not sufficiently “proclaimed Christ in that citadel of Satan,” while radical liberals like Harry Nelson Hunt objected, “Too bad Weber couldn’t have gotten beyond that Trinity thing. It’s been a millstone around the neck of Christianity for twenty centuries now. And Weber even seems to believe in the Resurrection—a Harvard professor, no less!”

“I plead guilty!” Jon laughed, holding his hands up in surrender.

Heinz von Schwendener commented, a twinkle in his indigo eyes, “I think the most careful, in fact,
the
finest response to your debate that I’ve heard, Jon, came from the mouth of . . . Melvin Morris Merton.”

“You’ve
got
to be kidding, Heinz!” Richard Ferris thundered. Everyone knew that Merton was a prophecy freak who had always been Jon’s nemesis.

Barely able to keep a straight face, von Schwendener continued, “Merton announced that the debate was a meeting of the ‘Two Antichrists.’ I don’t know where he got that idea, maybe somewhere in Revelation. But there you were, both of you sitting in the temple of God—guess he meant Hagia Sophia—so the second coming of Christ and the end of the world are just around the corner!” Then his shoulders shook with released laughter.

Jon and the rest joined in. If an institute could have a court jester, Heinz von Schwendener filled the bill for the ICO.

Next, Osman al-Ghazali, who had spent the week assembling reactions from the Muslim world, gave his report, which was a shade more sobering. Jon and Shannon had received daily updates after the debate, but these were the first details many institute members had heard about the Muslim reaction.

“The Islamic response—to put it mildly—is less nuanced than what we’ve just heard from the West. They seem to love you or hate you, Jon. The moderates, the leading intellectuals, and the secular leaders thought it a very fair debate, and they particularly appreciated the near-friendly atmosphere you developed with al-Rashid. Some thought it a model for future Christian-Muslim dialogue.” Sounds of approval rose from those gathered.

Osman went on. “Then, of course, there’s the broad middle of Islam. The faithful there seemed to range from neutral to bewildered. We’ve heard reports of believers rising from their prayer mats to ask some penetrating questions of their mullahs regarding the Prophet and the Qur’an.”

“But I find it interesting,” Shannon interposed, “that the reaction from the Islamic conservatives was not as vocal as we anticipated. Right, Osman?”

He nodded. “Most of the noise is coming from the radical clerics—those we call our ‘usual suspects’—the firebrand mullahs in London, radical cells elsewhere in Europe, the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt, jihadists in the Middle East, the Taliban in Afghanistan, and, of course, al-Qaeda wherever. Actually, they’re attacking Abbas al-Rashid nearly as much as you, Jon. It’s almost as if we’re back to where we started. Well, things
are
a bit better; we don’t have another fatwa on Jon’s head, for example.”

“At least, not yet,” Jon offered, helpfully. “Fanaticism, in any form, replaces reason with madness. It’s the greatest enemy of truth ever devised.”

Lunch and a backlog of business consumed the rest of the day. At the close, Jon made an announcement that he knew his conferees would find startling. “Two items, my colleagues. One, thank you all once again for your deliberations and advice during the weeks before the debate in Istanbul. Two, which you may find more interesting, Shannon and I came across something of
extraordinary
importance during our time in Turkey that I want to share with you once we’ve arranged everything. I know that our next meeting isn’t scheduled until two months from now, but might we make an exception and hold a special conclave—I hate to say it—about three weeks from today? I well realize this is terribly short notice and your schedules may not permit it at all, but that’s how
very
significant this matter is.”

For some time, silence ruled the room. But then Katrina Vandersteen coaxed, “Come on, Jon, give us a little hint . . . ?”

“You’ll understand when you hear what it is, Trina.” Jon grinned at her. Then he reconsidered. “Well . . . on second thought, I guess I’ll have to give you a bit of a hint anyway since I’ll need your permission to invite a few guests. Might you members of the ICO be kind enough to allow members of the Center for the Study of New Testament Manuscripts to join us for that meeting?”