Skeleton 03 - The Constantine Codex (35 page)

“A most cordial welcome, Your All Holiness!” Jon said. “How very delightful to see you again!”

“Ah, my most worthy professor and his lovely wife! It is most kind of you to receive us! May God bless our time together!”

Now, the usual rituals had to take place. After introductions by the welcoming delegation from St. Vladimir’s and the metropolitans of the various Orthodox jurisdictions, there was the usual posing for photographs by the media, prying microphones, network reporters pleading for sound bites, and a nice but mercifully brief welcome from the mayor of New York. He presented the Ecumenical Patriarch the ceremonial key to the city that would, Jon knew, open nothing.

Per advance agreement, Bartholomew and his delegation stopped at the international VIP sky lounge at JFK for some brief R & R before the ride into Manhattan. While members of the patriarch’s party took their afternoon coffee—or ouzo—Bartholomew and Gregorios met with Jon and Shannon in a small private conference room. With an air of relief, the patriarch handed Jon a large, padded, black leather attaché case containing the codex and offered a brief prayer for its safety during the testing process.

With gratitude and an equal sense of relief, Jon accepted the case and tried the latches, just to make sure everything functioned properly. When the bronze latches popped open, he lifted the lid and there it was, lying in a red velvet-covered cushion of foam rubber on all sides: the document that had become the center of their lives, the document that would change history. The patriarch had taken good care of it indeed, even having that special case fashioned to the contours of the Constantine Codex.

Jon pushed one of the latches shut and was ready to do the same for the other when Shannon said, “Please, let’s sneak another peek at it before you close it, Jon.”

“We just saw it.”

“I mean, I only want a quick glimpse of a page of text again. I’ve actually . . . missed it, strange as that may seem.”

“I don’t think it strange at all,” Jon said. “I feel the same way.”

Bartholomew and Gregorios looked on and smiled, sharing an almost-sacred sympathy for the text.

The clasps popped open again, and Jon carefully lifted the codex out of the cavity prepared for it.

“Strange,” Jon said. “I don’t recall that the cover was this well preserved.” He opened the codex . . . and gasped. He turned several pages frantically and gasped even more loudly. There was no vellum, no uncials written in four neat columns,
nothing
—other than several hundred pages of cheap, bare white foolscap.

Jon stood, pulse coursing wildly, and asked the patriarch to step over to his side of the table. Bartholomew did so, a quizzical look in his eyes.

“O The Mou!”
the Ecumenical Patriarch cried. “This cannot be! Gregorios, come! Look!”

When he did so, his face contorted into that of a gargoyle. He turned several pages, teetered, and then collapsed into a chair. “This . . . this is not possible!”

The scene had become surreal.
Yes, this is not a bad dream,
Jon had to remind himself.
Yes, we are in New York. Yes, the people are real.
Yet they were all staring at an impossibility.

Jon came alive with a fusillade of queries. “Did you check this through with your luggage or as a carry-on, Your All Holiness?”

“As a carry-on, certainly.”

“And was it in your possession the whole time?”

“Yes, yes, it was.”

“Ever since you left the patriarchate?”

“Yes.”

“Did you open the case and the codex just before leaving the patriarchate?”

“Oh yes, it was the last thing I did.”

“You opened it up and saw the vellum pages, the uncials . . . ?”

“Yes. I even read the opening words of Matthew’s Gospel: ‘The book of the genealogy of Jesus Christ, the Son of David, the Son of Abraham.’ Then I closed it and blessed it.”

“How did you get to the airport?”

“We drove in a BMW owned by the patriarchate. When I entered our car, Brother Gregorios put the case into the trunk, along with our other luggage.”

“When you arrived at the airport, did this case stay with you?”

“I carried it myself for the patriarch,” Gregorios said.

“Did you open the case at the airport?”

“Yes . . .”

“And the codex was inside?”

“Yes.”

“Did you open the codex?”

He paused and frowned. “No, I . . . I did not.”

“Was there, perhaps, some reason why you did not?” Jon felt he had to tread gingerly here to avoid giving the impression that he was some sort of grilling prosecutor.

“We were at the customs line, and everyone seemed to be rushed. Besides, the codex was there.”

“What happened when you went through customs?”

“They waved us through,” the monk replied.

“But the case had to go through security just before the gates, right?”

“Yes.”

“And it went through?”

“Yes.”

“And this was the only time it was not in your hands? Or those of the Ecumenical Patriarch?”

“Yes, the only time.”

“And you had it with you at all times in the departure lounge?”

“Yes. I hardly ever took my eyes off it.”

“But you didn’t open the codex again?”

Gregorios hesitated—was it embarrassment?—and said, “No.”

“And on the flight to New York—where did you stow it?”

“In the overhead storage bin, where there was plenty of room.”

“And when you went through customs here in New York?”

“They just told us to go through. Nothing was searched.”

Jon worked on the options, one by one. At last he said, “Now, this is important. When is the last time you saw the actual pages of vellum and the uncials written on them?”

Gregorios looked at Bartholomew and both had to agree. “When we left the patriarchate.”

“And that was the last time you opened the codex? Not after you went through security?”

“No, that was the last time. Now I see that this . . . this was a terrible failure on our part . . .”

While Jon was tempted to agree, he guarded his tongue. “Well, with the case intact—this
is
the original case, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes. . . .”

“With the original case in your hands, you’d really have no reason to open it. Please don’t be too hard on yourselves.”

It seemed only a modest comfort for the patriarch and his archivist. Both were terribly distraught. Shannon looked quite pale. Jon fought off the feelings of despair welling up inside him with a boiling anger that the prize should have been snatched from them just before the moment of victory. He paced around the conference room, one hand wringing the other for an explanation.

Clearly, the codex had been stolen sometime between Bartholomew’s leaving the patriarchate and his arrival in America—a bewilderingly broad span of time and place. One obvious, unguarded period of time would have been while the case was in the overhead bin on the transatlantic flight. They had flown business class, so the perpetrator most likely also had a business-class ticket, although he might have penetrated the business-class cabin if the flight attendants were chatting among themselves, as was often the case.

Jon explained his thinking to the others. Then he asked, “During the flight, did either of you notice anyone opening or trying to open your particular overhead bin?”

The two Greeks looked at each other; both shook their heads.

“Then, if it did happen on the flight, it would have to have taken place while you were both sleeping.”

“But even if they were, Jon,” Shannon interposed, “what about the others in their delegation? Wouldn’t they have noticed someone disturbing their overhead bins?
Were
the others near you on the flight, Brother Gregorios?”

“Yes, Madame Weber. We were all on the left side of the cabin.”

“And you had daylight throughout your flight?”

“Yes, we ‘chased the sun,’ as we say it in Greek, all the way across the Atlantic.”

“Good point, Shannon,” Jon said. “So the only other times the case was out of your hands had to be when you left the patriarchate and it was put into the trunk of your limo and when it went through security at the departure in Istanbul. Please recall again everything that happened there—I mean, every last detail.”

The patriarch took a deep breath. “We arrive at the airport. We check in at the counter. All the time I am watching the black case, and so is Brother Gregorios. We take our boarding passes and carry-ons to the security line. We start to go through the line. But then they direct us to a special security line—probably to make it easier for us. We put our things in those gray plastic boxes and push them along the moving track. Here I watch the black case very carefully. The belt starts to move. It stops; it reverses. It starts again, then stops again and reverses several times. It often happens this way at airports.”

“It happens
all
the time,” Shannon commented.

“Yes. Then, as our case again goes through the machine, the scanner person looks at his screen and calls over a supervisor. They study the screen for a while. I worry that they may want to open the black case and give us problems with the codex. But this does not happen. Finally the belt moves on; we collect our things and walk to the gate.”

Jon desperately wanted to get to the bottom of this, but he realized that it was time for the two to rejoin the rest of their delegation and get on with their American tour. “Clearly, this is a terrible setback for New Testament scholarship,” he said. “I would ask your permission to let me have the Federal Bureau of Investigation check this fake document for fingerprints—which is always the first step. Then, with the cooperation of the Central Intelligence Agency, they’ll want to analyze that worthless paper and the board cover for any clues as to their origin. It’s just possible that the perpetrator was too clever by half in providing a substitute like this.”

“Shouldn’t we call the police in on this?” the patriarch wondered.

“Ordinarily I’d say, ‘Yes, certainly,’ Your All Holiness, but then our entire effort would no longer be confidential. It may, of course, come to that eventually.”

“Well, thank God we have photographic copies of the entire text, Professor Weber,” Bartholomew said. “You and your wife were wise to preserve those precious words.”

The following days were a hurricane of intelligence sleuthing for Jon. While the Eastern Orthodox faithful were giving the Ecumenical Patriarch an enthusiastic welcome, Jon convinced the CIA’s Morton Dillingham to put the resources of the federal government, including the FBI, behind the case of the missing codex. In view of their past relationship, this had not been an easy task, but when Jon revealed the secret of the document’s extraordinary importance to Christianity—and the world—Dillingham gave in. He was also impressed with Jon’s savvy in trying to keep the find confidential as long as possible. Not a religious man himself, Dillingham nevertheless worshiped at the shrine of secrecy.

Over the next days, the FBI and CIA examined the fake codex in every way possible. They requisitioned the passenger manifest of everyone on the patriarch’s flight, including the flight crew, and did background checks on every name on the list. CIA agents in Istanbul asked the Turkish equivalent of Dillingham to do the same with all security personnel on duty that morning at Ataturk International Airport.

To Jon’s happy surprise, they pledged full cooperation. At first he wondered why Muslim authorities there would be willing to assist Christians in finding a stolen church document. He assumed it was because Turkey was a secular—not religious—state, a fact that the Turkish army had to remind the government of from time to time. So there was no Muslim fanaticism impeding their investigation. To be sure, the colossal significance of the codex was not mentioned to the Turks.

One overriding item, however, could not be overlooked. The possibility—indeed, the probability—had to be weighed that this was an inside job. How else could the perpetrator know the approximate size of the codex in order to plant the substitute? Or even know that the patriarch and his party would have the codex with them en route to the U.S.?

And why was a fake codex necessary in the first place? Why not outright theft with nothing left behind as a potential clue? Jon found a quick answer to that one: the perpetrator didn’t want the theft discovered until the patriarch’s party had left Turkey—perhaps banking on the attaché case not being opened until their arrival in the U.S.—in order to provide lead time to escape detection and apprehension.

In this scenario, someone at the patriarchate—perhaps their airport chauffeur?—could have been the perpetrator, either a Judas sort of Christian, or a crypto-Muslim member of the staff who somehow learned about the codex and its significance to the church. His motive? Eliminate a powerful prop for Christianity and do it in such a way as to leave the theft undetected as long as possible so all tracks could be covered. The perpetrator probably would have engaged several others to bring it off, either while unloading the limo’s trunk at the airport or at airport security in Istanbul, or—less likely—on the flight itself. Jon would discuss these suspicions with the patriarch by phone while he was on his American tour.