‘You’re one of us,’ Baruch says. He does not sit down, or betray an interest in abstract art. ‘When they killed Stephen you held the coats of the murderers. You can look after yourself.’
‘I’ve been forgiven my past,’ Paul says. ‘Though obviously not by you.’
‘We do not forgive defectors, nor do we forget them.’
‘No fighting, please,’ Gallio says. He revolves his black shoe and thinks it could do with a polish. ‘Not in a public gallery of the Israel Museum. We can protect you, Paul, but you have to give us something in return. Politics. You’ll understand the politics. Where can we find Peter?’
‘I don’t know. We’re not in regular contact.’
‘Maybe you should be, if you want us to offer you protection.’
‘Honestly, I know everything and everyone, but I haven’t heard from Peter in a long time. He’s disappeared off the face of the earth.’
‘Liar,’ Baruch says. ‘Always were, always will be. The Jerusalem security services pick out the finest liars at a very young age.’
Paul’s secretary scuttles in from Oceanic Art with a pile of letters on a silver tray. Paul waves them away, then calls the man back, looks more closely at the letter on top (address, back of envelope, front) then drops it and waves the man away again. ‘Peter may have died, of course. The disciples of Jesus are not immune from natural causes.’
‘Or unnatural ones.’ Gallio pulls his ankle higher up his thigh, doubtful that natural death is an event the disciples are likely to experience. ‘But you’re not in the same danger, are you, Paul? You should be happy. You’re not a disciple so you’re probably safe.’
‘I met Jesus like they did.’
‘But you didn’t, did you? Not properly in Galilee. The disciples were chosen when Jesus was alive, and they worked and travelled as a group. You’re a latecomer, not in the same category. You’ll be fine.’
Paul slaps Gallio on the knee, indulging him, acknowledging Gallio’s boldness in teasing the mighty Paul of Tarsus. Except his hand stops on Gallio’s knee, grips, and Gallio is made aware of the Saul from a darker lifetime. Paul does not take kindly to suggestions he’s second best, especially when the lesser disciples can barely explain the Trinity.
‘What’s your deal with Peter?’ Baruch approaches a painting of geometric shapes, looks at it without looking, hands on hips, jacket wings pushed out behind him. Gallio sees the hilt of his knife, and then it’s hidden again as Baruch turns back to Paul.
‘Who’s second in command to Jesus? You or Peter?’
‘We don’t have a deal.’ Paul looks pained, because Baruch is seriously unenlightened. ‘We once reached a loose agreement.’
‘You convert the Gentiles, Peter sticks to the Jews. That’s what they told me in Damascus. But Peter is the beloved disciple, isn’t he? He’s witless, but Jesus loves him.’
‘He’s a fisherman,’ Gallio adds. ‘Not that bright. He can tell a story but could never unpack it in a keynote speech.’
Gallio decides to refine Baruch’s attack, though he’s probing the same weakness, Paul’s obvious pride. Good cop, he remembers. The nice guy used to be one of his roles. ‘Why deny your differences? Jesus appeared to you on the road to Damascus because the disciples needed help. The Galileans couldn’t communicate his message, not on their own, they didn’t have the brains. They heard the stories and saw his miracles but never knew what they meant. That’s what you do so well, interpret the stories and bring meaning to Jesus. Personally I like meaning, and I appreciate nuance because I’m an educated man, Paul, as are you.’
‘Whereas Peter,’ Baruch says, double-teaming, ‘knows how to thread the bait for flatfish. An underrated skill, I feel. The hook goes in at the eye then down the gut and out through the anus.’
‘The disciples aren’t a big help, are they? Can’t write a decent letter between them.’
‘It’s not that.’ Paul stands up and walks away from what he’s about to say, looking for an exit, but his doubt keeps pace with him and he says it anyway. ‘Twelve was the wrong number from the start.’
He exits to Impressionism and bustles through Orientalism. Everyone follows him — the bodyguard, Gallio, Baruch. Paul stops at a Meromi sculpture, then an Aboriginal dream painting, but none of the art on display can distract him. ‘Jesus had too many original disciples. No one can have that many friends around him, or advisors. He lost track, and the result was Judas.’
Gallio feels that at last they’re making progress, with Paul trying to communicate some sense of the difficulty of being Paul.
‘Twelve is a very trusting number,’ Gallio says. ‘You’re right about that. Perhaps overly trusting.’
In Archaeology Baruch stops at a display of Sicarii killing knives through history, and his unexpected fascination with this single exhibit draws everyone over to the cabinet. They stand round the glass sides of a free-standing box, glinting daggers between them in the refracted light.
‘Someone is hunting us down,’ Paul says, the curved blades holding his attention.
‘They’re targeting the disciples,’ Gallio corrects him. ‘No one apart from the disciples has yet been hurt.’
‘I’m their equal. Believe me. If the disciples are in danger then so am I. I need official protection. Are you going to protect a citizen or are you not?’
Paul appeals to Gallio through the glass, across the vicious ancient weaponry. Baruch’s hand moves under his jacket towards the small of his back, and it may be Gallio’s imagination but the bodyguard takes a step. Not towards Paul, as Gallio expects, but away from him. Baruch scratches himself, his hand reappears.
‘None of the murdered disciples tried to run away,’ Cassius Gallio says.
He checks his phone, as a sign their interview is over, and no news is good news. James is fine, undeviating in his monastic routine. Claudia is bored in the van. Bartholomew is comatose in the medical centre. In short, everyone at risk is alive and well.
‘The disciples are not scared of dying. You are. That’s one reason you’re not a disciple. You’re not in the same category. Also you have a bodyguard. Request for protection denied.’
About one o’clock the next morning a phone rings. Cassius Gallio blinks his eyes open, realises he’s asleep on duty, then that the sound is coming from the landline in James’s flat, broadcast across the central monitor. Gallio grabs headphones, plants one cushioned speaker to his ear. Then with his free hand he zooms the camera in the flat, watches as James stops praying, answers the phone, listens.
James doesn’t say anything and neither does the caller. Gallio frowns at the static, a bad line, nothing coming through. No, he hears something. Breathing. He can hear the caller breathing. He pushes a button to activate a trace. James hangs up. Damn. On the monitor James stands up and dusts himself off, though he’s no more dusty than before. He leaves the room.
This is new. Usually the phone calls stop and after his prayers James sleeps the sleep of the just. Gallio shakes Claudia’s shoulder, moves to the bench when she swings her legs off, switches to the interior corridor cam. Lost him. Streetcam, manual operation. On to the house, to the window. No sign of him, then yes, James is up on the building’s flat roof. He’s up on the roof. Why? Claudia yawns and stretches, stomps her feet one two to the floor.
‘Something’s happening.’
She rubs her eyes, leans forward.
‘The street,’ Gallio says. ‘Get me a camera on the street.’
She fumbles a dial and the shopfront blinks up. No public or passers-by at this time of night, just the riot police in the doorway with thumbs in their belts.