‘If an agent were making the delivery, I’d risk his neck, Garvis. But we’re dealing with professionals, and it’s an inexperienced civilian who’s going to be exposing herself to the bullets.’ He looked at Sarah, who was listening apprehensively. ‘Speaking figuratively, of course. I don’t think it’s a good idea for her to carry bait instead of the originals.’
‘There must be another solution,’ Ben Isaac offered.
Myriam shrugged off Sarah’s arm and turned to her husband. Tears were running down her face. The slap she gave her husband was hard, and echoed through the room. ‘This is all your fault, Ben Isaac,’ she said, giving him a sorrowful, cold stare. ‘Do you want to kill my son? Is that what you want? Do you want to send an innocent person to her death, carrying false papers? This is not the man I married.’ She turned her back and left the room.
The room was in shock.
Garvis looked at his watch and frowned. ‘We don’t have much time.’
‘What’s it going to be, Dr. Ben Isaac?’ Gavache pressured him as he brought a cigarette to his lips.
Ben Isaac took a pen, wrote something on a piece of paper, and handed it to the French inspector with a resigned expression. ‘The code to open the vault.’
Gavache gave it to Jean-Paul, who hurried toward the underground chamber.
‘Sarah, we’re going to wait for the parchments in the car. We have to hurry. Time’s running out.’
Two agents escorted Sarah to the car. Garvis put on his jacket and saw Gavache sit down next to Ben Isaac. ‘Aren’t you coming?’ Garvis asked.
‘Jean-Paul’s going to escort the woman. I’ll come later.’
‘As soon as I have Sarah sitting in the plane, it’s your problem.’
‘Don’t worry. Everything’s under control. Thanks, Garvis.’ Gavache looked at the defeated Ben Isaac. ‘Now I want to hear that incredible story that was interrupted by the phone call. Tell me about Jesus Christ.’
51
The conversation had reached a pause. Robin excused himself, his full bladder urging him. Rafael felt uncomfortable, and the Jesuit noticed it.
‘It’s out there to the left,’ Robin pointed to a door down the corridor. ‘You’ll see it. Relax. No one’s going to do anything… unless I give the order.’
Robin went into the second door on the left and didn’t take much time. Two minutes later there was a flush, followed by the priest washing his hands. He came out with his hands dripping and dried them on a towel hanging behind the office door.
‘Still afraid of germs?’ Rafael joked.
‘Laugh away. You have no idea of the pests that surround us. If we’re not careful, they’ll do us in,’ Robin said with conviction.
‘We have bigger things to worry about now.’
‘Do you know it was a Jesuit who discovered the microbes invisible to the naked eye that are responsible for the black plague and other diseases?’ Robin asked, assuming a professorial tone.
‘Athanasius Kircher.’ Rafael sounded like a student who thought he knew it all. ‘The master of a hundred arts. He was one of the first people to observe microbes through a microscope in the seventeenth century. German by birth, he was considered the ultimate Renaissance man. He was the author of innumerable treatises, not only on medicine but also on geology, magnetism, and even music. A true Da Vinci, this Jesuit.’
Robin looked at him with mock disdain before sitting down. ‘Now, where were we?’
‘You know very well where we left things. Keep going.’
Robin crossed his legs and licked his lips. ‘What do you know about Jesus?’
‘He was born in Bethlehem and crucified at thirty-three…’
‘Okay, I see you know nothing,’ Robin scolded him.
‘That’s what they taught us in catechism and at the seminary,’ Rafael argued.
‘Is that still taught in seminary? No wonder the society is so far ahead. How curious that they teach you to think better than most people and invest years and years in your moral, philosophical, and religious education, yet so often you fail to see the obvious.’
‘And you do?’ Rafael challenged, fed up with Robin’s know-it-all attitude.
‘What did the Jews in the first century call Him?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘By his first name, followed by the name of his father or place of birth. Yeshua ben Joseph; Jesus, son of Joseph; or Yeshua Ha’Notzri, Jesus of Nazareth. I never heard of anyone calling him Jesus of Bethlehem.’
Rafael had never thought of that, but he wasn’t going to give Robin the pleasure of knowing it. He played it down. ‘Okay. He was Jesus of Nazareth, and not Jesus of Bethlehem. There goes business for the Church of the Nativity,’ he joked again.
‘If the church was mistaken or, more accurately, gave misleading information about the birth of Christ, don’t you think it would do the same with other events in His life?’
As a matter of fact, yes, Rafael thought. He himself was living proof that the church defended herself by hiding, eliminating, and getting around every obstacle. He wasn’t the person to ask about the Holy See’s good intentions. He, better than anyone, knew they didn’t exist.
‘Look at me, Robin. I’m the guy ready to blow your brains out. Do you think I believe in the holiness of the church?’
‘Why do you, then?’ Robin wanted to know.
That was a question Rafael avoided asking himself, but more and more frequently occurred to him. Why did he believe? Because others had believed before him? Because life carried him in that direction? Why? Because, despite all the errors and injustices, the church was still the institution that prevented the world from falling into chaos. He still believed that, and perhaps that was the only reason, the one that made him get out of bed without knowing if he would do so the next day, not knowing if he would sleep that night, if he survived, where he would be, what the next step would be, in what direction it would take him. Every day, hour, minute, and second were unknown to fate. He only thanked God for the time He gave him.
‘I believe because I want to,’ he said.
‘Whether you want to or not, you do it for mistaken reasons,’ Robin warned him.
‘And I presume you do so for all the right ones.’
‘You can believe I’m not going around deceived,’ Robin admonished, irritated.
‘So, set me straight. Why do they say He was born in Bethlehem, when he was actually born in Nazareth? Let’s begin there,’ Rafael asked, losing patience with the argument.
Robin also seemed willing to move on and began an explanation in the professorial tone of one who has always known the truth, and not some deluded version made up for gullible believers.
Jesus Christ was not born in Bethlehem or in Nazareth, but first saw the light of day somewhere in the outskirts of Jerusalem in 5 B.C., according to the Gregorian and Julian calendars. The reason for this strange date had to do with the calculation of the calendars. Agreements and disagreements about counting made it possible, according to theory, for Jesus to have been born five years before Himself, that is, the year 5 B.C. Herod the Great reigned until the year 4 B.C., and since the heir of David had to flee the insanity of that lunatic king, according to Robin, He had to have been born before the death of Herod.
‘Forget everything you know or thought you knew about Jesus,’ Robin said.
Jesus’s father was never a carpenter. Joseph had royal blood, descended from Jacob, Solomon, Abraham, and Isaac, and his son was therefore of royal lineage, too.
‘According to Matthew,’ Rafael interrupted. ‘Luke traces Him back to Adam and God.’
‘Whoever tells a story…’ Robin returned to his account. ‘Why was it necessary that Jesus be born in Bethlehem, and not in Jerusalem, or Nazareth, if you prefer to fall into this error?’ Robin asked rhetorically. ‘Because the prophet Micah foretold: And thou Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, art not the least among the princes of Judah, for out of thee shall come a governor that shall rule my people of Israel.’