“Who I am is of no concern to you.”
“Really.” It wasn’t the first time a reporter or frustrated academic had called under the guise of a potential seller to access some of the earth’s most coveted books.
“I possess something that you want.”
“I don’t have time for opaqueness,” Donovan responded. “Be specific.” He was about to dismiss the caller as a crank, when three words escaped from the receiver: ‘The Ephemeris Conlusio.’
“What did you just say?”
“I think you heard me. I have the Ephemeris Conlusio.”
“That book is a legend,” Donovan’s voice cracked. “Pure myth.” How could anyone outside the walls of the Archive or Jacques DeMolay’s prison cell in Chateaux Chinon have discovered its existence? He began pacing nervously as he awaited a response.
“Your legend is now being held in my hand.”
Donovan fought a wave of panic. It was only two years ago that a similar caller had offered up the Judas Papers—ancient Coptic writings that recast the infamous disciple as secretly acting on Jesus’s behest to faciliate his crucifixion. But the Vatican had considered the document’s provenance to be highly suspect, forgoing the opportunity—a grave miscalculation since shortly thereafter, the writings were published worldwide by National Geographic. Donovan was sure the Vatican wouldn’t want to repeat that mistake. “If you really do possess the Ephemeris Conlusio, tell me in what language is it written?”
“Greek, of course. Care to be more specific?”
He detected a rhythmic tapping at the other end. “Who is the author?”
The caller told him and Donovan was amazed.
“Catholicism’s prime enemy, am I not correct?” The caller paused. “Surely you can be more sophisticated than this?”
Outside the window, the sky darkened and the rain intensified.
On the spot, Donovan decided that only if the caller could reveal the book’s most profound contents would he consider the claim credible. “Legend has it the Ephemeris Conlusio contains a map. Do you know what it’s meant to locate?” His heart was racing.
“Please don’t patronize me.”
Donovan’s lower lip quivered as the caller elaborated, providing a precise description of the legendary relics.
“Do you want to sell the book?” Donovan’s mouth was dry. “Is that the purpose of your call?”
“It’s not that simple.”
Now Donovan feared the worst, painfully aware that this stranger could potentially wound the Church very deeply, perhaps even fatally. Before proceeding, it was essential to determine the caller’s motive. “Are you trying to blackmail the Vatican?”
The man cackled. “It’s not about money,” he hissed. “Consider the possibility that I might be looking to help you and your employers.”
“Neither your attitude nor your motive seems philanthropic. What is it you are after?”
The man had answered cryptically. “Once you’ve seen what I have to offer, you will know what I’m after. And what you have to do...and will want to do. That will be my payment.”
“The Vatican would need to determine the book’s authenticity before any terms could be discussed.”
“Then I shall arrange for delivery,” the caller had replied.
“I’d need to see a sample before that could happen. A page from the book.”
The line was silent.
“Fax me a page now,” Donovan insisted.
“Give me your number.” The caller was hesitant. “I will stay on this line.”
Donovan twice repeated his office’s private fax number.
A long minute passed before the fax machine rang, picking up on the second ring and feeding paper from its tray. The printed message was spit out seconds later. Donovan held it close to the light. When he had finished silently reading the remarkably authentic Greek text, the words left him momentarily breathless. Shaking, he returned the phone to his ear. “Where did you find this?”
“That is not important.”
“Why have you come to me in particular?”
“You are probably the only man at the Vatican who can understand the profound implications of this book. You know that history has tried to deny its existence. I have chosen you to be my voice to the Holy See.” There was another long pause.
“Do you want the book or not?”
There was a pause.
“Of course,” he finally said.
Donovan had made arrangements to meet the anonymous caller’s messenger two days later in the Caffè Greco on Via Condotti, near the Spanish Steps. Two armed plainclothes Swiss Guards sat at a nearby table. The messenger appeared at the agreed time and introduced himself by first name only, presenting a business card for any later questions. Donovan had sat with the man only briefly. No indication was given as to the identity of who had dispatched him.
A leather satchel had been discreetly passed over to him.
Though no explanations were provided, Donovan intuited that the man knew nothing of the satchel’s contents. There had been no drama requiring the guards’ intervention—just a quick, impersonal transaction, and both men had left on their separate ways.
Opening the satchel in the sanctuary of his office, Donovan had found a handwritten note on plain paper and a newspaper clipping. The note had read: “Use the map to find the relics. Act quickly to find them before the Jews do. Should you require assistance, call me.” A phone number was listed below the message. Salvatore Conte had later told him that it had been a one-time use cell phone and that each of his subsequent communications with the insider was routed to a new phone number or anonymous one-time use website—all untraceable. Apparently, using these secure channels, the insider had coordinated with Conte to procure explosives and certain tools needed to extract the ossuary.
The Jews? Confused, the priest read the clipping from the Jerusalem Post and realized exactly what had prompted this meeting. Digging deeper inside the satchel, his hands had come upon the smooth leather covers of the Ephemeris Conlusio.
22
******
Jerusalem
Outside Temple Mount’s northern gate, Barton avoided the chaos of the Western Wall Prayer Plaza, angling along the narrow cobblestone streets that webbed gently down Mount Moriah.
He had actually managed to persuade Razak to let him take the scroll back to his office to see if he could translate its text. Apparently, the Muslim was anxious to find some answers.
Passing through the busy Muslim and Christian Quarters, he entered the Jewish Quarter along Tiferet Yisrael and banked left into the open expanse of Hurva Square, the harsh noonday glare sharper in the absence of any breeze. He glanced over at the sweeping Hurva Arch—the Square’s focal point and sole remnant of the grand synagogue that had once stood here.
Hurva —literally meaning “destruction”—was well named, Barton thought. Much like Jerusalem itself, the synagogue had been destroyed and rebuilt many times, the result of endless disputes between Muslims and Jews. On the eve of Israel’s birth in 1948, the synagogue had been occupied by Jordanian Arabs and dynamited—its final death blow.