“Exactly. The early church had very limited resources.”
To test their equipment and the lighting, they took a small number of photographs in both digital and film. Then they carefully lifted the tome off the table and replaced it on the basement shelf.
They called it a day-but what a day! On the drive back to the Hilton, they said very little-both caught in the wonderment of their discovery.
When Ferris and al-Ghazali invaded their suite that evening, they brought a huge sheaf of media reports on world reaction to the debate. Predictably, most Western reviews in the print and broadcast media were “categorically certain” that Jon had won the debate, while reports from the Islamic world claimed victory for Abbas al-Rashid. Pleasant, though, were the reactions from neutral and Third World countries, which clearly gave the nod to Jon.
All remaining meals in Istanbul would be catered to their suite, according to the new arrangements, and Morton Dillingham phoned them periodically with further security plans. At ten o’clock that night, however, came a most welcome telephonic interruption. It was Adnan Yilmaz with news that the would-be assassin had been arrested. He turned out to be the brother of the student hothead from Bodrum who had cursed Jon rather vocally inside Hagia Sophia. Both militants had driven to Istanbul in a VW microbus well stocked with hate-America pamphlets, as well as assorted fireworks that included eight pipe bombs, four pistols, five rifles, and enough ammunition to supply this arsenal. Under separate interrogation, the brothers implicated no one else and proudly claimed to be “the only men in Turkey who served Allah properly.”
For some time, the conversation in their suite centered on how the shooter could have known Jon was staying at the Hilton or where they would have dinner that night.
“That’s really no mystery,” Ferris opined. “With all the press hanging around the entrance to the Hilton, it was pretty obvious. I think Hurriyet even wrote that you were staying here.”
“Yes, but that kid was just a little too bright, figuring that we’d also be dining at the hotel restaurant. I wonder if he was tipped off…”
While they pondered that possibility, Jon suddenly slammed his fist on the table. “No, he wasn’t. It just came to me. I noticed that during his tirade, the hothead was standing at the aisle of the ninth or tenth row at Hagia Sophia on the Islamic side. And who was sitting directly opposite him on the Christian side? Kevin Sullivan! When the debate resumed, I had asked Kevin to come to the Hilton for dinner. The shooter, the brother of the loudmouth, must have been sitting next to him and overheard.”
That was plausible, even probable, and a welcome blanket of relief seemed to descend on everyone, especially when Yilmaz called again to say that both brothers would be in prison for weeks before they were even arraigned in Turkish courts.
Dick Ferris, however, wondered why Jon and Shannon were not more enthusiastic about the debate triumph or more relieved that the would-be assassin and his brother had been caught and that theirs seemed to be a solo operation. “Do you have something else on your minds?” he asked.
Jon just smiled at him. Of course, the men knew what Jon and Shannon had been up to, but he was not going to divulge any more information than was absolutely necessary at this point.
When everyone had left that night, Jon and Shannon transferred the photos they had taken of the codex onto Jon’s laptop. When they appeared on screen, he had no trouble enhancing the images using only the contrast control of his favorite photo program.
“Great!” he commented. “These will print out with razor-sharp clarity.”
“But what about the pages that are stuck together?”
“Yeah, I’ve been worried about that. Tomorrow let’s use something as simple as steam. If that doesn’t work, then we simply have to declare our find to the patriarch, and he’ll have to bring in a team of his own museum restoration people. But I’d hate to have to do that before we know what’s actually in the text of the codex. Still, we dare not destroy a single line-a single word-so if steam doesn’t work, we’ll photograph the rest of the codex and then let Bartholomew in on the greatest manuscript find of the twenty-first century.” He grinned at her. “Or am I exaggerating?”
“Probably not, provided it’s authentic.”
“I know, Shannon. We’ve been duped before. But not this time. No one on earth could ever have managed to forge all that.”
She nodded. “That, and its totally accidental discovery. No wonder you had your mind on this rather than the debate, my darling.”
Her use of such a tender term in the context of cold scholarly research added sudden, renewed warmth to their relationship. That, combined with their natural elation over the codex was all they needed to call it a night. There simply was nothing like love to banish all concern and restore the soul.
En route to the patriarchate the next morning, Jon and Shannon’s security escorts maintained the same dispassionate silence they had observed from the start, never bothering to ask why they were making this daily trip as Jon surely thought they would. Real professionalism, he thought. They raised no questions even when Jon asked the driver to stop at a hardware store, where he purchased a hot plate, a teakettle, some flexible tubing, a hose clamp, a screwdriver, a roll of paper towels, and a long extension cord. Somehow, he managed to pack it all into Shannon’s tote bag so that when they arrived at the patriarchate, no curiosity was aroused. Again, Brother Gregorios admitted them into the geniza without asking any questions. But how long would that last?
When he had left them, Jon searched for an electrical outlet. It was maddening; he could find none. And why would you need one in a manuscript morgue in the first place? He felt the same ugly frustration he had encountered at so many airports when the battery in his laptop was draining, but could he find an outlet at any of the gates? Evidently, the miserly masters of the aerodrome were afraid of losing three cents’ worth of electricity.
Alternate options boiled up in his brain. Go to the kitchen or refectory of the patriarchate and beg a steaming teakettle? But then their secret would be out, quite apart from the fact that the teakettle would lose its steam before reaching the geniza. Well, there had to be an outlet in the room somewhere. Surely the place had served some other purpose before being converted into a manuscript dump.
“Jon, look overhead at the light fixture,” Shannon advised.
And there it was: salvation hanging just above the lightbulb. It was a compound socket that included not only a screw-in cavity for the lightbulb but two regular outlets as well.
Jon smiled broadly. “Shannon, you’re a dream-also in the daytime!”
But where to get the water? Not a problem, since Gregorios had helpfully pointed out a little WC near the geniza.
The extension cord proved just long enough to reach from the light fixture to the table beneath it, so he plugged in the hot plate, set the teakettle upon it, and waited for the water to boil.
The light had dimmed visibly when he plugged the hot plate in. “Please, Lord, don’t let the fuse blow.” While the water was warming, Jon put a hose clamp over the flex tubing and screwed it tight over the circular nose of the teakettle.
Soon came the wondrous simmer of heating water and finally the welcome gurgle of boiling. When a clear jet of steam emerged, Jon and Shannon lugged the codex over to the table.
“There aren’t all that many stuck pages, honey, and here’s the first.”?Jon paged through to the end of Mark’s Gospel that adhered to the first page of Luke’s Gospel. Now he directed the jet of steam around the three available edges of the two stuck pages. Moment after moment passed. Jon tried to distribute the steam as gently and evenly as possible, but it seemed to have no effect whatever, raising the level of his frustration. “Rats!” he said. “I guess we’ll not be able to do it ourselves after all.”