******
In the genetics lab, Kwiatkowski was attempting to be low-key while trying to figure out where the geneticist and priest had headed. He could tell he was on the right path when one of the female techs became frightened at the sight of him. She grabbed at a phone to attempt a call to security.
Promptly, he strode over and squeezed the thin hand that held the receiver while the middle finger of his free hand pressed down on the base’s disconnect button. “Don’t even think about it,” he growled.
“Don’t hurt me!” the woman pleaded through quivering lips. “Which way did they go?”
Without hesitation, she pointed across the pristine workstations to a
fire door. When he scanned the room and didn’t spot anyone else paying attention, he jabbed his right fist once at the woman’s face, knocking her out cold onto the floor.
Then he sprinted through the stainless steel islands heaped with microscopes and gadgets and slammed through the door. In the stairwell, he paused to listen. Quick footsteps echoed, sounding close to the bottom.
Swearing, he bounded downward, taking the treads in huge leaps.
Just as he passed a placard for the fifth floor, he heard a door slam far below. He swore again and quickened his pace.
By the time he made it to the bottom he could already hear tires squealing. Pulling the Glock, he threw open the door. But the front end of the speeding car swerved to push it right back at him, knocking him down and cranking his ankle sideways. Pain shot up his calf.
He cursed, sprang to his feet, and leapt out the door, crouching for a shot. But the car was just rounding out onto the roadway.
Cursing again, he tested the ankle. Nothing broken, maybe only a slight sprain. That’s when Orlando appeared on the street, spotted him, and came rushing over.
“I couldn’t make out the license plates.” Kwiatkowski agitatedly shook his head. “But it was a silver Volvo. Convertible with Arizona plates.”
“Doesn’t matter; I’ve got plenty,” Orlando said, patting the laptop.
14
******
Jerusalem
Jozsef Dayan was no stranger to handling ancient papyri. The seventytwo-year-old had dedicated five decades to deciphering the ancient secrets buried beneath his homeland. His transcriptions and interpretations of the historical treasure trove found in the hills overlooking the Dead Sea had earned him worldwide notoriety, as well as numerous citations from the Israeli government. His most recent book on the subject, The Essenes and Qumran: Unlocking an Ancient Mystery, was considered mandatory reading for any biblical archaeologist worth his salt. Fluent in all the biblical languages—including Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek dialects—he’d been instrumental in revealing a world that had been lost for centuries.
Qumran’s first set of scrolls had been found accidentally by a Bedouin herder whose search for a lost sheep led to a cave filled with ancient clay jars. Shortly thereafter, when the United Nations helped Israel to raise its flag in 1948, the texts began surfacing in the underground antiquities market at a time when Israeli nationalists were paying handsomely for artifacts substantiating Jewish heritage.
Ever since, the discoveries had kept coming. To date, the Israel Antiquities Authority had cataloged over nine hundred scrolls.
But none compared to what his colleague Amit Mizrachi had brought to him only yesterday.
The sand-colored clay jar containing the papyri had been what first captured Dayan’s attention. It was twenty-three centimeters in height; had a cylindrical, bulbous form; and was slightly tapered from top to bottom— just what he’d expect. But a most peculiar symbol had been traced into its side prior to the clay’s firing. And its domed lid had been sealed with wax. Most unusual. So he’d known straightaway that whatever had been stored inside carried great importance and promised to be excellently preserved.
On a light box to his left, the lid rested beside the empty jar and a glass dish containing the fragments of the wax seal.
A separate light box, set to barely a glow, sharpened the Greek text on three papyri laid out beneath protective glass.
The papyri had been meticulously preserved, the best he’d yet seen, in fact. A bit brittle along the edges, but no distortions, stains, or discolorations. It was obvious that no moisture had gotten past the jar’s seal.
And the text was so perfectly legible—so cleanly inked by the quill along horizontal guidelines cut superficially into the sheepskin vellum, all written by the same steady and patient hand; the characters’ unique formation was undoubtedly first century. Surprisingly, careful analysis with an ultraviolet wand detected none of the alterations or overwrites typically found when scribes corrected for errors. Incredible specimens.
At an adjacent computer terminal, Dayan typed out the final lines of the transcription, backspacing numerous times to correct for the typos that resulted from his severely trembling fingers. The Hungarian couldn’t shake the growing dread that had quickly overcome his initial euphoria.
The ancient message was shocking. Something so profound that Dayan knew these texts might never find their way to the scroll vaults beneath the Shrine of the Book at the Israel Museum.
He managed to type out the final line of the transcription, then saved the document. Next, he opened his e-mail account, scrolled through his extensive contact list, and selected Amit Mizrachi. After attaching the document, he began his message:
Dear Amit:
In all my years, I’ve never seen anything like this. So many have tried to extrapolate meanings from the Qumran texts, seeking connections to the Gospels—contradictions, perhaps. But as you know, only ambiguous
interpretations exist. If these scrolls truly date to the first century, and I have no doubt they do, what you have discovered will challenge everything we know. I fear that such a controversial message might
“Yosi?” A gruff voice interrupted his typing.
The septuagenarian gave a start as his head swung to the figure dressed all in black standing in the open doorway. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he said in a dry voice. He coughed before getting his next words out. “You nearly scared me to death, Rabbi.”
“Everything all right?” Cohen cautiously moved into the lab. “Of course.” The response sounded as insincere as it felt. He quickly clicked the send button on the message window before the Hasid could get within sight range.
“Did I interrupt something?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not at all.”
Hands folded behind his back, Cohen approached the light boxes and first scrutinized the clay jar. “I’ve heard that Amit Mizrachi has come up with a most unique find,” he said, his tone almost accusatory.
“Indeed he has,” Yosi feebly replied.
“Please,” the rabbi insisted, tipping his head at the jar. “Tell me.”
“Well, it’s all very early on,” he said, getting up from the chair and joining the rabbi at the table. “We must perform a luminescence study to validate the pottery . . . radiocarbon on the vellums too, of course.” He swept his hand over the three papyri.
“I understand. But nothing provides better validation than your gut, Yosi,” the rabbi said with an air of flattery. “You’re the best of the best. So why not tell me what you already know the tests will confirm?”