not have mentioned it at all.
‘Show me,’ Lonergan demanded.
It took the two of them to lift the larger olive wood box out of the floor cavity. The Turk unlocked the heavy brass padlock.
Derek Lonergan’s eyes widened. The box was full of hundreds of fragments. He took one out and examined it carefully with the magnifying glass.
‘Probably a fragment of Isaiah,’ he said at last. ‘Again, it is interesting but not of great value.’ He took another fragment. Unlike the Great Isaiah and the Omega Scrolls, this one was written in ancient Greek. Interesting that a Gnostic Gospel should be in the trunk, he thought, although not out of the question in the murky world of the black market.
‘The fifth gospel, the Gospel of Thomas,’ Lonergan announced importantly.
‘I see you are well versed in the languages of the ancients, Monsignor Lonergan.’
Lonergan sniffed haughtily. ‘It is also of no consequence. A copy of this was found at Nag Hammadi and the translation is freely available to any scholar who wishes to access it.’
‘Then perhaps you would find these more interesting, Monsignor Lonergan.’ The Turk reached for a small clear plastic bag that had been taped under the lid of the box. Inside the bag were three fragments. Once they were placed on the table Lonergan’s pulse raced as he began to translate the ancient Koine.
‘The Path to the Omega…’ This time he made no attempt to hide his astonishment. The three fragments contained identical words to the scroll he had translated earlier. This was another copy of the great Omega Scroll.
‘You see, Monsignor Lonergan, we have reason to believe that in amongst the fragments in this box there is a second copy of the scroll you have just declined to purchase. As you rightly point out there will also most likely be another complete Scroll of Isaiah. The Essenes were a highly organised people, Monsignor Lonergan. You should not be surprised that their scribes ensured their library contained copies of their most precious writings. In addition, there is likely to be a complete copy of the Gnostic Gospel of Thomas. This box would be part of the purchase.’
Once more Derek Lonergan forced himself to remain calm. ‘Where did these come from,’ he asked again.
‘As I have said, Monsignor, that is not important.’ The Turk had no intention of discussing the boxes he had found under a loose floorboard after his father died and he had taken over the clutter of his antiquities store in Bethlehem.
‘It is unfortunate that in the process of these scrolls coming into my hands the second copy has been allowed to disintegrate, and doubly unfortunate that the fragments have become hopelessly mixed with the other scrolls. Some of these Bedouins are not well schooled in handling ancient parchment, but they know the value of these things. As do I,’ he added pointedly.
‘Fifty million dollars is still out of the question,’ Lonergan said. ‘Even if they are genuine, the documents already exist in the wider world. The great Isaiah Scroll is in the Shrine of the Book and any other scroll in here is likely to be already under study in the Scrollery at the Rockefeller Museum,’ Lonergan lied.
‘Perhaps, Monsignor Lonergan, perhaps. Although given the lack of progress in the Scrollery, the wider academic community would welcome the chance to provide, shall we say, more productive scholarship on their meaning. Again, I apologise for bothering you, it’s just that we wanted to give the Catholic Church first option. No doubt I will be able to find other buyers,’ he said, re-taping the plastic bag underneath the lid. ‘Like the fifth, sixth and seventh gospels of Thomas, Philip and Mary Magdalene I’m sure they will find the Eighth Gospel… the Omega Scroll most interesting.’
At the mention of the Omega Scroll Lonergan’s sharp intake of breath was audible. ‘How much do you know?’ he rasped angrily.
‘You would be mistaken to think we do not know the value of these documents,’ the Turk responded, his quiet demeanour unchanged. He was used to dealing in the dark world of antiquities, a world that was full of egomaniacs, although perhaps not as pompous or volatile as Monsignor Derek Lonergan. ‘And none is more valuable, or more damaging to the Christian Faith than the Omega Scroll…’ The Turk let his words trail off as a portent of the turmoil that might follow its release.
Derek Lonergan’s mind was racing. Fifty million dollars was an enormous amount but he knew Cardinal Petroni wouldn’t blink at the price. Now that these other two copies of the Omega had surfaced the Vatican Bank would pay whatever was required to keep both documents out of the public domain for ever. He pursed his fleshy lips as he suddenly realised that the second box was something that Petroni need not even know about. It contained immeasurable insurance against his file ever being made public, and eventually it would fetch a considerable sum. More importantly, here was the perfect opportunity to allow him to throw off the shackles of that prick in Rome. Perhaps, just perhaps he could exact some revenge for his treatment at the hands of Petroni and the Vatican.
‘I will have to consult with the Vatican,’ he said finally, any pretext of the amount being preposterous suddenly evaporating. ‘And I will need to confirm they are genuine.’
‘Naturally,’ the Turk replied. He had anticipated the request and handed Lonergan a worn leather pouch. ‘This contains clearly marked envelopes with blank sample parchments from each of the scrolls. You will no doubt want to conduct carbon dating and other tests.’
‘How do I contact you?’
‘You don’t. The boxes will now be moved to another place for safekeeping,’ the Turk said. ‘I will contact you in a month.’
As he headed back towards the Damascus Gate Derek Lonergan looked at his watch, wondering if the Cellar Bar would still be open. It was after one in the morning. Probably not, he thought. The coded letter to Petroni would have to be sent via the Vatican’s diplomatic black bag which would probably prompt a question or two from Bishop O’Hara. Fuck him. Not to mention Petroni when he got the request for fifty big ones, well fuck him too. Fuck the lot of them. He cursed again as he staggered up yet another blind alley.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Tel-Aviv
T he landing gear of the British Airways Boeing 747 rumbled and thumped into place. Allegra pressed her face against the window with mounting expectation, waiting for her first glimpse of Israel. The Holy Land. She had read so much about it when she had been at the convent in Tricarico and now she was finally here. Mamma had demanded to know every detail, details that would no doubt be faithfully repeated for the benefit of La Signora Bagarella and La Signora Farini, and anyone else who might be around the cobblestone alleys of Tricarico. Papa would provide less detail, but Tricarico’s only wine bar would nevertheless be kept up to date on Allegra’s progress.
The big aircraft banked slowly and Allegra’s first sight of the Promised Land was disappointing. The Mediterranean lapped a dirty shoreline with waves of little consequence, and the late afternoon sun couldn’t do much to bring either to life. In the distance she could see Tel-Aviv and the city was equally unspectacular – a myriad of tightly packed nondescript buildings with the skyline occasionally broken by high-rise hotels overlooking what passed for a beach. The first all-Jewish city of modern Israel had been founded in 1908 as a garden suburb of Old Jaffa. Old Jaffa had been known throughout history as the pilgrims’ gate to Jerusalem and one of the oldest continually inhabited places in the world. Now the tables had turned and Old Jaffa was just another part of metropolitan Tel-Aviv.
The captain applied more power and the four Rolls-Royce RB211 turbofans growled, only to quieten again as the 400-ton aircraft settled on its approach path. The purser took the intercom and commenced the customary landing spiel. ‘As we will shortly be landing in Tel-Aviv…’
Allegra continued to stare out of her window, only to see that the surrounding countryside was as uninviting as the shoreline, a narrow plain of low scrubby greens and browns. But to the Israelis this countryside was a lot more than that. It was Eretz Israel, the land of Abraham and Moses and the twelve tribes of Israel. Nothing in the Old Testament, save Yahweh himself, was more precious.
