'Of course not,' Muhammad snorted. 'You cannot read.'
'But these marks are unlike the writing I see in the marketplace. They must be in another language.'
Muhammad glanced over his shoulder, seeing nothing but the familiar rolling dunes and craggy mountains. 'They are old, very old.'
'Perhaps their very age gives them value.'
'Such old things are forbidden to keep.'
Both men had heard stories of their fellow bedouins who had found objects of great age and, supposedly, greater value, only to have them confiscated before the finder could seek a sale to an antiquities dealer in Cairo.
Hassam grinned, showing as many empty sockets as teeth. 'Forbidden only if the government knows.'
Silently, the two began to fill the sleeves of their billowing robes with the codices.
Chapter One
I.
The British Museum
Bloomsbury
Great Russell Street
London
1842 Hours
Present Day
Langford Reilly was thankful his friend Jacob had insisted he buy a tuxedo for the occasion. From the cab's window, he could see that even a tailored business suit would leave him woefully underdressed. Every man was formally attired. Haute couture dictated the women's gowns. Dior, Chanel, Valentino and smaller houses were well represented in one-off garments that, along with the accompanying jewelry, represented the price of the average home.
All of the guests were invitees to what might be the venerable institution's premier event of the young century. Lang even thought he recognized the faces of a couple of film or television stars whose names he could not recall if, in fact, he had ever known them.
That was the thing about the glitterati: They came and went so fast, it seemed pointless to bother with names. Stardom, trouble with the law or the Politically Correct Police, rehab, cover of People magazine, descent to the front page of the tabloids and obscurity. The journey was as swift as it was predictable.
And it made way for new, heretofore unknown celebrities.
Climbing out of the taxi, Lang stopped and stood erect. The classical facade of the world's oldest public museum only hinted at the treasures inside. For years he had promised himself a full day to explore the museum's timeless riches rather than the few hurried hours he had stolen from periodic business trips to London.
There was a gentle push at his back. 'Along with you, now, 'r we'll be missing the sodding presentation.'
Lang turned, grinning. 'Don't worry, they won't run out of champagne or caviar for hours, presentation or not.'
Behind him was Jacob Annulewitz, barrister, longtime friend, confidant.
And former Mossad operative.
Son of Holocaust victims, Jacob had emigrated to Israel, serving his military obligation in the intelligence agency where he had met Lang here in London. Though a number of the foreign services were aware of Jacob's connection, few knew his actual specialty: explosives. With equal skill and equanimity, he could disarm a ticking time bomb or build a device that could blow someone's head off without spoiling his necktie.
Jacob returned the smile, a hint of mischief in it. 'You're sure of that, are you?'
Lang reacted back to pull Jacob abreast so the two could make their way through the tide of visitors entering the museum. 'That's what Eon told me, anyway.'
Eon.
Sir Eon Weatherston-Wilby, entrepreneur, investor and multibillionaire who had evaded England's near confiscatory taxes by making his fortune in more business-friendly climates. He headed a number of charitable institutions. In addition to his law practice, Lang ran a single nonprofit institution funded by arguably the world's wealthiest, though least known, corporation. The limited number of self- sustaining philanthropic institutions ensured the two men would meet. They had become mutually admiring acquaintances if not fast friends.
Jacob shook off Lang's hand and straightened his cummerbund. 'He's the chap that should know. It's all his show tonight. But exactly what are we going to see?'
Lang stepped around a small man in tux jacket and kilts who was holding the hand of a woman wearing some sort of expensive fur. Not even the jacket concealed several strands of diamond necklace. The effect was like a fuzzy Christmas tree.
'Some of the missing Nag Hammaddi Library.'
Jacob's immediate disinterest was apparent. 'Bloody hell! You mean I got all frocked out to see something I can't even read just to rub elbows with a bunch of toffs? Besides, I can't imagine them looking like anything other than the bloody photographs I've already seen.'
Lang stopped at the door to display an engraved invitation to an uniformed guard.
'You're thinking of the Dead Sea Scrolls.'
'There's a difference?'
They entered the Great Court. Covered by a dome, it was London's first indoor public square.
'The Dead Sea Scrolls were scraps of parchment found in caves above Khirbet Qumran between 1947 and 1955. As far as is known, all wound up eventually at Hebrew University or Jordan's Palestine Archaeological Museum. Political and academic rivalries kept them from the public for decades.'
Jacob snorted. 'Cheeky academics! You'd think they'd want to disseminate knowledge, not fight over it like two sodding hounds with a single bone.'
The observation was consistent with Lang's experience.
'Anyway, the Nag Hammaddi Library consists of a number of leather-wrapped writings found in Egypt in a jar by two Arabs. They were written in Coptic, that is, in the Egyptian language but with the Greek alphabet. Somehow the old parchment was in pretty good shape, although dating back to fourth-century Coptic Egypt. They took the bound books home and their mother used pages to start the family cooking fire. Seems the two guys were in trouble with the police for avenging their father's death and they were afraid the authorities would discover their find. So they sold a number of the volumes to a Cairo antiquities dealer'
Jacob's hands were restless, the idleness of a smoker denied his habit. Lang was thankful there were enough no smoking signs posted to keep his friend's foul-smelling pipe in his pocket. Finally, Jacob helped himself from a passing tray of champagne flutes. 'How many?'
'That's just it. No one knows how many of those near- priceless books there were to begin with.'
Jacob smacked his lips, satisfied with the quality of the champagne. 'And the subject matter of the books we do know about?'
'Apparent copies of some of the original Gospels, including some not in the Bible, the Gospel of Judas, for instance. This particular work is known as The Secret Gospel of James' because it supposedly contains secret revelations made to James by Jesus. There's also the Book of James, or protevangelium, which in many ways parallels the gospels of Luke and Matthew.'
Jacob was already searching for another tray when a tall man with collar-length silver hair pushed his way through the crowd, hand extended. 'Langford Reilly! I'm truly flattered you could make it to my little party!'
'Eon!' Lang smiled with genuine pleasure as he took the hand. 'Wouldn't have missed it.'
Particularly since he had business in London anyway.
