“I held samples back when I turned the collection over for analysis and reburial. I sent them off for testing right after our phone conversation. Your comments confirmed what I hoped. mtDNA might show maternal relationships among individuals in the tomb, and aDNA might at least tell gender.”
Again, my eyes went to the bones on the counter. A question formed in my mind. I wasn’t yet ready to pose it.
“Normally, bodies were left for one year to decay, then the bones were collected and sealed in ossuaries, right?” Ryan asked. “Then why was the shroud person left in the loculus?”
“According to rabbinic law, a dead man’s bones had to be collected by his son. Perhaps this man had none. Perhaps it had to do with his manner of death. Perhaps some crisis prevented the family from returning.”
Crisis? Like the execution of a dissident and the suppression of his movement, forcing his family and followers underground? Jake’s meaning was clear.
Ryan looked as if he might have something to say, but kept it to himself.
I got up and retrieved the article containing the foot-bone photos. Crossing back to the table, I noticed the header at the top of each page.
N. Haas. Department of Anatomy, Hebrew University-Hadassah Medical School.
My mind jumped on it. Think about Max. Masada. Anything but the heel bone and its disturbing lesion.
“Is this the same Haas that worked at Masada?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I skimmed the article. Age. Sex. Cranial metrics. Trauma and pathology. Diagrams. Tables.
“This is quite detailed.”
“Flawed, but detailed,” Jake agreed.
“Yet Haas never wrote a thing on the Cave 2001 skeletons.”
“Not a word.”
The Masada skeleton was never reported, spirited out of Israel, stolen from a museum, smuggled to Canada. According to Kaplan, Ferris claimed it was that of a person of historic importance, discovered at Masada. Jake had admitted to hearing rumors of such a skeleton. A volunteer excavator had confirmed the discovery of such a skeleton. Kaplan’s photo had sent Jake flying to Montreal, then Paris. Because of Max, I’d been persuaded to come to Israel.
Lerner thought the skeleton was that of Jesus. He was wrong. The age at death didn’t work. Jake was suggesting the real thing lay on the counter behind me.
So why the decades of intrigue over the Masada skeleton? Who was this man we were calling Max?
I pictured Max, stolen and probably lost forever.
I pictured my wild ride in Jake’s truck.
I pictured my ransacked room.
Anger flared.
Good. Use it. Focus on Max. Avoid the impossible coincidentally found in a Kidron tomb. The impossible lying in Tupperware on a kitchen counter.
“The Masada skeleton’s gone for good, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Not if I can help it.” Something crossed Jake’s face. I couldn’t say what. “I’ll talk to Blotnik today.”
“Blotnik has juice with the Hevrat Kadisha?” Ryan asked.
Jake didn’t answer. Outside, a goat bleated.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
Jake frowned.
“What?” I pressed.
“There’s something bigger at stake.” Jake rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.
I opened my mouth. Ryan snagged my gaze, gave an almost imperceptible head shake. I closed it.
Jake dropped his hands, and his forearms slapped the tabletop.
“This is more than the usual reburial bullshit. The Hevrat Kadisha had to have received a heads-up. They followed us to the Kidron because of the Masada bones.” One long finger began worrying crumbs. “I think Yadin knew something about that skeleton that scared the crap out of him.”
“What sort of something?”
“I’m not sure. But sending an emissary all the way from Israel to Canada? Trashing a hotel room? Maybe even killing a guy? That’s more than Hevrat Kadisha.”
I watched Jake convert a small hill of crumbs into a long, thin line. I thought of Yossi Lerner, Avram Ferris, and Sylvain Morissonneau.
I thought of Jamal Hasan Abu-Jarur and Muhammed Hazman Shalaideh, the Palestinians parked outside l’Abbaye Sainte-Marie-des-Neiges.
I didn’t know the players. I didn’t know the field. But my instincts told me Jake was right. The game was deadly, the goal was Max, and the opposition was determined to win.
Always the same question. Who was Max?
“Jake, listen.”
Throwing out his feet, Jake slumped back, crossed his arms, and looked first at Ryan, then at me.
“You’ll get your DNA results. You’ll get your textile analysis. That’s the tomb. That’s important. But for now, let’s focus on Masada.”
At that moment Ryan’s cell phone sounded. He checked the screen, and strode from the room.
I turned back to Jake.
“Haas never reported on the cave skeletons, right?”
“Right.”
“What about field notes?”
Jake shook his head. “Some excavators kept diaries, but notes as you and I think of them weren’t protocol at Masada.”
I must have looked shocked.
“Yadin met with his senior staff each evening to discuss the day’s developments. The sessions were taped and later transcribed.”
“Where are those transcripts?”
“The Institute of Archaeology at Hebrew University.”
“Are they accessible?”
“I can make a few calls.”
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Tip-top.”
“How about we swing by the big U and poke through old files.”
“How about we take the shroud to Esther Getz then hit the big U.”
“Where’s Getz’s lab?”
“At the Rockefeller Museum.”
“Isn’t the IAA housed there?”
“Yes.” Dramatic sigh.
“Perfect.” I said. “It’s time I introduced myself to Tovya Blotnik.”
“You’re not going to like him.”
While I cleared the table, Jake placed his calls. I was screwing the lid on the pickles when Ryan reappeared. His face suggested he hadn’t received the best of all possible news.
“Kaplan’s changed his story,” he said.
I waited.
“Claims someone hired him to cap Ferris.”
29
IBLINKED, SET DOWN THE JAR, RECOVERED ENOUGH TO ASK Aquestion.
