“Only this: Dillingham learned that three of the men who were on duty at the airport security line the morning Bartholomew and his party took off are members of Islam Forever, a far-right religious party in Turkey. Whether or not that’s significant, no one knows at this point, but I think it could be very important. The switch had to have been made at the Istanbul airport.”
“But why go to all that trouble making a crude replacement? Why didn’t they simply take the codex and run?”
“Can you imagine the huge fuss the patriarch would have made when the attache case came out of the scanner much lighter than before? Of course, that could have happened anyway had he opened the codex after it exited the scanner. But they played their chances, and it gave them enough lead time to make off with the codex. Or maybe pass it on to others.”
Earlier, Dillingham had asked Jon for help on a watermark the CIA labs had discovered on the foolscap paper. Instead of a literal cap with bells attached to its flaps in the headgear of a medieval court jester-the origin of foolscap after all-the consistent watermark looked like a crescent and star over an earth surface with the Star of David and a cross embedded in dust. Such a logo was obvious, and both Jon and Osman al-Ghazali quickly translated it: Islam victorious over Judaism and Christianity.
Could it help identify the perpetrators? “Unfortunately it’s not a big clue,” Dillingham told Jon. “The paper is manufactured in Egypt, but it’s used throughout the Middle East.”
“But this had to be an inside job, Mort,” Jon said, giving the privileged appellation a test run. “Else how could the perpetrators know when the patriarch was coming through the security line and, above all, the exact dimensions of the codex for their copy?”
“That’s clear,” he agreed. “For some time now, our operatives in Istanbul have been using the Orthodox Patriarchate as their second home, checking out every last person on the staff there.”
“They have? I hope they aren’t disrupting the business of the patriarchate now that Bartholomew has returned.”
“Quite the opposite. Bartholomew is just as eager as you to locate the codex. He’s cooperating in every way possible.”
Jon thought of another tack. “Has anyone received a… any kind of a ransom note for the codex? We haven’t. Has Bartholomew?”
“No, not that I’ve heard.”
“Well, where do things stand as of now? What are your plans?”
“We’re doing a stronger background check on the three religious party members at the airport security line. Our Turkish counterparts are a big help-all secularists, thank goodness.”
“Good move. And… thanks for all your continuing help, Mort.”
“Not at all, Jon. I’m still trying to make up for that tongue-lashing I gave you some weeks ago.”
“Aw, don’t worry about that,” he said.
Jon received regular updates, assuring him that the Constantine Codex and Canon committees of the Institute of Christian Origins were working with a near-maniacal drive to complete the opening scholarship on both documents. Slogans like “Urgency, Security, Action” had proven quite unnecessary in urging them on, so very extraordinary was the excitement associated with the Constantine Codex.
Computer studies of the material proved most helpful. The Gospel of Mark was programmed for grammar, syntax, vocabulary, and favorite phraseology, as was the book of Acts. The newly discovered texts were then subjected to the same programming with stunningly similar results. The immediately adverb, so typical of Mark, appeared also in the new ending, which had no mention whatsoever of those clearly embarrassing references to snake-handling and drinking poison that showed up in later attempted conclusions to the Gospel and had always been regarded as spurious by the best scholarship. Jon and Shannon found it particularly pathetic that several cults in Kentucky and Tennessee made this central in their worship.
Similarly, just as computer studies had shown the book of Acts to have been written by the same hand as Luke’s Gospel, so the same hand was demonstrated in First and Second Acts. Above all, not a single verse in any of the newly discovered material conflicted in any way with the existing biblical text.
Should the newly discovered texts become part of the Bible? The Canon committee had been asked to explore that question, but it was quite divided on the issue. Jon and Shannon concluded that it was still too early to venture much of a working plan for that group.
Perhaps the greatest of all wonders in the entire enterprise was that confidentiality seemed to be holding. In Rome, no one had noticed the plugged one-inch circular hole in the lid of the St. Paul sarcophagus, according to a communication from Kevin Sullivan, although Benedict XVI was constantly inquiring about Jon and the codex.
In Cambridge, the only slight breach in security seemed to be the day that Zachary Alexander, an Associated Press stringer in Boston, came to Jon’s office to inquire about “some important document” he was supposed to have discovered somewhere in Turkey after the debate at Hagia Sophia and then delivered to the Ecumenical Patriarchate in Istanbul. Even as his heart nearly froze in midbeat, Jon affected a forced smile and asked the man where in the world he had heard such a thing.
“My cousin Brett has the AP desk in Istanbul,” Alexander said, “and he wanted an interview with the patriarch because of all the in-and-out traffic there after you left.”
“And did the patriarch grant it?”
“No, he didn’t. It was Brett’s guess that some old manuscript-or whatever-was involved.”
While a “white lie” of denial might have been justified at this point, Jon tried redirection instead. “It was my wife Shannon who found an old document at Pella, which really isn’t all that important. But she’d prefer no publicity on it until she’s done the usual translation and commentary.”
“Hmm… figures, I guess.”
“Tell you what. Let’s make a deal-you stay mum on this for now, and you’ll be the first media person I call when it’s time to go public. Deal?”
“Deal.”
It was a close shave, but no cigar. Obviously-despite the stolen codex-the good Lord was watching over their enterprise. If only the missing codex weren’t such an unforeseen and totally loathsome complication!
Jon would never forget the day, the hour, or the event. No known expressions in the English language could cover it. Nor, he thought, could those of any other language spoken by the civilized. “Bolt from the blue” came close, but that was still pathetically inadequate to describe what actually happened.
He was sitting at his office desk at Harvard, reviewing the latest findings from the ICO committees, when Marylou Kaiser announced, “The FedEx man just delivered something for you, Dr. Weber, and I signed for it. Want me to bring it in?”
“Sure-if it isn’t big and heavy.”
“Well,” she admitted, “it could be both.”
Jon immediately got up and went to the receiving table in her office. The large box measured something like eighteen inches square and over a foot in height. It was well wrapped with brown tape and was indeed surprisingly heavy. Quickly Jon looked for the name of the sender and read: Al-Azhar Mosque and University Office of the Grand Sheikh Madinat Nasi Cairo, the Arab Republic of Egypt
“Well, what in the world?” Jon wondered. “Abbas al-Rashid and I haven’t been in contact since the debate, other than the usual exchanges of thanks. What do you think’s inside?”
“Probably a big, ornate copy of the Qur’an,” she opined. “He wanted to convert you to Islam, didn’t he?”
“You know, you could be right, Marylou. And that would be very sticky. I’d love to maintain the man’s friendship, but I doubt I’ll be making that particular pilgrimage!”
“Well, that’s a relief! Muslims don’t treat their women very well, and that would include secretaries.”
Jon cut through strip after strip of tape, then opened the lid of the box. All he saw was packing popcorn. Marylou hurried over with a wastebasket to prevent her office floor from being littered with Styrofoam pellets. Finally Jon saw the dark tannish cover of what appeared to be some large tome, lifted it free of the packing, and set it on the table.
It was then that breath and heartbeat nearly failed him. It was a codex.
It was the codex.
He slumped down onto a chair, held his forehead, and mumbled, “How?… Why?… It’s simply not
