The Sacred Blood

Analysis of the computer’s contents had then been entrusted to the evercapable, waiflike twenty-one-year- old computer whiz named Ziv.

“There’s an awful lot to look at here. So I began by sorting the files, pulling out all the program-specific stuff. I usually look at source tags first; tells me where data is originating,” she explained to Cohen. Beside her workstation—which, with its multiple plasma screens, armada of slim drive towers, and blinking lights, looked like command central for a space mission—the surly rabbi stood with arms crossed.

Cohen let the mousy computer genius spout some technical jargon. It seemed to give her confidence. And he needed her to stay motivated.

“And all these files here”—her wiry fingers tapped the keyboard at hyperspeed and a list came up on the center monitor—“caught my attention. Seems they all came off a server—an intranet actually.” Her eyes showed fatigue from the hours she’d spent staring into glowing plasma crystals, not to mention overt frustration at Rabbi Cohen’s keeping her well after the workday ended. It was already nine p.m., and he seemed to have no intention of quitting. The rabbi looked a bit edgy too, she thought.

Get on with it, Cohen thought.

“Point is, they all originated from the same domain and country code: dot V-A.” She looked up at him with excited eyes, quickly realizing he didn’t get it. “That’s the server for Vatican City. Remember, you asked me to see if I could find anything unusual?”

The rabbi’s arms fell limp and his mouth dropped open. “You’re positive?”

“Oh yes. Couldn’t have come from anywhere else.”

“What kind of files are they?”

“Pictures mostly. Documents too.”

He leaned close to study the file names. When he saw some of the labels, he felt light-headed. Not only were the file details imprinted from Vatican City’s host server, the files were tagged with June dates—mere days after the ossuary’s theft from Jerusalem, and immediately preceding the date stamped on the ossuary’s shipping container when it was anonymously sent back to Jerusalem from a DHL office in Rome.

“Open this one,” he instructed, tapping the screen midway down the list.

Ziv worked the mouse and brought up the image. She made a sour face when it appeared in high resolution on the monitor. “Yikes. That’s creepy.”

The rabbi’s knees felt weak as he studied a clear snapshot of a complete skeleton laid out upon a black rubber mat. He could make out the sleek edges of a stainless steel table. Just as he’d suspected. The ossuary definitely hadn’t been empty. The ancient texts of the priests are never wrong, he thought. “I want to see all of them,” he said, voice quivering.

“Are you okay?” Three shades paler than usual, the rabbi looked like he’d seen a ghost.

He nodded without taking his eyes off the image.

“Pull up a chair,” Ziv said. “There’s actually a PowerPoint file here that has most of the pictures in a slide show.”

22

******

Ziv ran through the highly detailed PowerPoint presentation with the rabbi three times. And it was really starting to bother her. To say the images were disturbing would be an understatement.

The pictures had been marked up with a virtual pen to leave yellow highlights and circles around the areas of interest. Cohen had studied every detail: the skeleton’s gouged ribs; the ground-down bones joining at the wrists and feet, and the rust marks left there; the fractured knees. He spent little time on the image of three black, jagged spikes, even less on two coins laid side by side.

Shots of the ossuary from various angles had plenty of yellow “ink” pointing to the dolphin-and-trident relief on the side of the box. He could practically hear his grandfather screaming blasphemy from his grave.

Only minor highlights pointed to the less fascinating rosettes and hatch patterns carved into the ossuary’s front face and arched lid. Cohen couldn’t help but notice that the lid wasn’t cracked in these photos. Perhaps it had broken during its clandestine shipment from Rome?

There were slides with bullet points that no doubt summarized the study’s findings, which were detailed in the document files Ziv had pulled up. The message was clear: this first-century specimen, otherwise a picture of perfect health, had died from crucifixion. And patina tests performed on the ossuary reinforced the conclusion that he had been buried in Israel.

Beneath the Temple Mount . Where the Levites had purposely hidden his ossuary to fulfill the prophecies. Now the prophecies had been jeopardized—a centuries-old plan, maliciously interrupted. By the Vatican, nonetheless.

The bullet point that spoke to ethnic origin listed one telling word: “UNKNOWN”—the rabbi’s worst fear confirmed. They’d analyzed the DNA. He didn’t even realize that he was loudly grinding his teeth.

Ziv took a two-minute break before the final viewing to stretch, pee, and refill her coffee mug. When she returned, the rabbi hadn’t budged. The haunted look in his eyes had only gotten worse.

At the moment, the rabbi was stuck on a most impressive digital recreation that used meticulous calculations of the laser-imaged skeleton to re-create what the thirtysomething man would have looked like prior to his brutal death.

The rabbi had zoomed in on the face, captivated by the man’s aquamarine eyes, which mirrored his own.

“Are you sure you’re going to be all right?”

His bloodshot eyes broke from the monitor. “We will be just fine.”

“We”? Who else is he answering for? she thought.

Sighing, he sat back and wove his hands behind his head. “I’m very much interested in how they came up with this image,” he said, pointing with his chin to the monitor. Having spent plenty of time in genetics labs, he was certain that the equipment was far too sophisticated to bring into Vatican City. Most likely, a sample would have been sent off-site. God willing, the geneticist’s laptop would have some record of it. “So I want you to search every file for anything pertaining to genetic studies.” The request seemed to overwhelm Ziv.

“I’m not exactly a scientist.”