escaping Herod’s supposed infanticide in Judea: water springs brought forth by the baby Jesus; caves and sacred trees that had given the Holy Family shelter; wells from which the Holy Family drank; a granite trough used by the Virgin for kneading dough; the Holy Child’s footprint and handprint set in separate stones; pagan idols that crumbled in the Holy Child’s presence.
Despite these tales, Grandfather had taught him that many truths could also be found here in Egypt—and many facts had bled into ancient Christian scriptures deemed heretical by the Catholic Church.
Like the Essenes at Qumran who’d preserved the Dead Sea Scrolls from Roman destruction, the ancient Egyptian Christians, called Gnostics, had hidden their Coptic texts in buried jars. In 1945 thirteen leatherbound Gnostic codices had been accidentally unearthed by local peasants at Nag Hammadi. This caused much controversy for the Vatican since the texts spoke at great length about the resurrected Jesus as a spiritual being.
Cohen particularly admired the stunning accuracy of the Gnostic codex entitled the Dialogue of the Savior, in which Jesus himself denounces the weakness of the flesh: “Matthew said, ‘Lord, I want to see that place of life, [the place] where there is no wickedness, but rather, there is pure light!’ The Lord said, ‘Brother Matthew, you will not be able to see it as long as you are carrying flesh around . . . Whatever is born of truth does not die. Whatever is born of woman dies.’ ” And in the codex called the Apocryphon of James, Jesus’s words resonated with Cohen even more so
The spiritual being—the eternal spark—was paramount to the Gnostics, as well as to their brothers in Judea, the Essenes—all members of Cohen’s legacy. Those who understood the weakness of the flesh were the enlightened—“Sons of Light.” And they had been given secret knowledge that from the one true God did all light (spiritual essence) flow in perpetuity.
Heading north on Highway 400, they approached their destination— Tel el-Yahudiyeh, or “Mound of the Jews.” Across the expansive delta plain, the tightly packed buildings of Shabin al Qanatir could easily be seen in the distance.
As they rounded a bend in the road, Cohen peered over at the ancient heap of marl and sand that rose up from the dust. It resembled a huge sand castle built too close to an ocean swell, washed over and stripped of detail. Some of the ancient fortifications could still be made out along the mound’s expansive boomerang footprint.
This ruin had once been a grand temple-fortress built by Cohen’s ancient ancestor.
The car drove past the mound and a wide-open field separating it from an industrial, corrugated steel warehouse. The driver slowed as he approached the warehouse and turned onto the short drive leading up to it. He waited as the bay door rolled back on creaking hardware.
Squeezing the Peugeot in beside a dilapidated tractor, the driver slid the gearshift into park. In the rearview mirror, he watched a man dressed in a white tunic press the button to close the door.
“Did you see anything suspicious?” Cohen inquired.
“Nothing,” he confirmed.
“Good.” He waited for the driver to open his door.
Cohen stepped out onto the cement floor. The warehouse’s expansive, raw interior was lined with steel support columns and had a high ceiling with exposed rafters. Corralled into crude work bays were tool chests and various machines dismantled to their bare mechanical guts.
The moist air stank of motor oil and acetylene.
The building had been registered with the municipality as a machine repair shop. To legitimize that claim, the priests spent considerable time tending to local clients’ broken-down tractors, tillers, and farm machinery. Lately, the decoy operation had expanded to include car repair too. A healthy profit fed the coffers of the Temple Society.
Cohen turned to the driver. “Have them prepare the truck. I want to be out of here in an hour.”
Strutting with a slight limp—too much time sitting always aggravated his damaged hip—to the rear of the building, he opened the door to the office and stepped around a beat-up metal desk that hosted a greasy computer monitor and a stack of crisp yellow invoices.
He dragged a box of motor parts off a stain-covered Persian rug centered on the plank floor. Then he half squatted to grab a corner of the rug and peeled it back. What lay beneath was a rectangular hatch. He threaded his finger through its O-shaped hasp, heaved the door up, and let it fall open with a dull thud.
Patting dust from his black vest, he proceeded downward into complete darkness, the wooden treads groaning under his weight.
“...Eleven ... twelve,” he muttered, counting the last steps.
He remembered that the priest who’d first brought him down here had performed the same counting ritual, which he’d always assumed was a tribute to either the twelve tribes or the twelve whom Jesus had recruited.
The final footfall connected with a spongy clay floor. Groping at the cool air just in front of his face, he found the pull-cord for the overhead light. A single bare bulb crackled to life just above Cohen’s
The square basement was modest in size, just large enough to accommodate twelve shelving units along its mud brick walls, neatly stocked with chemical containers, tools, and welding supplies. Moving to the storage unit on the rear wall, he snaked his hand between some boxes until he felt a cold metal handle. He hooked it with his fingers and tugged. The shelving and the faux-brick laminate behind it noiselessly swung out on concealed hinges.
The solid metal door that lay behind it looked like the entry to a bank vault.
30
******
Jerusalem
In full stride, Jules was in the lead, Amit close at her heels. They’d doubled back through the South Gallery, slaloming through the dallying Americans. This had caused great alarm among the docents and tourists, but no one
