“Well, if it isn’t the lovely Sophie Elkin,” he said with an upper-crust British accent. “Is the Antiquities Authority here to expand its biblical artifact collection beyond those acquired by confiscation?”
“Hello, Ridley,” she replied coolly. “And, no, the Antiquities Authority is not in the artifact-collection business. We prefer that they remain where they are, in proper cultural context.”
She glided over to the case of Jericho pots. “I’m just here to admire Mr. Brandy’s latest batch of forgeries. Something you should know a thing or two about.”
It was a stinging rebuke to Ridley Bannister. A classically trained archaeologist from Oxford, he had become a high-profile authority on biblical history in print and on television. Though many of his fellow archaeologists viewed him as a showman rather than an academic, no one denied that he had a remarkable understanding of the region’s history. On top of that, he seemed perpetually blessed with good luck. His peers marveled at his uncanny ability to produce exciting discoveries from even the most obscure digs, locating royal graves, important stone carvings, and dazzling jewelry from overlooked sites. Equally savvy at promotion, he exploited book and film deals on his discoveries to attain a comfortable wealth.
His luck had run thin, however, when an underling brought him a small stone slab with an Aramaic inscription that dated to 1000 B.C. Bannister authenticated the marker as a possible cornerstone from Solomon’s Temple, never suspecting that the carved stone was a forgery designed to earn the digger a fat bonus. Bannister took the fall, however, in a crushing embarrassment that his professional colleagues happily fostered. His reputation tainted, he quickly fell out of the limelight and soon found himself working limited excavations and even hosting guided tourist trips through the Holy Land.
“Sophie, you know as well as I that Solomon here is the most reputable antiquities dealer in all of Israel,” he said, redirecting the conversation.
Sophie rolled her eyes. “Be that as it may, it’s probably not a wise move for a reputable archaeologist to be seen hanging around a dealer’s shop,” she said, then stepped toward the door.
“Ditto, Miss Elkin. It was lovely seeing you again. Let’s do have a drink together sometime.”
Sophie gave him an icy smile, then turned and walked out of the shop. Bannister watched her through the window as she made her way down the street.
“A beautiful lass,” he muttered. “I’ve always wanted to cultivate that relationship.”
“That one?” Brandy said, shaking his head. “She’d sooner throw you behind bars.”
“She might be worth the trip,” Bannister agreed with a laugh. “What was she doing here?”
“Investigating the theft and shooting at Caesarea.”
“An ugly incident, indeed.” He looked at Brandy closely. “You didn’t have anything to do with that, did you?”
“Of course not,” he replied, angry that Bannister would even insinuate his involvement.
“Do you know what was stolen?”
“Elkin mentioned some papyrus scrolls, fourth-century Roman.”
The description seized Bannister’s attention, but he fought to maintain a disinterested demeanor.
“Any idea of their content?”
Brandy shook his head. “No. I can’t imagine they’d contain anything astounding from that time period.”
“You’re probably right. I wonder who financed the theft?”
“Now you are starting to sound like Miss Elkin,” Brandy said. “I really haven’t heard anything about it. Maybe you should ask the Fat Man?”
“Ah yes. The very reason for my visit. You received the amulets from my associate Josh?”
“Yes, with a message that I was to hold them until we talked.” Brandy stepped to the back room, then returned with a small box. He opened it up and laid out two green stone pendants, each featuring a carved ram motif.
“A nice matched pair of amulets from the Canaanite period,” Brandy said. “Did these come from Tel Arad?”
“Yes. A former student of mine is leading a dig there for an American university.”
“That boy could get himself into trouble for looting an antiquities dig.”
“He’s quite aware of that, but it’s an exceptional case. The boy is actually straight as an arrow. He inadvertently trenched into a grave site and came away with some sterling artifacts. They actually dug up four identical amulets. One went to the university and one was donated to the Israel Museum. Josh sent me the other two as gifts for helping him in his career over the years.”
Brandy raised his brow while asking, “You want me to sell them?”
Bannister smiled. “No, my friend. While I realize they would garner a pretty penny, I don’t really need the cash. Take one for yourself and do with it what you wish.”
Brandy’s eyes lit up. “That is a very generous gift.”
“You’ve been a valuable friend over the years, and I may need your help in the future. Take it with my blessings.”
“Shalom, my friend,” Brandy replied, shaking Bannister’s hand. “May I ask what you are going to do with the other amulet?”
Bannister scooped it up and eyeballed it for a second, then slipped it into his pocket as he headed toward the door.
“I’m taking it to the Fat Man,” he said.
“Wise idea,” Brandy replied. “He’ll pay you top dollar for it.”
Bannister waved good-bye and stepped into the street smiling to himself. He was banking that the Fat Man would pay him for the amulet all right, but in something much more valuable than cash.
21
Julie Goodyear strolled past a monstrous pair of long-silenced fifteen-inch naval guns pointed toward the Thames, then walked up the steps to the entrance of the Imperial War Museum. The venerated national institution in the London borough of Southwark was housed in a nineteenth-century brick edifice originally constructed as a hospital for the mentally ill. Known for its extensive collection of photographs, art, and military artifacts from World Wars I and II, the museum also contained a large archive of war documents and private letters.
Julie checked in at the information desk in the main atrium, where she was escorted up two floors in a phone-booth-sized elevator, then climbed an additional flight of stairs until reaching her destination. The museum’s reading room was an impressive circular library constructed in the building’s high central dome.
A bookish woman in a brown dress smiled in recognition as she approached the help desk.
“Good morning, Miss Goodyear. Back for another visit with Lord Kitchener?” she asked.
“Hello again, Beatrice. Yes, I’m afraid the field marshal’s enduring mysteries have drawn me back once more. I phoned a few days ago with a request for some specific materials.”
“Let me see if they have been pulled,” Beatrice replied, retreating into the private archives depository. She returned a minute later with a thick stack of files under her arm.
“I have an Admiralty White Paper inquiry on the sinking of the HMS
“Thanks, Beatrice. I should just be a short while.”
Julie took the documents to a quiet corner table and began reading the Admiralty report on the
Kitchener’s correspondence proved only slightly more illuminating. She had read his war correspondence before and had found it mostly mundane. Kitchener held the post of Secretary of State for War in 1916, and most of his official writings reflected his preoccupation with manpower and recruiting needs of the British Army. A typical letter complained to the Prime Minister about pulling men from the Army to work in munition factories on the home
