“I have an appointment with Mr. Gutzman. My name is Bannister,” he said.
After a confirming phone call, he was escorted by a burly security guard to a private elevator and whisked to the top floor. Stepping off the elevator, the door to the penthouse was immediately thrown open by the Fat Man, a large cigar dangling from his lips.
“Ridley, come in, my boy, come in,” Gutzman greeted in a wheezy voice.
“You’re looking well, Oscar,” Bannister replied, shaking hands before entering the apartment.
Bannister still found himself marveling at Gutzman’s apartment, which resembled a museum more than a residence. Shelves and display cases were crammed everywhere, stuffed with pottery, carvings, and other relics, all thousands of years old. Gutzman led him down a hallway lined with ancient Roman mosaics, taken from a public bath in Carthage. They passed under a stone arch from the ruins of Jericho and entered an expansive living room that overlooked the sands of Tel Aviv’s Gordon Beach and the sparkling Mediterranean beyond.
Taking a seat in an overstuffed leather chair, Bannister was surprised to find the residence empty but for a lone servant. On his prior visits, he had always found a throng of antiquities dealers milling about, hoping to hawk their latest prized artifact to the rich collector.
“The heat . . . I find it more oppressive all the time,” Gutzman said, gasping from the walk to the front door. He then sank into an adjacent chair.
“Marta, some cold drinks, please,” he shouted to his servant.
Bannister removed the pendant from his pocket and placed it in Gutzman’s hand.
“A gift to you, Oscar. It’s from Tel Arad.”
Gutzman studied the pendant, a broad smile slowly forming across his face.
“This is quite nice, Ridley, thank you. I have a similar specimen from Nahal Besor. Early Canaanite, I would say.”
“You are correct, as usual. Is this new?” Bannister asked, pointing to a small glass plate on the coffee table that had a molded rim.
“Yes,” Gutzman said, his eyes perking up. “I just acquired it. Excavated from Beth She’an. Second-century molded glassware, probably manufactured in Alexandria. Look at the polishing on it.”
Bannister picked up the plate and studied it closely.
“It’s in beautiful condition.”
The servant Marta appeared, delivering two glasses of lemonade, before disappearing into the kitchen.
“So, Ridley, what is the latest buzz in the world of legal archaeological discovery?” Gutzman asked with a chuckle.
“There appear to be relatively few new projects slated to take the field next year. The Israel Museum will be sponsoring a dig on the shores of Galilee in search of an early settlement, while Tel Aviv University has approval for new exploration work at Megiddo. Most of the academic efforts appear to be directed at the continuation of existing field projects. There are, of course, the usual assortment of foreign theologically sponsored digs, but, as we know, they seldom amount to much.”
“True, but at least they show more imagination than the academic institutes,” Gutzman said with derision.
“I’ve been looking at two sites that I think you will be interested in. One is at Beit Jala. If Bathsheba’s tomb exists, I think it would be there, in the town of her birth, which was then called Giloh. I’ve already formulated a site summary and excavation plan.”
Gutzman nodded for him to continue.
“The second site is near Gibeon. There’s an outside chance of proving King Manasseh’s palace is located there. This one needs more research but has great potential, I believe. I can obtain the necessary excavation paperwork as before under the auspices of the Anglican Church, if you are agreeable to sponsorship.”
“Ridley, you have always delivered exciting finds, and I have found much joy in collaborating with your field digs. But I’m afraid my days of field sponsorship have come to an end.”
“You have always been most generous, Oscar,” Bannister replied, suppressing his anger at losing the support of a longtime benefactor.
Gutzman gazed out the window with a distant look in his eye.
“I have spent most of my personal fortune collecting artifacts that support the narratives of the Bible,” he said. “I own mud bricks allegedly from the Tower of Babel. I have stone footings that may have supported Solomon’s Temple. I have a million and one objects from the biblical era. Yet there is an element of doubt about each and every one of my pieces.”
He suddenly fell into a wheezing fit, coughing and gasping for air, until he settled himself with a drink of lemonade.
“Oscar, do you need help?”
The Fat Man shook his head. “My emphysema has been getting the better of me lately,” he gasped. “The doctors are not hopeful.”
“Nonsense. You’re as strong as David.”
Gutzman smiled then slowly rose to his feet. The act seemed to give him renewed strength, and he stepped briskly over to a cabinet, then returned carrying a small plate of glass.
“Take a look at this,” he said, handing it to the archaeologist.
Bannister took the glass, observing that it was actually two sealed plates compressing a document in the middle. Holding it up to the light, he could see the protected document was a rectangular piece of papyrus with clear horizontal writing.
“A fine example of Coptic script,” he noted.
“Do you know what it says?”
“I can make out a few words, but am a bit lost without my reference materials,” he acknowledged.
“It’s a harbormaster’s report from the Port of Caesarea. It details the capture of a pirate vessel by a Roman galley. The pirates had in their possession armaments from a Roman centurion, one belonging to the
Scholae Palatinae
.”
“Caesarea,” Bannister said with a raised brow. “I understand that some papyrus artifacts were taken as part of the recent theft there. Along with the occurrence of at least one murder.”
“Yes, most unfortunate. The document clearly dates to the early fourth century,” Gutzman said, brushing off the inference.
“Interesting,” Bannister replied, suddenly feeling uneasy with his host. “And the significance?”
“I believe it offers potentially confirming evidence of the Manifest, as well as an important clue to the cargo’s disposition.”
The Manifest. So that’s what it was all about, Bannister thought. The old goat was staring down the Grim Reaper and was making a desperate play for divine evidence before his time ran out.
Bannister chuckled to himself. He had pocketed a lot of money from both Gutzman and the Church of England trying to hunt down the legend of the Manifest. Perhaps there was still more to be gained.
“Oscar, you know I’ve searched extensively both here and in England and have come up empty.”
“There must be another path.”
“We both came to the conclusion that it probably no longer exists, if it ever did in the first place.”
“That was before this,” Gutzman said, tapping the glass plate. “I’ve been at this game a long time. I can smell the link here. It is real and I know it. I’ve decided to devote myself and my resources to this and nothing else.”
“It is a compelling clue,” Bannister admitted.
“This will be,” the Fat Man said in a tired voice, “the culmination of my life’s quest. I hope you can help me reach it, Ridley.”
“You can count on me.”
Marta appeared again, this time reminding Gutzman of a pending doctor appointment. Bannister said good-bye and let himself out of the apartment. Leaving the hotel, he contemplated the papyrus scroll and whether Gutzman’s assumptions could possibly be correct. The old collector did know his stuff, he had to admit. Of more concern to Bannister was formulating a means to profit from the Fat Man’s new pursuit. Deep in thought, Bannister didn’t notice a young man in a blue jumpsuit waiting beside his car.
“Mr. Bannister?” the youth inquired.
“Yes.”
“Courier delivery, sir,” he replied, handing Bannister a large, thin envelope.
Bannister slid into his car and locked the doors before opening the letter. Shaking out the contents, he just sat and shook his head when a first-class airline ticket to London plopped into his lap.
23
S
UMMER, OVER HERE!”
Stepping off the train from Great Yarmouth with a travel bag over her shoulder, Summer had to scan the crowded platform a moment before spotting Julie standing to one side, waving her hand in the air.
“Thanks for meeting me,” she said, greeting the researcher with a hug. “I’m not sure I’d find my way out of here alone,” she added, marveling at the massive covered rail yard of the Liverpool Street Station in northeast London.
“It’s actually pretty simple,” Julie replied with a grin. “You just follow all the other rats out of the maze.”
She led Summer past several station platforms and through the bustling terminal concourse to a nearby parking lot. There they climbed into a green Ford compact that resembled an overgrown insect.
“How was the voyage down to Yarmouth?” Julie asked as she navigated the car into the London traffic.
“Miserable. We caught a northerly storm front after leaving Scapa Flow and faced gale force winds during our entire run down the North Sea. I’m still feeling a little wobbly.”
“I guess I should be thankful I was able to fly back from Scotland.”
“So what’s the latest on the mystery of the
Hampshire
’s sinking?” Summer asked. “Have you established any connection with Lord Kitchener?”
“Just a very few loose threads, quite tenuous at best, I’m afraid. I checked the Admiralty’s official inquiry into the sinking of the
Hampshire
, but it was a banal White Paper that simply blamed destruction on a German mine. I also examined the claim that the IRA may have planted a bomb on the ship, but it seems to be without merit.”
“Any chance that the Germans could have planted a bomb?”
“There’s absolutely no indication from known German records, so that seems unlikely as well. It was their belief that a mine from U-75 caused the sinking. Unfortunately, the U-boat’s captain, Kurt Beitzen, didn’t survive the war, so we have no official German account of the event.”
“So that’s two brick walls. Where are those loose threads that you were talking about?” Summer asked.
“Well, I carefully reviewed some of my documents on Kitchener and rechecked his military war records. Two unusual documents cropped up. In the late spring of 1916, he made a special request to the Army for two armed bodyguards for an unspecified reason. In that age, bodyguards were something of a rarity, reserved for perhaps only the King. The other item was a strange letter I found in his military files.”
Stopping at a red light, she reached into a folder on the backseat and handed Summer a copy of the letter from Archbishop Davidson.
“Like I said, they are two flimsy items that probably mean nothing.”
Summer quickly scanned the letter, wrinkling her brow at its contents.
“This Manifest he refers to . . . Is it some sort of Church document?”
“I really haven’t a clue,” Julie replied. “That’s why our first stop is the Church of England’s archives at Lambeth Palace. I’ve ordered up the Archbishop’s personal records in hopes we might find something more substantial.”
They crossed the River Thames over the London Bridge and drove into Lambeth, where Julie parked the green Ford near the palace. Summer absorbed the beauty of the ancient building that fronted the water, with Buckingham Palace visible across the river. They made their way to the Grand Hall, where they were escorted to the library’s reading room. Summer noticed a thin, handsome man smile at them from a copy machine as they entered.
The archivist had a thick stack of folders waiting when Julie approached the desk.
“Here are the Archbishop’s records. I’m afraid we had nothing on file related to Lord Kitchener,” the young woman declared.
“Quite all right,” Julie replied. “Thank you for searching.”
The two women moved to a table and split the files and then began poring through the documents.
“The Archbishop was a rather prolific writer,” Summer noted, impressed with the volume.
“Apparently so. This is his correspondence for just the first half of 1916.”
As she attacked the file, Summer noticed the man at the copy machine gather some books and take a seat at the table directly behind her. Her nose detected a dose of cologne, musky but pleasing, which wafted from the man’s direction. Taking a quick glance over her shoulder, she noticed he wore an antique-looking gold ring on his right hand.
She flipped through the letters quickly, finding them mostly dry pronouncements on budget and policy directed at the subordinate Bishops around Britain, along with their in-kind replies. After an hour, the women had both weeded through half of their piles.
“Here’s a letter from Kitchener,” Julie suddenly announced.
Summer peered anxiously across the table. “What does it say?”
“It appears to be a response to the Archbishop’s letter, as it is dated just a few days later. It’s short, so I’ll read it to you:
“Your Excellency,
“I regret that I am unable to comply with your recent request. The Manifest is a document of powerful historic consequence. It demands public exposure when the world is again at peace. I fear that in your hands, the Church would only bury the revelation, in order to protect its existing theological tenets.
“I beg of you to recall your subordinates, who continue to persecute me ceaselessly.
“Your obedient servant,
“H.H. Kitchener”
“Whatever could this Manifest be?” Summer wondered.
“I don’t know, but Kitchener clearly held a copy of it and felt it was important.”
“Obviously the Church did, too.”