"Few people know about it. I found out about it without wanting to, by chance."
"Life is chance."
"Well, yes," Sarah agreed. "Anyway, the Vatican needs him, and I'm the only contact."
"Why do they need him?" Ben Isaac didn't understand.
"I don't know. But it looks like he's important in helping to resolve everything that is happening lately."
"I can't see what JC has to do with the kidnapping of my son."
"He doesn't. He has something to do with the death of three of the Five Gentlemen."
Ben Isaac turned red. Sarah and Myriam looked at him anxiously, fearing he was having some kind of attack.
"What's the matter, Ben?" Myriam asked him in alarm. What a night. "Tell me, honey."
They tore his jacket off and unbuttoned his shirt. He seemed to be having difficulty breathing. He coughed weakly. Myriam tried to get him to sip the rest of her sweetened water. A few moments later Ben calmed down, regained control, and breathed more easily.
Myriam placed herself in front of him and looked him directly in the eyes.
"Ben Isaac, tell us everything you're holding back. Don't hide any thing from me or from Sarah." She stared even harder. "It's an order."
Ben Isaac wet his lips and lowered his eyes. He felt destroyed.
"Do you know their names?" he asked Sarah.
"Who?"
"The ones who died."
Sarah took out her notebook. "Um . . . Yaman Zafer, Sigfried Hammal, and Ernesto Aragones."
Each name was like an arrow in Ben Isaac's chest. A tear ran down his face. He was in pain.
"The Five Gentlemen are . . . They were experts who validated the discoveries of 1947 in the Qumran valley. At first there were only three. Later we recruited two more. We demanded a vow of silence, which was never broken," Ben Isaac explained. "This silence was essential for guarding the discoveries and for . . ." He hesitated.
"For what, Ben?" Myriam insisted seriously.
"To maintain the Status Quo," he confessed.
"And what does that mean?" Myriam sounded irritated.
"The Status Quo. Things as they are."
"Why did these documents always remain in your possession?" Sarah asked.
Ben Isaac didn't answer at once. He wanted to find the right words. He didn't want to be imprecise. He looked at Myriam fearfully."Because it was my team that found them. Whoever finds them is the owner."
"I know you gave some to the church and other institutions. You sold others." Sarah was not convinced.
"Because they had less importance." Ben Isaac's words came out irritated. There was something else there.
"It seems strange the church didn't insist, since one of them is the Gospel of Jesus." Sarah wanted to show him that she knew what they were talking about.
"The Gospel . . . the what?" Myriam couldn't believe it. "It can't be."
Ben looked like a mischievous boy whose pranks had been discov ered. Head lowered, fearful expression, absorbed.
"Was it written by Jesus Himself?" Myriam wanted to know.
Ben agreed silently.
"And the other document?" Sarah reminded him.
Ben hesitated.
"There's more?" Myriam was at the same time intimidated and intrigued.
Once more, Ben nodded silently. He took his time answering. When he did, his voice sounded hoarse. "The other places Yeshua ben Joseph in Rome in the era of Claudius."
Sarah and Myriam didn't know why this would be so strange, but neither was an expert in history.
"And what's the problem? Who's Yeshua ben Joseph?" Myriam asked.
"Jesus, the son of Joseph," the Israeli explained.
"Okay, Jesus was in Rome. What's the problem?" Myriam still didn't see.
"Jesus was in Rome in the fourth year of Claudius." Ben Isaac's voice was fi rmer.
The women still didn't see what was wrong with that. What was so bad about Jesus being in Rome at that time?
Ben Isaac sighed. They still didn't understand. "The fourth year of Claudius's reign is the year 45 A.D."
The two women looked at each other. This certainly was a surpris ing revelation. Jesus in Rome in the year 45. That was incredible.
"What about the Crucifixion, then?" Sarah asked, her heart beating fast. She wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.
Ben looked at her this time. "It never happened," he said, as if throwing a bomb.
Sarah never realized she'd made the sign of the cross when Ben Isaac said that. "What?"
He looked at the journalist piously, as if he wanted to ask forgiveness.
Sarah wasn't able to say anything else. It was incredible.
"That is very serious," Myriam said fi nally. "Extremely serious."
"I know. I didn't want anyone to know in any way. We guarded this secret for fifty years and wanted to continue doing so," Ben Isaac said ashamed.
"And this is why they kidnapped my Ben?"
Ben nodded.
"Who are these people?" she asked angrily.
"I don't know, Myr. I have no idea." He looked at Sarah, who still seemed half stupefied. "Do you know how to contact this JC?"
Sarah had never contacted him. From the beginning it was a one sided relationship. He contacted her. She suspected that her position at the paper was through his influence, but she also thought it could have been Rafael. In those moments of success, which during the time she'd worked there had been considerable, she liked to think it was purely her merit. And, ultimately, it was. From time to time she received a fi le in the mailbox about something that deserved attention. Normally these were overrated scandals, not all about the Vatican, for which the jour nalistic community called her the pope's lover. She knew JC watched over her, she preferred to think only to a certain extent, and was always alert. She was sure this would call his attention. More than sure.
"I do." Was this a half lie or completely false? In any case she was sure she'd succeed in doing so.
"What was it the kidnappers said?" Myriam asked, remembering the phone call Ben Isaac received at the Fiumicino airport.
The plane began its descent. The flight attendant approached them.
"We're landing at Gatwick, Doctor. I'd appreciate it if you'd fasten your seat belts."
Ben Isaac grabbed the belt quickly, while Myriam continued to stare at him, awaiting a reply.
"They said to wait at home."
24
C
ough it all up from now on," Gavache ordered. "We'll begin with the recently converted historian. Who is Ben Isaac?"
"He's a legend, a myth," Jacopo answered, amazed.
The rain outside was falling harder. A flood that inundated the City of Lights, freeing it from evil, amen.
"He seems alive enough," Gavache contradicted him. "I'll have his record shortly. Continue, Mr. Jacopo."
"According to what is known, in very restricted circles, he was behind the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Those the Holy See declares apocryphal gospels."
"What are they?"
"Non-canonical gospels, not approved as belonging to the sacred Scriptures, in other words, writings not considered inspired by God."
"Why? Are the others considered inspired?"
"According to the church, yes," Jacopo confi rmed.
"And how do they know what was inspired or not?" Gavache ques tioned. What a hell of an idea.
"They don't know. It was a question of politics."
"Absurd," Gunter protested. "Of course they knew."
Gavache turned to Gunter menacingly. "Quit protecting your own interests, Mr. Priest. It doesn't suit you well." He indicated for Jacopo to continue his explanation.
"The theologians of the church had to decide what to include in the sacred book and what to leave out. There are five Bibles—the Judaic, the Hebrew, Catholic, Protestant, and Orthodox. The most important are the Judaic and Catholic, the latter because it has the largest number of faithful, the former, for historical reasons. As you ought to know, the Jews and Catholics share some books of the Bible. Those they call the Old Testament, but the Jews don't recognize them as old because they don't accept the new, since for them Jesus is not the Messiah. Both are called religions of the Book. Muslims are, too, because they base their faith on another book, the Koran, of course.
"The Judaic Bible is composed of twenty-four books. It was what Jesus read and quoted regularly. The Catholic Bible has seventy-three, seven of which are considered apocryphal by the Jews. Don't forget, the New Testament is not included in the Judaic Bible, nothing of the Acts of the Apostles, the Gospels, Letters, or the Apocalypse. And, obviously, the New Testament comes long after Jesus Christ. He never read it."
"So you're telling me the Holy Scriptures have very little holiness."
"That's your opinion," Jacopo defended himself. "To each his own. But I agree with you. Besides, it's said the Septuagint and, later, the Vulgate left a lot out."
"The Septuagint?"
"Yes. The Bible was translated from Hebrew into Greek for the Jews living outside of Palestine who no longer spoke those languages. Greek became the second language of Palestine. Even Jesus spoke it, accord ing to the evangelists. The Septuagint was translated by seventy erudite Jews from Alexandria, from which they call it the Bible of the Seventy, or Septuagint. It's curious that the four evangelists of the New Testa ment quote biblical texts from this Greek translation rather than the original. Saint Jerome translated the Greek into Latin and called it the Vulgate. Every day in all the Catholic liturgical celebrations, one pas sage from the Old Testament and another from the New are read."
Gavache listened attentively to the history lesson. Any detail might be important, but he was under no illusion that these people were here to help find the murderer, but rather to help their church, including Jacopo.
"And what does this have to do with Ben Isaac?"
Jacopo took up the thread of the discourse again, now that he'd launched into historical considerations of the Bible. "Well, according to what's said in these restricted circles, Ben Isaac discovered some important documents that relate to what's said about the Bible."
"This is what we call a motive," Gavache declared.
"Excuse me?"
Jacopo didn't follow. Gunter didn't seem to understand, either.
"That's a reason to kill," Gavache explained. "What did Zafer have to do with Ben Isaac? The murderer who asked about him, certainly, was aware that they knew each other."
No one said anything for a few moments. Only the rain fi lled the silence with constant pings.
"Suggestions? Speculations?" Gavache demanded.
No one answered.
"Mr. Jacopo. Any idea?" Gavache insisted.
"Maybe . . ." Jacopo began timidly. "Maybe the Turk was one of the Five Gentlemen. Hammal, too," he suggested.
"Absurd," Gunter interjected. "A historian's fiction. This never existed."
Gavache was interested in knowing more about these Five Gentle men. The story was getting more complicated and more elements were appearing all the time; more questions and few answers. Was he going to have to investigate the background of Christ's family and His dis ciples? He smiled at the idea.
"The Five Gentlemen were the people who made up Ben Isaac's team. They were sworn to silence about the discoveries, according to what's said."
"According to what's said means a lot of things. . . ." Gavache added. "More all the time."
Gunter got up. "I can see this is going to be a long night. Would you like some coffee, tea, or some refreshment?" the Jesuit father offered.
Gavache asked for coffee, Jean-Paul also. Jacopo and Rafael accepted some tea.
"Maurice," Gunter called out. The acolyte who'd brought them to the nave appeared at once and took the order. "Take it to the sacristy. Then tell us as soon as it is ready."
"Certainly," Maurice answered subserviently, and left to prepare the hot drinks.
"The Five Gentlemen. What do you think of this, Jean-Paul?" Gavache asked. His expression revealed he was about to tie together everything Jacopo had said.
"A mess, Inspector."
"A mess," his superior concurred. He looked at Gunter. "I see you contradicted everything the prestigious historian said, but you recog nized the name Ben Isaac when I mentioned it." It was a statement, not a question.
Gunter swallowed dryly. Nothing escaped the inspector.
"Who is Ben Isaac, Father Gunter?" Gavache insisted with an unfriendly look.
Gunter adopted an arrogant attitude and got up from the chair where he was resting. "I'm not on French territory. I don't have to answer your questions."
"Did you hear that, Jean-Paul?"
"He's shameless, Inspector."
Rafael approached the German Jesuit. "Cooperate, Gunter. Tell him whatever you know. You can help catch the murderer."
Gunter refused to back down. Rights had to be exercised. Gavache went up to him and stopped so close he could smell him.
"Silence is your right, Father. It's true we're not on French territory."
"This church belongs to the Society of Jesus, to the Roman Apos tolic Catholic Church, to the pope," Gunter argued coldly. He couldn't tell what he knew. . . . Never.
Gavache drew even closer, if that was possible. "Listen to me well, Father"—his tone was menacing—"you can hide behind the Con cord to keep a criminal free. Your conscience is your conscience. But eventually you're going to have to step outside this church to go shop ping, administer last rites, get into some whore's bed . . . whatever it is. I guarantee you that when you do, I'm going to be waiting for you, and you won't have the church or any saint to help you. Not even your friend Loyola." Gavache's breath struck Gunter's face with the revolting stench of cigarettes. But even more repugnant than the odor were the words."But if you make trouble for me I'll have a warrant made out for Mr. Gunter, not Father Gunter, and give you a load of shit before I ask the first question. And just so you know, sometimes I forget to ask the first question for a month or two while you wait in the slammer for my signature to be sent back to Germany because, no matter how much the little priests love you here, the French, believe me, are not going to let you return here." He was silent for a while to let his point sink in. He turned his back. "Think hard."