Authors: Linda Lambert
“The Copts have been the garbage collectors of Cairo for over fifty years,” the young man in the front passenger seat said with marked disgust. “They use pigs to eat the unusable garbage. The women—we call them the
zabbalin
—use recycled paper and cloth to produce all sorts of things . . . you know, like clothes and carpets . . . they recycle nearly 85 percent of what they collect. Wouldn’t buy the stuff myself. Can’t get the smell out, if you ask me.” The chatty guide was delivering a travelogue while Justine was dying of fright in the backseat. Fear both chilled and heated her skin, making it difficult to focus.
Life along this marred passageway was much like that in any other Egyptian community, except for the horrible smell and narrowness of the street. Men drank their morning tea around small tables in crowded coffee houses in the midst of hovels made of crumbling clay brick huddled together like the homeless on a cold night. From their expressions of dignity and contented concentration, they might just as well have been sipping a latte at a Kansas City Starbucks. Dumbwaiter baskets were lowered from second-story windows, and small children filled them with cauliflower and baladi bread and oranges.
Justine’s thoughts of jumping out of the car in this village dissipated. Her left wrist was held firmly by her backseat companion, making it impossible. She assumed that this was the community of Muqattum and they were driving toward the Church of St. Samaan.
The man in the passenger seat continued talking: “More than 20,000 people live here. They have water now, and electricity, medical services, schools—you name it. At the top of the mountain there”—he pointed up beyond the eastern buildings—“two great churches and grand scenes of the devout are carved into the sandstone walls and caves. If you can believe it, the sandstone for the pyramids came from these caves, yet they were only discovered in 1974. Just 1974. I . . .”
“Shut up,” said the driver, “just shut up.” The man grew quiet.
Justine’s thoughts scattered, fragmented by fear. Her eyes and throat burned from the stench and the pressing heat; she fought back tears that threatened to blur her vision.
Who is this man who speaks excellent English with both pride and contempt? Is he Christian? Muslim?
Suddenly, small hands covered the windows, smudging dozens of fingerprints across the glass. Beautiful faces with pug noses pressed against the windowpanes. With her right hand, Justine slowly lowered the pane a few inches.
“Hello, lady, welcome to Egypt. Where you from? Pencils!” The children chanted their few English phrases. Small fingers hooked over the edge of the window as they held on and began to run sideways to keep up. “Hello,” she said quietly. “How old are you? I like your dress.” Then she leaned closer to the window and whispered, “Tell your fathers I need help.”
“Roll up that window!” the man in the front passenger’s seat demanded. As he turned, she could see that he wore a priest’s collar. She blinked in bewilderment. Muslims and Christians? Together? The driver rolled up the window with the electric lever, almost catching the children’s fingers. “If you try anything like that again, Dr. Jenner, you will find yourself greatly inconvenienced,” the priest warned, no longer the chatty guide.
She glanced back at the children, who stared in confusion.
The sedan turned to the right and sharply ascended, passing through a massive arch. The world opened up into a clean, park-like setting. Once again, Justine was amazed by larger-than-life biblical scenes carved into the sandstone cliffs. The car pulled up to the side of the Church of St. Samaan. Her “protector” in the backseat released her wrist. She fiercely reclaimed her hand and rubbed the deadened nerves.
The priest opened Justine’s door and took firm hold of her right hand, while her backseat companion took hold of her left wrist once again.
I feel like I’m five years old.
“You can let go of my hands now,” she said.
“We wouldn’t want you to fall, my lady,” said her backseat companion. “These steps can be treacherous. It’s much safer if we hold on to you until we get to the office,” he said with oozing sarcasm.
The office? The office?
“A job interview?” she asked, mocking his tone. Her captors ignored her.
The driver of the sedan slowly backed the car into the far side of the parking lot as Justine was led down an inclining walk to the side entrance of the huge church dug out of the mountain. Hundreds of stadium seats ascended upward and descended downward toward a stage far below. An overhanging natural sandstone ceiling covered the entire stadium. Justine stopped in her tracks, forcing her companions to stop as well, as she took in the gaping vastness before her. Thousands could fit into this church. A massive painting of
The Last Supper
, so primitive that it bore little resemblance to DaVinci’s, stretched across the top of the stage, which was encircled by lights, speakers, and scenes of the crucifixion. The soft sandstone walls surrounding the stage were carved with more biblical scenes, nearly as large as the ones on the cliffs. Doves flew in and out of the enormous space while women cleaned the stairs by brushing wood chips across the shiny stones. The two men jerked Justine forward, down into the well of the church, across the wooden stage, and into the small room beyond.
A youthful man, thin and bearded, casually smoked a cigarette and drank tea while he sat erect in a fragile wooden chair in the back of the office. He rose when Justine and her escorts entered the room. She was led to a chair facing an inner wall of the office. The carved wall above her announced: “If your right eye offends you, pluck it out. Matthew 29:19.” She began to tremble uncontrollably, grasping her own shoulders in an unsuccessful attempt to steady herself. After a few moments, she managed to say: “Fine theater.”
The man at the table walked toward her. In spite of his youth, he projected an air of refined, well-bred authority. “Let me introduce myself and the others,” he said graciously. “My name is Hussein, and this is Anwar”—he motioned to the travel guide, whom Justine now recognized as one of the novitiates at the Church of Saint Barbara.
“Your driver is Fathi. I believe you met in the Khan and on the desert road.” He bowed slightly as though acknowledging an old friend, revealing the gun protruding from his jacket pocket. “And your other companion, who I understand rescued you from the busy street this morning, you may call Youssra. We only want to talk with you. If you cooperate, understand our views, you need not worry about your safety.”
Justine stopped listening as she stared at the man who had introduced himself as Hussein. He looked familiar, yet she was sure she hadn’t seen him before. “What do you mean, you only want to talk to me? Your friends here ran us off the desert road. We could have been killed. And what about the note? And the kidnapping? Are you members of Al Qaeda?”
“Serious charges, Dr. Jenner. I must admit, some of my colleagues have a flair for the dramatic. Too many American movies. Please accept my apologies,” said Hussein, speaking in the classical Arabic used only by more educated Egyptians. Moving his chair to face Justine, he cautiously set his burning cigarette on the end of the small table.
“Your apologies are not accepted! What do you want to talk with me about?” she demanded defiantly, although her chest was tight with fear.
“There is a case of a certain book—a codex, I believe,” began Hussein. “We have concerns.”
“Concerns? Concerns about what? I don’t even know what book you’re talking about,” she insisted, employing the most righteous and confident tone she could muster.
“Questions . . . questions, Dr. Jenner. If you’ll be patient, I’ll explain. I believe you met a young man named Michael in the Church of St. Sergius on the day of the earthquake. A colleague of Father Anwar, here.” The priest bowed slightly. “When Michael aimed his flashlight into the crypt to find you, he saw you pick up something. Now, we didn’t know what it was, of course, but further information suggests it may be a leather codex having some relationship to the Holy Family.”
“Your information?” she demanded, now thoroughly disconcerted.
“I choose not to reveal all of our sources, Dr. Jenner,” Hussein said dryly.
“My father works in the small kitchen in the Rare Books Library,” said Youssra proudly. “Small, but adequate for making tea and biscuits.”
Hussein frowned at Youssra’s indiscretion.
Justine stared at the eager young man as her memory captured the small, bent elderly man who regularly delivered tea to Ibrahim’s office. She turned back to Hussein. “What questions would concern both Muslims and Christians? Some of you are Muslim and some Christian, I presume.”
“You observe correctly. We are of both faiths. I find that highly gratifying, don’t you? We have so little common ground, but this issue is one upon which we find some agreement.”
“What common ground are you referring to?” she pressed.
“The importance of Mary’s purity, for one.” Hussein stared at Father Anwar, then back to Justine, changing course. “We share a belief in the vital role played by the prophet Jesus. If this book belonged to someone who may have known him, we want to make sure its contents would not threaten those beliefs. You might think of this as a preemptive strike, as you Americans like to say.” He grinned for the first time. Perfect teeth, flashing black eyes. “While we don’t know what’s in the codex, we also don’t wish to take chances.”
Mary’s purity?
“What makes you think the contents would challenge those beliefs?” she asked. A wave of panic thundered through her.
Mary’s purity? What is he talking about, and why did he change course in the middle of his explanation? How could he have discovered that the codex had anything to do with Mary? Even I don’t know that. The missing pages . . . but why would he take a few pages and not the whole codex?
“Don’t be naïve, Dr. Jenner. Faith is based on shared beliefs that cannot be shaken without upsetting the balance of society. That’s why we vigilantly guard against apostasy, and against the Western obsession with grasping, touching, analyzing. The Nag Hammadi find was a crushing blow to both faiths. Sayings by Jesus that contradict the New Testament. Very disruptive.”
Father Anwar appeared shocked; apparently he wasn’t familiar with Nag Hammadi.
Justine stared at the priest, then back at Hussein.
“The Holy Family is an important link between our religions,” continued Hussein, bowing ever so slightly toward Father Anwar. “You undoubtedly know that churches are being burned in Alexandria. Well-meaning terrorists are striking at our tourist lifeline on the Sinai. Economic unrest has led to religious strife and violence. It has always been so.”
“Well-meaning terrorists?” she asked with a strained laugh.
“‘Terrorist’ is a Western word, quickly adopted by the Jews to condemn Palestinians,” said Hussein. “Those who commit acts of violence in the name of Islam are defenders of the faith, as well as defenders of our lands from Western occupation. Yet such acts are a heavy blow to our economy. It’s a dilemma.”
“To you, perhaps. But why are you talking to me? What do you want of me? I’m not in possession of any such book.”
“Our experience tells us that foreign scholars who discover our treasures hold a great deal of the power over their fate. Take your father, for instance. He has managed to keep certain discoveries out of the public eye, as have other archaeologists. We suspect you will have much to say about bringing the contents of the book to light—or not. There will be choices.” He grabbed his cigarette, threw it on the floor and stamped it out.
“I’m not an archeologist,” insisted Justine. Deeply shaken by the reference to her father, her voice trembled. “I’ll have little to say in the matter.”
“Helplessness does not become you, Justine,” Hussein said coldly. “You
will
have a great deal to say. We want to make sure you consider the consequences.”
“And they are?”
Damn. I wish I hadn’t asked.
“I prefer to speak in generalities here, since the full ramifications in this situation are not as yet known. Let me just say that religious violence, once it starts, is difficult to contain. You may want to consider your career in the Middle East, and that of your father.”
“You seem to know a great deal about my father. So you should know that his work now takes him in other directions.”
“Roads may lead him elsewhere, but he always returns to Egypt. In the future, you may find the name ‘Jenner’
persona non grata
in this part of the world. Lives are at stake, including the lives of your friends. Professor Andrea . . .”
“Andrea?” Justine’s mouth went dry. “Why are you threatening her?”
“Nadia . . . Let’s just say we keep track of the people who are important in your life, including a certain young man named Nasser.”
She began to scream. “You terrorists! You have no right, no authority to demand anything!”
Hussein calmly lit another cigarette, placed it in his left hand, stepped forward, and slapped her hard across the face, with such force that her chair spun out from under her and she fell backward onto the stone floor. Tears rushed to her eyes as blood surged down the side of her swelling mouth.
Gently, she touched her face and felt her jaw. She managed to slowly rise on both elbows, hair sticking to the blood on her face. She had difficulty focusing, the world spinning out of control. Closing her eyes, she forced her mind back into the conversation, yet didn’t speak.
Who is this man?
Hussein left her on the floor and blocked the young priest from helping her. He drew up a chair and faced her. “This is what I want,” he began.
There was noise outside—footsteps on the wooden stage. Fathi and Youssra moved to block the door. Fathi drew his gun just as two men pushed past them and entered the office. The two guards looked to Hussein for instructions. He waved them off.
Amir stared at Justine, then at Hussein. “Zachariah! What have you done?” He grabbed hold of Hussein by the neck, lifted him off the chair and threw him against the wall, then rushed toward Justine and put an arm around her to help her stand.