The Psalter (11 page)

“So?” Isabelle shrugged.

“You’re an expert in ancient Greek. How do you translate
Didymos
?”

Isabelle thought for a moment. “It means twin.”

“Very good, darling, but what you couldn’t know is that Thomas is the Greek spelling of the Aramaic word
Te’oma
, which also means twin. So Thomas’ name is really Judas the twin, twice over. Whenever they call him Thomas in the New Testament, the author is calling him the twin.”

“What book are you reading from?”

“The
Gospel of Thomas
, a Nag Hammadi find.”

“Does the Bible refer to the Apostle as a twin?”

“The Gospel of John uses the name Thomas Didymos or twin, twin on three separate occasions.”

Father Romano’s face was glum. “What else does it say?”

Pascal rose and put his hand on the priest’s shoulder. “Will you be all right?”

“Sure. I’m just shocked to learn Jesus may have had a brother—and a twin no less. So if he had a twin who was not God’s son, then…”

“Mary had another son and Joseph fathered at least one of them. I think I know which book this is. One text discovered at Nag Hammadi is called
Thomas the Contender
. Many scholars believe the book is actually the lost
Gospel of Mathaias
. This is certainly written by a
Mathaias
.”

“Read the rest.” The priest’s face bore a mix of weariness and distress.

Pascal scanned the rest of the page. “I’m happy to report nothing earthshaking in what’s left, Father, so you can breathe easy; only something about Thomas getting in touch with his inner self. Very 1960s. I’ll draft a translation for you.”

Romano pushed himself out of the overstuffed chair. He offered his hand to the seated professor. “Thank you for your help, Monsieur Héber. It’s late and I need to find a hotel.”

Pascal rose and took the priest’s hand between both of his, “Nonsense, Father. You can stay here. Isabelle, please show Father Romano to the guest room.”

“I’ve already imposed too much.”

“Don’t be silly. You’ve had an exhausting day and I won’t accept no for an answer.”

Isabelle placed clean towels on the nightstand and turned back the bedspread, fluffing the pillows. “You’ll be more comfortable here than a hotel.”

“You and your father are too kind.”

“Get some sleep, and we can talk tomorrow.” Isabelle kissed him on the cheek and Romano jerked away.

“Oh, I apologize, Father. We French kiss everyone. I should’ve thought.”

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry. It’s not being a priest…but…something else.”

“Well, let’s forget it.” Isabelle squeezed his hand and closed the door.

As the priest pulled the blankets on the iron-frame bed to his chin, the implications of the
Thomas
fragment spun in his head. He hoped he would sleep; he had to sleep. His overtired brain wasn’t processing clearly and he needed clarity, but the coffee or the shock of the discovery made him feel as though he could jump out of his skin.

He had ended up in the Secret Archives by sheer circumstance. He only wanted to study ancient books and manuscripts to learn their mysteries. He seemed to have spent his life looking for answers to secrets. Why was his mother violent, his father gone? Why did people hurt others for their own gratification? If he could but read the thoughts and disputations of the earliest Christians, those closer to the era of the Lord, he might understand more, get closer to the truth. But the School of Paleography fell under the auspices of the Secret Archives. He was educated there and was now the vice-prefect.

However, much more resided in the Secret Archives than just the School of Paleography, hidden things not intended to be seen by outsiders, even priests. Romano had access to everything and had read many texts branded as heresies. Yet these long-lost accounts were not written by pagans or unbelievers, but by Christians who wrote what they believed. Priests like the author of the little tract he had translated, Anastasius Bibliothecarius, and Disciples of Christ like the author who claimed he was Jesus’ twin brother.

Who had the right to say what should be part of the canon or what would be forever branded as heretical, suppressed, and destroyed? Romano asked himself the question over and over. Now, however, he had begun to grasp that what the church allowed to be read, published or even uttered was scrutinized, dissected, and censored. How had he not seen this before? Perhaps he had chosen to turn a blind eye.

Romano had translated a simple pamphlet and almost lost his job at the hands of the Grand Inquisitor. But what he had uncovered tonight would shake the very foundation of the church. Jesus had a twin brother; Joseph was his father, Mary their mother. Such a thing was unthinkable and definitely punishable by the anonymous enforcers within the thick, impenetrable walls of the
Pallazo del Sant’Uffizio
.

Romano took a deep breath and another. An arc of inky blackness devoured the pinpoints and jagged waves of light underneath his eyelids. His breathing grew slower, more regular. His last thought was of Isabelle’s kiss as he sank into a turbulent oblivion.

The creak of an antique door disturbed Pascal’s sleep.
I’m sure Isabelle showed our guest the bathroom
, he thought.
Did she remember to leave the hall light on for the priest
? He looked though the darkness to where the crack under his door should be, but there was no light. Throwing back the blankets, he sat on the edge of the bed and stepped into his slippers.

He turned the doorknob and pulled on the door. It slammed against him with a force that launched him to the floor. Stunned and uncomprehending, Pascal shook his head. He recoiled from a muffled wallop and gasped from the sting on his face. A broad gloved hand swung to strike the other cheek just as a slender figure in flannel pajamas wrapped herself around the dark form.

Isabelle clutched the man’s throat while the Pascal grabbed a wrist with both hands, trying to hang on. The assailant flung his free elbow back and caught Isabelle on the jaw, knocking her to the floor. He raised his fist to punch down, but the hand hung in the air suspended.

Romano grabbed the fist in mid strike and unleashed a crushing blow to the intruder’s chin, knocking him off the old man. The attacker rolled and jumped to his feet facing the priest, his hands raised in a fighting pose. The priest stood upright and cocked his fists in the boxing stance he had learned first on the streets and then in Catholic school. The assailant launched a sweeping hook. Romano rotated his right foot, pivoting toward the blow, and ducked his head. The swing went wild. He shifted his left foot in the opposite direction and snapped his hips, delivering a shot to the ribs that doubled the man over. He followed with a combination right jab to the face and left hook that struck the man in the mouth. The attacker reeled into the wall, his arms splayed.

“I’ve got them!” The shout came from another room. The attacker stumbled to the open door and Romano lunged after him. The man balanced on one leg, turned his body horizontal, and delivered a thrusting kick to the priest’s groin. Romano grunted and crumpled in a heap. The assailant stood over him, poised to finish the job. Pascal flung his body over the groaning priest.

The voice in the other room shouted again. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” The attacker spat bloody spittle at the two men and fled the apartment.

Romano and Pascal knelt over Isabelle. Pascal wiped blood from the corner of her mouth with a kerchief while the priest cradled her head in his hands. Romano felt a growing goose egg. A tiny groan came from deep within her chest as she tried to lift her hand to the lump. “Lay still,
chérie
,” Pascal said.

“Oh, my head,” Isabelle groaned. Her eyes shot wide open and she tried to raise herself.

“Please lie down, darling. You’ve suffered a nasty blow.”

Isabelle would not be consoled. “Father, the prayer book!”

“I’m afraid they’ve taken it,” the priest said.

And the photograph?”

“Yes.” Her father added, “but at least we’re alive, thanks to Father Romano.”

“I didn’t do so well. They got away with everything.”

“I saw the look in the man’s eyes, Father. If you hadn’t battered him soundly, he would have taken your life—and ours, too. He wanted more than the Psalter. He wanted our silence.”

Isabelle pushed her father’s hand away and forced herself to her knees.

“
Chérie
, you must lie down.”

“Let me go Papa. Don’t you understand? They followed us to the apartment. They know about the Psalter and the photograph. We must get to the Archives before they do. Stay here,” Isabelle said to her father as she reached for her overcoat. “I’ll call you from the office.”

“Not on your life. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

The battered trio rushed down steep wooden steps in the building stairwell and into the fog-soaked street. The realization came to Romano that even through her addled brain, Isabelle had seen the logic. These men were professionals. If they knew enough to target the prayer book and photograph as well, they would head for the lab where the photo had been made.
But how could they know
? The priest wondered.
Only he knew about the palimpsest and it was just a hunch after spotting telltale signs of Giovanni’s handiwork. The only other person who knew about the ninth-century monk was the Pope’s Secretary, and he was dead
. Romano searched his recollection, wondering what he might have said to Father Mackey.

They rushed under the Roman arch into the National Archive courtyard to the flashing of blue lights against the pale stone walls of the ancient Hôtel de Soubise. Half a dozen police cars formed a barrier around the entrance doors.
Please God
, the priest said a silent prayer,
help the cops arrest these criminals
.

12
Shochetim

Two uniformed gendarmes blocked the trio outside the French National Archives door. “I’m Doctor Isabelle Héber, Director of the New Technologies department.” The officers opened the front entrance to let her pass, but barred the way to Pascal and Romano. “They’re with me,” Isabelle said.

“Sorry Madame, orders,” one of the
gendarmes
replied and pushed Pascal and the priest off the steps.

Isabelle hurried through the door. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank God you’re here, Isabelle.” The words came from a short, distinguished man in a navy pinstriped suit whose gray hair fell below the collar. “What happened to your face?” He pointed to her swollen, split lip.

“I’ll tell you later, Philippe. Did someone break in?”

“Worse, much worse,” the Director General of the Archives, Philippe de Montfaucon, said as he wiped perspiration from his forehead with a monogrammed kerchief.

His explanation was interrupted in mid-sentence by a plainclothes officer who confronted Isabelle. “We’ve been trying to telephone you. What a coincidence you should show up at precisely this time.”

“Whoever you are, you may address me as Doctor Héber or Director Héber or Madame.” Isabelle bristled that the detective would address her impolitely.

“Of course Ma-dame,” the dectective said. “I’m
Cap-i-taine
Gérard Desmoulins of the GIGN, the
Groupe d’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale
. However, you can call me
Capitaine
Desmoulins or simply
Cap-i-taine
, if you wish. Now please, why are you here in the middle of the night?” Before she could reply, a uniformed gendarme with chevrons on his shoulder whispered something in the captain’s ear. “Escort them in,” he replied. Turning back to the archivist he said, “You’ve brought guests. Now, I’m waiting, Madame.”

Isabelle glared at the detective, contemplating how much she should reveal. “Someone broke into my apartment and I thought it might have something to do with the Archives.”

“Why would you think so?”

“Well…”

“Come, come, Madame Héber,” the captain said. “It’s obvious you’ve been attacked and you must believe the motive is related to your work or you wouldn’t be here. Ergo, it’s a matter of National Security. So don’t be coy.”

Romano and Pascal were escorted to the group by a sergeant, and the priest said, “She’s not being coy, captain. She’s trying to protect me.”

“Who are you?”

“Father Michael Romano from the Vatican.”

The detective seemed to understand. “Go on.”

“Doctor Héber is a professional colleague and was kind enough to use her equipment to translate an old book.”

“Doctor Héber!” Isabelle wasn’t sure whether Philippe was simply trying to impress the detective, but he appeared in genuine distress. “You’re well aware the Archives are for the work of the State.” He peered solicitously at
Capitaine
Desmoulins.

The captain ignored him. He turned instead to Pascal. “And you are…?”

“I’m Pascal Héber, her father.”

The Director General extended his hand to Pascal with a nervous, polite smile. “Ah Doctor Héber, a pleasure to meet you. I’ve tried for years to get Isabelle to introduce me to—”

“Please Director,” the captain interrupted, “this is an investigation, not a reception. “Why are you here,
Monsieur
?”

The retired professor responded matter-of-factly, “They attacked me, too. I would never let my daughter investigate alone. These are serious men.”

“It appears they were very serious,” Desmoulins replied cryptically. “Why don’t you all follow me to Doctor Héber’s office. I wish to show you something. Madame, would you lead the way?”

Isabelle led them up the stairs toward her lab. Turning back as she climbed, the expression on the Director General’s face scared her. He walked with halting steps, a kerchief over his mouth as though he was about to be ill.
How serious had the burglary been
? she wondered as she approached her first floor office. The door was ajar. Light from inside shone into the hallway. As she reached the handle, she stopped short, alerted by the shrill voice of the Archive Director, “Stop, Isabelle! Don’t go in.” Captain Desmoulins glared at the Director General to which Philippe said, “
Monsieur Capitaine
, you go too far. Interrogation is one thing, but cruelty quite another.”