The Sacred Cipher
Authors: Terry Brennan
SACRED
CIPHER
TERRY
BRENNAN
The Sacred Cipher: A Novel
© 2009 by Terry Brennan
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.
To my wife, Andrea
,
and to my children
,
Michael, Patrick, Meghan, & Matthew
Only love is eternal
Part Three: Prophecy Fulfilled
First, I must thank God for the gift of writing. As Joan Baez has said, the gift is
from God. My job is only maintenance and delivery.
There would be nothing on paper without my wife, Andrea. Not only does she keep me
focused on the important, sane, and healthy, but she also willingly sacrificed a year
of Saturdays so this dream could have life. Without her, I am but a shell.
To Andrea, again, and Meghan who were my first readers and shared only excitement.
To Marlene Bagnull, whose selfless dedication to other writers is legend. The dream
was born and nurtured at her writers' conferences in Philadelphia and Colorado.
To Wanda Dyson, who believed in me when all I had was an idea, and who gave so much,
so freely, to make the idea a reality.
To all those along the way:
Angela Hunt and Nancy Rue—faithful teachers and encouragers;
Kathy Vance—who blessed me with volumes of information about the archaeology and history
of Jerusalem, along with a firsthand view of the current politics and social conflicts
in Israel. I pray you will soon return to the land of your dreams;
Rachelle Gardner—agent, friend, and truth-teller;
All the great folks at Kregel Publications—Miranda Gardner and Steve Barclift, who
were my early champions and extended so much grace when the project was endangered;
Dawn Anderson, editor extraordinaire, sweet and gentle with a rookie author, who invested
so much to make this book so much better; Cat Hoort, thanks for the cover and your
infectious enthusiasm;
Fred, Steve, and Mike—my spiritual brothers, so quick to laugh at me, and themselves,
who kept me grounded and gave me hope;
Bobby Watts and William Jin—how blessed is a man with true friends.
1889 • ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT
Only three types of buyers entered the Attarine—the foolish, the fraudulent, and the
forewarned. The foolish, who acted on whim instead of wisdom and expected to fleece
an ignorant Egyptian native; the fraudulent, expert in identifying well-crafted forgeries,
anxious to pass them on for great profit; and the forewarned, who searched for treasure
but were wise enough to employ someone who knew the ways, and the merchants, of the
seductive but evil-ridden Attarine.
Spurgeon knew the risk. But treasures awaited in the twisting, narrow stone streets
snaking away from the Attarine Mosque.
He had Mohammad, he had a gun, he had money—and he had God.
Peering down the darkened alley, Spurgeon worried that, perhaps, he didn’t have enough.
Mohammad entered the alley and disappeared from view. The alley was gray-on-gray,
denied sunlight by overhanging, second-floor balconies adorning almost every building,
their shuttered windows barely an arm’s length from each other. Joining with the dark
was a riot of refuse; crazed, cadaver-like dogs; and powerfully pungent, unknown odors.
The Attarine District was home to the greatest concentration of antiquities dealers
in Alexandria, both the illicit and the honorable. A person could buy almost any historical
artifact along the ancient streets of the Attarine. Some were even genuine. And Charles
Haddon Spurgeon was on a treasure hunt.
He held his breath; he held his heart; and he stepped into the dark.
At the first fork, Mohammed Isfahan was waiting. Spurgeon’s heart slowed its pounding
pace. Mohammed confidently led the way, weaving in and out of the shoppers and the
strollers who clogged the tight byways. It was early morning, before the sun began
to scorch the stones, and Spurgeon was grateful for the moderate breeze off the Mediterranean.
At his size, the heat sapped his strength and soaked his shirt within minutes. Though
the morning was warm, Spurgeon hoped to get back into his hotel, under a fan in a
shaded corner of the dining room, long before the withering heat began blowing from
the Sahara. On one of his regular trips to the Middle East, Spurgeon was trolling
for ancient biblical texts and Mohammed, recommended by the hotel’s concierge, promised
he knew where to look.
Now fifty-six, he was England’s best-known preacher, and he grudgingly accepted the
considerable influence and power he had earned as pastor of London’s famed New Park
Street Church for the last thirty years. Spurgeon was the first to admit preaching
was his passion.
But Spurgeon was also the first to admit that books were his weakness. He typically
devoured six books per week and had written many of his own. Now, scuttling through
the twilight of the dusty alley, Spurgeon sought to slake that hunger in the shops
of the Attarine.
Rounding a curve in the street, Mohammed paused alongside a curtain-covered doorway,
pulled aside the curtain, and motioned for Spurgeon to enter. Inside the shop, not
only was the atmosphere cooler, but it also carried the rich scent of old leather,
soft and smooth like musty butter. Mohammed bowed reverentially as the proprietor
emerged from the rear of the shop. He was a small man of an indeterminate age. What
defined him were hawklike, ebony eyes overflowing with wisdom, discerning of character,
and surrounded by a brilliant white kaffiyeh. Mohammed spoke rapidly in Arabic, bowed
again, and then stepped back as the proprietor approached Spurgeon.
“Salaam aleikum,”
he said, bowing his head toward Spurgeon, who was startled when the man continued
in perfectly cadenced English, “and peace be with you, my friend. It is an honor for
my humble shop to welcome such a famous man under its roof. May I be permitted to
share with you some tea and some of our little treasures?”
Wondering about the origin of the shopkeeper’s English, Spurgeon responded with a
bow of his own.
“Salaam aleikum
, my brother. You honor me by using my language in your shop. But I must ask, how
have you any knowledge of me?”
“Ah, the name of Spurgeon has found its way down many streets. I am Ibrahim El-Safti,
and I am at your service. My friend Mohammed tells me you are interested in texts
that refer to the stories of your Nazarene prophet, is that correct?”
“I would be honored to review any such texts as may be in your possession,” said Spurgeon.
He took the chair and the tea that were offered by El-Safti and waited quietly as
the shopkeeper sought and retrieved three books. While Spurgeon studied the books,
one in Aramaic, one in Greek, and the last in an unknown language, Mohammed and the
shopkeeper retired through the doorway, stepping outside the curtain.
Spurgeon slipped into a scholar’s zone, focusing intently on the words before him.
But the breeze turned, pushing aside the curtain in the door and carrying the words
of Mohammed and El-Safti into the shop and up to Spurgeon’s ear—one well trained in
Arabic, among many other languages.
“What of the scroll?” Spurgeon heard Mohammed ask.
“Do not speak of that scroll in front of this infidel,” El-Safti countered, his voice
stronger and more virile than it had been earlier. “You know what our tradition holds;
this scroll would be of great benefit to the infidels, both the Jews and the Christians.
We are to hold it in trust and keep it out of their hands at all costs.”