13th Apostle (22 page)

Day Ten, late evening
Carlton Bay Hotel, London

Gil turned on the hot stream of water and washed off the dirt of the day. He could hear the sound of Sabbie showering in the room they had rented next door. By the time he was finished, she had returned; apparently with one objective in mind. Warm, welcoming, and completely naked, she waited for him stretched across the cool sheets. It was a dream come true and his body responded without hesitation.

“We both need a little tension release,” Sabbie said simply.

“What?”

“This will make us both sleep a lot better,” she continued soothingly.

A lump fought its way into his throat. Gil slipped under the covers and turned his back to Sabbie. “No, thanks,” he said over his shoulder.

“What? You're turning me down?” she said in surprise.

He could hardly believe it himself but he was still filled with the jealousy he had been plunged into at Sarkami's apartment. He was not about to let it go. He had been able to keep a lid on it by telling himself that as long as they were working as professionals, he had no right to feel jealous. But if they were about to get just about as personal as it goes, he had a right to his anger. The rush of pain he had felt when she looked at Sarkami would no longer be contained. Yesterday, Gil would have done anything to have her look at him in the way she had looked at that old eagle. Instead, she was offering to have sex with him as nothing more than a tension release.

Gil turned over and sat up. “Do you realize that I know absolutely nothing about you?” he said accusingly. “Not a goddamned thing.

“You're all business with me,” he continued. “Then you're all warm and wonderful with everyone else.”

“Everyone else? Like who?” Sabbie retorted.

“Like Sarkami, like Ludlow.”

“Ludlow! My God, he was like a grandfather to me. He and Sarah took me in when I had no place to go. And Sarkami! You met him. Didn't you get it? He is simply the wisest and most principled man I have ever met. He would spare nothing, even his own life, to do what he thought was right. I don't know too many people like that. I doubt that you do either.

“What did you think?” she continued. “That we were lovers? That I had a thing for older men?”

Gil flushed at the absurdity of his jealousy. What could he say? That he ached to hold her so much that he couldn't think straight, that he was crazy with his need to know her, to touch her mind and her body at the same time.

He shook his head, frustrated at his lack of words and his own asinine actions.

His search for the right words was fruitless. Even as the thoughts left his lips, he knew the tone was all wrong and that she was sure to misunderstand his intention.

“You never really say anything of yourself,” he said, far more accusingly than he felt. “And you run hot and cold. First, you're all business, cool and professional, then suddenly you want to make love. I'm left hanging out to dry.”

“What do you want, one of those whining women who think that a litany of all the wrongs done to them in their lives is a prelude to sex?”

She was right. The fact that she didn't spill out her entire personal history was actually pleasant and a welcome change. Still, there had to be some middle ground between spilling one's guts and playing the role of the ice maiden.

“Look,” he began, “when you talk about the rape, you act as if it was…”

“The rape?” she said incredulously. Her face flushed with anger. “Is that what you want? For me to tell you what it was like to be raped? What? You think that's sexy? Well, imagine this. A knife to your throat and four men tearing you apart and laughing at your agony. Watching your best friend's throat cut because she defended herself, then watching her body being mounted even as the last of her blood pours out. Imagine the hot burn of piss on your face as your violators wring one last bit of degradation out of the experience.”

Gil stared, unable to move or to speak. Her images were burned into his mind forever and he was filled with shame at his own former arrogance.

Sabbie looked unblinkingly into his face, apparently struggling to hold onto the aloofness that had served her so well for so long. She nodded, almost imperceptibly, as if agreeing with the voice within that urged her to trust him with her secrets and her shame.

There was more to tell, she explained. A second rape, much more vile than the first. This one perpetrated by those with whom she lived and fought. The politics of the moment, it seemed, made it “prudent” to forgo reporting the rape. Her superior officers at Aleph determined that the subsequent investigation of so sensational a crime might put the entire SWAT unit in jeopardy.

“I was told that, regrettably, the timing of my ‘incident' was less than ideal. Less than ideal,” she repeated. “Aleph's budget was up for review and, given the changing public opinion about putting women in harm's way, the board of military advisors concluded that the less publicity about the incident the better.”

“But what happened to you had nothing to do with combat,” Gil said incredulously.

It made no difference, she said. “They wanted no problems. I was a problem. Alana was less of a problem. She was dead. I demanded justice for both of us and they did what they had to do to shut me up.”

Sabbie had demanded a hearing. Aleph agreed. Her fellow soldiers and superior officers were in attendance. Those she counted on as character witnesses, testified to her sexual promiscuity and lack of good judgment. Women who had fought side by side with her, women for whom she would have laid down her life, painted a picture of her as unstable and licentious. Friends, who had once urged her to date more, testified that she was a troubled young woman who regularly engaged in high-risk sexual behavior with multiple partners.

Her military service record, as well, was called in question. Small infractions, some of which she had never even been informed, were magnified beyond recognition so that they might lend credence to Sabbie's lack of judgment and responsibility.

“You can make anyone look like anything if you really want to,” she said with a shrug.

“Alana's death was deemed inadmissible,” she continued. “A separate hearing was slated for the following week. It was later canceled, of course, by request of Alana's parents. In the end, I did what I had to do.”

Sabbie had refused the honorable discharge Aleph had offered. Without explanation, she left in pursuit of the men responsible for the taking of her life as well as Alana's. Using skills Gil dared not imagine, Sabbie had extracted from the first of her attackers, the names of the others.

“And, had it not been for Sarkami,” Sabbie concluded, “I would have continued to take lives in hopes of a retribution that could never be realized.”

Gil straightened in surprise. Sarkami, what the hell did he have to do with all of this?

“Everything,” she said. Even as she put the last bullet into her assailant's brain, Sarkami had happened unexpectedly upon the scene.

“I turned the gun on him,” Sabbie explained, “though I didn't want to kill him. After all, he had done nothing to me,” she continued.

“To kill someone for what he has done to you or to another innocent soul, that was one thing. To kill someone simply because he has unwittingly witnessed your retaliation, that was another matter entirely.

“So we stood, face to face, I with my gun, the corpse at my feet. I don't know what I expected from him, horror, I suppose. Fear, at the very least.”

But neither was forthcoming. Instead, Sarkami calmly inquired as to how she intended to dispose of the body and whether it would be given an appropriate burial. With these words, Sabbie explained, Sarkami made her act of violence real to her and transformed her prey into a human being.

She told Sarkami her story, from beginning to end, in much the same way she was telling it to Gil, she added.

“Then he did the most incredible thing,” Sabbie said. “He asked me how he might help.”

In that offering Sarkami had given Sabbie back her life. She was no longer an animal, fending for itself, in a world intent on consuming her alive. She was a human being capable of engendering sympathy in another. And compassion.

She had said all she had to say and she waited for Gil to say something in return. He struggled desperately for anything other than the usual words of comfort and sympathy.

In the end, he whispered only one phrase, a simple thought that came from his heart. “I wish you hadn't had to go through all of that,” he said simply.

Sabbie looked at him with a wry smile, hesitated, then, without warning, it all fell apart. The wall. The anger. The distance. The horrendous hurt. Even what Gil assumed to be her rationalization of all that had happened.

It was all gone and she was crying, sobbing like he hadn't thought possible. Young and sad, terribly sad. Gil knew it was the first time that she had cried since that day when all had been lost.

When she had finished, he had held her, never speaking. He smoothed her hair, kissed her forehead, and had gone for toilet paper for a dozen nose blows. In the end, when she seemed all cried out, he covered her gently and brought a glass of water.

She reached for him, both arms around his neck and pulled him to her. Only then did they make love. Softly, strongly, honestly. They never stopped looking at each other, drinking up the sight, the smell, the joy of giving each other pleasure and of being alive.

Day Eleven, early morning
Carlton Bay Hotel, London

It was a very sexy dream. Her body melded with his in perfect form and perfect rhythm. She rose to meet him with each thrust. Her excitement filled him with an anticipation he had never experienced and she climaxed with him, and he with her.

Gil awakened and cursed the shaft of sun that stabbed into his brain and pulled him from his sleep. Oh, how he ached to go back. Just a few more minutes. Just to smell her and touch her and pretend she was real. Then, in one warm wave of pleasure, it all came back to him. It hadn't been a dream.

He turned, reluctantly checking the time. 8:45. They hadn't fallen asleep until dawn. Even as he was drifting off she began to give him instructions on how to get the scroll back to the U.S. should he need to do it alone. He had tried to tease her out of her pessimistic predictions, but it had been of no use.

“You can put the scroll in the backpack and take it as carry-on luggage,” she had explained. “It seems strange, I know, but there shouldn't be a problem. Even when it goes through security's X-ray machine, they won't question you. Their job is to look for anything that poses a potential threat. You're not about to blow up the plane with a scroll.”

Gil wasn't buying it. “You just don't walk around carrying an ancient copper scroll without someone asking you where you got it,” he argued.

“Actually, you do. When you get to customs in the U.S., they'll ask you if you have anything to declare. You say ‘no' because, in fact, you are bringing in nothing on their list of items for declaration. Chances are, they won't even check.”

“And if they do?”

“If they do, they'll check the scroll against a list of stolen items and your name against a list of felons. If neither you nor the scroll are listed, you pass right on through.”

The whole thing was moot, he concluded, given that she'd be coming with him.

“Oh, if I'm with you,” she said. “That changes everything. I'm a convicted felon.”

She told him to get some rest while she went to the other room to check the street. No one had shown up all night.
A good sign
, Gil thought. Sabbie wasn't as optimistic.

“Please don't tell me you're one of those no-news-is-good-news people,” she said. “I have no time for ostriches that bury their heads in the sand.”

Wisely, he had fought down the impulse to correct her misconception about animal behavior. It wasn't the time or place, he told himself. Besides, his track record had been far from sterling. Sabbie had been more on top of things than he had. Far more. More than he wanted to think about right then. And apparently, she required far less sleep.

Gil dragged himself to his feet and listened. No shower running. She was probably on the toilet.

He knocked on the door and got no response. She was probably in the next room, checking out the street for the thousandth time. With anticipation he pushed the shower curtain aside and surrendered to the hottest, most satisfying shower he had experienced in a long, long time.

Day One following the Crucifixion, evening North of Jerusalem

Micah paused to catch his breath. He had been walking as quickly as he could without attracting attention, and though Joseph said all was well, his chest was wrapped with bands of fear. He approached the stable carefully.

A faint light emanated from cracks in the stable wall. Was this a Roman trap? Set, perhaps, for the Apostles? Or for him? No, nothing could have happened with such haste. With the exception of the Apostles and Joseph, all thought Yeshua lay dead in the sepulcher.

Stealthily, Micah drew closer. Several of the voices were known to him. Clutching the precious bag of ingredients for the brew that would save Yeshua's life, Micah waited and listened.

Peter's deep voice was the easiest to recognize. “We have to look out for ourselves as well. It was by the grace of God that we too were not arrested and hung on crosses beside him. His actions have angered too many. He has put us all in danger.”

“I agree,” Bartholomew concurred. “And who would be there to save us? He has gone too far this time, challenging the Priests and the Pharisees. I told you that we should have gone to Galilee for Passover. He would not have offended the authorities there.”

Micah flushed with anger. He peered through a crack as James began to speak. “As long as he lives, he presents a danger to us all. You all know it is true. I will say what none of you has the courage to say. It is better for all of us if he never wakes.”

Thomas rose and, as was his custom, spread his arms wide to emphasize his words. “We first followed him in the promise that he would become King of the Jews and that we would prosper as one of his inner circle. That promise is now like smoke from a fire; it rises and disappears. I for one believe it to be nothing more than good judgment to rid ourselves of the malevolence he will bring down upon us if he remains alive. He no longer serves our purposes or his own.”

“Or that of his God,” another added.

The cold breath of anger caught in Micah's throat.

Traitors! How much Yeshua had done for them and this is how he was to be repaid. Were these just words of dissatisfied rabble, chewing their cud of discontent, or were they really contemplating bodily harm to he who took them in and made them holy?

Only moments ago, such a display would have been unthinkable. Now he was bearing witness to words so dark and sinister that only Satan himself could have uttered them.

With all that had transpired the last few days, could it be that he and Joseph were all that stood between Yeshua and death? A darker thought yet, entered his heart. Could Joseph still be trusted or was he, too, part of this heinous conspiracy?

No, not Joseph, of that Micah was certain. Together they had carried Yeshua's bloodied and broken body from the hill and, with each step, the good man from Aramethea had wept deep silent tears of grief. Of all, he was to be trusted. Micah's face flushed with shame at so disloyal, if brief, a contemplation.

So this is
was
what it has come to.

The night was still and growing cool. Micah forced himself to continue to listen through the stable cracks.

Thaddaeus was next to speak. “Could we not just spirit him far enough away so that we could be left in peace to continue our work?”

At last one who speaks for Yeshua!

The silence that followed gave voice to the condemnation of Thaddaeus' words.

Matthew, who had remained quiet, now spoke. “We know three things about the Priests and the Pharisees: they hate Yeshua, they hold the reigns of power, and they have the ear of Pontius Pilate. If Yeshua lives, the Romans would hunt him to the ends of the earth and, as we too would bear the stain of his name, we shall be hunted. I must agree with James to say with candor what we all already know, that Yeshua serves us better dead than alive.”

Filled with his own certainty, Matthew continued. “Yeshua's death will provide the people with a martyr, someone to worship and rally against the Priests, Romans, and Pharisees. We, his Apostles, will be exalted only if history does not view Yeshua as a rabble-rouser and troublemaker. And that view depends on the decisions—hard decisions—we make here today. With courage, one of us still may be regarded King of the Jews.”

“God willing,” said another voice, and they all laughed.

Micah could no longer force himself to listen. He fought to get control of his fury and entered the stable. With ostensibly warm camaraderie, he related the tale of trickery that he and Joseph had perpetrated upon the Roman guard, their successful retrieval of Yeshua from the cross, and the placement of Yeshua in Joseph's sepulcher.

The others listened as Micah informed them of Pilate's assignment of Roman guards at the entrance of the sepulcher. Had he not heard their evil plans, Micah might have assumed the Apostles' concern was for Yeshua's safety, but now, with knowledge of their intent, Micah understood that each of the Apostles feared that Yeshua might yet recover and, in so doing, put each of them in danger.

With obvious relief and jubilance, they welcomed the news that Joseph of Arimathea planned to deliver Yeshua to them at the close of the Sabbath. Fighting back the tears, Micah understood why the news was so well received. He and Joseph would soon be delivering Yeshua's life into their hands.

Micah continued the charade that the others had begun. He explained that he must remove himself so that he might prepare the counteragent intended to revive Yeshua. He bid them good rest and told them that he would wake Peter when all was in readiness.

As he removed himself to a small shack adjacent to the stable, Micah wondered if he, too, was slated for the same fate as Yeshua? Probably so, he thought, yet he had no fear.

As he prepared the antidote, Micah began to devise a way in which he might yet take back Yeshua's life from the hands of those who would rob him of it.

With each passing hour, Micah fought his body's demand for rest much as he would fight any enemy reaching to snatch Yeshua's life. His eyes grew heavy and his body ached for sleep, yet Micah worked through the night. As the preparation of the counteragent was completed, so was the secret plan that Micah prayed would succeed.

Micah mixed a few drops of the strong-smelling counteragent with some of the unfinished wine from dinner and poured the concoction into a small flask. He was sure that this “false brew” would never reach Yeshua's lips. If Yeshua were to be saved, it would be up to Micah to retain the real counteragent.

Micah placed the flask that contained the false brew on the makeshift table where the still-sleeping Apostles were certain to find it and then prepared for his own journey. After he carefully siphoned the remaining counteragent into a small earthen vial, he returned the stopper and placed it within his travel pouch, taking care that it would not spill.

With the vial safely out of view, Micah roused Peter and informed him that the antidote was finished and had been placed on the table. Barely awake, Peter listened while Micah gave him instructions on how and when to administer the bogus brew.

After he concluded his instructions to Peter, Micah added that he was leaving for his cave immediately and would meet them all there, then he allowed Peter to drift back to sleep.

In the moonlight, Micah looked once more at the men who slept, the men who called themselves Yeshua's Apostles. Then he left the stable, mounted his mule and as the moon still hung heavy in the sky, headed for the home of Joseph of Arimathea.