13th Apostle (26 page)

“What the hell is a doorway to history?” Gil asked. Aijaz seemed to be getting impatient and Maluka might return at any minute. This wasn't an opportune time for a detailed report.

“Look, this is very important. You need to know it,” she said sternly.

He stopped himself from asking why. Better to just let her talk.

“Remember when Jesus spoke of the tzaddikim, the righteous ones? It was in the garden, the last time he and Micah ever saw each other. Jesus asked Micah to take his place when he died. But, at the same time, Jesus said that he could not claim to be a tzaddik himself because a tzaddik has no knowledge that he is, in fact, a tzaddik.”

Gil nodded, urging her to hurry.

“But, remember, Jesus also said he could not deny it?” she added.

Gil shrugged.

“Well, the question you should be asking is how could Jesus ask Micah to take his place as a tzaddik, if Jesus was not a tzaddik?” she concluded triumphantly.

Gil shook his head. He had no idea where she was going with this one.

“Look. Micah gives us the answer in the last thing he says to Jesus, the word
Elyon
.”

The word
Elyon
, she explained, means the highest, as in he who ascends to God. According to ancient writings, each millennium, there is born a Tzaddik Elyon, a High Tzaddik, who is not counted among the other thirty-six but, rather, stands alone. It is on this High Tzaddik that the fate of the world rests, for he is entrusted with three great tasks. If these three tasks are not completed each thousand years, mankind will no longer be permitted to walk the face of the earth.

“Go on,” Gil said more patiently.

“In order for the Tzaddik Elyon to complete his tasks, he is given knowledge of his remarkable obligation. Until that time, he lives as any who strives for a life of righteousness. Others may help him along the way but, in the end, he must walk the final steps alone. If death threatens to take him before he is able to complete all three tasks, he must choose another, who has been cleansed and is pure of heart, so that the promise will yet be fulfilled. If he fails to do so, all mankind will be lost forever.”

“You mean that if this special tzaddik…”

“High Tzaddik,” Sabbie corrected.

“If this High Tzaddik dies without completing certain tasks, mankind will be wiped off the face of the earth?” Gil asked incredulously.

“It happened before,” Sabbie said. “According to Genesis, during the time of Sodom and Gomorrah, God called for fifty tzaddikim to testify to the goodness of man. By their very existence, those fifty would prove man's worthiness to continue on the face of the earth. When fifty righteous souls could not be found, Abraham asked God to accept ten righteous souls instead. God agreed. In the end, only one righteous soul could be found and Sodom was destroyed. With that destruction, the need for a quorum of righteous souls was established. Since no tzaddik ever knows for sure if he or she is one of the chosen, each of us must act as if we were, indeed, tzaddik to insure that man's days may be long upon this earth.”

“And you're saying that Micah is telling us that Jesus was a High Tzaddik because he uses the world ‘Elyon' as his final word to Jesus?” Gil asked.

“Yes, but he's saying much more,” she continued excitedly. “He's telling us why he made the scroll and what we're supposed to do with it!”

Her face was joyous. “Look. Micah talks with Jesus in the garden at Gethsemane. In that single conversation, Micah is entrusted with the tasks that must be completed by a High Tzaddik. That's no accident!”

“Then Jesus was a High Tzaddik?” Gil asked.

Sabbie nodded. “Yes, and when the Twelve made it impossible for him to complete all three tasks, the Thirteenth Apostle was chosen to complete the tasks in His stead. He passed on all that was needed in the scroll, so that it would be waiting for next High Tzaddik.”

“Then a thousand years later, it was William, Elias' brother, who found the scroll,” Gil concluded. “So he was the next High Tzaddik?”

“No, William was a knight. He had killed in battle. No High Tzaddik may have taken a life. William was a messenger who brought the scroll to Elias, the righteous soul for whom the scroll called out.”

“And now?” Gil asked.

“Now we must protect the scroll until it can be placed in the hands of the next High Tzaddik,” she said. “Before it's too late.”

“How long do we have?”

“There is no fixed date according to mankind's calendar, which changes around the world. The time must ripen according to the natural order of things, but it will happen once each millennium, more or less. Elias wasn't called until a hundred and fifty years after the turn of the century. This time it may be sooner.”

“How do you know?” Gil asked.

“I can just feel it. It's soon,” she said.

“But how can we get the scroll to him…”

“Or her,” Sabbie corrected.

“But how can we get the scroll to the High Tzaddik before it's too late, if we have no idea who the High Tzaddik is? Gil asked.

Sabbie smiled and cocked her head. “What makes you think we don't?”

Gil never got the answer to the obvious next question. Maluka strode through the door and slammed it behind him. Aijaz, obviously heartened by the promise of violence, smiled widely.

Maluka would not be stalled any longer. “I do not have time to play games,” he said. He turned and left with Aijaz at his heels, once again.

“For Christ's sake, give him something,” Gil urged. “He knows you're bullshitting him. Give him some simple translation from the beginning of the scroll. Just tell him about Micah's life or his love of his craft.”

But even as Gil imagined what contrived message they might claim the scroll contained, he knew it wouldn't work. Maluka would not be conned into believing this piece of antiquity was nothing but the story of a metalsmith and his daily trials and tribulations. And, if they did succeed for a short time, what good would stalling do them?

“I won't do it,” she said. “I will not give him one single word. Not one. And if you are so willing to give up the scroll to save your own skin, you're far more of a liability than I thought.”

Her cold, calm look was one Gil had seen twice before, once on the way to the bathroom in the restaurant in Weymouth when she thought they were being followed and, again, in the early morning light when Hassan lay at their feet in the Monastery courtyard. It was a look that scared the hell out of him. There was no doubt that she would give her life to save the scroll or, just as willingly, take his.

Gil's gaze dropped to her crotch.

Is she still carrying the gun in there?

He wasn't certain if an answer to that question would make him feel better or worse.

Gil tried a more reasonable approach. “Look, not every single word in the scroll is sacred. What would…”

“Yes, it is,” she said. “Every word is sacred. That's what you don't seem to understand.”

“But all Maluka has to do is get rid of us and get someone else to translate the scroll. He's going to find out what it says anyway.”

Her face softened. “Oh, my God,” she said. “You think this is the real one.”

Gil stared in confusion.

“Of course. If this were the real scroll, it would make no sense to withhold anything from Maluka,” she said. “You're right. He could just kill us and bring in the next translator. I'm good but I'm not indispensable,” she added with a shake of her head. “I assumed you knew it wasn't the real one when you touched the box.”

Suddenly he understood. No wonder he felt no warmth from the strips as well. They were fake, cut from a faux facsimile that Sarkami had made. That was why she and Sarkami ran. To give Sarkami time to finish it or to make it look like they were trying to get away. Or both.

No matter. The Cave 3 Scroll was safe somewhere. This was nothing more than a collection of useless pieces of copper. If he and Sabbie didn't tell Maluka what he wanted to know, their abductor would never get it from this worthless scrapheap.

“But you said the gashes on your hands came from cutting up the scroll,” Gil said.

“No, I think I said something like, ‘If you cut a scroll into strips, you've got to expect to draw some blood.' In other words, I had to cut up my hand because that's what Maluka expected to see, you moron.”

She was brilliant. In fact, he had seen only what he had expected to see, and so had Maluka. “Then where is the real…”

Maluka returned. He was accompanied by the beast that held a semiconscious body by the scruff of its neck.

“As you both know,” Maluka began, “this is Mr. Robert Peterson, former assistant to Dr. Ludlow. Mr. Peterson is the proud father of two little girls, the youngest of which is severely disabled. He would do anything to get his daughter the medical help she so desperately needs. He has sold his soul, and for that he was generously rewarded. Now, he withholds additional information.”

Maluka waved Aijaz to bring the body closer.

With what must have been all the energy he could possibly muster, Peterson raised his head in protest. He knew nothing more, he said, then his head fell forward limply.

“It may be that he does know nothing or that he is withholding information,” Maluka continued. “In either case, he is of no use to me.”

Gil watched as Aijaz's free hand disappeared behind his back. Gil's chest ached with certain knowledge of what was about to happen.

“Since you two insist on acting like stubborn children, let us turn to a very effective method of instruction. I will count to three. One, two…”

The sound of the gun was deafening. Pain shot through Gil's ears. Instinctively, he covered them and looked to see if Sabbie had been injured as well. She stood with her hands at her sides, her face impassive, her forehead and cheeks covered with bits of Peterson's bone and brain. Gil could not tell where Sabbie's old bruises ended and Peterson's remains began.

“You seem surprised,” Maluka said, obviously pleased with the terror he had instilled in Gil. “You may have assumed I intended to show you the importance of responding by the time I reached three. But the lesson was meant to do just the opposite, to remind you that you cannot always predict another's actions. Especially mine.”

Gil glanced at Sabbie. She had not wiped her face. She stood straight, without emotion, and stared directly ahead, past Maluka.

“Now, do either of you have any information to offer me?” Maluka asked.

It was useless to protest. Gil remained stoically silent. Then, as he awaited his fate, something in him changed. A calm washed over him like none he had ever felt. No conflict, no fear. He was powerless to stop this man. Maluka would do what he wanted. This murderer might even escape punishment. That Gil could not control. He could only refuse to help him and that he would do. Even if it cost him and Sabbie their lives.

Maluka turned to Aijaz. “Let's raise the stakes, Aijaz. Go get the other one.”

Gil prepared himself for Aijaz's return and the massacre that was sure to follow. He was ready. No matter what they did, he would not look at Aijaz or Maluka. No matter what he saw, he would not speak. He would let whatever happened, happen.

As long as she's not next.

The thought brought a cold terror to his soul.

The door flew open a minute later and, despite Gil's promise to himself, the massive form that filled the doorway captured his attention.

In place of Aijaz and his next victim, stood George, smiling, confident, and quite obviously very healthy. Aijaz remained behind him, his face strained and set, his usual toothless smile strangely absent.

When Gil would think back to the moment he first saw George in the doorway—and he would every day for the rest of his life—he would always remember the unexpected look of delight on Maluka's face. As strange as it was to see his boss suddenly appear in the middle of his own personal hell on earth, it was even more incongruous to see his captor smile at George as if he were an old friend.

Sabbie's reaction was just as bizarre. “Shit!” she cried. “I knew it. Son of a bitch, I knew it. Don't kill him!”

Why would Maluka want to kill George?

Gil stared in disbelief as Maluka walked toward George with open arms of greeting.

Gil turned to Sabbie. “He's not going to kill him, he's going to…”

Her hands were in her crotch. She desperately pushed her pantyhose aside and pulled her gun from its hiding place.

In the time it took her to aim, George had moved forward and to one side of the doorway. The blast of a gunshot echoed off the naked walls. She looked at Gil in surprise. She had not yet fired.

Aijaz stood alone in the opening, his mouth open in surprise. In the middle of his ample belly a hole spurted blood like some bizarre fountain. As if in slow motion, Gil watched the huge man look down at his stomach and insert his huge finger into the hole that had suddenly appeared, as if in an attempt to plug up the stream of red that shot forward. Without a word, Aijaz looked into Maluka's eyes, held them for a moment, then he fell to the floor.

Aijaz's killer emerged through the doorway. He was tall, blond, and though he was not dressed in white, Gil knew instantly who he must be.

McCullum's WATSC Nazi!

The Power Angel stepped forward to reveal his mirror image behind. His clone dumped a struggling DeVris on the floor. The second angel of death fired three bullets in quick succession, one into DeVris' head, then two more into the back of Maluka's neck.

It was some mad dream where everyone kept changing places. Except there'd be no waking up from this nightmare.

George stood stock still, a Power Angel on each side.

Gil waited for the inevitable, but wondered why McCullum would send his Power Angels to kill George?

Sabbie remained frozen with her gun pointed toward George and the WATSC bookends. “Get over here,” she instructed.

“Now!” she repeated.

She wasn't talking to George, she was talking to him! Gil hesitated, trying to make sense of it all. It was a fatal mistake.

The two Power Angels had stepped away from George. Each had Gil in his gun sight. Sabbie's gun could not cover both killers. At most, she could take down only one of them. With a jolt, Gil suddenly realized that she hesitated not for herself but, rather, because it would leave him totally vulnerable.

“Take them,” George ordered. As one Power Angel kept his gun trained on Gil. The other walked forward without concern and took Sabbie's gun from her. Though she said nothing and stood unmoving, tears streamed from her eyes.

“Now clean up this mess,” George ordered. He held out his hand. One Power Angel began to bind Aijaz legs, apparently for easier transport, and the other handed George his gun so that George could keep watch on Sabbie and Gil.

“Get
his
gun,” George ordered his twin assassins. He pointed toward the heap that had been Aijaz. Both men bent in unison over the bloody mountain, and both men collapsed onto it as George shot both of them squarely in the back.

Gil stood face to face with the fat man he had once pitied and who now pointed a gun at his chest.

“What the hell is going on?” Gil demanded.

“It's nothing personal,” George said simply. “You know me, Gil. Business is business. Sometimes you can't afford to be a softy.”

Gil waited to become part of the carnage that covered the warehouse floor. Two shots rang out, but Gil felt no pain. He looked down, and, remembering Aijaz's surprised expression, half expected to see himself spilling from his body.

Instead, George dropped to the floor. He hit hard and his gun flew from his hand.

Sabbie crouched low, her gun still pointed. The weapon she held had belonged to Aijaz. Gil had seen him use it on Peterson. She must have pulled it from Aijaz's back waistband, where he had been so fond of keeping it, while George was saying his brief good-bye to Gil.

“Get the guns,” Sabbie said in a throaty whisper. “Quick.”

“No one's going anywhere,” Gil began.

She didn't answer. When he turned he understood why there was, indeed, no time to waste.