13th Apostle (6 page)

Later that afternoon
Main Entry Gate, Israel Museum

The cab pulled into the grand circle driveway. Beyond the great gates lay an unending boulevard walk. Buildings on both sides of the boulevard seemed miles away.

“Can't you get any closer?” Gil asked. Although he had landed at the airport with more than three hours to spare, customs inspections and mid-day traffic had eaten up almost all of the time. He had less than a half an hour to get to DeVris' office in the Shrine of the Book before the Director left for the day. Gil could have called and said he was running late if he had had the time to charge his cell phone, which he hadn't, so he couldn't.

“This is as far as I can go,” the driver said. “You could take the old-people's shuttle to the Entrance Pavilion Information Desk if you like,” he added with a grin.

“Some sage advice,” Gil retorted. “Don't make fun of the customer 'til after you get your tip.”

“Some sager advice,” the driver replied. “Don't assume the tip isn't already built into the fare.”

The buildings, crosswalks, and soft grassy areas that made up the Israel Museum complex covered more than twenty acres. The maze that led to the Shrine of the Book was indecipherable. He was lost. The simple map provided by the security guard at the gate was useless. Asking three people for directions yielded four different sets of instructions in what Gil had quickly termed “Heblish,” for the indistinguishable blending of Hebrew-English lexicon.

A final request to a passerby brought help in the form of a Canadian who, taking Gil by the elbow, steered him past the Youth Wing of the Museum to where they presumably could get a better view.

The white, mushroom-shaped roof in the distance rose to a peak in the center, jutting into the cloudless blue sky. Black walls rose in stark contrast. “That's the Shrine of the Book,” the Canadian said softly. “She's a beauty, ehh?”

The grandeur of the architecture was unexpected, as was Gil's reaction. With each step, he felt less sure of himself and more in awe.

A simple map in the lobby of the white-capped building, its legend in English and Hebrew, pointed the way to the Museum offices. Pulling open the heavy door to that wing, Gil stepped into the cool, dark corridor. Though light streamed in, the labyrinth of layered walls more resembled a cave than a hall. Gil walked slowly, finding the appropriate turnoff at the end. Reluctantly, he left the peaceful passageway and entered the glaring efficiency of the faculty offices.

The secretary greeted him with a smile that was only as friendly as it had to be. Gil explained that he was already late and would appreciate it if she would tell Dr. DeVris that he had arrived.

She shrugged and turned back to her phone conversation.

“Yes, I know,” she whispered loudly. “Isn't it a tragedy? And he was such a dear man. Always so polite.”

God, this could go on all day.

“And they were such a lovely couple. So sweet. Their golden wedding anniversary was only next week,” the secretary continued.

Gil resisted the desire to grab her by her skinny little shoulders and force her to dial the Director's extension. Lucy used to say that he didn't do powerless well. A definite understatement.

Gil jumped at the sound of his name. “
He's
expecting you,” the secretary announced. She pointed to the appropriate door with the phone she still clutched in her hand. “Knock before you go in.”

Gil did as instructed. A voice from within told him to enter.

“You can tell a lot about a man from his back,” Grandpa Max used to say. “That's the part he's less likely to be able to control.”

The back of the figure that greeted Gil sported a perfectly tailored suit and a head of hair that looked more sculpted than cut. It remained standing and stared out the window, then it spoke.

“I didn't want you on this project.”

Gil hesitated.

“It's nothing personal,” the man continued. “It's just that I think this whole thing is…well, to be blunt…beyond you.”

“Dr. DeVris?” Gil asked, hoping to find that an error had been made.

DeVris turned and seated himself behind his desk and surveyed his guest. Without waiting for an invitation, Gil took a seat and waited.

The office itself appeared to match its occupant, understated to the point of pretension. Gil surmised that it was no accident that the tones of DeVris' suit and tie as well as the color scheme of the office were in shades of gray. The color scheme perfectly complimented the silver highlights of DeVris' salt-and-peppered hair. The message from his behavior and office décor was clear and simple. “I am a man of taste. I am confident and cultured. Know with whom you are dealing.”

He's trying too hard!
Gil smiled broadly.

“I don't have time for games,” DeVris continued. “The point is that your boss and Dr. Ludlow considered you the best choice, so neither you nor I had any say in this matter.”

“Just two kids whose mothers have dumped 'em in a playpen,” Gil said with an easy grin. “Question is, are we gonna play nice?”

DeVris considered Gil's comment. Apparently, this was not the response DeVris had anticipated.

From Gil's experience with George, the big guy probably told DeVris he could expect Gil to be hotheaded and egotistical, certain to respond in anger to an antagonistic challenge, but smart as hell; a description not entirely without precedent but perhaps a little over the top. DeVris probably figured that an outburst of temper from Gil would have been just the thing to have him removed from the project. A change in plans that, obviously, would have suited DeVris to a “T.”

I'm not going to make it that easy for you. If you want me out of here, you're going to have to do better than that.

DeVris seemed to be considering his next move. “Why did you accept this assignment?”

“Because I was told to,” Gil answered simply.

“So, if I understand you correctly, you're going to help us find any pattern that may reveal a hidden message in the diary which, in turn, may help us locate the scroll, all because you've been told to?”

“Well, for most part, yes.”

“And you expect nothing for yourself? Other than your regular pay and perhaps a bonus?”

“Not really. I mean, I think all of us want to leave something behind. That's man's nature,” Gil added.

“Bullshit,” DeVris said simply. “I know who you are. The truth is you're interested in wealth, fame, and maybe a little adventure. There's nothing wrong with that. Truly successful men not only admit to their ambition, they embrace it.”

DeVris' voice softened. “It's funny, you remind me a great deal of myself.” He resumed the stance in which Gil had first found him. “I wasted a good part of my life pretending that all I wanted was to make the world a better place. In truth, I wanted a whole lot more. But,” DeVris added, with a sigh, “I don't think it's going take you half as long as it took me.”

DeVris turned back from the window and detailed what he expected of Gil. A small room next to DeVris' office would be made available. Gil would be given a photocopy of the diary to examine for patterns that might contain a hidden message. He was to decipher any pattern or message he discovered with the expectation that it might relate the location of the Weymouth Scroll. If Gil proved himself useful, he would have earned the right to continue with the project and to share in the notoriety. If not, CyberNet would be paid for his time and the consultation would be considered terminated.

DeVris turned, once again, to look out the window.

Taking his cue, Gil made his way to the door.

Without turning to face his new employee, DeVris added one sentence of encouragement. “You're going to do well,” he said with unexpected warmth. “Now get yourself a good meal and some sleep. We're going to work you hard. I'll expect you bright and early in the morning.”

Before he closed the door behind him, Gil glanced back at DeVris. The red rays of the setting sun seemed to reflect as a halo. Each silver strand of hair, each highlight of his clothing, glowed with a fluorescent-like red. The grays and silvers of the room radiated crimson and scarlet. The luminescence was so great that, for a moment, DeVris appeared to be encircled and caressed by flames. It was an odd illusion, gone in a moment, replaced by shadows, with the shifting of the final rays of the sun.

A few minutes later
Office of Dr. Anton DeVris

“Hold on.” DeVris spoke into the empty room. After a few moments, he walked to his door, looked down the hall, then returned to his desk.

“Okay,” he announced. “He's gone.”

The Director smiled to himself, then spoke into the air again.

“Sabbie, on your way in, bring me a cup of coffee.” Reaching down, he switched off the intercom that had been left on during Gil's interview and waited.

A kick at the door announced her arrival. He rose, slowly walked to the door, and opened it.

“Inconsiderate bastard.” She shoved past him, one cup in each hand. “You could at least leave the door open so I don't have to claw at it like a dog.”

He took his seat behind his great desk. “Scratch,” he corrected.

“Scratch?”

“Cats claw, dogs scratch,” DeVris said coolly. “Technically, you can't claw like a dog.”

Sabbie slid DeVris' cup to him across his desk, fast. She knew it would get a rise out of him, but he was certain she had no idea in what way.

She looked particularly beautiful; shiny hair, flushed cheeks.

“We need a new intercom,” she announced. “Everything sounded scratchy. It was like listening to an old phonograph record.”

“Need a recap?” DeVris asked.

“No, I heard enough. The guy's a schmuck,” Sabbie concluded. “Dump him. Just tell CyberNet you've changed your mind. Worst comes to worst, you'll lose your deposit. No big deal.”

“So you think he's not capable of the job. Is that why you walked out on him at the restaurant?”

“That and because I thought we were being followed,” she replied. Her gaze never left his eyes. “Are you saying Ludlow and I should have stayed?” she challenged.

“Well, it's not the best way to start off a working relationship.”

“So you're going to keep him?” she asked incredulously.

DeVris hesitated. She was hiding something. Why was she pushing so hard?

“And who would you recommend in his place?” DeVris asked. “There's nobody else and you know it.”

Sabbie stood abruptly and headed toward the door.

“You know what? Do what you want. I'd just like to know why in the hell you even bother to ask my opinion.”

Because methinks the lady doth protest too much. And because I'm trying to figure out if you're more interested in screwing me figuratively or Mr. Pearson literally.

She was arrogant and opinionated. Had he not felt that he had to have her around, under whatever pretense was necessary, he would never have hired her. She was the best translator in the field. She had a working knowledge of Aramaic, Greek, Ancient Hebrew, and Classical Latin. She was tech savvy and a workaholic. A perfect assistant were it not for one undeniable fact.

Beneath her brilliance and her easy antagonistic joking was a hardness that DeVris never wanted to put to the test; a coldness that came from seeing the world without illusion and, perhaps, without hope. He had not known her before the assault and often wondered if, indeed, it was that violence that helped sculpt her unpretentious directness. The very quality he found so damn seductive.

Day Six, morning
Office of the Translator, Shrine of the Book
Israel Museum

“You're late,” Sabbie said. She looked up casually, then returned to sorting papers on the great desk. From the look of the place, she'd been there for hours.

Gil stared at her in surprise. The last time he had seen her, she was headed for the Ladies' Room at the restaurant, never to return again.

Sabbie smiled at his confusion.

“Just kidding about you being late. You're right on time. Good morning,” she added with unexpected warmth.

Gil smiled back with relief. Apparently, his concern that she had changed her mind about working with him had been way off target. Good thing. No matter how bitchy she had been in the restaurant, he hadn't been able to stop imagining what it would be like to savor every inch of her.

Best of all, since he was already at the Museum, and since they were not about to send him home for just looking, Gil allowed himself a good long and unashamed look at the object of several of the most erotic dreams of his life.

She wore loose men's khaki slacks with macramé suspenders and a man's big white shirt that made her look small and surprisingly feminine. The pattern of lace from her bra was visible through the cotton fabric of the shirt, and beneath the lace, the hint of café-aulait–colored nipples beckoned him to come and explore. Gil caught his breath and struggled to keep control.

As if reading his mind, Sabbie suddenly became all business again.

“Come to my office,” she said.

Gil followed, surrendering his thoughts to the movement of her perfectly rounded bottom.

She closed the door. Still standing, she faced him and began.

“First, a few ground rules. All work is to be done in this office only. All translation and decoding will take place here. No discussion, not even a casual comment, will be exchanged in any other room.”

“The lighting sucks,” Gil said sharply. If she had her demands, he had his.

“I'll see if we can have another lamp brought in but it may have to do.”

“Why can't we work on that big table in the main office?”

“Because I said so, that's why.”

Gil folded his arms and shook his head. If she wanted to treat him like a child, he might as well act like one.

“Look,” Sabbie began, “when I state something unequivocally I have a very good reason for doing so. Anyone who knows anything about current technology knows that no place is safe. Open up your pc and anyone within a couple of hundred feet can access all your records via your wireless connection. Make a call on your cell phone and that info is up for sale within minutes. Even your calling card pin number is fair game at any airport.”

“Well, I would assume you don't exactly have identity thieves running around one of the most prestigious museums in the world,” Gil said with an intentional smirk.

“Identity theft would be the least of our worries. When you're in this building, you're always on, Jack.”

“Gil,” he corrected, broadening the sneer.

“Whatever. Appropriate steps have been taken to protect this office. Let's get to work.”

Well, this is lovely. By the end of the day, we should be eating each other's carcasses.

She settled down in the seat facing Gil and handed him several pages of translation. “The translation of the diary was relatively simple. I tried as much as possible to keep to the original word count and order in case that was important.”

Gil nodded his approval. Not bad. That bit of detail could spell the difference between finding a pattern and missing it completely.

She sat forward. “Now, here's the deal,” Sabbie continued. “These pages appear to be an accounting of the sales and deliveries of tapestries made by the monks at Weymouth Monastery. On the surface, it's pretty straightforward.”

“But…” Gil prompted.

“But I don't think that's what it is at all,” she said, half to herself. “The sentences are logical and correct in their grammar but the words convey little more than medieval gossip. To make matters worse, the ramblings about the people of the town are interspersed with dates and numbers and the whole thing is put into an accounting format. I don't understand why whoever wrote this would do that.”

“Do what?” Gil asked.

“Why he would put long nonsensical sentences onto accounting pages,” she said with obvious frustration. “It just doesn't make sense.”

“So what's the problem?” Gil asked calmly. He was hoping to push her until something snapped, until she could give him the connection she didn't even know that she knew. He was hoping, as well, to avoid the likelihood of her breaking a chair over his head.

“The problem is,” Sabbie continued, “if we don't find anything in this section that mentions another scroll, something—anything—about a mate to The Cave 3 Scroll, we might as well just give up.”

“And….” Gil prompted again.

“I really wish you wouldn't do that, it's incredibly irritating. Anyway, although I know there's something in here, I just can't figure it out.”

“What makes you think there's something in here?” Gil asked.

“I don't know, I just do.”

“
How
do you know?”

“I told you. I don't
know
how I know it's there! I just do!” Sabbie bellowed.

She was clearly at the end of her patience, exactly where Gil wanted her. George always said that if you wanted to get someone's attention, first you had to shoot them in the leg. Well, finding any hidden message in the diary might well depend on Sabbie's intuition, and this little control freak wasn't going to trust her instincts unless she was pushed—hard.

“So, somehow you just
know
it,” Gil said sarcastically.

She looked like she was going to haul off and slam him.

“Works for me,” he said with a sudden smile. “That's exactly what forensics depends on. That and some terrific technology. When you get that feeling, when you just know there's something hidden just beyond where you can see it, you're almost always right.”

“And when you're wrong?” she asked.

“Then you've screwed up. But, more often than not, you're right.”

Sabbie didn't look convinced. Gil knew what she was thinking. A fifty-fifty chance of finding a hidden message in the diary was better than nothing, but not as good as a hundred percent.

Careful, my sweet. That's what makes gamblers into addicts.

“Okay, show me what you got,” Gil said.

She handed him the printouts. They were fuzzy and too light, barely readable. They looked like second-generation copies of scanned pages that had been posted on the Internet or put through a dishwasher.

“I need something better to work from.”

She reminded him that he already had her translations. Besides, she said, since he didn't understand Latin anyway, it didn't seem essential that he work from pristine pages.

“I look for patterns,” he explained. “Even in other languages. So I need the original to look at, too.”

She was immovable. This was all they had. He would have to depend on her.

“Why can't we work directly from the diary?”

“Not possible,” she answered and indicated that the matter for discussion was closed.

“Okay, we'll do it your way,” he said with a shrug, “but it's going to take a lot longer. Let's try doing it by ear instead. Read it to me.”

At first, the translated sentences made no sense at all. Then, after a few minutes, something seemed to call to him from beyond the words, like a melody he couldn't quite make out. If he could just…

Gil placed his hands on either side of his head. The ride was about to start. “Read it again,” he said excitedly. “The same first few sentences. Read them over and over. Keep going.”

For over an hour she reread the same word salad, until they both knew it by heart, backward and forward. She was starting to lose faith, and it showed.

“This is getting us nowhere,” she began. “Why don't you try decoding it?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know, substitute letters or whatever you do. Come on,
I
shouldn't have to tell
you
!”

“I told you I don't do codes,” he said simply. “I look for patterns. Or changes in patterns. Look, if you're married, a change in patterns tells you that your spouse has been cheating on you. If you're a bank president, it clues you to the fact that your employee has been embezzling money. If you're a cybersleuth, it alerts you to a predator trying to lure a child into an abusive relationship. Even terrorists are easy to spot if you know what patterns to look for.”

This diary held a hidden pattern. He could hear it. Loud and clear. It was something he couldn't explain. He wanted to tell her that you don't find it by telling your brain where to go, you let it take you. That was the thrill of it. You just went along for the ride and you never knew where you were going to end up. And the pattern was here, calling him like sirens used to call to the sailors of old. The same sailors, Gil reminded himself, who ended up crashing to their death against the rocks.

Bad analogy. Get back to work.

Something was clicking. The words echoed in his mind.

“Read it once more. Quick!”

Without protest, she began again.

“Okay, now slowly,” he said, scrambling for a pen and paper.

Sabbie recited the first few entries.

“Again,” he shouted. “Faster. Faster.”

She read it twice more.

“Son of a bitch. I think we got it!” he announced triumphantly. “Son of a bitch! And it was so damn simple.”