Skeleton 03 - The Constantine Codex (24 page)

Spirited Christian applause filled the basilica.

The moderators now tinkled their bells, indicating that it was time for a final summation by each side. Al-Rashid was given the favored position of having the last word, due to the essentially Muslim environment.

Jon started his summation with a surprising twist. “I am most grateful to everyone in this basilica for your attendance and for your patience, as well as to all who had a hand in preparing this event. I don’t think a final summary of the Christian position is necessary at this point, since that should be quite obvious by now. Instead, I would like to close with an urgent appeal for further dialogue and tolerance between Muslims and Christians. Both sides have been guilty of failures in this respect. In the West, we’ve been traumatized by radical Islam—especially since 9/11—and so there the debate rages as to whether Islam is a religion of peace or violence.

“The answer, of course, is
yes
, meaning that one can find both in the Qur’an. Yet so often when Muhammad advocated violence it was more in the form of a general inspiring his troops prior to actual warfare, since the Prophet had been attacked militarily. Does anyone think that—were Muhammad alive today—he would have condoned the attacks in New York or Washington, the subway bombings in London and Madrid, the assassinations in Beirut, the bombings of mosques in Pakistan, the murderous rampage in Mumbai, and dozens of other acts of Islamic terrorism across the world?”

“Never! He would
not
have!” al-Rashid interposed.

Jon smiled and continued. “And so I would plead that the great moderate majority in Islam across the world become
far
more vocal,
far
more active in curbing the incendiary rhetoric of radical mullahs and other militants who preach violence. I would plead that their governments become
far
more active in eradicating terrorist cells in their own nations and elsewhere. These fanatics have killed
far
more
of their own Muslim brothers and sisters
than the Western Christians they have targeted!

“To be sure, Christians in history have also failed to follow the teachings of the Prince of Peace. But in general, our period of religious violence ended centuries ago. Today, we do not see Christian or Jewish terrorists blowing up Islamic mosques, do we? Sadly, the reverse is often the case, which is why I would rejoice to see a true Islamic reformation take place in terms of the same mature moderation now achieved in both Judaism and Christianity. If you forget everything else in our discussion today, please remember this vision, this plea.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.” Amid applause that bordered on ovation, Jon sat down.

Abbas al-Rashid stood with slow deliberation and said, “I, too, thought of using this summation to ‘win for Islam,’ as it were, but I agree so thoroughly with my opponent’s plea for peace, dialogue, and moderation that I am pleased to say that I agree with his statements in almost every respect. Even in the Christian West, however, we also hear radical voices denouncing Muslims as ‘camels’ or ‘towel heads.’ This is not to say that our radicalisms are the same. Ours, I must confess, are far more violent, far more dangerous, and far more in need of correction.

“For that reason and others, I join with Professor Weber in appealing to all Muslim authorities in both state and religion to
denounce
radical Islam, to curb terrorism, and finally to end it. They must admit this truth to their people: that terrorism has
never—anywhere in history or anywhere on earth
—succeeded in establishing a successful government or society. Its history instead has been one of bloodshed, civil upheaval, anarchy, and general chaos. For that reason, reason itself must prevail. If it does, I have great hopes for another golden age for Islam—as was the case in the Abbasid era, for which I was named—but only if it escapes the clutches of those who would restrict it. These are the same false leaders who have prevented Muslim progress in so many fields in the centuries since. I hope people of goodwill everywhere may support this effort.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, Christians and Muslims alike, for your presence at our discussion today.”

Al-Rashid received applause similar to what Jon had evoked, though actually more from the Christian than the Muslim audience. In the eastern half, some had refused to applaud, especially Shiite representatives. Abbas and Jon walked toward each other, met near the center of the table on the dais, shook hands, and then actually embraced. Instantly, the applause became a vast, genuine ovation.

Punctual as always, Monsignor Kevin Sullivan was in the chandeliered lobby of the Hilton at 7:05 p.m., when Jon and Shannon stepped off the elevator. This time nattily attired in clerical grays, the dark-haired, ruddy-faced son of Ireland gracefully kissed Shannon’s hand and then squeezed Jon’s.

“We really wanted to take you over to the Sultan’s Table on the Golden Horn, Kev,” Jon said, “but the CIA vetoed it—especially tonight—so we’ll have to make do with the hotel restaurant.”

“The Bosphorus Terrace? Not a bad alternate! Hey, kabobs and beer would do. This time it’s the company, not the food.”

The maître d’ seated them next to a sliding-glass door overlooking the city, and the conversation lagged not a moment from that time on. In fact, they hurried their drink order for one bottle of local merlot so they could get on with it. The three had been through several extraordinary adventures together recently that could massively have affected the Christian faith, and they wondered if this would be another.

“You turned in a virtuoso performance today, Jon,” Kevin observed. “The Holy Father was particularly pleased—I was on the phone with him an hour ago—and if only you were a good Catholic, I really think he’d give you a red hat!”

“Hmm . . . Jonathan Cardinal Weber,” Shannon said. “It does have a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“Ah, but then I’d have to give you up, Shannon,” Jon said, “and become a solitary celibate like Kevin!”

“And you’d
never
want
that
, Jon!” Kevin played along. “The beautiful Shannon alone is worth your staying Lutheran.” After smiles and chuckles, Kevin grew serious. “I’ll say again, this was an important day in the fourteen-century interface between Christianity and Islam, and you did our faith proud.”

Jon shook his head. “Both you and I know that I could have hauled out some really
heavy
artillery against Islam, but I had to limit myself to a handgun. And you know why.”

Kevin nodded, pensively.

Shannon said, “I think when the debate comes out on DVD and especially in printed form, it may pack even more power. Any word on how it was received in Rome, Kevin, apart from Benedict XVI, that is?”

“Well, I also spoke with Cardinal Buchbinder, the Vatican Secretary of State, and he told me business nearly ground to a halt today, with everyone hooked to a TV screen. Same for the general public in Italy, I understand, since Radiotelevisione Italiana covered everything. But, thank God, no riots anywhere so far.”

“And you can thank Jon’s pulled punches for that,” Shannon commented.

When they had ordered the main course, Jon shifted the conversation. “Okay, team, enough about the debate. Frankly, I’m debated out. But now,” he said grandly, “let us tell you, Kevin, about the
fabulous
thing that happened this week, and it’s not the debate. . . .”

Kevin looked at him quizzically. Shannon had a slight smile on her lips.

“But before we tell you, we’ll need your pledge to keep this
absolutely confidential
for now, okay?”

At Sullivan’s emphatic nod, Jon said, “Do you see that lovely proof for God’s existence sitting at our table?” All eyes focused on Shannon, a slight flush tinting her cheeks. “That woman with the face of an angel also has the mind of a Solomon and the luck of the Irish. Please start off, Shannon. Begin with Pella.”

Hardly needing any persuasion, Shannon eagerly unpacked her discovery in Jordan, capping it off with her find in the basement of the Eastern Orthodox Patriarchate. In the telling, Kevin’s eyes grew wide, and when she told of the title page identifying the codex as one of the fifty copies of Scripture ordered by Constantine, his jaw dropped open.

“My . . . my goodness,” he stammered. “That could revolutionize New Testament scholarship! Up to now, among the great uncials, our earliest are the
Vaticanus
, the
Sinaiticus
, and the
Alexandrinus
. But this version—authorized by Constantine and prepared by Eusebius, no less—would easily trump them all. This is a . . . a scholar’s
dream
!”

Kevin pushed what was left of his juicy filet to one side of the plate and seemed to grow incandescent with excitement. “Okay, we have the title page, but what about the rest of the text? What’s the format? How many columns per page? How many lines per column? What books are inclu—”
“We don’t know, Kevin,” Shannon said. “Or rather, we don’t know
yet
—except for four columns per page.”

“What in
very blazes
do you mean?”

Jon explained. “Just as we were ready to get into the text, the curator of the archives returned, and we instinctively ‘covered our tracks,’ as it were. Maybe we should have been open about it from the start, but then, I think, the patriarch would have invited his Greek scholars by the dozens to pore over the codex, and we could have been last in line.”

Kevin nodded. “I think you did the right thing.”

“But now you’ll start to understand that, ever since Shannon found that codex a couple days ago, my mind has been
there
and not on the debate.”

“Well, your mind on autopilot doesn’t do a bad job. But when are you going back to examine that codex and photograph its pages?”

“Tomorrow morning, of course.”

“Great! I have to fly back to Rome tomorrow, but
do
keep me informed, Jon, and let me know when I can tell the Holy Father.”

“Right, but only if you keep a buttoned lip in the meantime.”

As Jon leaned over to refill Shannon’s wine glass, they heard a sharp crack from outside. The bottle of merlot shattered in his hands, gushing crimson all over the tablecloth and onto their laps.

“Get under the table!” someone yelled.

As the three dove for cover, another shot demolished Jon’s plate into shards of crockery that spattered off the walls. Shrieking and panic filled the restaurant.

Several men from adjacent tables ran to the sliding-glass door that had been ten inches ajar, permitting a breeze—and two bullets—easy admission. Guns drawn, they stormed through the door while Turkish police rushed into the room and surrounded Jon, Shannon, and Kevin. For some moments, a surrealistic scene of bedlam transformed the Bosphorus Terrace into a chamber of horror. Commands were barked, only adding to the cacophony of shouting and screaming that filled the place.

Shannon, Jon, and Kevin were hustled out of the restaurant and onto the first available elevator. As its brass door was closing, Jon saw that the other diners were being similarly herded out.
But who will pick up all their tabs?
he wondered, then worried about his own sanity for posing such an inane question in such an emergency.

Safely inside their suite, Shannon sat on the edge of their bed trembling, trying with only limited success to put on a brave front. The men took turns pacing the floor and glancing at the door. Jon tried to redeem the situation, without really knowing how, except to say that a small army of police now controlled the hall leading to their suite.

Presently, Richard Ferris and Osman al-Ghazali appeared with Click and Clack, who explained that the men at nearby tables in the restaurant were from the CIA and the Turkish government police. They had just recovered the weapon at the edge of the broad lawn in back of the hotel, an old U.S. Army Garand rifle with telescopic sight. The perpetrator, evidently, didn’t believe in suicide bombing, although simple murder was fine. Had it been the other way around, or if he had simply shown up with a firearm at point-blank range just outside the open glass door, Jon would be no more.

The phone rang. It was Adnan Yilmaz, the Turkish minister of culture who had met them at the airport. He explained—with official regrets on the part of the Republic of Turkey—that they were doing ballistic tests on the bullets and checking the rifle for fingerprints. Meanwhile, however, Jon and his party were not to leave the Hilton—advice they found quite unnecessary.

Minutes passed, yet time dragged. Although he was not supposed to, Jon briefly parted the opaque sleep curtains in their suite to look below. He saw a long column of police cars with flashing red and blue lights and heard the alternating dual wail of European emergency vehicles. And of course, right behind them were the news trucks and television vans.