The Brotherhood Conspiracy (35 page)

Palm trees rose high above, shading the men from the sun. Brother Walid sat on one bench, his back resting against a tree trunk. “Wow . . . that is an amazing story,” he said to Doc, seated on another bench across the white pebbled path. “Certainly much more remarkable than mine. But you want to get to the library. Let’s head over there while I tell you more about the monastery.

“St. Anthony lived here as a hermit. Up there, in a cave on the side of the mountain.” Brother Walid pointed to a platform high up the side of the escarpment, a long, winding staircase leading to it from the wadi floor. “It wasn’t until
after he died that his disciples began to build this monastery. This was an excellent location. There were three springs of fresh water then. Even though there is only one now, flowing out of the side of the mountain, it’s more than enough to give us all the water we need for our community, our vegetable gardens, our orchards, our groves of olives and palms.”

The superior led them through a series of tight, twisting lanes, dodging in and out of the late afternoon sun. “The remoteness of the monastery’s location preserved it from Arab and Muslim influence, and it developed into a flourishing center of spiritual and cultural life, particularly between the twelfth and fifteenth centuries when the monastery became a haven of scholarship, art, and translation. But in 1483 it was attacked by marauding bedouins . . . the buildings destroyed, the monks killed or expelled, and the library ravaged. The attackers used the books and parchments they looted from the library to fuel their cooking fires. So much was lost.

“That’s when they rebuilt the wall—forty feet high and six feet thick—and, at that time, there was no gate. The only way to gain entry was over there”—he pointed—“in that building against the wall. There’s a hand-cranked hoist in there. Anything that needed entry to the monastery—people, food, whatever—was lifted up by the hoist. The monastery now covers fifteen acres in which are seven churches and chapels, the various offices and workshops, the communal facilities, and the low two-story buildings containing the monks’ cells. And this . . .” Father Walid stopped suddenly and waved at an ornately carved wooden door. “The library, which you’ve come to see. My presence is required in the kitchen, but, go in, the door is open and you’ll find an old man in there who has been a faithful volunteer to our library for years. If you need to find anything, he is the man to help you. But, Dr. Johnson,” he said, casting a glance at Rizzo and his Jay-Z sunglasses, 50 Cent tee shirt, and baggy jeans, “I will rely on your reputation and experience to protect and preserve any documents or books you investigate.”

Brother Walid turned and walked away, down a light-dappled alley. Johnson didn’t see him leave. He was looking at the space above the wooden door to the library. The space where a cartouche—encapsulating the budding shepherd’s staff and the scorpion—was carved into the cream-colored stone.

Dark and quiet, dust particles dancing in the few shafts of sunlight that interrupted the shadows, the monastery’s library was stunning—both in its size and in the quality of its contents.

A long center aisle stretched the length of the room, about one hundred yards. On the right a series of rough-hewn refectory tables fronted packed bookcases along the wall, also the length of the room and reaching to the ten-foot ceiling. On the left was an irregular series of map stands, scribe tables, and another room-length series of bookcases.

Doc wandered down the side aisle, next to the bookcases, and marveled at some of the richness he observed. Clearly . . . the monks of St. Anthony’s Monastery toiled at more than their irrigated garden. Doc eased a leather-bound volume from one of the shelves. Rendered by hand onto vellum sheets with an artist’s grace was a copy of Saint Augustine’s legendary
Confessions
, written in Latin on the left-hand page and in Greek on the right. Doc turned over the sumptuously decorated pages to the end of the book. Inside the back cover was the scribe’s signature and the date—Father Gregorious, MCCXCIII.

“Hey, Doc . . . give me a boost, will ya?” Rizzo was behind Johnson, on the far side of the room, scanning the bookcases against the far wall. As he turned to see what Rizzo was calling for, Johnson came face-to-face with a vision of the desert, clothed like a man. Startled, Doc stepped back. And bumped into the bookcase.

“A beautiful book,” the desert man spoke. He seemed as ancient as the sands, his skin dried into brittle, leathery cracks by the sun. He wore a plain kaftan. Only his eyes—one yellow, one brown—crackled with an intense fire that stunned Johnson to silence. “Is it what you desire . . . or do you seek another?”

The old man bent from the waist and inclined his head, the closest he could come to a ceremonial bow. “
Salaam alaikum
.” He touched his fingers to his brow, then to his chest. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance?”

As Johnson regained his composure, a response on his lips, Rizzo bounded into the space between the two men.

“Hey, Omar, you know your way around here, right? Well, I’m looking for Lawrence of Arabia, and I can’t find him anywhere.”

A shadow passed over the old man’s face—or covered Doc’s eyes. Johnson’s skin felt like the inside of an oyster—hot and slimy. In a fraction of a second, the shadow was gone and the old man was smiling down at Sammy Rizzo. But Doc knew something evil had passed.

“Yes, I can help you find your way. But, first, I must assist the good doctor in his important quest.” The old man turned to Johnson and spread his arms wide. “Tell me . . . what is it you seek?”

Rizzo slept on top of one of the refectory tables, the dozen or so books he’d collected from the library in stacks at his feet—one opened, resting on his chest. What little light invaded the small windows high in the walls had disappeared along with Doc Johnson’s stamina and patience. Led by the old man, Johnson endured a dizzying and frustrating search through the ancient records spanning the monastery library. A search without any indication that they were closer to information about the mezuzah’s elusive history.

“I regret, as your friend noticed, that the monks here have apparently employed no system for the collection,” the old man said. “It is only through years offering my services here that I began to find things I was looking for. Perhaps, again, if I knew more of what you are seeking . . . that would help. I do not know where to take you next. You are interested in the monastery’s history in the early part of the reign of Saladin the Great, what you call the twelfth century. I have shown you what I know. Without more information . . .”

He lifted his arm and waved it toward the length of the library, as if saying,
Take a guess
. Johnson would leave here empty-handed unless he revealed more information to his guide. Father Walid, in a short visit to inquire after their progress, treated the old, nameless man with respect. Doc wasn’t sure. But he had no other option, besides wandering aimlessly and picking books at random. Doc took the chance.

“We are in possession of a mezuzah—a brass scroll holder—and the scroll it carried. The scroll is a separate story. It is information, history, about the mezuzah that we seek. The outside of the mezuzah is etched with designs. Upon examination, the etchings and the designs were applied to the outside of the mezuzah at different times by different tools. We know that the mezuzah spent several hundred years in a library in the town of Suez. And one of those sets of symbols contains the mark of Saint Anthony’s cross along with a budding shepherd’s staff and a scorpion—the two symbols carved above the entry door to this library. So, we believe it is very likely that the mezuzah and its scroll spent some of its history in this library.”

Doc weighed and measured his words. He hadn’t given too much away, not yet.

“And why do you pursue the history of this mezuzah? There are many scroll holders here, many quite old, many more mezuzahs in the lands of the Zionists. What is it about this mezuzah that has brought you to this desolate corner of the world? It must be very important. If I knew, perhaps it would help uncover its history here.”

Two thoughts held Doc’s mouth in check. This man was very smart—under the well-worn trappings of a desert nomad simmered a quick, calculating mind—and he was a wise old Muslim, living in the shadow of St. Anthony’s Monastery. A wise Muslim man who probably knew a great deal more than he was revealing. Johnson relished a chess game, a contest of intellect, but not tonight. Each thrust and parry with the old man increased his wariness. Still—he needed to give something if he hoped to find any reference to Abiathar’s scroll and the mezuzah that carried it into this wasteland.

“The scroll we found contained a message, in an ancient code, that led to the discovery of . . . well . . . a Jewish temple hidden under the Temple Mount in Jerusalem.”

“Al-Haram al-Sharif,” the old man countered. “Yes, I have heard of this discovery. And the destruction it caused.”

Doc bristled. “I believe an earthquake caused the destruction.”

Bowing slightly from the waist, the old man nodded. “Yes . . . but all is destroyed, is that not true?”

Running a hand through his hair, Johnson stalled for time, trying to reign in his rampaging emotions and come up with an appropriate response.

“This mezuzah,” said the old man, breaking the silence, “came from Jerusalem at the time of the European invasion?”

“Yes.”

“Then I know where we may look.”

The old man turned quickly and moved away, down the main aisle and toward the wall on the left. The lower shelves of two bookcases were protected by leaded glass doors. He went to the doors, pulled them open, and—after a momentary search—drew out two leather-bound books. One was large, its leather well oiled, a metal hasp holding the sides together. The cover of the smaller one was dry and cracked and appeared to be seldom used. As the old man turned with the prize in his hands, a cool breeze rushed in from the suddenly open library door.

“Are you still here?” bellowed a monk as round as he was tall. “Out! It’s time to lock up . . . well past time.”

“Lock who up? I’m innocent, I haven’t done anything,” said Rizzo, rolling over and dangling his legs from the side of the table as he rubbed his knuckles in his eyes.

The old man held the book out in front of him. “Forgive our imposition, Brother. But I was just about to show this book to our guests.”

“Take it with you,” said the round monk with a wave of his hand. “He can return it tomorrow. Father Walid trusts him. But out. It’s time to close. Midnight Praise is at four-thirty and the bells for first liturgy ring at six. Morning arrives quite early in the desert.”

Johnson gathered his notes into a battered leather briefcase. The old man had his arms wrapped around the two books in a respectful embrace. As they passed Rizzo, Sammy hopped onto the seat of a chair, then to the floor, falling in beside Johnson.