The City of Lost Secrets: A Mara Beltane Mystery (13 page)

I didn’t have time to think about Uri at the moment though, because I had an interview scheduled for this afternoon with a professor at Hebrew University, and I needed to e-mail my agent Jenny before I left.

Being the professional that she was, it was Jenny’s job as my literary agent to make sure that I was making progress on my next novel. Sure, I still had a novel on the market that was selling well, and a respectable backlist, but that didn’t matter. A publisher always wants to see what’s next. They need to know that another novel—-another possible best-seller--is on the way. There had to be constant progress.

So, as an established novelist with people to answer to, it is my job to constantly produce, and to occasionally let my agent know that progress is being made. After all, there are a lot of people whose livelihoods and careers depend on my success.

With that in mind, I typed out a quick yet positive message to my agent.

Dear Jenny,

Hope all is well in crazy New York City. Please pardon the lapse in communication, as I’m making such good progress in developing what I think may be a best-seller. I’ve met some amazing people whose help and knowledge have been indispensable. I’ve completed a plot outline and have created some conflicted yet likeable characters.  There’s mystery, intrigue, romance and thrills…something for everybody. What else could you ask for in a best-seller? I realize this type of novel is foreign to me, but I’m beginning to think I have a knack for it. But don’t worry, I don’t plan on abandoning my chick-lit work. That’s a genre that—-thanks to your expert help and guidance--established my career and is responsible for my success. That being said, I want to take my career to the next level and am prepared to do what it takes. I think the book I’m currently writing will achieve that.

We make an amazing team, and I don’t know what I’d do without you!

On a side note, how is Heaven Can Wait doing?

Take care and I’ll talk to you soon,

Mara

P.S. – attached are a plot outline and a two-page synopsis. Get a load of that title! Let me know your thoughts…

Half an hour later, I found myself back in familiar territory, on the Mt. Scopus campus of Hebrew University. I was here to interview Associate Professor Ariel Feldman.

I had found him listed on the Hebrew University website faculty directory, one of several websites I checked out during my initial research back in the States. Hebrew University was one of the top universities in all of Israel, so I was sure the school was a repository for skilled archaeologists, biblical scholars, and learned professors.

Mr. Feldman was one of several professors I e-mailed before arriving in Jerusalem. It took him awhile to respond (I’d already met Lev and Uri and was well on my way to seeing the Talpiot tomb) but I decided that since he’d taken the time to respond and seemed genuinely interested, I should at least meet with him and see what he had to say. It never hurt to get as many professional opinions as possible.

There was no picture of the professor next to his bio, but his office address was listed, so I knew precisely where to go to meet him for our scheduled meeting. A few e-mail exchanges had established this day and time as the most agreeable for his schedule.

Had I seen Uri’s name on the Hebrew University website, I would’ve e-mailed him as well. But he was not listed in the faculty directory. Perhaps his name had been removed when he was suspended for illegally breaking into the Talpiot tomb. Once I found out who he was, thanks to Lev’s referral, I Googled Uri’s name. At the top of the search results was Cambridge University and a link to a press release from 2006 announcing his visit to campus for a guest lecture. It was this press release, with Uri’s bio at the bottom, that I had printed and kept among all my notes. 

As I climbed the steps to the second floor of Mr. Feldman’s office building, I reviewed his short bio: “Ariel Feldman is an Associate Professor at Hebrew University who specializes in New Testament archeology.”

I walked through several hallways until I found Mr. Feldman’s office. The large wooden door was halfway open, and I could see a woman inside. She was standing behind a metal desk, sorting some papers that sat on top. I knocked lightly and peeked my head in.

The woman looked up at me. She had long reddish-brown hair and hazel eyes. She wore a tan skirt and matching jacket. 

“May I help you?” she asked.

“I’m looking for Associate Professor Feldman.”

“Come on in,” she said, waving me inside. “You must be Mara Beltane.”

“Yes,” I said, taking in the room.

“Have a seat,” the woman said, motioning to a chair in front of the desk.

The office was small and cluttered, with two shelves against the right-hand wall overflowing with books. A window behind the desk overlooked a green swath of grass.

“Is Professor Feldman available?” I asked, sitting down.

The woman reached across the desk and extended her hand. “I’m Professor Feldman,” she said.

I stared at the professor in stunned silence for a moment, allowing her hand to dangle in mid-air above her desk. Finally, I reached out and took her hand. “I’m sorry. I thought…”

“Nice to meet you,” she said, straightening her skirt before sitting down. “Now, let’s get down to business, shall we?”

She folded her hands on the desk and looked at me with a face that betrayed her age. Small wrinkles creased the corners of her eyes and a few short gray hairs peeked out from her temple, swimming in a river of reddish brown hair that cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. 

She had skin the color of lightly-tanned leather and a figure as shapely as an African gazelle. And her makeup was perfect. She was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman I’d seen in Jerusalem.

But that glare! It was intimidating and demanding, like she could convince anyone to do her bidding using just the power of her eyes alone.

“I’m obviously not that familiar with Israeli names,” I said, still trying to apologize for having mistaken Ariel for a masculine name.

“It’s fine,” Ariel said, opening one of the desk drawers and pulling out a piece of paper. “So you mentioned you were with TIME magazine.” She had printed my e-mail I’d written to her and was reading from it. “…On special assignment to research the Talpiot tomb.”

“Well, I’m actually working…independently…at the moment.”

“I see,” the professor said, flashing me an icy stare again. “What have you written that I might have read?”

I fidgeted in my chair, and not because the chair was uncomfortable. “Oh, well…You probably haven’t read any of my stuff.”

“I may not have read your work, but I know who you are.”

“You do?”

“You’re a novelist,” Ariel said. “You write fiction for women.”

“Um, right,” I said, starting to panic about the direction that the conversation was going. Then I added quickly: “But I also write for magazines.”  

Ariel folded up my printed email and put it back inside the desk drawer. “So what qualifies you to write about the Talpiot tomb?” she asked, ignoring my magazine comment.

“I have a minor in biblical studies and an interest in religious history,” I offered. 

“And what, specifically, are you researching? What’s the angle of your story?”

Who was interviewing who here? This woman was intimidating as hell and her questions seemed relentless, but I had to regain my composure and take command of the situation. I gulped down my anxiety, gave myself a silent pep talk, and forged ahead.

“Here’s the big question,” I said. “Is the Talpiot tomb the final resting place of Jesus Christ? You could debate the evidence all day long, look at statistics, research the artifacts. But at the end of the day, I think most people want a simple answer: Yes or no.” I paused. “What do you think, professor Feldman?”

Ariel squinted her eyes at me, as if sensing my newfound confidence. Then her expression softened.

“A very dear friend and colleague of mine used to ask me why I found it so hard to believe in the Talpiot tomb.”

“What was your answer?” I asked.

“I asked him how he found it so easy to believe.”

“He believed it was real?”

“I think he wanted it to be real, but deep down I think he had his doubts.”

I realized that I had not been taking notes this whole time. I pulled out my notebook and rummaged around in my bag for a pen. When I returned my attention to Ariel, she was staring at me again with those commanding eyes.

“Perhaps you’ve heard of my colleague,” she said. “Professor Uri Nevon?”

I jumped at the sound of his name, but had to remind myself to tread cautiously. Uri had said we should tell no one about our plan to gain entrance to the Talpiot tomb. I intended to stick to the plan, and I was hoping he’d keep up his end of the bargain, as well.

“Nevon,” I said. “Sounds familiar.”

“I thought you might have come across his name during your research.”

“I might have.”

“He has an interest in the Talpiot tomb,” Ariel said. “I could make an introduction if you’re interested.”

“Do you know him well?” I asked, my heart still thumping.

Ariel laughed. “I should think so. We work in the same department.”

I scribbled Uri’s name down in my notebook, along with some random notes to make it appear as if I was learning new information. Ariel continued to speak as I wrote.

“Uri and I have known each other a long time,” she said, sighing as if reminiscing old memories. “And in spite of it all, we remained friends.” 

At this, my head snapped up. In spite of what? I thought. Ariel was staring off in space, her eyes distant, gazing directly above my head. She lowered her eyes when she sensed me looking at her. My heart was thumping harder now, and it was getting tougher to pretend that I didn’t know Uri.

We stared at each other a moment. Ariel was waiting for me to say something, and I was struggling for words. The longer it took me to respond, the easier it would be for Ariel to figure out the game I was playing. Any minute now my emotions would betray me, and Ariel would be able to see the lie written all over my face.

“I’m…I’m afraid you lost me,” I managed to say.

Ariel sighed, a troubled exhale of breath, as if bothered. “Uri didn’t tell you,” she said.

“Uri…I mean, Professor Nevon and I have never met.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Ariel said. “How silly of me. How could you possibly know what I’m talking about then?”

Ariel knew that I was lying. She knew Uri and I had met. But how? She was toying with me now, testing me. How easy it would be right now to make up an excuse and flee, but I resisted. I could not let her win.

Just then there was a knock on her door, breaking the awkward silence in the room. I jumped in my seat, startled, and whipped my head around to see a young woman standing in the doorway, holding several three-ring binders.

“Ziva, don’t forget the meeting,” the young woman said. “It starts in ten minutes.”

“Yes, thank you,” the professor said, looking at her watch. “I’ll be right there.”

Ziva? That was the name of the mysterious woman Lev and Uri were talking about in the shop the other day! They asked one another when they had spoken to her last. They both confessed they spoke to her only once in awhile. But she seemed to be the tie that bound them. Was that Ziva and the woman who sat in front of me the same person?

“My personal assistant,” the professor whispered as the young lady was walking away.

“I thought your name was Ariel?” I asked, not really caring who the young woman was that interrupted us.

“Ziva is my middle name,” she explained. “Only a handful of people call me that. Friends, family, close colleagues…”

Then it hit me.

His search for the truth has cost him a great deal. Such a tragic story…

Abigail Greene had said this to me the other day in regards to Uri’s quest to discover the truth about the Talpiot tomb.

If the woman sitting across from me was the same Ziva Lev and Uri were talking about, then they must know her well enough to call her by her middle name. She must be a part of Uri’s tragic story. But how? How did they all know each other?

“I must go to this meeting,” the professor said, writing a phone number down on a small scrap of paper and handing it to me. “Here is Uri’s—-I mean, Professor Nevon’s phone number. He’ll tell you what you want to know.” Then she stood and straightened her skirt. “Please excuse me.”

But I couldn’t let her off so easily. She hinted at a past relationship with Uri, intentionally it seemed, and I wanted—-no,
needed
—-to know the truth.

I stood up too quickly and nearly knocked my chair over. “What did you mean when you said that in spite of it all you remained friends with Uri?” I asked.

Ziva stared at me a moment, as if contemplating whether to speak to me about him.

“Fine,” she said, tapping her nails on the desk. “Uri and I were lovers.”

I winced at the word: Lovers. It stung like paper slicing through my skin. I wasn’t expecting it and certainly hadn’t prepared for it, but there it was. A thin, clean wound oozing the truth.

The Ziva that stood in front of me and the mysterious Ziva that Uri and Lev had spoken about were one and the same.

It’s no wonder Ziva and Uri were lovers. Uri was smart and handsome and successful. Ziva was beautiful and intelligent and strong-minded. I had no doubt that Uri had loved her. I was sure there were men all over Jerusalem who were in love with Ziva Feldman.

What did I have to offer Uri? I wasn’t as smart as Ziva. Certainly I wasn’t as beautiful, with my plain, brown hair that just touched my shoulders and dark eyes that had neither the intensity nor the fire that Ziva’s possessed. I was clumsy and accident-prone. And my figure? I was naturally slender, but since the divorce I’d all but forsaken a diet and could stand to lose fifteen pounds.