The God Machine (7 page)

Koster looked up. Macalister was gone. There was something weird about him, something creepy, thought Koster. He was always shadowing Nick, wherever they went.

Koster stared back down at the volume. He ran a finger along the letters across the page. They made no sense until he reached the end of the twelfth line. Then Koster read the words: The Gospel of Judas. And right below, the same phrase in Hebrew and Greek.

For a moment, Koster found himself back in the heart of the cathedral at Chartres. He was holding a cup in his hands made of gold. A woman lay at his feet. On her side. With that great bloody hole in her head.

“Joseph!”

Koster looked up with a start.

It was Nick Robinson. “How the hell are you?” he said as he loped across the office and grabbed him in a bear-like embrace.

Koster wrenched himself free. “Fine, Nick. I guess. How are you?”

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Koster said. He stared up at his friend. At
six feet four inches, Robinson towered above him. Koster was but five feet ten. And Robinson still sported the shoulders he'd built for himself back in prep school, as the stroke of the school's premier eight. “Now I know why I bothered to come. Because you always know what to say.” His fingers started to dance on his trouser legs, as if he were playing piano.

“Long day at McKenzie and Voight?” Nick asked.

“You could say that.”

“Go ahead. Tell me. What's the matter, Joseph? What's wrong?”

“Why do you always think something's wrong?”

“I just know.”

Yes, Koster thought. Robinson always did seem to sense when something was troubling him. Not just him, for that matter. Any friend. It was one of Nick Robinson's gifts.

“You're doing it,” Robinson said, pointing down. He was staring at Koster's fingers as they danced about nervously.

“Doing what?”

“Counting again. Your abacus thing. I thought you were taking medication for that.”

“No pharmacologic solutions directly treat the core symptoms of AS.”

“Clearly not. What was it, the panes in the windows? The number of square feet of each wall, divided by the angles of each mural plane?”

Koster stuffed his hands in his pockets. He did not respond.

“What happened?” demanded Robinson. “Spit it out.”

Koster told him what had transpired at the office that morning.

Nick listened patiently, then shrugged. “Well, the firm didn't lose any money, so who cares? It's time you took
some time off anyway. How much vacation time do you have?”

Koster moved around the desk. “I don't know. About seventeen weeks.”

Robinson laughed. “Seventeen weeks!”

“I like my job. I like to keep busy.”

“You're using your work like a drug, Joseph. A distraction elixir. Like your pot. Like your counting.”

“And you sound like my mother.”

“Good. She's got sense.” Nick Robinson grew suddenly serious. He folded his arms and said, “I have a favor to ask of you.”

Koster stood still. “A what?”

“A conundrum. A puzzle,” said Robinson. “I want you to solve it. I can't. Believe me, I've tried. But I have faith that you can.”

In the almost forty years they had known each other, Koster couldn't remember a time when Nick Robinson had asked for a favor. It just wasn't part of his makeup. On countless occasions he had said, “I have a job for you …” or “a task…” or “a present…” or “a recommendation …” But never, ever a favor.

“And it sounds like you have the time now,” said Robinson.

“Thanks for reminding me. What's the favor?”

Robinson reached over the desk and flipped to the front of the tan-colored volume.

Koster glanced down at the book. He spotted the signature and unraveled its meaning immediately.
“B
as in Ben?” he inquired. “As in Benjamin Franklin?”

Robinson nodded. “It's his personal journal. But it's written in code. I haven't been able to make hide nor hair of its meaning. I thought you might give it a try.”

Koster picked up the book. There were strings of unintelligible words, with no punctuation. Except for that
one phrase in English and Hebrew and Greek. “The Gospel of Judas?” he said.

“It's an early Christian text.”

“I know what it is, Nick. A Gnostic codex. Like the one that I searched for in France, under Chartres Cathedral. Like the Gospel of Thomas.”

“But far more incendiary, Joseph. According to this ancient text, Judas was
asked
by Jesus to betray Him. This book describes how—despite his protests—Judas finally agreed, in order for Christ to fulfill the prophecies. Instead of being an archvillain, Judas is portrayed as Christ's closest companion and confidante. A true anti-hero. And he didn't commit suicide by hanging himself. The gospel implies that Judas was murdered, in revenge for his act of betrayal. Murdered by the apostles themselves. Can you imagine? Without the betrayal, there would have been no crucifixion. And without the crucifixion, no resurrection. No Christianity, Joseph.”

“But don't copies of the Gospel of Judas already exist? They must, if you know what it says,” Koster handed the book back to Robinson.

“Much more recent editions,” said Robinson. “A Gnostic codex in Coptic Sahidic dialect was discovered in the seventies near El Minya, in Egypt. It was brought to the States by a collector where it languished in a safe-deposit box for some sixteen years, right here on Long Island, until an antiquities dealer named Frieda Nussberger-Tchacos purchased it in the spring of 2000. After two unsuccessful attempts to resell it, she became concerned for its rapidly deteriorating state and transferred the codex to the Maecenas Foundation for Ancient Art in Basel, for restoration and translation. That was in February 2001. The Tchacos codex was radiocarbon-dated to between the third and fourth centuries A.D.”

Robinson put the journal back on his desk. He patted
it gently. “But the discovery,” he continued, “of a version of the Gospel of Judas in Mishnaic Hebrew—presumably written within decades of Christ's crucifixion—would seriously undermine the current interpretation of the Bible. After all, it would be significantly older than the Tchacos codex, and therefore more historically accurate.”

“More reflective of Christ's teachings, you mean.”

“That's right. And yet it was considered heretical by the early Church fathers. Gnostic. Who could be a more powerful adversary against the Christian Church than Jesus Christ himself? If His teachings were Gnostic…”

“That's the same reason I searched for the Gospel of Thomas,” said Koster. “And look where it got me.”

“That was different. It wasn't hidden right here, in the States, like this Gospel of Judas. And it didn't belong to Ben Franklin.”

“What's Franklin got to do with it?”

“I'm not sure. That's the mystery.” Robinson walked over to the central bay window. Dark clouds were gathering over the ocean. Day sailors were heading to port.

“Franklin was a Freemason,” he continued. “As were George Washington and many of the Founding Fathers. According to Masonic lore, Franklin somehow managed to procure a version of the Gospel of Judas that was particularly old. And there's more. According to the legends, Franklin's version also featured a curious illustration. Call it schematic number one. Masonic historians have documented the presence of two similar schematics, purportedly created by Leonardo da Vinci, schematic number two, and another by Franklin himself, number three. And they're all somehow related.”

“In what way?”

“We don't know.”

“What are these illustrations?”

“We don't know. Masonic curiosities.”

“You don't know very much, it appears.”

Robinson chuckled. “You're right. That's why I need your help. It's a code, Joseph. Created by Franklin himself. Wasn't he a childhood hero of yours?”

“You remember that?”

“Of course I do.”

“That was thirty years ago.”

“We go back a long way, Joseph. Call it fate.”

“Fate?”

“Do you really think this is all a coincidence? You come over all glum and depressed because of troubles at work, and here is something to challenge you, to take your mind off things, if only for a little while. The universe hums at a particular frequency. And now you've got all this time. Deciphering Franklin's journal might help uncover the Gospel of Judas. Can you imagine the publishing sensation?”

“As if you need another success, Nick.”

“I'm not talking about me. I'm talking about
you
, Joseph. What
you
need. What have you done for the last fifteen years? Who died in that basement in France?”

“I've built a career,” Koster snapped back.

“But you're miserable. You need to let go of what happened. Mariane's gone. It's time to move on. It's time to climb back on that horse.”

“That's easy for you to say. You've never lost someone you loved.”

“Yes, I have.” Robinson turned back toward the windows. “I lost someone I cared about, deeply. Long ago. When I was younger and foolish. But I got over it, Joseph. I met Theresa, and everything changed.”

“I didn't know.”

“I still keep a few secrets. Call it vanity.”

Koster sighed. “What do you want me to do, Nick?”

Robinson walked back to his desk. He picked up the volume. “Take the journal and study it. See if you can
interpret it, break the code. So you never found the Gospel of Thomas in France. So what? Perhaps you can change that. Perhaps you can unearth the Gospel of Judas instead. Change the ending this time. Decode Franklin's journal, Joseph. That's all I'm asking. Help me find the location. I'll do the rest. Besides, I've already booked you on the morning flight to the Coast.”

“The Coast?”

“San Francisco. I have a friend there who can help you. Her name is Savita Sajan.”

“Of Cimbian, the chip manufacturer?”

“That's her. Savita's done some work in this area. And I trust her.”

“I don't know, Nick…”

“Look, think about it. We can talk more tomorrow, before you leave for the airport. Right now we've both got to get ready for dinner.” He stared out the window. “It looks like it's going to rain. I hope it holds off until after dessert.”

“You think?” Koster said. “It's so far away.” A lightning head burst on the distant horizon.

Koster sensed Robinson step up beside him. “Here,” he said, with a nudge, handing Koster the book.

Koster stared down at the volume, at the soft leather spine. “Okay, Nick. For you. I'll think about it.”

K
OSTER RETURNED TO HIS GUEST ROOM, UNPACKED AND
pulled out a fresh cotton shirt. It was the same cozy spare bedroom he always stayed in, with a four-poster bed trimmed with hand-stitched white lace. The walls were festooned with paintings of seascapes, including a dreamy rendering of Venice in one corner that Koster suddenly realized was an actual Monet. He'd spotted it many times, had admired it, but had never once thought it was the work of a master, the way it had been stuffed in that corner like an afterthought.

That was just like Nick Robinson. Why speak at all, except in low tones? On Koster's thirteenth birthday, with both of his parents abroad on a tour, a Lisa computer had appeared on his doorstep, without even a card. Nick. Nick's father had helped him nail his MIT interview. Nick had helped him get his job at McKenzie & Voight. He had introduced him to Priscilla, although that hadn't lasted. And then to Becky, the IT consultant. Koster, on the other hand, was not a very good friend,
though he tried, in his own way. But he rarely reached out, made the effort to plan. So, it had been left to Nick Robinson to call him like clockwork, every two to three weeks, with another invite to some party or exhibit or opening.

Koster did have a few friends from work. But they were all married, and it was awkward to always be the third wheel. The single architects were much younger than he was. Koster belonged to some math clubs, and he had developed some strong relationships there. Un for tunately, his best friend lived in Moscow. They played chess via Skype once a week. There was another who taught at the University of Michigan, in Ann Arbor.

Koster brushed his teeth in the bathroom and washed up. As he did so, he stared at his face, trying to remember the man in the mirror.

Robinson was right. He did need a break. As much as he claimed to love his work, it had grown stale lately. Gone were the flashes of insight he so loved, when a whole plan became suddenly clear. In a panic, as his passion dissolved like a lozenge inside of him, he began to latch onto the minutiae of projects, to the point where the engineers always complained that he did all their work for them. He just couldn't let go of a drawing. In case someone had missed something. Not until it was done, each umpteenth detail, all the wiring, every specification.

“Go out,” Nick had urged him one evening, as they had shared a quick meal in the Village. “Find a girl and get laid. You're wound way too tight.” And he'd tried. He had dated a few different women over the last decade or so. A bank manager. A sales rep. And Becky, the IT consultant. He had tried. Once, for seven whole months. But he had managed those affairs with the same level of punctilious care that he bestowed upon his projects at
work. They drowned in detail. They all came undone, like beautiful bows, as he fussed at the knot.