The Omega Scroll (25 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Jerusalem

M
onsignor Derek Lonergan woke with a splitting headache and waited until the room came into focus. The old metal clock indicated 4 a.m. and he stared at it uncomprehendingly, realising that he had forgotten to wind it, again. He smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. It felt dry and furry, as if an animal had done something nasty in it during the night. As he rolled his head off the pillow there was a loud crash and the sound of breaking glass. An empty whisky bottle had fallen on the tiled floor.

‘Fuck,’ he muttered.

Derek Lonergan slowly swung his legs off the bed, his feet still in his sandals, wrestling to try to gain some freedom for his ample girth among the folds of the robes he had fallen asleep in.

‘Fuck these bloody cassocks,’ he swore again, addressing his remarks to the long-suffering walls of his room. Putting his hand to the side of his head he got to his feet and squinted out of his dormitory window at the road that ran past the walls of L’École Biblique et Archéologique Française de Jérusalem. The sunlight caught the reddish grey of his bearded jowls and it felt hot on the pink skin at the front of his balding head. Judging by the length of the queue of the bloody Palestinians clamouring outside the cramped quarters of the Ministry of Interior on the other side of the road, and the bored looks on the faces of Israeli soldiers covering them with their Uzis, he supposed the sun was well past the yard arm.

‘Fuck,’ he muttered again to no one in particular. He had missed the morning meeting, as he had the morning before. This would no doubt earn him another rebuke from the director, Father ‘po-face’. Father La Franci’s idea of productivity was measured by the number of meetings that he could jam into a week. Dickhead. Fuck ’em. Fuck the lot of them. If the Vatican wanted him to work in this hell hole and protect their secrets and edit anything out of their bloody journals that remotely questioned their precious dogma then he would do it on his terms. Two doctorates in archaeology and geology said that he could, as he was fond of reminding anyone who tried to tell him what to do. He had friends in high places, as he was also fond of reminding them. Although Cardinal Petroni could be a right royal pain in the arse as well. Fuck him, too.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Roma

T
he paperweight hit the far wall of the Secretary of State’s office with a resounding crash and fell soundlessly on the thick blue carpet. Two pieces of paper in his afternoon dispatches had brought the Cardinal Secretary of State close to incandescence.

The first, a confidential list of archbishops to be made cardinal. At the top of the list was Giovanni Donelli; to be made Cardinal Patriarch of Venice.

Cardinal Petroni tapped his heavy polished desk with his fingers as he considered the threat Giovanni Donelli’s appointment might pose. More than one cardinal from Venice had been elected Pope in the past. Pope John XXIII had been one and Albino Luciani another. Petroni unlocked the top left-hand drawer of his desk, extracted his small black leather book, turned to Donelli and, irritably, made another entry against Giovanni’s name. He grudgingly allocated him a third star and noted that Donelli was ‘still B-list at best but bears watching. Not being widely canvassed amongst the Curia. Not widely known.’ The last comment was a rare error of judgement. Petroni’s anger was starting to get the better of him. He replaced the book, locked the drawer and picked up the next offending dispatch from his in-tray. As he re-read it he sniffed loudly. It was a letter from that infuriating Jew, Professor Yossi Kaufmann, from the Hebrew University.

Dear Cardinal Petroni
,

I refer to your request for the Hebrew University to reconsider the granting of the inaugural Medina Archaeology Scholarship to Dr Allegra Bassetti of the Università Statale in Milano
.

You will appreciate that such a prestigious award gives the candidate unprecedented access to those scrolls that have already come into our possession. We are also negotiating an agreement for access to the scrolls housed in the Rockefeller Museum. As a result, the Medina Archaeology Scholarship has generated intense interest worldwide and the field of candidates has been nothing short of outstanding
.

We have given careful consideration to the Vatican’s sensitivities in regard to the Dead Sea Scrolls. I regret that on this occasion we cannot accede to your request for a Catholic scholar to take the place of Dr Bassetti. Although your candidate has very strong recommendations, Dr Bassetti is a brilliant scientist of quite exceptional potential and the Selection Board’s decision was unanimous
.

Sincerely,

Yossi Kaufmann

Hebrew University

Mount Scopus

Petroni considered his options. To openly deny the troublesome woman and the Israeli scholar access to the scrolls held in the Rockefeller might be a mistake. The Tom Schweikers of this world were already proving to be a threat and it might give the Israeli Department of Antiquities unnecessary ammunition. A more cunning approach would be to instruct Lonergan to appear to be cooperating while ensuring that none of the more controversial scroll fragments were accessed. He looked at his watch. It was five o’clock in Jerusalem and there would be no point calling Lonergan now. He would be in a bar in the American Colony Hotel. Lorenzo Petroni decided to call him in the morning when Lonergan would be closer to being sober. A red haze blurred Petroni’s vision briefly and he fought an urge to feel his fists against an innocent’s flesh. His power was threatened and his anger was betraying his judgement. The Keys of Peter were as elusive as ever. The red haze lifted and Petroni regained his feeling of control.

Lonergan. How he detested having to deal with the pompous fat academic priest in Jerusalem. Academic priests were invariably more trouble than they were worth – always that smug satisfaction and oozing self-confidence. But for the moment it was Lonergan’s academic qualifications that made him useful to Petroni. He had put the disgraced priest into the Rockefeller Museum for one reason – to ensure that the Vatican’s carefully crafted ‘Consensus’ on the age and origin of the Dead Sea Scrolls had credibility. Lonergan was the perfect puppet, for it had been Petroni who had saved his worthless hide. That had been over forty years ago when that irksome woman in Idaho had refused the Church’s generous offer of compensation to alleviate the upset over a priest playing around with young boys. The incident had been badly handled in the local diocese and eventually the fallout had threatened to overwhelm the Holy Church itself. So much so that the Vatican had taken charge and quietly arranged for a very young Bishop Petroni to take over damage control and protect the image of the Holy Church. Petroni’s strategy to protect the priest had not been without risk. Many had insisted that the Church should revoke the priest’s orders and accompany that dismissal with an honest apology.

‘I fear that would encourage others to take similar action and expose the Holy Church to many other damaging claims,’ Petroni had argued. The Cardinal Secretary of State at the time had agreed and the priest in question had been summoned to Rome. Petroni had dealt with the priest in a face-to-face interview. The personal exercise of power. It would be something he would regret.

‘You will be posted to the Middle East,’ Petroni had intoned dispassionately. ‘To a little known parish in Mar’Oth. When this unfortunate episode has died down you will then be enrolled at L’École Biblique in Jerusalem where you will complete a doctorate in archaeology. On successful completion of your studies you will be given further instructions. It has come to my attention that this is not the first time you have offended, far from it. In the role I have in mind for you, if your past was ever exposed to the wider public, the damage to the image of the Holy Church would be quite unacceptable. To guard against that you are to be given a new identity. Your papers are in this envelope.’ With that the priest had been dismissed with an icy finality and banished to the village in the Palestinian West Bank. The Vatican had a new priest and, for all intents and purposes, he had a clean record – Father Derek Lonergan. If he was successful in his doctorate Petroni would have in place another building block for dealing with the Dead Sea Scrolls and another strategy to control any rumours that surrounded the Omega Scroll.

In the face of no comment and unable to trace the offender, the media had moved on, as Petroni had predicted they would. The only chance of discovery was a file kept in Petroni’s safe. His strategy had worked brilliantly, and his work had not gone unnoticed by the powerful Curial Cardinals. The young Bishop Petroni’s assignment to the Pontifical Biblical Commission with special responsibility for handling the Vatican’s interests in the Dead Sea Scrolls had been quickly confirmed.

After two years Lonergan had been enrolled for his doctorate and assigned to L’École Biblique and the Rockefeller Museum as the Vatican’s representative and a staunch public advocate for the ‘Consensus’. Had he known what was happening in Lonergan’s favourite bar, Petroni would have been gravely concerned. His plan was starting to unravel.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Jerusalem

T
he American Colony Hotel’s Cellar Bar with its hundred-year-old pink stone floor and low stone arches was one of Derek Lonergan’s haunts. An hour ago Derek Lonergan had been holding court with a group of visiting journalists, loudly. Now he was drinking on his own, copiously.

‘Someone overheard you talking about the Dead Sea Scrolls, Monsignor Lonergan. He asked me to give you this,’ Abdullah said quietly. The small, slightly built Arab barman handed over a folded piece of paper. Derek Lonergan squinted blearily at the grubby paper and the even grubbier handwriting.
Meet me outside the Damascus Gate at eleven o’clock tonight. I will be wearing a red fez. I have something you and the Vatican want.

Derek Lonergan turned the paper over but there was nothing else on it.

‘Who gave you this?’ he demanded, his words slurred.

Abdullah shrugged inscrutably. ‘I am sorry, Sir, he wouldn’t say. He just said it was important you got the message.’

‘Hrrumph.’ Lonergan snorted and looked at his watch. It was a quarter to the hour. Had he been sober he might have considered such a clandestine meeting more carefully, instead he threw down the rest of his drink and lurched out of the Cellar Bar and into the night. The ancient entrance to the Old City of Jerusalem and the beginning of the road to Damascus, the Damascus Gate, was only a few minutes walk away. When Lonergan reached the gate it was eerily quiet. Only a few people were coming and going under the massive battlements that had protected it over the centuries. It was nearly ten past eleven when a small Turk in a faded red fez approached from the shadows of the old city wall.

‘Monsignor Lonergan?’ the man asked, his coal-like eyes darting.

‘You took your time,’ Lonergan replied thickly, trying to place the accent.

‘You are alone?’

‘Look, whatever your name is …’

‘I asked you a question, Monsignor Lonergan,’ the Turk said, ignoring Lonergan’s comment. ‘I suggest you answer me if you want to see what I have. Otherwise they will be lost to the Vatican for ever, which could be very embarrassing for your Cardinal Petroni.’

At the mention of Petroni’s name Lonergan started sobering up. ‘Yes,’ he said, nodding his head.

‘You will follow me, please.’

The Turk disappeared under the stone ramparts and into the Old City. Derek Lonergan struggled to keep up with the faded red fez as he moved quickly down alleys and through covered streets, and into the Christian Quarter where the Turk disappeared into a dingy narrow stone cul-de-sac, pushed open an old heavy door and beckoned for him to follow.

Struggling for breath and unused to anything more physical than raising his right arm, Derek Lonergan heaved himself up a narrow flight of stone steps, squeezed through a small kitchen and entered an inner sitting room.

‘Was all that necessary?’ Lonergan wheezed, collapsing into a heavy wooden chair.

‘I think when you see what I have, Monsignor Lonergan, you will agree that it would be unwise for either of us to be followed by the authorities or anyone else.’ The Turk lifted some coir matting and prised loose three of the old floorboards. From the cavity in the floor he removed a long olive wood box, leaving another larger box in place. He took out a faded dirty yellow linen roll and placed it on the heavy scarred wooden bench that sat in the middle of the small room.

Derek Lonergan blinked, his memory stirring. He had seen the dirty yellow linen before, around several of the Dead Sea Scrolls that had been brought to the Rockefeller.

‘What do you have there?’ he asked, levering himself out of the chair, his voice hoarse with excitement.

‘A Dead Sea Scroll,’ the Turk replied nonchalantly, noting that the panting of his quarry’s breathing had nothing to do with physical exertion.

‘Where did you get it?’ Lonergan demanded. ‘Let me see.’

The Turk ignored the question, watching while Lonergan unwrapped the priceless two-thousand-year-old artefact. He handed him an old silver magnifying glass that had belonged to his father.

For a long time Derek Lonergan looked at the faded manuscript, his heart thumping against his chest. It was in Koiné, and immediately Lonergan knew it meant only one thing. There had only been one Dead Sea Scroll that had been written in the Greek lingua franca of the day, and he checked and re-checked his translation of the ancient script. Stay calm, he told himself, stay calm. On no account must the little Turk twig to what was written on this scroll and he put his hands in his pockets to hide his trembling fingers. The Magdalene Numbers, the Essenes writing on the origin of life, and the warning of the destruction of civilisation at the hands of a new faith. It was nothing short of explosive.

The Turk remained impassive but Monsignor Lonergan’s reaction had not escaped his attention. He could see the astonishment in Lonergan’s eyes.

‘Where did you get this from?’ Derek Lonergan asked again.

‘It came from a place where the sea is low and nothing lives within it,’ the Turk replied cryptically. ‘But measured against what is in this scroll, the exact location of the discovery is not important, Monsignor Lonergan. Fortunately for the Catholic Church, it is for sale.’

‘How much?’ Lonergan asked quickly, too quickly.

The Turk heard the eagerness in his adversary’s voice. ‘Fifty million dollars,’ he answered.

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Lonergan blurted out. ‘Out of the question. It is a minor document. We would pay one million and not a solitary cent more,’ he added pompously, determined not to be cornered by some shifty little backstreet dealer. Lonergan assumed there would not be anyone in the Turk’s circle who could decipher the ancient text. ‘Besides, you are dealing in antiquities, which is illegal.’

‘As you wish, Monsignor Lonergan,’ the Turk responded with a polite smile that held a touch of amusement at Lonergan’s ego and naïvety. The Turk’s father had sold a copy of the Omega Scroll for ten million dollars in 1978 and the Church had not blinked. Obviously this buffoon was unaware of that. ‘I apologise for troubling you.’

‘One million dollars is a lot of money,’ Lonergan stated angrily.

‘You and I both know it is worth considerably more to the Catholic Church than fifty million dollars, but for that price I would also throw in the other box.’

‘What’s in that?’ Lonergan asked, his eyes narrowing.

‘Perhaps I should have mentioned it before,’ the Turk said. Had Lonergan accepted the first offer he would not have mentioned it at all.

‘Show me,’ Lonergan demanded.

It took the two of them to lift the larger olive wood box out of the floor cavity. The Turk unlocked the heavy brass padlock.

Derek Lonergan’s eyes widened. The box was full of hundreds of fragments. He took one out and examined it carefully with the magnifying glass.

‘Probably a fragment of Isaiah,’ he said at last. ‘Again, it is interesting but not of great value.’ He took another fragment. Unlike the Great Isaiah and the Omega Scrolls, this one was written in ancient Greek. Interesting that a Gnostic Gospel should be in the trunk, he thought, although not out of the question in the murky world of the black market.

‘The fifth gospel, the Gospel of Thomas,’ Lonergan announced importantly.

‘I see you are well versed in the languages of the ancients, Monsignor Lonergan.’

Lonergan sniffed haughtily. ‘It is also of no consequence. A copy of this was found at Nag Hammadi and the translation is freely available to any scholar who wishes to access it.’

‘Then perhaps you would find these more interesting, Monsignor Lonergan.’ The Turk reached for a small clear plastic bag that had been taped under the lid of the box. Inside the bag were three fragments. Once they were placed on the table Lonergan’s pulse raced as he began to translate the ancient Koiné.

‘The Path to the Omega …’ This time he made no attempt to hide his astonishment. The three fragments contained identical words to the scroll he had translated earlier. This was another copy of the great Omega Scroll.

‘You see, Monsignor Lonergan, we have reason to believe that in amongst the fragments in this box there is a second copy of the scroll you have just declined to purchase. As you rightly point out there will also most likely be another complete Scroll of Isaiah. The Essenes were a highly organised people, Monsignor Lonergan. You should not be surprised that their scribes ensured their library contained copies of their most precious writings. In addition, there is likely to be a complete copy of the Gnostic Gospel of Thomas. This box would be part of the purchase.’

Once more Derek Lonergan forced himself to remain calm. ‘Where did these come from,’ he asked again.

‘As I have said, Monsignor, that is not important.’ The Turk had no intention of discussing the boxes he had found under a loose floorboard after his father died and he had taken over the clutter of his antiquities store in Bethlehem.

‘It is unfortunate that in the process of these scrolls coming into my hands the second copy has been allowed to disintegrate, and doubly unfortunate that the fragments have become hopelessly mixed with the other scrolls. Some of these Bedouins are not well schooled in handling ancient parchment, but they know the value of these things. As do I,’ he added pointedly.

‘Fifty million dollars is still out of the question,’ Lonergan said. ‘Even if they are genuine, the documents already exist in the wider world. The great Isaiah Scroll is in the Shrine of the Book and any other scroll in here is likely to be already under study in the Scrollery at the Rockefeller Museum,’ Lonergan lied.

‘Perhaps, Monsignor Lonergan, perhaps. Although given the lack of progress in the Scrollery, the wider academic community would welcome the chance to provide, shall we say, more productive scholarship on their meaning. Again, I apologise for bothering you, it’s just that we wanted to give the Catholic Church first option. No doubt I will be able to find other buyers,’ he said, re-taping the plastic bag underneath the lid. ‘Like the fifth, sixth and seventh gospels of Thomas, Philip and Mary Magdalene I’m sure they will find the Eighth Gospel … the Omega Scroll most interesting.’

At the mention of the Omega Scroll Lonergan’s sharp intake of breath was audible. ‘How much do you know?’ he rasped angrily.

‘You would be mistaken to think we do not know the value of these documents,’ the Turk responded, his quiet demeanour unchanged. He was used to dealing in the dark world of antiquities, a world that was full of egomaniacs, although perhaps not as pompous or volatile as Monsignor Derek Lonergan. ‘And none is more valuable, or more damaging to the Christian Faith than the Omega Scroll …’ The Turk let his words trail off as a portent of the turmoil that might follow its release.

Derek Lonergan’s mind was racing. Fifty million dollars was an enormous amount but he knew Cardinal Petroni wouldn’t blink at the price. Now that these other two copies of the Omega had surfaced the Vatican Bank would pay whatever was required to keep both documents out of the public domain for ever. He pursed his fleshy lips as he suddenly realised that the second box was something that Petroni need not even know about. It contained immeasurable insurance against his file ever being made public, and eventually it would fetch a considerable sum. More importantly, here was the perfect opportunity to allow him to throw off the shackles of that prick in Rome. Perhaps, just perhaps he could exact some revenge for his treatment at the hands of Petroni and the Vatican.

‘I will have to consult with the Vatican,’ he said finally, any pretext of the amount being preposterous suddenly evaporating. ‘And I will need to confirm they are genuine.’

‘Naturally,’ the Turk replied. He had anticipated the request and handed Lonergan a worn leather pouch. ‘This contains clearly marked envelopes with blank sample parchments from each of the scrolls. You will no doubt want to conduct carbon dating and other tests.’

‘How do I contact you?’

‘You don’t. The boxes will now be moved to another place for safekeeping,’ the Turk said. ‘I will contact you in a month.’

As he headed back towards the Damascus Gate Derek Lonergan looked at his watch, wondering if the Cellar Bar would still be open. It was after one in the morning. Probably not, he thought. The coded letter to Petroni would have to be sent via the Vatican’s diplomatic black bag which would probably prompt a question or two from Bishop O’Hara. Fuck him. Not to mention Petroni when he got the request for fifty big ones, well fuck him too. Fuck the lot of them. He cursed again as he staggered up yet another blind alley.