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  Abu smiled sweetly. His eyes were unfocused. “I do not tease. It is the truth."

  Salima burst into horrified tears. Farid strode over and yanked Abu upright with his good hand. “Who made you do this?"

  Abu stood loose-limbed, saying nothing. His eyes began to close.

  Farid shook him. “Answer me!” His voice rose to almost a scream.

  "My employer ... he is Lebanese, but he speaks French..."

  "What employer? You must tell me!” Farid pulled Abu's head back so the two men were eye to eye.

  "He is leader ... very important religious group ... Les Agents” whispered Abu, who was beginning to lose consciousness from the unaccustomed liquor. He slumped through Farid's hands into a heap against the wall.

  Farid looked at Salima. “He means Les Agents de Dieu. I have to tell Greg,” he said slowly. “Abu is part of the group we think is trying to block the manuscripts from being published."

  Salima leaned against the divan for support. Her little brother was a fool, but he was still her flesh and blood. Her mind raced as she considered the consequences of Abu's behavior. Abu was risking the reputation and safety of his whole family by working for a known terrorist group. If Les Agents or their opponents didn't kill Abu, her father probably would to save the family's honor. Salima could only begin to imagine what her father would say if he ever found out.

  She must make sure he never did.

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  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I a shape of clay kneaded in water a ground of shame and a source of pollution a melting pot of wickedness and an edifice of sin a straying and perverted spirit of no understanding ... [Thanksgiving Hymns, Dead Sea Scroll, IQH9:21-24]

  FARID PULLED HIS shirt over his head, twisting like a contortionist to protect his ribs. He had tried Greg's cell phone three times, with no success. Finally he left a vague but urgent message, demanding to be called back ASAP.

  He thought of Salima's hysterical reaction to her brother's defection. Abu had been totally predictable. He'd had trouble written all over him from age fourteen, and Farid had seen this coming. Abu was so much like his own younger brother Mahdi—hemmed in by rules and curfews, busting out at the very earliest opportunity. In both families, the parents imposed their ultra-strict interpretation of Islam and family law. Farid was no child psychologist, but he vowed he and Salima would find more of a happy medium with their own children.

  Children. The very thought of a son of his own, with his features and Salima's beautiful brown eyes, brought a smile to his lips. Salima presented such a contrast: a demure daughter of Islam on the one hand, a passionate woman and dedicated scholar on the other hand. He wished he could convince his father that Salima would be a better wife if she kept her academic job. He knew his Salima. Keep her buried in precious manuscripts and she'd be a happy woman, happy enough to juggle kids and household duties with one hand tied behind her back.

  By now, Farid had managed to change his shirt without too many twinges from his still healing ribs. He shaved, fingering the bruises on his left cheek. They were fading from purple to a sickly yellow. Too bad he'd never had the opportunity to inflict similar punishment on the cowards who had attacked him at Greg's apartment.

  Farid frowned as he looked at his watch for the umpteenth time. Surely, Greg was back from Masada by now? He punched in the redial button on his phone again and listened to the maddeningly familiar message, “This is Greg Manzur. I'm not here to take your call..."

  As he microwaved yesterday's coffee to jolt him awake, Farid reviewed everything they'd found out about Les Agents de Dieu. A dangerous group of fanatics fiercely dedicated to preserving orthodox Christianity according to the Nicene Creed of the fourth century A.D. They were people who were totally intolerant of any document or practice that allowed for alternative interpretations of Christ's ministry—particularly anything that put women forward as religious leaders. There were at least two agents in Jerusalem, probably of Lebanese descent. One almost certainly working at the Israel Museum. A reputation for violence—and for killing their pawns when their usefulness to the cause ended.

  It was this last item that worried Farid. If Abu was really working for the shadowy head of Les Agents, then he was in acute danger. Abu was too inexperienced, too indiscreet, to be trusted with important information. If he couldn't raise Greg in the next hour, Farid would have to act.

  He gulped down his lukewarm coffee, rinsed out his mouth at the bitter taste, and grabbed his keys. Farid would case Abu's favorite hangouts and try to locate him. Then, he would warn Abu to get the hell out of town.

  Remembering what Salima's parents had planned, Farid grinned. A sheep farm in Lebanon would be the perfect place for Abu.

  * * * *

  GREG UNLOCKED HIS apartment. He tossed his knapsack on the floor in the narrow entryway and checked his mail. Bills, bills, and junk.

  On the way back to his apartment he had reviewed what they'd learned about Arieh Golovey. What really bothered him is that Arieh's boss—the mastermind behind the thefts of papyrus fragments—probably now knew as much as he and Farid did. They would have their own translators to make sure they had obtained the right codex and that the writings were really dangerous to the orthodox Christian cause.

  Shucking off his filthy T-shirt, he crossed to his kitchen counter and turned on the answering machine.

  "This is Farid. We need to talk ASAP, my friend. Important new development. Beep."

  "Abu Najaf here. I have what you are looking for. Meet me at the Khah al Zeir Café at nine tonight."

  Greg was startled. What he was looking for? How could Abu Najaf know anything? Salima would never take him into her confidence—she did not trust her brother. But if it were not the codex, what was Abu doing? He felt a prickle of unease.

  Picking up his phone, Greg punched in Farid's number. Farid did not answer and Greg hung up in exasperation.

  * * * *

  THE DARKNESS CLOSED in around Greg like a closet full of old winter coats. Dim bulbs lit the shop doorways—the ones that had lights at all.

  He hurried up Khan al Zeit Street. His heart beat uncomfortably fast and he could not resist the urge to glance behind him every hundred feet or so. A futile exercise at best, since the streets of East Jerusalem twisted and turned like a Bostonian cow path. And the height of the street changed, varying from flat, cobble-stoned surfaces to steps that climbed up and down without warning.

  Not a good place for a chase—or a quick escape.

  The Damascus Gate loomed ahead. Greg quickened his pace, noting that very few other people were out.

  He reached the wall. As he stepped forward out of the light into deep shadows, he tripped over something.

  No ... oh no, not this...

  The body of a young man lay at his feet. Greg pulled out his penlight and gently turned it over.

  Abu Najaf gazed fixedly at nothing. His corpse was still warm.

  * * * *

  GREG RAN ALL the way from the Damascus Gate, desperate to get to Salima's apartment before anyone else did. Still breathing hard, he pounded on the narrow door. It flew open, and he found himself gazing down into the wide, scared eyes of Salima Najaf.

  She took in the grim set of Greg's face and gasped. “Abu—you have found him?"

  He reached out and gripped her shoulder to steady her. “Salima, I'm sorry...” he began. Salima slid out of his grasp and collapsed in a heap on the floor. Tears slid from her imploring dark eyes as she gestured for him to tell her.

  "I came back from Masada and I checked my answering machine. There was a message from Abu. He wanted me to meet him at the Damascus Gate at ten, said he had something important to tell me that couldn't be said over the phone.” Greg squatted down so his face was level with Salima's. “I found him right near the Damascus Gate. Stabbed. It must have been very quick; he didn't suffer."

  "He should never have taken that job.” She sobbed.

  "I think—I'm not sure
—that he was working for Les Agents de Dieu, the radical Christian group. The one that is fighting us for possession of the papyri."

  Salima's eyes, already huge with shock, became black pools. “You are right. We just found out—Farid and I—two nights ago. He was going to tell you...” she broke down completely.

  Gently, Greg pulled Salima to her feet and led her over to the low divan draped with a colorful Persian rug. “Sit,” he commanded. “I'm going to make you some hot tea."

  Greg found the tea canister and boiled water on the tiny stove. While he worked, he told Salima what had to be done about her brother's body. “The police will be here soon. Tell me as much as you know.” He added three teaspoons of sugar and handed her the mug.

  Salima grasped it like a talisman and began to talk. “I've been certain Abu was up to no good for weeks now. He would not tell me what his new job was, or who he was working for. Just that it was important. And he was spending more money—he bought an expensive watch the other day. We can't afford such things!"

  "Did he get phone calls here?” asked Greg.

  "Yes! And he wouldn't let me talk to whoever it was—but it was always a man who called. He had an accent—maybe French?” she wrinkled her brow.

  Greg frowned. The Lebanese, again? Was he part French?

  "Did you ever see him with his employer?"

  "No—Abu took good care I should not see him."

  Someone pounded on Salima's door. Salima went to answer it, slim shoulders held erect.

  A thirty-something Israeli officer with two companions stood on the doorstep. “Salima Najaf?” he said, flipping his badge at her.

  "Yes, I am she."

  The three men entered. “Who are you?” barked the officer, looking at Greg.

  "Gregory Manzur,” said Greg. “A friend of Miss Najaf's."

  The officer gave him a skeptical once-over and turned back to Salima. “Miss Najaf, I am very sorry to inform you that your brothe,r Abu, is dead."

  Salima gasped and put her hands over her mouth, as if she had not heard the news already. “How could this happen? Where?"

  "He was stabbed. Murdered, near the Damascus Gate."

  The officer turned to focused on Greg. “A man of your description was seen near the body. You will both come with me for questioning."

  * * * *

  SALIMA LET GREG find her jacket for her, and they followed the three officers out to their vehicle.

  As the police car whisked them towards the East Jerusalem station, Salima sat stunned, leaning slightly against Greg's comforting bulk in the back seat. Her mind whirled with images of herself trying to explain the whole mess to her parents. Should she tell them the whole story, now that Abu was dead? Or leave out the terrorist connection and let her parents think it was just a mugging gone wrong? But then she remembered whom they were dealing with, and the fact that she herself, as well as her parents, could be in danger because of Abu's foolhardy search for glory and excitement.

  Her little brother was dead. Tears poured down her cheeks.

  They had arrived. Greg kept a steady hand at Salima's elbow as they entered the station. The leader motioned for them to sit down near the front desk. Salima sank into a hard plastic chair that made no concession to body shape, and folded her trembling hands.

  Greg remained standing, looking at the swinging door as if he expected to see someone he knew.

  A man of medium height with a compact body and luminous brown eyes entered the lobby. “Manzur! I was afraid it was you.” He did not sound pleased. “I'm going to interview the young lady first.” He nodded at Salima. “Come with me, please, Miss Najaf."

  "But I can explain,” said Greg.

  "Just wait your turn,” said the man, fixing Greg with a hard stare. “You've caused enough trouble already."

  Salima followed him dutifully into a small office and took the indicated chair.

  "Now, Miss Najaf, do not be alarmed. We are pretty sure you have nothing to do with this murder, but we have to be thorough. My name is Rafi Edelstein, by the way."

  "How do you know my friend Greg?” asked Salima.

  "Let's just say he's helped us with some inquiries in the past. Unfortunately, he likes to act first and ask permission second, so this causes problems. Now, tell me exactly what happened tonight."

  Salima complied, fighting back new floods of tears as she explained how her brother's job had been a secret to all of them until the night Abu became drunk. “Farid and I, we had no idea—nor did my parents, who still allow Abu much rope..."

  "The parents are always the last to know,” said Rafi grimly. “Tell me about your connections with Farid el Baz and Gregory Manzur."

  Salima held nothing back, realizing as she talked that Rafi Edelstein had been very clever to isolate her from Greg. Greg would have preferred to censure her account, she was certain. “...So we are looking for the missing fragments of this codex,” she finished.

  "We were aware that new manuscripts had surfaced, but you have just provided several important details,” said Rafi in a tone that boded no good for Greg when his turn came.

  "Are you familiar with this terrorist group, Les Agents de Dieu?"

  Rafi looked at her searchingly. “I think you already know something about them,” he said. “They are not good to know—or to know about. They are the worst kind of terrorists. They kill not only their opponents—anyone they deem an ‘unbeliever,’ but innocent bystanders who just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

  "Is my family in danger?” asked Salima, biting her lip.

  "Probably not—as long as you stay away from those manuscripts."

  "But I am the chief translator! I have to finish this. It is the only way I will ever get a permanent academic job."

  Rafi sighed. “I can see you are one of those scholars who won't let go. Just try to keep the activity away from your family's apartment. Do your translations at the University, not at Greg's apartment. Try not to be seen together with Greg and Farid so much."

  Salima nodded, uncertain how she would accomplish this.

  Rafi rose to escort her back to the lobby. “Now I have just a few questions for Greg,” he said, his back stiff and his voice grim.

  * * * *

  SALIMA STOOD AS Greg reappeared in the doorway.

  He took her arm, and they exited into the street where Greg flagged down a taxi.

  "Was he very angry?” asked Salima.

  Greg smiled. “Oh, yes. Rafi and I go back a long time."

  "Because you interfere in police work?"

  Greg's eyebrows shot up. “Is that what he told you? It's a bit more complicated than that.” He thought for a moment. “I am on a special team of scholars and army officers who try to prevent the destruction and illegal trade of antiquities. That's all I can tell you for now, Salima."

  Salima was too exhausted to question him further. The upcoming scene with her parents loomed in her mind. She was the bearer of dreadful news. The Najaf's only son had disgraced his family. Abu's death was grief enough but the fact of murder and the reasons for that murder meant scandal and shame for everyone close to Abu.

  As Salima started to cry again, the thought crossed her mind that her parents would be so devastated that they might even postpone her marriage to Farid.

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  Chapter Twenty-Five

  When you make the two one ... and when you make the male and the female into a single one, so that the male is not male and the female is not female ... then you shall enter the kingdom. [Gospel of Thomas, Saying 22]

  THIS WHOLE TRIP was a crazy idea. Lisa was full of doubt as they set off in Greg's car for Ein Gedi. Two of them traipsing around the desert, racing against goodness-knows-whom to find the source of the codex manuscripts. They planned to stop at the kibbutz and fill up their water bottles and then hike south through the Judean Desert to Nahal Se'elim, a little north of the fortress of Masada. Greg was sure the cave he wanted was along the
dried-up riverbed.

  Greg changed gears and roared up the narrow dirt road.

  "Jeez!” complained Lisa, as she was slung from side to side in the old VW wagon. “Can't you slow down? We've got plenty of time."

  "Sorry. But it's not as much time as you think. We need to locate the entrance of the cave before dark, and then find a place to hide until it's safe to move. I'm hoping there's no one else up there."

  Lisa hoped so, too. Anyone else would be on the other side, and would probably shoot first and ask questions later.

  The scenery filled her mind with awe. Stark and inhospitable, with all the red and ocher a painter could desire. The only paths out here were goat trails, narrow and treacherous. She was grateful that her socks were thick and her hiking boots were good ones, thoroughly broken in so she wouldn't get blisters.

  "Tell me about Abu Najaf,” she said, as they drove. Salima and her family must be both grief-stricken and shocked.

  "He was stabbed, probably by one of his employers in Les Agents. The police gave both of us a hard time, but they were not really suspicious of me since I have helped them ... I've been useful ... on other occasions. Salima clearly knew nothing about her brother's activities, so she's in the clear."

  "Salima must be devastated by her brother's death,” said Lisa.

  "She is."

  Lisa wanted to ask about the times Greg had “been useful” to the police, but just then they pulled into the kibbutz. Greg hopped out with the water bottles, and trotted into the kitchen where he had friends. While she waited, Lisa climbed out of the car and stretched. There would be time later for questions. Greg was right—the shadows were already lengthening and the reds deepening to purple.

  Greg returned with a jaunty grin and a small bag of Jaffa oranges. “Food of the gods,” he said, as he started the car again.

  "That, and chocolate,” said Lisa, who had packed sturdy bars of her favorite food.

  Soon Greg parked the car and they shouldered their backpacks. Greg pulled out a handgun and stuck it in his belt.

  Lisa eyed it cautiously. “Know how to use that thing?"