The Dead Sea Codex Read online

  Without the consolation of either boyfriend or feline companion, the best thing to do would be to get something to eat and keep her eleven o'clock appointment at the Museum. Grabbing her canvas carryall with her notebook and camera, Lisa strolled out of the hotel into the blazing white morning of early May.

  Shops were open, and everyone was out running errands or hurrying to work. Cafés did a brisk business in coffee-with-milk and vegetable salad and pita sandwiches, eaten at stand-up tables by businessmen, soldiers, and university students.

  Lisa squinted against the glare and groped for her sunglasses, but she had forgotten them back at the hotel. She wandered into the produce market off Jaffa road, inhaling the mixed aromas of fish, donkey piss, and ripe melons. Vendors called out in three languages, waving lettuces in her face and pointing to their wares.

  "For you, best price!"

  "Fresh chicken! Killed for market just this morning!” Lisa shuddered as she observed the little feathered corpses with limp necks stacked high on a table—no neatly wrapped Styrofoam and saran-wrapped packages here. The neighboring table boasted a display of organ meats—slimy slabs of liver, wrinkled brains, and shiny ropes of intestines—that she rarely saw in the supermarkets at home.

  She passed a falafel stand, trailed by a trio of little boys begging for coins. Her stomach growled at the savory smell of deep-fried chickpeas with cilantro and cumin. Ignoring the street kids, Lisa turned around, following the smell like a stray cat in search of handouts. She halted, spotting the Lebanese computer salesman standing a block away gazing at a shop window.

  Coincidence? Or was he following her? She had forgotten to ask the bus driver where he had let this other passenger out. Lisa fished for Israeli coins in her purse while she thought about how to lose him.

  "Falafel with everything, please,” she said. “I like lots of cucumber and leben on it.” Her whole being anticipated the heavenly crunch of the falafel balls nestled in among fresh cucumber and tomatoes and yogurt sauce. The little man handed her the order and took her money with a sly little smile.

  Lisa took a large, greedy bite and her head exploded.

  Bits of cucumber and tomato, liberally coated with yogurt, flew all over the street.

  She had forgotten about those cute little green hot peppers that came with falafel if you asked for “everything.” Eyes streaming, she groped for her drink.

  A brown hand pulled it away from her. “That will just prolong the agony,” said a male voice. “Give the lady some plain pita,” he told the nasty vendor, who was chuckling at Lisa's discomfiture. “And make it snappy,” he added in perfect Hebrew.

  Lisa was dimly aware of the second man passing her another piece of bread. “Try this. It will work better than any liquid.” His voice had a sexy foreign accent, but Lisa still couldn't see what he looked like until she had mopped off her face with her napkin.

  Next to her was a tall, well-built man in a short-sleeved white shirt opened almost to the navel. Her gaze traveled upwards to meet his amused blue eyes. He was easily the best-looking man she had ever seen: a veritable David, with curly blond hair and a spectacular bod...

  Lisa pulled herself together. “I should have remembered the peppers,” she said. “That happened to me when I was here as a student, years ago."

  "Humiliating foreigners is a favorite pastime anywhere,” the man said. “Now, where are you going? Perhaps I can help you."

  "The Israel Museum. I'm meeting the curator there.” She didn't want this handsome stranger to think she was lost, or that she always walked around coated with cucumber.

  "You're not ... Lisa Donahue from Philadelphia, are you?"

  She stared. “Yes, I am. How on earth ... then you're...?"

  "Arieh Golovey. Your museum contact in Jerusalem."

  Lisa held out her hand. Arieh grasped it firmly and his eyes slid over her bosom and back to her eyes. Lisa, feeling warm, withdrew her hand.

  "What a coincidence, meeting you like this.” Lisa pretended to adjust her sandal as she took a quick look behind her. No Lebanese businessman.

  "Not really,” replied Arieh. “I live near here, and I was just on my way to work."

  He turned onto Ramban Street and Lisa followed. Golovey smiled charmingly and asked her about her trip, and they talked polite nonsense until they saw the museum looming ahead.

  The Israel Museum was the largest and most comprehensive museum in Israel, and a magnet for all biblical archaeologists. Home of the Dead Sea Scrolls in the Shrine of the Book and 30,000 years of history, it was one of Lisa's favorite museums. When she got tired of looking at pots and stone tools, she could wander around the fabulous sculpture garden absorbing Henry Moores, Rodins, and Picassos.

  Golovey's English was excellent, so Lisa had no opportunity to exercise her rusty Hebrew. As he surged ahead of her to open the door, Lisa noted the ex-army swagger, the supreme physical confidence that most young Israeli men exuded after a successful stint policing borders and repelling would-be settlers.

  "Let's go into the library where we can look at the artifacts,” said Arieh. He led the way past ranks of beige storage cabinets and turned smartly into a well-lit, air-conditioned room lined with books. The pottery Lisa had come thousands of miles to examine was neatly laid out on a large worktable.

  There were assorted jars, dishes, and lamps, in reddish-tan clay, along with Minoan amphorae decorated with octopi. Lisa slid on the white gloves every curator wore when handling precious ceramics, and picked up a delicate goblet.

  "LM III?” she hazarded, referring to the Late Minoan date of the pottery.

  "Yes, Doctor Lisa,” Golovey replied, with a bow that caused his gold chain to dip and sway over his chest curls.

  Good grief. He really should button up that shirt—but she knew Mediterranean men liked to show off their bodies. No wonder so many ancient Greek vases were painted with nude young men in athletic poses.

  "And you have some Roman period storage jars?"

  "Right here.” Golovey donned his own gloves and picked up a medium-sized, bulbous jar with its lid still in place and held it out to her.

  "Has your conservation lab done any analysis for contents?” Lisa asked, thinking of chemical tests that were becoming common for identification of ancient trade substances such as perfumed oil, wine, and dyes. Museum exhibits were much more interesting if they explained the history and function of the artifacts.

  "No. Our budget does not permit it. But while you have the artifacts on loan, perhaps your museum will do some non-destructive tests?"

  "Possibly,” said Lisa, wondering if Valerie Albrecht, her museum boss in Philadelphia, had budgeted anything for analysis.

  She extracted her notebook and her Olympus digital camera from her purse. “Okay if I take some photos? Then I can fax them to Valerie for final approval and we can complete the Loan Agreement."

  "Okey-dokey,” replied Golovey. “You take your time, and I'll get you the print-outs with all the information you'll need."

  Lisa welcomed a little time to examine the pottery without a disturbingly attractive man watching her every move. Quickly she fished out her dental mirror and magnifier with flashlight—essential tools for artifact examination—and picked up each jar in turn, looking for repairs and other anomalies.

  She reached for the third jar, grabbing it clumsily. The lid came off in her hand, shedding a little pile of clay dust as it did so. Feeling like a total klutz, Lisa shone the flashlight inside. Nothing.

  Then she saw an anomaly, a brown area on the interior that had a different texture from the fired clay. Her index finger brushed something rough, and she turned the jar sideways towards the light. There was a curled fragment of what looked like paper, stuck to the wall of the jar. Once again, she reached into to her capacious bag for her tweezers, which enabled her to grasp the paper and pull it out. She was expecting a yellowed museum tag with numbers on it.

  It wasn't paper; it was papyrus.

  Her hands shook. Su
rely she was mistaken?

  She looked again. There was writing on it. Lisa squinted through the magnifier, but the letters were faint and almost illegible. But it was definitely Greek, written in faded brown ink. This was exactly the sort of fragment that would benefit from scanning and high-resolution computer manipulation. Lisa smoothed it flat with her left palm, whipped out her boss's Olympus digital camera, and quickly took two pictures.

  Lisa heard footsteps. Arieh Golovey was returning. Did he know about the papyrus? Or was she the first person to see it?

  To tell or not to tell, that was the question. If she hadn't received that strange note, Lisa would have immediately told the curator of her find. But her new caution held her back. Besides, Arieh had said she could take photos of the jars. Surely that included the contents. What if she told him about the papyrus and then he insisted on taking away Valerie's camera? Then she'd really be in the soup.

  Quickly she dropped the scrap of papyrus back into its jar, replaced the lid, and swished the little pile of debris off the table with her glove. When the curator entered the library, Lisa was innocently taking notes on another pot, her flashlight now lying next to her notebook.

  "Here's the final list of artifacts for your loan.” He flourished the printout in front of her nose.

  "Thanks. What do you know about the provenance of the Minoan amphorae?"

  "Coastal, almost certainly the Jaffa area."

  "And the Roman jars?"

  "Ah, that's more interesting.” Golovey pulled up a chair uncomfortably close to Lisa and put his hairy arms on the table. It looked like he had a permanent golden-brown tan. His voice dropped to a low, sexy rumble. “Somewhere near the Dead Sea."

  The words “Dead Sea” jolted Lisa out of her preoccupation with Arieh. “You don't know more than that?” she asked, thinking of the caves of Qumran and the Dead Sea Scrolls.

  "We don't know for sure. Possibly the Wadi Murabba'at. We're trying to find the Arab dealer who sold them to our acquisitions assistant. He's new, and not very experienced. Didn't ask enough questions.” Arieh's bright blue eyes focused on her mouth.

  The Wadi Murabba'at. That was the site of the second century A.D. Bar Kokhba documents. She schooled her normally expressive face into immobility. “I'll need more information than that before I can file the customs papers and complete the loan agreement,” she said, speaking slowly to hide her excitement. “How about I look over the lists, and you call me when you've found that dealer? And I'd like to spend more time going over the artifacts. Right now, though, the jet lag is getting to me—I really need to rest."

  That was a lie. An exhausted body and gritty eyes couldn't complete with the possibility of a major find.

  They made an appointment for two days later, and Lisa left the museum trying to ignore the sweat tricking down her back and the insistent little voice in her head.

  You fraud. You've just withheld important evidence from a colleague and taken photos without permission.

  At least she hadn't actually stolen the papyrus.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Four

  Do not exchange your holy spirit for any wealth, for no price is worth it ... [Dead Sea Scroll, Wisdom Texts, A (4Q416-18)]

  THE CAFÉ-BAR WAS crowded with students and soldiers imbibing their favorite aperitifs and devouring plates of hummus. The soldiers, guns slung casually over their shoulders, gesticulated and talked loudly in a mixture of Hebrew and English. They crowded together, faces closer than the American norm, and observed the tourists with lively interest. Students from Holland, Germany, France, and Britain lounged in corners, grungy backpacks parked in any open space.

  With some difficulty, Lisa secured a little table in the corner and gratefully plunked down her heavy bag to hold her spot. Beer ... icy cold and lots of it, that's what she needed. She'd once tried a freezing plunge in a hotel pool to banish jet lag. Now she fancied chilling from the inside out.

  At the counter, she was accosted by two of the young soldiers who were eager to practice their English.

  "Where are you from?” asked the shorter one. “Are you Swedish?"

  The hazards of being blonde.

  "No, American."

  "Ah! New York? Chicago?"

  "Boston."

  Lisa ignored further questions and ordered a Goldstar and a plate of hummus with tahina sauce, her mouth watering as she waited for the heavenly garlic-chickpea-sesame concoction. Clearly her appetite was unaffected by jet lag. She scanned the crowd and was disturbed but not surprised to see the Lebanese computer salesman seated at a nearby table. He sketched a little salute with a beautifully manicured hand.

  Lisa turned her back in frustration. How was she going to get rid of this guy?

  A hand touched her arm. Bracing herself for the usual pick-up line, Lisa turned and found herself gazing at a man near her own height with straight brown hair flopping over his eyebrows.

  "Greg!"

  "Lisa.” He reached out and hugged her.

  Lisa's heart rattled in her ribcage so loudly she was sure he could hear it. She pulled back from his embrace and studied his face, older and wearier than she remembered.

  "It's good to see you again. I knew you were still in the country, but I didn't really expect to run into you,” she said.

  Greg's mouth twisted into a frown. “Wouldn't you have called me? We're still friends, after all."

  Friends, competitive colleagues, and ex-lovers. A complicated mixture and one Lisa did not particularly wish to revisit. Her stomach clenched.

  But Greg smiled into her eyes and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Where's your table?"

  He followed her through the crowded room, carrying his own beer and Lisa's platter of hummus and warm pita. Lisa sat down, mentally thanking Greg for solving the problem of the omniscient Lebanese.

  Greg hauled up a second chair and tore off a piece of bread without waiting for her.

  "You always did swipe my food,” Lisa said sarcastically. Little vibrations traveled up and down her spine. Why was he so attractive? Gregory Manzur, PhD, biblical archaeologist and excavator-for-hire, was barely five feet ten in his socks and his features were very ordinary. But his eyes were a warm, chocolate brown and his smile was devastating. That, combined with a whipcord-strong body and the light movements of a dancer, made him irresistible. Seven years ago, she had been deeply in lust with him. But that was eons ago. After meeting Tom Henderson, she'd foolishly assumed that Greg—and the feelings he aroused—would stay safely in the past.

  "You look well, Lisa. Being engaged must be good for you.” His eyes were guileless.

  "Thanks. Tom is good for me.” She'd written to Greg several months ago about the young doctor she was planning to marry in the fall.

  "A doctor, eh? Would have thought you'd marry another archaeologist, or a professor."

  "You don't fall in love with a profession. At least I don't."

  "I guess I thought you'd pick a more adventurous lifestyle."

  "You think living with a doctor isn't adventurous? Let me tell you, Tom's experience in a ghetto hospital with drunks and drug cases..."

  "That's not what I meant,” he said.

  Lisa felt a blush creeping up her neck. She reached for some pita, judging by Greg's ravenous raid on her plate that he hadn't eaten recently. Their hands bumped together over the hummus, and she noticed his nails were dirty and bitten to the quick.

  Greg grinned. “Sorry, Lisa, my manners have never been much to write home about."

  Grateful for the change of subject, she smiled back. “I thought you were working at Caesarea. Why are you here in Jerusalem?"

  "A guy can take a break, can't he?” Greg leaned back in his chair, having licked the last trace of hummus off his fingers. “Actually, I'm in town because...” He glanced around quickly. “...we've heard rumors of new manuscripts on the market.” He lowered his voice. “If they're what I think they are, they're priceless. And that's where you come in."


  Lisa stared at him. Ancient manuscripts—twice in one day. “What do you mean? I just got here."

  "You're here to arrange a loan for Philadelphia's University Museum. And you have access to the storerooms of the Israel Museum. They have some likely jars, recently acquired from the Dead Sea region. That's enough to make you a hot item, one worth following."

  "How on earth did you know about my trip? And that I've been followed?"

  "I've had my ear to the ground for weeks, and so has my pal Farid, waiting for any whisper of the sale of Roman jars that might contain papyri. Last week, we heard the Israel Museum was negotiating with curators in London and Philadelphia. The rest was easy."

  Lisa remembered Greg's uncanny ability of ferreting out information when he wanted to find someone or something. She'd no doubt that he knew to the minute when she had arrived and where she was staying. “So the Lebanese computer salesman was your guy?” she asked. As her eyes traveled to his table, she saw with a jolt that it was empty. Two soldiers with Uzis quickly claimed the chairs.

  Greg followed her gaze. “Not one of ours. Must be the other guys."

  "Ours? Other guys? For heaven's sake, tell me what's going on!"

  He waited while a tall Bedouin glided past their table towards the bar. Greg leaned closer to Lisa. “Several religious groups and at least two governments are interested, too. That makes the manuscripts worth a lot of money."

  Lisa stared at him. “Did you leave me a note at my hotel?"

  "No, or rather, not directly. I asked Farid to do it. To warn you not to talk to anyone but me."

  "It was awfully melodramatic."

  Greg snorted. “Trust Farid to make an Indiana Jones movie out of it. I should have done it myself.” He leaned towards her and used his expressive brown eyes to good effect. “If you hear anything at all that might be useful—like someone who's actually seen the papyri—you know, not rolled-up scrolls, but papyrus leaves bound in leather, or codices—call me.” He scribbled a couple of phone numbers on his napkin.