The Dead Sea Codex Page 4

  "Or those that believed women could have religious visions, unassisted by any man or religious leader. That meant most Gnostics were considered heretics,” said Salima.

  "Listen to Salima here,” said Farid. “The early Christian period with its multiple sects is her specialty."

  Lisa had already gathered this. “You mean that women could be religious leaders as well as men."

  Salima nodded eagerly. “Even more controversial was Mary's idea that the divine—the Son of Man—is within you. It is not external to the self; everyone can experience the divine."

  "Without being told what to think—by anyone,” finished Greg. He glanced at Lisa, who rolled her eyes. “Sorry, I do lay it on rather thick. But people who believe they have the corner on religion and that no one else can get into Heaven without their guidance make me mad.” He scratched his head vigorously, as if he were trying to rub out unwelcome ideas—or people.

  "Mary Magdalene was supposed to be more than a disciple of Jesus, right?” said Lisa.

  Farid nodded. “She may have been his wife,” he said, lighting a second cigarette from the stub of his first one with nicotine-stained fingers. “But many Christians would say there's no proof Jesus was married. Maybe it just means she was a follower, a student rather than a teacher. And some people do not want to believe that any woman, not even Mary Magdalene, was allowed to preach."

  Salima interrupted. “I am sorry, I cannot do any more tonight."

  Greg sighed and pushed back his chair. “She's right, we're stuck for the moment. Farid will call us when he's got a more legible copy. So let's call it quits for now."

  As Lisa was stuffing her notes in her purse, a thought struck her. Farid hadn't seemed surprised about the papyrus at the museum. Was that because he knew about it already?

  Farid el Baz might be Greg's friend, but he would bear watching.

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  Chapter Eight

  Wise men of old gave the soul a feminine name. Indeed she is female in her nature as well. [Exegesis on the Soul II: 127]

  SALIMA NAJAF DROOPED with exhaustion. After the terror of Farid's disappearance, she had no energy left to deal with her younger brother Abu.

  She unlocked the door of her family's apartment on the Jaffa Road. Eighteen-year-old Abu wasn't home, but his debris was everywhere—two pairs of dirty sneakers, a used T-shirt, and yesterday's Ha'aretz newspaper littered the floor. Salima would have to tidy up before her parents came home from work.

  Salima pushed aside the unread mail and dumped her parcels on the grubby table.

  She sighed as she recalled her agreement with her conservative parents. Salima could take a temporary job, but only until she married Farid El Baz, the love of her life. By some miracle, both sets of parents had approved the match.

  The Najafs approved of Farid, so long as the engaged couple observed all the proprieties, but they did not approve of Salima's career ambitions.

  "Why do you want to be a professor?” asked her father, who was a butcher. “That is a job for men."

  "But times have changed, Papa. Many women work outside the home and also work at the University."

  "A good Muslim girl should not be working after her marriage; she should concentrate on running her husband's household and making him happy,” was her mother's contribution. Her mother had never had any desire to work outside the home that was the center of her life. It was enough for her to help her husband with his correspondence occasionally.

  "I assure you, I can handle my work and keep Farid's house perfectly well. After all, my job is research, with flexible hours."

  Salima's parents shook their heads. More discussion resulted in a compromise. Salima could be a research associate in the Epigraphy Department at Hebrew University, but she would adjust her work schedule so she could keep an eye on trouble-prone Abu, giving him his last chance to straighten out and hold a job down for longer than two weeks. If he didn't succeed, their father would send him to Uncle Mohammad in Lebanon to herd sheep. Salima knew that Abu hated that idea; his idea of heaven was the bright lights and cafés of Jerusalem.

  So far, Abu was earning money, supposedly by selling door-to-door magazine subscriptions. Salima's parents had believed this fairy tale, but she did not. Abu would never settle for something so mundane, without any thrills or hint of political activism. Salima was now paying the price for hiding her brother's more nefarious activities from her mother and father. Now they didn't believe her when she tried to tell them Abu was lying.

  Salima had cornered Abu a couple of time, but he had sullenly refused to tell his older sister the truth about his job. “It's a man's business,” he said, sticking his aquiline nose into the air and tossing his long bangs back. “My employer is rich; he's going to make me rich. Then Papa will be proud of me."

  She would have to try again, perhaps today if Abu arrived home before her mother. Salima unpacked her groceries, storing yogurt in the tiny fridge and stocking the miniscule pantry with chickpeas, rice, and flat bread. As she chopped vegetables for the soup that would feed the four of them tomorrow, her stomach churned with hunger and worry.

  The money was too good, too soon. What was Abu doing?

  She knew her brother well. Salima had a nasty feeling Abu's job was both illegal and dangerous.

  The key turned in the lock. Salima whirled around.

  Her brother sauntered in, his dark eyes glittering with excitement and something else. Salima sniffed: hashish. Had he been smoking, or just sitting in a room full of smoke? She peered into his face—his eyes were dilated. Drugged, then. She could trust him not to drink; that was against their religion. But drugs were acceptable—barely.

  "Where have you been?” she demanded in Arabic. “You should have been home hours ago."

  "I had an errand to do,” said Abu loftily as he flung himself into the only comfortable armchair.

  "What errand? For whom?"

  Abu's eyes flashed. “I don't have to tell you! You are not Papa, you do not own me!"

  "I am your older sister, and Papa made me partly responsible for you.

  "You are merely a woman, and I will be man of the house someday.” He puffed out his narrow chest in a parody of masculine strength.

  "Insha'allah, I will survive this purgatory,” muttered Salima, as she sat on the couch opposite him. She tried a new tack. “Why will you not tell me about your job?"

  "Because I was told be silent,” snapped her brother. “I do not advertise what I do, nor should you. I do not tell you because you would talk."

  "Only to our parents. Are you doing something so secret you cannot tell Papa?"

  Abu made a face and crossed his arms.

  Then it was true. Salima was sure now the job was dangerous.

  Was it dangerous just for Abu, or for her family as well?

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  Chapter Nine

  Recognize what is hidden in front of your face, and what is concealed will be revealed to you. For there is nothing hidden that will not be disclosed. [The Gospel of Thomas]

  THE EVENING AIR was mild and the City of Gold was hopping.

  Everyone was out. Soldiers strolled with their girlfriends, slender young women wearing tight jeans and high-heeled sandals. Parents walked arm in arm, herding sticky children clutching ice cream cones. And the tourists were everywhere—Japanese draped with camera gear, French women garbed in understated but sexy clothes and smoking smelly cigarettes, and Americans with their mismatched clothes and ugly running shoes.

  Lisa had chosen a popular outdoor bar on King David Street for her vigil. Her metal chair was wedged into a corner near a canopy pole. She could scarcely move without her chair banging into someone else's. Smoke and alcohol fumes wafted around her head.

  When she was home in Philadelphia, the very thought of sipping wine in a foreign café sent Lisa into pleasant daydreams. Now that she was back in Israel, the reality fell short. The bright lights and tourists clad in e
verything from micro-shorts to cowboy hats couldn't hold her attention, and even the limpid eyes of the man at the next table failed to rouse her.

  The red wine tasted harsh and her stomach rebelled. It must be her state of mind. Lisa was worried about Greg, perplexed about the codex, and had no clue what she was going to tell her rambunctious and indiscreet best friend. Ellen Perkins was arriving tomorrow, and Lisa would have a hard time keeping any secrets from the woman who'd known her since the beginning of grad school.

  She pushed her glass aside and stared at the latest postcard to her father. She wished she could write as she had seven years ago: Dear Dad. Having a great time, send money to my American Express account. Love, Lisa. Instead, she needed innocuous stories about her museum work to soothe her dad who was already uneasy about his only daughter traveling in the volatile Middle East.

  How about, Was followed to Jerusalem by suspicious character and am now in the middle of a search for lost manuscripts worth millions. Love, Lisa.

  Lisa shook her head and then looked at her watch. Greg should have been back an hour ago, but deals took longer in Jerusalem. Assuming he and Farid had found Yacoub Haddad, they were probably bargaining in a leisurely fashion over their third cup of mint tea. She had insisted on going with them to Yacoub's shop, but Greg had squelched her by reminding her that the merchants of East Jerusalem were far more likely to deal with a man than with a woman. It was no use arguing—Greg was right.

  Her glass was empty, but she didn't want any more gut-rotting wine until the suspense was over.

  Wait a minute—why should she wait at all? Lisa knew roughly where Yacoub's shop was. She wouldn't interfere in the bargaining—she'd just be a piece of furniture.

  Lisa pulled out a map of Jerusalem from her purse and studied it carefully.

  Piece of cake. She knew her way around that part of the Old City.

  She smiled. Greg would be surprised to see her.

  * * * *

  LISA MANAGED TO find the shop on Khan al Zeit without consulting her map again. The narrow cobbled streets were illuminated with paper lanterns in the shapes of stars or crosses and bare light bulbs hanging precariously overhead. Although Arab men crowded the cafes, smoking the nargillah and talking, she was one of the only women in this part of town. Her blond hair glowed in the dusk, making her feel like she had a sign—or maybe a target—on her back. She should have worn a hat or at least a scarf.

  As she approached her target, she looked uphill along the arch-covered street. Farid El Baz was deep in conversation with a tall man with reddish hair who was lounging in a doorway, smoking a cigarette. Lisa wondered if the tall man was a friend, colleague, or partner-in-crime. She meant to find out.

  Next to Yacoub's was a brass vendor's stall with ornate coffee tables mounted on carved wooden stands and a collection of tall urns. Thick carpets in jewel-tones of midnight blue and scarlet hung from wires along the narrow alley, and the air smelled of dust and dung.

  Lisa stepped inside Yacoub's shop and looked around. It was a musty-smelling shack with a dirty tile floor that was littered with dead cockroaches and Jordanian cigarette butts.

  Yacoub Haddad was a fabric dealer—or at least that was his day job. His shop was full of gaudy cotton dresses and embroidered woolen robes, hanging from rods and stacked to the ceiling on tables and shelves. At the rear was the usual second room for entertaining and arranging special deals.

  Lisa was the only one in the front room. She stood listening to the voices and the clink of china in the other room. Her gaze traveled up and down the stacks of fabric bolts and she noticed that the ends of the rolled fabric tubes were hollow.

  Farid el Baz returned a few minutes later.

  "Is Greg here?” Lisa asked.

  Farid nodded and held his finger over his lips.

  She lowered her voice. “Who was the red-haired guy?"

  "Just a friend.” Farid whispered, and motioned for Lisa to join him near the curtain separating the selling area from the back of the shop.

  Lisa, doubting that Farid had told her the truth about the red-haired man, took up a position where she could peek around the purple cotton cloth slung over a rope that served as a room divider. Fortunately, she was able to see all three men. One man—she assumed it was Yacoub—was a tall, skinny Bedouin dressed in a shirt that had once been blue, dirty khakis, and a checkered kefiyyeh. His associate was slight, dark, and similarly garbed. Greg's head was out of sight, but his dirty blue jeans and disreputable old Birkenstocks were visible.

  Farid lingered closer to the front door, ostensibly fingering embroidered cottons, but Lisa figured his real job was keeping an eye on the street scene so the meeting would not be disturbed.

  Mint tea was set out on a low brass table, and the three men were smoking Turkish cigarettes as they sipped the sweet brew and talked.

  It sounded like Lisa had arrived right at the end of the social part of the visit—the usual pleasantries about Yacoub's business, and the health of his children and grandchildren in Beersheva. They were speaking in English punctuated with occasional phrases of Arabic.

  Greg now broached the subject they all wanted to discuss. “You have more of the manuscript?"

  "Yes. How much are you prepared to offer?"

  "I can't name a figure until I've seen it—you know that."

  Reluctantly, Yacoub rose and unlocked a small cabinet. He extracted a tissue wrapped bundle and unrolled it.

  Greg took the bundle gingerly, and shoving aside his cup, laid out the precious papyrus. Again, it was only a fragment, but it looked larger than the first one. Lisa could tell from Greg's intense gaze and careful movements that he was excited.

  "Where is it from?” he asked quietly.

  Lisa held her breath, hoping against hope that they would give away some nugget of real information.

  "Same place as the other."

  "And where was that?"

  "Dead Sea area. The cliffs on the west side."

  Great, thought Lisa. That covered a lot of tortuously difficult terrain.

  "North or south of Ein Gedi?” asked Greg.

  "Not far from kibbutz. I don't know north or south."

  Lisa's pulse raced. That meant that the caves of Qumran to the north—the site of the first Dead Sea Scrolls—were out of the running. So, they should concentrate on the southern portion of the Dead Sea area—still an enormous territory. It was all desert crisscrossed with numerous dried-up river valleys and hundreds of caves.

  She listened as Greg tried a few more questions but got nowhere. The Bedouins were canny; they knew they could make more money by doling out information—and manuscripts—in tiny parcels.

  Greg named a sum and was refused. He countered. He was refused a second time—all part of the game. The three men had more tea, argued some more, and finally a price was named that met with everyone's approval.

  The document changed hands, and Greg rewrapped it carefully in the tissue paper. He unbuttoned two buttons near his collar, preparing to hide his prize.

  Dimly, Lisa registered someone coming into the shop behind her. She whipped around to see Farid pull something out of his pocket.

  Then the single overhead light bulb went out.

  A hand grabbed Lisa by shoulder and hurled her against the wall of fabric. As she fell, she smelled an acrid mixture of garlic, cologne, and sweat.

  The newcomer rushed past her. She heard shouts and thuds, and then the stumbling rush of at least one person running past her towards the front door.

  Someone nearby groaned, and a door slammed.

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  Chapter Ten

  You see the splinter in your brother's eye but you do not see the plank in your own eye. [Gospel of Thomas]

  DAZED AND BRUISED, Lisa reached up one hand and groped for the light string. Her forehead collided with it and she tugged the light on, surprised that it actually worked.

  In the dim light of the forty-watt bulb, the front of the sh
op was deserted and the single chair overturned. Lisa pulled the curtain aside cautiously and found one body on the floor.

  Greg.

  She dropped to her knees and turned him over. There was very little blood, but an ugly lump was rising on the side of his head. His eyelids fluttered.

  "We have to stop meeting like this,” he mumbled, groggily.

  Lisa laughed and helped him sit up. “What happened?"

  Greg clutched his head and struggled to make his eyes focus. “What the hell are you doing here?” he said in a more normal voice.

  "Came to find you. Are you all right?” A stupid question.

  "Yes. No ... I got clobbered."

  "I can see that,” she said, feeling the lump on his head. “Where's Farid"

  "Don't know.” Cautiously, Greg stood up, using Lisa's shoulder as a crutch. He groped inside his shirt. “Shit. The papyrus is missing. What a mess. Let me tell you what happened..."

  Lisa refused to listen to his story until she'd gotten him out of the Muslim Quarter and away from flapping ears.

  Greg feigned drunkenness, sagging against a stop sign, until Lisa flagged down a sherut to take them back to Greg's apartment. Once safely inside, she pestered him with questions while making an ice pack for his head.

  "So, did you see who stole the papyrus from you?"

  "No. Whoever it was slugged me and I passed out."

  "I couldn't see a thing,” said Lisa. “I was thrown against a pile of fabric bolts and it was pitch dark."

  Greg's mouth twisted. “When I woke up, everyone had disappeared except you."

  Lisa pushed him back against the pillows on his bed and eyed him. He was a pig-headed idiot who attracted trouble like road kill drew flies. But he was awfully attractive.

  "Now what?"

  Greg groaned. “I don't know. I'd give up a steady salary to see what's in that second papyrus fragment, but now it's gone."

  "Well, you didn't see what happened to Farid. Maybe he found out..."

  Someone pounded on the door.