The Dead Sea Codex Read online

  He turned to Ellen and held out his hand. “Ellen, welcome to the Holy Land. Or maybe that should be Holy Terror Land, I'm not sure. I've heard a lot about you."

  "And I about you,” said Ellen meaningfully.

  Greg's eyebrows climbed to his hairline.

  Ellen guessed Greg had just realized she probably knew a lot of details about his prior relationship with Lisa. “Don't worry,” she said with a wicked grin, “I'm not the gossiping sort."

  A snort of disbelief was Lisa's response to this statement.

  "Is anything missing?” Greg asked.

  "No. You have the photo of the first papyrus fragment and the original of the second fragment, and all my notes were wadded up in my pocket,” replied Lisa.

  "Just as well,” said Greg. “You should keep it that way. Stuff your notes in your bra if you have to. Don't carry anything you care about in that shoulder bag. I'm going to put the original manuscript and the scanned copies in my safe whenever we're not actually working on it."

  Ellen noticed the way Greg's gaze lingered on Lisa's gold braid and her slender neck. She looked sharply at her best friend and saw flushed cheeks and bright eyes.

  Their relationship was history, right. Ellen thought the embers were catching fire. She really liked Lisa's fiancé, Tom Henderson. He didn't deserve to have his engagement derailed by this vagabond archaeologist.

  "So, who do you think tossed our room?” Ellen asked.

  Greg returned her gaze soberly. “Terrorists,” he said. “Religious fanatics who know we have part of the manuscript. They'll stop at nothing to prevent its publication. You two are both in danger now."

  "What?” said both women.

  "Damn it, Greg! I'm sick and tired of you telling me only half the story. What terrorists?” said Lisa.

  "And why me? I just got here!” said Ellen, her heartbeat speeding up.

  Greg sighed. “Let's sit down."

  He took the bed with the least amount of underwear piled on it. Ellen and Lisa sat on the other twin bed facing him.

  Greg stared at Lisa. “You've already told her the whole story, haven't you?"

  "Most of it."

  "Okay,” said Greg. “Farid and I talked some more last night about the theft and what it means. We think a group called Les Agents de Dieu—the Agents of God—is involved in the hunt for the codex. And that they already possess a fragment that has something explosive in it. They are particularly dangerous, and they will go after anyone they think might have information. Their ultimate goal is to destroy any ancient document that might challenge their ultra-conservative version of Christianity."

  "You could have told me this last night,” muttered Lisa.

  "I hadn't put all the pieces together,” said Greg, “And I was somewhat addled with a bump on my head, remember?” He smiled at Lisa and then transferred his gaze to Ellen. “In their eyes, you're guilty by association with Lisa and myself. And you've probably been followed here."

  "Oh,” said Ellen, swallowing hard.

  "I'll have to trust you, Ellen,” said Greg. “You can talk to me, and to Lisa, but don't discuss the manuscripts with anyone else, okay?"

  Ellen nodded. “But I don't really understand. Why would these people—Les Agents—destroy the document?"

  "Well, it's a long story. How much do you know about Gnosticism?"

  "Not much,” said Ellen, settling herself on the bed. “Fill me in."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Twelve

  I will speak to those who know to hear not with the ears of the body but with the ears of the mind. For many have sought after the truth and have not been able to find it ... [Testimony of Truth]

  "BOKER TOV, BOKER tov."

  Mohammad, the excavation caretaker and morning waker-upper, banged on his saucepan. “Get up, get up, time for digging."

  Lisa tossed aside her three wool blankets—necessary in the desert even in July—and winced as the cold air streamed around her bare legs. She reached for her hiking boots. Shaking each one for scorpions was a morning ritual now. The yellow scorpions weren't deadly, she'd been told, but the little buggers could make you pretty sick.

  She pulled back the tent flap and gazed at the milky white, pre-dawn sky. Time for hot tea and jam with bread, then three hours of hard manual labor.

  Lisa joined the throng at the kitchen door to pick up her tea. The air was full of chatter in Hebrew, English, German, and French. A truly international excavation team, most people volunteering their time to dig up the royal storehouses, fortification walls, cistern system, and possible temple of biblical Beersheva. At four-thirty a.m., Lisa had no appetite; the bread and jam was just fuel. But she knew that in four hours, she would be ravenous, more than ready for a full Israeli breakfast that included three kinds of cheese, eggs, and tomatoes and cucumbers, hummus and pita...

  * * * *

  SEVEN YEARS LATER, Lisa was hungry all over again as she remembered the abundant food on her first dig.

  Today, she and Greg were enjoying the scents and sounds of the huge outdoor market in modern Beersheva. The souk lived up to Lisa's memories. Arabs in graceful robes and colorful headdresses, piles of sabra cacti for sale, and vicious camels poised to bite any tourist who tried to take their pictures. Greg had made some phone calls from Jerusalem, and had located an Ali Haddad who ran a kebab and shawarma restaurant just off Rehov Vitkin near the marketplace. Ali was Yacoub's cousin.

  They entered the tiny restaurant, drawn forward by the heavenly smell of spiced lamb. Lisa's stomach growled noisily; it had been a long time since breakfast.

  Lisa chose a small table towards the back where they could talk without being easily overheard.

  "Let's order, then I'll see if Ali is here,” said Greg, picking up the dog-eared card with the menu in Arabic, Hebrew, and English. “I'm glad you didn't bring Ellen along. She's too curious and too talkative."

  Privately, Lisa agreed with him, but at the same time she hated having Greg criticize her best friend. She decided on a lamb shish kebab with fuul—rice and beans.

  Ellen was safely out of the way, trolling the streets of the Old City for bargains. Lisa was glad that Ellen now knew as much as she did about the mysterious codex. Greg, she was sure, would have kept half the story back if she hadn't already told most of it to Ellen before he arrived. He wanted to keep everything dark and as few people involved as possible; she wanted as much light as possible on the subject. At this point, she trusted Ellen more than she trusted Greg, who had a lamentable tendency to act first and tell her why later—much later.

  The waiter approached with warm pita and utensils wrapped in fresh napkins. “You are ready to order?"

  "Yes. The kebab special for both of us. Is Mr. Haddad in today?” said Greg.

  "I think so. You are knowing him?"

  "Tell him a friend of his cousin's is here."

  A few minutes later a short, paunchy man with Yacoub's features arrived at their table. “I hear you are friends of Yacoub?"

  "Not exactly,” admitted Greg. “But last night he disappeared from his shop in Jerusalem after selling me a manuscript, and I need to contact him. Mahmoud Hussein said you lived here in Beersheva.” He carefully left out the fact that Mahmoud wouldn't be saying anything in the future.

  Ali frowned and pulled up a rickety metal chair. His English was labored and thickly accented. “My cousin is not contacting me. He tell me little about his business these days."

  Lisa was determined to participate in the conversation, “Has he mentioned finding any new manuscripts?"

  Greg shot her a warning look—no doubt that was too direct a question for him. Oh, right—women were supposed to be seen but not heard.

  Ali Haddad looked her over carefully and shook his head. “Perhaps."

  "We will pay for useful information,” said Greg, pulling out single bill and placing it in the center of the table. “New papyri have appeared on the market in the last few weeks. We are trying to find the so
urce, most likely a cave in the Dead Sea region. As you know, there are hundreds of caves. Without help from someone who knows the region, we will never find it."

  Ali's nimble fingers scooped up the money and stashed it inside his shirt. Then he examined Greg's face. “How do I know you are a friend of Yacoub?"

  Greg sighed. “I purchased a fragment of an important manuscript from Yacoub two days ago. Then, while we were closing the deal, someone invaded the shop, knocked me out, and stole the papyrus. When I came to, Yacoub had disappeared. We don't know where he is right now."

  "And then you talk with Mahmoud?” Ali Haddad's shrewd eyes saw Greg's discomfort.

  "No, that was before the bargaining. I am sorry to tell you that my associate found Mahmoud later that evening. He had been murdered—we think by a member of Les Agents de Dieu."

  The Arab hissed with horror. He half rose from the table. “Wah! You bring trouble on my house, my family! Why should I help you?"

  Lisa opened her mouth, and then shut it, realizing that this was no time for her to intervene. The conversation was strictly between the two men.

  Greg locked eyes with Ali and spoke slowly and carefully. “You should help me because this document, the papyrus Mahmoud was killed for, is very important to all men of faith. We think it tells the truth about Christ's early ministry, which is of interest to men of all faiths—Muslims and Jews and Christians alike."

  The Arab sat down again and became a statue. Finally, he spoke: “I will tell you what you wish to know, for the sake of my cousin and his friend Mahmoud. The new papyri, they come from a cave near Ein Gedi Kibbutz, not far from Masada."

  Greg leaned forward. “Did Yacoub say anything about which valley it was in?"

  "No. But he showed me on my map, in case anything should happen to him. I show you.” The Bedouin rose and Greg began to follow him. Lisa stood as well, but Greg motioned for her to sit again. Frustrated, she obeyed. She had to keep reminding herself that in this part of the world, most men preferred not to conduct business with a woman.

  Lisa picked at her cold food and fumed.

  * * * *

  GREG FOLLOWED ALI Haddad into the apartment behind the restaurant, a low-ceilinged building that would have been impossibly hot without the window air conditioner.

  Ali opened a drawer and pulled out a creased and torn map of the Judean Hills.

  The two men leaned over it. Greg struggled to contain his impatience as he was treated to a surprisingly learned lecture in Arabic on the find-spots of ancient documents.

  "...In the north we have the caves of Qumran. As you know there were eleven caves, but they also found Dead Sea Scrolls a little south, at Wadi Murabba'at and Nahal Hever. Also Wadi Daliyeh, just here.” The Bedouin's finger shook a little as he pointed. “Then there were the Bar Kokhba finds, also from Nahal Hever and Nahal Se'elim. You see? Near to Masada.” The Arab paused to make sure Greg was following him.

  "Yes. I know these finds,” said Greg, not bothering to add that his early career had been spent on searching out the original caves and making sure that nothing had been missed.

  "Now this is the area of interest recently, for these new manuscripts.” Ali Haddad's dirty fingernail marked another valley right next to Nahal Se'elim.

  Greg gasped as he saw the location.

  It was an easy distance from Masada.

  * * * *

  LISA HAD TOTALLY lost her appetite by the time Greg returned, some fifteen minutes later.

  She eyed his gleaming brown eyes and smug expression.

  "Well?"

  "Lisa, I'm not going to tell you,” he replied. “At least, not now."

  Lisa glared at him. “And why not? Aren't we partners in this venture?"

  Greg's mouth formed a stubborn line. “Yes—and no. You and Salima are partners on the translation, the scholarship, of course. But the location of the cave is dangerous information."

  "I can keep my mouth shut!” Lisa was furious with him. Pigheaded, chauvinist moron.

  "I don't think you understand who we're up against. Les Agents are perfectly capable of torturing people for information. They've done it before."

  "Torture, as in pulling out fingernails and stuff?” Cold fingers of fear touched her spine.

  "Yup. And no one knows how much he or she can take until it's his body on the rack."

  "Ouch. You have such a way with words.” Lisa's anger died as her brain conjured up images of medieval torture chambers and herself screaming. As she studied Greg's skeptical gaze, she had the feeling he could read her mind, and that the sort of tortures he envisioned were much, much worse.

  Greg shoved his plate aside and changed the subject. “Want to hear the latest on the translation? Yesterday morning while you were at the airport, we worked on the second fragment, the one that got stolen and then rescued by Farid."

  Meaning Salima had done most of the work. “Of course I do, you Midas. Don't hoard all the goodies from me."

  "Ready for this? The writer of the codex is a woman named Deborah."

  "Oh my God!"

  * * * *

  GREG, SALIMA, AND Farid were hunched over the kitchen table.

  "...Deborah of D-M-A? It could be Dimona, but I am not sure. Or maybe a different place like Daman, or Damanah. The letters are faded here.” Salima sipped her Coke and reached for Greg's Greek dictionary.

  Greg's jaw hung open. “Dimona, in southern Israel? The Negev desert!” He pulled himself together. “Are other names mentioned?"

  "Yes. I see ... Junia, and Martha of Gezer ... and Mary Magdalene."

  The three friends looked at each other.

  "Deborah ... who was Deborah?” said Farid.

  "I don't know,” admitted Greg. “But it looks like she was an associate of Mary Magdalene. We'll just have to get more of the papyrus..."

  "The leader of our Circle was the Magdalen, also called the Magdal-eder, Mary who knows the all...” Salima continued.

  "What does Magdal-eder mean?” asked Farid.

  "I think it is ‘Tower,’ or another way of saying ‘Leader,'” said Salima. “It can also mean ‘great'."

  "Go on,” said Greg.

  "Okay. ‘Mary was the ... of the Christ, the one who was called his Companion, and she was the ... of us all.’ There are two lacunae—the words are missing."

  * * * *

  LISA'S MIND CHURNED with excitement. “Let me see,” she said, holding out her hand for the translation.

  Greg spread out his grubby notebook sheet with the translation he and Salima had worked out so far. “There's more,” he said.

  "What?” said Lisa, trying to concentrate on the translation.

  "I think Deborah was a black woman."

  Lisa was stunned. “A black woman? How do you know?"

  "Look at this."

  He and pointed to one line:

  "’ ... I was with the Magdalene although I was unrecognized in the streets ... ‘"

  "'Unrecognized in the streets?’”

  "Invisible. Or maybe, black. Actually, I'm turning it around—the ‘unrecognized’ label is sometimes applied to Mary Magdalene herself, for example in the accounts about her escape to the southern coast of France. There it means she was symbolically black, or hidden from view."

  Lisa thought about it. “Could Deborah have been from Africa then, maybe Egypt or Nubia? Then people might assume she was black just because she was a southerner."

  Greg nodded. “Salima found a good atlas. There's a Damanhur not far from Alexandria in northern Egypt. A good candidate—a fair-sized Egyptian town close to the largest Jewish community of that time.” He gazed at her, his face lit up with excitement. “And there's still more."

  "Tell me."

  "See this line here? It talks about the Holy Twelve. Deborah was part of a group of twelve, and she says ‘we walked with the other twelve, the ones who walked with the Christ.'” He waited for her reaction.

  "My God! That means a second group of apostles!"

&
nbsp; He nodded. “And they were all women."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Thirteen

  ...and the woman said, the serpent beguiled me, and I did eat. [Genesis 3:13]

  THE HAWK WAITED until his colleagues had gone for coffee and then closed the door to the museum storeroom. He arranged the Roman pots on the large table so they marched along the edge in a single line. He stacked neat Xeroxes of artifact lists and curatorial information at one end as instructed for the blond American curator.

  He didn't approve of foreign women, especially Americans. They were too smart and too worldly. He preferred females who were uncritical and adoring—like his mother back in Lebanon. His mother was devout, quiet, and totally subservient to his father.

  His real name was Farras Golubi, son of Yasser Golubi of Beirut. His parents were Coptic Christians who belonged to a fundamentalist sect. They believed that the New Testament was literally the Word of God. Yasser, a charismatic lay preacher, had studied in Alexandria. He used his café in Beirut as a platform and meeting place.

  When Farras was a boy, his father had drummed the commandments into him and his older brother Mohammad. He was always preaching about the dangers of un-orthodox thinking.

  "Always remember that Jesus is our Savior, that He is divine."

  "But some people say he was just a man...” said the young Mohammad. Mo always asked the questions; his brother Farras just nodded in agreement.

  "That is a lie! He was the Son of God. He died for all of us, and then was resurrected,” said Father.

  "But what do we say when someone asks for proof?” asked Mohammad.

  "Bah!” said Father. “Proof is for non-believers. We have faith, and everything we need to know is in the Bible."

  Young Farras admired his father although he hated the frequent beatings his misbehavior required. But it was his older brother Mohammad he adored. Seeing admiration in his brother's eyes—that was what he lived for.

  His mother Leena was never part of the outdoor café discussions. She was the model wife and mother, concerned only with the well being of her men and keeping an orderly home. Lacking more than a third-grade education, Farras’ mother spent her days cooking, sewing, and gossiping with her three sisters who lived nearby.