The Second Messiah

“No one from among my people, I am certain. I phoned Walid. He is in Jerusalem, visiting friends. He believes either these men came of their own free will to steal the scroll or that they planned it with someone working on the dig. Walid says that the men are ruthless enough to have killed the professor.”

Jack let the Bedu’s words sink in. Then he said thoughtfully, “How can your daughter be so certain they’re the same men? The light couldn’t have been great.”

“My daughter told me that the man with the hat had a lame walk and a withered hand. That fits the description of one of the criminals Walid dealt with. You see, many years ago this man stepped on an Israeli land mine. He suffered serious injures to a hand and foot. In Arabic, he’s sometimes called by the name Slow Foot, because he drags his leg behind him. But he calls himself Pasha.”

Yasmin said, “You have to tell all this to the police, Josuf. For Jack’s sake.”

Josuf shook his head, his face troubled. “I can tell them nothing. My people would curse me as an informer.”

Yasmin met his stare. “Even if it meant an innocent man being imprisoned for a murder he didn’t commit?”

“It could also mean my throat being cut. But I want to help you find these two men. They are the real criminals. And I think I know where they can be found.”

“Where?” Yasmin asked.

“Walid told me of a Catholic monastery called St. Paul’s, near Maloula, outside Damascus.”

Jack considered. “I’ve heard of Maloula. It’s a mainly Christian town that dates from the fourth century. One of the few places in the world where Aramaic is still spoken.”

Josuf nodded. “The same language that Jesus spoke. The same language that’s written in many of the scrolls discovered at Qumran.”

“Go on.”

“Walid heard that an elderly priest there has worked translating scrolls and fragments for these black-market criminals. A religious man should have nothing to do with murder. Perhaps if he learns of the crime these men may have committed, his conscience will cause him to help you. For your sake, I hope so. I do not believe you are a killer, Mr. Cane. However, if you are to make the Israelis believe it, then you must go to Maloula and find out more about these men. It would take a half day’s journey across the desert through Jordan and Syria, no more than that.”

Jack said, “I have a visa that allows me to cross into Jordan from when the team visited Petra. But I’d be wasting my time trying to get into Syria. I have an Israeli border stamp on my American passport. There’s no way the Syrians will issue me a visa. They hate Israel and anyone who’s even been there.”

Josuf replied, “You forget that the desert has always belonged to the Bedu, Mr. Cane. No borders will prevent my tribe from traveling where they want. But you will both need your passports for part of the passage if the lady means to travel with us. And it will not be a journey without its dangers.”

Jack frowned. “What are you saying, Josuf?”

“I know a way to get you to the monastery at Maloula.”

20

Lela was at the desk in the office trailer, reading through her notes, when Sergeant Mosberg knocked on the door. “My apologies for disturbing you, but you said you wanted to speak again with Jack Cane, Inspector.”

“That’s right.”

“He’s gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

Mosberg blushed. “I’ve checked Cane’s tent and the rest of the camp and he’s nowhere to be found. I’ve even sent some of my men to search the hills but no one’s seen him.”

Lela jumped to her feet. “What about Savage and Yasmin Green?”

“Miss Green drove to Nazlat a couple of hours ago in her SUV. She returned for about thirty minutes and left in that direction again. One of my men tells me that Savage visited Nazlat soon after Miss Green and later returned.”

“Did anyone check the vehicles before Savage and Green left?”

Mosberg said sheepishly, “No, Inspector. No such orders were given.”

Lela angrily stuffed her notebook in her tunic and moved to the door. “Keep looking for Cane, Sergeant.”

Lela stormed toward Savage’s tent. When she tore open the flap, the American was lying on his bed flicking through a magazine and sipping from a can of Heineken. He lazily got to his feet. “What can I do for you, Inspector?”

“Where’s Jack Cane?”

Savage shrugged. “Hey, you got me there. Last time I saw him was over an hour ago in his tent. Why, what’s up?”

“Where is Cane, Savage? And don’t play me for a fool.”

“Hey, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Inspector.”

At that precise moment, Lela heard the clatter of a helicopter descending. The tent material rippled as the rotor blades whirred and then died. Seconds later the tent flap was thrown open and Mosberg appeared. “You have an important visitor, Inspector.”