The Second Messiah

“I’m very sorry, but it’s late.” The priest interrupted impatiently. “And I am about to start evening prayers. Come back tomorrow.”

“Father—”

“Please respect my wishes.”

The priest turned to go, but Jack said, “I believe you’ve translated a number of ancient scrolls for certain Syrian friends of yours, Father.”

The monk’s jaw dropped in response. “Who—who told you this?”

“Let us in and I’ll explain everything. Otherwise, I’ll have to involve the police.”

The priest turned ashen. “Let me see some identification.”

They handed their passports through the grille and the priest’s face disappeared a few moments, but they saw his features illuminated by the flicker of an oil lamp as he scrutinized their documents. Father Novara frowned as if trying to make up his mind, then he fumbled for something. They heard a rattle of keys, a bolt was slid, and the gates opened into a beautiful stone-flagged courtyard, decorated in the Arab style, full of bubbling fountains and water features.

Father Novara stood there, a tough, gnarled little man with a powerful physique and a head too big for his body. His frayed white habit had a knotted cord at his waist from which hung a cross. He carried an oil lamp and a bunch of keys in his hand.

“It seems,” he said bleakly, “that we need to talk.”

36

Father Novara led them across the fountained courtyard, his habit flapping as he walked. They moved under a darkened archway and came to a solid wooden door. The priest held up the oil lamp as he ushered them through the door. “This way, please.”

They entered a room with whitewashed walls. A table and a couple of benches were set in the middle, the floor covered in worn stone slabs. Novara seemed uneasy as he closed the door.

Jack tried to draw him out. “You speak excellent English, Father.”

“I ought to, it’s my native tongue. Despite my surname I was born in England, of Italian parents. I studied archaeology and ancient languages at Cambridge many years ago, before I came here.”

“It seems an interesting old monastery.”

The priest shrugged as he used his lamp to light another that hung from a nail in the wall. “It was an Arab citadel until the ninth century before becoming a Catholic monastery, though nowadays there are only a few of us monks left. But that’s not what we’re here to discuss. Tell me exactly why you came.”

Jack said, “We’re interested in a couple of black-market Syrian dealers. One in particular, a man with a withered hand. He’s known to us as Pasha. I believe he’s a friend of yours.”

A muscle twitched in the priest’s cheek. “Who told you this?”

Jack said, “That really doesn’t matter. But we need to find him.”

The priest put a palm to his forehead as if in deep thought, and let it rest there a moment, his intelligent eyes studying each of his visitors in turn before his hand fell away and his gaze returned to Jack. “You are merely fishing for information, aren’t you? Trying to find out what I might know. But I really don’t know what you are talking about. You have been misled.”

Yasmin said, “I don’t think so, Father. We know that you’ve helped this man translate stolen Dead Sea parchments.”

Father Novara looked indignant. “That’s preposterous. A total lie. I helped no one do such a thing.”

“Maybe you’d like to reconsider, Father? Josuf’s brother once did business with the man, sold him ancient scrolls. He knows that you helped to translate them.”

The priest’s face muscle twitched again but he was steadfast. “He can say all he wants but I deny it.”

Jack took out his cell phone. “In that case, you won’t mind if we call the police.”

The priest was defiant as he held up their passports. “Perhaps you can tell them what three people with Israeli stamps on their passports are doing in Syria. Like me, I’m sure they’d be interested to know.”

Jack started to punch in numbers on his cell. “I think they’d be even more interested to know that you’re involved in a brutal homicide, don’t you, Father?”

“Homicide? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Jack stopped punching the keypad and fixed the priest with a stare. “Early this morning a man was stabbed to death at Qumran, in Israel. His name was Donald Green and he was in charge of an important archaeological dig. He was also my boss. A valuable scroll I unearthed was stolen during the murder. There’s an international police alert already under way to help solve the crime. But if you don’t want to help us, it might be better if you deal with the police. After all, you could be an accomplice to murder.”

Father Novara’s eyes widened, his confidence vaporized, and he grasped Jack’s wrist to prevent him using his cell phone. “No, please, wait. I’m an accomplice to nothing.”

Yasmin urged, “Father, we need your help to find these men.”

The priest nervously bit his lip, then moved to open the door. “I—I must ask permission from my abbot to talk further. Please wait here.”

“How long?”

“Five minutes, no more,” Novara said, and closed the door after him, his footsteps echoing out in the stone courtyard.