The Deadly Scrolls, page 27
Maya eyed the small steel spade lying on the ground, where Mashiak had tossed it when he’d gone for her gun. It lay less than a meter away. Mashiak seemed to have forgotten about it. His eyes remained fixed on his two captives. He waved Maya’s gun back and forth between them, mechanically, like a metronome.
Maya cleared her throat. Hillel turned his head toward her.
“Salameh’s dead,” she said. “Murdered by him.”
She thrust her chin toward Mashiak.
Mashiak threw back his enormous head and laughed. His madness was now in full flower. His dark eyes glittered through his wire-rimmed glasses like shards of slate. His body twitched. But the SIG Sauer in his right hand kept a steady bead on his prisoners.
“Miss…Rye-mahn, i’n’t it? Habib warned me ’bout you.”
Maya’s gold-green eyes bored into Mashiak’s glassy pupils. She grimaced, her lips bloodless.
“That’s right. Maya Rimon. Israeli Intelligence. Oh, but where are my manners?”
She swept her open palm from Hillel toward Mashiak.
“Professor Hillel Stone, allow me to introduce Preacher Pinkas Mashiak, a.k.a. Tyrell Quimby from Davis Creek, West Virginia. A.k.a. the Messiah.”
Hillel tittered nervously. Mashiak glared at him through narrowed eyes. Then, he stomped on the cave floor with one giant foot. A small cloud of dust plumed into the air. A swarm of tiny motes danced in ribbons of light, then settled.
“Bet you find my beliefs ludicrous, don’cha, Professor? Well, I feel the same ’bout you scholars. Obsessed with dead history. Yer nothin’ but vampires! Blasphemin’ ghouls. I speak for the livin’ God!”
While Mashiak ranted on, Maya wracked her brain for a plan of escape. Now that Hillel was here, it was two against one. Could he help her overpower this mad giant and disarm him? Chances were that Hillel would get himself shot in the attempt. But they had to do something—and soon. Mashiak was becoming more unstable by the minute.
And he had his own urgent timetable to follow.
80
“SO WHAT’RE YOU GOING TO do, preacher?” said Maya. “Shoot us and leave us here for the jackals? You obviously have no qualms about murdering people.”
“I’m only doin’ what the Voice commands! The End is near!”
Mashiak was shouting, arguing with the stone walls. Spittle flew from his mouth. It speckled the dry ground with dark stains.
If Hillel could only distract him for a moment, she could go for the gun or spade. But how to signal Hillel without tipping off their captor? Then, she remembered what the wait-staff captain had told her, when she’d shown him Mashiak’s photograph at the hotel.
“Yes, I recognize him. One of the fill-ins I hired for the conference banquet. I don’t have enough of my own servers to cover such a crowd. That dumb golem barely spoke a word of Hebrew. But I can’t afford to be too choosy these days. Most of my overflow staff are African migrants. I can no longer depend on Palestinians like I used to. You never know when they’ll get jammed up at a checkpoint and not show up.”
Maya cleared her throat. Then, she scuffed one sandal on the sandy ground.
“Tishma, haveri! Nedaber b-ivrit.”
“Hey, none of that Israeli spy shit!” shouted Mashiak. “Speak English!”
The American preacher was again rocking back and forth again, heel to toe, muttering under his breath. Every few seconds, he glanced down at his watch.
“Aseh ma-shehu l’imshokh t’sumet lev mi-meni,” said Maya. She barked out the words. Create a diversion! It was an order, not a request.
Hillel stared at her. Did she have to spell it out for him? Distract him, dammit!
Finally, Hillel started to shuffle sideways, slowly moving away from her, widening the gap between the two of them. Half a meter. A meter.
Mashiak noticed. He swung the gun toward Hillel, then toward Maya.
“Hey, back together, you two!”
Hillel ignored him. He continued to edge sideways. A meter and a half.
Mashiak stepped forward, touching the barrel of the gun to Hillel’s head. The tall preacher’s dark, burning eyes narrowed. His thick black brows almost met above his giant scythe of a nose.
“No way you c’n stop me now! Everythin’s in place and ready to go!”
It was now or never.
“Shut your eyes, Hillel!”
Diving for the spade and grabbing its handle, Maya scooped up loose sediment from the cave floor and flung it up at Mashiak. The coarse grit flew into his face.
“Yeow!”
The giant man staggered back, dropping the gun and leather pouch as he clawed at his eyes.
Maya dropped the shovel and lunged for the gun, scraping her arms and upper body on the rough ground. Hillel dove to retrieve the dropped leather pouch, clutching it to his chest like a wounded child.
His sight cleared, Mashiak quickly sized up the situation. His only choice now was flight. With a rueful glance at the leather pouch gripped in Hillel’s fingers, he ran toward the mouth of the cave. And he kept running into the searing light of the rising desert sun. A thick cloud of dust swirled in his wake.
Maya and Hillel raced after him. But they couldn’t match the tall man’s meter-long stride. The distance between them lengthened. By the time Mashiak reached the base of the cliff, he had enough of a lead to scramble up the rutted sandstone wall and disappear from sight before Maya could get off a shot.
The two of them clambered up the cliff after him. Maya had to halt from time to time to reach down a hand to help Hillel, who kept losing his grip on the loose shingle.
By the time they reached the top of the cliff, Mashiak was gone.
81
ON THE WAY BACK TO Jerusalem, Maya pushed the old Corolla hard, by turns praising and cursing Valdis, her cocky Latvian mechanic. By now, the morning sun had burned away the mist. The sky was a brilliant blue. High above, several vultures surfed invisible currents. Their dark wings flashed in the sun.
“Keep an eye out for Route 398,” Maya told Hillel. “It’s easy to miss.”
Maya glanced over at him. Hillel was hunched over in the passenger seat. Because of her speed, Maya had to keep her eyes fixed on the road, but she could watch him out of the corner of her eye. On his lap was the Corolla’s rubber floor mat. Lying on its dusty surface was the worn leather pouch. Gingerly, Hillel untied the frayed thong trussing the mouth of the pouch and eased the parchment scroll out of the bag. He held the furled scroll delicately between his fingers, as if it were made of glass. Or nitroglycerin.
With practiced patience, he unrolled the yellowed parchment, setting it down gently atop the weathered pouch. Then, he began to read. His index finger floated over the ancient Greek writing like a hydroplane, skimming over the parchment surface without touching it. A scholar’s soft hands. An electric shock suddenly stung Maya’s sweaty thighs. She forced her attention back to the pitted road.
She fished her cell phone out of her pocket and speed-dialed Roni. The call didn’t go through. She must still be out of cell tower range, or maybe, he was avoiding her.
Suddenly, she spotted the sign for Route 398. It was almost completely obscured by a layer of sand. Grabbing the steering wheel with both hands, she wrenched it sharply to the right, then swerved onto the exit on two wheels. She had to brake hard to prevent the Corolla from rolling over. She gunned the engine and slammed down on the accelerator. She was soon traveling at ninety-five kilometers an hour, fifteen above the speed limit. She hoped no conscientious highway patrol officer tried to flag her down. She had no intention of pulling over.
“Listen to this!”
“We almost missed the turn-off, Hillel! Pay attention to the road, not to that stupid scroll.”
Hillel opened his mouth to respond, then clamped it shut. “Sorry.”
His voice was contrite. But he soon returned to his previous enthusiasm. Maya thought he sounded like a schoolboy, showing off his good report card to his parents.
“You have no idea how significant this is!”
The Corolla hit a pothole and leapt off the road. Hillel let out a cry, as if his skin had been pierced by a sharp blade.
“Sorry,” said Maya. “I can’t slow down. Once Mashiak reaches the city, it’ll be almost impossible to track him.” Maya’s voice gentled. “Why don’t you put that scroll away until we get there?”
“Not a chance! I’ve waited my whole life for something like this!”
It was useless to talk to him. He was as obsessed as the American preacher. If he ended up damaging the priceless scroll during this wild ride, that was on him. After a wait of two thousand years, what difference did an hour’s delay make? But then she would never understand scholars. They lived on a different planet.
For the next ten minutes Hillel pored over the first lines of the ancient text, muttering excitedly to himself. Maya considered interrupting him but held back. He was deaf and blind to the real world.
“This isn’t it! Oh, my God!”
Hillel’s startled cry caused Maya to swerve out of her lane. For a few moments, the Corolla bounced along the gravel-strewn shoulder until she managed to wrestle it back onto the macadam.
“Don’t yell like that, dammit! I almost lost control of the car.”
Hillel paid no attention to her reproof. His eyes were locked on the wrinkled parchment like twin lasers.
“This isn’t the duplicate scroll! It’s in Greek. The Temple priests would never have written in Greek. And it’s in the first person. Seems like some sort of chronicle. Written by a Jewish woman named Mariamne.”
Hillel began reading the Greek words aloud. After a moment, he paused, took a deep breath, and looked over at Maya. She raised her ginger eyebrows, then giggled.
“It’s all Greek to me.”
Hillel didn’t join in her laughter. His face was drained of color, his breathing shallow.
In a hushed voice, he painstakingly translated the first few lines into English:
My name is Mariamne, daughter of Jonathan and Livia, both of blessed memory. I was born when Claudius still sat upon the throne of Rome. I spent my youth in Tiberias, a beautiful city on the harp-shaped Sea of Kinneret.
“Do you realize what this is?” Hillel’s voice trembled with excitement. “It’s the first Dead Sea Scroll ever found that was written by a woman! This could be the most significant find in seventy years!”
In his excitement, Hillel squeezed the rolled-up portion of the scroll with his left hand. Then, mortified by his recklessness, he loosened his fingers so that the scroll nestled lightly in his palm, like a fresh egg.
Maya burst out laughing.
“So it’s not a treasure map? It’s a goddam hoax!”
Hillel stared at her, his mouth agape. Then, his brow dipped and furrowed.
“No, it’s not a hoax. It’s just not the scroll we were looking for. It’s something else entirely. Altogether unexpected. Of course, it’ll have to be tested by experts to get an exact dating. But if it turns out to be authentic, this will be a ground-breaking find. Unique in Second Temple literature.”
“But what about the Treasure Scroll? Wasn’t that what got Goldmayer killed? And what about the Temple treasures? I thought you said that there’s no way to find them without the duplicate scroll.”
“Ah.”
Hillel smiled, freeing the tight creases crinkling the corners of his cornflower-blue eyes. Maya thought he looked almost boyish. If he would only shave off that grizzled beard.
“You’re right to be suspicious when it comes to stories of lost treasure. The field has seen its share of scam artists and hoaxes. But it’s not this scroll that deserves our suspicion.” He gently tapped the weathered parchment on his lap. “If there’s any hoax here, we need to look for it within the Copper Scroll. The priestly authors of that scroll wanted to make sure that the Romans would never find the Temple treasures. They wanted them to believe they needed the duplicate scroll to lead them to the treasures.”
“Are you saying that there never was a duplicate scroll?”
“Possibly. Or maybe the priests hid the parchment copy somewhere else. Not the site that De Vaux identified as ancient Kochalit. We’ll probably never know.”
“Then, if this scroll isn’t a copy of the Copper Scroll, what is it? Who was Mariamne?”
“We’ll only find that out after I translate the rest of this scroll.”
Hillel fell silent. He stared out of the passenger window. There was not much to see. As they drew closer to Jerusalem, barren desert and scattered Arab villages gave way to tidy Jewish settlements and planted fields. At this early hour, massive, wheeled sprinklers were showering tender young crops. The crystalline spray sparkled in the bright sun.
Maya interrupted Hillel’s musing. Her voice was gleeful.
“I can’t wait to see that mad preacher’s face when he discovers that he’s bet on the wrong horse! His precious treasure map turns out to be nothing but an ancient lady’s diary.”
Hillel remained silent. His eyes vacantly scanned the passing landscape.
Suddenly, Maya pointed her right index finger at a large green sign on the side of the road. It was the turn-off for Jerusalem. She eased down on the brake, then swerved onto the ramp.
“We still might be able to catch him. Route 60’s a faster road.”
Maya pressed down hard on the gas pedal. The speedometer shot up to one hundred and twenty kilometers per hour. The old Corolla shuddered and rattled, then grumpily accommodated to its new speed.
82
CASSANDRA SAT UP ON THE BLUE yoga mat and wriggled her lower back. She had fallen asleep in child’s pose last night: her calves resting on the floor, the rest of her body sloped forward, the thin arms lying, palms up, alongside her torso, her forehead resting on the padded mat. It was the most relaxing asana she knew.
She had expected her captor to send someone last night. To finish the job. But no one had come. More than twenty-four hours had gone by.
She knew she was of no more use to them. And she knew too much. They would see no alternative but to silence her. Why were they making her wait?
She stood up and padded over to the refrigerator. She’d been too depressed last night to eat anything. But now, she was ravenous. She cut up some vegetables, made a simple dressing of olive oil and lemon juice, and wolfed down the salad. Then, she drank almost a full bottle of water. All the time, her ear was cocked for the rattle of the hasp. The lock clicking open.
She left the dirty dishes in the sink and walked into the bathroom. Humming tunelessly to herself, she washed her face and brushed her teeth. Her mouth felt dry.
Gazing into the mirror, she ran her fingers through her spiky purple hair. The hair was growing out. The dirty blonde roots were showing. When had she last had it cut? She couldn’t remember. She noted that her hazel eyes were bloodshot. Dark, droopy bags smudged the skin beneath the lower lids. Barely a trace remained of purple eyeshadow and black eyeliner. She stared at her pierced eyebrows, lips, and nasal septum. Her father was right. She did look grotesque with all that metal spearing her face. She hoped they removed all the piercings before they shipped her body home for burial. If they ever found it.
She walked out of the bathroom and padded over to the broad wooden desk. She sank down into the cushioned chair. Her lower spine hugged the chair’s sleek, convex contours. She stared at the empty surface of the desk, where the laptop had once sat. She had no idea how long she remained there, staring into space. She felt paralyzed.
And then, from some unknown reservoir of inner strength, she felt the stirrings of hope. What if she could escape? After her last attempt, she’d been too afraid to try again. But maybe, this time, she’d succeed. Maybe he wasn’t coming back. Maybe he’d left her here to starve or die of loneliness. She couldn’t just give up!
She re-examined the two windows. No weak points in the iron bars. She rattled the front door knob. No give there. She tried to visualize the outside lock. When she had first been brought here, she’d caught a glimpse of it. The mechanism was made of a metallic alloy with four rotating disks. No way she could crack it from inside the apartment.
What about the neighbors? The apartment was located in an Arab section of East Jerusalem. Her captor had warned her not to make any noise, or there would be consequences. From him, not from them. What would these Arabs do to her if they found out she was being kept here, a prisoner? Could it be any worse than dying alone? Or waiting for her executioner to show up?
She began banging on the walls. The sound of her small fists hammering solid stone was barely audible. She looked around. She spotted a cast iron skillet lying on the wooden shelf under the sink. It was so heavy that she had to use both hands to lift it. The sound of cast iron hitting stone was oddly satisfying. She banged the skillet on each of the four walls, leaving deep gouges in the whitewashed plaster. Then, she thwacked the skillet against the cement floor. She worried that the floor was too thick to carry sound to the apartment below.
She kept up the racket until her arms tired. She rested for a few minutes and drank more water. Then, she resumed her banging, yelling “Help!” as she swung the heavy pan. Since it was almost nine, she guessed that most people were already at work or at the market. But someone had to be home, caring for children or elderly parents.
And then she heard a voice outside. It was a young boy, shouting something in Arabic. She ran to the front door and pounded on the thick wood with both fists.
“Help me! I’ve been kidnapped!”
She heard more shouts in Arabic. Then silence.
She waited, not sure whether to resume banging on the door or just give up. That boy might have been her only hope. And now, he was gone.
Then, she heard him again. This time, he was accompanied by other boys. She also heard the voice of a grown man. Was it him? The voices were excited and eager. They began fidgeting with the outside lock.
