At the end of the courtyard Father Vincento Novara came to a winding granite staircase. Using his lamp to guide him he climbed up one floor. He was trembling, his legs barely able to carry him. He reached a landing with a stone archway. He stepped through and entered a large room with vaulted wooden ceilings that served as his private office.
Crammed with bookshelves, the room also held a simple wooden chair and desk set against one wall. Novara’s eyes were drawn to the desk, the wood shiny with age. On top lay a foot-long pinewood box. It was fitted with secure metal clamps that held a hinged lid in place. He stepped over to the box but paused beside the rows of bookshelves, stacked with leather-bound books and rolls of ancient parchments, some of them centuries old.
Novara knew those musty books and parchments as intimately as he knew his own life. His was a life dedicated to scholastic research ever since as a young priest he had studied to become an expert in ancient Aramaic and Hebrew documents. These were reference works to aid his research, and samples of ancient script that went back thousands of years.
Novara placed the oil lamp on the desk and felt a bead of sweat drip from his brow. He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and noticed that his hands trembled. Next to the pinewood box was a lab microscope and a magnifying glass with a cracked ivory handle. He anxiously licked his lips, released the metal clamps on the box, and lifted the hinged lid.
Inside was an unraveled, sepia-colored scroll.
Using scissors, he had cut out a pair of thin Perspex sheets, which now sandwiched the scroll for protection. Some portions of the parchment were worn and patched with holes, but it was still in reasonably good condition and most of it legible.
He had translated so many manuscripts in his lifetime, but in truth none was as intriguing as this ancient scroll that he had finished translating an hour ago. It was truly astonishing.
But then so was the arrival of his three visitors.
Novara closed the pinewood lid and snapped shut the clamps. He moved across the room to another door, opened it, and climbed some stone steps onto a large roof battlement. He lifted his habit, removed a Siemens cell phone, and flicked it open. Twenty feet away was a miniature satellite dish to ensure that he always had a signal. And up here on the roof the signal strength was best. Novara punched the cell phone keypad and called the number in Damascus.
37
8:32 P.M.
“Father Novara seems to be taking a long time.” Jack stepped over to the door and listened.
Yasmin said, “Tell me more about these collectors who buy ancient artifacts. What do you know about them?”
“They’re usually wealthy individuals who get a kick out of possessing rare and precious artifacts all to themselves. Some pay millions for the privilege. And they couldn’t care less if the artifact’s been stolen because no one’s ever going to see it except them. That’s what gives them their big thrill.”
“Do you know of any collectors who might want your scroll?”
“I’m sure there are lots.” Jack turned to listen at the door again. “There’s not a sound out there. I wonder where the heck Novara’s got to.”
Yasmin said, “Do you ever get a chill on the back of your neck when something isn’t quite right? I get the same feeling about Novara.”
Jack nodded. “You might be right. I wouldn’t count on him telling us the truth either. I think he may know a lot more than he’s saying.”
Josuf said, “Maybe I should get my knife from the pickup?”
Yasmin said, “Why?”
“To loosen the priest’s tongue.”
Jack moved to the door, opened it a crack, and listened. “No, stay here, Josuf. Take care of Yasmin.”
“Why, where are you going?” Yasmin asked.
Jack stepped out into the deserted courtyard. “To take a look around for Novara.”
* * *
Jack walked to the end of the courtyard. The monastery appeared deserted, the only sound his own echoing footsteps and gurgling water from the fountain. Overhead, stars burned silver in the desert night, the air clammy.
He came to a granite staircase that wound upward into darkness. He peered up, listened, but heard nothing. He moved up the staircase, pressing his hands to the side of the smooth stone walls to keep his balance, and came out into an enormous, sparsely furnished chamber.
The room looked to be a private study or office, an oak door at the end. The air had a dank smell. A crucifix was nailed high into one of the bare stone walls. He approached a wooden chair and desk set against a wall. On top lay a pinewood box.
Jack startled when he thought he heard a faint voice in the distance. He listened again. Silence, except for the faint creaking of the floor-boards.
Nearby, a long row of wooden shelves sagged under the weight of leather-bound books and rolls of withering parchments. Some were obviously many centuries old. Below the shelves, a clutch of what appeared to be parchment scrolls were laid out on a broad table, each under a sheet of Perspex.
