The 13th Apostle

At the sound of the knock at the hotel door, both men straightened.

Aijaz waited for instruction. Maluka raised his hand and silently signaled him to halt. At the second knock, Maluka nodded and Aijaz opened the door.

Clearly startled by Aijaz’s bulk, the man hesitated, then entered. Though no more than forty years of age, his bent back and the downward thrust of his head betrayed the attitude of a man who had been broken on the rack of life. Tall and gaunt, his gray hair slicked back from an overabundance of grease or sweat, their guest offered his right hand to Maluka in greeting. Seeing that no such gesture was about to be returned, he hesitated, then withdrew his hand.

“Sorry, I guess you chaps don’t shake hands,” he muttered with a nervous laugh. “My error.”

When no smile was forthcoming, he checked his watch.

“Look, I’m sorry if I’m a tad early. I just thought that with the weather being what it is, well, you know, better to be early than late. Of course, if I interrupted something…”

His gaze darted from Maluka to Aijaz and back again, desperate for any indication of how to proceed. Maluka was pleased. Robert Peterson, assistant to Professor Arnold Ludlow, was not going to offer any resistance. It wouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes for Maluka to get all of the information he needed. Twenty at most.

THREE

A few minutes later

The New York City Grill

She slid into the chair next to Professor Ludlow’s, finished her phone call, and snapped her cell phone shut. She summoned the waiter and ordered her wine and, still, never acknowledged Gil’s presence.

The special smile she flashed the Professor was returned with unabashed adoration. She settled back into her chair and, only then, set her gaze on Gil.

“Have you ordered yet?” she asked, as if continuing an ongoing conversation.

“No, not yet,” Gil answered.

She was striking. Not beautiful, but remarkable looking; tall, with dark straight hair to her shoulders, and high, full breasts that strained against her ivory silk blouse. Gil forced himself to focus on her face.

She was not what he had expected. From day one, Gil’s three-year Internet relationship with Sabbie Karaim had been strictly business. Sabbie was one of a dozen consultants around the world that Gil used as translators.

Whenever he was conducting an investigation for an Israeli client, which was getting more and more frequent, Gil sent the data to Sabbie for translation from Hebrew into English. Her transcription formed the basis for all his analyses, for all of the testing that he hoped would reveal patterns of illegal activity that might help catch a cyber criminal dead in his tracks.

He used her on his most important cases, as well. Whenever an Israeli government agency hired CyberNet Forensics to set up a sting that involved cross-national Internet coverage, Gil would design the English version of the Internet bait intended to lure the cyber criminal into taking the next and, hopefully, fatal step. Then he’d send the cyber bait to Sabbie for translation into Hebrew and for posting on the net. She’d never let him down.

Her work was meticulous, and he had come to rely on her without question. She was not without her idiosyncrasies, however. Her rules were simple but firm: no communications outside Internet business. No matter how urgent the job, he was never to phone. And, surprisingly, she wanted no feedback after the cyber criminal had been caught.

Unlike Gil’s other translators from South America, Germany and France, who took great satisfaction in knowing that their the work had put a criminal behind bars, Sabbie had made it clear that her involvement ended when her translation was complete. She was a professional from head to toe and, as Gil felt his excitement rise, that particular head to toe suddenly took on a whole different meaning.

Any erotic musings he might have been enjoying, however, were quickly expunged by Sabbie’s first words of greeting.

“There’s one thing we should get clear from the start,” she began. “You’re used to giving the orders. The Professor has put me in charge so, on this job, you’ll be working for me.”

Gil stared in obvious surprise.

“If that’s a problem,” Sabbie continued matter-of-factly, “I need to know that now.”

That was it. Like she owned him. No smile, no “Hello, it’s nice to finally meet you.” Nothing. Just now hear this: I’m the boss. You’re the slave. Get over it.

Ludlow rushed in to avoid a face-off.

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not a problem, Sabbie. Mr. Pearson’s such a lovely young man. I’m sure you two will make an outstanding team, just like you always have. Now, where was I?

“Oh, yes,” Ludlow continued, unabated. “Early Christian artifacts. That’s my area. Though officially I’m retired now, I still do a bit of consulting work at The Museum of the Shrine of the Book. In Jerusalem, you know,” he added proudly. “My colleague, Dr. Anton DeVris, actually he’s the Director of Acquisitions for the Israel Museum, well, he thought it would be best for me to speak to you in person…”

Gil emptied his water glass in one long gulp then crunched the single remaining ice cube between his teeth. Ludlow was a gem; an antique from some bygone era. The old guy had probably convinced himself that his pathetically obscure discovery contained some extraordinary secret hidden away for centuries; most likely, a map to hidden treasure or the like.

God, what people wouldn’t do for one last chance at immortality. George must have been out of his mind to get them involved in this. What could he have possibly been thinking? If Sabbie had come to Gil first, he would have turned her down flat. She must have known that or else she wouldn’t have gone over his head.

Instead, she simply bypassed him and went straight to George. The shortest distance between two points, of course. She was smart. He had known that. And she had guts. He had known that too. What he hadn’t suspected, however, was how exciting the combination could be.

FOUR

A few minutes later

The New York City Grill

Lucy used to say that, during the first year of their marriage, she discovered Gil had an amazing talent: he had perfected the art of sleeping with his eyes open. Whenever Gil found himself on the receiving end of one of her stories, some incident that had marred or made her day, she could expect Gil to appear to listen intently, nod at just the right times, ask the appropriate questions, and have absolutely no idea of what she was talking about.

Sleep-talking, as Lucy called it, was a skill that Gil had become rather fond of and one that had gotten him through almost every relationship since the first grade. But with Lucy it was different. He abandoned the practice long before their second anniversary. By then, he had discovered, much to his amazement, that he cared more about the little things that happened in Lucy’s day than his own desire to veg out.

Now, in the restaurant with Ludlow droning on, he had been sleep-talking once again, letting the old man continue his monologue while retaining virtually none of the details.

“…And so we have come to believe that the document might contain a hidden message that would tell us where a certain artifact is located—a copper scroll that dates back to the time of Jesus. The thing is, we’re not sure, it might just be a metaphor that the author of the diary used,” Dr. Ludlow concluded.

“Of course,” Gil confirmed, nodding.

“That’s where you come in,” Ludlow added.

“Where … exactly?” Gil queried, trying desperately to appear as if he knew what the hell was going on.

“Why, telling us if the text of the journal contains any sort of pattern that could be concealing a hidden message,” Sabbie interjected.

“Do you mean a code?” Gil asked. “You know, I don’t do codes.”

“No. Not a code, that’s the whole point,” Sabbie interrupted. “If we needed a cryptanalyst, we wouldn’t have called you.”

“Well, thank you very much,” Gil snapped back.

Ludlow interceded again. “Look, if we’re right, the person who wrote this journal would have been afraid to use an encrypting paradigm. He would have been concerned that, if he had embedded his message into a complex code, by the time the document was found—maybe centuries later—no one would have been able to decipher his message. We’re pretty sure he would have chosen a simpler means of concealing any message. We just haven’t been able to figure how he did it, and Sabbie said that with your talent in pattern recognition, well…”

Gil straightened and began to fire one question after another, in hopes of bringing himself up to speed. Sabbie remained silent, perhaps trying to understand why Gil seemed so lost in a conversation that had seemed so clear. Fortunately, the Professor’s answers were long and detailed. They gave Gil just the information he needed to fill in the conversation he had missed.

A diary, written by an eleventh-century monk, had been discovered at an ancient monastery in Weymouth, England, sold to a local dealer of antiques, who had contacted Ludlow, whom he knew would be interested in the crumbling journal. For the moment, the diary remained safe, back in England, in a place known to Ludlow alone. At the appropriate time, it was to be smuggled or, as the Professor put it, “relocated” by Dr. Anton DeVris to the Israel Museum.

“DeVris says that until we know exactly what information the diary contains, it makes no sense to bring it to the Museum. He says that even though he’s the Director of Acquisitions, the Museum wouldn’t accept the diary without some proof of its relevance to religious history. I suppose he’s right, though I would feel a great deal better if it were safe with them, under lock and key.” The old man shrugged his disagreement with DeVris’ decision to keep the diary to themselves but was apparently resigned to go along with the Director’s decision.

“Do you think it’s wise? Holding on to so precious a document?” Gil asked.