The 13th Apostle

This was the part Maluka enjoyed the most. He’d set the trap, caught the rat, and now he got to watch him slowly wriggle. Best of all, with each squirm, Ludlow’s assistant was providing Maluka with exactly the information he wanted.

“Copper scroll?” Peterson asked innocently. “Oh, no. That’s not why I included that page. I forgot it was even in there!”

Because you were so very careful to remove any possible reference to a scroll, weren’t you? I knew it! I didn’t even need to look at the pathetic pile of trash you tried to pawn off on me. You must truly think me the fool!

Peterson continued, trying desperately to cover his tracks. “Don’t worry. The copper scroll thing’s not important. On one of the pages of the diary, Ludlow and DeVris apparently found some mention of a copper scroll being hidden somewhere in Weymouth Monastery. They couldn’t even agree if that’s what it really said. Ludlow is certain that it’s what the whole diary is really about. DeVris thinks it’s nothing more than a reference to a copy.”

“A copy of The Cave 3 Copper Scroll they found in Qumran years ago?” probed Maluka.

“Right. And that you know is in the Book of the Shrine already. DeVris says the diary’s just talking about a copy of The Cave 3 Scroll, not a new scroll. The monks probably sold copies of The Cave 3 Scroll by the dozens to bored knights in search of treasure. Anyway, the only reference to any scroll, new or old, was on some old scrap of paper Ludlow found stuck in the binding, so how could it be what the whole diary is about?”

“So DeVris says there is no scroll, or, if there is one, it’s nothing more than a copy of The Cave 3 Copper Scroll?”

“Yes, nothing more than an old man’s wishful thinking.” Peterson straightened and set back his shoulders.

“If you ask me, they’re both crazy. I mean, here are two intelligent men debating and transcribing, then going back and debating it all over again. Just like the fight about who would keep the diary—that went on for a month! The Professor won, of course, ownership is nine-tenths of the law. But now with DeVris in Israel and the diary with Ludlow in London, Ludlow spends half his day uploading bits and pieces of it onto a secret website on the Internet. If you ask me, it would have been a lot easier if he had just let DeVris keep the damn thing.”

Maluka nodded and smiled. Fearful people explain too much. That always gives them away. If you can spot it, it always works in your favor. The greater the number of words they use to cover up their lies, the greater the opportunity to get more information.

“Ludlow’s paranoid,” Peterson continued. “He keeps every e-mail, every printout, even his own notes, locked up like they’re the Crown Jewels.”

Peterson explained that even if he had needed to work with diary-related information, he had to ask the Professor to retrieve it.

“I must be confused. I thought you had access to Ludlow’s safe,” Maluka asked.

“I do. I have access to his safe in the den. But there is another safe in the kitchen, in what looks like an oven.”

“In an oven! Really?”

“Yeah. The thing is bizarre. It’s got a fake back—the oven I mean—which releases if you enter the right numbers in the right succession on the oven timer. It’s one of those digital things—a smart board, Ludlow calls it—and you’d never know that it wasn’t part of the kitchen equipment.”

Peterson explained that, on one particular occasion when he had attempted to heat his lunch in the oven, Ludlow’s wife happened upon him just in the nick of time.

“She’s just a little old lady but she pushed me halfway across the kitchen. She said to never touch that oven again, that Ludlow built the safe inside to keep her valuables in,” Peterson explained. “As a child, she was a prisoner in a Gulag. You know, a Soviet forced labor camp, and apparently she’s still terrified that people will break in and take away everything she has. Not that she has anything worth stealing from what I can see.”

“And now…” Maluka prompted.

“And now, since Ludlow got hold of the diary, he’s taken to putting almost all of his papers in the oven safe, which I don’t have access to. Which is why I couldn’t get you more,” Peterson concluded with a half-apologetic grin.

“No matter,” Maluka said congenially. “You’ve given me all that I needed. Chances are this whole thing will come to nothing. Most importantly, let’s hope the money you’ve earned gives your little girl the extra help she so desperately needs.”

Peterson’s eyes shot to Maluka’s as if seeking to confirm the sincerity in his words. Maluka put on his most sympathetic face. Peterson smiled his gratitude, then opened the door.

Maluka hesitated. He wanted to frame his next question carefully. He required only one final piece of information.

“A safe journey to you, Mr. Peterson. I assume that you and Professor Ludlow are heading back to London in the next day or two?”

“Yes. Tomorrow night. Though I’m not looking forward to the long flight.”

“Yes, yes,” Maluka said brusquely and closed the door.

Even as Peterson made his way to the street, Maluka had already snapped open his cell phone to reserve airline seats for himself and Aijaz on the first morning flight to London.

SIX

Day Two, late evening

Regent’s Park Tube Station

Camden Town, London

Professor Arnold Ludlow struggled up the steps, two heavy suitcases in tow. Sweat from the strain dripped into his eyes, and his back hurt like the dickens. A welcome bit of cool air wafted from the street above. He breathed it in, then with a sigh renewed his climb.

Sarah would be furious. She had begged him to arrange for a private car from the airport but he had refused. They had not put away enough money in the safe yet, he had protested. If Sabbie should need it … Neither Ludlow nor his wife had allowed themselves to linger on the thought.

“Until there is a comfortable cushion of funds, the tube will suit me fine,” he had concluded. “Besides, the exercise will do me good.”

Sarah had kissed him on the bald spot on his head and had given his shoulders a squeeze. Now, she’d be rubbing his back with her infamous Chapman’s Liniment for a week.

“Bloody stuff is made for horses,” he would protest.

“That’s what you get for acting like an ass,” she’d be certain to counter.

Ludlow smiled.

He had reached the street and, revived by the cool air, he headed toward Upper Harley Street and the pleasures of home.

The walk was surprisingly invigorating and his apartment house greeted him like an old friend. Perhaps if his back hadn’t been hurting him so badly, he might have realized something was wrong. Perhaps he might have become alarmed at seeing the apartment windows dark when he knew Sarah would be wide awake and anxious to hear the details of his trip. In any case, he still would have walked unknowingly into their apartment and into the stark terror that awaited him.

Two strong arms seized his and pulled him into the room, even as he struggled to free the key from the lock. They encircled him, and with one great wrench against his chest, left him breathless and in agony from ribs that splintered and gave way. Ludlow slumped to the floor. The room, suddenly flooded with light, seemed oddly filled with white. Two huge figures towered above him, each in clothes devoid of color and faces devoid of expression.

Only Sarah brought color to the moment, her face, hands, legs, and nightgown, all covered with the sickening brown-red of fresh blood. One eye was swollen shut, and a red trickle ran from her ear, but she was alive.

“Please, take what you want. Take it all,” Ludlow pleaded. “Just leave us alone. We’re old. Take whatever you want and go.”

“You know what we want,” the first intruder said softly.

Sarah’s sob broke the silence that followed.

While one tormentor held Ludlow’s head in place so that he would bear witness to the scene that was to follow, the other walked toward his beloved Sarah. The intruder hesitated for a moment, smiled at Ludlow, then kicked the prone woman full force in the side of the head.

Ludlow heard the crack of her neck as it snapped the life out of her. For a moment, the room was silent, save for a tiny exhale of her last breath.

“No!” Ludlow shrieked. He was on his feet, and his hands found the face of the executioner. Ludlow held him by his hair as one eye yielded its soft viscosity to his death grip. Ludlow’s screams of rage drowned out his victim’s cries of pain.

The old man heard nothing, saw nothing, knew nothing. His body did what it had to do and continued grasping and flailing, even as the second intruder pulled him from the first and beat and kicked him until his body could no longer bring muscle and nerve together to move.

“Now give it to us,” the murderer demanded.