13th Apostle (23 page)

Day Eleven, mid-morning
Carlton Bay Hotel, London

Ten o'clock came and went and still no Sabbie.

She wouldn't have gone out alone, not without giving me one of her in-case-you-never-see-me-again lectures
.

Gil stopped short. Suddenly Sabbie's predictions of doom didn't sound quite so silly. No, he was being ridiculous. She had gone out for breakfast or a paper. She probably planned to get back before he had awakened but something had come up. Maybe she'd gone over to Sarkami's to get the scroll by herself.

Gil pushed the thought of a morning liaison out of his mind.

He longed to see her come through the door. He would yell at her for not leaving a note and they would have a good fight, then a good laugh about how silly he had been to be worried. The minutes passed. She didn't come through the door and she didn't call.

When Gil ran out of I'll-just-wait-five-more-minutes promises to himself, he formulated a plan. Three things had to be done. He needed to see if Sabbie had gone to Sarkami's and, if she hadn't, he needed to inform Sarkami that she was missing; he needed to get Sarkami's help in finding her; and he needed to get the scroll back. All of which involved making his way back to Sarkami's.

Gil had managed to get a look at the second intersection they passed when they left Sarkami's house the night before. The cab had stopped under a conveniently well-lit corner, and Gil had made note of the street names though, at the time, he had no idea why. Now, they were the most important two words in his vocabulary. The third was “money.”

Gil dug into his pants pocket in search of the one credit card he had not surrendered to Sabbie. If he could find an ATM in his bank's system, he could get all the money he'd need and in the right currency as well. Then, all he'd require would be directions to the intersection near Sarkami's house.

A sudden recollection brought a smile of satisfaction. Gil reached into the back pocket of his pants and pulled out his PDA. He had not opened it since he left CyberNet. An ache of longing washed over him. He missed his work, his home, and his life. He even missed George. Well, almost.

Gil typed in a request for a local ATM, and the PDA's Global Positioning System sprang into action. Money awaited him out the door and two blocks to the left. He added a request for the intersection. From there, Gil could reconstruct the trail back to Sarkami's by following the odd snaking back alley until he came to a green door equipped with four locks. His PDA offered a choice of maps or step-by-step directions.

Gil's mood soared. He would find Sabbie at Sarkami's, he was certain. Chances were, she had convinced herself it was safer for her to go out alone and intended to surprise him, still sleeping in their hotel room, with the scroll, all neatly cut into strips upon her return. Or else, she'd give him a spiel on why she couldn't be expected to wait around all day for him to wake up and add that she had every intention of calling him when she got a chance. In either case, he'd be glad as hell to see her.

Gil grabbed his clothes and made his way for the door. He was starting to feel like his old confident self again. So confident that he never even bothered to check out the street before he left his room.

Day Two following the Crucifixion, morning Home of Joseph of Arimathea, Judea

Joseph, face set, sat unmoving. “I need not ask you if you are certain of what you heard,” he said.

“I wish that it were untrue but I swear to you, Joseph, it is as I have described. I bring this antidote to you and beg you to administer it. I know not who else to trust.”

“But the false potion you left them, what if they administer it to Yeshua?”

“It will do him no harm, but I know it shall never reach his lips,” Micah added with sadness. “You must go to Yeshua and remove him to safety before they can reach him. I can do nothing else for him now.”

“Then it is up to me,” Joseph agreed. “I thought to bring Yeshua to them long before morning. The guards known to me shall come to the watch at midnight. But now I am afraid to wait…”

“Peter and the others sleep soundly and will not be awake until morning,” said Micah.

“As if they might enjoy sleep of the just,” Joseph said bitterly, then waited for Micah to instruct him further.

It was all laid out in a matter of minutes. Joseph insisted that Micah take his horse rather than Micah's ass, arguing that the steed would get Micah to the cave more quickly in order to make things ready.

“I have no use for my horse,” explained Joseph. “If I am successful and I am able to bring Yeshua to you, it would be best for both of us to ride separate asses. The sight of both of us on a single horse would draw too much attention. We must each ride separate asses so as to not draw anyone's attention. If, God forbid, I am unsuccessful and am unable to remove Yeshua from the sepulcher, I will have no need for the speed that a horse could provide.

“You, on the other hand,” Joseph continued, “will do well to have a steed for your use should you need to make a rapid escape from the cave.”

They embraced, for a moment longer than they had on their partings in the past, and with more unsaid than spoken, bade each other well.

 

Micah's ride to his cave at Qumran had been swift and uneventful, yet his mind had been filled with far too many fears and too great a sadness to find any pleasure in the journey.

He entered the cave of his youth. The smell of damp earth welcomed him with a fragrance that was pungent and wonderfully familiar. All was exactly as Micah had left it. In the many years since he had been to the secret cave of his childhood, not a rock had been moved and, as far as he could tell, no one had entered his hiding place. Within the loving cool walls of the chamber, his tools and his precious hoard of silver and copper awaited his return.

He was home again, welcomed by memories of pleasure and safety of the only sanctuary he had ever known. In his youth, he had spent countless hours secretly perfecting the metal-crafting skills that had later afforded him the means of survival; here he had first imagined a life of purpose and meaning beyond that of financial wealth. Here he had felt his life begin and, ironically, here it might end as well.

There would be but one day at best in which to complete the tasks. Micah forced down the feeling of panic that rose in his chest and tried to organize his thoughts. If he ran out of time, everything would be lost. It wasn't going to work, he thought. He couldn't complete the scroll if he had twice the time than that which remained. Even if the message was already composed, which it was not, the simple act of preparing the copper sheet and then carefully pressing his message into it would require more time than it would take for them to follow him. And then the greater task that awaited him. If that was not completed then Yeshua's life, his own, and perhaps that of all those who walked the face of the earth, would be for naught.

A new wave of fear caught Micah in its grip and with it the realization that hunger, rather than fear, was causing the queasiness. He had not slept nor eaten for a day and a half, and he could push himself no longer.

He dug deep into his bag and retrieved the pouch of food he had all but forgotten. The strong smell of the rancid cheese brought tears to Micah's eyes. This would not serve him. He retrieved his wine skin and a large piece of hard bread from a second pouch. He ate and drank while he worked.

The first section of the scroll, a history of the travesty wrought upon Yeshua, had to be related in detail. Future generations would bear witness to all that had taken place, to the unforgivable betrayal as well as to the unmatched courage of he who had been wronged. While this section of the scroll must be faithful to the events, the words to be chosen were not of critical import.

It was the second section, however, that troubled Micah. It was here in this, the inner part of the scroll, that each mark pressed into the soft copper sheet had to be exact. A single error might render the writings useless, writings that bore the secret that had been passed down to Yeshua and upon which the future of mankind rested.

Yet, though a single error might bring about the most disastrous of results, too much care might well mean that Micah would not complete his task in time. Too quick and imprecise and all would be lost. Too slow and all would be lost as well.

Micah forced down the fear in his chest. He would not allow himself to think of all that depended on this moment. His skill, his determination, and, most of all, Yeshua's love that lived within him would not allow either message to be lost.

On the way from Joseph's, he had worried that there might not be enough copper to inscribe the tale and complete his tasks. Upon his arrival he had rediscovered the storehouse of copper sheeting from his youth. He had realized there was more than enough copper sheeting for the scroll, enough for two scrolls.

And, with that thought, all became clear. He would make not one but, rather, two scrolls. The first would bear witness to Yeshua's wisdom, his teachings, and the ultimate betrayal of those he trusted most. In this scroll, Micah would include that which would ensure the survival of the generations to come, that secret Yeshua had revealed to him.

In the second scroll, the false one, he would hide a message within the other message, a signpost to the righteous that would point the way to the true scroll.

He would hide the true scroll in a small chamber at the back of the cave that could only be reached by crawling on one's belly through a labyrinth of twists and turns. It was a place that he found when he was a sinewy child. Smiling, he reminded himself that he was no longer a sinewy youth. Still, he felt confident that he could negotiate the passage.

He would place the copper scroll that bore the true message in the tar-covered box that he had used to store his most precious tools. He could warm the tar with the flame of the oil lamp once more so that it might be sealed. He would place the box in the chamber at the end of the passage and there it would remain, to await the worthy soul that might find it and deliver it to the one for whom it was intended.

The false scroll he would hide in one of the nearby caves in which the Essenes stored their most precious documents. This second scroll he would fill with a spurious list of treasures and false locations so as to mislead those unworthy of the message of the true scroll.

Micah smiled at the simplicity of it all. The false scroll, by virtue of it being a listing of treasures, insured that upon its discovery it would be treated well and brought to light as quickly as possible. He who was unworthy of the message of the true scroll would see only the reflection of his greed. He, who was righteous and worthy, would see beyond the simple words, to the message within, the message that would lead him to the true scroll.

Yet Micah could not imagine how he might accomplish so prodigious a task. Two scrolls now, when there wasn't enough time for one. And a hidden message, so written as to conceal its meaning from the eyes of the unworthy while revealing it to the righteous.

I cannot do it.

His heart sank in despair. Could it be that the story of betrayal would never be told? Far worse, might the secret that had been passed down to Yeshua be lost forever and with it, might all of mankind, itself, be doomed?

Micah closed his eyes and brought to his heart and mind the face of his friend.

“Yeshua,” he thought. “All is lost, for I fear I shall fail you.”

The image of his dear friend seemed to appear among the shadows at the far end of the cave.

“You shall not fail,” Yeshua whispered softly, and then, as quickly as he appeared, he was gone.

Even as the image faded, so a warmth seemed to rise from the copper with which he crafted the scroll, a warmth unlike any that Micah had ever felt.

Where only moments ago his arms were weary, now they pulsed with strength; where his heart had felt fear and his mind was clouded, only power and purpose remained.

Micah worked with deliberation and skill. His mind empty, as if guided by another and, in the ribbon of hours that lay between sunset and sunrise, he completed the task with ease and grace.

By the time he heard the quick clops of hooves on the gravel, all was in readiness. The false scroll lay behind a pile of rocks in one of the Essenes' cave and the true scroll had been secured in the hidden chamber at the back of Micah's cave. Both scrolls had been blessed with prayers. With all evidence of his labor of love well-hidden Micah moved to the entrance of his cave and waited for what God had planned for him.

Day Eleven, late morning
Hillingdon Towne Centre, London

Within half an hour, Gil had withdrawn all the cash he needed from the ATM, hailed a cab, and backtracked his way to Sarkami's. The scene he imagined was always the same. He'd knock, Sarkami would answer, and Sabbie would be looking over the strips of copper and making notes on her translation.

In one variation of his fantasy, she'd be impressed that he had sleuthed his way back without any help. In another variation, she would have been trying to reach him at the hotel. She'd be angry and relieved at the same time to see him walk through Sarkami's door. Either scenario suited him just fine.

What he discovered, however, bore no resemblance to anything he had imagined. Small deep gouges cut into the green paint and exposed splinters of wood around each of Sarkami's locks that had so neatly secured the back door. Two of the locks had been pried half off and the others were missing. Gil hesitated, not certain that he wanted to enter, not able to imagine what other choice he might have.

He glanced at the nearby intersection where cars and trucks rumbled by and planned the fastest route to that haven of activity should the need arise. Soundlessly, he turned the knob, ready to slam it closed at the slightest provocation. The room that greeted him was indistinguishable from the one that had greeted him the night before. No tables had been overturned, no books thrown about, no signs, whatsoever, of a struggle. Gil moved in slowly for a better look, careful to leave the door open for a rapid exit.

The worktables remained untouched. As it did last night, the long clean table bore the same parchment sections, faux facsimile scrolls, and copper strips. Gil didn't know whether to feel relieved or concerned. Nothing made sense.

If Sarkami had begun to cut up the copper scroll, some evidence of his work should have been apparent. A jewelry saw, some copper filings, the cloth on which he would be doing the work, something should still remain. If Sarkami and the scroll had been taken by force, there should have been evidence of a struggle, which there was not.

Gil looked anxiously around the room, half expecting to see Sabbie's two shopping bags as she had left them last night. Nothing. No bags, no scroll, nothing to show that he or Sabbie had ever been there.

Silently, Gil moved toward the bedroom. He had not seen the room the night before. Though quite a bit neater than the living room/workroom, it looked like any bedroom might. Only a yellow flowered sweater, half hanging off the bed, marred the tidiness of the white cotton bedspread. Gil's heart pounded with a recognition that swept up and swallowed him.

This was Sabbie's sweater, the bright yellow sweater she wore every day, the yellow sweater that he had kept in view as they ran through the train station, the silly yellow sweater that he had always meant to tease her about, the one she had been wearing early this morning at the hotel when she went to the empty room to check on what was happening in the street. The flowers he thought it held, weren't flowers at all. They were brown splotches of blood. Her blood.

Terror rose in Gil's throat. The blood glistened.

Was it still wet?

His heart pounded so hard he could barely breathe. Slowly, he reached to touch the sweater. The largest brown stain was wet and sticky. Gil drew it to his nose in hopes that he would discover it was not what he knew it to be. It had no smell.

The only way to be sure is to taste it.

He couldn't. It would be too…

Gil never finished the thought. The thin iron rod caught him squarely at the back of the neck. The yellow sweater with its brown splotches fell to the floor and, next to it, so did Gil.