The Omega Scroll (26 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Tel-Aviv

T
he landing gear of the British Airways Boeing 747 rumbled and thumped into place. Allegra pressed her face against the window with mounting expectation, waiting for her first glimpse of Israel. The Holy Land. She had read so much about it when she had been at the convent in Tricarico and now she was finally here. Mamma had demanded to know every detail, details that would no doubt be faithfully repeated for the benefit of La Signora Bagarella and La Signora Farini, and anyone else who might be around the cobblestone alleys of Tricarico. Papà would provide less detail, but Tricarico’s only wine bar would nevertheless be kept up to date on Allegra’s progress.

The big aircraft banked slowly and Allegra’s first sight of the Promised Land was disappointing. The Mediterranean lapped a dirty shoreline with waves of little consequence, and the late afternoon sun couldn’t do much to bring either to life. In the distance she could see Tel-Aviv and the city was equally unspectacular – a myriad of tightly packed nondescript buildings with the skyline occasionally broken by high-rise hotels overlooking what passed for a beach. The first all-Jewish city of modern Israel had been founded in 1908 as a garden suburb of Old Jaffa. Old Jaffa had been known throughout history as the pilgrims’ gate to Jerusalem and one of the oldest continually inhabited places in the world. Now the tables had turned and Old Jaffa was just another part of metropolitan Tel-Aviv.

The captain applied more power and the four Rolls-Royce RB211 turbofans growled, only to quieten again as the 400-ton aircraft settled on its approach path. The purser took the intercom and commenced the customary landing spiel. ‘As we will shortly be landing in Tel-Aviv …’

Allegra continued to stare out of her window, only to see that the surrounding countryside was as uninviting as the shoreline, a narrow plain of low scrubby greens and browns. But to the Israelis this countryside was a lot more than that. It was Eretz Israel, the land of Abraham and Moses and the twelve tribes of Israel. Nothing in the Old Testament, save Yahweh himself, was more precious.

After what seemed like an age of taxiing, clearing immigration and waiting for the luggage carousel to start spilling luggage onto the roundabout, Allegra finally reached customs.

‘Open the case.’ If the machine gun contrasted strangely with the attractiveness of the young customs officer, it was in perfect harmony with her eyes. Steely and suspicious.

‘Is this your first visit to Israel?’ Her English was crisp with only a hint of a Jewish accent.

‘Yes,’ Allegra replied, opening her suitcase.

‘Business or pleasure?’ the young Israeli customs officer demanded as she rifled through Allegra’s bag with ruthless efficiency.

‘I’m here on a scholarship with the Hebrew University.’ The customs officer looked her up and down and snapped the suitcase shut.

‘Enjoy your stay in Israel,’ she said curtly and waved Allegra through. Allegra wheeled her trolley into the arrivals hall. Ben Gurion Airport was busy and there was an almost continual stream of announcements ricocheting off the terminal walls, first in Hebrew and then in English. Allegra searched the crowd for Dr David Kaufmann, scanning the dozens of faces, looking for someone who might fit the brief description she had been given. About six feet tall, olive complexion, curly black hair, blue eyes and solid-looking. With the possible exception of the curly hair it wasn’t much help.

Roma

Not long after his appointment Cardinal Petroni had personally overseen the installation of secure phones for those he might need to contact. It was just as well. If what Lonergan had told him was true the acquisition of the second copy of the Omega Scroll was now nothing short of critical, and it would have to be done with the utmost secrecy. Petroni dialled his personal code, followed by the country code for Israel and finally the number for Lonergan’s secure phone in Jerusalem.

Derek Lonergan winced as the telephone rang loudly and he was forced to search for it under the piles of documents and papers that covered his desk. ‘Lonergan’, he answered thickly, not realising it was his red phone.

‘Good morning, Monsignor, this is the Cardinal Secretary of State.’

‘Eminence.’ Lonergan jerked his head to a more upright position and immediately regretted the suddenness of this action. ‘You have my letter?’ he asked, holding his head.

Petroni’s voice was cool. ‘Switch to secure.’

‘Yes, Eminence.’ Up yours, he thought darkly as he fumbled for the plastic key that switched the phone to its secure mode.

‘How many people know of the existence of the Omega Scroll, Monsignor?’ Petroni asked when Lonergan eventually mastered the technology and came back on line.

‘Other than the Bedouins who found them, and they would not have been able to translate it, only the antiquities dealer,’ Lonergan replied. ‘It stands to reason that it would not be in his interest for word to reach the authorities. I, of course, have not mentioned it to anyone.’

‘Keep it that way. How much room do we have to manoeuvre on price.’

‘He plays very hard, Eminence. I offered him one million dollars but he scoffed at it. It was then that he made mention of the Omega Scroll and said he would be able to find other buyers.’

‘This might be a secure line, Monsignor, but unlike mine, your conversations can be overheard. Guard what you say!’

‘Of course, Eminence.’ Up yours again, he thought, more darkly than before. The line stayed silent until Cardinal Petroni spoke again.

‘We cannot afford to take the risk. Tell him we will pay the asking price. The money will be available for collection in Switzerland and we will pay for his travel there, but once he collects the money he is no longer our problem. Monsignor Thomas will meet him in Zürich and the exchange will be done at the bank. You are to attend the meeting to attest to what we are buying. The details will be forwarded to you in a sealed envelope in the black bag and will arrive tomorrow. Is all of that clear?’

‘Perfectly, Eminence.’

‘Good. Now there is one other matter that requires your attention. I have received advice that Dr Allegra Bassetti and an Israeli scholar, Dr David Kaufmann, have been awarded post-doctorate scholarships at the Hebrew University.’

‘Yes, Eminence,’ Derek Lonergan said, wishing that the percussion section of the London Philharmonic would find somewhere else to practise other than inside his skull.

‘Regrettably they will have unfettered access to those scrolls that the Jews already hold. The Hebrew University will request access to the scrolls you hold in the Rockefeller. On no account is that to occur, although outwardly you are to give the impression that we are cooperating. If necessary they can be given some office space but you are to delay that as long as possible.’

‘Yes, Eminence. Although you will appreciate that Professor Kaufmann is applying a lot of pressure through the Department of Antiquities.’ There was silence at the other end of the line. It had been an unwise position to take.

‘I don’t care how much pressure there is,’ Petroni responded icily. ‘As a member of the Pontifical Biblical Commission your task is to ensure that the Word of God is shielded from any errors, and you are also there to ensure that the Holy Church is protected from criticism. And while I have you on the phone I did not appreciate Professor Kaufmann’s article on the codes in the Dead Sea Scrolls in last month’s
Biblical Antiquities Review
. I hardly need to remind you, Monsignor, that the contents of your file would not make life easy for you if it became public. I have protected you once, I may not be so lenient the next time.’

‘Of course, Eminence, of course.’ Like many others, Monsignor Lonergan should have saved his subservience. The line was dead.

‘
Vaffanculo!
Up your arse!’ he yelled into the lifeless receiver. He got up from his desk and trod a well-worn path to the cupboard in the far wall. His trembling fingers made it difficult to get the small key into the lock and his hands were still trembling as he unscrewed the cap on the bottle. He walked back to the French windows that looked out over the gardens, drained his glass and poured himself another.

To anyone else the walled gardens would seem like an oasis in the middle of the ancient Arab capital of East Jerusalem, occupied by the Israelis since the 1967 Six Day War. Stately pine, cypress and palm trees gave shade and an air of tranquillity. Hedges, red desert flowers and sandstone steps dropped gently into leafy squares with stone seats, providing a place of escape from the pressures of the world. A short distance from the gates of the gardens, on the other side of the walls of the old stone Priory, the Old City teemed with the noise and aromas of life in the Middle East as it had done for centuries. For Monsignor Derek Lonergan, the guardian of Papal secrets in Jerusalem, the place resembled a prison.

‘What you don’t know, you arsehole, is that for your fifty million you get one copy of the Omega. I get the other copy, along with Thomas and Isaiah,’ he muttered to himself. The sly little Turkish antiquities dealer in the faded red fez could, he felt sure, be persuaded against mentioning the second box when they went to Zürich. A commission for organising payment of the fifty million. Turks understood these things, he mused as he emptied the whisky bottle and flung it into a box in the bottom of his cupboard.

Tel-Aviv

‘Dr Allegra Bassetti?’

Allegra turned to find David Kaufmann standing behind her.

‘Hi, I’m David Kaufmann. Welcome to Israel,’ he said with a broad smile.

‘Hello and thank you,’ she replied, shaking his hand. His grip was firm and confident. This tall, tanned and fit-looking Israeli was not really what she had expected. David was a gorgeous looking man and the scar on his right cheek only added to his appeal. Judging him to be in his mid-forties, Allegra had imagined that a doctor of archaeology and an expert in Greek and Aramaic languages to be a little less athletic, a little more bookish and a little older. Had she known he was in his late fifties she would have been even more surprised. Fleetingly she remembered Professor Gamberini’s remark about him being very single.

‘I understand you speak English and Hebrew as well as Italian? That’s quite an achievement,’ he said, taking her bags.

‘Well, thank you, but my Hebrew is very rusty. Thanks for meeting me. I can hardly believe I am here,’ she said.

‘You’ll soon be in the thick of it. Onslow is not very far away.’

‘Your driver?’

‘My car. It was given to me by a friend of mine who was the British military attaché here before he went back to London. The Honourable Onslow Harrington-Smythe – we never give the car the full title, just Onslow.’

‘That was very generous of your friend.’

‘You haven’t seen Onslow.’

Bemused, Allegra followed her very attractive research partner to the car park where he had parked the ancient British Land Rover with ‘Hebrew University’ hand-painted on its front doors.

‘Forgive the dust,’ David said, as he opened the door and thumped the faded green vinyl seat. Powdery dust from Jericho and several other biblical cities puffed up from the seat.

David slammed his door twice before it shut and when he turned the ignition key Onslow’s engine cranked uncertainly. With a belch of black smoke and a cough it fired and roared into life.

‘Unless you really want to go into Tel-Aviv,’ David said, raising his voice so he could be heard over the roar of the engine, ‘which is nothing to write home about, I thought we might head straight up to Jerusalem. We can have a welcome drink at one of my favourite bars, then get you settled in?’

‘Tel-Aviv can wait for another day,’ she assured him, shouting back.

‘It’s the muffler or a gasket or something,’ he explained. ‘Must get it seen to one of these days.’ David swung the Land Rover out of the car park and headed south-east onto Route 1. Allegra felt a surge of excitement at the first signpost saying ‘Jerusalem’. She braced herself against the metal dashboard as David braked hard and swerved to avoid a minibus full of Arabs cutting in front of them. If the horn on the Land Rover had worked, he still wouldn’t have used it. David Kaufmann was not one to get agitated easily.

‘As you can see it’s a toss-up as to who are the world’s worst drivers. Us or the Arabs.’

‘You obviously haven’t driven in Italy,’ she replied. ‘How far is it to Jerusalem?’

‘It’s about 50 kilometres from here but the university campus is on Mount Scopus which is a few kilometres further on. Since this is your very first day we’ll brave the traffic and take the scenic route past the Old City. Tomorrow we have a briefing at the Rockefeller, although I should warn you there has been more than a little controversy over these scholarships and they may not be too pleased to see us.’

‘Does that have anything to do with the Omega Scroll?’ Allegra asked, deciding to find out how much David knew.

‘You know about that?’ he asked, glancing sideways at her.

‘A little,’ she replied enigmatically, ‘there’s been a bit of speculation in the Italian press from time to time.’

‘It may have something to do with it, not that there has ever been any proof of the Rockefeller having a copy, but it’s also about the fragments of the scrolls they hold. They’ve been pretty choosy about granting access, and it’s beginning to look as if there might be something very damaging in them, otherwise they would have been opened up to thorough scrutiny years ago.’

‘Do you think it’s real, the Omega Scroll?’ Allegra asked, pressing for more information.

‘My father certainly does,’ David replied. ‘Although I’m not so sure, yet it’s always in the back of your mind when you’re near an archaeological dig. What about you?’

‘I think your father might be right and whenever people get close to uncovering it, strange things seem to happen. You heard what happened to Professor Rosselli?’

David nodded. ‘A sad business. He and Yossi corresponded regularly. They never found who did it?’