The Cairo Codex (31 page)

“Zachariah?” she mumbled through her swelling mouth, pushing Amir away, plopping back down on the slab floor. “Who’s Zachariah?”

“That would be me, Dr. Jenner.” The man who’d called himself Hussein straightened his body and adjusted his collar.

“Amir,” she shrieked, nearly hysterical, making no effort to get up by herself. “I knew you were in on this when I saw you in the Khan! You and your brother!
You
took the missing pages.”

Zachariah grinned and took a long draw on his cigarette. Having his brother accused amused him.

“In on what, Justine? What are you talking about?” demanded Amir. He made no further move to help her.

“I’ve been kidnapped and threatened by your brother—and these other men.” As she waved a hand toward the others, the second new arrival caught her attention. “Mohammed,” she gasped. “What are you doing with these criminals?”

“Amir requested my help,” Mohammed said seriously. He came over and helped Justine to stand, then set her fallen chair upright and sat her down. “You can trust him,” he said quietly.

“A Muslim doing bidding for the Copts,” Zachariah sneered. “The Prophet would not be pleased.”

Mohammed moved aggressively toward Zachariah, but Amir stepped into his path. “Not now, Mohammed,” he warned with a glance.

Amir looked at Justine, then his brother. “When Justine didn’t show up at St. Sergius this morning and the boab assured me she had gone out, I feared that something had happened. Grandfather told us the tale of St. Samaan when we were boys, but it’s taken me a couple of days to make the connection between the story and the warning you slipped under her door. I suspected you, but at first I couldn’t understand why a newly converted Muslim would be in a Christian church.” He glared at Father Anwar, who lowered his eyes. “What tricks does the Brotherhood have you performing now, Zach?”

Zachariah snorted. “And as you know, Anwar and I were friends before I converted, and he understands that we still share a few common goals. We’ve merely been having a pleasant conversation with Dr. Jenner. I believe she understands the gravity of the situation.”

“You’ve gone too far this time,” said Amir sadly. “She’s hurt, and I can’t help you any longer.”

Justine interrupted. “Zachariah and his friends seem to think that I am in possession of a book that may be important in understanding the Holy Family. They said it would not be ‘healthy’ for me, my father, or Andrea if information came to light that would contradict beliefs shared by both Christians and Muslims.”
Best to leave Nasser out of this.
“How do they know about the codex, Amir?”

Amir’s eyes narrowed as he glared at his brother. Bending down on his haunches, he gazed up into Justine’s eyes and spoke to her as though there was no one else in the room. “Justine,” he said softly. “I know I’ve been distracted, secretive. When you found me in the Khan I was looking for my brother. My parents and grandfather have been panicked and I’ve been following up on leads, trying to find him. Certainly before he did anything like this.” He glanced at his brother with bitterness. “My brother and I went our different ways when he joined the Brotherhood. Please reconsider, Justine, I am not the person you’re accusing me of being . . .”

Justine watched him closely, her eyes filling with tears. She was silent. Confused.

Amir’s eyes softened, a pleading expression washing through them.

She took a deep breath and let it flow slowly through her aching body. “I’m so sorry, Amir. I do believe you.”

“As a recent convert, it would seem you may be overstepping your bounds,” observed Mohammed, speaking directly to Zachariah.

“Not at all. I’ve been asked by MBI and certain leaders in the Coptic Church to help stabilize religious strife in Egypt. The Western world must be our target, not each other,” Zachariah said with the pride of someone who is chosen.

“MBI?” asked Justine, dabbing her lip with Amir’s handkerchief.

“Muslim Brotherhood International,” responded Mohammed darkly. “An expanded version of the MB working throughout the Islamic world to teach fundamentalists how to win sympathy and elections. Hezbollah. Hamas. Even the Syrians.”

“Very astute, Mohammed. Surely you must find the effort admirable,” suggested Zachariah.

“Not at all,” replied Mohammed. “Islamic countries like Egypt can’t enter modern history under Shariah Law. A society based upon such law only dredges up our historical failures and cripples our chances of economic development. Throughout history the real catalyst for religious change has been the rejection of violence.”

“Well said, my friend,” said Amir admiringly, giving Zachariah and his colleagues a sweeping look of contempt. Zachariah returned his glare.

“A naïve worldview. Undoubtedly that is why you and Amir are friends. Two of a kind.” Zachariah turned toward Justine. “Just keep in mind what we’ve talked about, Dr. Jenner. This is a dangerous world.”

“It is you who are now in danger, my brother,” Amir said. “I assume that Dr. Jenner is free to go.” He took Justine by the hand and led her toward the door. Mohammed followed. Fathi drew his gun and stepped forth to block their escape, but Zachariah scoffed and nodded to his companion to let them pass.

On the slow drive out of Muqattum, the three discussed Amir’s intention to work with the police to arrest Zachariah. “You would have your brother arrested?” Justine asked, incredulous. “Are you sure?”

“I can’t protect him any longer. He’s dangerous. Do you agree, Mohammed?”

Mohammed concurred, so they stopped at the police station near the Citadel. Amir’s eyes were moist as he, rather than Justine, signed the report. They both knew that a report signed by a woman held less weight. “This is the most difficult thing I’ve had to do, but not as difficult as telling my parents and grandfather. Grandfather will be especially distressed. But I have no other choice.”

Two hours later, Justine and Amir sat in the emergency room at Ain Shams University hospital, she holding an ice pack to her jaw. As soon as they’d left the police station, Amir had insisted she have her jaw X-rayed. They’d let Mohammed off at the Heliopolis bus stop as they crossed town.

“I swear, Amir, emergency rooms are alike the world over. Crowded and sterile.” She noticed that he’d rolled up the sleeves of his soiled cotton shirt. “It looks as if you were doing some digging in St. Sergius,” she said, curiosity overcoming the pain.

“I’d just gotten started on the east wall of the crypt when I realized something was very wrong. You were too late, even for a woman.” He grinned. “The next time I enter the crypt, you’ll be with me. Now, no more talking,” he said, gently placing his warm hand over her mouth.

She kept drifting off, twice nearly falling out of the chair.

“It could be a concussion,” said Amir, gently squeezing her shoulders. “You need to stay awake.”

She knew she needed to talk in order to stay conscious. “Zachariah knows more about the codex than we do, Amir. How is that possible? He kept saying something about Mary’s purity—what did he mean?”

The startled look that crossed Amir’s face was genuine. “It means that he has seen the missing pages of the codex. Let me show you a photo I took after you first brought the codex to my grandfather.” He turned on his mobile phone, pulled up the photo, and handed the phone to her. It was the cover page of the codex, written in Aramaic. “The first word, ‘KTWbH,’ is Aramaic for ‘book,’ meaning ‘little book’—something like a diary or journal. Andrea and grandfather knew what this meant right away. Even without the benefit of our experts, it wouldn’t have been difficult for Zachariah to find someone to translate this page.”

Justine blinked and stared as Amir spoke the title of the codex: “Diary of Mary of Nazareth.”

I
F YOUR LIFE CAN PASS BEFORE YOUR EYES IN
the moments before you are assured of dying, surely your life can pass by measurably well in just a few weeks. For Justine, the following weeks raced by as though time was pushing up against itself. It was curious how waiting became its own form of time . . . waiting for her face to heal . . . waiting for the carbon dating on the codex . . . waiting, if she could call it that, for the next stage of her affair with Nasser . . . waiting for the police to find Zachariah or for the Muslim Brotherhood to make another move . . . waiting for the school at Birqash to be reopened. The missing pages had not been found, and Mostafa was pressing for the storage of the codex in the museum safe.

Yet waiting was much too passive a notion.
Perhaps “unfolding” is a more accurate word
, she thought, her feet pounding the pavement in rhythm with her heart. “My time is improving,” declared Nasser, keeping pace with her during their morning run on the Corniche. “At least I have become a ‘contenda.’ And I can also talk while I’m running. Well, almost,” he affirmed breathlessly.

“You certainly have improved!” They shared a morning run perhaps three days a week now. The Nile’s breath was steaming in the summer morning.

“You’ve been deep in thought for about a mile now. What’s on your mind?” he asked.

“I’ve been thinking about these last weeks and all that has happened. So many things. Yet . . .” Justine stopped running and stood still.

“You’re nervous about the presentation.” Nasser reached over and pulled her ponytail gently, a gesture she found both endearing and disconcerting.

“I shouldn’t be,” she said. “Nadia will be with me, but I haven’t met the Minister before. His background is law, so my challenge is to not to use ‘educationese.’”

“You’ll do fine. You really come alive when you talk about the young girls. He’ll be enchanted.”

“I know,” she grinned, “I know.” They were almost perpendicular to the Roman aqueduct and the south end of Roda Island now; Justine motioned for them to turn back toward Aisha El Taimuriyya.

“I may have to get another car one of these days,” Nadia said as Justine struggled with the door on the old Renault. “What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t rush into things,” she laughed, turning to place her buckskin briefcase in the backseat. “After all, you’ve only had this car for eighteen years and”—she leaned across the seat—“175,000 miles.”

“You cut me to the quick.” Nadia pulled onto Qasr al-Ainy, artfully weaving into traffic. “See how nicely she handles? An old friend.”

“Never sacrifice an old friend on the altar of modernity, I say,” Justine said with exaggerated seriousness.

“By the way, any news on the codex? ”

“Everything’s a little on hold while we wait for the carbon dating from the Arizona lab. But speculations run high! I have my own.”

“Oh, tell me.”

“Nope. Keeping them to myself right now.” Ever since Zachariah used the phrase ‘Mary’s purity,’ Justine had been trying to discover whether it might have been possible that Jesus’ mother could write. But then, she didn’t want to be embarrassed, either. After all, history holds a million Marys.

Nadia rolled her eyes. “You don’t want to be wrong—right?”

Justine grinned. “What can I expect today? Will the Minister have read the report?”

“Probably not. He’s a very busy man.” Nadia pulled into the narrow concrete garage under the Centre.