The Testament of James (Case Files of Matthew Hunter and Chantal Stevens) (23 page)

Lance White’s cell phone started to ring. He turned it off.

“What was the mystery?” Matthew asked.

“Like so many secrets, it’s right there for anyone to see,” smiled Lance White. “Moses chides the Israelites for their lack of faith; the next morning the manna is on the ground, like hoarfrost. In the end, they must have figured out how to dry and preserve it, because some was stored in the Ark of the Covenant, so the children of Israel would always know what it looked like.”

“Stop!” shouted the black-clad monk. “It’s madness to speak of this! It’s heresy!” The thunder was all around them, now, the sheets of rain lashing the stained glass windows of the cupola overhead. And the air smelled odd — ozone, maybe, or iodine, from the charges of the lightning, mixed with the smell of dust disturbed after many years.

“No, it’s the knowledge all the great religions were originally designed to preserve.” Lance White spread his own arms wide, gazing upward and looking downright beatific. “It’s the direct path to the knowledge of God and his will that the priests had slammed closed, and which to keep closed they were willing to see Jesus crucified in pain. It’s a secret the church could hope to keep hidden while it expanded into Europe, which has surprisingly few safe natural entheogens, except the witches’ ointment. But it was a secret you were terrified would resurface when your priests reported back from the New World that the indigenous people here could see the face of God, hear the voice of God by ingesting the
peyotl
cactus, the flower seed
ololioqui
, even through the manna itself, the sacred mushroom
teonanacatl
, the flesh of the God.”

“You see how dangerous are the lies in this book?” thundered the giant monk, swirling his cape. “The temples of the Aztecs besotted on these drugs were bathed in human blood! Are we really to believe the brother of our Lord risked damnation to write such blasphemies? That our Lord was luring his followers into the wilderness and leading them in drug-addled orgies by feeding them these demon plants?

“The Bible says God gave mankind every herb and flower-bearing plant for his use,” Lance replied. “It mentions no ‘demon plants.’ Yet the church destroyed the entire herbal and medical knowledge of the Native Americans, just as they had the witches in Europe a century before, condemned whole races and peoples just for using these plants as God intended, the plants God gave us for our use.”

“The people?” Brother Dominic sneered. “What is the subtlety of their understanding? Look at them brawling in the taverns, trampling each other at some pointless football match, swarming the courthouses to plead for their miscreant offspring to be given another chance. Do you really want to see these thoughtless mobs driven insane by hallucinogenic drugs, rampaging through the streets with torches and knives and nooses? Even the Master told the disciples he had one teaching for the masses and a different teaching for those who knew the way, who had been initiated into the mysteries of the inner temple.”

“Yes, he did. And with how many have you shared the manna during the past century, allowing them to hear the voice of God for themselves? Anyone at all?”

“Moses, Jesus, the great souls contend with the devil on our behalf,” shouted the black monk. “To let the mob hear the voice of God without careful guidance is madness. What are they ready to understand?”

“So it’s better to never let them hear, at all?” asked Lance White. “Is that our destiny, to live in darkness forever?”

“The light of knowledge can burn those who are unprepared,” intoned Dominic Penitente, pointing his finger in warning. There was more thunder now, and it was more continuous. The sheets of rain were going to make a mess of things outside.

“You’ve had two thousand years to get them ready,” sighed Lance White, shaking his head as the colored light shimmered about him. “Instead you’ve built a religion of sin, guilt, fake chastity, and the Spanish Inquisition. You’ve persecuted and condemned young women who bear fruit after being abandoned by their lovers, blaming them for leading men into sin. You’ve condemned our Lord’s bride as a whore and his people as Christ-killers. You condemn homosexuals while insisting on a supposedly celibate priesthood that fucks your choirboys up the ass by the hundreds of thousands, a crime you punish by rewarding them with cruise tickets and a new parish.”

“Without discipline, order, and a code of morals,” the man in black snarled back, “you’d allow mankind to degenerate into nothing better than beasts rutting in the fields! I know your kind, with your mail-order divinity degrees, uniting sodomites in so-called matrimony in a field full of flowers as some faggot strums a lute. Maybe you can sell them a group rate at your local AIDS hospice while you’re at it!”

“Every other great ancient religion had its entheogenic sacrament,” added Matthew, calmly, still standing on the floor below the two. “The Rig Veda has its soma. So what was the manna, Brother Dominic? You’ve already read other copies of this book that you’re here to buy and destroy, haven’t you? Give the manna its name.”

“The priests know, just as they did in Jesus’ time,” Lance White nodded. “They’re just not talkin’.”

The volume of the pouring rain increased as the front door to the building opened behind them. Chantal and Rashid the Egyptian came up the hall toward the central reading room, Chantal gesturing with her revolver to keep their soaking wet one-time kidnapper — the lighter-haired, chubby character she thought of as Monk Number Three — shuffling ahead of them.

“I really appreciate knowing how much you guys would have paid for my freedom,” Chantal said as they emerged into the scattered light cast by the few overhead pin-spots and the equally few green-shaded lamps still lit on the desks of the reading room. “But I hope you haven’t traded away anything valuable to preserve my modest virtue, just yet.”

Silence reigned for a few seconds. Then Dominic Penitente from his balcony spoke gently to his remaining bedraggled assistant. “
Fratellino, perché porta una pistola la signorina?
”

“
L’ha preso dal Fratello Anselmo
,” whined the smallest monk, literally bowing his head in shame. “
Dovessi vedere come l’ha picchiato!
”

“I took it away so he wouldn’t hurt himself,” Chantal confirmed.

“
Madonna mia
.” Dominic Penitente closed his eyes in prayer. “
Ma e’ possible che tutti il paese cerca i suoi idioti persi?
”

“It appears you no longer have any hostages to trade, Brother Dominic.”

“But how is this a problem, Brother Matthew?” asked the big Dominican, taking a deep breath and quickly recovering his equilibrium. “My only purpose was to bring the book out of hiding. I’m glad everything has worked out with no harm to anyone, except my associate Brother Anselmo, who it appears may have gotten just what he deserved for his rash and unauthorized actions,
requiescat in pace
. But now the time has come to ask our Egyptian associates what price they would ask for this aging manuscript, taking full account of its doubtful provenance.”

“What do you offer, priest?” asked the former hostage Rashid al-Adar, a slightly smaller copy of his big brother, Hakim.

“I come prepared to make a handsome offer, in cash, once I’ve examined the codex.”

“Then come and have your look, so long as you handle carefully.”

“I’ll bid for this book, too,” added Lance White.

“With cash?”

“Part cash. Mr. Hunter will vouch for my ability to produce the rest, once I have a chance to contact my bank in California in the morning.”

“And your offer?”

“How shall we proceed, Matthew?” Lance White asked. “Will you serve as auctioneer?”

“But I object to such a so-called auction!” shouted Penitente, who at this point tossed a rope down from his balcony, vaulted the rail, caught the rope with his feet as well as his black-gloved hands, and slid down to land with both feet squarely on the floor, his black cape billowing out behind. With the thunder still rumbling outside even as the storm began to pass by, and now a strange golden light streaming down through the stained glass in the cupola three stories above, it was all highly dramatic. More than ever Matthew was convinced his first guess had been right — this character had to be some kind of frustrated former actor, the Italian Errol Flynn, seeking refuge in the church after a prodigal youth.

“Here in my shoulder bag I have cash, American dollars.” Penitente smirked like the cat who already holds the bird in his claws. “Why should I enter an auction against someone who has little or none? Oh, Mr. Hunter is a fine and decent fellow, we all agree, to give his friend Mr. White the benefit of the doubt, that’s all very nice. But who except a fool would allow his price to be driven up by the phantom bids of someone who claims he can come up with unlimited sums . . . perhaps tomorrow?” Penitente stretched out the next-to-last syllable, sneering with sarcasm.

“For that matter, what if Mr. White wins this proposed bidding by mentioning some phenomenal sum, a half million, a million dollars, whatever? We all know that in an auction it’s easy to get carried away. And what if tomorrow he suddenly discovers raising such a sum is going to take longer than he thought, property must be sold, new mortgages taken out? It is, after all, a ‘holiday weekend.’ How long will we all sit around, begging the
signorina
’s pardon, with our dicks in our hands? What must I then pay, when you come back to the underbidder? The same amount this one dreamed up in his fevered imagination? And what if you no longer even control the book? Certain authorities from your own country are searching for it, even now. Let me see this manuscript; if it appears legitimate I offer two hundred thousand American dollars, right now, in cash. If the ‘Reverend’ Mr. White has more, let him show it.”

“Two hundred fifty thousand, in a negotiable treasurer’s check to be delivered tomorrow by noon,” said Lance.

“Promises! Maybe tomorrow!” Dominic Penitente pouted for effect, casting his voice in a mocking sing-song. He reached into his heavy black shoulder bag, pulled out a wad of hundred dollar bills, and held it up over his head for easier visibility. The mustard colored band meant there were a hundred of them — $10,000 in a single fistful. And his bag was still heavy, presumably with plenty more.

“Let the priest see the book,” said the hawk-beaked Hakim al-Adar.

Matthew beckoned for Richard, who’d come down the hall and had been lurking in the shadows, to bring out the book. He placed it carefully on a reading table where Penitente could examine it. Chantal pushed the other Italian forward, towards the table, so she could cover both inquisitors and the book at the same time. She lowered her barrel to knee level, but still held it two-handed, in obvious readiness.

But Dominic Penitente had eyes only for the leather codex, examining the binding and then the leaves with the briskness of an expert.

“Professor St. Vincent,” he said. “Your credentials are known to me. What do you say?”

“I would not stake my reputation on any cursory examination. Carbon-14 testing is available, but will take some days. X-rays could also be useful.”

“All your sensible disclaimers are duly noted, professor, but it appears time is pressing. As is so often the case, the buyer must therefore make his best guess, risking his cash on only what our immediate senses can tell us.” He bent down and actually sniffed the pages, after which he breathed for a moment with his mouth open, like a big cat. “So I would still value your purely informal opinion, Professor St. Vincent, subject to change based on these tests. You’ve examined the book. From what you’ve seen to date, is this a modern fake, or is this binding a thousand years old?”

“That binding is a thousand years old.”

“Aha. And the leaves, the writing? The same age?”

“Age can be different from authenticity.”

“That’s true. In fact, as I’ve explained to Mr. Hunter, I suspect this is an early fake, and would buy it as such. But all I asked was whether the pen made these letters a thousand years ago.”

“The writing is older.”

“Older! Yes, I think so, too. Fourth century, in all likelihood. You have done well, my Egyptian brothers. Today your luck appears to hold. Two hundred thousand in cash, here and now. This is my offer.”

“What do you think, brother?” asked Hakim.

“Mattieu has seen the book. Even now I would trust his advice. What do you say, Mattieu? Is this book worth more? A million dollars, perhaps?

Matthew nodded. “If you can show clear title, if I could put color photos in a printed catalog, write up the proper description, explain the provenance, yes. Given two months at least to circulate it to the proper institutional buyers, at a formal auction in Boston or New York, a price of a million dollars is not out of the question. That’s not a guarantee, you understand. They’d want their own experts to examine the codex; the price could fluctuate enormously if the validity or the title is challenged.”

“Clear title,” Rashid said thoughtfully, “and a provenance.”

“Be careful, younger brother,” answered Hakim. “Some dogs from Cairo have been sniffing here, claiming the book should never have left Egypt, threatening to seize the book as property of the thieves at the Ministry of Culture of their Islamic Republic.”

“Yes,” said Rashid. “Cash in the hand is always better than a promise for tomorrow. I prefer the priest’s money, I think. I worry about these dogs.”

“As well you should, my countrymen,” said the gray-suited Egyptian Associate Minister of Culture, stepping from the shadows on the far side of the reading room, his large State Department bodyguard in the dark suit still close by his side. “We appreciate everyone’s help in confirming this is the stolen book in question. But I’m afraid we must now take charge of the codex, before allowing this to go any further. It’s a cultural artifact removed without official permission from the Islamic Republic of Egypt.”

“You can’t prove any provenance for that book!” shouted Lance White, more excited than Chantal had seen him — especially considering he was about to be outbid in a cash auction for the manuscript, anyway. “It’s been missing for hundreds of years! Handed down in the al-Adar family for generations, from all appearances.”