Chapter 2
Shrine of the Book
Jerusalem,
Israel
21st Century
Professor Dvir Gottlieb made his way past the Sons of Darkness as he limped across the square and neared the Sons of Light. A skinny, red tie fleeing its knot trailed his earlobe, giving the appearance of a severe gash across his throat.
His unscheduled stop at the museum store caused him to approach the Shrine of the Book from the rear, rather than from the parking lot, many steps below the museum annex. The store stop was a momentary inspiration, just a little added insurance in case there were problems. Big ones, not little ones. He was certain he was still being followed, though he had walked to the Jaffa Gate, taken a cab to Ben Gurion Airport and a courtesy bus back to a hotel near the museum. He tripped and twisted his ankle while exiting the final cab at the hotel, completely missing the fact that he dropped the small jeweler envelope, which held the reason for his museum visit.
“Excuse me, sir, did you drop this?” said a woman in a white shirt and navy blue cap, her eyes scrubbed dark by polarized lenses. She handed Gottlieb the envelope while deftly and instinctively finger-rubbing for its content. The envelope seemed quite empty. Empty and safe.
Gottlieb looked at the woman as if she asked him if he would like to parasail off the museum roof. His forehead crinkled in a ripple of wonder, concern, and puzzlement. His mouth fell open to permit a quick gasp, his inhale an audible prelude to panic.
“Yes. Yes, that’s mine,” he said, the first word a bit too loud, clumsy in his exhale. The beak of the woman’s cap now fronted his nose, which gave him clear view of “Police” in both Hebrew and English.
“Thank you so much, so much,” Gottlieb said. “Yes, so much,” he added needlessly, his tie now noosed in a full wrap of his neck.
The old professor turned, a bit too quickly for his ankle, and winced a spit of sweat from his temples as he again headed for the Shrine of the Book. He knew that he was quite inexpert at all this secrecy, unschooled in threat, and that he was playing at a disadvantage in a game which was likely fixed and unwinnable. He had, for some time, suspected that his time on this earth might now be short, that the impatience of some for possession of his discovery and the power of its knowledge might well be nearing a final match point. No matter. He was prepared for that, too, he knew, rolling his tongue across the inside of his cheek.
Gottlieb had chosen this time of the day, midafternoon, when the Sons of Light, home of the Dead Sea Scrolls, would be filled with visitors, tourists mostly, all milling and anxious to queue-up for a few moments of viewing the fragmentary parchments of the scrolls which were on the exhibit rotation. Once inside, it was easy to lose oneself in the troubling meander of low-lit passageways and galleries and, he still hoped, to lose others as well.
The Sons of Light was shaped like a scroll-cap, an Egyptian scroll-cap Gottlieb now knew, though the suggestion of a dollop of cream or his favorite candy-kiss were, to him, more obvious and descriptive. The annex was backed by a large, black wall, the Sons of Darkness, which was itself a bit bizarre, reminding Gottlieb of a similar oddity in that Kubrick film, or a strong suggestion of the D.C. Vietnam War Memorial. The effect of the two, the Light and the Darkness, were ample evidence to him of the real dangers of using New York architects to convey powerful cultural meaning in a place as complicated as Israel. The new campus restoration now underway could perhaps correct some of these deficiencies. He hoped he would live to see it.
As he rounded the corner of the plaza and joined the bobbing heads now filing downward into the drab, bunker-style entrance, Dvir Gottlieb’s expectation force-fed his excitement. He paid the entry fee, crumpled the day’s special exhibit flyer “A Day in Qumran,” into his trouser pocket and stood in the security line for no more than a few minutes, occasionally shifting his weight to one foot to ease the pain of his ankle injury. Gottlieb quickly scanned the line behind him, his reading glasses now perched on the end of his nose below hunched eyebrows, like gray caterpillars hammocked above his weary eyes.
He noticed nothing unusual, no one who looked suspicious or gave him the slightest interest. Yet he knew that they must be there, somewhere. In the past few days there were too many furtive shapes, too few receding footsteps and too often a sense that he was being observed, obsessively watched to see if he might lead them to his secret.
At first his computer and his apartment felt slightly violated, as if files had been expertly frisked and desk drawers patted-down. Then the warnings began, filled with the scathing anger of the vengeful, the scolding tongue of the fanatic, and the saving hate of the righteous. The first came to him by email. It was a quote from the Quran and suggested an apocalyptic punishment for his unspeakable heresy:
When the fetters and the chains shall be on their necks they shall be dragged into boiling water, then in the fire shall they be burned.
Another threat, this time from the Old Testament, was carved, graffiti-like, into the door of his apartment.
Anyone who blasphemes the name of the LORD must be put to death.
There were several more such warnings, similar anonymous phone calls and letters meant to turn him from his research and dissuade him from pursuing his scientific study of the true origin of the world’s three great religions. When challenged at the lecture podium about his work, Gottlieb would simply say that he was committed to “lighting the way,” and that he would not be put off by superstition or belief, regardless of the religious import.
“Unbelief in one thing springs from blind belief in another,” he would add, borrowing from a dead German. “Belief is not truth, no matter how fervent its commitment. Only certain knowledge is essential for truth.”
Dr. Gottlieb wondered what great changes might come from the physical proof of his theory once he had it in his possession. To a man of science the mere pursuit of knowledge was its own reward. He hoped, though, that he could remain alive long enough to see his work vindicated in the temples, churches, and mosques of the world. He would bend religion to truth as religion bent reason to belief.
Gottlieb’s tongue again rolled nervously across his inner left cheek as he reviewed his plan. Banus, the Essene, was the key, of course. His knowledge, his interpretation, when supported with the acquisition, would be essential. Jack and Sami could be trusted. That would be enough for now, though he would soon need to involve others, experts in certain acts which some might view as criminal, such as breaking and entering or graverobbing. But, under the circumstances, he seemed to have no choice. There was likely only one way to bring things to the light, he mused with a nervous chuckle that made note of his inadvertent pun. Yes, he was a Jew, and perhaps other Jews might never forgive him for his efforts; but he was a scientist first. He would do what was necessary.
Gottlieb had taken certain precautions. The main body of his work was now in a single file at his Rockefeller office, the key to his discovery was in the Judean desert, and he had just completed his final safeguard at the museum store. The major announcement of his findings would be in two weeks time at his upcoming conference. After sharing the discovery with his colleagues it would be too late for anyone to stop him from publishing his research.
“Ah,” he sighed; it was all becoming too much to carry alone. But, now to the matter at hand. He felt he was close to the final proof, quite close in fact, though there were still a few loose ends. He would see to one just now.
“Could you please step aside, sir,” the museum guard requested, waving his wand as if to conjure lethal metal from the rumple of Gottlieb’s sport jacket.
Gottlieb spread himself like an injured star, his five points quickly stroked, his small package avoiding detection, hidden among shekels and tooth fillings, invisible to the arcane probes of security clearance. The professor then joined a school of visitors moving in a rising tide toward the scroll room, where progress faded to a slow swim. The gallery of the Sons of Light reminded him of a poorly lit aquarium where movement seemed aimless and eerily claustrophobic, as if a predator lurked within the watery shadows.
He was moving toward the case, which held the object that would settle his curiosity. There could be subtle differences, he knew, though he hoped he could make a sound determination from his memory rather than just an educated guess. The photos and his online search were of no help. The holes were simply too tiny, the metal too corroded to show much. He would need just this brief look, he reminded himself. The soft glow of the case grew near.
Dvir Gottlieb, scientist and Jew, moved forward for a closer look.
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