Clive Cussler - Crescent Dawn

“I guess the Church is going to have a bit of explaining to do.”

As they talked, Loren drifted over to a small painting displayed behind velvet ropes. Easily destined to be the most popular item of the exhibit, it was a contemporary portrait of Jesus on a wooden panel, painted by a Roman artist. Though lacking the skilled hand of a Rembrandt or a Rubens, the artist nevertheless had created a strikingly realistic portrait of a reflective man. Lean-faced, dark-haired, and bearded, the subject stared from the panel with a striking aura. It was the eyes, Loren decided. The olive-colored orbs nearly jumped off the panel, gleaming with a mixture of intensity and compassion.

Loren studied the painting for several minutes, then called Summer to her side.

“The only known contemporary image of Jesus,” Summer said reverently as she approached. “Isn’t it remarkable?”

“Yes, quite.”

“Most of the Roman paintings that survived from that era are in the form of frescoes, so a freestanding portrait is quite rare. One of the experts believes it may have been created by the same artist who painted a well-known fresco in Palmyra, Syria. The artist likely painted frescoes in the homes of the wealthy of Judaea and supplemented his income with portraits. The historians seem to think he captured Jesus at the height of his ministry, shortly before he was arrested and crucified.”

She followed Loren’s gaze and studied the subject.

“He has a true Mediterranean look about him, doesn’t he?” Summer said. “A real man of the sun and wind.”

“Certainly nothing like the images created by the master medieval painters depicting Jesus as though he was born in Sweden,” Loren said. “Does he remind you of someone?” she asked, entranced by the image.

Summer tilted her head while studying the painting, then smiled. “Now that you mention it, there is a resemblance.”

“A resemblance to whom?” Pitt asked, stepping over to join them.

“He has wavy black hair, a lean face, and a tan complexion,” Loren said. “The same features as you.”

Pitt looked at the painting, then shook his head. “No, his eyes aren’t quite as green. And judging by the background, he couldn’t have stood more than five foot three and weighed much over a hundred pounds. On top of that, there’s another big difference between us,” he added with a slight grin.

“What’s that?” Loren asked.

“He walked on water. I swim in it.”

The afternoon heat had passed its zenith, and the sun was casting long shadows on the Jerusalem District Court Building when the final jury verdict was read. The television and print reporters were the first to exit the building, anxious to file their stories on the trial. The courthouse hounds and curiosity seekers who had filled the courtroom gallery filed out next, gossiping among themselves about the outcome. Last came the witnesses and attorneys, thankful that the long trial had finally reached its end. Noticeably absent, however, was the defendant. Oscar Gutzman would not stroll freely out the front door of the courthouse. Cuffed and under heavy guard, he was quietly escorted out the back door and into a waiting police van, which whisked him away to Shikma Prison to begin serving his sentence.

Dirk Jr. and Sam Levine lingered in the foyer, thanking the prosecuting attorneys for their good work, before stepping out into the fading sunlight. Both men wore the look of bitter justice on their faces, knowing that the verdict would never fully make up for the deaths of Sophie and her fellow antiquities agent.

“Fifteen years for aiding and abetting the death of agent Holder at Caesarea,” Sam said. “We couldn’t have done much better.”

“It should ensure that he dies in prison,” Dirk replied impassively.

“In his poor health, I’ll be surprised if he survives the first year.”

“Then you better get moving if you’re going to try him on antiquities charges,” Dirk said.

“Actually, we’ve already cut a plea deal with his attorneys. Although we had a solid case against him for trafficking in stolen antiquities, adding a few years to his sentence would have been an academic exercise.”

“So what did you get out of him?”

“All charges were dropped in exchange for him cooperating in the ongoing investigation into the sources of the stolen artifacts in his collection. In addition,” Sam said with a smile, “Gutzman has agreed to bequeath his entire collection to the State of Israel upon his death.”

“That’s a pretty good coup.”

“We think so,” Sam replied as they reached the bottom of the courthouse steps. “It will take a little of the sting out of our losses.”

“Nice to know that something good will come out of all this,” Dirk replied. He reached over and shook Levine’s hand. “Keep up the good fight, Sam. Sophie would have wanted you to carry on.”

“I will. Take care, Dirk.”

As Sam headed toward the parking lot, Dirk heard someone call out his name. He turned to see Ridley Bannister, easing down the steps with the aid of a polished cane.

“Yes, Bannister,” Dirk replied.

“If you’ve got a moment,” the archaeologist said, hobbling up to Dirk. “I just wanted to tell you that, prior to the trial, I wasn’t aware that you were involved with Miss Elkin. She was a professional colleague of sorts, although we didn’t always see eye to eye. Nevertheless, I just wanted to say that I always considered her a remarkable woman.”

“I share your sentiment,” Dirk said quietly. “Thank you, by the way, for participating in the trial. Your testimony was instrumental in putting Gutzman away.”

“I knew that he bought stolen artifacts, but I never imagined he’d go so far as to hire trained terrorists to augment his collection. It’s not difficult to get caught up in the allure of artifacts, and I carry my own sins in that regard. But you have to make right at the end of the day. You and your family showed me the way, in addition to saving my life. For that, I shall always be grateful.”

“How much longer will you need that?” Dirk asked, pointing to the cane.

“Just another few weeks. The doctors in Cyprus did a splendid job of patching me up.”

“It was good of you to agree to loan the Manifest to their new museum.”

“It belongs with the other artifacts that NUMA bestowed,” Bannister replied. “Perhaps it will make a few amends to your sister. Summer is quite a saucy young lady, by the way. Please tell her that I’d be honored to dine with her some time.”

“I’ll pass the word. What’s next for you?”

“The Ark of the Covenant. I’ve uncovered a lead that suggests it may be hidden in a cave in Yemen. It looks promising. How about yourself?”

“I think I’m through working in the Mediterranean for a while,” Dirk said quietly.

“Well, cheers to you wherever you end up next. And give my best to your father and Summer.”

“Good luck, Bannister. I’ll see you around.”

Dirk watched as the archaeologist hobbled over to a taxi stand and hailed a cab. Dirk’s own hotel was only a few blocks away, so he decided to proceed there on foot. Walking through the streets of west Jerusalem, he soon fell oblivious to the dense traffic and crowded sidewalks, his mind lost in an emotional fog.

He marched past the hotel and continued walking for another mile, entering the Old City through Herod’s Gate. He stepped absently through the narrow streets, pulled to the east by an unseen compass.

Following a nun jaywalking across a side street, he looked up to find himself standing on the grounds of St. Anne’s Church. He felt a calmness settle over him as he made his way around the back to the Pool of Bethesda.