Paul Maier - The Constantine Codex

“We’ll be back, my darling. And that’s a promise.”

The manager at Hertz Rent-a-Car in Thessalonica grew apoplectic when Jon informed him that they would be unable to drive the car back to Athens, as they had agreed, since they had to fly home directly from Thessalonica. Why were Mediterranean types so excitable? he wondered. He could have fibbed that his mother was dying, so they had to get back, but his Lutheran conscience wouldn’t permit it. A couple of American fifties laid on the counter took care of everything instead.

Olympic Air flights from Thessalonica to Athens, then Athens to New York, and finally the Delta shuttle to Logan in Boston, and they were back in Cambridge. Large, dark sunglasses seemed to protect them from the press at the three airports, where they carefully avoided anyone carrying a camera or a nosy cell phone-cum-camera. Lately, though, that seemed to be every other person on earth.

Sunday back in Weston was devoted to unpacking and jet lag recovery. Incredibly the FBI was still keeping their house under surveillance. The government was nothing if not persistent. The phone kept ringing, but caller ID enabled them to answer only the most important calls, mostly from relatives and close friends.

Early Monday morning, Jon stopped at his Harvard office to check the mail, ignoring the almost-continuous ringing of his office phone. Among his letters was an elegant envelope from Cairo that turned out to contain al-Rashid’s invitation to debate. It was in English, not Arabic, very proper, nicely worded, and almost friendly. To Jon, this only compounded the mystery of his challenge.

Then he hurried over to Brattle Street off of Harvard Square, where his think tank was assembling in the board room of the Institute of Christian Origins. Unfortunately the media had put two and two together over the past several days and had the ICO under surveillance. When Jon appeared, they thronged around him until Cambridge police cleared his way. He was bombarded with questions, mostly variations on the same theme: would he accept the challenge to debate or not? Finally he held up his hands for quiet and announced simply, “We’ll have a press release for you this afternoon.” Then he ducked inside.

Osman al-Ghazali was already sitting at the board table, Jon was relieved to see, since his advice regarding the debate would be crucial. Osman was half a head shorter than Jon but likely weighed more. The man had a bald pate that somehow failed to detract from his appearance. He made no attempt to cover it by combing long remaining strands of thinning hair across his bare dome, as happened so often, but kept his remaining dark thatch well trimmed along the sides. His velvet brown eyes always seemed to have a playful quality, and his classes at Harvard were packed, thanks to his excellent communication skills.

Since al-Rashid had supplied his e-mail address in the letter of invitation and had even suggested that they use the electronic medium to facilitate arrangements, Jon opened the meeting by reading the e-mail he proposed to send to Cairo: “Dear Dr. al-Rashid: Thank you for the honor of your invitation to debate the topic ‘Christianity or Islam-Which Is More Credible?’ I am pleased to accept. Perhaps we might first decide issues of time and place for the debate, then draw up mutually agreeable guidelines for our discussion. I would also like to thank you for the remarkable address you delivered at the commencement of al-Azhar University this past June, not only because you were kind enough to give me favorable mention, but also in view of your splendid championing of academic freedom in the cause of truth. Yours is a most welcome voice in the Muslim world.”

“Well, my colleagues, what do you think?” Jon asked.

Heads nodded in approval, until al-Ghazali commented, “What do you want to send there, Jon, a love letter? This man wants to trounce you in a debate!”

Jon was taken aback. “Are you serious, Osman?”

“No, I guess not,” he said, smiling. “I’m just a little ticked that he went public before reaching you.”

“He claims it was someone else’s error. That sort of thing can happen, Osman, right-the ‘error’ bit?”

Al-Ghazali threw his arms up and chuckled. “ Touche! I plead guilty!”

“Okay, then. Marylou, please send this to Cairo. The e-mail address is on al-Rashid’s letterhead.”

“Done.”

Jon turned to al-Ghazali again. “Now, please tell us, Osman, why in the world would al-Rashid issue this debate challenge? We all thought he was progressive, a Muslim moderate who was anything but doctrinaire.”

“Simply because that’s exactly what al-Rashid is.”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard from my contacts in Cairo that he got a tremendous amount of flak after that address you raved about-and it was worth raving about, believe me! But some archconservative mullahs started scheming to have him replaced. He learned of it, and in a steamy faculty meeting, he announced, ‘It is easily possible to be faithful both to Islam and the cause of academic freedom!’

“That led to more hot debate, until one of their reactionaries, who inclines a bit to the right of Genghis Khan, yelled out, ‘Prove it, then! Prove that you are indeed faithful to Islam by taking on that Christian professor from Harvard in debate!’”

“But why me, for goodness’ sake?”

“Glad you asked,” Osman said with a twinkle. “Whether or not you know it, Jon, you are big in the Arab world, big -thanks to that innocent mistake in the Arabic edition that seems to have catapulted you into stardom!”

“Can’t be.”

“Remember those Christian versus Muslim discussions you had Marylou ask me to monitor after you spoke to her from Meteora?”

“Yes.”

“Well, they’re starting also in the Muslim world. Not Christian-Muslim debates so much as Muslim-Muslim discussions on some of the issues you raised in your book. Al-Rashid simply had to put his money where his mouth was.”

Marylou was staring at her laptop when she suddenly raised her hand. “Sorry to interrupt you all, but a return e-mail has just arrived from Cairo.”

“Please plug your laptop into the projector so we can all read it at the same time, Marylou.”

When the screen at the far end of the conference table lowered from the ceiling, they read the following message: Dear Professor Weber: Again I apologize for the premature announcement of our possible debate, and I thank you for accepting. I am certain that you and I can discuss the topic without the high emotion that often characterizes such exchanges, and the result might even benefit Muslim-Christian relations. I would suggest that we consider the event for sometime within the next two or three months. As to place, we would be happy to invite you here to al-Azhar University. I am sure that the Coptic Christian population in Cairo would be glad to welcome you here as well. We are, of course, open to other locations. Yours truly, Abbas al-Rashid

“How come his English is so good, Osman?”

“Who knows? He could have used someone from the American University in Cairo.”

“Well, team, what’s your opinion? Is Cairo a good location?”

“I’d prefer New York,” Richard Ferris said, half-joking. Then he added, “No, I think it’s a very bad location, Jon-bad for your health. Not the climate, but the security situation. Cairo’s the home of the Muslim Brotherhood-many of them jihadists-and of al-Gama’a al-Islamiyyah, the people who assassinated Anwar Sadat. And when you win the debate, they could even take it out on the Copts. Not a season goes by in Egypt without some Christian church getting burned. Plus, it would be al-Rashid’s home ballpark.”

“You seem a little optimistic about the outcome of the debate, Dick.”