Paul Maier - The Constantine Codex

Punctual as always, Monsignor Kevin Sullivan was in the chandeliered lobby of the Hilton at 7:05 p.m., when Jon and Shannon stepped off the elevator. This time nattily attired in clerical grays, the dark-haired, ruddy-faced son of Ireland gracefully kissed Shannon’s hand and then squeezed Jon’s.

“We really wanted to take you over to the Sultan’s Table on the Golden Horn, Kev,” Jon said, “but the CIA vetoed it-especially tonight-so we’ll have to make do with the hotel restaurant.”

“The Bosphorus Terrace? Not a bad alternate! Hey, kabobs and beer would do. This time it’s the company, not the food.”

The maitre d’ seated them next to a sliding-glass door overlooking the city, and the conversation lagged not a moment from that time on. In fact, they hurried their drink order for one bottle of local merlot so they could get on with it. The three had been through several extraordinary adventures together recently that could massively have affected the Christian faith, and they wondered if this would be another.

“You turned in a virtuoso performance today, Jon,” Kevin observed. “The Holy Father was particularly pleased-I was on the phone with him an hour ago-and if only you were a good Catholic, I really think he’d give you a red hat!”

“Hmm… Jonathan Cardinal Weber,” Shannon said. “It does have a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“Ah, but then I’d have to give you up, Shannon,” Jon said, “and become a solitary celibate like Kevin!”

“And you’d never want that, Jon!” Kevin played along. “The beautiful Shannon alone is worth your staying Lutheran.” After smiles and chuckles, Kevin grew serious. “I’ll say again, this was an important day in the fourteen-century interface between Christianity and Islam, and you did our faith proud.”

Jon shook his head. “Both you and I know that I could have hauled out some really heavy artillery against Islam, but I had to limit myself to a handgun. And you know why.”

Kevin nodded, pensively.

Shannon said, “I think when the debate comes out on DVD and especially in printed form, it may pack even more power. Any word on how it was received in Rome, Kevin, apart from Benedict XVI, that is?”

“Well, I also spoke with Cardinal Buchbinder, the Vatican Secretary of State, and he told me business nearly ground to a halt today, with everyone hooked to a TV screen. Same for the general public in Italy, I understand, since Radiotelevisione Italiana covered everything. But, thank God, no riots anywhere so far.”

“And you can thank Jon’s pulled punches for that,” Shannon commented.

When they had ordered the main course, Jon shifted the conversation. “Okay, team, enough about the debate. Frankly, I’m debated out. But now,” he said grandly, “let us tell you, Kevin, about the fabulous thing that happened this week, and it’s not the debate…”

Kevin looked at him quizzically. Shannon had a slight smile on her lips.

“But before we tell you, we’ll need your pledge to keep this absolutely confidential for now, okay?”

At Sullivan’s emphatic nod, Jon said, “Do you see that lovely proof for God’s existence sitting at our table?” All eyes focused on Shannon, a slight flush tinting her cheeks. “That woman with the face of an angel also has the mind of a Solomon and the luck of the Irish. Please start off, Shannon. Begin with Pella.”

Hardly needing any persuasion, Shannon eagerly unpacked her discovery in Jordan, capping it off with her find in the basement of the Eastern Orthodox Patriarchate. In the telling, Kevin’s eyes grew wide, and when she told of the title page identifying the codex as one of the fifty copies of Scripture ordered by Constantine, his jaw dropped open.

“My… my goodness,” he stammered. “That could revolutionize New Testament scholarship! Up to now, among the great uncials, our earliest are the Vaticanus, the Sinaiticus, and the Alexandrinus. But this version-authorized by Constantine and prepared by Eusebius, no less-would easily trump them all. This is a… a scholar’s dream !”

Kevin pushed what was left of his juicy filet to one side of the plate and seemed to grow incandescent with excitement. “Okay, we have the title page, but what about the rest of the text? What’s the format? How many columns per page? How many lines per column? What books are inclu-”?“We don’t know, Kevin,” Shannon said. “Or rather, we don’t know yet -except for four columns per page.”

“What in very blazes do you mean?”

Jon explained. “Just as we were ready to get into the text, the curator of the archives returned, and we instinctively ‘covered our tracks,’ as it were. Maybe we should have been open about it from the start, but then, I think, the patriarch would have invited his Greek scholars by the dozens to pore over the codex, and we could have been last in line.”

Kevin nodded. “I think you did the right thing.”

“But now you’ll start to understand that, ever since Shannon found that codex a couple days ago, my mind has been there and not on the debate.”

“Well, your mind on autopilot doesn’t do a bad job. But when are you going back to examine that codex and photograph its pages?”

“Tomorrow morning, of course.”

“Great! I have to fly back to Rome tomorrow, but do keep me informed, Jon, and let me know when I can tell the Holy Father.”

“Right, but only if you keep a buttoned lip in the meantime.”

As Jon leaned over to refill Shannon’s wine glass, they heard a sharp crack from outside. The bottle of merlot shattered in his hands, gushing crimson all over the tablecloth and onto their laps.

“Get under the table!” someone yelled.

As the three dove for cover, another shot demolished Jon’s plate into shards of crockery that spattered off the walls. Shrieking and panic filled the restaurant.

Several men from adjacent tables ran to the sliding-glass door that had been ten inches ajar, permitting a breeze-and two bullets-easy admission. Guns drawn, they stormed through the door while Turkish police rushed into the room and surrounded Jon, Shannon, and Kevin. For some moments, a surrealistic scene of bedlam transformed the Bosphorus Terrace into a chamber of horror. Commands were barked, only adding to the cacophony of shouting and screaming that filled the place.

Shannon, Jon, and Kevin were hustled out of the restaurant and onto the first available elevator. As its brass door was closing, Jon saw that the other diners were being similarly herded out. But who will pick up all their tabs? he wondered, then worried about his own sanity for posing such an inane question in such an emergency.

Safely inside their suite, Shannon sat on the edge of their bed trembling, trying with only limited success to put on a brave front. The men took turns pacing the floor and glancing at the door. Jon tried to redeem the situation, without really knowing how, except to say that a small army of police now controlled the hall leading to their suite.

Presently, Richard Ferris and Osman al-Ghazali appeared with Click and Clack, who explained that the men at nearby tables in the restaurant were from the CIA and the Turkish government police. They had just recovered the weapon at the edge of the broad lawn in back of the hotel, an old U.S. Army Garand rifle with telescopic sight. The perpetrator, evidently, didn’t believe in suicide bombing, although simple murder was fine. Had it been the other way around, or if he had simply shown up with a firearm at point-blank range just outside the open glass door, Jon would be no more.

The phone rang. It was Adnan Yilmaz, the Turkish minister of culture who had met them at the airport. He explained-with official regrets on the part of the Republic of Turkey-that they were doing ballistic tests on the bullets and checking the rifle for fingerprints. Meanwhile, however, Jon and his party were not to leave the Hilton-advice they found quite unnecessary.