Paul Maier - The Constantine Codex

Minutes passed, yet time dragged. Although he was not supposed to, Jon briefly parted the opaque sleep curtains in their suite to look below. He saw a long column of police cars with flashing red and blue lights and heard the alternating dual wail of European emergency vehicles. And of course, right behind them were the news trucks and television vans.

Reaching into the suite’s mini refrigerator that was stocked full of overpriced goodies, Jon pulled out several mini bottles of cabernet and poured glasses for all who wished. “You’ll recall that there was an unfortunate accident with our original bottle,” he added, trying hard to add a bit of levity to the general mood that had all the gaiety of a seance in Transylvania.

Again the phone rang. It was Morton Dillingham of the CIA. After several remarks in the I-told-you-so category, his comments quickly focused on a predictable theme. “Now, how are we going to get you out of there?”

“But we’re not ready to go back yet,” Jon advised.

“So here’s what we’ve arranged,” Dillingham continued, brushing off Jon’s comments as those of a madman. “We’re text messaging your homeward itinerary, flights, and times over our high-security line, since we don’t trust the phones-”

Jon chose his words carefully. “With all due respect, Mr. Dillingham-and with gratitude for all your efforts on our behalf-Shannon and I have no intention of leaving Istanbul for at least a week.”

A long silence ensued. “Are you out of your mind?” Dillingham finally responded.

“Ordinarily, we’d be glad to go, but something of phenomenal importance has just come up here that we simply have to deal with. It’ll require about a week-well, maybe only five days-after which we’ll be delighted to have you arrange our transportation.”

“Nothing could be that important, sir!”

“Oh, but it is.”

“More important than your life? And that of your wife?”

Jon pondered for a moment, then replied, “Yes… that’s exactly the case.”

Dillingham lost all control of his tongue, blurting out, “ Listen , Weber, whatever your ding-dong, dad-blasted reason may be, we’re sick and tired of tryin’ to keep you outta trouble when all you do is go out of your dag-blamed way to find trouble! You don’t stay in touch; you don’t follow the rules-what are you, some kind of suicidal jerk? Hey, maybe we should just wash our hands of you and let the terrorists use your blessed body for target practice! Yeah, that’d be a lot less expensive for us, and never mind that you’d be toast!”

Jon cringed but made no reply. Better to let Dillingham’s steam get vented.

Finally Dillingham cleared his throat. “Well… sorry, Dr. Weber. That was… that was rather unprofessional of me.”

“No apologies necessary, Mr. Dillingham. I realize I’ve been an exasperating case for all of you. I’m very sorry about that.”

Dillingham sighed. “Don’t mention it. I still feel bad about how I blew off. Let me try to show you that I’m not some pompous federal idiot. And please call me Mort rather than Mr. Dillingham, all right?”

“Fine-if you call me Jon.”

“All right, then. But what detains you, Jon? What’s so blasted important?”

“It involves a manuscript…”

“A manuscript, you say? What sort of manuscript?”

“Awfully sorry, but that’s all I can say at this point.”

Dillingham released another sigh of frustration. Then he said softly, “One last time, Jon; if they don’t catch the gunman, he’ll try again. And there may well be more than one out there. After that debate today, you’re not exactly a hero in the Muslim world.”

As Jon pondered the point, Dillingham asked again, “So-this manuscript of yours-is it really worth your life?”

“It really is, Mr. Dill-er, Mort. You’ll understand when I can finally explain it all.”

After a few moments of silence, Dillingham finally said, “Well… have it your way, then. We’ll postpone your return arrangements for exactly one week. But only if you follow the added security measures I’m going to text message to our people.”

“We’ll do exactly that… Mort.”

When he hung up, Shannon observed, “Sounds like you were speaking for both of us, Jon.”

“Uh-oh, you’re right.” Jon looked at her. For a time, the room was silent. Then he asked, “Do you really want us to go back immediately?”

“Yes, I’d really want to- if we hadn’t come across that manuscript!”

Relief washing over him, Jon gave her a big hug. Ferris and al-Ghazali wanted to know all about “that manuscript,” whatever it was.

Swearing them all to total secrecy, Jon and Shannon launched into the story for the second time that evening, Kevin Sullivan adding further comment with the sort of enthusiasm only the Irish can generate. The Vatican ace didn’t even have to change his plans for the flight back to Rome the next morning. He rather served as guinea pig for the escape route from the hotel that Jon and Shannon would use on a daily basis that week.

Several hours after Sullivan’s jet had left Turkish airspace, Jon, Shannon, and their security took the service elevator down to the Hilton’s basement parking garage. They climbed into a special Citroen that looked like a surviving specimen from the 1970s, but in fact had armor-plated sides and bulletproof glass. Anyone peering inside would have seen not the Webers but a Turkish couple, the husband with tanned skin and Muslim headdress and the woman veiled. The cars preceding and following them were equally nondescript, but they all had a common destination: the Eastern Orthodox Patriarchate.

Inevitably, Patriarch Bartholomew invited Jon and Shannon to a celebratory breakfast. The churchman was overflowing with appreciation for Jon’s defense of the faith, which he thought an inspiration for all Christians living in Muslim lands, particularly for those in Turkey. Jon, in turn, thanked him in advance for editing the Greek translation of the debate for both the DVD and print versions. After a final coffee, Jon explained that-with the patriarch’s kind permission and that of Brother Gregorios-they wished to finish their research in the archives, which might take several days.

“Certainly, dear professor,” the patriarch agreed. “And do let me know if you find anything of… of particular interest.”

Of particular interest? Jon mused. How about a manuscript codex that will become one of the great landmarks of biblical research? But for now, he simply agreed.

Brother Gregorios readmitted them to the patriarchate’s geniza, though Shannon preferred to call it the “Manuscript Retirement Home.” He stood in the doorway for a minute or two but then generously returned to his own duties. Jon’s pulse was at a swift gallop as they made their way to the southwestern corner of the room. There it was-the ancient bookcase… and its bottom row of dilapidated materials… and the Constantine Codex.

Wordlessly, and almost worshipfully, Jon put down his attache case that was crammed with photographic equipment and, with exquisite care, lifted the volume off the shelf. Then he opened it with a gentleness he usually reserved for Shannon.

For her part, Shannon opened her own case, which contained several photo lights-including ultraviolet and infrared-spare batteries, 6.0 gigabyte flash drives, filters, and dozens of 35mm film canisters-yes, film, since they would photograph each page both digitally and via film emulsion. A random static electric charge could destroy the memory cards if they went only the digital route or if they were, say, hit by lightning. “We would die, of course, but the film would most probably survive,” Jon had explained, helpfully.

Both put on white cotton gloves to prevent any of their skin oils from touching the vellum of the codex. Gently they opened the tome and, for the first time, were able to examine material beyond the title page in some detail.