Gregg Loomis - The Coptic Secret

He wanted to wait a few minutes, let them put even more distance between them.

"It is not safe to stay," Gurt grumbled. "If we remain longer, we'll have pneumonia."

"Better pneumonia than lynched. Come on."

Instead of risking returning the way they had entered, Lang searched the inky dark until he thought he saw a tiny blur of light. Hands outstretched to prevent colliding with columns, they slowly waded toward it. From ten or fifteen feet away, Lang recognized light around the edges of a door. They climbed out of the water shaking like spaniels with the chill.

Lang tried the door. "It's locked."

He could feel Gurt's hand over his as she checked out the lock by touch. "Is an old one. Do you have a knife?"

"Will a credit card do?"

"Try it."

After several minutes of sliding the card up and down the frame without finding the locking mechanism, Lang said, "I can't find the damn bolt."

"Perhaps it is simply swollen shut from the moisture, not locked."

"No, I can see light around the edge."

"Try a hard kick."

Lang gave the door a blow with his foot and it moved slightly. With a second, it swung open, its rusted locking mechanism dangling. Climbing a few stairs put the pair in the lobby of a another small hotel. Lang could hear each step squish water from his shoes. In his imagination, a fish leaped from a pants pocket. The clerk and two guests stared bug-eyed at two people, fully clothed, dripping wet and calmly walking through to the street.

Lang stopped at the door, unable to resist turning to the guests. "Lovely swimming pool but not very well lit."

Once back in their own hotel room, Gurt held up one of her two new purses, wrinkled as prune. "Ach! It has become ruined!"

Lang looked at the box with his carpet slippers in it. It was hemorrhaging red dye. Destroyed, no doubt.

He wouldn't have to wear the damn things.

"Ah, well, it's an ill wind…"

Gurt's glare told him he had been speaking out loud.

He hoped she hadn't understood what he meant. But when he climbed into bed, instead of the noisy and joyous sex that usually followed a close call, an expressionless back was turned to him.

Church of St. Saviour in Chora

The Next Morning

The taxi had careened along the road paralleling the Theodosian. Walk, four miles of fortified gates, towers and moats that had sealed off the city from the landmass from the Sea of Marmara to the Golden Horn. For a thousand years, their red tiles and yellowish limestone had resisted sieges by Attila the Hun, Russians, Bulgars, Arabs and even the armies of the Fourth Crusade.

The twin-domed Church of St. Saviour was unimposing compared to the massive mosques that dotted the city. It did, however, contain one of the finest displays of Byzantine mosaics.

Lang was glad they had come early enough to give them time to see the genealogy and life of Christ in the north and south domes, the chronology of the life of the Virgin, Christ's infancy and ministry, all done in tiles no bigger than the nail of his little finger. Like many artists, the fourteenth-century remodeler of the church, Theodore Metocites, had an ego. He had included a scene of himself presenting the finished building to Christ.

Styles change; human nature does not.

Outside in the small walled garden, guests were arriving for the baptism. There were none in obvious Muslim dress. The chatter of multiple conversations slowed, then ceased as a tall man with a flowing white beard appeared among a number of younger priests. From his black vestments, tall hat and Greek cross, Lang surmised he was seeing the patriarch, an assumption fortified by each guest bowing their head for the holy man's touch and blessing.

Lang was unsure exactly how to approach the churchman with his request. He need not have worried. The patriarch stopped in front of him and smiled.

"You must be the American, Lang Reilly," he said in slightly accented English. "You were the friend of Father Strentenoplis?"

Lang nodded. "Yes, Your Holiness."

The old man shook his head sadly. "May his soul be with God. One of our American friends in the Roman Church was kind enough to contact someone at the Vatican who called my office here about your visit. Has it been a pleasant one?"

Other than nearly going over a cliff and being chased by a mob from a mosque.

"Yes, sir."

"I understand you have a document in ancient Greek you wish translated."

"Actually in Egyptian Greek. It's supposed to be one of the Nag Hammadi books."

The patriarch held out a hand, age spotted and ridged with blue veins. "May I see it?"

Lang reached into his shirt, thankful he had wrapped the pages in a waterproof bag to protect it against sweat, Last night's excursion would have ruined it otherwise. "It is a copy"

The old man smiled again. "So I see. Or its authors chose to use bond paper available at any copy store."

Lang was always relieved to know he was dealing with someone with a sense of humor. "I have reason to believe some people don't want its contents known."

A chuckle like the sound of dry logs burning. "Some people would suppress all knowledge. Our brothers in Rome once had that reputation. On the other hand, our church, the church of Constantine, preserved the wisdom and science of the ancients, tolerated their religions, when the Western church had declared science and the old gods heresies. Be assured you will get an accurate translation in that tradition."

"Thank you, sir. Without being unappreciative, might I ask when the translation will be complete?"

The patriarch handed the pages to a priest at his elbow. "There are only a few pages. I see no reason why you cannot have it in two days. Three at the most. In the meantime, enjoy this marvelous city. You might start right here with this fine collection of mosaics the Ottoman Turks were kind enough to preserve."

He saw the look of skepticism on Lang's face. "Preserve them they did. When Constantinople fell, all churches were converted to mosques, frescos and mosaics plastered over. In 1922 when French and English occupation ended, Ataturk's constitution proclaimed a secular state. The remaining Christians here simply removed the plaster. The artwork had been preserved far better than if it had been left exposed. I believe you Americans would refer to that as the law of unintended consequences."

Indeed.

Lang and Gurt watched the old man walk away, stopping to bless all who wished it.

"How long the translation takes does not matter while the policeman holds our passports," she observed.

"That," Lang said, "is why our next stop is the American consulate. Let's see if we can bring a little pressure on Inspector Aziz."

Buyukada Princes' Islands

At the Same Time

Inspector Aziz normally didn't read the routine daily reports of police activity, but this one had caught his attention.

Last night there had been two seemingly unrelated incidents: A young hoodlum had tried to snatch the purse of a tourist in the Grand Bazaar. By the time the policeman had reached the trouble spot, the perpetrator had a very sore groin among other possible injuries. One of his associates had a bloody nose. Both inflicted by the woman, not her male companion. The woman, tall and blonde, spoke English with a decided accent. The man was American. The young thugs got away but, in the reporting officer's opinion, had been duly punished anyway.

A weak excuse for not doing his job, but that was some other inspector's problem.

An hour or so later, a couple fitting the same description had disrupted the evening prayers at the nearby Nuruosmaniye Mosque. At the same time, a gang of young men had entered the mosque, apparently in pursuit of the couple. The couple had escaped both the infuriated worshipers and the band of street criminals.