P. Deutermann - The Last Man

“No, it was not, Dr. Ressner,” Gulder interrupted. She looked at Ellerstein, who nodded his head at her. Listen to this man, he was telling her.

“This discovery was made by you, Dr. Yehudit Ressner,” Gulder continued. “After years of solitary study and analysis. The American’s visit was simply an annoyance, which was why you were upset by the requirement to shepherd him around this site. Then he trespassed at night and was invited to leave. He went scuba diving and then went back to America. The American is most definitely not part of this story, Dr. Ressner. You, on the other hand, are the story. Along with the artifacts, of course.”

“But—”

“Yes, I know, we have Mr. Hall in custody. Of course. We will need to debrief him, and then we will send him home, but not until we have established the provenance of these amazing discoveries, in a proper public relations setting, as it were. Now: Tell me in detail, what is down there?”

Bewildered, but not sure what to do about it, she told him about everything they’d found. Gulder’s eyes gleamed when he heard it. An officer called down to them from above that a navy dive team was on the way from Haifa.

“Well, Dr. Ressner: Do you think you could manage to go back down there? One last time? Based on what you’ve said about its size, it may take days to drain that cistern. We need to verify these things immediately.”

“And preserve them,” she said. “The cave must be atmospherically sealed before the water level drops below the entrance. We have no way—”

“Yes, yes, of course, Dr. Ressner,” he said, steering her with his hand on her shoulder toward the steps. “Trust me, we will shortly have more archaeology experts here than there ever were Zealots. First, I think, we need pictures. Now: Yossi, take her up to wait for the dive team’s helicopter. These are military divers, Dr. Ressner. They will take good care of you down there. Trust me, Dr. Ressner.”

As she went with Ellerstein she realized she had not told Gulder about the wine bowl.

David completed his one hundredth circuit of the garden cloister and finally sat down, somewhat out of breath. After three weeks, he had not yet entirely acclimated to the altitude. Every time he was brought out to exercise, one of the monks took up station in a corner of the cloister, ostensibly reading a book of prayer. He seemed to pay no particular attention to what David was doing, walking or not walking, but he didn’t leave, either.

The blindfold had come off as soon as they took him out of the helicopter. He was pretty sure that they had landed somewhere up in the Golan Heights, because the truck that had picked him up couldn’t have gone more than a few miles away from the landing site, and most of that had been damn near straight up through snowy mountain ravines. They had taken him to a mountain monastery, through massive wooden gates, and into a bare white stone courtyard, flanked by thick, high walls on two sides and a stone building in front of him. Two very old men in black robes were bobbing at him and smiling a welcome. His Israeli guards took off the plastic cuffs and left without a word through a man-sized metal door embedded in one of the two enormous wooden gates.

David hadn’t known what to do next. The sun was intense, and the air was very thin. He already had a headache, and he wasn’t sure that any of these people spoke English. Then another monk came out into the courtyard, younger, only in his sixties or so, and greeted him in broken English. He took David through the front door of the building, down a short stone corridor with no doors, and out into a garden enclosure surrounded by a columned walkway on all four sides. There was a still fountain in the center, flower beds in four quadrants, and what looked like the entrance to a small chapel on one side. The battered remains of a stone tower rose over one corner of the walls. The monk walked straight across the enclosure and took David into yet another corridor. David noted that there were no lights or any other signs of electricity in the monastery. Finally they came to a plain wooden door at the end of the cross corridor. The monk produced a set of antique keys, unlocked the door, and showed him into a bare room that was about fifteen feet square.

Inside was a single cotlike bed with two blankets, an armoire, a small wooden desk, and a chair. There were two candlesticks, a large enamel pitcher, and a glass on the desk. In one corner was a washbasin, under which there was a chamber pot. There were two tiny windows, embrasured as if for defensive purposes, with small apertures in the room’s wall opening to larger apertures outside. The walls were made of polished stone, and the ceiling was domed in a four-part arch of white tiles.

“You rest now, Mr. Hall,” the monk said in what sounded like a Greek accent. “Water to drink is in the pitcher. Drink much water. Help with the head.”

“What is our altitude here?” David asked, looking out one of the windows, where a stunning view of snow-tipped mountains covered the visible horizon.

“Above the sea? Nearly three thousand meters, Mr. Hall. Rest. Food soon.”

He had had plenty of time to rest for the next few days, because he had not been let out of the room. A package with some of his clothes had arrived the second day. A silent monk brought him two meals a day, simple fare of tea and bread and fruit in the morning and a meal of hot soup, usually vegetable, more bread, and a glass of wine just before sundown. Once a week there was meat, which he was pretty sure was stewed goat. He had tried speaking to the monk, but the man simply put a finger to his own lips and shook his head. When David had pantomimed a book, they brought him a Bible written in Latin. His headache had finally gone away after five days. He had no way to shave, so now he was growing a beard.

There had been no question of escape. The curtain walls were easily eight feet thick, and the windows no more than a foot square. The door was made of old wood that felt like it had turned to stone. The monks got up at first light and went to bed at dark. He had candles but no matches. He had studied some Latin in preparation for the expedition, out of personal interest in Roman siege warfare. Now it seemed he was going to get the chance to learn a lot more Latin. Then Gulder had paid a visit.

He heard the helicopter hammering the mountain air but never saw it. A half hour later, what sounded like the same ancient lorry had come grinding up toward the monastery. They took him to the garden cloister to meet with Gulder, who showed up with the same two stone-faced bodyguards. Gulder had brought a stack of thin newspapers rolled up in a shopping bag.

“These are for you, Mr. Hall,” he had begun. “They are English-language versions of the Jerusalem Post and the Herald Trib. So you can see what has happened with the amazing discoveries at Metsadá.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gulder. Although what I really want to know is how long you plan to keep me imprisoned here.”

“Imprisoned is too harsh a word, Mr. Hall,” Gulder said, sitting down at the other end of the bench, just out of David’s reach should he be inclined to violence. “We have prisons, and they do not have gardens.”

“Same net result. Solitary confinement by any other name…”

“Yes, well. They are treating you all right here?”

“They are treating me just fine, although I could use some exercise and something to read besides a Latin Bible.”

Gulder nodded and tapped the bag of newspapers. “These will help. Yehudit Ressner is now a very famous archaeologist.”

“I can just imagine.”

“Probably you can’t, Mr. Hall. It has been a veritable circus. The whole world is agog.”