It was late in the evening by the time Peter made it back to his hotel in central London. The lobby was quiet, the common room empty except for a young couple making out on the couch. The desk clerk had temporarily abandoned his post. No one seemed to notice as Peter hurried up the creaky stairs to his room on the third floor.
Unlocking the door, he pushed it inward an inch or two so that he could peek inside. The plastic drinking cups he had carefully stacked behind the door that morning before slipping out were still standing. No one had entered the room, at least not through the door. Locking it again, he flopped on the bed and stared up at the cracked and mildewed ceiling.
Then he sat up abruptly.
Anna.
Taking out his burner phone, Peter called King County Hospital in Seattle and, for the third time that day, asked to page Dr. R. K. Brisling.
A minute later, his phone rang, a Seattle number. "Hello? Dr. Brisling?"
"Yeah, Brisling here. Is this Robert Hughes, Thames Water Utilities? I left a message earlier."
"No, no. This is Peter Barshman from King County Hospital, Anna Jankowsky's friend."
"Oh." A pause. "Where are you?"
"What? I'm calling about Anna. Did she see you?"
"Yes." The word rang cold in Peter's ear.
"Is she OK?"
Another pause. "I'm afraid I have some terrible news."
"Wait. What?"
"I'm sorry, Peter. But Anna's dead."
Adrenaline surged through Peter's chest and throat.
"She was found in her in her apartment. The police contacted me because my name was on a bottle of seizure medicine I prescribed her. But it wasn't that. There were . . . signs of violence."
Jesus, no.
" . . . maybe someone she knew, because the door hadn't been forced. Something about a stolen passport and her boyfriend . . ."
God, what did they do to her?
". . . the police are looking for you. They want to know where you are . . . Peter?"
The doctor's voice was fading in and out like the buzzing of fly.
Jesus. No!
Peter ripped the phone from his ear and hurled it across the room. It ricocheted off the wall and thudded to the floor. Leaping up, he rushed over and stomped on it with his heel until the screen went dark and little bits of phone lay all about.
Then he knelt before the bed, hands knitted together as if to offer a prayer. Instead, he raised them high and smashed them down into the sagging mattress. He screamed as loud as he could, and louder still until something snapped deep in his throat. In muted rage, he beat the mattress again and again until his arms gave out. Then he buried his face in the sheets and wept.
Peter awoke to a tiny sound, the squeak of a mouse. He lay fully clothed on the bed, tangled in the sheet, still damp with tears. He reached for his phone and remembered it lay in pieces on the floor. It was still dark outside. Pale lamplight seeped through the curtains, etching the room in cold lines of black and gray.
Then he heard it again. It was not a mouse, but the creaking of floorboards in the hallway just outside his room. Silently, he slid from the bed, crept to the door and pressed his ear to it, heart pounding in his throat. From deep within the painted wood came a soft clicking noise, like a beetle under the bark of a tree.
Someone was picking the lock.
He pressed his back to the wall, near the door's hinges so that when it opened he would be concealed behind it. The handle rotated through a quarter turn, and with a soft clunk, the latch disengaged. The door opened a half-inch, and a sliver of light from the hallway pierced the darkened room.
Peter turned and lowered his shoulder, preparing to crush the intruder between door and jamb. A black boot stepped into the widening gap. Four gloved fingers curled around the leading edge of the door. And just above them emerged a head wearing a black watch cap.
Now! Peter rammed the door with his shoulder, anticipating the crunch of bone and flesh. But the door slammed shut, sending him sprawling across the dirty floor. Scrambling to his feet, he hastily locked the door and leaned back against it, chest heaving. The intruder must have pulled out at the last moment and slipped away. Maybe just a burglar.
He bent forward, hands on knees, as he caught his breath. The last seventy-two hours flashed through his mind. Anna. The Sons of Simon. Semina sinapis, the Mustard Seeds.
Peter looked up, suddenly aware that he was not alone. Someone was in the room, there just a few feet away, a dark form crouching in front of the bed, its upper half silhouetted against the curtain. The burglar had slipped in, not out.
Instinctually, Peter launched himself at the shadowy figure, head down, arms wide for the tackle. The burglar tried to dodge, but Peter managed to get hold of something, a belt. And as he tumbled over the bed, he pulled the burglar with him.
Together they crashed to the gritty floor beneath the windowsill, Peter on top, the burglar face down beneath him. He was scrawny but as strong as a python. Peter grabbed the burglar's right wrist and pinned it to his back. In response, the burglar threw back his head, smashing Peter in the nose. Blinded by white-hot pain, Peter groped with his left hand until he found the burglar's watch cap. Ripping it off, he took a fistful of hair and pulled back hard.
Someone in the room next door was pounding on the wall, yelling for them to be quiet.
The burglar growled something unintelligible, and with his left hand reached back at an impossible angle, gripping Peter's left forearm, the gloved fingers crawling up to his elbow.
Zap! A bolt of lightning shot from Peter's elbow to his hand, and he released the fistful of hair. And in that instant of confusion, the burglar wriggled free and jumped to his feet.
Peter raised his right arm to ward off an attack, but it never came. Instead, the burglar staggered to the bedside lamp and fumbled for the switch. In the sudden light, he fell back against the wall, clutching his left shoulder as he slid down. He settled to the floor, legs splayed, head lulled forward, face obscured by curly black hair. "Help me."
It was a woman's voice.
"Please."
Peter shot to his feet and loomed over her, snuffling back the blood now dripping from his nose. He flicked his left wrist, the fingers still numb.
She raised her head, raven hair parting to a pallid face twisted with pain. It was Nechama Davila, the Israeli archaeologist. She wore all black, combat boot, cargo pants, and tactical jacket.
Grimacing, she cradled her left arm in her lap, shoulder slumped. Between college rugby and PT training, Peter knew a shoulder dislocation when he saw one. He even knew how to fix it.
"Put your right hand flat on the floor," he commanded. When she complied, he knelt and pinned it there with his left hand. Then with his right hand, he half unzipped her jacket and peeled it down to the elbows in order to hobble her arms. Releasing her, he clutched the collar of her undershirt and raised his right fist to strike. "How did you find me?"
She grimaced in pain.
"Tell me!" Blood dribbled from his nose.
"Corbett . . . Christensen."
"How do you know that name? Who told you?" Anna. Peter yanked her close, and her head flopped back, throat exposed. He tightened his fist, knuckles cracking. "What did you do to her?"
She moaned, eyes half open. "No . . . No . . . She was dead when I got there . . . called 911 . . . I didn't touch her . . . I swear."
Peter's fist loosened a notch. "Why did you go back?"
"My phone . . . I . . . I left it there. It . . . must have fallenâ"
Her pained expression went slack, and her sweaty forehead bumped against Peter's chest. He eased her limp body back against the wall. It would be easier now. Taking her left elbow with both hands, he pulled down with steadily increasing force until he felt the deep-seated clunk of her humeral head settling into its socket. Gently, he laid her out on the floor.
Peter had just grabbed a towel from the sink when the Israeli awoke with a start.
"Easy now," said Peter, raising his right hand. With the other, he pressed the towel to his bloody nose.
She sat back against the wall, gingerly testing her shoulder. "How long was I out?"
"Not long."
The adrenaline was subsiding now, and Peter began to feel woozy at the sight of his own blood everywhere. He went down on a knee, bowing his head, nose and forehead throbbing. He stayed like that until the spell had passed. Then he looked up. "Tell me what happened to Anna."
She drew up her knees. "I don't know. I found her on the floor in the main room of her apartment. There might have been a struggle. Someone had emptied her handbag onto the kitchen table. Then I found my phone wedged between the cushions of the sofa. It must have fallen out when we are all in her apartment, when you startled me with that earring and I ran."
"That still doesn't explain how you knew what name I'd be using. Only Anna knew that."
"When I was searching her apartment for my phone, I found Corbett Christensen's wallet." She went on to explain how in the wallet were Corbett's student ID and gym card, but no driver's license or credit cards. "It took little imagination to guess what you'd done. Corbett Christensen was listed on a flight to London via Amsterdam. CCTV at Heathrow confirmed it was you. I had you followed to this hotel. And when I arrived early yesterday morning, I followed you myself to the British Museum. I know you spoke with a curator there, Adriana Fitzimmin. I met with her, but she refused to tell me anything."
Peter tossed the bloody towel onto the floor beneath the pedestal sink. "Why break into my room then? Why not just knock?"
"I didn't think you were here. The clerk said he saw you leave this morning but hadn't seen you return."
"Then what were you looking for?"
Her dark eyes probed Peter's face. "Information about the Ramallah Ossuary, the same artifact I asked you about in Seattle. I now believe your father was killed because of it. Your friend as well. You too are in danger."
"Because of an artifact?"
"Yes." She got up and sat on the edge of the bed. From a pocket she took out a tiny metal object and dangled it between her thumb and index finger. Peter leaned close. He had seen it before, an earring made of semi-lustrous gray metal shaped into a mythical creature with the body of a lion and the wings and head of an eagle. It was identical to the earring Peter had found in the ashtray of his dead father's pickup truck.
"It was yours," said Peter.
She clenched the earring in her fist. "No! These are the tokens he leaves behind."
"Who leaves behind?"
"He is called Gryphus. He's wanted for the murders of over two dozen Jewish men, boys, and male infants. My government has been hunting him for months now."
"Wait, are you saying this Gryphus murdered my dad?"
She nodded.
"But we're not Jewish."
"Not all of his victims are. Yet your father's murder bears the hallmarks. After he kills, Gryphus incinerates his victims and leaves behind one of these tokens." She opened her fist haltingly, as if the creature within might fly away. "This is a gryphon, gryphus in Hebrew. It's an ancient symbol of retribution and revenge."
"Revenge for what?"
"No one knows, but your father's murder now suggests it has something to do with the Ramallah Ossuary."
"Does Gryphus want the artifact too?"
She pocketed the earring. "No. He's the one who stole it from us."
"Wait. I'm totally confused. If Gryphus stole it, why were you questioning my dad about it?"
She explained that the ossuary had been found in the West Bank city of Ramallah, in 1985. It quickly disappeared into the Jordanian black market only to resurface years later in a cache of Jewish antiquities buried beneath one of Saddam Hussein's palaces in Baghdad.
Davila took in a deep, shuddering breath. "My government made a deal with the Iraqis to buy the ossuary back. The exchange was to take place in the middle of the desert. But shortly after the exchange, our team was ambushed."
"Gryphus?"
She nodded. "He murdered everyone and stole the ossuary."
"Why would he steal it?"
"To sell it on the black market. The artifact holds immense cultural and religious significance, for Jews, Christians and Muslims alike. And if the Israeli government were willing to pay millions of dollars for it, others might pay even more."
Peter nodded.
"After the ambush, the Israel Antiquities Authority began monitoring the black market for any signal of the ossuary. For two years, we heard nothing. So, we 'chummed the waters' as you Americans say."
"A sting operation?"
"Yes. The IAA leaked information into back channels claiming we had finally recovered the ossuary and were keeping it at headquarters in Jerusalem."
"But Gryphus would know you were lying."
"Of course he would. But potential buyers would not. They would want to see our ossuary before investing in what Gryphus had to offer. If we could identify even one of these potential buyers, he or she might lead us back to Gryphus. We even created a fake ossuary to show them. IAA technicians are as skilled at perpetrating forgeries as they are at detecting them. But we needed a way to differentiate those who had seen the original ossuary from those who had not."
"How could you do that?"
"Simple. We altered the words of the ossuary's inscription. Then we waited for someone to point out our mistake."
"My dad."
"Exactly. He visited IAA headquarters in Jerusalem just three weeks ago."
"He mentioned that." It was the last time Peter saw him alive, there in the hospital lying next to him as they donated blood together, his bearded face all ruddy and peaceful.
"What did he tell you about the ossuary?" Davila asked.
"Nothing."
"Are you certain?" Her coal-black eyes shimmered in the lamp light.
"I would have remembered something like that."
She sighed. "When he saw our forgery, he immediately identified the flaw in the ossuary's inscription. But he refused to tell us how he knew. That's why I went to Seattle, to question him."
From a pocket of her cargo pants, she unfolded a large sheet of paper and laid it out on the bed. It was a charcoal rubbing of an inscription, the letters strange and angular, like Viking runes, but clearly different.
"The ossuary I showed you in Seattle was the forgery. This is a copy of the real inscription. It's a language called Aramaic, a close cousin to Hebrew. Aramaic is what Jesus and the Apostles would have spoken." She smoothed down the sheet with her palms. "There are actually two inscriptions here, in two different styles. We believe the first identifies the person whose bones the ossuary contains, Rab Mag, Pillar of Seth. In the Hebrew Bible, Seth was the third son of Adam and Eve, born after the murder of his brother Abel by Cain. In ancient Jewish tradition, Seth represents a new line of humanity, a renewal of sorts."
"A second chance."
"Yes. And 'Pillar of Seth' likely refers to first century Sethians, a religious group who believed the biblical Seth was granted divine knowledge of astronomy and physics, which he inscribed on stone pillars for the benefit of future generations."
Davila ran her finger over the strange letters. "And Rab Mag is a Middle Persian title that means 'chief magician', probably a reference to the caste of astrologers, priests and advisors from the ancient kingdom of MÄda."
"You mean like the Magi from the Bible," said Peter.
She nodded. "This ossuary hints at a connection between Sethian tradition and the legend of the Magi from the New Testament. I say legend, because the story about the Magi from the Gospel of Matthew is considered little more than a fable, even by the Roman Catholic Church."
"Yeah, but I can see why your people might want to keep this under wraps."
She frowned. "We're not afraid of the truth, just the twisting of it. But this artifact belongs to the State of Israel, to be studied with the utmost care by the best scholars, Jews and non-Jews alikeâlike we did with the Dead Sea Scrolls."
"I don't really care what you do with it. I just want to know why my dad thought it was so important."
"Perhaps it's the second inscription, here. It was added after the first, and by another hand, an epitaph of sorts, written by someone called Shimón bar Rab Mag."
A thrill ran down Peter's spine.
"In English, it reads, Simon, son of Rab Mag, cast the mustard seeds into the West.'' But in our fake inscription, we substituted East for West. That's what your fatherâ"
"Mustard seeds?" said Peter.
Davila looked up abruptly. "Does that mean something to you?"
"Yeah, I think you just answered my question."
"How?"
Peter checked his watch. "I'll show you in four hours."
"Why four hours?"
"Because that's when the British Museum opens."
______________________
Author's note:
Thank you for reading Chapter 20!
Peter and Davila are reunited, albeit violently. Did you expect this? Should Peter believe her story? Why or why not?
Now we know Professor Barshman's connection to Davila and her artifact. Simon from the Ramallah Ossuary inscription is clearly Simon the Zealot, one of the Twelve Apostles. But who is Rab Mag? And what are the Mustard Seeds and their relationship to the Pillars of Seth?
-Frode