Judas the Apostle, page 13
“We have yet to find the connection, if there is one,” the monsignor conceded.
“We have to get to the end of the religion class,” Cloe said abruptly. “Unless this has something to do with the jar, Thib’s death, and all that’s happening, I can’t see it helping us.”
The group was quiet for a minute, and then the monsignor said gently, “Signorina, I know you are anxious, but this information may be critical if there is, in fact, a Gospel—or some writing of or about Judas—in the jar. This may provide the context needed for a translation and, more importantly, the interpretation of whatever is in the jar.”
“I can see that,” replied Cloe wearily. “You’re right, context can mean everything. Please, go on.”
“Fine. That’s actually the second of the four different theories some scholars have used to explain the actions of Judas,” continued the monsignor. “According to this theory, Judas was essential to the end ordained by God and foretold by the scriptures. Therefore, Judas was part of God’s plan for the redemption of mankind. If this explanation has any truth to it, then Judas’s role has been misunderstood and his end treatment was rather shoddy. But it is hard to know how the story could be other than what we have been told.”
“Plainly, Jesus knew what Judas would do,” added Father Al. “Yet Jesus made no effort to stop him or to deter him from his course of action.”
“There are actually some ancient writings suggesting that Jesus prevailed upon Judas to betray him and, thus, to play his part in the drama,” said the monsignor. “We shall get into that when we further discuss the Coptic Gospel of Judas.
“The language in the Gospel of John is very interesting on this point. John reports that at the Last Supper, Jesus was troubled in spirit and told the Apostles that one of them would betray him. He then identified Judas as the traitor by the device of handing him some bread. John says that at the very instant Jesus handed Judas the bread, Satan entered into Judas.”
“According to the synoptic Gospels,” remarked Father Al, “by that time Judas had already made arrangements with the chief priests and the elders to betray Christ. But the timing in John’s Gospel indicates the devil entered into Judas after he had already done the deed. Again the ambiguity of Judas is certainly thought-provoking.”
Cloe continued to be intrigued with the Judas exposition and could see how knowing this might shed light on any writings that might be in the jar if they pertained to Judas. There seemed to be no end to the puzzling facts and suppositions concerning the Judas character.
“Moreover, Jesus’s last words to Judas in John are incredibly interesting,” added the monsignor. “John relates that Jesus said to Judas, ‘What you are going to do, do quickly.’ Is this resignation? Are these instructions? These words are certainly subject to interpretation depending on the inflection one puts on each of them.”
“So, according to this version, Judas was part of the plan, and Jesus’s last words to Judas were, in effect, to saddle up and go take care of business,” said J.E.
“Well, the young sir has a way with words, but you can see that if the jar contains information that advances or refutes any of these theories, it could be extremely important, to say the least,” responded the monsignor. “If the contents of the jar support the notion that Judas was playing a critical role in the redemption story, it would buttress the theological conclusion of some scholars that Judas was simply doing Jesus’s bidding and therefore following God’s plan.”
“Where would that take us, Monsignor?” asked Cloe.
“It would mean there was, in fact, no betrayal and Judas’s role has been completely misunderstood.”
“If that proved to be true and Judas acted for reasons other than financial gain, someone with an ax to grind against Christianity might argue that if this piece of the Jesus story cannot be trusted, maybe other portions also lack credibility,” responded Cloe thoughtfully.
“There are certainly other interpretations and explanations, but that’s the way it would be used in the wrong hands,” agreed the monsignor.
“My God,” whispered Cloe. “What have we gotten ourselves into?”
CHAPTER 23
Cloe happened to look up just as Dr. Harrell rushed into the dark restaurant and squinted into the dimly lit bar in search of his colleagues. His eyes apparently began to adjust after a moment, and he saw them silhouetted against the flickering firelight. He came straight to the table and, as he passed the bar, called over his shoulder for a very old scotch, neat. Cloe and the others rose to greet him, noting the excitement evident in his manner. His drink came, and he took a long pull on it before turning to the group.
“Charcoal,” he said.
“Charcoal!” responded Dean Broussard excitedly. “But of course. Why didn’t we think of it?”
“What are you talking about?” asked J.E.
“J.E., one of the basic forms of charcoal is an absorbent,” Cloe explained. “It wicks moisture and odors from the environment. It is one of nature’s purifying agents. Even some of the ancients were aware of its properties.” Cloe could feel her own excitement rise as she began to anticipate what this might mean.
“Yes,” responded J.E., “some military filters have charcoal elements. What’s this have to do with the jar?”
Having recovered his presence of mind, Dr. Harrell began to explain. “After you left, to wrap up the work properly, we ran a core-boring test on the contents at the bottom of the jar. This was the area where we thought we had hit black sludge. We went back through the layers of material in the bottom of the jar and took a core sample. We then carefully processed it to see what elements it contained.”
“What did you find?” asked Father Al, holding his breath.
“We found charcoal!” Dr. Harrell almost shouted as he half-rose from his seat in his excitement. Nearby patrons turned from their tables to see what the commotion was. Dr. Harrell lowered his voice and said, “That and silicone.”
“Silicone?” said Dean Broussard, turning now directly to Dr. Harrell. “How were they configured?”
“The very bottom layer in the jar is a two-inch-thick vein of charcoal,” responded the doctor. “Above that is a two-inch layer of silicone—sand. It is evident that whoever prepared the jar intended that its contents would be preserved for many years.”
“This is astounding,” remarked the dean.
“The sand and the charcoal were intended to absorb any moisture or other contaminants that might be in the jar when it was sealed. These would be encapsulated in the bottom layers and away from whatever the jar contains, thus preserving the contents for posterity.”
The table was quiet for a time while everyone considered this development and its possible implications.
“In effect, this jar and—I think we can deduce—its mates back in the cave were meant to be a form of ancient time capsule,” concluded Cloe. “Whoever put these jars in the cave intended them to be there for a long, long time and to preserve whatever they contained, perhaps for thousands of years.”
“Have you learned anything else?” asked J.E. “What about the age of the vessel?”
“Nothing else,” said Dr. Harrell. “But given what we now know about the source of the black dust in the jar, this gives us hope that we can continue our investigation and that what’s inside the jar may very well be intact.”
“Well,” said Cloe, “it also indicates that we still have an awfully long way to go. What’s next, doctor?”
Dr. Harrell considered for a moment and said, “We have done everything else there is to do to prepare. Now it’s time to crack open the seal on the jar and to learn for sure what it contains.”
CHAPTER 24
The man gazed at his opulent surroundings. He smiled slightly in self-satisfaction. Although underground, the bunker in Jerusalem was warm and had every convenience. He sat in a deep-set leather chair with a late-night nibble of fruit and cheese. The wine he had been served was superb. Just as a blind hog will sometimes find an acorn, his servant had stumbled upon a superb vintage. One could almost forget that he was awaiting news of murderous events in the air over the ocean many thousands of miles away, events that he had only recently set in motion.
But murder meant nothing to him. Only the thing he was after held meaning. His progeny were all dead, collateral casualties of a life of violence, avarice, and deceit—all, that is, except Michael, and he hadn’t seen him for more than three decades. The man had no friends but many associates who remained loyal to a fault to him and his enterprises, through a combination of exuberant rewards for success and draconian consequences for failure in his service. They were simply servants, pieces on a chessboard, replaceable or expendable as needed.
It had not always been this way, he mused. His thoughts drifted back to his life as a boy, growing up in the country near the border between Armenia and Turkey. A hard, cold life of sheep and subsistence farming had been his family’s lot. But he’d had sunny days with his mother and father and sister. He had treasured those times.
Then World War II broke out, and no one was safe in the region. He remembered the day his father sought refuge for the family at the small Catholic Church in the area, when he was a mere adolescent.
“Husband, what did the priest say?” his mother asked when his father returned to their rural farm.
“He said the small church was overwhelmed with parishioners who are trying to get out before the Turkish army comes.” His father collapsed at the kitchen table.
Even now in his memory he could hear the enemy’s long guns begin their relentless hammering of the region. They were still miles away, but they were coming.
His mother laid hands on his father’s shoulders and said, “What are we to do?”
“What is there to do, woman?” his father angrily snapped. “We will pack what we can, and we will go into the woods. Only the church has the contacts to get us out. And it is flooded with hundreds of refugees from the surrounding area. There is no escape there. The priest said as much and gave us a blessing.”
“What blessing did he give, husband?”
“He asked that God have mercy on our souls.”
That day they packed what they could and headed out with many others into the wooded hills and mountainous terrain that surrounded the region. But a Turkish raiding party found them; they killed his parents and left his sister a babbling idiot after torturing and raping her multiple times. He had not seen her since, and he sincerely hoped she was dead. Whatever thoughts of religion or God the boy had held died that day.
He remembered the corporal in charge of the raiding party who had saved his life, saying, “Take him … we have many uses for such a young, handsome lad.”
He was pressed into the Turkish army as barely a teenager and learned many things that youth should not know. Truly, this was where he grew up. But it was a twisted growing. At night, sometimes, he held his head tightly in his hands for fear that his skull would explode with the depravity of his experiences. But over the years he became reconciled to the violence and brutality. He eventually began to enjoy it. At first it owned him, and then he owned it.
Finally, he escaped to the West and studied at various European universities while running increasingly sophisticated cons to survive. He was a natural, to use an American term. He was utterly without conscience, and larceny was his game.
As he became more successful, he saw that people envied him and coveted what he had. Even those close to him let him down or betrayed him. He learned that the only things he could trust were his acquisitions, his collection. He became a billionaire in the arms trade in the Middle East during the various Jewish–Arab wars beginning in 1967. A decade and a half later, he used his great wealth to completely vanish. He staged his own death, dividing his wealth into untraceable trusts and accounts that only he could access and then only by computer.
He created a new identity for himself, and he decided that Jerusalem would be his home and the base where he would conduct his activities. His burning passion was to collect those things that he knew he could count on and that would not let him down. He loved ancient relics of all types. He loved nothing else.
***
Now in his early eighties, he thought back over the last few years. He had purchased a small storefront in the Old City through numerous intermediaries. Gradually he and his minions had acquired adjacent property, and his immediate staff had transformed the combined properties unobtrusively into his compound and underground bunker. It had been done incrementally and in such a measured fashion that no attention was drawn to him.
He laughed softly as he thought about the Mossad, the Jewish secret intelligence service. His sources told him that they considered him a harmless purveyor of antiquities. Indeed, they had been to his store many times. The storefront was still there and was filled with very low-grade antiquities, souvenirs, pottery shards, and the like. Each piece had been legitimately purchased and came with a foot-long pedigree. He was above reproach.
Of course, his real collection was underground in the bunker. Each piece there was priceless and had been stolen—in many cases, with great violence. These treasures included lost works of great masters, ancient pieces from tombs of pharaohs not even known to the world, and sacred relics of various religions. Because of his hatred for all things Catholic, he was perversely drawn to anything of, or pertaining to, that religion. His unholy museum had only one patron—the man himself.
He was shaken from his introspection by the entry of his most trusted servant.
“Master, the pilots have returned,” the servant reported with a bow.
The man thought about this employee. If he’d had a brother, it would be the servant. They had been together since university. He was also Armenian. He was not just a servant but the man’s number one, a party to all his secrets.
“What do they have to say for themselves?”
“They say that their mission was accomplished, and the vermin that failed you now rest at sea.”
“What of the jar and the people who have it?”
“Master, the pilots have nothing new to add to the intelligence we have already received,” stated the servant. “The woman and her son were unharmed, and although we succeeded in casting division and suspicion between the woman and the priests, they seem to have resolved this. Of course, we know of the personal letter from the pope vouching for the monsignor.”
“Yes, some things are beyond even my power.” The man seethed with rage at the interference of the Vatican. “We have not succeeded in the physical assault against those who hold what I want, nor have we succeeded in the effort to split them up and turn them against one another. But I assure you, there will be another day, and not only will I get what I want, but the Church will pay for its arrogance.”
“Master, now that the effort to move against them is known, perhaps it is best to shift to other, potentially more fruitful opportunities,” suggested the faithful servant, seeking to blunt his master’s rage but knowing very well the response he would once again receive.
“Neither God nor his angels nor all of his unholy saints can prevent me from eradicating my adversaries and gaining possession of the Judas jar. It is the most important relic to be unearthed in the last two millennia,” spat out his master. “This could be the precise thing I have been searching for to bring to ruin the very foundations of the Church itself.”
“Still, we are here, and they are there, possibly on the very verge of discovering the secrets of the ancient jar, assuming it holds any.”
The man paused, collecting himself, and then said evenly, “You have a wonderful way of recentering me and helping me to refocus on what is important. You are quite right. We must plan carefully to achieve our goals. I will have that jar. I will think about how to get it.
“However,” continued the man, licking his lips slightly, “we do have some business to finish with our failed colleagues, Rem and Janik.”
“Master, they are dead and under the sea. What more can you want to do with them?” asked the servant, anticipating what the master intended. It had always been so. Failure was not an option.
“My faithful friend, contact our retainers and send them to the families. Have the wife and each of the children of Rem and Janik strangled. Tell them this is the reward given to those who fail me.”
CHAPTER 25
Although it was rare in Louisiana to continue such work on a Sunday, time was of the essence, and at the group’s request, Dr. Harrell had agreed to open the lab. The jar once again sat in the control box at the center of the room. Cloe, J.E., and the others donned lab coats and eye gear as Dr. Harrell described the procedure about to take place.
“The mechanical arms will help us loosen and then remove the seal from the jar. We have already taken a sample from the seal. It’s an interesting combination of wax and resin from some heretofore-unknown plant of the time from which the jar originated. This was applied around a wooden plug carefully sculptured to the mouth of the jar. The hot wax provided the airtight seal, and the resin gave rigidity and substance to the wax. Altogether it was a formidable combination.”
“How will you open the seal?” asked Dean Broussard.
“We will use a laser to heat and cut the edges around the seal. With vessels this old, even the seal itself has value, so we do not want to destroy it.”
“Very well, let’s proceed,” said Cloe. She had not gotten to this point, facing the risks and dangers she had experienced, to turn back now. Full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes, Cloe thought.
The technician operating the mechanical arms picked up a device that looked like a fat ink pen attached to a thin electrical cord and positioned it over the jar. Very carefully he took aim, and the end of the pen ignited into a white light. After the tech adjusted the device, the light entered the red end of the spectrum and then became almost invisible. The beam dipped into the wax/resin seal and separated it from the edge of the jar.
