The Psalter Read online

  “Sit here while I find some ice.” Isabelle rose from her chair and pushed Romano into the seat.

  “You’re a little late; the damage is done. What might interest you, since you’ve guessed already, is that the man who gave me this is the same one who assaulted us in your apartment.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “I’d recognize his punches anywhere,” Romano said.

  “You mean actual terrorists were in our home?”

  “I don’t think they’ll be bothering you. The one who attacked me was killed, and the others are in jail.”

  “Did you find the Psalter at least?” Isabelle was hopeful.

  “No, but it had been in the terrorist’s compound. I found photocopies of the pages. The police are still searching.”

  “Oh Michael, I am sorry. But this might cheer you up. I’ve got a rudimentary system up and running, and I just translated the first pages of a Giovanni Psalter.”

  “Is this the page on the screen?”

  “Yes, although some of the words are missing. I need to find more filters, but I think enough is legible to tell which book this is. If I’m not mistaken, Giovanni copied over the text in the exact order it was written.”

  “An entire scroll was cut and bound into a single codex?”

  “I’m pretty sure,” Isabelle said.

  “That’s never happened before. Monks cut scrolls into pages and they ended up in many different books.”

  “Maybe I’m mistaken, but as I loaded photographs on the computer, the sentences continued from one page to another. I don’t read Aramaic, but the script appears to be unbroken.”

  “That would mean Giovanni intended to keep the contents of the scroll whole. I’ve always had a hunch about this monk.” Romano eyed the digitized image of Aramaic writing.

  Isabelle reached over him. Her hair brushed against his face as she tapped the enter key. The ancient writing disappeared and English words reappeared in their place. “Do you recognize the text?”

  Romano grimaced as he stared at the computer monitor. “The sentence construction is confusing. We could certainly use your dad to translate but yes, I know the verses,” he said.

  “Well?”

  “The Gospel of Mary Magdalene.”

  Isabelle was flummoxed. “I had no idea women were Apostles.”

  “They weren’t, according to the church. But there’s been a lot of debate lately. Some of the early church fathers called Mary the Apostle to the Apostles. Even Paul referred to a woman named Junia as ‘foremost among the Apostles.’ Women certainly held positions of authority, but later popes suppressed their roles. However, they continued to be ordained as late as the fourteenth century.”

  “If women were priests, could they also marry?”

  “I suppose,” Romano said. “The early church had no restrictions on marriage. Some of the Apostles were married, but in the fourth century, marriage began to be forbidden, although the prohibition wasn’t absolute. By the fifteenth century, half of the clerics continued to marry. Even popes had wives and children, but I’ve never heard of priests marrying each other.”

  “So you and I might have been married if we lived in the middle ages.” Isabelle gently touched the black ring under Romano’s eye.

  Michael clasped her hand and brushed the fingers against his cheek. He stood and wrapped his arm around her waist. His lips moved toward hers, and she closed her eyes. He whispered in her ear, “You’d better get the ice,” and turned to open the door.

  “Are you leaving?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why?” Isabelle asked.

  “You know why. Do you think your dad would help you?”

  Isabelle pleaded on the telephone with her father to come to Rome. “Please Papa, I need you. Michael needs you.”

  “So he’s Michael now, not Father Romano?”

  “Really Papa, we’re colleagues and we’ve become close friends.”

  “I’m teasing. Romano’s a good man. I meant no harm.”

  “Then you’ll come? Can I tell Michael you will?”

  “I have a too much work,” Pascal said.

  “You’re retired.”

  “I do a lot for the university and I chair some committees. How would it look if the Chairman was absent? It would be easier if you brought the codices to Paris. There’s better equipment at the Archives. You said so yourself.”

  “Impossible. The church would never release their Psalters after what happened, and it would be dangerous for us. The terrorists know where we live. If they got wind we had more Psalters in our apartment… Well, I don’t want to think about it.”

  “You said they’d been arrested.”

  “The police aren’t sure if they found them all and the Psalter hasn’t been recovered, so someone’s got the thing.”

  “So lock them up in the Archives,” Pascal said.

  “Oh, sure and work on them while I’m imagining what happened to poor Eugène. No thank you very much. They broke into the Archives too, remember?”

  “They connived their way in and that’s not likely to happen again. How many books did you say you’d uncovered so far?”

  “Five, but we’ve only deciphered the first pages, enough so Michael can tell which ones they are. I’ll finish all of the photographs in a few weeks. Then the computer dictionary won’t take long to translate them and you can fill in the gaps.”

  “Computers, bah!” Pascal groused. “They can’t comprehend syntax, idioms, metaphors.”

  “Why do you think I’m calling you? This is the most meaningful job I will ever do and you could be a part. I don’t understand you. Religion was always more important to you than me.”

  “I suppose I might rearrange my schedule. I’ve missed meetings before, the absent-minded professor excuse.”

  “I love you, Papa.”

  “You better be ready for me when I arrive so I’m not hanging around all day with a bunch of priests. I may be old, but even an aging Frenchman needs a few pretty girls in the picture.”

  “What about me?”

  “You’re not pretty, Isabelle, you’re beautiful; but you’re my daughter and daughters are different.”

  “The two Thomases aren’t the same at all,” Pascal explained to his daughter as he poured over printouts in Aramaic. They had managed to squeeze another chair into her postage-stamp office which was already crammed with a computer and camera mounted on a desk-top stand, and Pascal had to share half of her desk. “I wish you’d paid more attention in catechism. This would be much easier.”

  “It had nothing to do with paying attention. I decided I was an atheist as a teenager, remember? I played hooky from catechism.”

  “Now you’re paying the penance. You’re forced to listen to me instead of the long-suffering curé. As I was saying, the Gospel of Thomas says he’s Jesus’ twin brother and Jesus told him the secrets to salvation, which are available to anyone, provided, of course, they can interpret them.” Pascal glanced at his daughter to gauge the impact of what he’d said, but Isabelle’s thoughts had drifted elsewhere. “Hello,” he raised his voice, are you home?”

  “I’m sorry, Father. What did you say?”

  “I said you’re not listening. You’re not even here. You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve never seen you like this. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d fallen in love. But where would you find an eligible bachelor in the Vatican?”

  Isabelle burst into tears. “I don’t know how it happened. I’m not sure if it did. Anyway, the whole thing’s impossible.” She wrapped her arms around her father’s shoulders.

  The door opened and Father Romano’s head popped in. “How’s everything going, you two?”

  Pascal and Isabelle’s heads were pressed together as though they were hatching some sort of conspiracy. Isabelle sat up ramrod straight, looking like a guilty schoolgirl, and wiped her eyes.

  “We’re just talking heresy,�
�� Pascal said.

  Father Romano shrugged. “I suppose it’s impossible not to with heretical writings scattered around your office. What’re you working on?”

  “The Gospel of Mary Magdalene.”

  “Anything new?”

  “No, only what we’ve already uncovered—except the words are in Aramaic.”

  “So how do you interpret the book?”

  Pascal had a sly look about him. “Mary’s a women’s libber from the Bible days, maligned by traditionalists for her progressive ideas and the most subversive of philosophies that struck fear in the hearts of every man.”

  “What philosophy?” Romano asked.

  “That mere women would dare to be as spiritual and as smart as men, and that they dared to be equal.”

  “Is that why you believe Mary’s Gospel was excluded from the Bible?”

  “It should be obvious,” Pascal said. “Men, bah! They think they know everything. I realize you see the scriptures as divinely inspired, and perhaps some are. Nevertheless, many were composed simply to support a position during the religious infighting after the crucifixion. One sect said Jesus was God, while others asserted he was merely a man. Books like Mary claimed women were equal to men, but traditionalists insisted on their subordination. To add authority to words, the authors declared their books were actually penned by Apostles. These guys were not so unlike political propagandists who fabricate stories to support their side and malign the opposition.”

  Romano raised his eyebrows. “I wish I had the time to dispute your fanciful interpretation, but I have an appointment. What a shame this is only a fragment. I would like to read the rest.”

  Pascal was disappointed Romano didn’t take the bait. He wanted to have a man-to-man talk with him, or at least a verbal joust. Alas, he provoked no game today, not even a mild theological defense, and he frowned pitifully, stretching the corners of his mouth down and down like a caricature, a mime, the essence of sadness.

  “You’re making me feel wretched, Pascal,” Father Romano laughed, “but I’m late for an appointment. Tonight, no holds barred and you can make as many jabs as you like, and I promise a spirited repartee.”

  Pascal turned his lips up in an equally exaggerated infectious smile, making Isabelle and Michael laugh out loud together. “Now, seriously, Isabelle, can I take some of the translations? I need to meet with my cardinal to explain our progress.”

  33

  Vengeance

  I am glad you called, Desmoulins,” Del Carlo said to the GIGN captain as he looked back and forth at the pages of a report prepared by his lieutenant, Moretti, which were scattered across his desk. “I have some interesting developments to tell you. Money is flowing into Rome from Islamic charities and much of it is going into a brass plate company called Crescent Rural Schools. Of course it’s a front. Guess whose?”

  “The imam’s?” The French captain said.

  “How did you guess?”

  “Because Colonelo, I’m looking at the same reports.”

  “Why are you interested in Rome? This is my jurisdiction.”

  “Just a hunch. I thought I would do some checking before I called you.”

  “Into what?”

  “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Colonelo, but the imam was released from jail.”

  The Italian colonel was flabbergasted. “What! You can’t be serious.”

  “Believe me, we tried our best to keep him behind bars, but he has powerful attorneys. Most of all, he broke no laws. He had only shotguns and hunting rifles, which are completely legal, and he claims no knowledge of how this Hassan got hold of a pistol. His testimony is that Hassan was a newcomer and wanted to enjoy pastoral peace, meditation, and prayer like the rest of the visitors.”

  “But the photographs of the ferries and reactors, the drawings…?”

  “The imam claims they were planning vacations,” Capitaine Desmoulins said.

  “Bah! Ridiculous.”

  “Of course. However, his attorneys insist we’re just a bunch of racists, and it gets worse. They filed wrongful death lawsuits, claiming our search was based on misrepresentations and is therefore invalid. I’m afraid it’s become rather a mess, so I decided to follow the money laundering route.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  “Then why did your attention turn to Rome, Capitaine?”

  “Which brings me to the second reason for my call. The imam booked a flight to Rome for Friday, and I thought you might be interested. On a hunch, I investigated whether any unusual money transfers had come your way. You may want to find out if this Crescent Rural Schools company is legal, but our imam is a shrewd customer and I’d bet it is. There’s one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Money from the same charities is flowing into another account, a numbered Swiss one.”

  “Are the Swiss cooperating?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Capitaine Desmoulins said. “At least not yet, but I’m about to turn up the heat and make things quite nasty if they don’t. They want evidence the money is laundered or involves terrorist activity. I pointed out our suspicions about the imam, but he was cleared by our own courts and the Islamic charities are legitimate, according to the Swiss.”

  “You said the imam arrives Friday?”

  “An Alitalia flight.”

  “Perhaps I can have a chat with him,” Del Carlo said.

  “Bonne chance. I hope you meet with better luck than I did. If you need anything at all my friend, I’m at your service. I’m haven’t forgotten that I’m indebted to you.”

  “You owe me nothing, Capitaine. You’d do the same.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Desmoulins added. “Did you hear the Hébers are in Rome?”

  “Which one?”

  “Both.”

  “Thank you again, Capitaine.” Ringing off, Del Carlo pressed the button on the telephone’s intercom. “A minute of your time Lieutenant Moretti.” Two short raps sounded on his door a moment later. A tall, uniformed officer entered with no formalities. “Excellent report as usual,” Del Carlo praised his subordinate. “I’ve been informed that money from these Islamic charities is also going into a numbered account in Switzerland. I want the name of the owner.”

  “Swiss bankers are tough.”

  “So are you, Moretti. Don’t take no for an answer.”

  “Si, Colonelo.”

  “And Lieutenant, I want the answer yesterday.”

  Moretti didn’t look back as he exited through the door. “As usual, Colonelo.”

  “Not at the apartment,” Sayyid told Rashid on the anonymous cell phone. “You’ll find a café across the street and down a little. We’ll have lunch together, say forty-five minutes?”

  “Do you truly mean forty-five and not an hour and a half?” Rashid replied sarcastically.

  “If you go now, you can see if I’ve already arrived,” he laughed. “Don’t be so suspicious.” Sayyid’s attempt at familiarity irritated Rashid.

  “Which café?”

  “That side of the street only has one.”

  The rue Jean is a public thoroughfare in the middle of Paris’s 18th arrondisement in the center of the Goutte d’Or, but the road might as well be blocked off to traffic, for the immigrant merchants and residents have nearly confiscated it. Shops move their wares to the sidewalk, forcing the flood of pedestrians into the street. The sweet smell from the green grocer’s fruits and vegetables mingles with the odor of blood from the butcher’s beef and wafts to and fro like a toxic cloud. Arabs hawk sunglasses and wallets, and African women plop plastic sacks of strange purple tubers onto the pavement to sell to passersby.

  Occasionally, police in small groups wander down the lane. Everyone can tell when they’ve arrived because vendors scoop up their goods in a flash and flee in the opposite direction. Woe to the hapless automobile that makes an inadvertent turn onto the one-way street. No one moves aside despite toots on the horn or revving engi
nes. The driver must simply fall into line with the mass of slow-moving, unconcerned immigrants inching forward until arriving at the far end of the road to make a hasty escape.

  Rashid navigated the block, weaving around African women whose gleaming ebony skin was wrapped in bright robes of blue and black or green and orange, their headdresses of matching cloth piled in complicated folds. He dodged teenage girls poured into skin-tight jeans and push-up bras and perched on high heels, and men in slacks or ankle-length cotton robes of beige or black.

  Sayyid was right. The other side of the street had only one café. It was sandwiched between a wig boutique and travel agency offering discount flights to Algeria, Tunisia, and the Ivory Coast. Seating himself in back, he could monitor the front and everyone who entered the café. Next to his table, a narrow passage led to a back room and door. He grasped the strategic advantage of sitting in the rear where he might examine customers who came in, yet those entering had difficulty seeing the back. Better still, the escape route was right next to him. He could be out the door before anyone noticed. Yes, he thought to himself, Sayyid is a clever customer. He understands this business. I could learn a thing or two, but perhaps I won’t trust him just yet. Rashid ordered hot tea and added a copious spoonful of sugar, stirring as he waited.

  Sayyid made a great show of looking at his wristwatch and tapping the face as he walked toward Rashid. “I’m right on time and now you’re the one who has been watching out for both of us. Are we safe?”

  “I’ve noticed nothing unusual.”

  “You’re a quick study, Rashid, as the imam said you would be.”

  “How do you know him?” Suspicion coated Rashid’s voice.

  “We’re not old friends if that’s what you mean, and I’m not part of his congregation. We’re more like…business associates, shall we say.”

  “What is your business?”

  “To strike at the heart of the infidel and you’re going to help me.”

  “You’re presumptuous. I didn’t agree to whatever your plan is.”

  “Oh, I think you will,” Sayyid said.

  “Why should I? I don’t even know you, let alone trust you.”