The Iscariot File

By P. E. Tedesco

What if?  What if a secret of epic proportions has been sequestered in the labyrinthine bowels of the Vatican for two millennia? What if a feisty American woman is about to find out?  What if a secret no less epic for her is about to be spilled by rogue prelates who will stop at nothing to stop her?  What if failure will incite a cataclysm destined to shake the foundations of all they hold sacred?

Archaeologist Kobi Dylla is soulless as the artifacts she exhumes from the Middle Eastern sand.  Vatican prelate Benuccio Garda's soul is in turmoil, haunted by collusion with the covert Judaeus Sodalis contrived to protect the mother of all secrets.  Their story winds from a Jerusalem monastery to the Israeli desert to an ancient Roman cemetery, interspersed with the illuminative musings of a spellbound scholarly Internet Mailing List.  Did history's most notorious rogue, Judas Iscariot himself, share the bloodline of Jesus of Nazareth?  What if?

• Language: English
• Publisher: P. E. Tedesco
• Release date: Aug 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393988021

Book preview

The Iscariot File

by

P. E. Tedesco

Text copyright © 2018 P.E. Tedesco

All Rights Reserved

Also by this author:

Papal Audience – A Thriller

by P.E. Tedesco

A beloved Pope has been kidnapped. His ransom: the President of the United States. The world watches as the crucified Vicar of Christ, is paraded across the world stage by Islamist captors via Internet streaming video, setting in motion a series of earth-shattering events designed to force the President to make the ultimate decision – her life for that of the Pope’s. 

Princess of the Apostles

by P.E. Tedesco

A secret of epic proportions lies hidden deep in the bowels of the Vatican, where it has lain for two millennia – the existence of a thirteenth female apostle.  The startling revelation will rock the foundations of the ‘one true Church’ as intrigue and murder winds from the Vatican to ancient ruins in Turkey to a bloodletting finale on the high altar of the Basilica of Saint Peter, Prince of the Apostles.

There’s No Place Like (Nursing) Home – Stories of Dementia, Dying, and Peeing on the Christmas Tree

by Paul Tedesco

I have an Nh.D. It’s similar to a Ph.D., except with an N. This one means Doctorate in Nursing Homes. I got it at the University of Experience. One day my mother moved into a nursing home. On another she died there. What happened in between changed my life.

Millennial Catholicism:  What Needs Fixed First

by Paul Tedesco

Millennial Catholicism:  What Needs Fixed First is an iconoclastic admonition for the nation’s religious monolith to right its ship while it still can.  Sixty-two million souls hang in the balance.  An estimated sixteen million others have already given up.  Ten essential threats confronting Catholicism are presented, with solutions an embattled hierarchy will not want to hear.

http://www.paultedescoauthor.com

Table of Contents

Prologue

Part One-Haceldama

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

Part Two-Palazzi Pontifici

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

61

62

63

64

65

66

67

68

69

70

71

72

73

74

75

76

77

78

79

80

81

82

83

84

Part Three-The Room of Tears

85

86

87

88

89

90

91

92

93

94

95

96

Afterword

In each of his three mouths he crunched a sinner,

with teeth like those that rake the hemp and flax,

keeping three sinners constantly in pain;

The one in front – the biting he endured

was nothing like the clawing that he took:

sometimes his back was raked clean of its skin.

That soul up there who suffers most of all,

my guide explained, "Is Judas Iscariot:

the one with head inside and legs out kicking."

Dante’s Inferno

In exercising supreme, full and immediate power in the universal Church, the Roman pontiff makes use of the departments of the Roman Curia, which, therefore, perform their duties in his name and with his authority for the good of the churches and in service of the sacred pastors.

(CHRISTUS DOMINUS. 9)

Prologue

Anno Domini 33

The pilgrims milling outside the Palace of Caiaphas were in a foul mood.  All of this ‘Messiah’ talk was taking its toll.  Something had to be done.  Fast.  They had already met, deciding on a course of action after tempers had flared.  He had to be found, today.  Found and eliminated.  The room had gone silent when Caiaphas himself had authorized the deal.  He had left immediately, tiny bells affixed to the tassels swinging from his golden robe tinkling as he melted into the portico shadows.  Now the intermediary had arrived.  No more than thirty years, he guessed, but he looked older.  Much older.  A thick beard, raggedy, like the rest, his streaked with gray before his time.  Charcoal eyes that flittered, from one of them to the next, like a jackal on the prey in the Jezreel foothills.  A man used to watching – watching out.  One day too long since he had gone to the baths as well.  No matter.  The transaction would be quick, and they would be rid of him.  Him and the one he was selling.

The intermediary stepped forward, locking eyes with the tallest of the chief priests.  He looked so different.  Shorter.  Wider.  More...unkempt.  Eyes wide as a Roman pendant, he lifted his tunic from below the belt, creating a drooping cloth bowl, as the priest slowly dropped a handful of coins into the fold.

Part One-

Haceldama

1

Jerusalem, the present

The bone box was heavy, more so than he had been led to believe.  Knees buckling, he gestured for his Arab counterpart to step away.  He tightened his grip around the base, cradling it like a mother feeling the heartbeat of her newborn child against her breast for the first time.  His own heart pounded against the cold stone façade as the Arab squatted to retrieve the upturned flashlight, careful not to point it in the direction of the cave’s uneven three-foot arched entrance.

Kneeling as if in slow motion, first with one leg and then the other, he laid the far right corner of the box against the dusty surface.  Holding his breath, he allowed the remainder of the box to slide from his grip.  Inhaling the damp nighttime air, he leaned back and then instantly jerked forward, sweeping a cobweb from the back of his head.

You’re sure no one saw you? he asked, glaring at the gap-toothed Arab as he swiped his hands free of the netting .

The Arab vigorously shook his head.  No see, he whispered. No follow.

Eyes unblinking, he stared at the rail-thin Arab, twitching his nose.  His jeans and T-shirt were both stained with God-knows what.  Dusty toes with long chipped nails danced from the tip of his sandals.  Fucking Sandscratcher probably hadn’t had a bath since the Seven-Day War.  He’d pissed in privies on the West Bank that smelled better.

You’ve seen nobody else near the cave?

The Arab shook his head again.  No one come, he said aloud this time.

Lower your goddammed voice, he whispered, glowering.

Sun down, the Arab whispered back.  No one on hillside.

He glowered at the copper-skinned Palestinian, returning his attention to the bone box and sliding his fingers over the lid as if caressing his favorite Russian whore on Tel Aviv’s Pin Street.  You’d better be right about this, he whispered, his attention focused on the box’s flat half-inch inlaid lid.

"Ay-wa," said the Arab, nodding and exposing the few chipped teeth left in a crooked smile.

Sliding the edge of his fingers into the rutted aperture between the lid and the stone box, he carefully lifted the lid an inch above the recess, raising and holding it aloft to peer  inside.  In the shadows, all he could make out were what appeared to be four partial bone fragments scattered across the bottom.  He refocused on the lid, turning it over so he could see its underside.  Glancing up momentarily to the Arab, he motioned with his head for him to stand behind him with the flashlight.

Slowly he laid the stone lid upside-down against the inch-wide rectangular edge of the box to allow it to carry its weight for a moment.  Bending closer, he softly blew dust from the inside of the lid, stifling a cough.  With the fingers of his right hand he brushed it clean, gaping at what clearly appeared underneath.

Mo-ther fuck, he said, inhaling deliberately through his nostrils, his heart pounding like a hammer striking an anvil.  I can’t fucking believe it.

"Ay wa, the Arab whispered again.  Ay wa!"

Rising to both feet and crouching, he turned the lid again so the top faced him, and carefully laid it back on the rim at the top of the stone box, slowly letting it drop into place before wiping his palms against each other and standing.

The Arab shone the flashlight toward the floor, staring at him now, wide-eyed.  "Mo-ney?" he asked in a loud whisper.

He stared back, reaching inside his black leather jacket to a concealed pocket and pulling out a white business envelope.

The Arab grinned widely this time.

He handed the sealed envelope over, watching the gleeful Arab rip it open and pull out the half-inch thick stack of lavender five-hundred-Euro bills and counting them, twice.

It’s all there, he said, feeling a wisp of cool night air waft through the cave, tickling forearms jutting from rolled-up jacket sleeves.

The Arab stuffed the money into his right jeans pocket, then pulled the one page folded-document from the envelope.  He unfolded and glanced at it, then looked up.  It say more?

He nodded, sliding his hands into the jacket’s outer pockets this time.

How more?

Lots.

When get? asked the Arab, hurriedly refolding the document and stuffing it back inside the envelope.

No get, he said, jerking a nine-millimeter Glock from his pocket and calmly twisting a silencer onto its barrel.

The Arab’s eyes bulged as if they were about to catapult from his head.

He twisted the chamber, listening to the rattle and smiling for the first time.

The Arab stumbled backward, falling against the cave-wall and sprawling onto the ground on his back as the flashlight fell to the ground and flickered.  "La-ah," he screamed aloud, holding his hands in front of his face and looking away.

He stepped toward the helpless Arab, pointing the gun directly towards the man’s chest.  He fired once, watching the Arab glance downward in shock at the fast-widening pool of red in the top center of his white shirt before trying desperately to push himself away.  He took a second step forward, pointing the gun just to the left of the red bulls-eye and firing a second shot.  Blood gurgled from the Arab’s mouth onto his stubbly chin as he slumped against the wall, inhaling faintly and then going limp.

Still smiling, he peered toward the Arab, the dead man’s still-open eyes seeming to stare in disbelief at the far wall.  He slid the gun back into his pocket and hunched down to retrieve the envelope from the floor of the cave, then the money from the Arab’s pocket.  Standing back up, he folded the Euros and slid them into his free pocket, then retrieved a cigarette lighter and flicked on its bluish-white flame.  Holding the envelope aloft, he watched the tip of the flame lick the bottom before engulfing it.  Just before it reached his fingertip, he tossed the burning embers toward the black interior.

He picked up the flashlight, looked around, then pulled the gun out and pointed it towards the dead Arab’s forehead.  A smile creased his face again as he slowly pulled the trigger one last time.

2

Kobi Dylla darted across the intersection of  Sultan Suleiman and Nablus Roads, the desert sun’s first morning rays peering over the ramparts of Old Jerusalem’s Damascus Gate.  A taxi swerved to avoid her, screeching its tires as the driver blared his horn, almost colliding with an oncoming flat-bed truck loaded with cartons of apples that rocked momentarily from side to side.  Kobi hopped the curb and swerved onto the sidewalk flanking Nablus Road.  The taxi driver looked over his shoulder one last time as he sped north, waving his free arm wildly in a gesture that was obviously not a friendly hello.  Kobi raised her middle finger, thrust it toward the taxi with her arm extended, and kept on running.  Two middle-aged Palestinian men leered as she passed them, pulling their black and white checkerboard kaffiyehs tight against their cheeks as they muttered under their breath, then chuckled aloud.  Kobi ignored them, just as she had every morning for the last four months.  The entrance to the Moslem quarter of the city wasn’t the place to make a scene.  Not for an American.  Certainly not for a woman.  She accelerated now for the home-stretch, the lush green of the Garden Tomb the last landmark before home.  Four  months now, every morning.  Might as well be home.  Damn little pulling her back to the real one.

Reaching deep for her breath as she passed the Garden’s entrance at Conrad Schick Lane, she sprinted toward the iron gate of L’École Biblique et Archéologique, waving to the grinning olive-skinned security guard as he waved her inside towards the buttressed arches of the Basilica that towered above the compound.  Four months on sabbatical, and she‘d crossed the shrine’s threshold once, just long enough to see the fifth-century tomb of the Deacon Nonnus Onesimus.  Not that she’d likely be back.  She blinked as a salty bead of sweat fell to her eye, shielding herself with her hand as the sun darted between palm fronds, climbing fast over the soon-bustling powder keg of a city.

Kobi came to an abrupt halt, heaving and resting her hands on her narrow waist.  She glanced from side to side, licking the sweat from her lips and pushing her hair off her forehead.  Early Katie Couric, her colleagues had called it back at Columbia.  They could still kiss her ass.

Catching her breath, she stood up straight and looked around.  Odd.  Most mornings when she returned Eilard was busy feeding the wide-eyed Persian squirrels he treated like newborns.  Today a spilled bag of feed trickled across the pine tree-lined sidewalk leading to his study.  Taking a deep breath, she jumped the four steps two at a time, jerking the screen door open and storming inside, stopping dead in her tracks as it slammed shut behind her.

What is it? she said, staring at her mentor, her mouth suddenly dry as the Negev.  What?

Eilard St. Cyr stared back, sprawled in his easy chair, his white monk’s robe draped in folds over his bony frame.  I have news, he said, his gristly voice monotone.  He slowly held aloft a single sheet of paper, a shadowy image visible on the reverse side.

Kobi stood still as the courtyard statues, unblinking.  Her own voice was numb.  Out of character.  Big time.

Heaving for breath, Eilard waved the paper towards her.

Kobi slowly approached and took it from him.  His cedar-brown eyes had sunk, she noticed for the first time, their rims like hollowed-out foxholes.

She held the image up to the light pouring through the frame double-window behind him.  A blurred black-and white photo covered most of the page.  Oblong sacs were prominent on either side.  A two-inch shadowy orb bulged from the one to the right.

Delivered by courier while you were out,  said Eilard.

At seven o‘clock in the morning?

Eilard waved away her question, closing his eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath.  I had requested to be notified immediately, he continued.  My request was honored.  A little courtesy goes a long way.  You should try it sometime.

Kobi’s throat went dry again, ignoring the taunt.  What does it mean? she asked, raising the photo.

"It is called a carcinoma, I am told."

Maybe there was a mistake.  Maybe—

No, my dear.  I am afraid that your fears were well placed.

Kobi’s heart raced now like an Indy engine revving at the starting line.  This was not going to happen.  Not now.  Not him.  Not the closest thing to a father she had ever known. 

Eilard—

The priest held up his right hand like a policeman stopping traffic.  I am two months short of the seventieth anniversary of my birth, he said, hacking repeatedly for a moment and wiping his mouth with a handkerchief dotted with fresh red splotches.  Whether I see it, he said, inhaling audibly, is of little import.  Being at peace with whatever comes is.

Kobi felt as if her feet were welded to the polished hardwood floor reflecting the morning sunlight.  What about chemo?  Radiation?  Come back to New York with me.  I’ll take you to Kettering.

No, he replied instantly, his hand rising again.  I will face whatever lies ahead with dignity.  I shall decline whatever the doctor and his colleagues propose.  He knows as well as I that it offers little hope.  My decision is final.

Kobi gritted her teeth, her breathing uneven now.  So that’s it, just like that.

Eilard covered his mouth with a fist and coughed again.  Seven decades are more than enough, my dear.  What I have learned will see me through to the end.

Kobi suddenly felt her cheeks burning like the furnace in her childhood Wisconsin home on a mid-January night, her eyes zeroing in on a small cedar wood stand to her right.  On its top a white leather-bound oversized Bible rested on a hand-carved chestnut book rest, the book open to a middle page.  Unlit candles stood sentry at either side atop an embroidered white tablecloth.

It’s a lie, all of it, she said, glaring at the tome as if it could hear her.

You, of all people, hardly qualify as an arbiter of truth.  Your academic credentials pale in the face of your utter cynicism.  It is hardly your most redeeming quality.

And you’re a fool, she said, crossing her arms and peering at him.  Fables, all of it.  

This from one who teaches it.

"I study it.  Where it came from, how, why.  Science, not hokum."  She slowly strode towards the table, stopping just close enough to flick at the gild-edged pages with her middle finger, over and over until the edge of the open page began to wrinkle in the middle.

Such anger, said Eilard.  Such petulance.  You will cease and desist, at once.

Kobi flicked at it again, this time tearing the page’s edge.

Eilard stomped forward awkwardly on his loose brown sandals, his left hand leaning on a wooden cane and the white cowl of his Dominican‘s robe flipped back over one shoulder.  He stopped at the table, laying the cane aright against it and fingering the torn page to flatten it.  Gently, he grabbed both thick sides of the open book and pulled it closed, patting the cloth cover before stepping away.

Now his gaze met hers.  His cheeks were scarlet, the only exception the mysterious two-inch diagonal scar protruding from the corner of his lips to just below his right eye.  I will not subject myself to such impertinence, he said, his coarse voice stern as a schoolmaster.

Kobi stood straight.  God, how she hated those eyes, the kind that see your secrets before you tell them.  Eilard, I—

No, he replied loudly, strands of the few creeping gray locks above his receding forehead waving gently in the cool breeze wafting through an open window behind him.  You will not desecrate that to which I have devoted my life.

Kobi quickly stepped in his direction.  Eilard, I‘m sorry.  Let me—

You have done quite enough, he shouted. 

Kobi stared at him, her arms wrapped so tightly around her waist that they were beginning to constrict her breathing.  She was startled by Eilard’s phone suddenly ringing on the desk to his right.

He steadied himself with one hand on the desk, picking up the phone with the other.  Yes, he answered, muffling another cough.  I am afraid that is impossible, Eilard responded to his caller, wiping his lips again with the wrinkled handkerchief.  He was silent for a moment, his eyes piercing hers like a carving knife slicing through fresh meat.  I will, however, send an emissary in my place.  He listened for a moment before continuing.  I understand, he said in a cryptic tone before dropping the phone into its cradle.

I’m not going anywhere, said Kobi.

To the contrary, my dear.  I am afraid you are.

Who were you talking to?

An agent from the Antiquities Authority.

What does he want?

You will find out shortly.

And if I say no?

Too late, replied Eilard.  He is on his way.

3

Wolf Sarr momentarily lost his balance on the narrow stone ledge, his left foot sliding off as he leaned into the craggy wall with his right shoulder, balancing his end of the bone box as a few gravel fragments slid over the ledge’s side. 

Do you have a hold? he asked the six-foot four, broad-shouldered African.  The man‘s eyes were as black as the pre-dawn sky an hour ago, unblinking as he stopped to secure his own footing.  I asked you a fucking question.

Sweat trickling down his wide forehead, the African nodded.

Sarr glanced upward for a moment before moving on.  One stone house after another, most two or three stories each, grafted side by side onto the Silwan cliffside facing Old Jerusalem’s southeast wall.  An occasional orange tile roof was the only color dotting an otherwise bland landscape.  No sign of anyone yet.  Not this early, and certainly not down here alongside the natural foundation supporting the cliffside neighborhood.  Still, they needed to hurry.  Another half-hour and every window would be an audience and they’d be the stage.

Okay, let’s move, said Sarr, nodding his head toward the rear.  Another ten feet.  Ready?

The African hunched down for a moment to secure his grip, then nodded again.  They waited for a moment as two pigeons swept upward to Sarr’s left.  Okay.  Now, he said, slowly rising and taking one backward step at a time until they reached the end of the natural catwalk.

I do not understand, said the African in a bass voice deeper than James Earl Jones’, sweat now sliding down his sable aquiline nose despite the cool damp morning air.

Shut the fuck up, Sarr whispered loudly, goose bumps dotting his forearms.  Just do what I tell you.  I’m gonna put it down and let it rest on the ledge, he said, nodding toward the ossuary.  You hang on and use your right foot against it on the side to keep it level.

The African glanced at him for a moment, then peered over the side of the cliff toward the olive-tree-specked valley a hundred feet below.

Just stand still, said Sarr.  You won’t fall. Not unless you let anything happen to this, he said, nodding to the ossuary.  Then they’ll be scraping your black ass off the rocks.

I will hold tight, said the African, following Sarr’s lead in hunching down and allowing the stone box to rest on the two-foot wide ledge.

Sarr slid his fingers free just before letting his end drop softly to the surface.  He watched for a moment, making sure the African held the ossuary secure.  Satisfied, he turned to the right one slow step at a time to face the jagged cliff.  One trunk-sized stone after another had been laid unevenly atop the other, a centuries-old mortar of mud and grass holding them firm.  Sarr leaned to the right to the only one that – upon close inspection – had been loosened.  He froze for a moment, standing upright and listening to unintelligible echoes of a woman’s voice high above them.  The voice quieting, he bent down and grabbed the sides of the loose stone block, three feet in diameter.  An inch at a time, he slowly rocked it free and pulled it outward onto the ledge that widened by a foot before ending altogether at a curvature of the cliff’s façade.  He peered over his shoulder toward the African, the man’s white collarless dress shirt now damp with perspiration.  The ossuary was resting safely at his fingertips, held in place by his black-shoed right foot.  So far so good.

Now was the hard part.  He’d used the small cavern time and again to hide the spoils of black-market deals.  Pottery shards.  Two other ossuaries, each smaller than this one, and far less valuable.  Byzants buried by Crusaders who had never returned to claim their prize.  His own private sanctuary, and right below his house.  The perfect hiding place now for the biggest prize of all.  Smiling