The Scribe's Deceit

By Michael Berens

Unaware that she has stumbled upon what may be the key to the greatest archaeological discovery of the century, up-and-coming D.C. interior designer Nan Jeffries comes across a mysterious fragment whose possible connection to an ancient scroll leads her to a surprising discovery about her own past that draws she and her archaeologist mother

• Language: English
• Publisher: MJBerens Research
• Release date: Jan 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781732040526

Book preview

Chapter One

Jim Middleton didn’t like visitors, especially strangers. After forty years of teaching, he was tired of answering questions, explaining, and helping others with their research. He wanted to be left alone to read, think and work. Now was a particularly bad time. He was very close, he felt, to discovering the root of all Semitic languages, the Ur-language of the first Hebrews. If his hypothesis were correct, it would only be a matter of time before he would reconstruct the language that God used to speak with Abraham, perhaps even to Adam.

But the stranger had been insistent. He would only be in Washington a couple of days. Father Middleton’s skill in translating was well known. Would the Reverend Father be willing to look at a fragment of a document that had recently come into his possession and help him identify it? He would be very grateful. Middleton, intrigued and more than a little flattered by the request, reluctantly agreed.

At the appointed hour, Mrs. Williams, the housekeeper, showed the visitor into the study. The small room smelled of pipe tobacco and old books. Faded blue, black, olive and burgundy volumes with crinkled spines overflowed the dark oak bookcases. Whatever system had once given order to these shelves was abandoned long ago to the meanderings of intellectual pursuit. In a corner near the room’s only window stood an old typewriter stand with a black case containing a portable manual typewriter, now neglected in favor of the personal computer that sat on the writing desk in the middle of the room. Cables from the PC snaked to the small printer on a corner of the desk, a nearby modem, and the mouse and keyboard shoved to one side of the desk. Sheets of printed computer paper cascaded to the floor. Within reach of the writing desk was a small round table piled high with books, journals and monographs bearing slips of colored paper to mark important passages, and next to it a rather worn ottoman on which lay a pool of photocopied pages from scholarly articles. The visitor was struck by the contrast between the somber colors of the books and the fluorescent yellow, green and pink highlighting on the articles.

Father Middleton was hunched in a Queen Anne style wingback chair upholstered, like the ottoman, in green brocade. The black uniform of his calling hung loosely about his pale, thin body, accenting the knobby angularity of his arthritic joints. A wrought-iron floor lamp rose from behind the chair, its twisting black arms each holding one of three dusty bulbs that cast an orange glow through the yellowing ivory scalloped shade. The scholar held a black fountain pen in his gnarled right hand and was making notes on some sheets of computer paper. Patches of pink skin shone through his thinning silver hair. His thick black-rimmed spectacles and jowly, ruddy face made his head appear dangerously perched on his stooped shoulders, as though it would tumble to the floor if the starched white color was not holding it in place. He did not look up when the visitor was announced.

Excuse me, Reverend Father, the visitor said after some minutes when he saw the pen relax in the old priest’s hand. It is very good of you to take time away from your very important studies to see me.

Standing before the priest was a brown-skinned gentleman dressed in a tan sports coat, white shirt, khaki pants, and brown loafers. He looked to be in his mid-forties, and still quite fit. Through the open neck of his tapered-cut shirt glittered a loose gold chain. A large watch on his left wrist and a small ring with a black stone on his right pinkie completed the golden points of the inverted triangle that ran from his barrel chest to his taut waist. He was carrying a caramel-colored leather attaché case in his right hand and a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses in his left.

Your message indicated some urgency, Mister . . . ?

Please call me Amir. The rest of my name is unimportant.

Middleton nodded, pursing his lips slightly. And what brings you to my doorstep, Mister Amir? I hope you will pardon me for not rising to greet you, but at my age one must capture a thought as one has it or it may be gone forever.

I understand. Age is both a blessing and a curse. Man is like a tree whose best fruit comes just before it withers. Is it not so? If only we could live forever like these books, eh?

"Our Savior has shown us that we do live forever, sir. These books are the tombs of thoughts of men once living, but He is the Life Everlasting."

I beg your pardon, Reverend Father. I meant no offense. A smile spread beneath his manicured mustache, and his brown eyes glistened. I was referring only to our poor temporal selves.

The priest stared hard at the visitor for some moments, then relaxed his gaze. Forgive me. I have become such a recluse of late I seem to have forgotten my manners. What can I do for you? I gather from your message that it is a matter of some urgency. What can you possibly want with an antique antiquarian like me?

You are very kind, Reverend Father. I want only a morsel of your precious time. I am not a scholar like yourself. However, I believe we share a common interest in books and other old things. The detritus of the past, you might say. May I sit down?

Father Middleton gestured toward the only other empty seat in the room, a rickety metal desk chair whose leather cushion was cracked from years of use. The man wheeled the chair a bit closer to the Queen Anne, sat down, and placed the attaché case on his lap. He snapped open the latches, lifted out some papers that he set aside, and then took out a small, thin black lacquer box.

I am a dealer in antiquities, Reverend Father, he said, closing the the attaché case and placing the lacquer box on top. A short while ago I came into possession of a fragment.

May I ask how? interrupted the priest.

That is not important. I have my sources. Such items are not unusual in my business, as I am sure you know.

The priest knit his eyebrows tightly, forming a grizzled gray caterpillar above his spectacles. I am an amateur collector of minor biblical artifacts myself, but I must tell you that I do not condone the sale of contraband relics. If that’s why you’ve come here, you are wasting your time.

No, no, nothing of the kind, I can assure you. Please allow me to explain.

As a scholar, Middleton believed all rare items belonged in museums or archives where they could be accessed freely by the entire scholarly community. Still, he took secret pleasure in handling documents hidden for centuries from human eyes. Although cautious, he wanted to know more. Weighing his options from the nearby pipe rack, he reached for a well-seasoned bulldog meerschaum, filled the bowl with tobacco from the matching humidor, placed the amber bit in his mouth, lit a match, and proceeded to suck the flame gently toward the curled strands, exhaling little gray puffs. The sweet-acrid smell of pipe tobacco oozed through the room, as fresh wisps of smoke swirled into a curtain around his face.

Alright, proceed, said the priest, withdrawing the pipe stem from his lips and pointing it toward the visitor. I warn you, though, I will alert the authorities if I suspect you of trafficking in illegal antiquities.

Nodding, the stranger drew the lacquer box closer, trying not to cough as he cleared the pipe fumes from his throat. I am not a learned man like yourself, he resumed. But in my business you pick up a little knowledge along the way. Otherwise I would be prey to forgers and thieves. Now this fragment intrigued me. It had characters and symbols I did not recognize. I had an associate of mine, very reliable and discreet, make a copy for me. He is very skilled. He makes copies of scrolls and such to sell to tourists, students and scholars like yourself. All very legal. All very ‘above board,’ as you say. I showed it to some acquaintances of mine at the university. They, too, were baffled. They gave me the name of a dealer in London who has connections in British university circles. I sent a photograph of the copy to him but never heard anything back. Then, a few days ago, I got a phone call from a man who would not identify himself. Again, not unusual in my business. He asked me to bring the fragment to New York. He was interested in buying it. He offered me a lot of money.

Father Middleton blew a cloud of smoke upward, coughed gently, and then set the meerschaum on the pipe rest next to the ashtray. And you want to know if it’s enough money, he said flatly.

I am pleased to find you are a man of the world, Reverend Father. So many scholars have naive qualms about such matters. My friends at university told me, ‘See Professor Middleton at Catholic University in Washington, D.C. He’s the best man for the job on the East Coast. He is very learned and is a man of impeccable discretion.’ You see, you are highly regarded in my circles. So we understand one another?

I understand you, sir. I do not say I approve. Do not take my warning lightly. Do you have the fragment with you? May I see it?

The stranger passed his hand through the air several times to clear away any trace of smoke, then lifted the gold latch on the lacquer box, opened it, and took out a rectangular piece of museum-quality acid-free paper, about the size of a postcard. He began to unfold the paper slowly, first at the ends, then gently lifting the center seam. The paper sat like a gray flower atop the attaché case. In the center of the flower was a smaller piece of what looked like cloth or some kind of tightly woven fibers, browned and mottled by age, jagged around one side and at the bottom. The rusty markings on it were very faint, and here and there tiny holes broke up the characters. The stranger picked up the entire package, placed it in his right had, and leaned toward the priest.

Father Middleton lowered his eyes to gain full vantage of his bifocals but had difficulty making out anything distinct. Hand me the magnifying glass over there, if you please, he muttered, pointing to a little reading table without lifting his eyes from the fragment. Amir complied silently. With glass in hand, Middleton examined the fragment more closely. I am not a papyrologist, you understand, only a philologist. From my limited experience with such things I would hazard it looks genuine. My first impression is that the writing, or at least some of it, is Greek, probably first century A.D. I can guess at a few words, but much of the lettering has been damaged or destroyed. And indeed there are some symbols or characters I don’t recognize at all. It’s hard to tell what it might be. Part of a larger document, clearly, but of what sort I couldn’t say.

Anything you can tell me would be much appreciated.

I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr. Amir, or whoever you are. If this fragment is genuine, it belongs to the government where it was found and should be given over to the authorities.

If it genuine, yes, by all means. But if it were another copy, like the kind my friend makes, or, worse, a forgery, well then, it might be of use to you in your studies, would it not, or of no value to anyone?

The priest ran his eyes over the fragile bit of cloth. This was no forgery, he would be willing to bet on that. He wished the stranger would go away and leave him alone with this petal of history. He longed to explore its secrets, sound its mystery.

The man gently swaddled the fragment in its wrappings, replaced it in the lacquer box, slipped the gold clasp back in place, and replaced the box in the attaché case along with the pile of papers he removed earlier, all except for a small manila envelope, which he held toward the priest. My friend was good enough to make me an extra copy of the fragment. I thought it would be to our mutual benefit if you had copy to work with . . . in your studies.

"Arrantha Sathanas! You tempt me, sir!"

I offer as one who believes in the progress of knowledge, said the man, nodding his head slightly in feigned humility.

The priest took the envelope and opened it. It was clearly a copy, even an amateur could see that, but the markings were meticulously exact. Even better, they had been darkened to make them easier to decipher. His hands trembled with anticipation.

It will take me some time to reconstruct the missing letters and work out a possible translation, Middleton said as he replaced the copy in the envelope. "I can’t promise it will make much sense. There are many breaks and lacunae due to damage."

Reverend Father, there are few men I would trust in such circumstances. However, as you a man of God and a scholar known for his integrity, and as your religion holds sacred the act of confession, I confess to you that as of this moment this fragment is mine and I place this copy in your hands in the trust that it will benefit us both. Alas, though, I can only allow you this one night to complete your work. I must take the train to New York tomorrow to keep my appointment with the mysterious buyer. May I call upon you promptly at nine o’clock?

The copy and I will be here, sir. You may be very sure of that.

One last thing. You must not let anyone know this fragment exists. My client was very insistent on that point.

But I may need to consult a colleague or two. Knowing nothing of the fragment’s history or age makes the task all the more difficult. It could be a piece of a larger unknown scroll, which would make it quite valuable — priceless even. Or, it may be merely quotidian, a bill of sale or an inventory of some kind, in which case it’s probably worth very little, except as a curio. Where did you say it was found?

I did not say, Amir responded, as you know full well. But I admire your tact, as well as your curiosity, Reverend Father. You may question your colleagues about particular words or characters, if you must. But you must promise me you will be very discreet and not show the fragment to anyone or say how it came into your possession.

You have my word, sir. My sacred word.

Chapter Two

TECHARTS. COMMERCIAL INTERIOR DESIGN. THE FUTURE IS NOW. Nan brushed away the dirt from the night’s rainfall with the side of her glove to restore the raised bronze letters to their original pristine shine and unlocked the door to the studio. Georgetown’s streets were still quiet. A few straggling workaholics like herself, the hems of their trench coats flapping crazily, careened down the windy streets juggling umbrellas and brief cases, clutching protectively waxed cardboard cups of hot coffee. With her other hand, Nan ran her key card through the scanner on the electromagnetic lock and pushed aside the door. Once inside, she punched in the code to deactivate the security system. The green safety light winked at her. As she stepped past the sensor hidden below the receptionist’s desk, track lights dawned automatically, the electromagnetic lock on the front door clicked shut, and the security system reengaged. At the rear of the studio the coffeemaker began to gurgle, as strains of Celtic airs floated from the ceiling.

Nan stopped for a moment to survey her new domain. Monochromatic work stations and geometric fixtures of polymer, glass and chrome gleamed in the effluence of ambient-adjusted lumens. It had only been a couple of months since she had opened the studio. After quitting her job with the architecture firm, she had spent the previous two years working out of her condo doing mostly small projects—office remodels, executive suites, and home offices and libraries for wealthy professionals. It had been enough to pay the bills, although just barely. Lately, however, queries had begun to pick up as new tech companies moved into the area. Sensing a sea change in the market, she hired another designer and leased the studio space, which she designed and furnished herself.

The small halo from a task lamp hovered over the unoccupied receptionist’s desk. Nan switched it off and headed straight for the back of the studio, drawn by the wafting aroma of freshly brewed French roast. She rinsed out her mug in the sink and with practiced precision slipped it under the brew basket while dexterously removing the glass carafe. When her mug was full, she returned the carafe to the warming plate without letting a drop spill and watched the dark stream recommence its flow.

Seating herself at her desk, she looked over yesterday’s messages, put the phone on speaker, and dialed into her voice mail box. GUD MORN ING, MISS JEFF REES. IT IS SAT UR DAY, MARCH TWELVE, NINE TEEN NINE TEE FOUR. YOU HAVE WON VOICE MAIL MES SEDGES. TO LISS SUN, PRESS WON NOW. She grabbed a pen and her phone diary. MES SEDGE REE CEEVED NINE PEA EM, FRY DAY, MARCH EE LEVEN, NINE TEEN NINE TEE FOUR. THUR TEE SEC ONDS. She doodled during the pause as the machine rummaged through its circuits to retrieve the message. Then came the beep and a bit of static.

I need you to pick up some books for me that Jim Middleton borrowed. It was her father’s voice. He gave her a list of titles. Send them right away. They’re for a talk I’m giving next week. Pause. Click.

END OF MES SEDGE. YOU HAVE NO MORE MES SEDGES. TO LIS SUN TO YORE MES SEDGES A GAIN . . . Nan plopped the handset into the cradle and took a long sip of coffee.

Hi, Daddy. Oh, I’m doing fine. Thanks for asking. Sorry I missed your call, but I’m not usually at the office at eight o’clock at night . . . as you well know, you bastard. She drew a large heart around the list of titles, then two arrows, like crossbones. Daddy, why to do you have to be such a mother?

Nan walked to the window and looked out at the gray morning. In the distance she could hear the faint chime of church bells. Seven o’clock. Out on the street everything was still quiet. She topped off her mug with fresh coffee, returned to her desk, picked up the phone receiver, and hit the speed dial. A series of bloops and beeps sounded an atonal scale, somnambulantly picking through a pre-encoded serenade composed to woo the unwary receiver. Her signal found its mark and began to purr a series of short rings. She had just about given up on anyone answering when the purring stopped and a groggy voice sputtered, Hullo?

Winston, I need a favor.

Nan? Jeez, it must be midnight. What are you doing calling me at such an ungodly hour? And on my day off?

Stop kvetching, Winston, and listen to me. I need to you to come down to the studio, like NOW!

You must be joking, dear heart. Winston hasn’t gotten up before noon on a Saturday since he was sixteen. What’s up, anyway?

I got a message from my father. He wants some books from a colleague of his who lives out at Catholic. I need to pick them up and get them FedExed ASAP.

Did daddy say he needed them right this very minute, for godssake?!

My father does not know the meaning of ‘later.’ And don’t call him ‘daddy.’ It’s bad enough I employ you. I don’t even want to think of being related to you. How soon can you get here? We need to finish preparations for the PoliCom installation next week. I planned to do it myself, but, well, duty calls. Which reminds me, wasn’t a certain someone supposed to give me revised specs on the executive conference room before he slipped out without a word last night?

Yeah, well some of us HAVE a life, Nan. Besides, seven o’clock is not night; it’s dusk. You know, like that awful gray fabric you’re always trying to get your clients to buy. Have you checked your IN box? I dropped the specs off before I left.

Winston, you’re endlessly endearing. I’ll keep that in mind should you ask me for a raise.

All right, I’ll do it. Jerry’s gotta go to work anyway. The sous chef called in sick, allergies or something. Have you talked with your therapist about this father dependency thing?

Stopped asking so many damn questions, Winston. Just get your ass down here, pronto.

Okay, okay, but I want all of next Friday off, comp time. I’ll be there by eleven. After all, YOUR LACK OF PLANNING IS NOT MY EMERGENCY.

Thanks for the sympathy.

Love you, too, Nan. You owe me, big time.

Thanks to a referral from her friend, Helen, PoliCom, a political PR and communications firm, had hired Nan to design and manage the fit out of their new offices, which took up an entire floor in a renovated building in the Penn Quarter. The project was nearing completion. This next week was critical. If she made the deadline and the execs at PolicCom were happy with the result, it could be a stepping stone to bid for bigger projects. The last thing she needed right now was to run errands for her father. She knew, though, that if she put it off her father would be furious. Cursing him under her breath, she left the studio and headed toward the lot where she parked her car. She’d have to make up the time later somehow. Great, another Saturday night spent at the office.

Father M’s house appeared to be lifeless. Nan rang the bell again and listened for sounds of someone stirring inside. Nothing. She walked around to the back of the house, climbed the wooden steps that led to the second story, tapped gently on the screen porch door, and called out, Anybody home? No response. Using her hands to block the morning sunlight, she pressed her face against the laundry room window and peered inside. Everything looked neat and tidy. A stack of folded towels stood on a small bench next to the dryer. One or two more lay crumpled up next to them, as though someone had been interrupted before finishing the rest of the load.

Nan stepped back from the door and threw up her hands. At the moment, she didn’t know who she was more angry with, her father, Winston or herself. But she was thoroughly pissed off. Her morning was shot. She had a big deadline looming. And now this. Turning to leave, she set her heel down on the corner of a brick that had come loose on the landing. When her shadow shifted, a glimmer of brass caught her eye. It was a key lodged in a crack beneath the brick. She looked around to make sure no one was watching and picked it up. Cautiously, she slipped the key into the lock on the porch door and gave it try. The doorknob turned easily and the door swung open. She let herself inside, closing the door behind her.

Flecks of dried grass and oak leaf speckled the worn, faded linoleum. She set the key on the washer and walked slowly toward the front of the house. To her left, she knew from a previous visit, was Father M’s study. The bedroom door was ajar, the room empty, the bedcovers still neatly in place. She spotted a light coming from the study, paused, and softly asked, Is somebody there? Father M, is that you? A trickle of warm air crept up her ankles through the floor vents of the creaking furnace. The odor of baking dust prickled her nose. She held back a sneeze.

Her feet halted in the door