Читать книгу The 13th Apostle - Richard Heller - Страница 17

Later that morning

Office of the Director of Acquisitions

Shrine of the Book, Israel Museum

Dr. Anton DeVris glanced down at the caller ID on his cell phone. Just what he needed, a call from Nathan McCullum, CEO of White Americans to Save Christianity. DeVris braced himself for the quick thinking he required to keep track of all of the lies, past and present.

McCullum’s voice was warm and sympathetic, almost believable. “I just heard about Ludlow,” McCullum began. “How tragic. So sorry for your loss.”

After having read an account of Ludlow’s brutal murder on the Internet, McCullum could have been expected to act in a number of predictable ways: he might have voiced his displeasure at not having been informed immediately by DeVris of the turn of events; he might have demanded an earlier estimated time of arrival for the translation of the final section of the diary; or he might have reminded DeVris how much he was paying him to keep things on schedule. A sympathetic acknowledgement of DeVris’ loss, with not a single mention of the diary was not only out of character, it was downright suspicious.

Ludlow had been working full-time at the Museum when McCullum had first contacted DeVris more than six years earlier. McCullum’s initial phone call to DeVris was of a completely innocent nature, related only to a donation.

“My accountants say I can use a tax break,” McCullum had explained. “And given all the negative press that Evangelicals are getting in the States these days, an ecumenical donation couldn’t be bad for WATSC’s image.”

WATSC, an acronym for White Americans to Save Christianity, was not your typical Evangelical congregation. Having risen from the back swamps of KKK country, WATSC—pronounced “watt-see”—found fertile ground in twenty-first century finance. In his climb to the top, McCullum, grandson of the founder, traded in Bible pounding for handshaking of the most influential kind. The big money that backed him and his enterprises agreed with his far, far right view of the world and had a vested interest in helping steer the U.S. in just the right direction.

Ludlow had tried to convince DeVris that WATSC was far more than a powerful political-financial institution. The old man couldn’t have been more vehement if DeVris were being courted by the devil himself.

“Please say you’re joking,” Ludlow had gasped when he first learned of McCullum’s initial donation. According to Ludlow, WATSC’s Nazis, as he called them, were so right-wing they made Adolf Hitler look like a bleeding-heart liberal. “I’m telling you, Anton, they’re not like you and me. When they want something they’ll do anything to get it. No holds barred.” When DeVris had refused to turn down the donation, Ludlow added his final admonitions. “You’re way out of your league with this one. I hope to God you don’t live to regret it.”

DeVris had told McCullum about Ludlow’s predictions of doom. They had a good laugh together about it. From that moment on, encouraged by McCullum’s reaction, DeVris had begun to see Ludlow as little more than a past-his-prime academic.

Only DeVris’ assurance that McCullum’s contribution was a one-time occurrence had calmed the old boy down. God only knows what Ludlow would have done had he known the DeVris-McCullum connection would be ongoing.

In exchange for McCullum’s continued contributions to DeVris’ ever-growing personal retirement account, the Director had used his authority and veto power within the Museum to help McCullum’s cause. The sum total of DeVris’ memos, speeches, and power votes helped squelch any actions—within and without the Museum—that might have allowed nearly all of the Dead Sea Scrolls to be put on public exhibition. The translations that would have followed would have most certainly challenged some of Christianity’s most sacred writings.

“The last thing we need right now is fuel for another attack on the Church,” McCullum had explained. “Lord knows, we had enough with those trumped-up child molestation accusations. Challenges to the historical validity of the Bible do no one any good, much less God-fearing Christians who do not need yet another test of faith.”

DeVris had accepted McCullum’s point of view with grace, resisting temptation to add his personal thought that any such test of faith might have a considerable impact on WATSC’s billion-dollar Evangelical empire as well.

To tell the truth, there were moments when Ludlow’s disquieting predictions stirred a bit of fear in DeVris. A short phone call from McCullum, however, never failed to put the whole thing right.

Last year, Ludlow’s decision to retire had come as a more than welcome announcement. The Professor’s return to England had allowed DeVris the luxury of easy communication with McCullum. Not that DeVris was doing anything wrong. After all, he had never actually voted against his conscience. He simply allowed himself to keep an open mind to McCullum’s insights. The fact that his votes helped to keep particularly provocative sections of the Dead Sea Scrolls under wraps was not as much testimony to his loyalty to McCullum as it was to the cogent points of McCullum’s arguments.

Had others known of McCullum’s support, they might have accused him of selling out. He would have argued that he simply was buying into a responsible approach to information sharing. Give the people what they can handle. No more. No less. It was better for them, and it was better for the world at large. And if, at the same time, McCullum’s contributions helped make up for the Museum’s unfair and inadequate pension policy, so much the better.

Ludlow’s rare visits to the Museum to do research were always preceded by a courtesy call to DeVris, as per the Director’s request. Advance warning of the Professor’s visits gave DeVris plenty of time to remove any trace of the McCullum influence. All in all, things had been moving along quite smoothly.

Then, two months earlier, the Professor procured a piece of antiquity that McCullum was hell-bent on acquiring. From the day that DeVris told McCullum about the diary, DeVris had been walking a tightrope, trying to maintain a balance between McCullum’s determination to obtain the diary and Ludlow’s terror of allowing the secrets that the diary held to fall into “the wrong hands.”

Now, with Ludlow permanently out of the picture, and the diary apparently still secure within Ludlow’s safe, housed behind the oven, DeVris was finally in control.

DeVris turned his attention back to the phone conversation. It was time for a contribution from him.

“From what the police told me when they notified me of the incident, Ludlow must have walked in on his attackers,” DeVris explained. “The intruders must have been in the apartment for some time trying to force Ludlow’s wife to tell them where the diary was, apparently keeping her alive until Ludlow came home.”

“Lucky you followed my suggestion and had Ludlow get the diary to you,” McCullum concluded.

Fear shot through DeVris’ body. McCullum was testing him, waiting for DeVris to assure him, once again, that the diary was safe in DeVris’ possession.

The Director broke into a cold sweat. Perhaps McCullum was giving him one last chance to confess that he had been lying. If McCullum suspected that Ludlow had never given up the diary, DeVris might do better to just admit it and take his punishment like a man.

But how could he admit he only had the bits and pieces of the diary that Ludlow had doled out to him? How could he say he had been stringing McCullum along for weeks?

It had seemed like a foolproof scheme at the time. Ludlow, unwilling to turn over the diary, had agreed to upload a small section of the manuscript each day for DeVris to translate directly off the Internet. In exchange, DeVris had paid the small fortune demanded by the antique dealer for the diary and had agreed to provide Sabbie’s services, without whom Ludlow would not have been able to decipher the more esoteric passages of the moldy manuscript.

Though the exchange had been more than fair, at the last minute, Ludlow had insisted on maintaining strict control. By using a special copyright protection program, the Professor had ensured that DeVris could view each day’s section of the diary on the Internet but had barred him from copying the material into a document or from printing it out.

At least, that’s what the old guy believed. DeVris had worked his way past a similar program used by online booksellers for customers who searched the contents of books. By instructing his computer to take screen shots, DeVris had been able to photograph each page of the diary and save them as PDF files for printing, reevaluation, and compilation at his leisure. He had allowed Ludlow to believe he was in control. It made the old man happy and, most of all, kept him quiet.

Without actually having the diary, DeVris had been able to provide McCullum with the ever-growing manuscript translation and copies of the original text for which McCullum paid extraordinarily well.

It would have been the perfect plan if DeVris had not lived in fear that McCullum might someday demand to see the actual diary. When that day came … well, DeVris never actually allowed himself to consider what might happen.

With notification of Ludlow’s death, DeVris had feared his pretense might be revealed but the gods had been with him. The police had indicated that Ludlow’s wall safe had been broken into but made no mention of the oven safe. Both Ludlow’s assassins and the police appeared ignorant of its existence and DeVris had every reason to believe that it was still intact, the diary safe within.

All of his warnings to Ludlow to tell no one but his assistant, Peterson, of the existence of the oven safe had paid off … in spades.

It had been DeVris’ additional good fortune that Ludlow had uploaded the last of the diary’s pages only two days before heading for his meeting in the States with CyberNet.

As soon as things calmed down a bit, DeVris would fly to England, gain access to the apartment, get Peterson to open the oven safe, and bring the diary home with no one any the wiser. Piece of cake. Until then, the Internet photos that DeVris had taken would continue to convince McCullum that the diary was secure within DeVris’ hands. And, for all intents and purposes, it was. As Ludlow would have put it, what the top WATSC Nazi didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

“So Ludlow’s murderers never got what they were looking for?” McCullum reiterated.

“How could they?” DeVris replied with as upbeat a tone as he could muster.

“Good,” McCullum concluded, seemingly satisfied. “By the way,” he added nonchalantly. “Interesting turn of events, this Peterson thing, don’t you think?”

DeVris froze. “What Peterson thing?”

“Oh, didn’t you know? Ludlow’s assistant has been missing for two days now.”