CHAPTERS 1-2

The best, most valuable, least expected compliment I  ever received for my writing, was from the great Ray Bradbury.

 

to see
the three men on this sunny Roman morning standing casually by the fountain in the Piazza Novona, one might think they were discussing lofty and esoteric subjects as they con­templated the dancing waters—especially since they were dressed in the robes of office indicating they were cardinal deacons. But one of them, the next-to-youngest of the three, was saying in English:

"I don't say that the old man must be eliminated. Not yet, anyway. Just that we dispatch someone to Izmir immediately, to get those photographs from him."

An older cardinal with a gaunt, craggy, and almost hand­some face frowned and sighed. "I don't understand. Why, after all these years, do we have to take it upon ourselves to steal this man's property?"

"My dear colleague"—the young man's voice was low and as smooth as margarine—"you know how devastating it would be if the—"

"Yes! Yes, I know! I know about the scrolls! For how many years have we known about those damned scrolls! But why all the excitement about them now?"

"Jason Van Cleve," the other man said. "That's why. He's an investigative reporter from America. Skillful man. Likes to expose things. Apparently he exposed one thing too many last year —a labor union involved with the Mafia. Van Cleve's wife was killed, probably as a token of their esteem. He's been reduced to writing travel articles for a while—on a ship in the Mediterranean, at the moment. The old man has been trying to get in touch with him, to tell him the whole story of the scrolls before he dies. Without the photographs, he's just a harmless old man with a ridiculous tale to tell. But with the photos of the scrolls, he's a time bomb."

"Why don't we have them both eliminated?" the third car­dinal asked innocently.

The older man said in a shocked voiced "You are joking, Tertius, of course!"      

Tertius looked doubtful and shrugged.

The young cardinal spoke up. "We Guardians are prepared for any action. What we must do, we shall do. I'll contact Melnick at once and report back to you. I am sure his repu­tation—ah, well—you know it. Unsavory, perhaps, but so very efficient. Meanwhile, we'd better not be late for the meet­ing. His Holiness will be there, and you know he misses noth­ing."

They shook hands solemnly, and, although they were headed for the same destination, they went in three different directions.

The land excursion from the ship was south of Smyrna, or Izmir, as the Turks call it, and the voice over the tour bus's loudspeaker was harsh and crackling:

"Nex' stop he is the house of Virgin Mary!" The Turkish accent made it sound like "Veerchun Mahree.

So now the bus was leaving the ruins of the, ancient city of Ephesus,  Jason Van Cleve turned to look again at the. majestic columns of what had been the awesome temple of Diana, some two thousand years before.

Jason was lean and good-looking, and the gray coming in at his temples enhanced the dignity of his forty-two years, making his otherwise youthful appearance more interesting. What most women noticed about him was his build, which could easily have been that of a man fifteen years younger. Only the more discerning saw the bitterness lurking behind his eyes. The small scar on his cheek went back to his college

boxing days, but that hurt look in his deepest, hazel eyes was more recent.

The busty, handsome woman next to him said with a sigh as she looked up at the  temple, "It's great, I know, but I'm just tired of looking at ruins—plumb ruined out."

About thirty, she was well dressed, laden with gold jewelry, and pretty in a Palm Beach sort of way. Her hair was the color of a saxophone and she laughed easily. As always, she had managed to take the seat next to him. Her name was Vera.

"Now, about Mary's house, I must say I am curious about that." She had a heart, as Browning wrote, "too soon made glad," and she had a voice, as his grandfather back in Billings would have said, "that could worm a dog." But Jason barely listened as she rambled on. "Here I am, raised a Catholic, and I never even thought to ask what happened to the Virgin Mary after the Crucifixion!"

Jason wasn't interested in the Virgin Mary's house. He wasn't interested in this shore tour, and not even in this cruise.   Friends back in New Haven had persuaded him to take it in the hope that it would help pull him out of his depression after losing his wife. But hell, he hadn't lost her, they'd taken her in a phony car accident.

He wasn't interested in Vera, either. He wished he could be. She was nice. He was even getting used to her voice, but he felt nothing for her. She was friendly and he was grateful for it, but that was all.

Mechanically he took out his notebook and began to make notes on Ephesus. It was a magnificent site and it had a colorful and glorious history, but he found it hard to work up enthusiasm for travel writing. Still, it was better than the alternative. He could use a drink about now. His grandfather had always said, "I must have a drink at eleven. 'Tis a duty that must be done. For if I don't have a drink at eleven, I'll have eleven at one."

"Oh, here we are!" crowed Vera. "I'm getting kind of excited! I guess you can take the girl out of the convent, but never the convent out of the girl."

The bus had pulled up at the foot of a hill and parked alongside three other buses. One of them was still disgorging people, mostly Germans and Japanese, all with long-lensed cameras slung around their necks. There was a straggling parade going up the path and disappearing into the olive grove.

"You go on ahead," said Jason to Vera. "I'll be along in a minute," he assured her as he pretended to have difficulty in worrying his camera case out from under the seat in front of him. He just needed to get away from that voice for a while.

When most of the other passengers had gone on ahead, he opened the leather case, took out the small camera, and went out of the air-conditioned bus into the hot Turkish sun, following the other tourists up the hill.

Along the path were big metal signs, each in a different language, declaring that this had indeed been the final abode of the Virgin Mary, and that a special historical team from the Vatican had verified, in 431 A.D. and again in 1953, that John the Apostle had fled with Mary after the Crucifixion and come here to Ephesus, that John had died and was buried nearby, and that Mary had lived and quite possibly died here in this house at the age of sixty; she was "assumed" into heaven, as the Church taught, since no remains of her body were ever found.

This last resting place of the Virgin Mary was a small house of stone and adobe, incredibly well preserved for a building dating from biblical times. It must have been restored, Jason thought, or at least partially; it was too perfect. The house looked exactly as the house of the mother of Jesus should look, he thought—"as a painter or a moviemaker would conceive of it”. Inside, it was lit by candles and was very stark, barren of furnishings, although someone had seen fit to put a rather ugly crucifix in the main room. The floors were of packed earth, and there was little to show the line of demarcation from the exterior soil. 

The bedroom was tiny—a mere cell— with an empty niche the only relief from the bare walls. How small she must have been! Jason felt a slight tremor in his body when he stepped into that room, and when he finally left the dwelling, he experienced a definite mystical feeling, almost exaltation, despite his lifelong skepticism toward formal religion;  Jason walked over to the side of a little cliff from which pure water spouted, cupped his hands, and drank some of it.

On their honeymoon, Beth and he had visited Lourdes. Beth had been curious; she wanted to see everything in the world. But here was none of the sickening, gaudy commercialism that Jason had found at Lourdes. There was only one little kiosk with postcards of the house in its lovely setting. He was making a selection to send to Beth's mother in Charlottesville, when a well-dressed man of about forty-five strode up to him.

"Phillips Taylor," he said. His basset-hound eyes flicked from side to side as though to make sure he would not be overheard as he presented his card for an instant and then took it back and pocketed it. "American vice-consul. Talk to you a moment?"

"Sure," Jason replied as the man drew him aside.

Quickly he told Jason about an ancient man who lived in Izmir and who had been on the team that had restored this very house of Mary for the government, around the turn of the century. The old man wanted to talk to Jason.       

"What in the world for?' asked Jason.

"You are a writer, aren't you?"      

When Jason nodded, Taylor said, “The old boy's got a story he wants to tell. Feels he's dying."

“But... why me?" Jason persisted. "There must be other writers around here."

"He doesn't want to work with the local talent. Says he can't trust anyone but a writer of the first class. Well, at least you're traveling first class." He laughed at his own feeble joke. "I got the publicity sheet of the Royal Viking Line from their office in Istanbul."

It was hot in the sun, and the beads of perspiration on Phillips Taylor's forehead seemed static; they did not become rivulets, nor did he attempt to wipe them away.

"This old man," Jason asked, "he's a friend of yours?"

"Friend of a friend, you might say," replied the man. "Met him years ago through a young man who was working with the old boy at the time—an American who needed a passport. I arranged it for him. So the old man figured I could arrange this for him, too."   Jason asked, "Why doesn't he want to work with the "local talent, as you put it?"

"Not sure- but I think he's worried about leaks—maybe even problems with the law."

"What is his story?" Jason queried. "Everyone thinks he has a story. I'm really not interested in doing a biography."

"He won't tell me anything, won't tell anyone but 'a writer of the first class, I told you."

"But the ship leaves tomorrow."

"Not until nine o'clock at night," the man pointed out. "Just see him for half an hour, then maybe he'll stop bugging me."

"I had planned to go to the museum in Izmir tomorrow."

"Just see him for half an hour—fifteen minutes, seven- then I'll personally drive you to the museum. I’ll bring him down to your ship at nine tomorrow morning."

"Make it eight," Jason said. "Then I can have more time at the museum."

That night on the anchored Royal Viking Sea, after high tea, dinner, and a boring Turkish folklore show featuring belly dancers, Jason managed to break away from Vera and get to

his cabin before midnight. He tried to read about Ephesus, but he kept thinking about the vice-consul and the old man. He was sure, the old fellow wanted his life story written. So many people had come to him over the years and said, "You write , the story of my life and we'll split fifty-fifty!" Big, generous gesture! They seemed always to be librarians or accountants.

Still, this man was supposed to be very old.

The next morning, Taylor showed up promptly at eight at Jason's stateroom. It was quite a nice room, as he had been given first-class accommodations, courtesy of Royal Viking, in exchange for the publicity they knew his articles would generate.

When Jason's gaze went down to the tiny man next to the American, he thought of Rumpelstiltskin. The old fellow was a troll in a black suit, wearing a black hat with great bushes of white hair coming out at the sides of it. He was clutching a crude portmonnaie made of cowhide, attached to his tiny wrist by a handcuff.

'This is Monsieur Nestor Lascaris," said the vice-consul.

"How do you do?" said Jason

"I am ninety years old and I am dying... that's how I do," he replied in a high voice. He took off his hat and Jason saw a pinched, corrugated face; bright but rheumy eyes gazed out above a hawk like nose and a set, serious mouth.

He sat down in a chair that Jason offered. The vice-consul started to sit, too, but the old man waved him out of the cabin n with an impatient gesture.

"I'll wait in the lounge," Taylor said, in an injured tone.  

When the American had left, the old man took a small key from his pocket and unlocked the handcuff.

"You are a writer of the first class," he said intently in lightly accented English. "I have heard of your books. I have read in Time magazine about your brave newspaper articles. You are not afraid of the truth, even if it puts your life in danger."

Even if it killed my wife, Jason thought bitterly.

"You are the man to write this story, the most incredible of stories."

The will and strength of the old man's voice! He did not look like a dying man, nor did he particularly appear to be a crackpot.

"I was born in Ephesus," the man began.

"But you have a Greek name," Jason interjected.

Nestor Lascaris smiled a brown-toothed smile and said, "Just because the cat has kittens in the oven, that does not make them biscuits."

His smile disappeared and he caressed the leather pouch.

"In 1908 I was the youngest on the team of archaeologists assigned to restore the house of the Virgin Mary. Therefore, to me fell the honor of doing all the hard work, the lifting of stones, the digging and hauling away of debris. Thus it was that while shoveling away in the very foundation of the ancient building I came upon this!"

He opened the leather pouch and extracted a large photograph gone yellow with age. It showed an amphora-like jar.

"I saw that there were scrolls in the jar. I quickly threw a sack over it, and the others did not see the jar. That night I came back with a wagon and took it to the humble dwelling of my parents in Izmir. You see, in those days I was young, unprincipled, irreligious and highly ambitious. I intended to sell my find. I knew I had found a treasure of great price no matter what was in the scrolls. But then, when I found out what was actually on them!" He whispered fervently, "My God! My God!"

"You translated them when you were that young?"

"No, no! You see, I could not sell them around here. I knew I would have to take them to Istanbul or some big city where I was not known, where I would not be accused of theft. And I could not risk leaving my job, for I needed the money to be able to travel to Istanbul. I kept the scrolls hidden, and it was years later that I found someone to translate them for me. In the meantime I had taken a wife and raised a family. A family man does not run off to Istanbul."

As he spoke, he took two other photos from the leather case; these were obviously of the scrolls themselves, unrolled, with their archaic writing clearly visible, looking not unlike the pictures Jason had seen of the Dead Sea Scrolls, the Qumran discoveries.

“These are two of seventy-six," he said.

"And where are the originals?" asked Jason.

Lascaris blew out a long and terrible sigh.

"My—my daughter… He looked as though he would not be able to finish the sentence. "My daughter, she is a nun now. She is in convent. She... she..." He slapped the leather pouch in his anger. "She found my translations! She said they were blasphemy of the most terrible kind. For my protection that of the scrolls, I do not wish to tell you now where the actual scrolls are, but I have the photographs and I have the translations. I have told no one about them. You wonder why I tell you after all these years? I can no longer keep this to myself! There are those who would kill to suppress this knowledge, but it must be told."

Lascaris bobbed his head up and down as he said, "Only last night I was approached by a... how you call it? Gangster? He demanded that I hand over these pictures; I lied, told him that they were burned. I think he does not believe me... but he went away."

His rheumy eyes lost their opacity and seemed to darken as he fixed Jason with a piercing look. He lowered his voice and continued, “This story must be told, and I must tell it. I know I am soon to die, and a writer of the first class must tell the world what has been found here. I want no money, if that is what you think. No! I want nothing but that the truth of the Ephesus scrolls be known!"

Then he took out some typewritten pages. As he shuffled them, Jason went to the night table to get the cassette recorder he always took with him in his travels.

"You know who wrote these scrolls?" Lascaris looked around as though searching for eavesdroppers, then whispered, "John!"

"John?" Jason echoed flatly.

"John!" repeated the old man reverently.

"John the Baptist?"

Lascaris rolled his eyes heavenward in impatience at such ignorance.

"John the Apostle! The Apostle John!"

"Oh!" said Jason. This man was crazier than he thought.

"You do not believe me, my friend, I know." Lascaris smiled a little. "I don't blame you. You will doubt more when you hear the story itself. But let us start with facts you cannot doubt. John came to Ephesus after the Crucifixion, afraid, like the other Apostles, for his life. He brought with him Mary. We know John died and is buried here in Ephesus. We are reasonably sure Mary also died here and was shortly afterwards assumed into heaven, as observed in a Church tenet called 'The Feast of the Assumption.' Now, I did not do the actual translation of these scrolls." He looked a little apologetic. "I do not read Aramaic well, so a brilliant American named Paul Krenski made a"—he searched his mind for the words—"free translation in English for me. But the first part, where John speaks to the reader for himself, is exactly as written two thousand years ago." The old man drew from his jacket pocket a pair of steel-rimmed glasses, hooked them over his ears, and read the first of the typewritten pages:

“I John, bear witness that I was with Jesus in the garden when he went out to suffer. And we were like men amazed or fast asleep, and we fled this way and that. And I saw him suffer, and did not wait by his suffering, but fled to the Mount of Olives and wept. And after he was hung upon the cross, at the sixth hour of the day, there came a darkness over the whole earth. Now that day is long past, but it will live in me each day of my life and I suffer anew, not only for the suffering of Jesus, but for the untruths that abound, for which I myself have been partially responsible.

Now I am close to death and must make haste to bear witness to the truths I know, truths I lived and observed, and truths told to me by Mary herself. She has been my staff, my guiding light, my mother, my friend, my rock through the turbulent days of the trial and crucifixion of her son and through our subsequent perilous journey to Ephesus. It was through her that I learned the truths I now set forth, although I long wondered at the role that Lael had played. Would Lael and Jesus want me to do this act, this setting right of the truth of their lives? Will it not cast a shroud of doubt over the faith of the many who now believe in the ministry of Jesus far and wide, and in increasing numbers?

I have suffered mightily in my doubt whether to reveal or not, but verily I say to you now Jesus was not the Messiah. Jesus was the son of God, as we all are, but he was not the one chosen by the Father to save all mankind.

Lascaris cleared his throat.

"That is the end of John's introduction. Now this next part of the translations...this is where we go into Krenski's free interpretation of the story itself. Believe me, this is the

amazing story never told."       

"Well, tell me, for God's sake," Jason said.

"For God's sake... that is why I tell you!"

The old man began to read. For the next few hours, Jason listened, taped, and made notes as the man read in his high, reedy voice the beginning of a most unbelievable saga. Jason was skeptical but intrigued. The story was ridiculous, but he maintained decorum out of respect for the man's age and obvious sincerity.

Shortly before noon the old man stopped. Jason was about to ask him some questions, but Lascaris raised his hand weakly and looked for a moment as if he might faint. Now, indeed, he did look like a dying man. He took a pill from his pocket and put it in his mouth, asking for a glass of water. Then he got up shakily and put on his hat, muttering, in Greek, "Nohmeezoh ohtee eeneh ohra yah to yehvmah, pahmeh... lunch, I go home now."

"But I have many questions," Jason protested as he took his Nikon from the night table drawer. "And let me take some pictures of those photographs!"

"After lunch," Nestor Lascaris replied in a drained voice. "I must go home, lie down. I must bite something. My corn flakes..."

"What?"

"I must have something to bite... to eat... my corn flakes." He pronounced it corn "flockies."

Quickly Jason set up the photographs on the bed near the porthole, and began snapping. He took seventeen shots and would have taken more, but by now the man looked so old and sick that Jason helped him handcuff the case to his spindly wrist and called to the lounge to let the waiting vice-consul know that Lascaris was ready to leave. When they went out, Phillips Taylor promised to bring the ancient Greek back at two-thirty.

After they had gone, Jason shook his head and grinned. He'd had a lot of weird stories tried on him in his career, but this one was the winner! Still, he was curious to know exactly what was in those scrolls. He would have the ship's photographer develop his film, then try to find an expert to translate at least some of it when he got to Istanbul.

"It will probably turn out to be the Apostle John's laundry list," he said to himself, and picked up the book on Ephesus.

But then, as he waited for the old man's return, he found himself setting up his typewriter, and then, out of habit, he started transcribing the tape.

First, Lascaris had given a little prefatory lecture of his own, quite proud of his scholarship:

"Since we know from many independent historical sources that King Herod died at the age of seventy, in the year 4 B.C., modern scholars now assign 7'or 6 B.C. as the actual birth date of the Messiah. But, aside from the writings of His own Apostles, there’ s no historical record of Jesus Himself—what a pity! We know more about actors and box-fighters than we do about the life of Christ! But the Romans kept good records.

We know about Herod..." His taped voice sounded gruff and angry as he spat out the name, his hatred spanning the centuries.

Then he went on:

"Since the records show that Herod died in 4 B.C., and it was he who ordered the death of the Hebrew children, Jesus had to be alive before then. The mistaken calculations are blamed on the Scythian monk, Dionysius Esigua, who wrote in 533 A.D., centuries later. It is also generally believed that the child was born in September or October, rather than in December, one of the more obvious reasons being that then,

as now, the shepherds did not tend their flocks in the fields in  the dead of winter, at that time their flocks were in the stables. December twenty-fifth as the date of birth is mentioned in 354 A.D. for the first time. These scrolls, the Ephesus scrolls, confirm both adjustments.

Modern astronomers further tell us that in 6 B.C., Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn appeared to come together, forming what looked like a single star of dazzling and unique brilliance.”

At this point he had jabbed Jason on the chest with a bony finger that felt as sharp as a stiletto.

"Incidentally, astronomers have also determined that the Crucifixion occurred on April seventh, in 30 A.D." Lascaris had chuckled. "I wager you did not know that! That is the only date that would satisfy the biblical statements that Jesus died on a Friday, the day after the Jewish feast of the Passover, celebrated on the first full moon of the spring!"

Jason had interjected, “Then that would have made Him older than most people think.”

"Yes," Lascaris said thoughtfully, "somewhat older."

Then the old man had gone directly into the story. It more or less followed the traditional account, but with some interesting deviations

“And when Mary awoke with a cry from the pain of the child, in far Joseph lying on the straw comforted her.

"Is the star still there?" she asked.

" And the door of the stable was closed, but even so, through the cracks in it they could see the brilliant light.

There came a knock on the door.

"Who is there?" Joseph called out.

And a woman's voice answered, "Becca,"

And it came to pass that the servant girl from the inn aided Mary and Joseph in the birth.

Joseph paced across the straw as Becca helped Mary to bring forth her child. Mary did but once cry out, and her cry sounded almost as though she were in ecstasy instead of pain. One hour later, Becca held up a perfect child.

And then the door was flung open. The wind blew the straw and Joseph trembled, for he knew the proclamation of Herod.

A centurion stood in the opening, saying to his men, "This is the place."

Then Joseph stood between the centurion and Mary and the child. But three soldiers strode in with clanking armor, and one reached for the baby and pulled it from Mary's arms while , another held a sword to Joseph's throat.

And they raised the child up to the light of their torches. And the soldier who held Joseph released him and put away his sword.

And the centurion said, "We are wasting time here. This is not the Messiah. This is only a girl."

Jason looked at his watch. Three-thirty, and still the vice-consul and the old man had not come back. He ordered tea and a sandwich and went on with his work.

The language was simple, rudimentary, the Krenski translation free, neither modern nor completely biblical:

After the birth of the child, it came to pass that Joseph and Mary knew doubt and their faith was shaken. For some days they were silent, not daring to look in each other's eyes. Mary feared that Joseph’ would now leave her, since the prophecy had proved false. She had not borne the Son that was to be the Messiah. Even so, were these not the words of the prophet Isaiah:

"Therefore the Lord Himself shall give you a sign. Behold, a virgin shall bear a child: and the child's name shall be called  Emmanuel." Would this not cause Joseph to doubt her claim that she had known no man?

They looked upon the child with affection, but in their hearts grew deep sorrow. They saw not the truth, for they were simple folk and it brought them much sadness when the prophecy of I a divine destiny went unfulfilled.

But the truth shone in the heavens, and three great men from the East, kings, who had followed the star that shone above, were now brought to the stable to honor the child and offer gifts to the Messiah. For had not Isaiah also prophesized: "The multitude of camels shall cover thee, the dromedaries of Midian and Ephah; all they from Sheba shall come: they shall bring gold and incense; and they shall show forth praise to the   Lord."     

Yet Joseph and Mary watched with heavy hearts, for the coming of the wise men made them feel the pain of deception,  but they had not the courage to make known the truth that this child they so revered was but a female. 

It would come to pass that in later years Mary would think on those painful moments when her daughter was worshipped as the Messiah and her own tongue was stilled with shame. Had it then been the will of God that the wise men should not know the truth about the child?   

Mary and Joseph named the infant after the wise men had gone. Mary had chosen the name Lael, for it meant "the chosen of God." Joseph did agree. "She is the chosen of God. For she could not have a fairer face; but she looks so like you that she should be called Mary." Mary protested that it would be unseemly to name a girl child for its mother. Even so, they settled upon the name, Mary Lael.   

As word reached their ears of the deeds of Herod's soldiers many people saying that both male and female children were slain, Mary and Joseph feared that Lael would not be safe. For did not the wise men find them? Should Herod now hear of this, would he not have the soldiers seek them out again? Therefore did Joseph take Mary and the infant and flee in Egypt. In Alexandria at that time were many others who had fled those Jews of the Dispersion- and it was here that Joseph and Mary found friends. Everywhere people spoke of the Messiah, who was said to have been born in Bethlehem and who would some day free Israel from the Roman yoke so that all Jews might return. Egypt too was under Roman rule, but the Jews of Alexandria lived not in the land of their forefathers and cared not whose coffers their taxes swelled.

But here too they could not but fear for the danger that might come to Lael, and thus they moved inland, where Joseph built modest home for his family.

The child, Lael, grew strong and fair to look upon. Her sweet and happy nature gladdened Mary's heart and her quick mind and curiosity pleased Joseph, and with each day that passed, they set aside the thoughts of the prophecy that their child was to be the Messiah, for she seemed as any other and they could but think of Tier as their own, not as-the child of God. Her beauty filled their hearts with love, and while they had seen that her eyes never blinked and that later, when she walked, she left no footprints in the sand, they did not remark on this.

And it came to pass, when Lael was four years of age, that  she was playing with a young goat, which had wandered down into a dry riverbed, wide and deep. As Mary and Joseph watched, some strangers chanced to come from the other side and did descend also into the river bed. They were not dressed as Egyptians, but in the manner of Mary and Joseph, and they called across to them a greeting in their tongue, and it was returned.

And when all were descended into the depths of the riverbed, they heard a roaring sound and they saw a great torrent of muddy water rushing toward them. Then did Mary and Joseph take hold of the child, Lael, and the goat, but the flood overtook them before they could ascend the steep banks. Joseph grasped sedges and, holding Mary with one hand, put his arm around the reeds and supported the goat while Mary did hold up Lael. After the first fury, the torrent subsided and Joseph was able to gain the riverbank. Lael was the first to sit up. She saw that the goat was alive beside her father. She started to go to the animal when she heard a cry. It was the boy who had been crossing with the others from the far side of the river."

Joseph and Lael walked along the bank and then Lael pointed.

The child was at their feet, but too weak to pull himself ashore. Joseph reached down and lifted the boy from the water. Mary joined them and she did take the child from Joseph's arms.

"I will look for his parents," Joseph said.

Lael watched as her mother swaddled the boy in dry shawls, and she found his face comely and held his cold hands in her to warm them even as her mother started afire, for he was chilled and in a swoon.

The boy's eyes were still closed when Joseph came back. Joseph walked to the fire, clasped his hands together, and said, "I went downstream as far as the wide part where the crocodiles gather. It is hopeless if his parents were carried down that far."

Then came Lael’s voice as she sat beside the boy, and Mary and Joseph were much puzzled to hear the small child speak these words:       

"God is mercy and God is wrath and God is sacrifice, for His name will be glorified not only through life over death, but through death itself."

 Then did Joseph and Mary look upon each other with amazement, but in their hearts, was rekindled the hope of an old dream.

When the boy awakened, Lael gave him some sips of goat's milk and stroked his forehead with her hand and said, “I will stay with you always.”

Mary looked again at Joseph, and he did nod his head, for they both understood that they now had two children to care for.

     And Lael asked the boy, "How are you called?"

“I am called Yeshua,". he replied. "Jesus:”

And thus it was that the lives of Jesus and Lael became intertwined. In the years that followed, the children were sister and brother, yet was their love even deeper and more constant, and the pleasure they found in each other warmed the hearts of Mary and Joseph.

Fair efface was Jesus, and fairer still was Lael, with her bright hair and comely features. But even as Jesus had a swarthy look, darker by far than Lael, much did they seem to be alike in other ways. They were the same age and their understanding was great, although Lael’s  understanding was the greater of the two, and often wondrous. Also, they were much alike in disposition, for each possessed a generous and loving nature. And six years passed, and Joseph and Mary wished to return to their homeland, and they received a sign that it was wise for them to do so when the goat that Lael and Jesus had so loved and cherished died. As Mary and Joseph watched, Lael knelt and looked up to the sky and prayed. And even as she prayed, the animal began to move and opened its eyes and then got to its feet.

It was a sign—indeed, a miracle—and Joseph and Mary could see that Lael did have a great gift. Joseph knew that it was time for them to return to Jerusalem. He knew that she would not be able to exhibit such powers without being regarded as one possessed, but he could foresee that if she were the Messiah, Jesus could be the one through which she might bring salvation to the world. Thus it was that they returned to Galilee and then to Nazareth, and the words of the prophets were fulfilled: "He shall be called a Nazarene."

 And it came to pass that the next summer Joseph, while laboring in his workshop  fell to the ground without a sound and Mary ran to him, calling to Lael and Jesus. They went to Joseph and his eyes opened and he smiled and said, "Mary Lael, you are everyone's hope, and you, Jesus, will be one and the same with her." Then he died peacefully. And Mary cried out to Lael, "Save him. Bring him to life again."

But Lael shook her head. And Mary wept and grew angry and said, "You would save your pet goat, but not my husband?"

And Lael said, "This is his time and it is the will of the Father." She too wept for the good man, as did Jesus, and they comforted Mary with embraces and her wrath was lost in grief.

And then Lael said, "If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you"

And Mary did not understand her words. "I do not always know your meaning, but I know you speak as a girl-woman she knows the All.”

Lael bowed her head and said, 'I am you and you are me and so shall it be all the days of our years. And so shall it be with Jesus. What I am given to know, he too will know, and what I learn, so will he also come to learn.”

And she put her arms around Mary and Jesus, and they kissed. And so Lael did not raise up Joseph from the dead although it was in her ability to do so, for she was almost at the zenith of her powers. She spoke many tongues, though no one knew how she learned them, even did she speak Greek, the tongue of the most learned. And all these things she did teach to Jesus.

The years passed, one upon the other, and in all things the boy Jesus and the girl Lael were as one. All that Lael was granted as the Chosen of God, she shared with her beloved companion, Jesus. Nor was he ungrateful, nor too proud to suffer her teachings, nor did he turn from her to seek others, but basked with pleasure in the greatness of her divine wisdom. As more was revealed to Lael, more, then did he learn also, even unto the sacred miracles that he alone would be permitted to perform among the multitudes, for such things did not be­come a woman and it must not come to pass that she be called a witch, if the word of God was to be made known to all nations.

Thus it was that Jesus could astound the rabbis at the temple with his knowledge and divine reasoning when he was but a boy.    

As the followers of Jesus increased in number, so did the joy in Lael's heart. Always she was at his side, especially when he needed her power, the power that came from the
Father, and so it come to pass that many miracles came to be recorded: and thereafter the word spread to the multitudes that, indeed, the Messiah had come.

As Jason listened, he heard the taped voice of Lascaris saying, "Now come many pages we skip by. Nothing very different from the Bible's version of the last months of Jesus, when—"

Then he heard his own voice interrupting. "Sometimes the language doesn't sound very biblical.”

“This is not the Bible!” Lascaris’s voice said reprimandingly. "This is a free translation by Krenski! Now we go to I the end part. Ready?”

“Ready.”

And Lascaris began to read again.

And Jesus and Lael met by moonlight in the Garden of Gethsemane, near the oil press at the foot of the Mount of Olives. Only Peter and James and I, John, were witness to the scene. '

And Lael, to whom we all referred as "she of Magdala," though we never said this in her presence, just as we never called Jesus "the Nazarene," even though he was known thus far and wide. And again I say, Lael told him that she knew of his conversation with Judas. She agreed that Judas's plan might be a way to save his life, but she told Jesus that if he were to let the world know that he was not the Messiah, all of his teachings would be held in contempt and he would be cast down.

"It is only through their faith in you, as the Messiah, that brotherhood between all men and the resolution of differences in a peaceful manner may come to pass, to keep mankind from destroying itself."

Then Jesus drew himself up and embraced Lael and spoke: "I go to my destiny, not joyfully, but willingly, if it be my Father’ s will."

You must remember that I, John, did not know at this time the true part that Lael played. I knew only that she was always with Jesus, and so taken were we with the power of his personality that none of us seemed to realize how much he was guided by her, especially in the performing of the miracles. It is true, he raised the dead, he healed the sick, but always was Lael near at hand. There was the time he commanded Lazarusto rise. Lazarus did not rise. He was dead. Then to the scene came Mary Lael, and she stood behind Jesus, and Lazarus arose.

And so it was that Judas directed the soldiers and the Phar­isees and the chief priests and the officers of the temple and the elders to the area of Gethsemane where we stood. Judas led the way, for many times he had been to the garden and he knew where to seek us out.

  It was near to midnight when they came upon us, bearing torches; and many were the minutes that we stood watching the flames of the torches flickering below as the procession came up the path through the garden. The muttering of voices could be heard, the tramping of feet, and the clanking of the soldiers’ armor.

And then we all looked to Jesus, for there was time for us to take flight, but he moved not.

Lael did look to him also, and spoke to him in a low voice, and we heard not for what she said. We only heard Jesus reply,  "It is but the will of our Father. And so we did take heart, so strong was our faith in Jesus.

Then, as we stood by the fire, waiting, Jesus and Lael on one side, and Peter, James, and I on the other, we could see the faces of the men as they advanced into the firelight. And as I watched, I recognized Judas, and he was talking to the leader of the soldiers, but I could not hear what was said.

Then did Judas step forward, and he did nod to Lael, and then stood for a moment before Jesus. Then did Judas kiss Jesus upon the cheek.

“Dear Judas’’ Jesus spoke. "I have been waiting for you. Now you see that I tossed the sop of bread to the right person at supper tonight, did I not?"

Then did Judas say to Jesus, "This is not a betrayal, Master. I swear to you! Trust me!"

Jesus turned then to Lael and said, "What must pass will pass.”

Then did Jesus step forward into the flickering glare of the soldiers' torches and he spoke, saying, "Who is it you seek here?"

And one of them did reply, "Jesus of Nazareth."

And Jesus said, "I am he."

And then Lael pointed her finger to Jesus and said, "Yes, it is he."

At these words a strange thing occurred: Several of the ranks in the group seemed to stumble backwards, and some fell to the ground. They exclaimed one to another as they picked themselves up and gathered their fallen swords and spears, and as they did Jesus said,

"Why do you come for me as though I were a thief? Have I not sat daily with you, teaching in the temple? You could have taken me easily any day there. Why now? Why do you come at this hour of night, with swords and spears? You do not know, but it is all happening so that what was prophesied might come to pass. This is, indeed, your hour, and for now the power of darkness and desolation shall prevail. But I warn you, your hour will be brief."

At this, Malchus, the chief servant of the high priests, having shaken off the spell, drew his sword and, uttering an oath, came forward menacingly.

At the same time, the disciple Peter leapt forward with his sword in hand. He brought the weapon down at Malchus’ s head. The soldier dodged just in time, and the blade barely sliced through his ear, severing it from the side of his head.

The crowd muttered angrily and moved forward, but Jesus spoke quickly in rebuke:

"Peter, put your sword in its sheath instantly! All those who take to the sword shall perish by the sword! Even now, I could pray to my Father and He would give me more power than twelve legions of angels. But then, how could I do what I was sent to do”?

Lael reached down and picked up Malchus's ear from the ground. She held it a moment in her hand and looked heavenward, then she handed it to Jesus. He took it and then put it to the side of Malchus’ s head, from whence it had come, and there he held it, taking the man's head in both his hands.

Jesus then did take away both his hands and the ear was in place, and remained there as though no sword had touched it.

A great murmur ran through the crowd, but Peter, James, and I were much used to this, for had we Apostles not witnessed many miracles performed by Jesus, and many far more wondrous than this?

Then did Jesus say to them, "I am the one you want, therefore let the others go."

Yet was there much hesitation. Even so, Sadoc, who had remained in the background, and seeing now the submission Jesus showed, did step forward and shout,  “Seize him! Seize them all!"

Peter, James, and I hesitated and looked to Jesus.

“Go” he commanded us.

Then did I withdraw and hide behind a rock. Peter made as if to remain by Jesus' side, but he did say to the fisherman, "You will deny me, Peter, but not yet."

Peter looked to him with anguish, but then he turned and fled. And James did go with him.

Two soldiers followed after them, hampered by their armor.

Then Sadoc pointed to the fleeing disciples, saying, "Strike the shepherd and the sheep will be scattered."

 Then spoke Lael, "Sadoc, we are glad to see your knowledge, even unto the prophecies of Zachariah."

Closely did he look at her serene face under the hooded white garment that she wore. '

"And who are you?

"I am one of God's children," she replied. "Even as you are."

"Are you not called Mary of Magdala, the prostitute?"

And Lael did say to him, "It matters not what I am called. God knows my name."

Then did the soldiers come forth with hopes but Sadoc shook  his head and said, "Not the woman. We have no need of her."

Jesus held his wrists forth to be bound, nor did he resist as they pulled him away down the path, "led like a lamb to slaughter," as Isaiah had foretold so long ago.

Then he looked back to Lael and she called out, "Stop."

And all halted and stood transfixed. And all did watch as she walked down the path toward them. She went to Jesus am put her face near his, and there were tears on her cheeks. But her voice was strong and I could hear her as she spoke unto him, saying, "Now the hour has come. Be strong, my brother, my love, my very life. I am you and you are me forever, from this day forward. Whatever is done to you, so also shall it be done to me."  And then did she drop to her knees and kiss his hand.

And Jesus spoke to her, saying, "I shall be strong, do not fear, for it is you who make me strong."

And Jesus was dragged away from Lael, but he looked back to her, and in his eyes were shining tears, yet on his lips was a smile.

The voice of Lascaris was faltering, and this was when he said he would go home to lunch and would return to finish the story.

But he hadn't returned. And here it was four-thirty. Jason clicked off the recorder and lay down on the bed and thought about the story. Maybe there could be a Sunday feature in it... the great biblical hoaxes of history. He could drag in the Turin shroud and other mysteries. But he needed to know more about this. Much more.

And for some reason he felt very disturbed. 

CHAPTER TWO

JASON WOKE up in his berth and looked at his watch. It was after six o'clock. He had dozed off.

“They didn't come back,”  he said aloud.  

  Why?

Maybe the old man was sicker than Jason had thought. Maybe he'd gone to the hospital... or died. What about those remarks Lascaris had made? There are those who would kill to keep this information secret.

He sat up and lit a cigarette, then laughed wryly. Kill a crackpot old man over a crackpot hoax? Why would anyone care what that poor, obscure man had to say? If the Messiah was female, the information had been suppressed very effectively for nearly two thousand years, a fine heap of suppression. And a ninety-year-old unknown Greek would be the smallest molecule in a megaton bomb like this one. The Messiah, a woman? A real bomb, all right.

Too bad the whole thing wasn't true; he could use a great story about now. He could see the look on Wild Bill Shiff's face if this story, wired in to the good gray Times, came over his desk! It'd be like the old Hollywood movies. "Stop the presses! Scrap that Bush headline, we're going with Jesus was a Woman!”

Jason smiled at the vision of Shiff wetting his pants with excitement, barraging him with dozens of queries, suggesting interviews with the Pope, the translator of the Dead Sea Scrolls, and Billy Graham.

But then Jason's smile faded. Sure, it was a phony, but he smelled a story of some sort here. What if Lascaris and the pimp-like vice-consul were crooks in cahoots? What if they had dreamed up this yarn together and shot photos of some kind of scrolls? And the translation that sometimes sounded biblical and sometimes didn't—was that the vice-consul's contribution? That gimmick of the handcuffed briefcase, that was pretty cute. Did they go around from place to place, city to city, bilking people for large amounts of money to "research" the tale? Shake down good Christians to suppress it? Were they well known to the police all over the Mediterranean? Might make a good magazine article if the newspaper didn't want it.

But where was the old man? Where was the shifty-eyed Phillips Taylor?

The Messiah, a woman? Come on! Still, Jason had met a lot of people in his life, and his gut feeling was that Lascaris is genuine? Listening to Lascaris tell his story, it was hard not to believe he had found the scrolls, just as he said. Then the only conclusion would be that the scrolls themselves were a hoax, planted at the site of the archaeological diggings for just such a "find."

But how to pull off a hoax like that, with all the scholars eager to analyze such things? The composing and writing of the script would be no big deal, but where to find the proper time-stained papyrus, the ink with which to perpetrate such a caper? And who would go to such effort? And, more important, why?

Yes, there was a story here. 

Quickly Jason put out his cigarette, brushed his hair, straightened his tie, and grabbed his jacket. The ship was not due to depart until nine that night; he had a few hours to try to find the old man.

But where should he start? The consulate? Yes, of course, the consulate. The vice-consul would know how to reach Lascaris.

Jason saw an old taxi waiting at the curb not far from the gangplank, and he started toward it. Then, suddenly, a newer taxi cut in front of him and the driver reached back and opened the door. The driver of the other cab shrugged and drove off.  "American consulate," he said. "Know where it is?”

The driver growled a reply, tipping his blue cap. He was Turkish, very ugly, with a brown mustache that bristled like copper wires and obsidian eyes pinched close to his large nose. He looked as though he would kill for a euro, a congenital assassin. Jason looked around quickly, but now there was no  other taxi visible. He stepped in.

It seemed to take forever, through narrow streets and cluttered alleys, to arrive at the consulate.

"When do we get there?" asked Jason at one point, as he nervously checked his watch. It was already seven-thirty.

The man did not answer, but soon pulled up to the curb in front of a small, elegant building with a plaque over the door displaying the seal of the United States.

Jason smiled with relief and asked the driver to wait for him. He received a surly nod in reply.

Jason went to the iron gate in front of the door. There was an electric doorbell button as well as an old-fashioned brass bell with a clapper. Jason rang both. Nothing happened. He rang again. Eventually an old Turk came out wearing what appeared to be a makeshift uniform.

"Yes?" he said in English.

"May I come in? I am an American. I need some information. I'd like to see the vice-consul."

The man shook his head.

"No one here today. Today is holiday."

"But the vice-consul," said Jason. "If he is not here, could you give me his home number? Phillips Taylor?"

Again the man shook his head and said, "No Phillips Taylor here. No vice-consul Phillips Taylor."       '

"But he is the vice-consul," Jason protested. "I met him yesterday."

"Been here for over a year," the man said. "Never heard of a Phillips Taylor.”

"But... but he brought this old man to the ship. He…” As though relenting, the man said, "Look, you come tomorrow, nine o'clock. Other vice-consul will talk to you, help with your problem. Martin Gray, his name."  

Jason nodded. "Tomorrow."

So it all was a big fake, a setup. At least on the part of  Phillips Taylor. Never quite bought that one, anyway. Now, what about Lascaris? He turned and went back to the cab.

“Telephone,” he said to the driver. "Understand?"

By way of reply, the driver gunned the noisy motor. Again they drove through the interminable streets, taking corners blindly in their labyrinthine progress. When at last they stopped, Jason saw that he had been brought to the post office. He got out and went in. The telephone was on the third floor, and a creaky elevator took him up. On a table of the drab and poorly lit room, he saw some dirty, tattered telephone books. He tried to look up the name Lascaris, but found the Turkic characters unfathomable to him. A ragged urchin of about fourteen was eyeing him. “You speak English?" Jason asked.

The boy nodded enthusiastically.

Jason handed him the telephone book and, giving him some money, said, "Look up Nestor Lascaris for me."

The boy quickly pocketed the money, took the book, and, frowning in concentration, ran his grimy finger slowly down the page. Finally he handed the book back with a shrug and shook his head.

“There has to be," said Jason, as he looked in the book. "Some other Lascaris, maybe related… maybe they could tell me.”

He suddenly realized the boy was gone.

No Nestor Lascaris. Strange. But maybe it was not so strange. Not everyone in Turkey would have a telephone, the way Americans did. Also, it was just possible that the boy didn't know how to read. Street children might be able to speak several languages, but not read even one.

The great investigative reporter wasn't doing so hot. Forget the whole thing, he thought.

Jason looked at his watch. Eight-fifteen. Time to be heading back to the ship. He walked over to the elevator, pushed the  button and went to his cab and got in. Well it had been an interesting day, he thought as they headed into the heavy evening traffic. Thank God, he'd soon be back on the ship. They'd be leaving this port in half an hour, and he could relax and forget about old Nestor and his crazy story.

Or maybe he could dress the yarn up to serve as one of those anecdotes the ladies would like: "And now we leave romantic Izmir, ladies and gentlemen, otherwise known as the ancient city of Smyrna. Remember the old song, 'Istanbul Is Constantinople and Constantinople Is Istanbul?' Well, Izmir is Smyrna and Smyrna is Izmir. One of the earliest centers of the Christian faith, Ionian in origin, it also has perhaps the most valid claim to being the birthplace of Homer, and of course the Greeks and the Turks have tossed it back and forth over the centuries during the odd years when the Romans or the Mongols weren't in residence. And I must tell you about this little old man with a bizarre tale:.."

This damned story was still torturing him.

As they drove along, Jason tried vainly to find some landmark. He thought he saw the Buyuk Efes Oteli in the distance, but it suddenly disappeared as the driver turned sharply around a corner.

"Where do you think you're going?"

The driver didn't respond.   "Hey!" he shouted. "Do you speak English?"

He thought he heard the Turk say yes, but he was not sure. Then he caught a glimpse of the NATO radar station on a nearby hill, and Jason knew where he was. "Look, the harbor is down that way. Where the hell are you going?"

The Turk kept looking at him in his little rearview mirror. He smiled and entered the uphill street. Jason was sure he was being taken in the opposite direction from the port. His suspicions were verified by the long shriek of the ship's whistle coming from behind them.

"Stop the cab!" he shouted. "I want to get out!"

He wasn't sure whether the driver was a typical cabbie, circling around to rip him off for extra money, or was intentionally delaying him.

Just then they came to an intersection blocked by a small crowd of people, shouting and pointing at two cars, which were blocking the street. The driver saw the commotion and slammed on his brakes. Jason saw him start to shift to reverse. Before the gear was locked into place, Jason threw some lira onto the front seat and jumped out.

The driver glanced at the money and hurled a curse after the American. But never mind.. he could be paid extra when he reported to the foreigner later and collected for the “unavoidable delay." Also on the next block a little old man was waving for a taxi.

Nestor Lascaris got in the cab and said, "To the harbor."

In five minutes they were there. The great whistle of the Royal Viking Sea was sounding as Lascaris dismissed the cab and hurried to the officer who stood at the bottom of the gangplank with a clipboard in the crook of his arm.

"Mr. Jason Van Cleve," he shouted over the roar of the ship's blast; "I have an appointment!"

The officer shook his head. "He isn't going to keep it, sir. He hasn't returned, and the ship's leaving. Right now!"

"But he said—"

"Sorry, sir. Stand back, please. Gangplank's going up."

Lascaris looked up in disbelief at the big ship. Its twin screws were already roiling the black water around its stern into iridescent starbursts.

He walked away from the dock very disquieted and talking aloud to himself—in English, as though Jason were there.

"Why? Why? It is your fault, Nestor...stupid old man! You sleep too late. You are too tired...too old! Now, how will you find Mr. Van Cleve? Why did he miss the boat? Must be a good reason. Somebody kidnap him, maybe? Somebody kill him, maybe? Maybe already those accursed scrolls…”

He didn't finish, but turned and watched the floating behemoth as it moved away from the dock. The Royal Viking Sea had thrummed and vibrated out several yards and was now turning slightly. Lascaris looked around him, expecting to see Van Cleve making a last-minute dash for the boat, but now everyone was walking away from the dock.

Again, Lascaris accused his own stupidity. "I should have had that Phillips Taylor bring me. I do not trust him, but he did get that American writer for me. Now I don't know what

to do. Maybe the vice-consul knows where Van Cleve is. I go to the American consulate, maybe they know where he stays if he does not go with the boat.”

Nestor Lascaris began to feel sick as he trudged along the dark street, coughing and spitting. He glanced over his shoulder constantly and saw threatening shadows everywhere.

"You are an old fool!" he said to himself. “This is not the cinema, this is life. Who would hurt an old man? Unless ... unless... the scrolls..."

He stopped and sagged down on the curb, panting, clutching the briefcase to his bony chest. Then he hauled himself up and continued his journey, praying for a cab to come along. Now he realized that he could not walk all the way to the consulate, so he walked in the direction of his home. As he came around a corner, he heard an ominous rattle. It was the sound of wheels of some sort, chattering over the cobblestones. He flung himself against the side of a house, his briefcase raised as a weapon. The sound increased. Then Lascaris saw him—a legless beggar on a platform on roller-skate wheels. "Go with God," the old man said as he gave the beggar all the change in his pockets."

Staggering with exhaustion, he approached the dark street leading to his house. As he entered the cul-de-sac, the headlights of a car directly in front of him came on. He threw his arm up against the blinding beams. He could make out the silhouette of a tall, thin man coming toward him. Lascaris tried to run toward the doorway of his home, but the man ran after him and caught him by the belt at the back of his coat.  Lascaris whirled, and, with all the strength left in his frail body, he swung the briefcase against the man's head. The man swore and retaliated with a blow with the tire iron he carried. It smashed into the old man's face and he toppled over  backwards; his head, slamming against the cobblestones, made a sound like a melon being struck by a mallet.

The assailant bent over Lascaris's body as it lay, small and crumpled, in a fetal position, then struck him in the head once more to make sure the old man was dead. He then took out a large knife, which he snapped open, and tried to cut the handle off the briefcase. The knife went easily through the leather, then struck metal. He went quickly through Lascaris's pockets, but could not find the key to open the handcuffs that bound the briefcase to the old man's hand.

The assassin then pushed back his victim's coat sleeve and slashed at the bony wrist with the knife. Three times he forced the knife against the wrist, to no avail. Then he took the frail arm in both his strong hands, snapping the bones of the forearm, after which he sawed off the bloody hand, and the handcuffed briefcase fell to the ground. The man snatched it up and opened it. By the beams of the headlights he could see the photos and

papers in it. His thin lips in his thin face tightened into what was almost a smile. He ran his thin fingers through his red hair.

"Think you just made yourself a bundle," he told himself.

But he would not bother his contact in Rome with the full details of how he got the briefcase. The cardinal was only interested in tangible results, not in methods.

He walked to his car without looking back at Lascaris's body; there was more work to be done. The first thing was to track down the guy who called himself Phillips Taylor. It was not his real name, of course, but Melnick would find him, probably in Istanbul. He had his methods and his contacts— plenty of them.

As he started the car, he chuckled at the thought of that writer guy missing his ship. Better check on him, too.

As the Turk hurled vicious epithets after him, and with the words "anani sikeyim" still sounding in his ears, Jason pushed through the crowd and was soon running toward the harbor. He came out on a plaza called

Konak Square

, and took a street he felt would lead him to the harbor. He was wrong, and after some minutes he realized he was heading the wrong way. He cursed the Turk, Lascaris, and himself under his breath.  "Do you speak English?" Jason asked a man who was sitting outside a doorway in a straw chair.

"Evet," the man replied. Jason kept on running.

The boat's whistle sounded once more in the empty streets, and he had the feeling that it was more distant than before.

Suddenly he saw a sign that read ATATURK CADDESI and he recalled that they had passed that street before; it was the waterfront drive. He sprinted through the strolling crowds along the waterfront, then stopped in his tracks, his arms falling to   his sides in resignation.

The Royal Viking Sea was a least half a mile from port, heading for Istanbul.

Jason looked around. This area of the city was full of life, people milling in an endless promenade, men grouped together and women grouped together separately.

Although it was nine-thirty, darkness was not yet complete, and the waterfront was bathed in a soft mauve-pink afterglow. Music was coming from horn-shaped loudspeakers—military music, as if the country were preparing for a celebration.

He tried to count the money in his pocket without taking it out, and figured that he had about five notes—almost a hundred lira. He cursed himself for giving the cab driver more than he should have.

He calculated the situation. The boat was heading for Istanbul, which was thirty minutes away by plane and an eternity by bus. He had no plane reservations and not enough money for the fare. The only thing to do was to wait for morning, when the American consulate would be open. With a bit of luck and the vice-consul's help, he'd be able to get the plane for Istanbul and catch up with the boat before it departed for Piraeus.

In theory, it all seemed perfect, especially in the warm summer night, surrounded as he was by interesting sights and sounds and the smell of food. His stomach became particularly interested in the succulent aromas, and began to rumble a reminder that it was long past dinnertime.

As Jason looked around for the source of the mouth-watering aroma, he had the fleeting sensation that someone was looking at him; he felt a pair of eyes nailed to his back. He turned .quickly, and caught a glimpse of a man rapidly turning the other way.

You're getting paranoid, he told himself. That old man's story has sent you around the bend.

He soon found the stand and saw the sign declaring the prices for sizzling hot bursa kebabi—sliced grilled lamb, with tomato sauce and yogurt, in pita bread, he ordered two kebabi and watched as the man prepared them. His fingernails caught Jason's eyes; they were long, greasy, and filled with dirt. He swallowed hard and looked the other way while he sank his teeth into the juicy meat.

With sixty lira in his pocket and the night falling sticky, humid, and hot over Izmir, Jason realized he'd have to go back to his Boy Scout days in order to survive. But he ruled out sleeping in the streets and decided the next best thing would be a cheap hotel. He was now in a part of the city that seemed dark and hostile. The few loitering figures in the alleys seemed to be brigands out of childhood fairy tales.

He walked briskly toward the brighter lights and kept looking behind him. It could have been his vivid and excited imagination, but he thought someone was following him—that same man?

He passed the train station, turned left, and walked along Anafartalar Caddesi for a block and a half, when he saw a street called 1296 Sokak, and the lights of six hotels in a row. He picked, the one with the shortest name, Pension Atlas. As he entered the lobby, the heavy smell of narghiles hit his nostrils. The small room was full of knickknacks, Arabic and Turkish religious plaques, mirrors, tassels, baubles, souvenirs, and even a sign in English, posted right above the tiny desk:

                                             Whoever you may be,

                                             Come...

                                             Even though you may be

                                             An infidel, a pagan, or a

                                             Fire-worshipper, Come.

And, under the copy of this verse from Mevlana, better describing the spirit of the invitation: ROOMS 45 LIRAS.

The sleepy hotel clerk, a one-eyed, unshaven old man, led him to his room. Jason had been informed that prices in rooms with six beds were slightly lower, but he preferred to spend his entire fortune for a single room with a shower, cold, the clerk had said, but if he wished to heat some water, there was a tank where he could build his own fire.

When he was left alone in the miserable room, its decades of human odors mixed with the slightly fresher stench of urine coming strong from the corridor, he looked around to orient

himself. The bedding consisted of a sheet safety-pinned to a quilt, very dirty; a bare bulb hung from the ceiling; one dead cockroach lay on the floor; one soiled towel hung from a hook on the wall. He locked his door.         

He looked outside the window and instantly pulled back. That same man was standing near a taxi, talking to the driver.

A coincidence? Jason asked himself. He was almost convinced that if he could see in the dark, he'd recognize the driver.

He lay down in his clothes on the hard mattress, kicked the quilt—which fell to the floor, raising a cloud of dust—then, leaving the light on, he shut his eyes and tried to empty his mind. It was difficult to stop the wheels from grinding out visions of all the peculiar things that had happened during the day.

He wondered how long it would before he was missed on the ship. Vera would miss him. He could see her, a predatory frown on her face, searching the bars, the disco, the    lounge for him.

He finally scanned his own mind for the troubled feelings that were beginning to subside as he realized he was not exactly happy; but, yes, he was alive! For the first time, in many months, his life had some sort of flavor. Retaining this thought, he fell asleep.

The next morning at nine, Jason was at the consulate, waiting for it to open. Vice-Consul Martin Gray, short, jolly, mustached, sparse hair combed across his pate to hide his baldness—though in fact this had the opposite effect— received Jason cordially in his office.

"Read some of your articles and books!" he said emphatically. "Especially liked the piece on Nicaragua!"

Jason thought he sounded like Teddy Roosevelt; he half expected him to say, "Bully!" Instead he asked, "What can we do for you?'

Jason told him everything he could, omitting any references to the details of Lascaris's tale.

“Philips Taylor…” Gray said. “I’ve been here only six months, but that name. . . I have seen correspondence from a vice-consul who was here a while back. I think it was Taylor

  Phillips, though."

"Maybe that's it!" exclaimed Jason. "Maybe I got the name backwards. Do you have a forwarding address?"

"Check," said Martin Gray as he got up. “I’ll check."

He came back from the adjoining room with a slip of paper.

“Taylor Phillips left the service a year ago ... lives at this address in Istanbul."     

"One more favor — I'd better call the ship and let them know I didn't fall overboard."

After half an hour, he had the captain on the phone Captain Mortensen was a good enough fellow, though acerbic, and he fancied himself a wag, especially in his English, which was serviceable but rudimentary.

"Well, what happened, dear boy? Did Tom T'umb get his t'umb caught in one of those Turkish tarts?"

Jason replied amiably, "Jowett said, 'Never explain, never complain’.”

Then, after telling the captain that he would rejoin the ship later at Istanbul, he added, "Oh, and Captain Mortensen, I'd appreciate something: I wonder if you could see to the security of my stateroom that my things are...intact.” I've been worried about ... well, just about the general security of my things." He added, "I'll explain later."

Jason didn't specify the tape recorder, the camera, or transcript; he suddenly wasn't trusting anyone, particularly over the phone.

When he arrived on board that evening at six o'clock after the flight to Istanbul and the long taxi ride from the airport to the Royal Viking Sea, he was not surprised to see Captain Mortensen waiting for him at the top of the gangplank. A great, bearded, sixty-two-year-old Viking, the husky captain gave a bow and then did a passable impression of Charles Laughton as Captain Bligh.

"Welcome aboard, Mr. Christian. Let's see if your cabin and coconuts lie untroubled."

Jason followed the captain down the corridors to his stateroom

The captain used his own key to open the door. When they stepped inside the cabin, the captain said, "First, Jason—if I may so call you—you are a fine creative man, and we are proud to have you on our ship. Second, you will probably write about this trip for some magazine, like Signature or Travel and Leisure or National Geographic. We welcome—who doesn't?— good publicity. We do not want you to say that our security was bad. I want you to know that I personally came into your room after our phone call and took inventory. Did you have some two thousand dollars worth of traveler's checks in the bureau drawer?"

Jason nodded.

"They are still there," Captain Mortensen said, jerking open the drawer. "Plus a few hundred dollars in currency from various countries." He pointed to the bureau top.

"Did you also have a typewriter and a camera and a tape recorder?"

Jason was feeling guilty; he'd been too suspicious.

"Yes, and I see they're all here," he admitted.

 "Anything else of value, besides clothing?”

Jason shook his head.'       

"Look, Captain," he started. "I'm sorry to have put you to this trouble, but I was following up the damnedest story...if I've offended you..."

"We Danes don't offend easily," the captain said. "See you at dinner."

Jason flopped down on the bed. How clean and wonderful a bed it was after the previous night! How beautiful and clear was the air of the room! He was about to doze off when a strange thought crossed his mind.

He got up and snapped on the tape recorder. The tape was the same, a Maxell 90. He pushed the play button and heard only the faint hiss of blank tape. Hurriedly he pushed the rewind button, and then the play button again. Nothing.

He turned over the cassette and tried that side. Nothing. He stopped to think. Could it be possible that he hadn’t pressed the record button while Lascaris was talking? No! But he'd played back that tape while he'd been waiting for Lascaris and the vice-consul to return! He looked at the cassette more carefully. Although it was a Maxell 90, it looked brand-new, and the tape he had used was not; he had been using it the day before he met Lascaris.

He picked up his camera and looked at the exposure counter. The number was correct: seventeen. He wound the film quickly and snapped the back open. The film was the same, Kodak Tri-X. Had they, whoever they were, overlooked the camera? But a closer examination of the cartridge brought a new disappointment. His Tri-X had been a twenty-exposure roll; in the camera now was a thirty-six-exposure roll.

Bingo, he thought. He looked in the drawer for the transcript, knowing it wouldn't be there. It wasn't.

He lay back down on the bed with a groan. Then he said aloud. "That name was Phillips Taylor!"

He had his shortcomings, but he'd always been good with names. Names are words, and he'd been preoccupied with words since he'd won his first essay prize back in Billings, Montana, as a sophomore in high school. He had been impressed by the fact that the man's first name was Phillip? With an s, instead  of the usual Philip.

And another thing: When Phillips Taylor had shown his card as they first met, he had put it back into his own pocket instead of giving it to Jason. Jason remembered thinking that it was probably the last card the man had on him at the time.

The logical way to proceed now was to stay on the ship, go to the Istanbul address given him as the last known address of Taylor Phillips, and check it out in the morning. If that failed, maybe he should forget the whole thing.

But one fact was becoming increasingly clear to him: There was at least one other person besides himself who thought Lascaris's story might be important. Who was it?