Cross Bones Part 47

I waited.

"Claims someone hired him to cap Ferris."

29.

I BLINKED, SET DOWN THE JAR, RECOVERED ENOUGH TO ASK A BLINKED, SET DOWN THE JAR, RECOVERED ENOUGH TO ASK A question. question.

"Kaplan was paid to kill Ferris?"

Tight nod.

"By whom?"

"He's yet to share that little detail."

"He's been claiming he's innocent as Little Bo Peep. Why talk now?"

"Who knows?"

"Friedman believes him?"

"He's listening."

"Sounds like a plot straight out of The Sopranos. The Sopranos."

"You could say that." Ryan glanced at his watch. "I've gotta get back there."

Ryan was gone five minutes when Jake surfaced. Good news. We could access the Masada transcripts. And Getz would see us. He'd told her about the shroud, but not about the bones. While I questioned the wisdom of concealment, this was Israel, his turf, not mine. And Jake a.s.sured me he was only buying a few days.

And a few purloined bone samples, I suspected.

As Jake downed two aspirin and I repackaged the shroud, we discussed what to do with the bones. The Hevrat Kadisha were obviously unaware of the bones' existence, or they'd have been screaming that we hand them over. And since the HK already had Max, they'd no longer have a reason to keep me under surveillance, or tail me. We decided Jake's flat was safe.

Locking the bones in the ossuary cabinet, we secured the doors, then the outer gate, and set off. Though the tension in his jaw suggested a headache in progress, Jake insisted on taking the wheel of his rented Honda.

Crossing back through the Nablus Road checkpoint, Jake wormed through traffic to Sultan Suleiman Street in East Jerusalem. Across from the northeast corner of the Old City wall, opposite the Flower Gate, he pulled into a driveway that led uphill to a pair of metal doors. A battered sign identified the Rockefeller Museum in English and Hebrew.

Jake got out and spoke into a rusted intercom. Minutes later the doors opened and we circled to a beautifully landscaped front lawn.

Backtracking on foot to a side entrance, I noticed an inscription on the building's exterior: GOVERNMENT OF PALESTINE. DEPARTMENT OF ANTIQUITIES GOVERNMENT OF PALESTINE. DEPARTMENT OF ANTIQUITIES.

Times change.

"When was this building constructed?" I asked.

"Place opened in 1938. Mainly houses antiquities unearthed during the time of the British Mandate."

"Nineteen nineteen to 1948." I'd read that in Winston's book. "It's beautiful."

It was. White limestone, all turrets, and gardens, and arches.

"There's some prehistoric material here as well. And some kick-a.s.s ossuaries."

Kick-a.s.s or not, the place was deserted.

Jake led me through several exhibit halls to a flight of stairs, our steps ricocheting hollowly off the stone walls. The air was heavy with the smell of disinfectant.

Upstairs, we pa.s.sed through several arched openings and turned right into a recessed alcove. A plaque announced the office of Esther Getz.

Jake knocked softly, then cracked the door.

Across the room I saw a woman of about my age, robust, with a jaw that could have opened the iced-up St. Lawrence in spring. Seeing us, the woman left her scope and swept forward.

Jake made introductions.

I smiled and offered my hand. Getz shook it as though I might be contagious.

"You've brought the shroud?"

Jake nodded.

Getz made s.p.a.ce on a table. Jake centered the two Tupperware containers on it.

"You're not going to belie-"

Getz cut him off. "Refresh me on provenance."

Jake described the tomb, without mentioning its specific location.

"Anything I say today will be strictly preliminary."

"Of course," Jake said.

Getz pried free one lid and studied the shroud, repeated with the second tub. Then she gloved and gently removed each remnant. Fifteen minutes later she'd managed to unroll the smaller swatch.

We spotted it simultaneously. Like kids in chem cla.s.s, we all leaned in.

"Hair." Getz wasn't talking to us, she was thinking out loud.

Another fifteen minutes and she'd tweezed most strands into a vial, placed a half dozen others under a magnifying scope.

"Freshly cut. Some sheen. No signs of lice or casings."

Getz exchanged the hair for the larger segment of cloth.

"Simple one-to-one plain weave."

"Typical first century." Jake pumped an arm.

Getz repositioned the remnant, refocused. "The fibers are degraded, but I don't see the flatness and variation I would expect with flax."

"Wool?" Jake asked.

"Based on this, I'd have to say yes."

Getz moved the remnant back and forth. "No weaving faults. No holes. No mending." Pause. "Odd."

"What?" Jake's arm froze.

"This yarn was spun in the opposite direction from that typical of first-century Israel."

"Meaning?"

"It was imported."

"From?"

"My guess would be Italy or Greece."

Another half hour and Getz was scoping the smaller sc.r.a.p.

"Linen." Getz straightened. "Why were the two remnants packaged separately?"

Jake turned to me.

I fielded the question.

"The small remnant came from the deepest end of the loculus, and was a.s.sociated with cranial fragments. The larger came from a position closer to the opening, and was a.s.sociated with postcranial fragments."

"One wrapping for the head, another for the body," Jake said. "That's exactly what Simon Peter describes in John 20:67. 'And seeth the linen clothes lie, and the napkin, that was about His head, not lying with the linen clothes, but wrapped together in a place by itself.'"

Getz glanced at her watch.

"You realize, of course, that the IAA must take custody. You may leave the specimens with me." Not subtle.

"Of course. Our find is fully doc.u.mented." Emphasis on the "our." Jake wasn't being subtle, either. "I'll be requesting carbon-fourteen dating." Jake beamed Getz his most winning smile. "In the meantime, I'll be on pins and needles awaiting your report."

Against all odds, Getz managed to resist Jake's charm.

"Isn't everyone," she said, gesturing toward the door. We were being dismissed.

Trailing Jake into the corridor, I was sure of one thing: Esther Getz had never been dubbed the Getzster. No nicknames for this chick.

Next stop, Tovya Blotnik.

The IAA director's office was four alcoves down from Getz's. Blotnik stood when we entered, but didn't come around his desk.

It's funny. Telephone voices conjure images. Sometimes those images are dead-on. Sometimes, they're way off.

The IAA director was a short, wiry man with a gray goatee and hair that tufted around a blue silk yarmulke. I'd pictured Santa. He looked more like a Jewish elf.

Jake introduced me.

Blotnik looked surprised, recovered, and leaned forward to shake hands.

"Shabbat shalom." Jittery smile. Santa voice. "Please, sit." Jittery smile. Santa voice. "Please, sit."

The choices were limited since all but two chairs were stacked with papers and books. Jake and I took them.

Blotnik sat behind his desk. For the first time he seemed to notice my face.

"You've been injured?" American English. Maybe New York.

"It's nothing," I said.

Blotnik opened his mouth, closed it, unsure what to say. Then, "But you've survived your jet lag?"

"Yes," I said. "Thank you."

Blotnik bobbed his head and spread both hands on the desktop. All his movements were sharp and hummingbird quick.

"This is extraordinarily kind, bringing the skeleton to me. Truly above and beyond." Full-blown elf smile. "You have it with you?"

"Not exactly," Jake said.

Blotnik looked at him.

Jake described the incident with the Hevrat Kadisha, omitting all detail concerning the tomb.

Blotnik's face sagged. "Such absurdity."

"Yes." Glacial. "You know the Hevrat Kadisha."

"Not really."

Jake's brows dipped, but he said nothing.

"Where is this tomb?" Blotnik steepled his fingers. Two perfect palm prints remained on the blotter.

"In the Kidron."

"This is the source of the textiles Esther mentioned?"