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  Kesev took the case and carried it to the glass-and-chrome coffee table. Without asking permission, he lifted the lid and removed the scroll.

  “Careful!” she said, hovering over him.

  He ignored her. He uncoiled a foot or so of the scroll and began reading—

  Then stopped. This wasn’t the scroll. This looked like the scroll, and some of it read like the scroll, but the writing, the penmanship was all wrong.

  “They were right,” he said, nodding slowly. “This is a fake. A clumsy fake.”

  Miss Szobel sniffed. “I don’t need you to tell me that. The Rockefeller Museum—”

  “Where did you get this?” Kesev said, rerolling the scroll.

  She puffed furiously on her cigarette. “Why … I … picked it up in a street bazaar.”

  “Really?”

  They all said that. Amazing. Israel seemed full of lucky collectors who were forever happening on priceless—or potentially priceless—artifacts in street stalls, and purchasing them for next to nothing from vendors who had no idea of their true worth.

  “You must take me to him.”

  “I wish I could,” she said. “I’ve been looking for him myself, trying to get my money back. But he seems to have vanished into thin air.”

  “You are lying,” Kesev said evenly, replacing the lucite lid and looking up at her.

  She stepped back as if he’s spit at her. “How dare you!” She pointed a shaking finger toward her front door. “I want you out of—”

  “If I leave without the name that I seek I will return within the hour with a search warrant and a search team, and we will comb this house inch by inch until we turn up more forgeries from this mysterious source.”

  Kesev couldn’t back up a word of that threat, but he knew the specter of a search of the premises would strike terror into the heart of any serious antiquities collector. They all dipped into the black market now and then. Some bought there almost exclusively. If Miss Szobel followed true to form, a search might result in the seizure of half her collection; maybe more.

  Miss Szobel’s pointing arm faltered and fell to her side.

  “Wh-why? On what grounds? Why does Domestic Intelligence care—?”

  “Oh, it’s not just the Shit Bet. The Mossad is involved too.”

  She paled further. “The Mossad?”

  “Yes. We have reason to believe that these scrolls are merely the latest in an ongoing scheme to sell worthless fakes to wealthy collectors and funnel the money to Palestine terrorist organizations.”

  Amazing how facile a liar he’d become. It hadn’t always been this way. As a younger man he’d insisted on speaking nothing but the truth. But that youth, like truth, was long gone, swallowed by time and tragedy.

  He sighed and rose to his feet. “Please do not leave the house, Miss Szobel. I will return in—”

  “Wait!” She motioned him back toward the couch. “I had no idea terrorists were involved. Of course I’ll tell you where I bought it.”

  “Excellent.” Kesev removed a pen and a note pad from his breast pocket. “Go ahead.”

  “His name is Salah Mahmoud. He has a shop in Jerusalem—the old town. In the Moslem quarter, off Qadasiya.”

  Kesev nodded. He knew the area, if not the shop.

  “Thank you for your cooperation.” He bent and lifted the scroll and its lucite box from the table. “I’ll need to take this back to Shin Bet headquarters for analysis.”

  “Must you?” She followed him to the door. “I will get it back, won’t I?”

  “Of course. As soon as we are finished with it.”

  He waved good-bye and headed for his car. Another lie. Miss Tulla Szobel had seen the last of her forged scroll. He’d take it with him to Jerusalem for his visit to a certain Salah Mahmoud. The dealer couldn’t plead ignorance if Kesev held the scroll under his nose. Threats probably wouldn’t suffice to loosen Mahmoud’s tongue. Kesev might have to get rough. He almost relished the thought.

  I asked the brother why he had come to me with this miracle.

  He said to me, Because it has been told to us that you are to guard her, and protect her as if she were your own mother and still alive.

  I told him, Yes. Yes, I will guard her with my life. I will do anything you ask.

  from the Glass scroll

  Rockefeller Museum translation

  SIX

  Manhattan

  The Gothic, granite-block bulk of St. Joseph’s Church sits amid the brick tenements like a down-on-her-luck dowager who’s held onto her finer clothes from the old days but hasn’t the will or the means to keep them in good repair. Her twin spires are alternately caked black with city grime and streaked white with the droppings of the pigeons that find perches on the spires’ remaining crockets. The colors of the large central rose window over the double doors are barely discernible through the grime. She’s flanked on her left by the rectory and on her right by the Convent of the Blessed Virgin.

  From his room in the rectory Father Dan saw the hungry homeless lining up next to the worn stone steps in front of St. Joe’s, waiting to get into the Loaves and Fishes for lunch. He dearly would have loved to sit here and read the translation of the scroll Hal had given him, but duty called.

  He left the wooden box on his bed and hurried down to the rectory basement. From there it was a quick trip through the dank, narrow tunnel that ran beneath the alley between the church and the rectory to the basement of St. Joe’s. As he approached the door at the far end, the smell of fresh bread and hot soup drew him forward.

  The tunnel ended in the kitchen area of Loaves and Fishes. He stepped inside. Heat thickened the air. All the ovens were going—donated by a retired baker—heating loaves of Carrie’s special bread: multiple grains mixed with high-protein flour, enriched with eggs and gluten. A meal in itself. Add a bowl of Carrie’s soup and you had a feast.

  Dan sniffed the air as he headed for the huge stove and the cluster of aproned volunteers stirring the brimming pots.

  “Smells great. What’s the soup du jour?”

  “Split pea,” Augusta said.

  “Split pea? I ordered boeuf bourguignon!”

  A slim brunette at the center of the cluster turned and gave him a withering, scornful stare.

  “Don’t you be starting that again,” she said, pointing a dripping spoon at him.

  “Oh, that’s right,” he said. “I forgot. This is a vegetarian soup kitchen.”

  The volunteers glanced over their shoulders and giggled. This argument had become a litany, recited almost daily.

  “Hush up or we’ll be making a beef stew of you!”

  Now they were laughing aloud. The brunette tried to hold her scowl but finally a smile broke through and its brilliance lit the room.

  “Good morning, Sister,” Dan said.

  “Good morning, Father,” she replied.

  Sister Carolyn Ferris fixed him a moment with her wide, guileless blue eyes. Her normally pale cheeks were flushed from the heat of the stove. The rising steam had curled her straight dark hair, cut in a bob, into loose ringlets around her face.

  She was in her late twenties, dressed in the shapeless, oversized work shirt and baggy pants she favored when working at the shelter. Her lips were on the thin side, and her teeth probably could have done with a little orthodontic work in her teens, but she’d joined the convent at fourteen so they remained au naturel. The way her smile lit up her face erased all memory of those minor imperfections.

  As often as he’d seen it, Dan never tired of that smile. He’d enjoyed it in all its permutations, and sometimes he’d catch a hint of sadness there, a deeply hidden hurt that clouded her eyes in unguarded moments. But only for a moment.

  Sister Carrie was the sun and the Lower East Side her world; she shone on it daily.

  But for all
her gentle, giving, girlish exterior, she was tough inside. Especially when it came to her beliefs, whether religious or dietary. No meat was served at the shelter—”We won’t be killing one of God’s creatures to feed another, at least not as long as I’m in the kitchen”—which was just as well because the food dollars stretched considerably further with the Sister Carrie menu.

  And Dan, who’d always been pretty much of a beer-and-a-burger man himself, had to admit that he’d got out of the meat habit under her tutelage and no longer missed it. At least not too much.

  “Sorry I’m late. What needs to be done?”

  “Our guests should be getting low on bread by now.”

  She always called them “our guests,” and Dan never failed to be charmed by it.

  “Consider it done.”

  She smiled that smile and turned back to the stove. Shaking off the lingering after effect, Dan gathered up half a dozen loaves and carried them out to the shelter area.

  A different mix of odors greeted him in the Big Room. Split-pea and fresh-bread aromas layered the air, spiced with the sting of cigarette smoke and the pungency of unwashed bodies swathed in unwashed clothes.

  Dan squeezed past Hilda Larsen’s doubly ample middle-aged rump and dumped the loaves onto one of the long tables lined up against the inner wall that made up the serving area.

  “Good afternoon, Father,” she said, smiling as she stirred the soup with her long, curved ladle.

  “Hello, Hilda. You look ravishing as usual today.”

  She blushed. “Oh, Father Dan.”

  Thank God for volunteers like Hilda, Dan thought as he picked up the bread knife and began cutting the loaves into inch-thick slices.

  A small army of good-hearted folks donated enough hours here at the shelter to qualify as part-time employees. Most of them were women with working husbands and empty nests who’d transferred the nurturing drive from their now grown and independent children to the habitués of Loaves and Fishes. Dan realized that the kitchen filled a void in their lives and that they probably got as much as they gave, but that didn’t make him any less appreciative. Loaves and Fishes would never have got off the ground without them.

  “Could youse hand me wunna dose, Fadda?”

  Dan looked up. A thin, bearded man in his forties with red-rimmed eyes and a withered right arm held a bowl of soup in his good hand. His breath stank of cheap wine.

  “Sure thing, Lefty.”

  Dan perched a good thick slice on the edge of the bowl.

  “Tanks a lot, Fadda. Yer a prince.”

  Looked as if Lefty had got into the Mad Dog early today. Dan watched him weave toward one of the tables, praying he wouldn’t drop the bowl. He didn’t.

  “Hey, Pilot,” said the next man in line.

  Rider, in his suede jacket. At least it had been suede in the sixties; now the small sections visible through the decades of accumulated grime were as smooth and shiny as dressed leather. Probably an expensive jacket in its day, with short fringes on the pockets and a long fringe on each sleeve; only a couple of sleeve fringes left now, gone with the lining and the original buttons. But no way would Rider give up that coat. He’d tell anyone who’d listen about the days he’d worn it back and forth cross country on his Harley, tripping on acid the whole way. But Rider had taken a few too many trips. His Harley was long gone and most of his mind along with it.

  “How’s it going, Rider?”

  Dan dropped a heavy slice on his tray. Rider always called him Pilot. Because Rider slurred his words as much as anyone else, Dan had asked him once if that was Pilot with an “o” or an “a-t-e.” Rider hadn’t the vaguest idea what Dan was talking about.

  “Good, Pilot. Got a new lead on my Harley. Should have it back by the end of the week.”

  “Great.”

  “Yep. Then it’s so long.”

  Rider’s quest for his last bike, stolen sometime during the late eighties, lent a trace of structure to his otherwise aimless day-to-day existence. Rider was the shelter’s Galahad.

  The rest of the regulars filed by with a few newer faces sprinkled in; a couple of those might become regulars, the rest would drift on. The locals, the never-miss-a-meal regulars were all here, some in their twenties, some in their sixties, most of indeterminate age somewhere between. Some called themselves John and Jim and Marta and Thelma, but many had street names: Stony, Indian, Preacher, Pilgrim, Lefty, Dandy, Poppy, Bigfoot, One-Thumb George, and the inimitable Dirty Harry.

  They all got one bowl of soup and one thick slice of Sister Carrie’s famous bread. After they finished they could have seconds if anything was left over after everyone had firsts. Off to his left, Dan heard scuffling and a shout as the seconds line formed.

  “Oh, Father,” Hilda said, leaning over the counter to look. “I think it’s Dandy and Indian again.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  Dan ducked under the table and got to the trouble spot just as Dandy was picking himself off the floor and crouching to charge Indian. Dan grabbed him by the back of his jacket collar.

  “Whoa, Dandy! Hang on a sec.”

  Dandy whirled, snarling. The fire in his eyes cooled immediately when he saw who he faced. He shrugged to settle his jacket back on his shoulders and straightened his tie. Dandy had earned his name from his taste in fourth-hand attire. He always managed to pick the brightest colors from the donated clothing. His latest getup consisted of an orange shirt, a green-and-white striped tie, a plaid sports jacket, and lime green golf pants. All frayed, all dirty, but worn with the air of someone who considered his life a fashion statement.

  “Lucky for Indian you came along.”

  “What happened?”

  “He pushed me out of my place in line.”

  Dan glanced at Indian who faced straight ahead, ignoring the two of them. Dan knew he’d get nothing out of Indian, who wasn’t Indian at all—unless that kinky hair and ebony skin were West Indian. Indian never spoke, never smiled, never frowned. Apparently someone had called him a cigar-store Indian years ago and the name had stuck.

  “You were cutting into the line, weren’t you, Dandy.”

  “No way.”

  “Dandy.” Dan knew Dandy didn’t like to wait on line, especially with those he considered his sartorial inferiors. “This wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “I didn’t cut. I axed. I axed him if he minded if I got ahead of him. He didn’t say no so I—”

  Dan jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “End of the line, Dandy.”

  “Hey, Father—”

  “We’ve got plenty today. You won’t miss out.”

  “But I got places to go.”

  Dan said nothing further. He stared Dandy down until he shrugged and headed for the end of the line.

  Like dealing with eight-year olds, he thought as he headed back to the serving area.

  But juvenile behavior was only one side of them, and that was the least of their problems. A fair number of them were mentally ill—paranoids, borderline personalities, and outright schizophrenics—and many had drug and alcohol problems. Multiple substance abuse was common. Some combined the problems: chronic brain syndromes from long-term drug and/or alcohol abuse, or mental illness compounded by substance abuse.

  For most of them it was a no-win situation. And Senator Crenshaw’s concentration camps would do nothing for them.

  Dan had finished slicing the bread and the ones who wanted seconds had passed through when he heard a chorus of voices saying, “Hello, Sister Carrie,” and “Good afternoon, Sister Carrie,” and “Thanks for the great meal, Sister Carrie.”

  He glanced up and there she was, wiping her hands as she surveyed the diners.

  “Did everyone have enough?” she said.

  They answered almost as a group: “Oh, yes, Sister Carrie.”

  Dan watched her
walk out through the Big Room and slip among her guests, an almost ethereal presence, speaking to them, touching them: a hand on a shoulder here, a pat on a head there, a whispered word for old friends, a handshake and a smile for the new faces. He envied her ability to make everyone of them feel special, to know they mattered.

  “Was it good?” she said when she reached the far end of the Big Room.

  They cheered and applauded, and that made her smile. And the light she shed on the room made the applause double in volume.

  Hilda was tsking and shaking her head. “Look at them! They’re ga-ga over her.” But there was wonder rather than disapproval in her voice. “What a politician she’d have made.”

  Dan could only nod, eternally amazed at Carrie’s talent for making people love her.

  Still smiling, she curtsied and returned to the kitchen. As the room’s illumination seemed to dim by half, the guests began to clear their places and shuffle out to the street or line up for the bathroom.

  Dan was wiping away the bread crumbs when he heard cries of, “Word up, Doc” and “How’s it go, Doctor Joe?” He looked up and saw a short, white-coated Hispanic strolling toward him.

  “Things slow at the clinic?” Dan said.

  “I wish.”

  Dr. José Martinez’s dark eyes twinkled as he picked up a leftover piece of bread, tore it, and shoved half into his mouth. He had mocha skin, dark curly hair, and a body-builder’s frame.

  “Want some soup?”

  “Carrie make it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then that’s my answer.”

  “What?”

  “Of course.”

  “Right.”

  Dan got him a bowl and a spoon and slid them across the table.

  Joe stared down at the steaming green but didn’t reach for the spoon.

  “Something wrong?”

  Joe continued staring at the soup. “Three new HIV conversions this morning.”

  “Jesus!”