And why was a fake codex necessary in the first place? Why not outright theft with nothing left behind as a potential clue? Jon found a quick answer to that one: the perpetrator didn’t want the theft discovered until the patriarch’s party had left Turkey-perhaps banking on the attache case not being opened until their arrival in the U.S.-in order to provide lead time to escape detection and apprehension.
In this scenario, someone at the patriarchate-perhaps their airport chauffeur?-could have been the perpetrator, either a Judas sort of Christian, or a crypto-Muslim member of the staff who somehow learned about the codex and its significance to the church. His motive? Eliminate a powerful prop for Christianity and do it in such a way as to leave the theft undetected as long as possible so all tracks could be covered. The perpetrator probably would have engaged several others to bring it off, either while unloading the limo’s trunk at the airport or at airport security in Istanbul, or-less likely-on the flight itself. Jon would discuss these suspicions with the patriarch by phone while he was on his American tour.
The week that followed presented no meaningful clues. Background checks on all business-class passengers showed nothing unusual, nor for the other main cabin passengers and flight crew. Quite a few of the passengers had Turkish, Middle Eastern, or Arab names and were therefore most likely Islamic, but this proved nothing. CIA labs showed only that the paper used in the fake codex was common throughout the Middle East, with most of it manufactured in Egypt. But the page size was foolscap, or sixteen by thirteen inches, a now-rare dimension that nicely approximated the size of the pages in the codex.
At dinner a week after Jon had returned from Washington, Shannon asked him, “Do you think we might be making too much of this?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we already have every last word of the text of the Constantine Codex, including the true ending of Mark and Second Acts. We have all anybody needs for the authoritative edition of the codex. In fact, scholars will be using our enhanced copies, not the codex itself, so why are we falling all over ourselves at the loss of the codex? It would have been a disaster if the material hadn’t been copied, but it has. Sure, it would have been nice to have the codex on display, but at the end of the day, we really don’t need it all that much, do we? Certainly not because of the testing.”
“On that last point, sweetheart, sure, we don’t need it for testing, but the rest of the world does. I can just hear critics of our discovery complain: ‘Hey, these may be nice pictures of what’s supposed to be in that old book, but where’s the real thing? ’ Scholars wouldn’t have a problem working from our copies, but we’re talking acceptance here. Is the Constantine Codex just going to be a scholarly footnote in history, or will it be universally welcomed as the magnificent addendum to Scripture that it is?”
Shannon smiled wistfully at him. “You’d really like it if the last of Mark and Second Acts were added to the Canon, wouldn’t you?”
Jon thought for a moment, was preparing something evasive, but then blurted it out. “Yes. With every fiber of my being, in view of how it fills two major gaps in the biblical record. I have no idea if the new material will land inside the Canon even if the codex were returned, but I do know this: it will never happen without the codex.”
Shannon thought for a moment, then replied, “I hate to bring this up-and you may think I’m some sort of traitor-but isn’t our discovery of the Constantine Codex enough in its own right? Why is it so important that the new material be added to the Canon? As a Christian, I don’t really need it.”
“I don’t either. Not at all. But the non-Christian world does, Shannon. You know how heavily the Bible is being attacked today, and not just by atheists and agnostics. It seems to be a target for any half-baked pseudo-scholar with a new pet theory with which he hopes to pry Scripture apart and raise a sensation. Christ shows up as caricature in their put-downs, and the Resurrection is denied-for one reason, by the way Mark’s Gospel ends. The new material is strong support for the reliability of the New Testament.”
Shannon had started nodding halfway through his statement. “I’m hoisting a white flag on that one, Jon. Most anything is better if its two missing parts are found.”
Jon’s near mania to recover the codex led him down an extraordinary parallel track. Early the next morning, he put in a call to Kevin Sullivan at the Vatican. When he heard Sullivan’s “Pronto” on the line, he said, “Sorry to interrupt your siesta, Kevin, but we have to talk.”
“I don’t do siestas, Jon. Wastes time. But what’s so urgent?”
“For openers, how has Benedict XVI responded to the Constantine Codex?”
“Didn’t you get my letter yet? I put it into hard copy since I also wanted a permanent record. The Holy Father greeted the news as if it were some sort of beatific revelation. And after he had read the new material, he seemed to be on cloud ten.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be cloud nine?”
“No, papal privilege. I’ve never seen him so enthused, never seen him happier. Don’t forget, he’s also a biblical scholar, and he saw at once how magnificently it all fit. He sends you his warmest greetings and, above all, his profound gratitude.”
“Wow! Coming from the pope himself, that’s… quite humbling.”
“But he does have an urgent question for you, and here it is: ‘ When may I share this glad news?’”
“In response to that, I have some… some very bad news.” Jon went on to report the theft of the codex and the status of its attempted recovery. Sullivan asked questions parallel to the queue of queries Jon had raised with Patriarch Bartholomew. Summing up the unhappy situation, Jon said, “So we’ve lost our main material link to one of the greatest manuscript discoveries ever. But I do have an idea for another route, Kevin. Before I suggest it, what’s the security arrangement on your phone lines at the Vatican?”
“No problem there at all. They’re fully secure.”
“Still… can you get back to me this evening, using the private line at your apartment?”
“All right, Jon. If you insist.”
“Have to. Thanks, Kev. Ciao!”
That evening, were an earwitness present in Sullivan’s Rome apartment, he would have heard one side of a dialogue that included comments like:
“You really must be kidding, Jon.”
“Are you really playing with a full deck?”
“You know, of course, that what you’re asking is impossible.”
“ Obviously the Holy Father can’t be involved in this…”
“Do you really want to commit professional suicide?”
“Well, I’ll help you as much as I can, even though I think it’s absolute lunacy.”
A week later, Kevin picked Jon up at Leonardo da Vinci Airport, and they drove into Rome over the same route as the ancient Ostian Way, the final road that the much-traveled apostle Paul had used on his way to execution. About a mile before they reached the Ostian Gate, Kevin pulled his car off to the right side of the road and parked in front of the Basilica of St. Paul Outside the Walls.
“Well, there it is, Jon, the Basilica di San Paolo fuori le Mura,” Kevin said with a grin. “The scene of the crime.”
“Oh, thanks for that vote of confidence, Kevin.”
“I assumed you’d want to get the lay of the land-even before getting settled in.”
“You’ve got it.”
They walked into the colonnaded forecourt of the basilica. There, in the midst of a well-clipped lawn guarded by two sentinel palm trees, stood a great stone statue of the apostle Paul, the sword of the Spirit in his right hand.
“Much too old and much too bearded,” Jon commented. “Why do so many artists and sculptors get Paul wrong? He couldn’t have been more than around fifty-five or sixty at the time of his death-not this aged geezer. And he had only a pointed, trimmed gray beard, not those cascades of hair hanging down from his chin.”
“You’re sure of all that? You knew him well?”
“I did. We studied together in Jerusalem.” Jon smiled, then added, “ All the earliest images of Paul in Eastern and Western art-even the catacombs here-show the fellow I described, not this one.”
“And of course, you Lutherans know more about Paul than us Catholics, who are fixated on Peter, right?”
“Guilty as charged!” Jon was glad that they could continue their banter despite Sullivan’s obvious concerns about Jon’s mission.
When they’d met at Johns Hopkins years ago, Kevin Sullivan had been a brilliant but bigoted student who was quite sure all Protestants were destined for hell and that salvation was impossible outside of the Roman Catholic church. For his part, Jon, the son of a Lutheran pastor in Hannibal, Missouri, was equally sure that Martin Luther had saved Christianity from the clutches of an apostate papacy. They’d spent many an evening in Baltimore hauling out theological ammunition and firing at each other, Jon ticking off all the points where he thought Catholicism had veered away from biblical doctrine while Kevin countered that Protestants wouldn’t have the Bible in the first place were it not for Catholics.
As they matured, however, each had moved from a right-wing conservatism to a centrist, more ecumenical stance. They quickly buried the religious hatchet, knowing that the true struggle was not Catholicism versus Protestantism, but Christianity versus a non-Christian world. In fact, for many years now, Jon and Kevin had been the closest of friends.
As they walked the perimeter of the forecourt and sauntered into the great sanctuary, Kevin gave a running commentary. “Okay, Jon, you know the background here. The site goes back all the way to Constantine and even earlier. But why, do you suppose, the emperor built the original basilica specifically here?”
“Eusebius might have told him. His Church History tells of an elder in the early Roman church in the 200s, a fellow named Gaius, who could point out the very spot on the Ostian Way where Paul was beheaded and buried-here!”
Sullivan nodded. “It still gives me a thrill. We’re standing at the very place where Second Acts ends. But now, fast-forward twenty centuries to the year 2000-Rome’s Jubilee year. Pilgrims came here from all over the world, but when they visited this basilica, they raised a howl of protests because they couldn’t get any access to Paul’s tomb under the high altar. And so Vatican archaeologists started digging here from 2002 to 2006, exposing what we’ll see in a moment under glass at the eastern end of this long sanctuary.”
“Right. I remember the international sensation when that Vatican archaeologist-what was his name?”
“Giorgio Filippi.”
“Right. I remember when Filippi announced that they had probably discovered the very tomb of St. Paul in a crypt under the high altar. Many of my Protestant colleagues were skeptical, of course, but Filippi’s claim had a lot going for it, including that marble slab over the crypt with the Latin inscription-PAULO APOSTOLO MARTYRO.”
“To Paul, apostle and martyr indeed. And while the earlier basilicas erected here were oriented to the west, this latest version looks to the east, yet all of them pivoted about this central shrine.”
“How come we haven’t heard a word about Paul’s tomb since then, Kev, not a word? Why haven’t they opened the sarcophagus to see if Paul’s remains are actually inside? I thought they would for sure in 2008-09-the so-called Year of St. Paul…”
“Well, the archpriest here is Cardinal Andrea Cordero Lanza di Montezemolo, and he’d have to give his permission first. But he hasn’t done so, at least not yet. I don’t know why. Maybe because many Italians would be horrified at any plan to examine the possible skeleton of St. Paul- if it’s inside. And yet this same wonderful breed of people can happily view the mummy of St. Francis encased in the glass altar at Assisi. Go figure!”
Now they had reached the end of the long colonnaded sanctuary, where the high altar dominated the basilica. Just below it were steps leading down to the crypt area. Along with a column of visitors, Jon and Kevin descended the stone staircase. There, behind a metal latticework screen, they saw the Vatican excavations under a slab of glass and one side of the actual sarcophagus exposed. Since photographs were permitted, Jon pulled out his small, slim Nikon and took a long series of shots-especially of the partially cleared lid above the exposed side of the sarcophagus. He had to wait his turn at times, since pilgrims were kneeling in front of the tomb and offering prayers.
Gathering in as much as possible, Jon spied a threshold at the opposite end of the excavation pit with a small access door. Made of simple crossed bars, the door seemed to have only a simple latch, not a lock. The passageway behind it was too dark to discern, but flash photography would take care of that. In fact, Jon’s camera was on a photography marathon, focusing on details large and small. All the while, Sullivan easily guessed what Jon might be up to but simply stood back and let him compound his own folly.
Jon thought that the passageway from the crypt must have led to a similar access door near the high altar, and his hunch was confirmed when he emerged from the crypt and found such a door directly in line with the access door inside the crypt. It also had just a latch, not a lock. More photographs.
Finally he said, “I have everything I need, Kevin. Let’s go check the visitor’s center.”
They walked over to the mini emporium at the south transept, where the faithful could purchase candles, rosaries, crucifixes and crosses of all kinds, imitation icons, plaster saints, and a multitude of guidebooks to Rome’s holy places. Like the tourist pilgrims around them, Jon purchased several color postcards as well as a booklet on the history of the basilica. On the wall over the cash register, there was a large plaster replica of the lid of Paul’s putative sarcophagus, complete with the holes through which pilgrims used to drop their written petitions and treasures centuries earlier-holes now mortared in.
The lid held a special fascination for Jon, and he photographed it from various angles. Later, he would compare the photos with his earlier shots of the real thing to determine if it were a faithful replica. Certainly the Latin phrase PAULO APOSTOLO MARTYRO seemed to shout that this was indeed St. Paul’s sarcophagus.
Just before they left the basilica, Jon remembered to pluck one of its flyers out of the tract rack. He wanted to know the basilica’s hours of admission.
The “hotel” where Jon was to stay for his three days in Rome was Kevin’s apartment on the Janiculum Hill with its great view of the Eternal City. That evening they indulged a bit at Kevin’s favorite restaurant on the Via Veneto in view of the dangers implied in the famed adage, “All work and no play…” But la dolce vita it was not, just a modest Italian dinner that began with pasta and minestrone and then proceeded through the next four courses, all nicely lubricated with Chianti.
After returning to Kevin’s apartment, their discussion turned to options other than the one Jon seemed to be pursuing.
“Why don’t you involve the Holy Father in this project?” Kevin wondered. “You know how much he admires you, Jon, and just a word of approval from Benedict would end Cardinal Andrea’s indecision in the matter. Your plan would then be lawful-even blessed by the church-and anything you found inside Paul’s tomb would be regarded as valid and aboveboard. But you know well enough how ugly things could turn out if you do it your way.”
Jon said nothing for some moments. He sat there, staring at the thousand pinpoints of light below that were Rome. Then he nodded. “You’re quite right, Kevin. If I were going to an alternate plan, that one would be the best option-far and away the best option. So why don’t I go that route? Several reasons. Benedict could, of course, say no-we really have no assurance that he’d say yes. And then our project-sorry, my project-fails. I’d never go against the pope’s decision on this. And is it really fair to Benedict to ask him to make such a decision? I think not. Furthermore, I could well come up with no results whatever-meaning that St. Paul is not inside that sarcophagus-and that could be embarrassing to the Vatican and disillusioning to pilgrims. Do I have the right to take away the object of their spiritual quest?”
“Nicely thought out, Jon. But what if you do discover St. Paul inside that sarcophagus? The clandestine nature of your discovery would certainly reduce its credibility, don’t you think?”
“Yes, it certainly could. And that’s why I would never have done this. You and I would visit Benedict, privately inform him of the great news, and then Vatican archaeologists could continue their work and make ‘the discovery.’ And think how nicely that would support the close of Second Acts.”
“Fair enough. But what if you -not St. Paul-were discovered ‘in the act of tomb desecration,’ as the tabloids might banner it? Then what?”
“I don’t really have a good answer there, Kevin. Possibly I’d have something of a ruined career after that. Or possibly not-once my motive was explained, namely, my desperation to find some material link to the close of Second Acts since the codex had been stolen. Besides, there’ll be no desecration or damage to the tomb whatever.”
Neither said anything for some time. Finally Jon spoke. “If all else fails, maybe I can get Benedict XVI to write me a letter of recommendation so I can get a new job somewhere.”
On that inanity, they laughed and called it a day.
The next morning, Kevin drove Jon to a builder’s supply store in western Rome so that he could, inexplicably, purchase overalls and-even more inexplicably-a dark green plastic tarpaulin. Then they returned for another visit to St. Paul Outside the Walls, where Jon spent several hours watching the tourists between 11 a.m. and 3 p.m., noting when they were crowding into the basilica or leaving it comparatively empty. He also looked for any surveillance cameras inside the sanctuary and, in particular, where and when guards who patrolled the premises passed by the crypt on their appointed rounds.
At Kevin’s place that evening, Jon unpacked the special objects he had shipped inside his checked luggage on the flight to Rome. He had thought of taking the items as carry-ons, but their very exotic nature might have provoked too many questions at the security lines. Mercifully, his baggage had arrived with him, which seemed to be quite unusual lately on the world’s airlines.
First, he unpacked something that looked like a small, silvery pistol. “No, it’s not a firearm,” he said in answer to Kevin’s raised eyebrows. “It’s a Stryker high-speed surgical drill.” He pulled its trigger, and at 4,000 rpm, it emitted only a soft high-frequency sound similar to a muffled dentist’s drill. “Batteries are fully charged, and they can keep it going for at least a half hour. It even has a vacuum on it to suck up debris.”
Kevin said nothing. He simply shook his head in continuing dismay.
Next, Jon opened a small plastic case that held a drill bit with a diamond-edged cutting head less than an inch in diameter. “This one loves to eat mortar,” he said.
Finally he hauled out a thin metal wand to which were affixed two tiny strobe lights and two miniature digital cameras, with battery power supply inside the wand and all controls in the handle at its top. “Are you getting the picture, Kev?”
He cupped his chin in hand and nodded slowly.
“I got the idea from the Italian archaeologists who explore the Etruscan tombs in Tuscany. There are so many up there that they excavate only those with interesting contents. And how can they tell which those might be? They bore a hole at the top of their circular ceilings and take flash photos by lowering something like this inside. Only our model here is smaller and much more sophisticated. We might even be able to produce three-dimensional images by using the two cameras.”
“Not to burst your bubble, Jon, but I doubt that your gadget will penetrate solid marble very quickly, unless you want to spend an hour or two drilling away.”
“I won’t penetrate the marble. I plan to use one of the holes already made in the lid but mortared over. This drill should cut it almost like butter. I already promised you that I’d destroy nothing at all in the process. It’s going to be quick, painless surgery.”
“I only hope you’re right. In fact, I only pray that you’re right. And please-because of my special relationship with the Holy Father-I never helped you at all in this escapade, right? And if you’re caught, I don’t even know you.” Sullivan stopped and they both chuckled. Since Kevin had originally introduced his friend to the pope, both knew how ridiculous that proposal was. “Okay, then,” he went on, “if you are caught, get me on your cell phone. I’ll have been ‘in the neighborhood’ and will ‘rush over to help my friend’ and maybe try to get his tail out of jail if it comes to that.”
“Fair enough, Kevin. I couldn’t ask for more.”
Shortly before noon the next day, they were driving back to the basilica of St. Paul. “You look just great in that Italian repairman’s getup, Jon,” Sullivan said. “Didn’t I see you and Mario on Nintendo?”
Jon merely smiled, trying to steel himself for the peril ahead.
“But why in the world you would want to choose the busiest time of the day for your escapade is quite beyond me.”
“Noon isn’t the busiest-tourists will be leaving for restaurants-and I couldn’t bring it off if the place were nearly empty.”
“Why not? That’s when I would have done it.”
“Wrong. Same number of guards then, but fewer things to distract them… greater chance of detection. Tourists are my protection.”
At the basilica, Sullivan parked his Fiat near a service door in the rear and extended his hand to Jon. “God go with you, you crazy fool! I’ll be waiting out here, praying for a miracle but with my cell phone handy.”
“See you here in fifteen to twenty minutes, Kev.”
Jon hoisted his gear, walked up to the service door, and passed through it without challenge. At a very deliberate pace so that he would not attract attention and yet arrive at the crypt exactly at 11:59 a.m., Jon walked through the ranks of pilgrims in line to see the crypt and approached the railing surrounding it. It was 11:58-a minute too early-but no real problem. He slowly opened his toolbox and looked around for guards. Thank goodness noon was also the time for the changing of those guards.
A great boom seemed to explode inside the sanctuary. Although it was merely the Janiculum cannon doing its thing as it did at noon each day, the tourists were sufficiently startled for Jon to make his move. He hauled out his dark green tarpaulin and started spreading it over the glass ceiling of the crypt. “Mi scuzi! Per favore, mi scuzi!” Jon said in his best Italian accent, while nudging several pilgrims aside in the process. At the center of the tarp now covering the glass, he placed a large sign in both Italian and English: CHIUSO PER QUINDICI