And was it simply his pride which was affronted by the knowledge that she had slept with Henry? He looked again at the centaur. Pride, arrogance and male lust. Was that all that upset him – that another man had made love to her? That she had responded to Henry and perhaps half-a-dozen others in the same way as she had responded to him? Yet how could he be jealous retrospectively unless conjugal love, like divine love, was outside the strictures of time? Was he so entrapped by Christian concepts that he must always think in terms of an eternity that was as much the past as the future?
He went through into the next room and looked at the stucco figures from the Hisham Palace near Jericho – snarling lions and big-breasted girls whose jovial smiles seemed to ridicule the torments depicted in the frieze next door. Could he escape, he wondered, from the tentacles of a Christian conscience? Could he ever bring himself to enjoy pleasure for its own sake without seeking to give it some justification? Was love itself, perhaps, just an unreal idealization of a crude, atavistic instinct?
She had said that, even when sleeping with Henry, she had known that she did not love him, and had dreamed of a love that was eternal – a love she now felt for him. It was only her body which had sought its own satisfaction, and the body, he knew, was something distinct from the spirit. But was it? Why had she hidden her affair with Henry, and why had Henry too insisted that Andrew should not know? Had each felt embarrassed or ashamed? Had she sensed, as he had supposed, that already in her friendship with Andrew there were the seeds of the love which they now recognized and enjoyed? If so, then their friendship had already been corrupt, because she had deceived him daily about Henry, just as Henry had deceived him about her. The complete candour and trust which was both a sign of love and one of its principal delights was in reality only a sham. Always in the mind of the other there was some calculation, some pretence. Had he not hidden from her his lecherous feelings for the long-legged girl? Had he not lied about going to pray in the church? Did lovers often lie, he wondered? Were there wives, perhaps, who faked ecstasy with their husbands or husbands who, to allay their suspicions, made love to their unloved wives?
He looked at his watch. It was twelve. Never before had he felt quite so oppressed by the complexity of human relations; and while he did not doubt for a moment that he loved Anna, he left the museum and made his way back to the hotel with a certain trepidation.
Twenty
While Andrew was at the museum, Anna slept – tired after both a broken night and their anguished conversation. Soon after eleven, she was awoken by the ringing of the antique telephone which stood on the table next to the bed.
It took her a moment to realize where the sound came from, and when she saw that it was the telephone she hesitated to pick it up, knowing that only her parents knew where she was. However, it continued to ring, and to silence it she picked it up.
‘Anna?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Henry.’
‘Where are you?’ His voice was so clear it seemed as if he might be in the next room.
‘In London.’
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘Your mother gave me the number. Is it a hotel?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why aren’t you staying at home?’
‘There wasn’t room.’
‘Have you seen Andrew?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘It seems he’s left the Simonite monastery and they don’t know where he’s gone.’
‘He’s OK.’
‘Tell him to ring me.’
‘Sure.’
‘Now listen. There have been some developments here in London.’
‘To do with what?’
‘The Vilnius Codex. I can’t tell you much over the telephone, but if you can I’d like you to make a few enquiries at your end while you’re there.’
‘What kind of enquiries?’
‘Have you heard of a man called Yehuda Louvish?’
‘No.’
‘He was an officer in the army during the war in Lebanon who was captured by the Syrians and later released. Find out, if you can, what he is doing now.’
‘I’ll do what I can.’
‘Be discreet.’
‘OK.’
He paused on the other end of the line, then asked: ‘Are you all right?’
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘You sound funny.’
‘I’ve been sick but I’m fine now.’
‘When are you coming back to London?’
‘Next Friday.’
‘And Andrew?’
‘Him too.’
‘There’s a lot I’d like to ask you, but it can wait.’
‘I’ll get him to call you.’
‘Good. As soon as he can.’
She put down the telephone in a rage, yet she was not sure quite why she was angry. At first, she thought she resented the nonchalant way in which the lover who had dumped her was so quick to make use of her in one of his investigations. Then she ascribed it to the retrospective remorse she felt when reminded of his existence and their former liaison. Finally, after brooding about it, she realized she was angry with Henry because his call had implicitly suggested that the Vilnius Codex might be a fake.
He had not said as much, but what else could he have meant by ‘developments’ which led to an officer in Israel? If the Codex was a fake, then the find might be a fraud, and if the find was a fraud, then the reason for which Andrew had abandoned his vocation would be invalid. It was this thought which filled her with dread, and the dread which inspired the anger against Henry as the bringer of bad news. What, to him, was no more than a puzzle – an amusing distraction from industrial law and trade regulations – was to Anna a matter of life and death.
It was not a question of whether Jesus of Nazareth had risen from the dead, but whether Andrew believed it or not. Certainly, he had said that he would never leave her, and he had undoubtedly meant what he said. Certainly, too, despite all her disappointments in the past, she felt she could trust him never to leave her for another woman; but that first wife, the Catholic Church, whom he had loved so well for so long – that was another matter. He had left her because he felt she had cheated him. What if he were now to discover that in fact she had been true? That it was not Jesus who had deceived him by pretending to rise from the dead, but Anna’s father and other unknown Jews?
As she considered the matter, the suggestion that her father might be party to a hoax seemed absurd. She knew that his devotion to archaeology was more important to him than almost anything else – more important, certainly, than his feelings for his family. Then she remembered the conversation with her mother about her father’s commitment to Israel. Was it possible that, for the sake of Israel, he might take part in a deception – or, at any rate, turn a blind eye?
The idea redoubled her dread, not because it would put her father’s livelihood and reputation in jeopardy, but because it threatened her bond with Andrew. To have found a love which she had barely dared to imagine – a love that was fresh, equal and eternal – only to see it threatened almost at once, was more than she could stand. Weakened by her sickness and a sleepless night, she wept for a while, her face once again squashed down into the pillow.
Even as she gave way to despair, however, certain practical considerations crept into her mind. At any moment, Andrew might return. He would ask her why she was crying. She would have to tell him of Henry’s call. He might then ring Henry and learn what she had learned – that there was something fishy about the Vilnius Codex. She sat up, suddenly convinced that if somehow she could give Henry the information he wanted, then perhaps Andrew need never know. She got out of bed, her nausea gone, and splashed her face with the tepid water which trickled out of the tap of the basin in their room.
As she dressed, she wondered how she could find out about this Yehuda Louvish. She could ask Jake, of course, but, if there wa
s a conspiracy of some kind, Jake was certainly in it. Then she remembered Joel Abramovicz, a young journalist she knew on the Jerusalem Post who was a specialist on defence. She picked up the telephone, got through to Abramovicz and arranged to meet him for lunch. She left a note at the hotel for Andrew, saying that she had gone to see her father. It was the first lie she had told him since he had become her lover, and it pained her to deceive him, but she had no doubt that his happiness was irretrievably linked to hers, and no scruple should be allowed to inhibit her from doing what she could to protect it.
Joel Abramovicz was a sabra Israeli, but like Anna he had been to college in the United States and spoke fluent English with an American twang. He too was small, with curly black hair, thick-lensed spectacles and an eager, earnest face. He was waiting for Anna at the bottom of Ben Yehuda Street. They went for lunch to a restaurant nearby.
‘What are you doing in Jerusalem?’ he asked her. ‘I thought you were studying in London.’
‘I am,’ said Anna. ‘I’m just here on a visit.’
‘To see the folks?’
‘To see the folks.’
‘How are they? I haven’t seen them in some time.’
‘They’re fine.’
Joel sat at one of the small tables with a pitta bread filled with salad and felafel. Anna sipped a glass of orange juice.
‘So how can I help you?’ Joel asked.
‘Do you know anything about an officer called Yehuda Louvish?’
‘You’re asking if I know anything about Louvish?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes. I know a little. But Jake’s the one you should ask. He works for Louvish.’
‘Ah.’ His answer was like the stab of a knife in her stomach.
‘At least he used to. Last thing I heard was that Jake had left the army to help your father.’
‘For various reasons,’ said Anna slowly, ‘I don’t really want to ask Jake about Louvish.’
‘He probably wouldn’t tell you anyway. It’s all top-secret stuff.’
‘Mossad?’
Joel shrugged. ‘Or Shin Bet. I don’t know. It’s often difficult to know who answers to whom. During the war in Lebanon Louvish ran an outfit which answered directly to Sharon. He was one of his bright young men.’
‘And now?’
‘I don’t know. There are rumours that he runs some kind of dirty tricks department.’
‘Against the PLO?’
‘Sure. But not just against the PLO. His speciality is covert propaganda.’
‘Give me an example.’
Joel leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘The planting of agents provocateurs in terrorist organizations. That kind of thing.’
‘What else?’
‘War criminals. They know where they are and expose them as and when they’re needed.’
‘Needed?’
‘To remind the world what happened, and why we’re here.’
‘And Jake works for him?’
‘He certainly did.’
Anna looked down at her empty glass.
‘Do you want some coffee?’ Joel asked.
She shook her head and watched Joel as he turned to call the waitress and order some for himself. There was something very lovable about him. He embodied everything that she liked about Israel; he was alert, cultured and humane. Suddenly, she wanted Andrew to meet him, but the thought of Andrew reminded her of the Codex. She leaned forward and asked Joel: ‘Is there any conceivable way in which Louvish could be linked to the Russians?’
He glanced at her with his eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘You seem to know everything about him already.’
She felt the knife twist in her stomach. ‘You mean there is a link?’
‘His parents came from Russia just before the war in Europe. Louvish speaks Russian as well as Hebrew, English and Arabic. He’s a very clever guy.’
‘Is that the only link – that his parents came from Russia?’
‘There’s something else which has always seemed strange. In ’82, when Louvish was in Lebanon, he was captured behind the lines.’
‘By the PLO?’
‘No. By Amal, the Shi’ite militia. They held him for a while, then he was handed over to the Syrians and taken to Damascus.’
‘How did he get back?’
‘That’s the mystery. Suddenly, four or five months later, he reappeared in Israel.’
‘Was there an exchange of prisoners?’
‘That’s what made it odd. Normally an officer of Louvish’s rank would only be exchanged for several hundred Arabs. In his case, there were none.’
‘You mean they just gave him back?’
‘So it seemed.’
‘Why?’
‘No one knows. But the chances are that he did some kind of deal with either the Syrians or even the Russians, who would probably have interrogated him in Damascus.’
‘But how could anyone trust him after that?’ asked Anna.
Joel shrugged. ‘Again, a mystery. You would think he would have been put on ice so far as counter-intelligence was concerned. In fact, it was soon after he came back that he was given his own department.’
Anna shook her head, as if in disbelief. In reality, she was beginning to see things all too clearly.
‘He also has some strange political affiliations.’ Joel went on.
‘With the Likud?’
‘Of course. And with the religious parties. But also with groups like the Temple Faithful.’
‘Who are they?’
‘A bunch of zealots, mostly Americans, who want to rebuild the Temple.’
‘What about the mosques?’
‘They’d be demolished.’
‘But that’s crazy.’
Joel shrugged. ‘In Israel there’s a thin line between what’s crazy and what’s patriotic.’ He finished his coffee. ‘May I ask why you’re suddenly so interested in Louvish?’
‘When I can, I’ll tell you, I promise.’
‘Is there a story in it?’
She frowned. ‘There could be. But I don’t think it’s one that can ever be told.’
They parted outside the sandwich bar – Joel to go back to the offices of the Jerusalem Post, Anna to walk to a bus stop, where she stood wondering what to do next.
Her most urgent emotion was to hope against hope that what seemed possible would not turn out to be true. She knew Andrew better than he knew himself, and recognized that a resurrected Jesus was her most dangerous rival. Her first impulse was to telephone Henry and tell him that there was nothing to link Louvish to either the skeleton or the Codex. Her second was to question her father. However strong the grudge she still felt against Michal Dagan for his shortcomings as a parent, she still retained such faith in his integrity as an archaeologist that it seemed impossible that he would have perpetrated a gigantic fraud.
She walked the short distance to the Staedtler Institute and turned up at his office unannounced. There, her father’s secretary ushered her in as if she was expected; and Dagan greeted her as if he knew that sooner or later she would come to see him. He looked perplexed – even guilty – and Anna realized that he must have been told about the bitter conversation with her mother. He came forward to kiss her, but then hesitated, as if afraid of a rebuff, and, to cover his confusion, he showed her to an armchair as if she was a student or a junior lecturer.
‘I was worried about you,’ he said.
‘I’ve been OK,’ she said. ‘I’ve been with Andrew.’
‘Yes. I was told. He is a good friend to you, that young man.’
‘Yes. A very good friend.’
There was an awkward pause, then Dagan said: ‘Your mother told me about how you felt and … I am sorry.’
Anna was suddenly afraid that she would burst into tears, so she said, somewhat sharply: ‘I didn’t come here to talk about that.’
‘Very well,’ he said sadly.
‘I’d like to talk about it some time,’ she said in a slightly kin
der tone, ‘but something more urgent has come up.’
‘What is that?’
‘The find … the skeleton.’
He frowned. ‘What about it?’
‘Dad, I need to know … I really need to know whether you found it by accident or not.’
His frown deepened. ‘It was not by accident that we went through the wall.’
‘But you had no idea there was a jar in the cistern or a skeleton in the jar?’
He avoided her eyes. ‘I had no idea there was a jar or a skeleton, no.’
‘Will you swear to that, Dad? To me – just to me – in the secrecy of this room?’
‘Why? I don’t understand. Why to you?’
‘I can’t explain just now, only it’s very, very important.’
He hesitated and looked away from her. ‘I can swear, of course, that I knew nothing of the jar or the skeleton.’
‘And so when you knocked through that wall, it came as a complete surprise?’
‘A complete surprise. We had not expected to find anything in the cistern.’
She paused. She knew that her father was not lying, but sensed that he was holding something back.
‘Were you the first to go through the opening?’
‘Yes. First me, I think, then Ya’acov.’
‘Were you there when they removed the block?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see them remove it?’
‘Yes. It took some hours.’
‘Is it possible …’ She hesitated, and frowned, trying to work out what might have happened. ‘Is it possible that someone removed the block the day before, took in the jar, and then put it back again?’
‘No.’
‘Were you there the day before?’
‘No.’
‘So you can’t be sure.’
‘Ya’acov would have known. Ya’acov was there.’
She paused, then asked: ‘When you found the skeleton in the jar, was it you who remembered the Codex from Josephus?’
‘Yes.’
‘You remembered it?’