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

“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 assured 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.

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-ass ossuaries.”

Kick-ass 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 passed 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 space 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 class, 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 scrap.

“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 associated with cranial fragments. The larger came from a position closer to the opening, and was associated with postcranial fragments.”

“One wrapping for the head, another for the body,” Jake said. “That’s exactly what Simon Peter describes in John 20:6–7. ‘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 documented.” 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.”

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?”

“Yes.”

Blotnik asked several more questions about the tomb. Jake replied in vague, icy terms.

Blotnik stood.

“I’m sorry, but you caught me on my way out.” Blotnik gave what I’m sure he considered a sheepish grin. “Shabbat. Slipping off early.”

“Shabbat shalom,” I said.

“Shabbat shalom,” Blotnik said. “And thank you so much for trying, Dr. Brennan. The IAA is deeply indebted. Such a long trip. Such a loss. Your gesture is truly remarkable.”

We were in the hall.

Driving to Hebrew University, Jake and I discussed our encounter with Blotnik.

“You really don’t like the guy,” I said.

“He’s a self-promoting, egotistical fraud.”

“Don’t hold back, Jake.”

“And I don’t trust him.”

“Why?”

“He’s professionally dishonest.”

“How?”

“Uses the work of others, publishes, doesn’t give proper credit. Want me to go on?”

Jake abhorred senior scientists who exploited junior colleagues or students. I’d heard the rant. I let it go.

“Getz told Blotnik about the shroud.”

“I figured she would, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take. Esther’s the best there is with ancient textiles, and I need her authentication of the thing. Besides, by going through Getz, it makes it impossible for Blotnik to piggyback onto the find.”

“But you don’t trust either of them with the bones.”

“No way anyone sees those bones until I’ve got them fully documented.”

“Blotnik didn’t seem all that upset about the Masada skeleton,” I said. “And he didn’t seem as surprised to see me as I’d expected.”

Jake glanced at me.

“When I called from Montreal, I never mentioned the date I was coming.”

“No?”

Jake made a left.

“And what about the jet lag comment?” I asked.

“What about it?”

“It’s as though Blotnik knows exactly how long I’ve been here.”

Jake started to speak. I cut him off.

“And wouldn’t anyone in archaeology in Israel know about the Hevrat Kadisha?”

“Duh!” Jake snorted. “You caught that, too?”

“Could it be that Blotnik seemed unconcerned because he has the skeleton?”

“Long shot. The guy’s a wimp.” Jake cut me a look. “But if he does, I’ll kick his ass from here to Tel Aviv.”

We also discussed Getz’s comments.

“Not exactly garrulous, is she?”

“Esther’s direct.”

Not the descriptor I’d pinned on the Getzster.

“But you liked what she saw,” I said.

“Damn right. Clean hair. No vermin. Imported fabric. And wool was a luxury back then. Most shrouds were exclusively linen. Whoever this boy was, he had social standing.” Jake shot me another look. “And a hole in his heel bone. And relatives with names straight out of the Gospels.”

“Jake, I’ve got to admit, I’m skeptical. First the Masada skeleton, now these shroud bones. Are you talking yourself into something because you desperately want it to be true?”

“I’ve never believed the Masada skeleton is that of Jesus. That was Lerner’s interpretation, based on the cocked-up thinking of Donovan Joyce. But I do think the bones are those of someone who shouldn’t have been up on that rock. Someone whose presence is going to make the Israelis, and maybe the Vatican, pee their shorts.”

“A nonzealot.”

Jake nodded.

“Who?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out.”

We rode in silence for a while. Then I went back to the shroud.

“Is the shroud I found in the tomb similar to the shroud of Turin?” I asked.

“The Turin cloth is linen, and has a more complicated, three-on-one twill weave. Which makes sense. That shroud dates to the medieval, somewhere between 1260 and 1390 C.E.”

“Carbon-fourteen dated?”

Jake nodded. “Confirmed by labs in Tucson, Oxford, and Zurich. And the Turin shroud was a single garment for the whole body. Ours is a two-part deal.”

“What’s current thinking on the Turin image?” I asked.

“Probably resulted from oxidation and dehydration of the cellulose fibers of the cloth itself.”

Another wham-o for the Vatican.

Getting to the university took less time than finding a spot to park. Jake finally wedged his rented Honda into footage meant for a scooter, and we set off toward the eastern end of campus.

The sun beamed down from an immaculate blue sky. The air smelled of freshly cut grass.

We walked through patches of shadow and light, past classrooms, offices, dorms, and labs. Students drank coffee at outdoor tables, or strolled wearing bandannas, backpacks, and Birkenstocks. A kid tossed a Frisbee to his dog.

We could have been on any campus in any city in the world. High atop its Mount Scopus hilltop, Hebrew University was an island of tranquillity in an urban sea of sentries, barricades, smog, and cement.

But nothing in this land is immune. As we walked my mind superimposed images on the peaceful tableau. Newsreel footage: July 31, 2001. A day much like this one. Students taking exams or registering for summer courses. A parcel left on a café table. Seven killed, eighty injured. Hamas claimed responsibility, retaliation for Israel’s assassination of Salah Shehadeh in Gaza City. Fourteen Palestinians dead there.

And the beat goes on.

The gatekeeper at the Institute of Archaeology was a woman named Irena Porat. A decade older, with a fashion sense that ran toward the fuzzy and the floral, Porat was considerably less menacing than Esther Getz.

Shaloms were exchanged.

Porat spoke to Jake in Hebrew.

Jake answered and, I assumed, reminded Porat of his call.

As Jake explained our purpose, Porat inspected something crumbly she’d found in her ear. I caught the word “Masada,” and Yadin’s name.

When Jake finished, Porat asked a question.

Jake answered.

Porat said something, then tipped her head toward me.

Jake responded.

Leaning close, Porat spoke to Jake in a lowered voice.

Jake nodded, face solemn.

Porat gave me her best welcoming smile.

I returned her smile, a trusty co-conspirator.

Porat led us down two flights of stairs to a grim, windowless room. The walls and floor were gray, the furnishings battered tables, folding chairs, and rows of floor-to-ceiling shelves. Large boxes filled two corners.

“Please.” Porat pointed the ear-probe finger at me, then at a table.

I sat.

Porat and Jake disappeared into the shelving. When they emerged Jake carried three large brown corrugated files. Porat lugged another.

Dumping her file on the table, Porat gave one final instruction, one final smile, and withdrew.

“Nice lady,” I said.

“A bit heavy on the angora,” Jake said.

Each file was identified in Hebrew in black Magic Marker. Jake lined them up, selected the first, and removed the notebooks it contained.

Jake selected one, I took another.

European-size plain paper. Hebrew typing on one side.

I flipped a few pages.

I could read nothing.

Crash course. Jake wrote a list of phrases that would serve as flags: Yoram Tsafrir. Nicu Haas. Cave 2001. Skeleton. Bone. He also showed me how to read Hebrew dates.

Jake started with the earliest notebook. I took the next in sequence. Using my list, I scouted ahead, Sesame Street–style. What looks the same? What looks different?

I came up with a lot of false hits. We’d been at it an hour when I got my first real one.

“What’s this?” I asked, sliding the notebook to Jake.

Jake skimmed the text, sat forward.

“It’s the October twentieth, 1963, meeting. They’re talking about Cave 2001.”

“What’re they saying?”

“Yoram Tsafrir is reporting on his progress in another cave, 2004. Listen to this.”

I definitely was.

“Tsafrir says the finds are ‘…much more beautiful than the pieces found in Cave 2001 and 2002.’”

“So Cave 2001 was explored earlier than October twentieth,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Didn’t the dig begin in early October?”

Jake nodded.

“So the cave must have been discovered in the first two weeks of excavation.”

“But I found no mention of it until this entry.” Jake frowned. “Keep going. I’ll go back through the pages I’ve done.”

The next reference to Cave 2001 was on November 26, 1963, over a month later. Haas had been invited to join the group.

“Haas is reporting on the three skeletons from Locus 8, that’s the northern palace area, and Locus 2001, that’s the cave bones.” Jake’s finger moved over the text. “He says there are twenty-four to twenty-six persons and a six-month fetus. Fourteen males, six females, four children, and some unknowns.”

“We know the figures don’t add up,” I said.

“Right.” Jake looked up. “But more to the point: Where is any previous discussion of the cave and its contents?”

“Maybe we missed it,” I said.

“Maybe.”

“Let’s reread everything prior to October twentieth,” I suggested.

We did.

There wasn’t a single mention of the cave’s exploration or excavation.

But I did learn something.

The pages were numbered. In Arabic.

I could read Arabic numbers.

I went back through the period in question.

Pages were missing from the early weeks of October.

With a growing sense of dread, we rechecked every notebook in every file.

The pages hadn’t been improperly cataloged.

They were gone.