“A LLAHUU-UUU-AKBAAAAR —”

Recorded prayer exploded outside my window.

I opened one eye.

Dawn was seeping around the things in my room. One of them was Ryan.

“You awake?”

“Hamdulillah.” Ryan’s voice was thick and fuzzy.

“Um hmm,” I said.

“Praise the Lord.” Mumbled translation.

“Whose?” I asked.

“Too deep for five A.M.”

It was a deep question. One I’d considered long after Ryan fell asleep.

“I’m convinced it’s Max.”

“The muezzin?”

I hit Ryan with a pillow. He rolled over.

“Someone wanted Max so badly they were willing to kill for him.”

“Ferris?”

“For one.”

“I’m listening.” Ryan’s eyes were blue and sleepy.

“Jake’s right. This goes beyond the Hevrat Kadisha.”

“I thought the HK boys wanted everyone.”

I shook my head. “This isn’t about the generic Jewish dead, Ryan. It’s about Max.”

“So who is he?”

“Who was he.” My voice was taut with self-recrimination.

“It’s not your fault.”

“I lost him.”

“What could you have done?”

“Delivered him directly to the IAA. Not hauled him with me to the Kidron. Or, at least taken steps to keep him secure.”

“Shouldn’t have left the Uzi behind in the Bradley.”

I clocked Ryan again. He confiscated the pillow, scooted up, and propped it behind his head. I nestled beside him.

“Facts, ma’am,” Ryan said.

It was a game we played when stumped. I started the time line.

“In the first century C.E., people died and were buried in a cave at Masada, probably during the seven-year occupation of the summit by Jewish zealots. In 1963, Yigael Yadin and his team excavated that cave but failed to report on bones found there. Nicu Haas, the physical anthropologist detailed with analyzing those bones, stated verbally to Yadin and his staff that the remains represented twenty-four to twenty-six commingled individuals. Haas made no mention of one isolated, articulated, and complete skeleton, later described to Jake Drum by a volunteer excavator who’d helped clear the cave.”

Ryan picked up the thread.

“That isolated, articulated, and complete skeleton, hereinafter to be referred to as Max, ended up at the Musée de l’Homme in Paris. Sender, unknown.”

“In 1973, Yossi Lerner stole Max from the museum and gave him to Avram Ferris,” I said.

“Ferris spirited Max to Canada, later entrusted him to Father Sylvain Morissonneau at l’Abbaye Sainte-Marie-des-Neiges,” Ryan said.

“On February twenty-sixth, Morissonneau gave Max to Brennan. Days later Morissonneau turned up dead.”

“You’re jumping ahead,” Ryan said.

“True.” I thought about dates. “On February fifteenth, Avram Ferris was found shot to death in Montreal.”

“On February sixteenth, a man named Kessler handed Brennan a photo of a skeleton that turned out to be Max.” Ryan.

“Hirsch Kessler turned out to be Hershel Kaplan, a small-time hustler and dealer in illegal antiquities.”

“Kaplan fled Canada and was arrested in Israel.” Ryan. “Said flight took place just days before Father Morissonneau’s death on March second.”

“On March ninth, Ryan and Brennan arrived in Israel. The next day Drum took Brennan on a tomb crawl, and Max was stolen by the Hevrat Kadisha. Presumably. Also that same day, Brennan’s room was ransacked,” I added.

“The next day, March eleventh, under skilled interrogation”—Ryan grinned his humblest of grins—“Kaplan admitted that Ferris had asked him to sell Max. Kaplan claimed he floated word of the skeleton’s availability in early to mid January.”

“That same day, Brennan was followed by men who appeared to be Muslim. Oh, and we forgot about Jamal Hasan Abu-Jarur and Muhammed Hazman Shalaideh.” Ryan.

“The men parked outside l’Abbaye Sainte-Marie-des-Neiges,” I said.

“‘Tourists.’” Ryan hooked quote marks around the word.

“Chronologically, that occurred about two weeks after Ferris’s murder.”

“Noted,” Ryan agreed. “Under even more skilled interrogation, on that same day Kaplan admitted that a woman hired him to kill Ferris, but denied knowing the woman, and denied being the shooter.”

“That deal was struck in early January, weeks before Ferris was shot.” I thought for a moment. “Anything else?”

“Those are the facts, ma’am. Unless you want to get into the shroud bones. But they are seemingly unrelated to Max or Ferris.”

“True.” I moved the game to phase two. “Main players?”

Ryan began. “Yossi Lerner, Orthodox Jew and liberator of Masada Max.”

“Avram Ferris, murder victim and onetime possessor of Max,” I added.

“Hershel Kaplan, aka Hirsch Kessler, murder suspect and would-be seller of Max.” Ryan.

“Miriam Ferris, grieving widow with ties to Hershel Kaplan,” I said.

“And recipient of four million in insurance money.”

“Yes.”

“Sylvain Morissonneau, possible murder victim and onetime possessor of Max.”

“Kaplan’s mystery woman.”

“Good one,” Ryan said.

“Minor characters?”

Ryan considered.

“Mr. Litvak, Israeli associate and accuser of Kaplan.”

“How does Litvak fit in?” I asked.

“Another party with an interest in Max,” Ryan said.

“All right, then Tovya Blotnik,” I said.

“The IAA director?”

“Same reasoning,” I said.

“Jake Drum,” Ryan said.

“No way,” I said.

Ryan shrugged.

“Peripherals?” I asked.

“Dora Ferris, victim’s mother.”

“Courtney Purviance, victim’s employee.”

“We’re getting goofy.”

“True,” I agreed. “But one thing is clear. Somehow it all comes back to Max.”

“Hypotheses?” Ryan opened phase three.

I started.

“Proposition one. A group of ultra-Orthodox Jews has discovered Max’s identity and fear his presence at Masada will taint the image of Judaism’s sacred site.”

“But we know Max is not J.C. So who is he?”

“A Nazarene. Suppose this ultra-Orthodox group has learned that those living in the cave weren’t with the main group of Jewish zealots. They were, in fact, Jewish followers of Jesus, maybe even members of his own extended family.”

“Yadin knew this? The IAA?”

“That would explain Yadin’s reluctance to discuss the cave remains, and the government’s refusal to do further testing.”

“Tell me again. Why are Jesus followers on Masada a bad thing?”

“The Israelis have made Masada a symbol of Jewish freedom and resistance against external forces. It turns out there were Christians living up there, Jewish or not? They think they’ve reinterred the bones of the last defenders of Masada, but they’ve got early Christians buried under their monument? It would be enormously disturbing, especially for Israeli Jews.”

“Proposition one suggests some fringe group of black hats is willing to do what it takes to keep all this quiet?”

“I’m just throwing it out there.”

I remembered Donovan Joyce’s strange theory, and Lerner’s reaction to it.

“Remember that book I read called The Jesus Scroll?”

“The one about Jesus going geriatric?”

“Yes.” I held up two fingers. “Proposition two. A group of militant, right-wing Christians has learned of Max’s existence and believes he is Jesus. They fear the skeleton could be used to invalidate scripture.”

“Yossi Lerner believed that,” Ryan said.

“Yes.” I said. “And perhaps Ferris. And at one time, Morissonneau.”

“But Max isn’t J.C.”

“We know Max can’t be Jesus. But Lerner was sure he was Jesus, and look how he reacted. Maybe others think so, too, and they’re playing hardball to make the bones disappear.”

“Proposition three.” Ryan gave my scenario a different spin. “A group of Islamic fundamentalists have learned of Max’s existence and believe he is Jesus. They want to use the bones to undermine Christian theology.”

“How?”

“Jesus at Masada would shatter the central concept of the resurrection. How better to kick the legs out from under Christianity?”

“And these Muslim fanatics will stop at nothing to get their hands on Max. That works.”

I pictured Sylvain Morissonneau in his office at l’Abbaye Sainte-Marie-des-Neiges. I made a note to contact LaManche to find out if an exhumation and autopsy had been ordered.

“Proposition four.” I offered a hybrid of my proposition two and Ryan’s proposition three. “A group of Islamic fundamentalists have learned of Max’s existence and believe he is a Nazarene, perhaps even a member of the Jesus family. They fear both Christians and Jews might embrace this finding, reinterpreting Masada with zealots and early Nazarenes struggling against oppression, side by side. They fear the skeleton might be used to trigger a resurgence of religious ardor in the Judeo-Christian world.”

“And they’ve vowed to prevent that,” Ryan added. “That works.”

We took a moment to consider our hypotheses. Fanatic Christians, Jews, or Muslims believing the bones were those of Jesus or one of his family or followers? Each proposition was as frightening as the next.

Ryan broke the silence.

“So who is Kaplan’s mystery woman?” he asked. “And how does she link to Ferris? And how does she link to Max?”

“Excellent questions, Detective.”

“I expect phone records this afternoon.”

Ryan pulled me closer.

“Friedman wants to let Kaplan stew for a day.”

“Stewing can be productive,” I said.

Ryan kissed my cheek.

“I think we’re on the right track, Ryan.”

“Even if you’re on the right track, you’ll get run over if you just sit there.”

“Will Rogers,” I identified the quote. Another game.

Ryan’s hand went to the back of my neck.

“Not much doing on the Sabbath.”

Ryan’s lips brushed my ear.

“Day of rest,” I agreed.

“Little we can detect right now.”

“Mm,” I said. I think.

“But I have another excellent question,” Ryan whispered.

I had an excellent answer.

Yes!

In the Toronto airport I’d noticed a book on the tao of sex, health, and longevity. I hadn’t purchased it, but at the current rate, I was guessing I’d live to be 180. The deep breathing alone must have bought me a decade and a half.

Following breakfast and an argument concerning my driving solo to Beit Hanina, Ryan headed to police headquarters and I drove solo to Beit Hanina.

Jake was in better spirits than when I’d left him.

“Got something you’re going to love,” he said, flapping a paper above his head.

“Beard’s recipe for grouse pie.”

Jake dropped his hand. “Your abrasions look better.”

“Thanks.”

“You have a facial or some kind of treatment?”

“Moisturizer.” I cocked my chin at the paper. “What do you have?”

“A memo from Haas to Yadin containing notes on the Cave 2001 bones.” Jake leaned close and squinted. “Just moisturizer?”

I squinted back. “Positively Radiant.”

“No treatment?”

Not one I was going to discuss.

“Let me see the memo.” I held out a hand.

Jake yielded the paper. The notes were handwritten in Hebrew.

“How long have you had this?”

“A couple of years.”

I shot Jake a look.

“It came mixed in with materials I requested on these first-century synagogue ruins I’m digging. Probably because there’s a first-century synagogue site on Masada. The thing popped into my mind while I was eating breakfast. I vaguely remembered skimming some memo from Haas. It had nothing to do with the Talpiot site, so I set it aside. I dug back through my files, and there it was. I’d never really read it until this morning.”

“Does Haas mention an isolated articulated skeleton?”

“No. In fact it’s clear from his memo he never saw that skeleton.” A mile-wide smile. “But he mentions pig bones.”

“Pig bones?”

Nod.

“What does he say?”

Jake translated as he read: “‘This has nothing to do with the riddle of the pig tallith.’”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know, but he refers to a pig tallith ‘riddle’ or ‘problem’ twice.”

“What would pig bones be doing at Masada? And what does that have to do with Cave 2001?”

Jake ignored my questions. “Another thing. Yadin estimated there were more than twenty cave skeletons, but Haas catalogs only two hundred and twenty individual bones. He places them into two categories: those that are clear, and those that are not so clear with regard to age.”

He translated again from the memo.

“In the clear category, he lists one hundred and four old, thirty-three mature, twenty-four juvenile, and seven infant.” Jake looked up. “He says six of the bones belonged to ladies.”

There are 206 bones in the adult human skeleton. I did some quick math.

“Haas cataloged two hundred and twenty bones. That would mean ninety-six percent of the assemblage was missing.”

I watched Jake chew dead skin on the ball of his thumb.

“Do you have a copy of the photo in Yadin’s book?”

Jake went to his files and returned with a three-by-five black-and-white print.

“Five skulls,” I said.

“That’s another inconsistency,” Jake said. “Tsafrir wrote in his field diary there were ten to fifteen skeletons in the cave, not twenty-some, and not five.”

I wasn’t really listening. Something in the photo had caught my attention.

Something familiar.

Something wrong.

“May I take a closer look?”

Jake led me to the back room. I took a seat at the dissecting scope, clicked on the light, and brought the center skull into focus.

“I’ll be damned.”

“What?”

I increased magnification, shifted to the photo’s upper left corner, and slowly moved across the print.

At some point Jake said something. I agreed.

At another point I noticed Jake was no longer with me.

With each grainy detail, my apprehension grew. The same apprehension I’d felt upon spotting Max’s ill-fitting tooth.

Had no one noticed? Had the experts been wrong?

Was I wrong?

I began again at the upper left corner.

Twenty minutes later, I sat back.

I wasn’t wrong.