“Ah, my good friends,” Bartholomew II said as he extended an openhanded welcome to Jon and Shannon inside his office. “Brother Gregorios tells me you’ve been spending many hours in research here at the patriarchate over the past week. That is good! We are pleased!”
“Thank you for your kindness in permitting it, Your All Holiness,” Jon replied.
“And did you find anything worthwhile? Any lost or previously unknown manuscripts?”
Jon smiled broadly. “Yes, we certainly did.”
“Well, no matter if—what did you say?”
“Yes, Holiness—a very extraordinary manuscript came to light. Are we in private? Can we be overheard?”
Bartholomew quickly moved to close the door and offer seats to his guests. His velvet brown eyes, now arched over with Gothic eyebrows, peered at them with blazing interest. “Now you may speak freely. What is it that you have found?”
“When I tell you, you will understand at once that this information is for yourself only—at least for now—and must not be shared with anyone. I . . . very respectfully ask your agreement on that.”
“Nai, nai—yes, yes, of course!”
Only Shannon smiled again at the Greek-English oxymoron.
Jon now unloaded the full account of their week of research. During the telling, Bartholomew’s eyes constricted with intensity as his head began a very slow oscillation from side to side. Scholar that he was, the patriarch instantly caught the significance of the ancient codex and interjected, “One of Constantine’s fifty, you say? Well, then . . . then it’s greater than the Sinaiticus! Or the Vaticanus!”
Jon could only agree, but when he went on to report that they had found the lost ending of Mark in the codex, Bartholomew’s jaw simply sagged open while he stared at Jon.
“Perhaps a little slower, dear,” Shannon cautioned. “You and I had a week to digest all this, so you really shouldn’t burden the patriarch with so much all at once.”
“Do you mean . . . do you mean that there may be more?” Bartholomew asked.
Jon nodded. “There is, but I think my wife is right in suggesting that we take a little breather—a break, an interim.” Thank you, Shannon, Jon thought. It wouldn’t be kind to inflict a heart attack on the aging Ecumenical Patriarch.
Bartholomew seemed to descend back to reality. “Some tea? Yes?” he offered, then picked up his cell phone to order it.
Before the second cup of tea, the patriarch had to know more, so Jon resumed his narrative. But when he came to the discovery of Second Acts, Bartholomew’s cup went flying as both his hands seemed to attack his forehead while he bent over his desk in a prayerful posture. Jon was amazed that great news could have the same shock value as very bad news.
When Jon had finished, Bartholomew crossed himself and finally looked up. “Please forgive my bad manners, dear friends, but I am . . . I am quite overcome with what you report. This is of . . . staggering importance to the whole Christian church on earth. How . . . how do you plan to let the world know? And when?”
“Any premature announcement could be disastrous to the cause of serious scholarship, Your Holiness. I think the announcement should come only after we’ve concluded the authenticity tests and are ready with a prepared edition of the codex, an official translation, and a commentary—at least on the new material. The rest can come later.”
He nodded. “Yes, that should come first. And where should the announcement be made when all is ready?”
“Why not from your own patriarchate, here in Istanbul?”
“That is very kind of you, although there may be other options. And what about the codex itself?”
Jon handed Bartholomew a CD copy of the photographs they had taken. “Again, for now, this copy is for your eyes only. Please guard it carefully. The codex itself, of course, is your property, but I would urge that you retrieve it immediately from the ‘manuscript cemetery’ in the basement of the patriarchate and keep it under extreme security in a humidity-controlled vault of some kind. Before any public announcement, we may need the codex in America for a time for evaluation and authenticity tests—not that there is the least chance of forgery, but the world will demand it.”
Bartholomew nodded readily, to Jon’s relief. But then his face darkened as he pursued a different line of thought. “And so this . . . this incredibly important manuscript has been in our possession—who knows how many centuries?—and we didn’t even know it? This is terrible! This uncovers a great failure in how we manage our archives! Brother Gregorios must answer for this! There is absolutely no excuse for such utter—”
“With all due respect, Your Holiness, this sort of thing happens again and again in many libraries across the world that have manuscript collections. With many thousands of documents and books, things do get misplaced, so please do not let our good fortune become Brother Gregorios’s misfortune!”
Shannon joined the dialogue with an important suggestion. “We would, however, recommend that a very complete inventory be taken of every document and manuscript inside your basement ‘cemetery,’ Your All Holiness. Who knows what additional treasures might be found there! Our Institute of Christian Origins in Cambridge will be glad to assist you in this respect.”
“Nai, nai, nai! A very good suggestion, Madame Weber. I thank you for it. We certainly will do that very thing. But now we must all go and see the codex, yes?”
The three descended the ornate staircases of the patriarchate and walked to the archives, where Gregorios, without even being asked, hastened over with his keys, knowing full well that their target had to be the basement document charnel house. Without a word, he admitted them. Jon pointed out the various sectors to the patriarch, and presently they stood before the ancient bookcase in the southwest corner. There rested the codex on the bottom shelf, where it had lain for countless, unknown centuries, looking the same as when Shannon first spotted it, except that the gnarled old leather-clad board cover was no longer gray with dust. Very gently, Jon again lifted it off its shelf and carried it to the table where they had photographed it.
The torrent of Greek spouting out of Bartholomew’s mouth as he spoke to Gregorios came too rapidly for Jon to decipher, but it sent the monk running out of the room. Then the Ecumenical Patriarch approached the codex, touched it gently, lovingly, and fell on his knees in prayer before it, doubtless thanking God for its discovery.
When he arose, Jon opened the codex to show him the four magnificently written uncial columns on each page of vellum. He had, of course, opened the tome to the newly found ending of Mark’s Gospel. Bartholomew read several lines, then broke out in tears. In silent, sympathetic reverence, Jon closed the codex and said nothing.
Gregorios returned with a large gilded blanket—probably from their liturgical supply room—but before he could wrap it around the codex, Jon asked him to wait a moment so that he could take final photographs of the cast of characters in this improbable drama: the Ecumenical Patriarch and Brother Gregorios, as well as Jon and Shannon with them. Only then did Gregorios reverently enshrine the codex in the blanket and carry it to the office of the patriarch.
Just as he returned to them in the main reception hall, the Turkish sentry called from outside to say that the government’s car convoy had arrived to transport Jon and Shannon to the airport. The farewells were genuine and even passionate. When Jon stooped to try to kiss the patriarch’s hand—as was customary among the eastern faithful—Bartholomew would not permit it. In most unliturgical fashion, he put his arms around Jon, and with tears in his eyes, he said, “All of Eastern Orthodoxy is grateful to you, dear Professor Weber, not only for defending our faith so brilliantly before a watching world, but also to you both for discovering a most priceless treasure of the church. God has been good to us through you!”
“We, in turn, are grateful for both your original invitation to Constantinople, Your All Holiness, and also for your extraordinary hospitality during our visit here. I know we shall be in frequent touch from now on. And so we say to you and Brother Gregorios, with all the sacred solemnity of our Lord’s use of the term on the night before he was betrayed, ef charisto!”
En route to Ataturk International Airport, Jon and Shannon regaled Dick and Osman with details of their delightful morning at the patriarchate. “Let me tell you, fellas,” Jon said, smiling broadly, “it was quite an honor to be hugged by no less than the eastern pope himself—and even be kissed on both cheeks.”
“I’m sure he won’t wash his face for weeks,” Shannon chirped.
Everyone in the car seemed to be in an expansive mood, and why not? They were finally returning home, knowing secrets that would make for a fabulous future.
When their motorcade arrived at the airport, the doors of the lead car opened, and out stepped Adnan Yilmaz, the Turkish minister of culture, with several aides. In a formal, nicely crafted little speech, he apologized to Jon and Shannon, in the name of the Republic of Turkey, for the terrorist attack at their hotel and hoped that they might return to Turkey with no bitter memories.
For his part, Jon was very genuine in his appreciation of how well the Turks had cooperated in terms of security before, during, and after the debate, and he apologized to all whose schedules had been brutally wrenched because of their visit—including especially their drivers. He would later say the same, of course, to all the CIA operatives—especially Click and Clack, who had kept them alive during their visit to a chancy part of the world.
Just before they checked in at the departure hall, Yilmaz said, “It should all go well from here on.” Then he handed Jon his card. “But call my cell if you have any problems.”
“Thanks much, Mr. Yilmaz!”
Bags checked and with boarding passes and passports in hand, Osman, Dick, and Shannon were ahead of Jon in the security line, which moved along better than they had expected. After shedding shoes, laptops, change, and sundry metallic items, they reached the metal-detecting doorframe. Jon asked that his camera bag full of film canisters and photo memory cards be passed around rather than through the frame. In earlier years, he had had too many high-speed films ruined by X-ray exposure in more primitive scanners. This looked to be one of them, and he didn’t trust it. If those photos were ruined, only one set on earth remained.
When Jon tried to hand the photo bag around the frame, the security guard said, “No. Must go through X-ray machine.”
“But I’ll be glad to let you examine everything inside this bag,” Jon replied.
“No! Must go through X-ray!” the guard fairly shouted and tried to take the bag out of Jon’s hands to pass it onto the belt going through the scanner. Jon held on for dear life.
The guard blew a shrill whistle. A squad of guards quickly surrounded the security line and was closing in on Jon. He snatched his cell phone before the gray plastic box with his metallic effects went through the scanner and madly reached in his pocket for Adnan’s card. That move prompted the guards to take out their revolvers and aim them at Jon. He held up both arms while trying also to dial Adnan, his photo bag between his legs. The other three looked on in horror. It was a very bad moment.
Yilmaz, thank goodness, answered his cell.
“This is an emergency, Adnan!” Jon yelled into his cell phone. “I’m being held at gunpoint in security because I wanted my films passed around the scanner, not through it!”
Adnan yelled some curse in Turkish, then said, “Dr. Weber, give your cell to whomever is in charge of security there. I’ll explain!”
Jon handed his cell phone to the officer who seemed to have the most metal on his shoulders. Frowning and skeptical, he put it to his ear and said, “Merhaba . . .” Since he knew no Turkish, all Jon heard was a long recitation of “Evet. . . . Evet. . . . Evet . . .” then a shocked “Hayir!”
Finally the officer, now sheepish, handed the phone back to Jon. Said Adnan in the receiver, “I told him that if they didn’t release you at once—with apologies—my next call would be to the prime minister of this republic! I’m coming back now to make sure all is in order.”
“Thank you, Adnan—if I may. But I don’t think that will be necessary.”
While he had been talking, the officer stepped over to the rude security scanner, slapped him on both cheeks, and relieved him from duty. Then he returned to Jon and said, “In the name of Allah the All Compassionate, I ask your forgiveness, Professor Weber. This should never have happened.”
“It is nothing. Thank you for your help.”
Jon’s expansive mood returned when he saw his photo case being passed around the scanner and into his hands.