Fifth Gospel:The Odyssey of a Time Traveler in First-Century Palestine Page 11

  19

  One Saturday, Riley handed me the wickedest looking blade I’d ever seen in my life.

  “This, Lightfoot, is the British commando knife of World War II fame. It’s also known as the Fairbairn-Sykes knife, after its designers, Captain William E. Fairbairn and Captain Eric A. Sykes. Both men had served on the Shanghai Municipal Police force when Shanghai was not a very nice place, and both were appointed to be the first instructors of close combat at the Commando Training Centre in Achnacarry, Scotland, in l940.

  “Now a lot of armchair knife fighters spend hours, days, even years, debating the relative merits of different fighting knives like the variations of the Bowie, the Arkansas Toothpick, the U.S.M.C. K-Bar, the 1918 combination trench knife and knuckle duster, and so on. They talk about metallurgical specifications, blade configurations, and a hundred other things, and they easily impress other people who also know nothing about knife fighting. Forget all that malarkey. I can tell you this without reservation. The Fairbairn-Sykes is the finest fighting knife ever made. Notice how it’s grip-heavy so it sits well back in the palm yet it’s still lightweight, so it’s easily manageable. You can see how it has a double-edged, pointed blade of diamond cross-section 6-7/8 inches long with a square ricasso. The ‘S’-shaped crossguard is two inches long. The checkered grip runs the entire length of the hand, diagonally across the palm, for maximum gripping power, and the small spherical ‘pommel’ further transfers the balance of the knife to the hilt. The tang is full length for maximum strength, and is threaded at the end to accommodate the top nut, which can be used in a skull-cracking mode on a down stroke. The bluing is, of course, to prevent any reflection of light. Clarence tells me that this is the only weapon you’ll be allowed to take with you on your mission. I don’t know why, and I’m not supposed to know why. I’m kind of partial to submachine guns myself, and I could show you how to take one down and successfully secrete it on your person even if you were wearing nothing except boxer shorts and a tee shirt. Time for action comes, I’d have trained you so you could reassemble it in less than fourteen seconds. But,” he shrugged with resignation, “a knife is what they told me, so a knife it will be. And this is the very best. When I’m through with you, Lightfoot, and you head on out for your mission packing that blade, you’re going to have absolute confidence in it, and with good cause. You’re also going to be able to take on anybody with a Roman short sword and a lance. You’re going to be a terror with your hands, your feet, clubs, and rocks. You’re going to be one mean machine.”

  I looked down at the deadly razor-sharp commando knife in my hands and thought fleetingly of the gentle Galilean whom Cindy had introduced me to, and whom I was going to travel through two millennia and halfway around the world to see.

  So that’s how I spent all my Saturdays for nearly five months. Riley was a demanding instructor, and my muscles began to know the true meaning of the word soreness, but it wasn’t as bad as all that. In fact, I came to look forward to Saturdays. After five days of intensive head-work each week, a good workout of about ten hours helped to calm me.

  Meanwhile, back at the ranch house, Clarence’s nightly briefings were alternately boring and fascinating. For example, when he explained how alluvial deposits along with narrow bands of clay and calcium carbonate came to accumulate on the fissured white limestone which lay under the surface of Palestine, my attention was less than total. On the other hand, when he talked about civil and criminal law, the judicial system, and the penalties, I hung on his every word. I had no desire to inadvertently disobey some obscure law, and so spend the rest of my life in a first century prison, or be stoned, burned, beheaded, strangled, or crucified. I also wanted to pass up flogging.

  Each Sunday was a day of rest. While the Joneses went to church in the morning, I caught up on my sleep or did some reading. In the afternoons, we’d sometimes take in a movie, go for a drive, or, when the weather got warmer, picnic, go swimming, or play badminton in the back yard. One can never get enough of the fabulous institution known as the Smithsonian; we spent a lot of time there as well. All in all, it was a pleasant time. The only cloud, and it was an exceedingly dark cloud, was watching the steady deterioration of Cindy.

  20

  “Look, Cindy, it’s easy for God to love you, and for you to be certain of going to heaven. As far as forgiveness of sins, I can’t believe that a sweet kid like you even knows what sin is, let alone be a sinner,” I said to her one evening. I read to her very often now, and we had even begun to discuss some of what the readings meant. She had just turned fourteen.

  “What could you have done, Mr. O’Brien, that’s so terrible that even God wouldn’t forgive you for?” I avoided her direct gaze and felt as tongue-tied as a schoolboy.

  “Adult things. You wouldn’t understand. You’re too young.”

  “Murder?” she asked. “Adultery?”

  “And what would you know about those things?” I smiled uncomfortably.

  “I read.”

  “You read,” I echoed, nodding in what I meant to be a superior and patronizing way.

  “Well, you learn a lot of things from reading too, Mr. O’Brien. Things you haven’t experienced firsthand.”

  “Yeah, but …”

  “Let me tell you about a story I read. A real high ranking military leader happened to see a totally nude woman on a roof. He caught an eyeful and had to have her. She was married to another man who was at the front fighting.”

  “I know the type who’d pull a stunt like that. They’re low. They’re nothing more than …” I stopped myself, suddenly remembering that I was in the presence of a girl who’d just turned fourteen. But I could see the Dear John letter at mail call, and …

  “He got her pregnant, Mr. O’Brien,” Cindy continued, “so then they had to try to figure out how to explain it to her husband.”

  “An abortion, I guess. That’s what they ended up doing?”

  “No, her lover ordered her husband back home, hoping that if her husband, ah, got together with her, then he would think that it was his child. Then everything would be O.K.”

  “You mean this guy was her husband’s C.O.?” Cindy nodded in response. I became enraged. “Why, that makes the … swine even a thousand times more … contemptible!”

  “Well, the man wouldn’t sleep with his wife. He was so brave and so loyal to … his C.O. that the only thing he could think of was to get back to the front with his men.” I grinned ruefully.

  “So much for that solution.”

  “Now things are desperate. The commanding officer figures that the only way out now is to have the husband killed. He orders the man who’s directly in charge over the husband to put the man in such a position during battle that it’s certain he’ll be killed.”

  “You mean the C.O. didn’t have the nerve, the courage, to do his own killing? He had to have some other poor slob do his dirty work for him?” The answer was a grave nod. “Scratch what I said about him being a swine,” I said, clenching a fist. “This makes him … hey, wait. Is this a true story?”

  “Yes, Mr. O’Brien. But let me finish. Just as planned, the husband gets killed at the front. Do you think that God would forgive the … C.O.?”

  “Never,” I said with feeling. “There’s such a thing as justice. If there is a Christian hell, that guy should fry in the hottest part of it.” We were both silent for a long moment, then I realized once more that I was with a child. “Hey, Cindy, if your old man knew you were reading garbage like that, true story or not, you’d be in big trouble. I don’t think you’re old enough to handle … adult situations like that. And your mother would really hit the ceiling.” The last response I expected was a twinkling of her eyes. Then she giggled, a child once more.

  “So what’s so funny?”

  “There’s nothing to worry about, Mr. O’Brien. You see, the story’s in there.” Her finger pointed to the Bible on the nightstand. “I just told you the story of David and Bathsheba.” I shook my head. />
  “You’re your father’s daughter, all right. That’s exactly the kind of trick he’d pull.”

  “I didn’t tell you the story to trick you, Mr. O’Brien. I told it to tell you that when David asked forgiveness, God forgave him. Not only that, but Jesus was born in the House of David.

  “I don’t know what kind of ‘adult things’ you’ve done wrong, but I know that God will forgive you if you ask Him and if you’re truly sorry.”

  “Cindy that just seems too …” I was going to say childlike, then the word simple came to mind, but the words that came out of my mouth were “good to be true.”

  21

  The final pre-mission meeting of the entire membership of the Project Council was held March 15, 1959, in the conference room adjoining the Oval Office. Ike sat at the head of the table, of course, with Clarence sitting on his right hand and me seated to his left. As we sat watching the members file in, I began to feel like a pretty big shot. The Secretary of State, the Director of the CIA, the Director of the Oak Ridge Facility, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Secretary of Defense, the Director of the Smithsonian, and two of the most distinguished contemporary philosophers and Nobel Prize winners, Drs. Namuh and Shakhurin, all filed into the room, well aware that history was about to be made. Evidently, smiles are not permitted at such moments.

  The room itself was imposing. The plush royal blue rug, the long rectangular table, a rich, deeply polished mahogany, the leather upholstered chairs, the view of the Washington Monument through the window directly behind the President, all this bespoke power.

  The President glanced at his watch.

  “Did Dr. Jankor phone to say he’d been held up?”

  “No, sir,” Clarence answered. Ike compressed his lips.

  “He seems to have been unavoidably detained nonetheless. Let’s give him five more minutes.”

  Everyone began to stare at the door, waiting for Jankor. I don’t know what I was expecting, probably the stereotypical absent-minded, unkempt little guy with a thick German accent that Americans of the 1950’s pictured all scientists to be—especially geniuses. When Erbil Jankor breezed in, that quaint little picture went out the window. He was a young man, no older than 35. He was tanned and fit, and dressed in a very loud aloha shirt, chinos, and loafers. Jankor carried no briefcase or notes of any kind.

  “Hi, Mr. President, gentlemen,” he beamed. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “I’m certain it couldn’t have been helped,” Ike said, “Isn’t it still a bit chilly out there for … the way you’re dressed?”

  “It sure is. I just got off the plane from Vegas and didn’t even think about where I was.”

  “Las Vegas?” asked the Secretary of Defense primly.

  “Yep, a couple of days vacation. All work and no play and so forth. Did I miss anything?”

  “Not at all,” smiled Ike, in spite of himself. “Let’s begin. Clarence, start with your report.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.” Clarence leaned forward. “Captain O’Brien is midway through an intensive course in Aramaic, and his instructor, Professor Kazakov, assures me that his progress is excellent, and that the captain will be quite fluent by the end of June. We have been and will continue to be providing Captain O’Brien with daily area background briefings including, but not limited to principles of Roman administration of occupied territories, regional topography, flora and fauna, religious practices, customs and folklore, the economic system, social and class relationships, first century arts and sciences, and related topics. The captain studied classical Greek as an undergraduate at the University of Arizona, and has brushed up on his high school Latin. He is in excellent physical condition, and his Air force survival training, flight training, and war record all bespeak a highly intelligent man possessed of physical courage, inventiveness, and the ability to function independently under conditions of high stress. As you know, the President personally interviewed him. I have also interviewed him exhaustively, and have been overseeing his training. Everything is on target. Are there any questions?”

  One of the distinguished philosophers addressed himself, and rather pompously I thought, to Clarence. “Mr. Jones, I’m sure that all this … shall we say, ‘nut and bolts’ training is all well and good. But I’m not at all satisfied that the single most important aspect of the entire project has been sufficiently made clear to the good captain. I speak, of course, of the very real danger of changing history, however inadvertently. As you all know, and I must remind you of this for the record, I have been against this project from the very outset. But, after being overruled, I remained on this council to at least help minimize the possibility of a disaster occurring.” He adjusted his pince-nez, glared myopically around the table, cleared his throat, and continued. “Has Captain O’Brien been made to understand and appreciate the absolute necessity of being nothing more than an observer? The slightest change in his role could rewrite world history. Has it been sufficiently impressed upon him that he is neither to take lives nor to save them? Has it been sufficiently impressed upon him that he is not to introduce any new technology? Has he been made to understand, that, if he marries, he may not, under any circumstances, father any children? Has he been told that he must never make any references to the future or—”

  “Mr. Jones and I have made things clear to the captain,” Ike responded a little gruffly.

  “For example,” Dr. Namuh continued, as if he hadn’t heard the President, “what if he should decide that he has a moral obligation to warn the people of Pompeii before Vesuvius erupts?” He glanced at a file. “The captain will be in his seventies, if indeed he is still alive at the time. Nonetheless. What if he has a child, and—”

  The President was really gruff this time. “I have just told you that Captain O’Brien has demonstrated to my complete satisfaction that he understands all the implications of his actions or inactions, as the case may be.” A tense silence hung over the table. The head of the CIA evidently felt an obligation to break it. He spoke to the group at large.

  “With respect to materiel support to avoid anachronisms, our counterfeiting division has completed the necessary work. Captain O’Brien will be furnished with coinage appropriate for the time and place—Greek drachmas, Roman denarii, Phoenician minas (money of account current throughout the whole of the East Mediterranean), and, of course, talents and shekels. The money has been coined and worn just enough to make it appear that it’s been in circulation anywhere from two to eight years. CIA tailors have taken measurements, and Captain O’Brien will be provided with an absolutely authentic wardrobe. Our people in Damascus sent us some fabric woven in precisely the same manner first century clothing was. It arrived in a diplomatic pouch last Thursday. O’Brien’s bedding, cooking gear, and the very food he carries with him will all be indistinguishable from the gear worn, carried, or eaten by any other first century traveler. Everything’s O.K. on this end. The only major item left is the dental work, and we can schedule that at Captain O’Brien’s convenience.”

  Ike’s brow furrowed.

  “Dental work? Are you having dental problems, O’Brien?”

  “No, sir. At least, none that I’m aware of.” We both looked at the Director of the CIA, who in turn looked to Dr. Namuh. He received no help from that quarter.

  “Yes, sir. Dr. Namuh called us about it. Our Clandestine Med Division is to rip out all the modern dental fillings the captain has. I was given to understand that you had O.K.’d it.” Ike was getting extremely angry. He steepled his fingers and stared at Namuh as if the philosopher was a curious kind of insect he was looking at under a microscope.

  “Pray tell, Dr. Namuh, why on earth do you feel the need to have this young man’s dental work ripped out?” If Namuh was daunted, he sure didn’t show it.

  “Not just the dental work, but some of his good teeth as well. If anyone in the first century were to examine the good captain’s teeth as they are now, it would be obvious, obvious to anyone that the man is—�
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  “A time traveler from the twentieth century? Rubbish!” He turned back to the CIA chief. “Cancel that ‘dental appointment.’ And, by the way,” the President smiled, “good work.”

  Clarence spoke. “And while we’re on the subject of CIA support, I want to thank you again for lending Tom Riley to us on Saturdays.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jones. We aim to please.”

  “Mr. Riley,” asked Namuh, “is he also a teacher of languages?”

  “Mr. Riley,” Clarence answered, “is one of the finest instructors of hand-to-hand combat in the world.”

  Namuh’s face flushed a beet red instantly, and he pounded a puny little fist on the massive conference table. “Have you taken leave of your senses? Hasn’t anything we’ve said, any of the decisions we’ve made in the council gotten through to you, mister?!”

  “I’ve been given charge of three mission-related assignments,” replied Clarence levelly, “security, recruitment, and training. It is my judgment that, at the least, we owe this man some training in how he can protect his life.”

  “It’s men like you who are turning this country into a police state!” Namuh shot back.

  “That will be quite enough,” Ike said irritably. “Next report? Owens.”

  The Director of the Oak Ridge Facility, a thin man dressed nattily in a three-piece tweed suit, removed his pipe from his mouth.

  “All the equipment is in order, Mr. President. Everything’s been checked and rechecked, then it’s been rechecked again.” Ike nodded, and Owens continued. “And the added security measures taken by Mr. Jones make this easily the most closely guarded secret in modern history. But,” he said as his face clouded, “a bit of a problem has come up. Several days ago, three FBI agents burst into my office, asking questions about the project. I told them that they were not cleared for it. When they attempted to enter the L-2 Facility, they were denied access by the Secret Service agents Mr. Jones has stationed there. I got a call just yesterday afternoon from Mr. Hoover himself. In no uncertain terms he told me that internal security of classified defense projects is the responsibility of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and that the Secret Service was exceeding its authority as stated in its charter. He was extremely heated, sir, and he said that an FBI inspection team would arrive at L-2 tomorrow. He said that if the Secret Service agents attempt to deny them entrance, the FBI agents will arrest the Secret Service agents and charge them with interference of federal officers in the performance of their lawful duties.” Ike was scowling. It just wasn’t his day. He pressed the bar on the intercom.