Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [109]
“Why?” I ask.
“Because that’s the way it’s always been. I’m certain your research has established that fact. I’m only surprised you’ve made it this far at a time that coincides with the bones’ relocation.” He indulges in another drink, draining most of the contents of the glass. “You should be proud, Jack. Few have learned of their existence, much less been this successful in their inquiries.”
“Proud isn’t the word I’d use.”
“And you, Ms. Habilla. Do you not feel some satisfaction for being involved in one of the greatest coups in the science of antiquities?”
“With all due respect, Mr. Manheim, coming away empty-handed is hardly a coup,” Esperanza says.
“Let’s call it a triumph of the human spirit, then.”
“You can call it whatever you want,” I interject, “but we have to face the reality that my brother and several of my friends are dead, along with two men on the Manheim payroll.”
“And thousands of men before them, and who knows how many to come. Even I don’t know the number of all those who have lost their lives because of the bones, which is ironic when you think about it.” He shakes his head and downs the rest of the scotch. “They have the power to heal—to raise the dead— yet they have been the cause of more death than any holy relic apart from the grail.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“There is no room for doubt. They are as real as this chair.” He brings a wrinkled hand down on the seat.
It’s a forceful statement, and my gut counsels me against challenging it, so I try another tack.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you won’t find them. And because I think I owe you at least this much.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. If Elisha’s bones exist, and if there has been some grand conspiracy to keep them hidden, why risk it? Aren’t you concerned that I’ll leave here and divulge your secret?”
“I’m not risking much. Whether or not you’re willing to admit it to yourself, you were convinced of their existence before I said a word. As for revealing the secret to the world, well, let’s just say that better men than you have tried.”
“The Raphael,” Espy says.
Manheim gives her an appreciative look. “Among others.”
I run a hand through my hair, trying to dispel disbelief. I set the safety on the gun and slip it in my pocket. Manheim offers a knowing smile.
“The S on the sculpture, the same symbol on the carvings in the temple . . .”
“Identifying an organization, one as old as the bones themselves,” Manheim says. “The first incarnation were Hebrew priests. Over the centuries, that dynamic has changed somewhat.”
“The church in Ethiopia,” I say, but Manheim ignores the conjecture.
“They’re the ones who select the families, who facilitate the transitions and keep a watchful eye on those who would seize the bones for their own use.”
“The brokers.”
Manheim laughs. “I suppose that’s as good a name as any.”
“But . . .”
“Why transition the bones at all?” he finishes for me. “Why not just keep them within the organization?”
I nod.
“For the same reason there is more than one branch to your government. It’s a check against misuse. They can concentrate on protecting the bones while avoiding the politics that invariably creep into any organization.”
I don’t have an immediate response. I’m in the strange position of having too many questions to ask them in a logical fashion. But then the one question I should have asked first, the one I’ve harbored for years, suddenly rises to the surface.
“What was at KV65? What did my brother die for?”
“Like the Raphael,” Manheim says, “the tomb held unauthorized information about the brokers. A good deal more detailed than the symbol on the sculpture.” He gives me a sympathetic look. “I wish I could say your brother died for the bones, Jack.”
While it’s not the answer I wanted, there is some