Moran nodded and went in. The sofa was upended in a corner of the room and fragments of furniture were scattered across the floor. Moran moved amongst the debris, his feet crunching on the littered parquet. The kitchen area had escaped most of the blast, probably due to the screening effect of the utilities wall. He looked over. Ah, perhaps not. The sink had been blown out of the other side and a makeshift bung prevented water escaping from the exposed pipe.
He retraced his steps to the lounge area. The sofa was studded with what appeared to be shrapnel. He reached into his pocket and produced a penknife, winkled out a shard of metal. Grenade? Surely not. This was the Thames Valley, not Seventies Northern Ireland. He went back outside and found a neighbour. Five minutes later he was satisfied. Americans. And one Middle Eastern guy, got away in Dracup’s car. This was beginning to stink. Moran smiled to himself, quietly pleased. A routine tug-of-love child abduction this was not. This had CIA written all over it. Question now was, where would he find them? Which part of Dracup’s life would they take as their next lead? Wife, girlfriend, colleagues? Wherever they popped up next, he’d make sure he was there. This was his jurisdiction and no one was going to trample all over it without his say-so.
Charles Sturrock was busy. Since returning from France his friend’s predicament had taken centre stage. His subconscious had been churning away, worrying at the missing connection, looping and retrying his memory like some dogged computer program. It was on the return flight that all the pieces had finally come together; two thousand feet above the ground his brain seemed to achieve maximum efficiency. Perhaps it was the oxygen.
He remembered the apocryphal ‘Cave of Treasures’ manuscript he had read many years ago. Me`ârath Gazzê, a Syriac manuscript dating back to 306 AD. Many scholars had rejected the manuscript as a mere collection of ‘idle stories’ and ‘vain fables’, but Sturrock had never been that convinced. As with all the apocrypha there was some truth to be found amongst the many embellishments and fanciful additions – if you were careful with your interpretation. They were not canonical texts and so were not authoritative in the way that the New or Old Testament manuscripts clearly were. Sturrock was very sure of his ground with the latter texts – and for good reason: he was in learned company. The council of Nicaea had recognized apostolic writing for what it was, and the gospels had been continually treated as such from their first appearance – in a sense the council had only confirmed what was already understood and accepted as authentic. Far from reinventing Christianity at Nicaea, the Emperor Constantine’s signature had merely rubber stamped the gospels, thus facilitating their global acceptance.
But you digress, Charles. Sturrock shook his head and allowed himself a little smile. Or do you? He poured himself a diluted refill and thought about the apocrypha. Now these writings had to be handled very differently. The centuries had produced many religious writings claiming veracity, but Sturrock understood that scholars down the ages had taken great care to expose fraudulent and misleading texts. He sipped his brandy and contemplated Me`ârath Gazzê, The Cave of Treasures. Was the author’s intention to deceive? He thought not. More likely the opposite: to highlight the wonder of it all. Sturrock grunted. He spent many solitary hours in his study and found vocalizing his conclusions helpful.
The carriage clock on the crowded mantelpiece struck ten. No matter; the night was young. Charles gazed at the ceiling and ordered his thoughts. So: a wonder book indeed, the purpose of which was to reinforce Christian doctrine and introduce detail of a secondary nature – necessarily excluded from the canonical scriptures. Nevertheless, caution was Sturrock’s watchword. As he had begun his investigation he reminded himself that much of this particular apocrypha was founded on nothing more substantial than good old-fashioned myth and legend, but he also reminded himself that remnants of truth lay scattered within if you knew where to look. Willis Rudge was the scholar in question here and Sturrock could only agree with his summary:
‘The ‘Cave of Treasures’ possesses an apocryphal character certainly, but the support which its contents give to the Christian Faith, and the light which the historical portions shed on early Christian History, entitle it to a very high position among the apocryphal Books of the Old and the New Testament.’
Sturrock typed in a new search string and waited. He read for several minutes, but hesitated before scrolling to the next paragraph. In that moment he had guessed the truth. He reached for his brandy with shaking hands. My God, Simon. My God... He took a long pull, set his glass down with trembling fingers and pasted the text into a new email message. As his conclusions tumbled onto the screen he prayed that his friend would check his email account. He reread the message and clicked on the address book icon. Disley, Donnington, Dracup. The doorbell rang.