The Mystery of the Pilfered Papyrus, Part II
by Ron Katz
PREVIOUSLY, in Part I…priceless fragments of papyrus from the New Testament were stolen from Oxford University and illicitly sold to the Museum of the Bible in Washington, D.C. The suspected seller was an Oxford professor, Dirk Obbink. His graduate student assistant, Eleni Anogia, insisted he had been wrongly accused and contacted her former professor at Stanford, Vladimir Osofsky, for help.
Osofsky convinced Barb and Bernie to look into the case, which they did on a pro bono basis. Their investigation in Oxford led to several dead ends, until Anogia departed Oxford and left a letter for them confessing to the crime. Furthermore, she claims that the papyrus fragments sold to the Museum of the Bible and now returned to Oxford University were fake, that she has the authentic papyrus with her in Jerusalem, and that she will release that papyrus when Professor Obbink’s name is cleared.
Part II starts with Barb and Bernie preparing to leave Christ Church College, where they are staying in Oxford. Their investigation is now financed by their former boss at the Alpha Insurance Company, Al Jordan, who previously thought that Alpha had no liability on its insurance policy for the papyrus because the papyrus had been returned to Oxford. Now that it seems that the returned papyrus is fake, Jordan is anxious for Barb and Bernie to pursue the case…
Private investigators Barb and Bernie Silver were having afternoon tea in their borrowed room—formerly occupied by renowned, but now disgraced, papyrologist, Dirk Obbink--at Christ Church College, Oxford, when they heard a rapid knocking at the door. Raising his eyebrows—because nothing seemed to have happened rapidly at Christ Church College since they had arrived two days earlier—Bernie went to open the door, where he was surprised to see Reggie, the porter who had been their main human connection at the college.
Instead of radiating his usual calm competence, Reggie was obviously distraught. Removing his ever-present bowler hat and running his fingers nervously through wavy, white hair, he exclaimed, “Coppers! I thought you’d be gone by the time they came ‘round. Would you like me to show you out a back staircase?”
“Why should we be concerned about the police?” inquired Barb. “We work with them all the time.”
“In the six months since I moved from University College in London to here, these buggers have been coming ‘round constantly,” continued Reggie, uncharacteristically agitated. “Every time they don’t find what they’re looking for, they become a little nastier, especially DCI Hare. ‘e’s a mean one.”
“if it weren’t for incompetent police,” said Bernie, “we wouldn’t have a job. Please send them up.”
Glancing at the vibrant papyrus plant in the corner that the person who had given them their current assignment, Al Jordan of the Alpha Insurance Company, had sent them as a joke, Reggie implored “Wouldn’t you like me to take that out for a bit of air?”
“Not at all,” responded Barb. “I’m sure DCI Hare needs all the education he can get about papyrus.”
***
Soon after, there were three authoritative knocks on the door. When Bernie opened it, he saw—in a blue, pinstriped, double-breasted suit adorned with a blue and red rep tie--a tall, beefy fellow, with a thick, dark brown walrus mustache, brushed-back hair to match, grey eyes, and a florid complexion. Behind him, looking extremely uncomfortable, was a mousy young woman in uniform.
“DCI Hare,” intoned the visitor, handing Bernie a card. “Deputy Chief Inspector, that is.”
“No problem with terminology,” responded Bernie. “Inspector Morse is one of our favorite TV shows.”
“I see,” an unsmiling Hare responded. “With me is Constable Brooks. We’re here to see Mr. and Mrs. Bernard Silver.”
“We’re at your service,” said Barb, as she came up behind Bernie.
“There must be some mistake,” responded Hare. “The couple I’m looking for are private operatives.”
“Perhaps our casual appearance is throwing you off,” suggested Bernie. They had been out for a run and were still wearing athletic gear.
“No, no…not at all,” said Hare. “I was just expecting someone…”
“Younger,” chimed in Barb. “We have aged somewhat since staying in this 19th century suite.”
“The lack of central heating is chilling us,” added Bernie, “but we’re from California, you understand, and haven’t adjusted yet to your cold rooms and warm beer.”
“Quite,” said Hare, pausing. “Perhaps we should chat about some missing papyrus.”
“Please come in,” invited Bernie. “We didn’t dress for afternoon tea, but I think you’ll find the cucumber sandwiches lovely, if not quite filling.”
***
Sitting uncomfortably on the decrepit furniture, Hare said, “Two days in, you’re probably not even over your jet lag yet, so perhaps it’s unfair to ask if you’ve made any progress on this long-lasting case.”
“Other than getting a confession, you mean,” said Barb, handing the startled deputy chief inspector the letter from Eleni Anogia. “It appears that a grad student working for Professor Obbink is the perpetrator. Not only did she steal the missing papyrus, but then she made fake versions of it.”
Added Bernie, “The fakes are what she ‘sold’ to The Museum of the Bible. When the Museum returned the material to Oxford, all the university got were fakes. So, the investigation is back to square one, with the exception that Professor Obbink seems to be in the clear.”
“But,” concluded Barb, “according to the grad student’s letter, the issue of the fakes can be cleared up too. If Obbink’s good name is restored, she will return the originals.”
“Hmmm,” mused Hare. “Very interesting, but don’t you think it’s just a little too pat?”
“Too pat?” Bernie exclaimed. “You arrested Obbink in April, 2020 and let him go because you have not yet even charged him with a crime. You could use a little pat-ness. We’ve accomplished more in two days days than you have in two years. ”
Hare ignored Bernie’s remark and read Eleni Anogia’s letter. Putting it down, he said, “So, this twenty-five-year-old master international thief has now revealed to you that she’s off to Jerusalem, and you don’t see anything odd about that?”
“One thing is for sure,” responded Barb. “She’s not in Oxford anymore, where she has been residing for years, right under your nose. Indeed, she’s been living in this very room since Professor Obbink moved out and nobody else was willing to move in.”
Ignoring Barb, Hare rose to leave and said, “I will contact Interpol in Jerusalem. In the meantime, I hope you don’t have travel plans.”
“Nothing much,” said Bernie, “except perhaps a side trip to visit some holy sites in the Middle East.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Hare, motioning to Constable Brooks. “Constable, please take that plant into the station for analysis.”
He strode to the door, followed by the constable, who was struggling with the unwieldy plant. “Good day,” he muttered, and then, looking back, “Might I ask when you intended to bring Ms. Anogia’s letter to the police station, which is not a very long walk from here down St. Aldates.”
“Funny you asked,” responded Bernie, because I was just about to do that. Unfortunately, even not very long walks can be trying for an individual who, as you so tactfully observed, is long in the tooth.”
The door slammed shut.
Barb and Bernie looked at each other, puzzled about what to make of their shambolic first meeting with the English constabulary.
“Let’s pack,” said Bernie.
“I agree,” said Barb. “On the one hand, we’ve been warned by this modern-day Inspector Clouseau to stay here; on the other, we have little to fear from someone who can’t tell the difference between a papyrus plant and cannabis.”
***
Forty-five minutes later, having completed packing, Bernie headed for the door of their suite and said to Barb, “I’ll ask Reggie to order us a cab to Heathrow.”
“Have you checked the flights to Jerusalem?” asked Barb.
“No,” replied Bernie. “But I actually agree with the eminent DCI Hare that that’s probably the last place Eleni would be right now. More likely, she mentioned it in her letter because it has a certain logic to it—many shady bazaars filled with real and fake papyrus relics--and it gets us off her track. Also, Israel has an extradition treaty with the U.S., which would be very unattractive to her.”
“So, where are we going?” she asked.
“Dunno yet. I just know we should get out of the UK. I was hoping to find a private detective who could give me some guidance.”
“On it!” she responded, pulling out her laptop.
***
Reggie was pacing in the porter’s lodge, nervously fiddling with his pencil mustache, when Bernie arrived.
“Can you order us a cab to Heathrow?” Bernie inquired. “We turned in our rental car because Oxford seems to have the world’s narrowest streets, most of them prohibiting cars.”
Reggie straightened up and said “No need, sir. Before she left, Miss Anogia asked me to arrange for Mr. Gibbins to give you a ride there when you needed it. She said she thought you’d be heading for the Holy Land soon.” Alistair Gibbins was a junior faculty member who, like Eleni Anogia, worked for Professor Obbink and considered him a mentor.
“Oh,” said Bernie. “That’s very kind of her and a pleasant surprise. Do you think he can be here in 30 minutes?”
“’Mr. Gibbins works with 2000-year old documents for a living,” responded Reggie, “and those documents have been at Oxford for over a century, so ‘e should be able to spare an hour or two.”
***
Bernie returned to the room and noted that Barb had put her laptop away. “Giving up so soon?” he asked.
“To the contrary,” she responded airily. “I’ve already called the airline to change the destination on our tickets.”
“Do tell.”
“Well,” she continued, “where would you want to be if you were wanted by the Oxford police, Interpol and the lawyers for the Museum of the Bible?”
He scratched his chin for a moment, then answered, “Home…but where is that?”
“Precisely my thought process,” she said. “Go home, because, even if that’s obvious, your knowledge of the local community and its support can enable you to hide out for a long time. So, I emailed Ozzie”—their art professor consultant at Stanford, who introduced them to the pilfered papyrus investigation—”asked where her home was, and got back the answer ‘Detroit.’”
“Makes sense,” Bernie said. “There’s a substantial Greek community there to support Eleni. I myself have enjoyed many meals in the downtown area there known as Greektown. When we arrive, we should eat at the famous Golden Fleece restaurant.”
“Lucky you asked a good private eye to figure this out, Bernie. If you’re playing checkers, I think Detroit is a good guess. But, if we play chess and think several moves ahead—as I think a bright young woman like Eleni would—Detroit doesn’t really work. In the U.S., there would simply be too many resources arrayed against her. The FBI for one—importing stolen ancient artifacts is a federal crime. Second, there’s the Museum of the Bible, which has a $7 million default judgment against Obbink, and literally billions of dollars of backing from the Green family, which owns Hobby Lobby. They would no doubt hire an army of private detectives to track her down.”
“Ok, Miss Marple,” said Bernie. “You’ve both proven and disproven your theory that she’d go home. Now what?”
“I just broadened my definition of ‘home,’” she replied. “I googled Eleni’s unusual last name and found a village in Crete named Anogia. I emailed Ozzie again, and he said that Eleni has visited her grandparents there.”
“Let’s hope that they’re not too long in the tooth,” said Bernie.
“But wait,” she said. “There’s more.”
“Go for it,” he responded. “You’re on a roll.”
“We need to get DCI Hare off our case, literally and figuratively. We also don’t want him chasing after this downtrodden graduate student.”
“You mean,” Bernie replied, “that we don’t want him catching up to her before we do.”
“Whatever,” said Barb. “We need to get him far away from the three places Eleni might be: Detroit, Jerusalem or Crete. He’s just going to foul up our investigation, as he almost did today by warning us to stay in Oxford. So I wrote him this little note, which we can ask Reggie to deliver after we’ve left the UK:"
Dear DCI Hare:
We’re so glad to have met you today. We now feel very comfortable leaving the investigation here in your able hands and the investigation in Jerusalem under the supervision of Interpol.
Before we leave, we wanted to mention to you one more lead that is very promising. Acting for the Museum of the Bible in the papyrus transaction was Scott Carroll. No doubt you’ve read the June, 2020 Atlantic article about him that describes some very suspicious practices.
We have discovered that he is now teaching at the University of Jos in Jos, Nigeria. Although we don’t want to interfere in your investigation, we think we would be sufficiently out of your way in Nigeria. Of course, we will report any findings to you immediately. Also, we have reason to believe, as you do, that Eleni Anogia is not in Jerusalem, but rather is also in Jos, Nigeria.
Cheers,
Bernard and Barbara Silver
”Brilliant,” said Bernie. “absolutely brilliant! 100 to one odds that, after reading this note, he will be on the next plane to Nigeria. I do have one question, though: is there any ‘reason to believe,’ as you say, that Eleni is in Nigeria?”
“There is absolutely no undisputed evidence that she’s not there,” Barb responded. “Plus, it sounds good, so let’s catch our flight to Heraklion.”
“Herakli-what?” asked Bernie.
“The capital of Crete, Mr. Sophisticated,” she said. “You do need a private detective to help you out.”
“Luckily, I know where I can find a good one,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders. “Glad I didn’t listen to my friends who advised against marrying a private eye.”
“With all due respect,” she said, ‘I regret to inform you that your so-called friends didn’t have a clue.”
***
Alistair Gibbins, looking even paler and more dishevelled than they remembered him, picked them up outside the Christ Church porter’s lodge 30 minutes later in an aged Morris Minor station wagon. As Reggie helped with their bags, Bernie thanked Alistair profusely and tried to insist that they could easily call a cab.
“Eleni was very insistent,” Alistair replied. “She emailed me a copy of the letter she sent to you, and she feels badly that she misled everyone and caused Professor Obbink so much pain. I was happy to comply with her request to perform this small service for you. I understand you’re heading for Jerusalem, and I’ve checked the next scheduled flight, which leaves Heathrow in three hours’ time.”
Barb and Bernie exchanged glances, but said nothing for a moment. Then Barb said, “Actually, Alistair, we’re leaving from another London airport—Gatwick—so can you take us there?”
“Done,” he said with a slight hesitation. “Please hop in.”
They couldn’t tell whether he looked puzzled or was just being his general tentative self. Regardless, the plane to Crete left from Gatwick, which left them no choice in the matter.
***
Barb and Bernie were delighted to discover that Heraklion was a modern city of 200,000 inhabitants. As they headed to the GDM Megaron Historical Monument Hotel in the town center, Bernie asked how Barb had chosen it.
“Good location,” she said. “No other real reason, except that the word ‘historical’ in the name seemed appropriate to an investigation of missing ancient papyrus.”
“Good thing we’re not investigating a missing corpse,” he quipped. “Do you have any other plans that I should know about?”
“I just googled ‘private detectives near me,’” she responded. “The name Stavros Abakos came up, so I think we should make an appointment with him once we get settled. Hopefully, he can tell us something about Anogia and maybe even accompany us there.”
“How did you choose him?” asked Bernie.
“Looks like Google lists the private detectives in alphabetical order,” she said.
***
“Anogia is a small place, perhaps 2000 people,” said Stavros Abakos from behind his file-littered desk. He was a slight man, with a sallow complexion, slicked-back, black hair and brown eyes. He wore a khaki suit and a blue dress shirt without a tie.
“We’re looking for someone named Eleni Anogia, an American who we think might be hiding out there,” said Bernie.
“Ah,” said Abakos. “That would make sense. For one thing, there are many named Anogia who live there. But I reget having to tell you that outsiders asking questions would not be very welcome in that town. Anogia was burned down by the Turks in 1822 and by the Germans in 1944. The citizens there haven’t forgotten, and they really don’t like outsiders poking around.”
“That’s why we were hoping that you might accompany us,” said Barb. “We would be glad to pay you a generous retainer.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Silver,” responded Abakos. “But I couldn’t take your money—to the people of Anogia, I am as much an outsider as you are.
“You say you’re from Palo Alto and that you know one of her former professors from Stanford. If you insist on going, I recommend that you try to pass as harmless Stanford academics. As you know, we private detectives do not generally win popularity contests. You wouldn’t want to test that hypothesis in Anogia, where you might well be the first private eyes to step foot there.”
“But you could at least help with translation,” Barb protested.
“You will do better using the translation feature on your mobile phone,” he replied. “It will add to the helpless, clueless image you want to project.”
“I won’t have to pretend being helpless and clueless looking for a missing person in Anogia, Crete,” said Bernie. “My performance will be quite authentic.”
***
Barb was waiting in the hotel room for Bernie, who had gone out to rent a car for the trip to Anogia. He entered the room looking a little sheepish.
“What’s up?” she inquired. “Should I pack?”
“It’s only 40 miles,” said Bernie, “so I think we should leave most of our stuff here and just take backpacks.” He put down on the coffee table two backpacks that he had just purchased. “Fits in better with our image as innocents abroad.”
“Ok,” she said, “but, as innocents, we should also purchase some jeans and t-shirts, and perhaps some Birkenstocks. Nothing like the elderly hippie look.”
“Now you’re getting into the spirit,” he said. “The icing on the cake is the motor scooter I just rented for the trip, a Vespa.”
“I’m all for authenticity,” she said, “and I suppose it’s better than having to use a mobility scooter, but…when was the last time you drove a Vespa?”
“Actually, there was no last time,” he said. “I’d never done it until I drove around the parking lot of the rental place twenty minutes ago. Easy peasy.”
***
Although Anogia was only 90 minutes from Heraklion by motor scooter, what they hadn’t realized was that they were going from sea level to an altitude of 2500 feet. Bernie had also not taken into account how unbalanced the Vespa was, with its off-center motor in the back of the scooter. That hadn’t bothered him in a level parking lot without a passenger, but Barb was not just any passenger.
Scared by the altitude and by Bernie’s inexperience, she tended to lean away from the direction in which they were turning on the curvy, gravelly road. Bernie was, correctly, leaning into the turns, and the countervailing forces they were generating made for some wobbly close calls.
When they arrived at the Aris hotel in the town center of Anogia, both were experiencing some nervous exhaustion.
“I think I’ll Uber back to Heraklion when the time comes,” she said.
Looking at the small main street with only one or two people visible at mid-day, Bernie responded, “Good luck with that.”
“Right now I’ll settle for a shower and a drink,” she said, “not necessarily in that order.”
“Here’s a taverna,” said Bernie, pointing to a sign reading “Aerakis Dolnas Psistaria Taverna.”
“As long as I don’t have to pronounce it,” Barb said, “I’m good.”
***
Having imbibed, checked into their hotel and freshened up, Bernie said, “Dare I ask whether we have a plan?”
“I’m working on one,” she said. “I’ve done a little research on Anogia, which has a very interesting origin story.”
“How’s that?”
“The legend is that back in the mists of time, a shepherd was roaming the local mountain here, Mt. Psiloritis, which is the highest in Crete, at about 7500 feet. The shepherd reportedly found an icon of Saint John the Baptist, which, being a pious fellow, he took to his home, where he placed it with his other icons.
“The next day, he was terrified to see that the icon had disappeared. He then went back to the place he found it, and discovered that it had returned there.
“A church was built on that spot, which was the beginning of what became Anogia. Which is all a longwinded way of saying I think we should start there. In a small town like this, the local cleric should be a great source of information.”
“It’s not far from here,” said Bernie, “so we won’t waste much time if it turns out to be a dead end.”
***
They headed toward the Church of St. John the Baptist in their Birkenstocks, jeans and t-shirts. Bernie had thrown dirt on and scuffed up the Birkenstocks a bit for authenticity. When Barb complained that their feet would get dirty, he responded, “All the better.”
The church seemed deserted. When they knocked loudly on the door, no one answered.
They then walked around back to the graveyard, where they saw an old, gray-haired priest in a black cassock. He wore very thick glasses and had a hearing aid manufactured sometime in the twentieth century.
“He doesn’t look like much of an English speaker,” said Bernie. “This will be a good test of the translation feature of my smartphone.”
“Hello,” he said to the priest, whose back was turned. His phone successfully repeated ‘hello’ in Greek. No response. After two more progressively louder ‘hellos,' he tapped the priest on the shoulder.
Startled, the priest turned around and looked at them quizzically. “Yassas,” he said, which by now they knew meant “hello.”
“Yassas,” Bernie replied, and held up his phone, with the translation feature turned on. “May we speak to you for a moment,” he said, which the phone duly translated into Greek.
The priest looked at him blankly, then pointed to his ears.
“I don’t think we need a translation app to see that he’s hard of hearing ,” observed Barb.
“Well, that is disappointing,” said Bernie, “but let’s go to Plan B.”
“May we speak to you for a moment?” he said, for some reason more loudly. This time, however, he showed the priest the printed translation on the screen of his phone.
The priest squinted through his thick glasses, then shrugged his shoulders.
“I’ll translate again,” said Barb. “He’s indicating that he can’t see that print. Do we have a plan C?”
“In fact, I do,” said Bernie, “assuming he knows a little bit of English.” . He took a laptop computer out of his backpack and printed on its screen in the largest type possible the words “ELENI ANOGIA?”
Now the priest lifted his eyebrows in recognition. Then he pointed at the silver crucifix dangling from a thin chain around his neck.
Now Bernie looked blank. “Crucifix?” he asked. “Cross?”
The priest smiled blankly again, and animatedly kept pointing to the silver cross.
“I think I get it,” said Barb. She took Bernie’s laptop and, using the same large print Bernie had used before, she typed “SILVER?”
The priest’s eyes brightened and he nodded vigorously.
Barb also nodded and pointed to the word Silver and then to her and Bernie. The priest extended his hand and shook theirs enthusiastically.
Then he turned somber, and he motioned for them to follow him. He led them to a fresh grave at the edge of the cemetery and pointed to the headstone.
“It’s Greek to me,” said Bernie.
“I agree,” said Barb. “But look at the dates, 1997-2022. “That’s how old Eleni would be.”
She then typed “ELENI ANOGIA?” again into the laptop, showed it to the priest and pointed to the grave. He nodded sadly.
Barb then googled the Greek word for ‘how’ and put it on the screen in large print. The priest pantomimed driving a motorcycle.
They thanked him, and took a picture of the tombstone. Then Barb did a Google search for the image of a candle, which, pointing to the church, she showed the priest.
He nodded again, and led them to the church, where they lit a candle in remembrance of Eleni. Then they slowly walked back to the hotel.
***
“He seemed to be expecting somebody named Silver,” said Barb, as they sat in the lobby.
“Looks like Elani gave us credit for not being fooled about Jerusalem and for being able to figure out where she actually went,” responded Bernie.
“Yes,” agreed Barb, “In normal circumstances, I’d be suspicious of something like a motorcycle accident at this point—just too convenient—but our hair-raising ride up here has cured me of that.”
“Who knows?” said Bernie. “She might have skidded, alone, on a wet road or she could have been pursued by crazed papyrus pirates.
“If she suspected that bad actors were after her, she might’ve left a clue of some kind. Let’s show the desk clerk the picture of the gravestone so that he can translate what’s on it.”
They did that, and the desk clerk wrote out the translation:
Eleni Anogia
December 1, 1997-August 31, 2022
Beloved Granddaughter of Dimitrios and Sophia
She has ascended beyond Psiloritis.
“Strange statement at the end there,” said Barb.
“Agree,” said Bernie. ”I’m going to go back to the graveyard and take some pictures of the other gravestones for comparison. Perhaps this is a message from beyond.”
“While you’re gone, I’ll check out the local tourist sites,” said Barb. “Hopefully this will at least be a touristically interesting wild goose chase.”
***
A half hour later Bernie returned with a dozen new photos on his phone. “If the local police ever saw these,” he said to Barb, “they’d suspect me of graverobbing. I’ll see if the desk clerk will translate them now.”
“Good,” responded Barb. “FYI, there are some very interesting tourist sites around here—the Psychro Cave, for example, reputed to be Zeus’s birthplace—so we can scooter to some of them when you return.”
After another fifteen minutes, Bernie returned, in a state of some excitement. “I think we’re onto something, Barb. The last words on all the other headstone inscriptions are some form of ‘Memory Eternal.’ Eleni, or her relatives, must have been trying to communicate something to us with these different words.”
“And I think I know what it might be,” responded Barb, “although it’s just a hunch. One of the local tourist sites is the Skinakas Observatory, built at the top of Mt. Psiloritis.”
“’She has ascended beyond Psiloritis.’” Intoned Bernie. “It fits. Your hunches, my dear detective wife, are better than 1000 algorithms.”
“More than a hunch,” she responded, “tells me not to get on that Vespa again. So, before I have too much more time to think about it, we best start ascending ourselves.”
“Yes,” he said. “We’re not likely to get any more clues from Eleni.”
***
After a harrowing Vespa ride at the highest altitudes yet, Barb and Bernie made their way from the parking lot of the observatory to the ticket kiosk. A pleasant-looking, nondescript young man ran Bernie’s credit card for the admission fee.
As he handed it back, he glanced at the name on the card and said “Welcome to Anogia, Mr. and Mrs. Silver.”
“Thank you,” said Bernie, somewhat startled. Then, extending his hand, he said, “And you are…?”
“Stephanos,” came the reply. “Stephanos Anogia.”
“Interesting,” said Barb, “because the former colleague we hoped to visit here also had that last name. Eleni Anogia.”
“Ah,” sighed Stephanos, “my late cousin. She told me recently that someone with your name might be looking for her.”
“We’d love to talk with you,” said Barb.
“Now is not a good time,” said Stephanos, looking at the line forming behind Barb and Bernie. “Why don’t I come by your hotel at 6 tonight?”
“Great,” said Bernie. “Hotel Aris, room 3.”
***
“Didn’t your mother tell you never to talk to strangers?” Barb asked Bernie as they began their observatory tour.
“She made an exception for Anogia,” Bernie replied, “because everybody here is a stranger. And, we seem to have somewhat less than six degrees of separation from Stephanos.”
“I agree that he seemed to be looking out for us, just as the priest was. A little creepy, if you ask me.”
“Sometimes creepiness and private detection go hand-in-hand,” he responded.
“Indeed,” she said. “Not at all clear whether the good people of Anogia are trying to help or hinder our investigation.”
“Or worse,” said Bernie. “Tune in at 6.”
***
As Barb and Bernie entered their hotel at 5 p.m. that day, an elderly woman—she could have been anywhere from 60 to 80—was departing. She was dressed in black, and her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back into a severe bun. She brushed by them without a word.
Bernie got their key from the desk clerk, and they traversed the short distance to room #3.
On their bed was a bankers box filled with plastic-covered fragments of what appeared to be old parchment. “Unless my eyes deceive me,” said Bernie, I’m guessing that this is papyrus.”
“More specifically,” said Barb, looking at some of the markings on the plastic coverings, “it appears to belong at Oxford University. And look at this: a cashier’s check, in an envelope addressed to the Museum of the Bible, for $7 million.”
Bernie rushed out to the front desk and asked the clerk if anyone had been in their room. “No one, sir,” the clerk responded in a heavily accented monotone.
Back in the room, Bernie reported to Barb, who said, “Given the desk clerk’s poor English and the close-knit nature of this town, no point in cross-examining him. Let’s just wait for Stephanos. No doubt, this is connected to him in some way, because he’s the only person on earth other than the desk clerk who knows we’re staying here.”
6 p.m. came and went. At 7, Barb said, “Why don’t you try your friend, the desk clerk, again?”
“I’m batting zero with him,” replied Bernie. “Why don’t you give it a try with your laptop communication method?”
She returned a few minutes later, somewhat nervous. “The good news,” she said, “is that the laptop method of communication worked pretty well. The bad news is that he never heard of Stephanos Anogia. He even showed me the telephone book for this area, which has no such listing. I think we should take this bankers box and get to Heraklion before any other strange things happen.”
“At night, on a Vespa, with a bulky box filled with priceless papyrus?” he exclaimed. “What could go possibly wrong? Why don’t you try a Plan B out on me?”
“Already done,” she said. “My new best friend, Andreas, the desk clerk, owns an old pickup truck. He’s agreed, for $500-- which will be the best money we’ve ever spent--to transport us and the Vespa to Heraklion when his shift ends in half an hour.”
***
“Quite a remarkable day, taking it all around,” said Giles Kenworth, the British Consul-General in Heraklion. “I woke up this morning thinking I’d be dealing with the importation of agricultural equipment, not the exportation of priceless papyrus fragments.”
“We thought you’d be a more appropriate exporter than we would,” said Bernie.
“Yes,” agreed Barb, “Some nosy customs official might have cramped our style.”
“My driver is waiting to take you to the airport,” said Kenworth, “the least a grateful government can do. Is there any other way I can be of service?”
“If you just send off that cable we discussed, we will be Anglophiles forever,” said Bernie.
“Consider it done,” responded Kenworth. “Your handover of these precious documents has given me something to celebrate next July 4. Back to California for you now?”
“Yes,” said Bernie. “With one short stop.”
***
Kenworth then returned to his office and drafted the following cable:
To: Deputy Chief Inspector Richard Hare, Thames Valley Police
From: The Honourable Giles Kenworth, Her Majesty’s Consul-General, Heraklion
Subject: Papyrus Recovery
Understand you lead investigation into subject papyrus.
Pleased to report that said papyrus (and, not incidentally, a $7 million cashier’s check directed to the Museum of the Bible) has been recovered by a Mr. and Mrs. Bernard Silver, American nationals. They have turned said papyrus and check over to me, and I am pouching them to you.
Mr. & Mrs. Silver also reported the demise of Eleni Anogia, for whom I understand you are searching. Attached is a picture of her gravestone in Anogia.
Please advise if you need anything further.
Your humble servant,
Giles Kenworth, OBE
The next morning, Kenworth received Hare’s brief reply—from Oxford but forwarded from the British embassy in Nigeria: “CASE CLOSED.”
***
“You missed the turn to Christ Church,” said Barb as they drove back into Oxford after their flight to Gatwick Airport, near London.
“I’ve had enough of college life,” said Bernie. “ Since we’ve just saved Alpha Insurance Company $100 million by recovering the authentic papyrus, I’ve taken the liberty to book us into the Randolph Hotel, the best in town. Right across from the Sackler Library, in case you get an irresistible urge to see some papyrus.”
“No such urges, irresistible or otherwise,” she replied. ”Were you able to connect with Alistair Gibbins?”
“We have an appointment in that closet he calls an office tomorrow, first thing.”
“Do you think we should also schedule something with some higher-ups?” she asked.
“I think we should avoid them like the plague,” he responded. “I don’t want to answer what will likely be their many questions until we are on a Zoom link safely in California. Let’s not forget that we are not familiar with all the laws about the handling of ancient documents in England."
“You’re right,” she said. “Plus, we have to be extra careful in DCI Hare’s jurisdiction.”
***
“Welcome back,” said Alistair Gibbins from behind the desk in his cramped office, looking considerably sharper than they remembered. “The box of papyrus has arrived from Crete and DCI Hare has called off the dogs, so I guess we’re headed to a happy ending.”
“Not so happy about Eleni,” said Barb.
Gibbins looked at them blankly for a moment and then, in a seeming non sequitur, said “Perhaps I should introduce you to someone.”
He nodded toward the door. In walked Reggie, the porter from Christ Church, who had been so helpful to them.
Surprised, Barb said, “We had intended to stop by Christ Church to say goodbye and thank you, Reggie, so thanks for saving us the trip.”
Bernie added, “We didn’t expect to see you here, but perhaps your acquaintance with Alistair and Eleni has piqued your interest about papyrus.”
“You’re right about my interest in papyrus,” said Reggie, in an accent they hadn’t heard before. “But,” he added, lifting off his wig of white, wavy hair and peeling off his white pencil mustache, “my interest pre-dates those acquaintances.”
“To use a famous quote from British history,” said Bernie: “’Dr. Obbink, I presume.'"
“None other,” Dirk Obbink responded. “You have cleared the way for me to return to civilization, more particularly the ancient civilization that is my life’s work.”
“I think Alistair deserves the lion’s share of credit,” Barb said, turning toward Gibbins. “He must have known that we went to Crete from here. That explains why the good citizens of Anogia seemed to be expecting us.”
“Guilty as charged,” responded Gibbins. “Eleni arranged for me to take you to the airport to keep tabs on you. When you directed me to Gatwick rather than Heathrow, some quick checking after I dropped you off led me to believe that you were heading to Crete, not Jerusalem. I had told Eleni that I didn’t think experienced detectives would fall for her Jerusalem red herring, so she wasn’t surprised when I told her you were heading her way.”
“And now, for all the good it did her, she’s dead,” Barb said.
“Perhaps,” responded Gibbins after a pause. Looking at Obbink and then at the floor, he continued: “Keep in mind that tombstones can be installed in Cretan cemeteries without a lot of red tape, especially if your uncle is the priest. Without elaborating, I hope you won’t spend too much time mourning Eleni—let’s just say that she’s gone to a better place…”
“A better place, perhaps,” said Bernie, “but what is she going to use for money there?”
“Keep in mind,” responded Gibbins, “that she’s had that $7 million for a couple of years, during which bitcoin exploded in value. You can assume that, if she’s alive, she used her smarts to increase that $7 million tenfold. Who says there’s no money in papyrology?!”
“So,” said Barb, “doing the math, she’s still $63 million ahead, even after returning the $7 million to the Museum of the Bible. I’d love to see her again, just to congratulate her.”
“Don’t forget that, if she’s alive, you might already have seen her,” said Obbink. “One can purchase a lot of plastic surgery for $63 million.”
***
Copyright 2022, Ron Katz
