The Word Read online

  THE WORD

  Irving Wallace

  First published by

  Simon & Schuster

  March 27, 1972

  THE WORD

  “I, James of Jerusalem, brother of the Lord Jesus Christ, heir of the Lord, eldest of the Lord’s surviving brethren and the son of Joseph of Nazareth…herewith…set down a brief testimony of my brother Jesus Christ’s life and ministry…”

  In the ruins of the ancient Roman seaport of Ostia Antica, an Italian archaeologist has discovered a first-century papyrus, its faded Aramaic text revealing a new gospel written by James, younger brother of Jesus. The discovery will show the world a new Jesus Christ, fill in the missing years of his ministry, contradict the existing accounts of his life—and of his supposed death.

  To the world at large, The Word—if it is genuine—will come as a revelation. To the syndicate of international Bible publishers who have guarded the secret since its discovery and gambled their lives and fortunes on its authenticity, The Word is an enterprise of such magnitude that they cannot let it be touched by the slightest tinge of doubt.

  To Steven Randall, the cynical and successful young New York public relations man, the assignment to introduce the International New Testament to the world offers more than an awesome challenge. Haunted by a broken marriage, a problem daughter, a demanding mistress, he sees in it the promise of spiritual regeneration, a chance to save himself from the pointlessness of his life.

  But when Randall decides to investigate the new gospel, he is caught up in a web of intrigue—involving an ex-nun, a homosexual Dutchman, a monk on womanless Mt. Athos, a German printer hiding a scandal—that tests his courage, the authenticity of The Word and his love for the daughter of the man who discovered the lost gospel.

  Swiftly, recklessly, Randall eludes the vast international organization known by the code name Resurrection Two, which has been created to exploit the new Bible. Moving from New York and London to Amsterdam, Paris, Frankfurt, Rome—from the British Museum to a French radiocarbon laboratory, from the Dutch Westerkerk to a monastery on a Grecian peninsula—Randall continues his pursuit of the shadowy, mysterious figure—convict, madman, genius—who alone knows the truth about The Word.

  Resounding praise for Irving Wallace’s newest and most controversial novel

  “Irving Wallace’s latest—and best—novel is a fascinating romp through the world of Biblical scholarship, and Wallace has done his homework well on the technical details. In fact, more responsible prose appears on certain pages of this fictional work than in some of the current pseudo-scholarly nonfiction on the life of Jesus.”

  —Book Week

  “Tops everything Wallace has done before in the boldness of its theme and development of plot and sub-plot. What a story! He maintains the suspense of his tale to the last page. Mr. Wallace will have to go some in future to top this best seller.”

  —Parade of Books

  “…a novelist of the most vaulting ideas. There’s nothing timid about the Wallace approach. With each novel, too, he becomes more expert in the blending of fact and fiction, never permitting one to overwhelm the other. Wallace’s research has never been more recondite or his exploitation thereof more adroit.”

  —John Barkham,

  Saturday Review Syndicate

  “An absorbing theological thriller…”

  —Time

  “A winner…a first - rate suspense story which makes skillful use of Wallace’s talent for research, with a convincing plot that moves along briskly…THE WORD is first-class reading, and edifying as well.”

  —Newsweek

  “…skillful, vintage Irving Wallace.”

  —The New York Times

  “THE WORD is another Wallace success…His achievement has been to weave a rapid-fire story around an imposing amount of research and detail, to coordinate it, to lend it life.”

  —Philadelphia Inquirer

  “A fascinating novel… The characterization is strong, the research deep and effective and the entire book a superior and well-written example of escape literature.”

  —St. Louis Post-Dispatch

  “Compulsively readable and I recommend it… ‘THE WORD’ almost certainly will be a roaring best seller for the simple reason that Wallace always tells a good tale. This new story is no exception.”

  —Omaha World-Herald

  “A whopping good story…engrossing for its authentic Bible lore and insights into contemporary theology.”

  —Detroit Free Press

  “A full 688 pages of enjoyment…An excellent book, refreshingly different and interesting. Wallace’s characters really come alive.”

  —Lawrence Falk,

  UPI Broadcast News

  “The swift pace will leave the reader breathless….There are exciting events in nearly every chapter. The novel is based on excellent research; it is truly an enlightening book on Biblical history and translations.”

  —Atlanta Journal

  “Wallace is a brilliant storyteller, and this novel has enough characters, sub-plots, frightening twists, authentic details, violence, and sex to appeal to a wide range of readers. THE WORD is a powerful suspense story, a love story, an odyssey for truth, an examination of evil, a novel as topical as the latest authentic reports on new Biblical finds, a great character study and a superb narrative answer to Pilate’s ‘What is Truth?’ question.

  It is, successfully, all of these. All at once.”

  —Rocky Mountain News

  For

  Sylvia

  With Love

  In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.

  —The Gospel According to John 1:1

  And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us…

  —The Gospel According to John 1:14

  If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent Him.

  —VOLTAIRE (1770)

  I

  JUST AFTER John F. Kennedy Airport, and as he was having his ticket to Chicago verified, he was handed the urgent message by the attendant at the airline’s desk.

  Call your office. Important.

  Fearing the worst, heart thumping, he hurried to the nearest telephone booth and dialed his office in Manhattan.

  His switchboard operator answered. “Steven Randall Associates—Public Relations.”

  “This is Mr. Randall,” he said impatiently. “Let me speak to Wanda.”

  A moment later, the connection was made, and he was on the line with his secretary. “What is it, Wanda? Is it my father?”

  “No—no—oh, I’m sorry, I should have made that clear—forgive me. No, there’s been nothing more from your family. It was something else, a business matter I thought you’d want to know about before you took off. The call came in just after you left for the airport. It—it sounded important.”

  He was at once relieved and annoyed. “Wanda, what else can be important after what I’ve been through today? I’m in no mood for business—”

  “Boss, don’t take my head off. I just thought—”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. But make it fast or I’ll miss the damn plane. Now, go ahead. What’s so important?”

  “A possible new account. The client himself called in, personally. When I explained you had to leave town on an emergency, he said he understood, but still he insisted he must see you the first moment you’re free and within the next forty-eight hours.”

  “Well, you know that’s impossible. Who was it?”

  “Have you ever heard of George L. Wheeler, president of Mission House?”

  He recognized the name instantly. “The religious book publisher.”

  “Right,” said Wanda. “The biggest. A very fat cat. Honest, I wouldn’t have bothered you at a time like this, exce
pt it sounded so unusual, mysterious—and, like I said, he insisted it was important. He pressed me hard. Said I must get hold of you. I told him I couldn’t promise anything. Only that I’d try to reach you and relay his message.”

  “What message? What does Wheeler want?”

  “Believe me, boss, I tried to find out exactly, but I couldn’t. He was very guarded. He said it was a top-secret matter of international importance. He did explain finally it concerned your representing a hush-hush project involving the publication of a brand-new Bible.”

  “A new Bible?” Randall exploded. “That’s the big deal, the big important deal? We’ve got a billion Bibles already. What do we want with another one? I never heard such crap. Me playing shill for a Bible? Forget it.”

  “I would, boss, only I can’t, because of Mr. Wheeler’s message—what he wanted me to pass on to you. It was so odd, really strange. He said to me, ‘If Mr. Randall is a Doubting Thomas, and wants to know more about our secret project, you tell him to open his New Testament to Matthew 28:7. That will give him a clue to what our project is all about.’ “

  Totally exasperated, Randall said, “Wanda, I have no intention of reading that passage now or ever. So you just call him and—”

  “Boss, I looked it up,” Wanda interrupted. “The passage in Matthew reads, ‘And go quickly, and tell his disciples that he is risen from the dead; and, behold, he goeth before you into Galilee; there shall ye see him….’ That’s the passage about Christ’s Resurrection. That’s what intrigued me—made me curious, and made me decide to try to catch you. What makes it doubly strange is the last thing Wheeler said to me before he hung up. I wrote it down. Here. He said, ‘And after Mr. Randall reads that passage, tell him we want him to handle the Second Resurrection.’ That’s it.”

  This was enigmatic, and eerie to hear on a day like this, considering what had happened and what he must soon face. His exasperation subsided, and he began to wonder what this Wheeler was up to. “He wants me to handle the Second Resurrection? What’s he talking about? Is he some kind of religious nut?”

  “He sounded very sober and serious,” said Wanda. “And he made the project sound like—like something world-shaking was going on.”

  Randall’s memory had groped backward into his past. How familiar it was to him. The Tomb is empty. The Lord has arisen. He has appeared. The Resurrection. In memory, it had been the most meaningful and secure time of his life. Yet, he had spent years ridding himself of this crippling voodooism.

  The public address system was intruding, beckoning to him through his partially open booth.

  “Wanda,” he said, “they’re announcing the last call for my flight. I’d better run.”

  “What should I tell Wheeler?”

  “Tell him—tell him you haven’t been able to locate me yet.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Nothing else, until I know what’s waiting for me in Chicago and Oak City.”

  “I hope it’ll be all right, boss.”

  “We’ll see. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  He hung up, and still puzzled and vaguely unsettled by Wanda’s call, he hastened toward his plane.

  * * *

  THEY HAD BEEN in the air for almost two hours, and he had long since put Mr. Wheeler and his new Bible and his enigmatic Second Resurrection out of his mind.

  “We’re about to land,” the stewardess reminded him. “Please fasten your seat belt, Mr.—Mr. Randall.”

  She had hesitated over his name, as if trying to remember whether she had heard it before and whether he was Somebody. She was a big full-bosomed girl, Texas pretty, with a stamped smile, and he supposed that out of uniform she could be fun, unless she was one of those girls who told you after two drinks that she was really a very serious person and did not make it a practice to go out with married men and was just starting to read Dostoevski. Probably another Darlene, he told himself. But no, Darlene had been reading Kahlil Gibran when he first met her, a year and a half ago, and to the best of his knowledge she had read nothing else since.

  He was tempted to tell the stewardess that he was Somebody, yet he was certain that he was not her kind of Somebody, and besides, it didn’t matter, not tonight, especially not tonight.

  He gave her a nod, and dutifully, he began to fasten his seat belt.

  No, he was not considered a Somebody, he reflected, except by certain people who wanted to become celebrities or remain celebrities, and by powerful people who had a product or even a country to promote. His name, Steven R. Randall, rarely was seen in print or mentioned on television, and his picture never appeared anywhere. The public out there saw only what he wanted them to see, while he himself remained unseen. And he did not mind—even with stewardesses—because he was important where it counted, and those who mattered knew that he was important.

  This morning, for example. He had finally met, face to face, with Ogden Towery III, who mattered and who knew that Steve Randall was important, a couple of million dollars’ worth of important. They had come to final terms on the take-over of Randall Associates, Public Relations, by Towery’s international conglomerate, Cosmos Enterprises. They had bargained as equals on all—well, on almost all points except one.

  That single compromise—Randall tried to soften his capitulation by calling it compromise—still made him uneasy, even ashamed. Anyway, the meeting this morning had been an early beginning for what promised to be one of the most miserable days in his life. And he was miserable because, important personage though he might be, he felt utterly helpless about his life and about what was waiting for him at the termination of this flight.

  To end this introspection, he tried giving his attention to the activity on the plane. The stewardess, no girdle, nice ass, was returning to the front of the cabin, being cordial to those other bodies also locked inside seat belts. He wondered about those others. They appeared moderately happy, and he wondered whether they could detect that he was unhappy. At once, he was grateful for his anonymity, because he was in no mood to speak to anyone. In fact, he was in no mood for the reunion with Clare, his younger sister, who would be waiting for him at O’Hare Airport, tearful and ready to drive him from Chicago across the state line to Wisconsin and Oak City.

  He felt the plane lurch and sink, and he knew that the jetliner was almost home.

  Home, literally. He was coming home for a while, not dropping in or passing by, but coming home after being away—how long?— two years, two or three years since his last visit. The end of his short-long flight from New York. The beginning of the end of the past. It was going to be rough, coming home. He hoped that his stay could be brief and merciful.

  The stewardess had paused in the aisle beside him. “We’re just landing,” she said. She appeared to be relieved, and more human, less plastic, an earthling with earth thoughts. “Forgive me, but I’ve been meaning to say, your name is familiar. Haven’t I seen it in the newspapers?”

  A Somebody collector, after all, he thought.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” he said. “The last time I was in the papers was under ‘Birth Notices.’ “

  She offered an embarrassed laugh. “Well, I hope you had a pleasant flight, Mr. Randall.”

  “Just great,” said Steve Randall.

  Real great. Fifty miles away his father lay in a coma. And for the first time since becoming successful (but surely it had occurred to him before in recent years), Randall realized that money could not buy off every trouble or solve every problem, any more than it could any longer save his marriage or make him fall asleep at three o’clock in the morning.

  His father would say—Son, money isn’t everything—as he took his son’s money. His father would say—God is everything—and he would look to God and give his love to God. His father, the Reverend Nathan Randall, was in the God business. His father took his orders from the Big Conglomerate in the sky.

  Not fair, not fair.

  Randall stared out the rain-splattered plane window at the lands
cape and buildings caught crazily by the airport lights.

  Okay, Dad, he thought, so money can’t buy you and Mom out of this one. So now it is strictly between you and your Maker. But level with me, Dad: If you are talking to Him, do you think He is listening?

  Then, he knew again that this was unfair, also, an old lingering childhood bitterness, a remembrance that he had always competed unsuccessfully with the Almighty for his father’s love. And it had always been No Contest. It surprised him now that this strange pseudo-sibling jealousy still rankled. It was blasphemous—he evoked the old-fashioned brimstone pulpit word—on a night of crisis.

  Also, it was wrong, he was wrong. Because there had been good times between his father and himself. Instantly, he was able to conjure up more fairly the stricken old man—that foolish, impractical, warm, wonderful, decent, dogmatic, misguided, sweet old man, his old man, and suddenly, he loved him more than he had in years.

  Then he wanted to cry. It seemed impossible. Here he was—big man from the big time and big city, with custom-made suit, Italian shoes, manicured fingernails, credit cards, booze, women, Rolls, flunkies, best tables—a sophisticated, worldly, jaded, hardened, image maker, and he wanted to cry like that little kid in Oak City.

  “We’ve arrived in Chicago,” the stewardess’s voice was announcing. “Please check your personal belongings. All deplaning will be done through the front door of the aircraft.”

  Randall blew his nose, found his leather briefcase, stood up shakily, and eased into the line shuffling toward the exit—the exit that would lead him home and to whatever lay ahead.

  * * *

  IT WAS NOT until O’Hare Airport was three quarters of an hour behind them, and the illuminated highway sign indicated they had entered Wisconsin, that Clare finally exhausted herself of the sobbing and blubbering and vain litany of regrets to lapse into humane silence behind the wheel of her car.

  In the airport terminal, Clare had fallen into his arms in a half faint, weeping and moaning. No modern-day Electra had ever matched her public grief. Almost harshly, Randall had ordered her to control herself long enough to tell him his father’s physical condition. He could learn only—Clare avoided medical terms, always had, as being threatening—that his father was in poor shape, and that Dr. Oppenheimer would make no predictions. Yes, there was an oxygen tent, and yes, Daddy was unconscious inside it, and oh God, Daddy looked like he had never looked before.