Chosen by Paula Bradley Page B

Point-Dexter. I might have several questions for you once I’m through.”
    He sank down, bristling from the deliberate mispronunciation of his surname. His hands came to rest across his hound’s-tooth waistcoat, and he heaved the sigh of a martyr while his fingernail tapped against a metal button.
    Frannie read almost one letter at a time. Let the bastard wait , she thought, just like I had to .
    Despite her desire for some small revenge on Poindexter, she was mesmerized by his neat script which captured the text of the solemn words. She remembered Mariah Carpenter’s husky voice, the tones rising and falling with passion—and something else that Frannie was not able to identify:
    You are the Light in this world. Keep this in sight, and give your Light to everyone. Do not deny the Light by going along with the crowd, allowing those who sin to dim your Light. Do not explain the Light to others. Do not ignore the needs of others. Let your Light shine before men that they may see your good deeds, but when you do something for those who need you, do not announce it with trumpets to be honoured by men. Your motive must be pure with no thought of benefit in return .
    Frannie glanced up and said, “Professor, I’d like to know if the person on this tape is comfortable with the language they’re speaking. By that I mean, does it sound like they’re translating from any language into this ... this Aramaic/Hebrew stuff, as they go along, or are they speaking it like it was their native tongue?”
    “Well, Miss Manzotti” (Alistair smirked, knowingly committing three sins at one time; mispronouncing her last name, not addressing her by her Bureau title of ‘Agent,’ and using ‘Miss,’ rather than the modern business address of ‘Ms’)“I must say this tape intrigues me. It is Biblical Hebrew, which, at that time, was Aramaic. The dialect is archaic, the inflection and intonation used today only by biblical scholars.” Forgetting his previous hostility, Alistair leaned forward, his eyes gleaming behind his horn-rimmed glasses.
    “Not only spoken perfectly,” he said, his tone hushed with reverence, “but the vernacular of the educated. No peasant slurrings, no colloquialisms. If I were to make an educated guess” (drawing himself up, Alistair Poindexter reminded her of a male grouse fluffing his feathers) “I would venture to say this man is a rabbi, a teacher, who is speaking before his students. More to the point, what he imparts is the teachings of Christ himself, ‘Lessons in Life’ from the Sermon on the Mount .”
    Poindexter stared into Frannie’s eyes, his superior attitude gone. “I would deem it a great honour,” he said, “if I could meet the man who spoke these words. He not only speaks the ancient dialect fluently, he thinks in it; and, to answer your prior question, it is most definitely his native tongue.”
    Frannie was surprised. She would never have expected this stuffed shirt to humble himself before her. She felt a twinge of pity for this middle-aged man who had dedicated his life to a language forced on those who only needed it to get their theology degree.
    Frannie said, “I’m sorry, Professor Poindexter, I can’t reveal the name of the person at this time. But I promise that, if and when the Bureau is ready to make this public,”—waving the translated text— “I’ll make sure the person is aware of your desire to meet.
    “Thank you for your time. I hope I may call upon you if we need your assistance in the future.”
    She stood up, a signal that the meeting was over and he was dismissed. Obviously disappointed, Poindexter nevertheless thanked “Agent Manzetti” for her promise, picked up his cap and “brolly,” and was escorted out of the FBI building by the department secretary.
#
    Back at her desk, Frannie reread the translation, a sudden chill causing an involuntary shudder. If she wasn’t careful, she might be persuaded to become a born-again Christian.
    Frannie’s