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where he had handwritten the Aramaic characters: h, w and +.
    Doctor Héber looked exasperated. “Father, with all due respect, Aramaic was the common language in every country of the Middle East, including parts of India, for over a millennium. So of the thousands upon thousands of documents written during that era, you found a single page with three Aramaic letters and you conclude it must be a New Testament scroll?”
    The paleographer realized how ridiculous he sounded after hearing his suspicions criticized out loud by a PhD who was noted for her expertise in analyzing manuscripts. He grew defensive and pressed his argument. “Listen Doctor,” Romano’s pitch raised a notch. “The Pope’s personal Secretary had an uncommon interest in a certain scribe who made habit of writing over heretical texts. He took this book,” Romano rose from his seat and pointed at the Psalter, “from of the shelves of the Vatican’s Secret Archives. He had no right. If he weren’t a priest, I’d say he stole it. Then he was run down and killed by a man on the FBI’s watch list, and the only object the killer took from his body was this. The Psalter may or may not hide scriptures, but beneath the Medieval Latin is a first-century text that someone wants badly enough to kill for.” The priest glared at the raven-haired archivist breathing hard. Doctor Héber stared back impassively.
    The paleographer, who had been so confident he fled with a valuable relic belonging to the church, had his theory discredited in a single concise sentence. All that he had discovered were three Aramaic letters and nothing to indicate they were part of any Biblical text. And his counter-argument made him sound more like a conspiracy nut than a reputable scholar. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.” Father Romano held his hand out for the Psalter.
    “Hold on a minute. I recognize you.” She kept her hands over the prayer book. “You attended one of my seminars, no?”
    “Yes,” Romano said sourly. “Last winter.”
    “Aren’t you the paleographer who had a special interest in a certain scribe you called…?”
    “Giovanni.”
    “ Oui , very interesting and remarkable that you can recognize a particular scribe’s handwriting when thousands tried to write exactly alike.”
    “Well, not truly alike. Every region and even each monastery had their own style.”
    “Fascinating and I’m intrigued that you’re able to date a document by the type of calligraphy used during a specific era. I should have thought something technological would be far more precise, like carbon14 dating?”
    “Carbon14 isn’t accurate at all,” Romano said. “It can tell when the animal died, but not when the words were written. These pages were erased and reused. There could be a thousand-year difference between the expunged text and the one copied over it. Analyzing the style of the script can give an exact date. But I know how busy you are, and you were kind to meet with me.” Father Romano held out his hand again.
    “Father, please sit for a moment.” The priest stood immobile for a few seconds, then sank back into the chair. “Listen,” Isabelle said. “I use infrared, x-ray, digital photography, and computers to rediscover damaged or erased texts. I need dictionaries and my knowledge of dead languages to translate manuscripts. I have a mechanical skill. You, on the other hand, examine stylistic nuance and minute differences in handwriting. And from that, you can tell not only when words were written, but by whom. Please forgive me Father…?”
    “Romano, Michael Romano.”
    “I didn’t intend to demean your professional skill. I remember being quite impressed with your credentials. You said someone killed a priest for this book?”
    “Not any priest, the Pope’s Secretary.”
    Isabelle involuntarily made the sign of a cross, even though she no longer believed in God. “Was he a friend?”
    “Yes. Still, I wish I’d known him better, but we