Selected Detective
THE INITIAL MEANING OF GR

It was a similar dream that he had always experienced, every night without exception. It was in a cell underground, very small and claustrophobic, dark, with dirt-covered floors and damp concrete walls. There was something there with him; he had no idea what snake, perhaps, rat, or giant scorpion. Something dangerous, spiteful. He was naked, pressing his weak body against one corner of the cell, trying to get away from things, afraid of contact with it, or against bites and stings. As he did so there was the roar of the machine from a distance, like a large iron wheel slowly spinning, and the walls began to approach each other, bringing the woman and the creature face to face. The woman started screaming, calling her father, insisting he was not a traitor, he was a good Palestinian. The wall keeps moving, sometimes pushing its legs up and open so that its private parts are visible. He felt the creature moving down there between his thighs, crawling his skin, exploring, moving upward steadily. He tried to stay still, not breathe, but he felt disgusting so that he could not survive except jerks, then he was torn up to his lap, biting and slashing and stinging, he said, tore it apart and stood straight inside him.

“No!” he screamed, woke up, his arms and legs drooping.

“Please, God, no!” He convulsed continuously for a few seconds, then collapsed back into his bed, trembling, there was a distant ringing sound in his ears. Slowly his breathing calmed down again and his body relaxed, but the ringing in his ears continued, and once his mind was clear he suddenly realized the phone kept ringing. He caught a glimpse at 1:30 in the morning and then swung his legs out of bed, rubbed his eyes, went to his study while picking up the phone.

“Layla?” That's Tom Roberts' voice.

“It's only one thirty,” said he, his voice stammering, annoying.

“What? oh, Layla! ii'm sorry. I didn't know it was late at night. I just wanted to say ...Ahh, forget it, forget it. I'll call you tomorrow.” It sounds so excited.

“Ingin say what?”

“Tak what. I'll call you again tomorrow.”

“I'm up now, Tom. What do you want?”

Layla still felt like she was in a nightmare and her tone was so sharp, full of suspicion. He has a chaotic feeling that Tom is about to reveal something embarrassing, telling him that he is in love with Layla or the others.

“just want to say that I've thought so much about that since I said last afternoon..” oh my God, thought Layla.

“And I guess I have an idea about the extension of GR.” It took a while for those words to be digested by him, and then, suddenly he was completely awake. He turned on the lights, looking for pens and paper.

“Continue.”

“I do not know why it did not happen to me earlier,” he continued, “I do not understand with references to Jerusalem and secret hidden places. It's really an amazing coincidence. But, I think there's someone named William De Relincourt.” Layla gaped, her pen stalled on a sheet of paper.

“Initial GR, Tom, not WR.”

“I know,” said. “maybe that's why he didn't immediately cross my mind earlier. The thing is, in middle Latin, William's name translates to Guillelmus, with ‘G’.”

He wrote the name and outlined it.

“Who is he?”

“I want to know about Well, this is so interesting,”

said Roberts. “As far as I can remember and as I said this afternoon, I am not good at this period he is the man who built the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Or maybe rebuild it. The original church was Byzantine, I suppose. Or Roman? I can't remember. That's not. In essence, during the era of the crusades the church was finished in the rebuild, and when they built its foundation William De Relincourt was estimated to have a stunning treasure underground.”

“What treasure?”

“I don't know. I guess no one knows. The story appears in one of the chronicles of the crusades. William of Tyre, I suppose, though I may be wrong. Like an incredible coincidence. Two men with the same initials, in Jerusalem at about the same time, discover a mysterious hidden object. Extraordinary.” Layla wrote all the information for herself, then took the translation they had made earlier that afternoon and read it.

“Layla?”

“Yes, I'm still here. I'm rereading the letter.” He finished reading and placed the letter on the table, wiping his short-cut hair.

“I'm hard to understand, Tom. When it comes to politics, I have an address book full of contacts, but mid-history.... I don't know anything about him. He never caught my interest.” Momentary silence.

“If you want we can...” Layla knew what Tom was going to say and immediately cut in.

“I'd rather research it myself, Tom. I'm sorry, this is just my way of working. Nothing personal.” Layla sounds so sturdy, cold. On another occasion maybe he will apologize anyway Tom has helped him a lot but tonight Layla is not in a comfortable atmosphere for that.

“Of course, of course,” Tom said slowly. “I understand enough. Actually I was too.”

“I just need a rudder, Tom. Guidance, guidance. Someone who knows about this. Can you help me?” Layla can hear Tom breathing at the other end of the line.

“Please?” he added.

Shut up again for a moment.

“There was someone in the Holy tomb,” he said finally, there was unease in his voice. One of the orthodox Greek priests. Father Sergius, so his name I guess. The fat man.

Knowing everything there means knowing about the history of the church. He has written a book about it. He might be a good starting point.

Layla wrote the name in her book.

“Thank you, Tom,” said. “I owe you.” Layla senses that Tom wants something more than that on her. That he was waiting for a certain phrase, a kind of certainty. Layla is not interested in that.

William De Relincourt was all he could think of.

“Thank you,” he said once again. “Later I called you.”

Layla put down the phone, sat down for a while staring at the name in front of her, then put her laptop contacts on the phone, logged into Google and started searching.