Morton Smith Movie

[Secret Alias]

And I have to admit remembering things incorrectly. It was in my email account. He didn't allow the kids to watch TV. There was a TV at home. He and his wife could watch it. No dishwasher. No microwave. No TV for the kids:

Constance the wife of the German professor noted that even though he was ordained rabbi and kept a kosher house he routinely ate non-kosher food at her house. She noted he wouldn't let his kids watch TV and kept severe discipline at home. She said she felt sorry for his kids. Apparently they didn't even have a dishwasher for the longest time, no microwave. It was inferred he routinely hit his children and his wife but again how Constance would know that is another question.

[Secret Alias]

Scene 25 INT. GASTER APARTMENT - DAY

A heavy knock resounds through the apartment. LOTTA GASTER, a sturdy woman in her fifties with a strong German accent, approaches the door with caution. The chain lock rattles as she opens the door to a crack, her eyes widening at the sight of the unexpected visitor.

LOTTA GASTER
What are you doing here?

MORTON SMITH stands in the hallway, a middle-aged man with a face bearing the urgency of his mission. His eyes dart past Lotta, seeking the man he came for.

MORTON SMITH
I have to tell Theodor.

Lotta's hand tightens on the door, her voice raising in disbelief and annoyance.

LOTTA GASTER
Are you nuts?

With a swift move, Morton pushes past the door, forcing his way into the sacred space of the apartment. Lotta steps back, giving him a glare filled with disgust.

MORTON SMITH
(calling out)
Theodor! It’s me, Morton. I have to speak with you.

The sound of a door opening echoes from the back of the apartment. THEODOR GASTER, an intellectual-looking man in his late fifties, emerges. His surprise is evident, but his demeanor remains calm.

THEODOR
Morton.

The tension in the air is palpable. Morton nods toward the door, and without a word, Theodor understands. They need privacy.

EXT. GASTER APARTMENT BUILDING - DAY

The neighborhood is alive with the hum of city life, providing a discreet soundtrack to their conversation. Morton and Theodor step outside into the light, their faces serious as they begin to walk.

MORTON SMITH
There’s been a development. It’s urgent, Theodor.

Theodor's eyes search Morton’s, reading the gravity of the situation.

THEODOR
What is it?

Morton and Theodor continue their walk, the city bustling around them. Morton struggles to find the right words, his discomfort palpable in the crisp air.

MORTON SMITH
It occurs to me that there is no good way for me to say this, Theodor... I am having an affair with Lotta.

Theodor stops in his tracks, a laugh escaping him, breaking the tension like a sudden ray of sunlight through clouds.

THEODOR
Oh, that.

Morton, taken aback by the reaction, stands in shock.

MORTON SMITH
You mean you knew?

Theodor smiles, an expression of genuine amusement and a hint of something deeper in his eyes.

THEODOR
You call that an affair? When was the last time you had sex with my wife?

Morton squirms under the weight of the question, the discomfort settling in his stomach like a heavy stone.

Sensing Morton's unease, Theodor places a comforting arm around his shoulder, guiding him to continue walking.

THEODOR
She's just not that way.

Morton looks at him, puzzled by the vague description.

MORTON SMITH
Not that way what?

Theodor takes a deep breath, as if preparing to divulge a long-kept secret.

THEODOR
And neither am I, Morton. I’m gay.

The words hang in the air, a revelation that seems to momentarily stop the world around them.

THEODOR (CONT’D)
I've been in a relationship with a male teaching assistant. We share an apartment.

Morton, still processing, looks at Theodor with newfound understanding and curiosity.

MORTON SMITH
I had no idea...

Theodor nods, his smile softening.

THEODOR
Few do. But it’s the truth, and it’s my life.

The revelation marks a turning point in their conversation, as they continue to walk down the street, their steps lighter, a barrier broken between them. The enter a small cafe.

Morton and Theodor sit at a secluded table, their coffees untouched as they delve into a conversation far removed from the bustle of the city around them.

MORTON SMITH
Theodor, I... I don't know what to say. I just assumed you were as devoted to your work as...

Morton trails off, struggling to find the right words, his gaze fixed on the table, unable to meet Theodor’s eyes.

THEODOR
(softly, with a hint of irony)
You mean like you?

Morton looks up, meeting Theodor's gaze, a mix of guilt and realization in his eyes.

MORTON SMITH
I just assumed.

Theodor sighs, a weariness in his posture that speaks of burdens long carried.

THEODOR
I don’t have many years to live, Morton. And my interest in Lotta... it faded a long time ago.

Morton, puzzled, leans in, trying to understand the man he thought he knew.

MORTON SMITH
But why? Why stay together?

Theodor smiles softly, a glimmer of happiness breaking through his tired facade.

THEODOR
Paul makes me happy. He’s been the light in a life that had become too accustomed to the dark. With him, I've found a peace I never knew with Lotta.

Morton nods, the pieces falling into place, his perspective on Theodor and his own actions shifting.

MORTON SMITH
I had no idea. The life you’ve been leading, the sacrifices...

Theodor reaches across the table, placing a reassuring hand on Morton’s.

THEODOR
We all wear our masks, Morton. Some just become more comfortable than others. But in the end, finding happiness, real happiness, means shedding those masks.

Morton looks at Theodor, a newfound respect and understanding forming. The conversation shifts away from confessions and revelations, moving towards deeper, more philosophical discussions about life, happiness, and the masks they wear.

FADE OUT.

Scene 26 INT. JACOB NEUSNER'S OFFICE - DAY

The atmosphere in the room is tense. Books line the walls, and papers clutter the desk. Neusner sits behind the desk, calm but firm. Morton stands across from him, visibly upset.

MORTON SMITH
(angrily)
You're denying Theodor's grant application? On what grounds?

JACOB NEUSNER
(uneasily)
Morton, it’s complicated. The decision isn't solely mine. We have to consider the committee's perspective and the public's reception.

MORTON SMITH
(frustrated)
But his research is groundbreaking! It’s about the quality of the work, not his personal life.

JACOB NEUSNER
(sympathetically but firm)
I understand your frustration, Morton. But there are...other considerations.

MORTON SMITH
(getting angrier)
Other considerations? You mean his being gay? Since when does the NEA discriminate based on sexuality?

JACOB NEUSNER
(trying to maintain calm)
It’s not just about sexuality, Morton. We have to think about the image and the messages we support.

MORTON SMITH
(disgusted)
The image? The message? The message should be about supporting excellence in research, Jacob, not perpetuating prejudice!

JACOB NEUSNER
(resolute)
Morton, I’m sorry, but my hands are tied. The decision has been made.

MORTON SMITH
(fuming)
Then you should untie them, Jacob! What’s the point of having power if you don’t use it to fight for what’s right?

Neusner looks away, uncomfortable, unable to meet Morton's gaze. Morton shakes his head in disbelief, his respect for Neusner visibly shaken.

MORTON SMITH
(voice softer, but filled with disappointment)
I thought better of you, Jacob. I really did.

Morton turns and walks out of the office, leaving Neusner sitting in silence, the weight of the conversation heavy in the air.

[Secret Alias]

Scene 28 1974 - 75 INT. MORTON SMITH'S OFFICE - DAY

MORTON SMITH, mid-50s, distinguished but wearied, sits in a cluttered academic office surrounded by books, papers, and artifacts of a lifetime spent in scholarship. The muted sunlight filters through a dusty window, casting a serene glow over the room. Smith opens his mailbox to find a letter from an academic publisher. He pauses, sensing the importance of this correspondence.

Cutting open the envelope with a letter opener, Smith unfolds the letter and begins to read. His eyes narrow as he absorbs the words, a mixture of disbelief and anger crossing his face.

MORTON SMITH (V.O.)
(Quietly seething)
"The Mar Saba Clementine: A Question of Evidence," indeed. How can Quesnell dare to accuse me of forgery in such a public and academic manner?

Smith sets the letter down, pacing back and forth as he reflects on QUENTIN QUESNELL's allegations against him. The accusations are pointed, suggesting Smith could have forged the document with knowledge of Otto Stählin’s 1936 index of Clement’s vocabulary and other studies.

MORTON SMITH (V.O.)
(Increasingly frustrated)
He even implies my expertise and access align too conveniently with the actions of a hypothetical forger. Questioning my integrity, my life's work, on the basis of what? Speculation?

Smith stops pacing, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular as he contemplates the gravity of the situation. The notion that his peers might doubt his discovery's authenticity weighs heavily on him.

MORTON SMITH (V.O.)
(Reflectively)
And now, the call for forensic testing. As if the manuscript itself, the history it unveils, weren't enough. What's next? Shall they question every discovery, every piece of history not fitting neatly into their preconceived notions?

Smith returns to his desk, sitting heavily. He picks up a pen, pondering his next move. The attack on his credibility has struck a deep chord, but it has also ignited a fire within him.

MORTON SMITH (V.O.)
(Resolutely)
This isn't just about defending a discovery. It's about defending the pursuit of knowledge, the very essence of academic freedom and integrity. Quesnell, you've thrown down the gauntlet. I accept.

Smith begins to write a response, his determination palpable. The stakes are high, not just for him but for the academic community at large. As he writes, the camera zooms in on his focused expression, a testament to his unwavering commitment to his work and the truth.
EXT. UNIVERSITY CAMPUS - DAY

MORTON SMITH strides out of his office, a man possessed with a quiet intensity. He nearly bumps into a GRAD STUDENT, mid-20s, who is sitting outside his door, books scattered around, deeply engrossed in study.

MORTON SMITH
(Stopping, turns to Grad Student)
What are they saying about me?

GRAD STUDENT
(Looking up, perplexed)
Saying about you, Professor?

SMITH
Yes, about the Mar Saba document. That I forged it?

The Grad Student sets his book down, a look of disbelief crossing his face.

GRAD STUDENT
(Reassuringly)
Don't pay that any mind, sir. You’re a genius, a scholar of impeccable standing.

Smith offers a wry smile, touched by the student's faith in him but weighed down by the gravity of the accusations.

SMITH
(With a hint of sadness)
Many don’t see things that way. They’re saying I planted the book in the monastery. They’re going to publish it in a major academic journal.

The Grad Student's shock is palpable, his respect for Smith making the news even more disheartening.

GRAD STUDENT
(Shock transitioning to resolve)
Well, you’re going to fight them, aren’t you, sir?

Smith's smile widens, a spark of defiance lighting up his eyes. He nods, more to himself than to the student, his resolve hardening.

SMITH
(Confidently)
Of course, I am. Not just for my sake, but for the integrity of academic research. This isn’t just about proving them wrong; it’s about standing up for what’s right. Truth has a value, and I intend to defend it.

The Grad Student nods, inspired by Smith's determination. Smith claps the student on the shoulder, a silent thank you for the support, before turning to walk away, his stride purposeful.

GRAD STUDENT
(Calling after him)
You’ll have all of us behind you, Professor! We believe in you!

Smith raises his hand in acknowledgment without turning around, the weight of the upcoming battle evident but not enough to break his stride or his spirit.

CUT TO:

EXT. UNIVERSITY CAMPUS - CONTINUOUS

Smith walks away, his figure slowly disappearing into the crowd of students. The camera pans up to the sky, symbolizing the looming challenge but also the unyielding resolve to face it head-on.

FADE OUT.

Scene 29
INT. THE CATHOLIC BIBLICAL QUARTERLY OFFICES - DAY

MORTON SMITH, with an aura of determination, forcefully enters the lobby, bypassing a startled SECRETARY who tries to block his path.

SECRETARY
(Attempting to regain control)
Sir, you can't just—

SMITH
(Cutting her off, firmly)
I need to see the editor. Now.

Before the secretary can respond, the EDITOR, a composed man in his late 50s with a priest's collar, emerges from his office, drawn by the commotion.

EDITOR
(With authority)
Let the professor in.

INT. EDITOR'S OFFICE - CONTINUOUS

The editor ushers Smith into his office, closing the door behind them. Smith, barely containing his anger, gets straight to the point.

SMITH
(Desperately)
You can’t publish this paper. It’s defamatory!

EDITOR
(Calmly)
Professor Smith, we’ve already given you a chance to respond. The decision stands.

SMITH
(Frustrated)
But the damage to my reputation will already be done!

Smith’s voice softens as he continues, his passion for his work evident.

SMITH (CONT’D)
I was a priest, you know. Maybe not a clergyman from your faith, but a priest all the same. But an even higher standard is being a scholar. A scholar has a higher calling. To the truth. No matter where it leads. No matter what sacred cows might get sacrificed along the way.

The editor listens, unmoved, his demeanor still professional but slightly sympathetic.

EDITOR
(Reflectively)
Nothing is more important than serving God. Why did you stop being a priest?

Smith’s question catches him off guard, revealing a personal vulnerability.

SMITH
(Challengingly)
And what about Quesnell? He was defrocked by your Church. What makes him so special? Why not turn around the questions and pose the same line of inquiry to him.

The editor hesitates, the question striking a nerve. The air in the room grows tense as two men, both devoted to their beliefs, confront the complexities of faith, scholarship, and truth.

EDITOR
(Quietly)
Each case is unique. Our faith teaches us to seek forgiveness and understanding. But your point is taken, Professor Smith. Our commitment is to the truth, above all.

Smith nods, understanding the editor’s position but still frustrated by the implications for his career.

SMITH
(Firmly)
Then know this: my work, my discovery, it’s bigger than me, bigger than us. It’s about advancing our understanding of history, of faith. If you publish that article, you're not serving the truth. You're hindering it.

The editor looks at Smith, the weight of his words hanging in the air. A moment passes, a silent acknowledgment of the shared pursuit of truth that binds them, despite their differences.

EDITOR
(Solemnly)
I’ll give you 1500 words to respond to Professor Quesnell’s concerns. That’s all I can promise..

Smith, realizing this is the most he can hope for, nods solemnly, and turns to leave, his resolve unbroken but his path uncertain.

FADE OUT.

Scene 30 INT. MORTON SMITH'S OFFICE - DAY

The office is cluttered with books and papers, a testament to a lifetime of scholarly pursuits. MORTON SMITH sits at his desk, illuminated by the soft glow of a desk lamp, typing fervently on his typewriter. He pauses to read aloud his draft, a mixture of frustration and determination in his voice.

SMITH
(Reading aloud)
"I am allowed about 1500 words. I cannot complain at the limitation; it indicates the importance of Quesnell's quibbles.”

He shakes his head slightly, a smirk appearing as he continues to dissect Quesnell's arguments with his words.

SMITH (CONT’D)
“Nothing I saw in the manuscript, nor anything seen in the photographs by other scholars, raised any suspicion that the text was modern.”

Smith leans back in his chair, turning his gaze away from the typewriter to speak to himself, his voice a mixture of anger and incredulity.

SMITH (CONT’D)
(To himself)
"He challenges the text solely because of its content. The other texts from the library go unquestioned. But one should not suppose a text spurious simply because one dislikes what it says.”

He stands up abruptly, pacing the room as he reflects on Quesnell's motives, his voice growing more heated.

SMITH (CONT’D)
(To himself, sarcastically)
"He hates the text because it references homosexuality. What is Quesnell, the one straight priest in the whole fucking Church? If he hates gays so much, why did he join this religion of Liberace-like pageantry?"

Smith moves to the kitchenette area of his office, pouring himself a drink as he continues his monologue.

SMITH (CONT’D)
(Considering)
"He hates me. He hates gays. He must think that I am gay. Yes, that's it. He thinks I am gay and I forged the text to make Jesus gay."

He takes a sip, then pauses, contemplating further.

SMITH (CONT’D)
(Reflectively)
"But why couldn't Jesus be gay? He never got married. Quesnell must think he's like Jesus, falling in love with his Mary Magdalene. But where is the evidence that Jesus and Mary were in love? This is a foolish romantic notion."

Smith's reflections take a more personal turn as he contemplates his own life and the nature of human loneliness.

SMITH (CONT’D)
(Somberly)
"Or maybe he thinks he's fallen from perfection. Maybe he thinks Jesus was totally celibate, but Quesnell couldn't reach that pinnacle, that pinnacle that I more closely approximate."

He takes another sip of his drink, his expression somber.

SMITH (CONT’D)
(To himself)
"What kind of life do I have here? I am going to die alone and most probably so will he. Either he or his beloved wife will die first and then the other gets left behind. I've just got a head start on them."

Smith sets his drink down and returns to his typewriter, his resolve hardened. He resumes typing, each keystroke a defiance against doubt and condemnation.

The room is dimly lit, the only light emanating from a desk lamp. MORTON SMITH, now slightly inebriated, is leaning against his desk, a glass of whiskey in hand. He lifts the glass in a solitary toast.

SMITH
(To himself)
"So, Quesnell and I are really both playing Jesus or battling for who's closest to our Lord. Surely I win."

He smirks to himself, a mix of sarcasm and self-assurance in his tone.

SMITH (CONT’D)
"What has Quesnell ever accomplished? He fell in love. God, or fate, or whatever you want to call it, chose me. I was given this manuscript. I was chosen out of all the generations of men to find a reference to a lost gospel buried in an ancient letter inscribed in an old printed book."

He takes another sip of his drink, savoring the moment of triumph.

SMITH (CONT’D)
"I win."

As he raises his glass in a self-toast, the atmosphere in the room shifts subtly. A faint, ethereal glow begins to manifest in front of him, materializing into the form of LEAH, appearing as a ghostly vision. Her presence is serene yet unsettling.

LEAH
(Exclaiming)
"But you lie."

Smith, taken aback, nearly drops his glass. He struggles to compose himself, staring in disbelief.

SMITH
(Shakily)
"Lie? What do you mean?"

Leah gazes at him with a depth that transcends the corporeal, her eyes piercing into his soul.

LEAH
(Whispering)
"A letter."

Smith, puzzled, echoes her words, trying to grasp their meaning.

SMITH
"The Letter? How is the letter a lie? I found it exactly as I testified."

Leah places her finger to her lips in a gesture calling for silence and contemplation.

LEAH
(Softly)
"One letter."

As she utters these cryptic words, she fades away, leaving Smith in a state of profound confusion and introspection.

The room is silent again, save for the soft ticking of a clock. Smith stands alone, the ghostly visitation leaving him to ponder the mysteries of his discovery and the enigmatic warning from beyond.

The office is quiet, the only sound is the gentle ticking of the clock. MORTON SMITH is seated at his desk, visibly shaken from his recent vision. He leans back in his chair, pondering deeply, then leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his fingers templed in front of him.

SMITH
(Quietly, to himself)
"Quesnell insinuates that I forged the manuscript. Such accusations...they're customary when important manuscripts are discovered. But denial...denial doesn’t dispose of them. Anyone who would forge a manuscript would, of course, deny doing so."

Smith's voice trails off as he considers the gravity of the accusation. He shakes his head in disbelief, the idea seeming more and more ludicrous to him.

SMITH (CONT’D)
(Increasingly animated)
"And he calls me his 'mystifier,' as if I've concocted the entire discovery from thin air. Does he not grasp the Herculean effort that would require?"

Smith stands up, pacing the floor, animated by the absurdity of the situation.

SMITH (CONT’D)
(With a scoff)
"Sure, perhaps a gifted paleographer could mimic an eighteenth-century Greek hand convincingly enough to deceive experts across continents. And maybe, just maybe, someone could meticulously compile a list of words a Church Father used and echo his style precisely. But that...that would take years, not done in the blink of an eye."

He pauses in his pacing, the weight of his thoughts grounding him momentarily.

SMITH (CONT’D)
(Reflectively)
"And to suggest this imaginary genius, when faced with the task of forging a gospel text, would opt for a clumsy imitation of Mark, riddled with gospel phrases? To believe in such a man is to believe in the impossible. It's a faith so strong, it could indeed move mountains."

Smith stops pacing, the fervor in his voice fading into a mix of frustration and resignation. He stares out the window into the night, contemplating the complex web of scholarship, faith, and human nature.

The camera zooms in on MORTON SMITH, his anger now palpable as he stands from his chair, the evening's quiet amplifying the intensity of his monologue.

SMITH
(Angrily, pacing)
"But what gnaws at him, more than anything, is the fear that his faith... his faith might have blinded him to the truth. The truth that he, like so many others, merely escaped into a world of conventionality."

Smith stops pacing, turns towards an imaginary audience, his eyes blazing with passion.

SMITH (CONT’D)
(With a sneer)
"There he was, amidst a congregation of closeted men, all cloaked in the safety of their collective hiding. From whom? Their families? Themselves? Who would choose such a life? A life punctuated only by fleeting moments of passion, followed by the emptiness of the return to their masquerade."

He clenches his fist tightly, as if trying to grasp the essence of his frustration.

SMITH (CONT’D)
(Furiously)
"He thinks he stands apart – the lone heterosexual in a grand, tragic comedy. Did he ever remove his mask, or did he simply exchange it for another? What profound loneliness did he endure, performing his sacred duties, all while denying his true self?"

Smith wraps his arms around himself, mimicking a hug, his anger transitioning to a poignant blend of empathy and disdain.

SMITH (CONT’D)
(Softly, almost to himself)
"Has he only traded one form of solitude for another? Clinging to his wife as he once claimed to cleave unto his Lord. In forsaking his vow of celibacy, has he not turned his back on what he believed was his divine calling? In his desperate grasp for normalcy, for his wife, did he not betray his own Lord?"

He releases himself from his self-embrace, looking defeated and contemplative.

SMITH (CONT’D)
(Quietly)
"In his flight from solitude, from the truth of his own existence, has he found solace, or has he merely found a new form of imprisonment?"

Smith collapses back into his chair, the fight gone out of him, replaced by a profound sense of resignation and introspection.

The camera zooms in on MORTON SMITH, his anger now palpable as he stands from his chair, the evening's quiet amplifying the intensity of his monologue.

MORTON SMITH, seated at his desk, looks directly into the camera, as if addressing an unseen confidant. His voice is calm, carrying a weight of resolve.

SMITH
(In his own voice, with a sense of revelation)
"The gospel uncovered in my discovery stands in stark contrast to anything from my past life. It was as if a scroll fell from the heavens directly into my hands. The teachings it contained were not unfamiliar, having echoed throughout the Gospel of Mark, yet the aspect that revulsed Quesnell, the very reason for his departure from the priesthood, was its crown jewel."

Smith leans forward, his eyes reflecting a mix of passion and conviction.

SMITH (CONT’D)
(With intensity)
"Quesnell despises the letter for it lays bare his own deceit. It speaks of Jesus bestowing a disciple with the sacred mystery of God – a journey Quesnell was unable to complete. He disembarked prematurely, unable to reach the final station. Perhaps, the same accusation could be hurled at me. Yet, in discovering this ancient text, I can't help but feel chosen, redeemed even, by God."

A self-satisfied smile plays on Smith's lips as he turns back to his papers, ready to pen his rebuttal.

SMITH (CONT’D)
(Resolutely, as he begins to write)
"But now, it falls upon me to address Quesnell's unfounded allegations. To defend not just my discovery, but the integrity of a lifetime of scholarship."

The camera pulls back as Smith begins to write fervently, the sound of the pen scratching against the paper filling the room, a testament to his unwavering dedication to truth and scholarship.

MORTON SMITH, engrossed in his work, scribbles the final words of his rebuttal. A sense of triumph washes over him as he places the pen down, leaning back to admire his handiwork. A self-satisfied smile creeps across his face, the glow of the desk lamp illuminating his sense of accomplishment.

Suddenly, the serenity of the moment is pierced by a haunting, ethereal WHISPER in Hebrew, cutting through the silence like a knife.

LEAH'S VOICE
(Whispering, with a chilling clarity)
לא יורד אחד

Subtitles fade in: "Not one iota"

The words hang in the air, a spectral indictment. Smith's smile fades instantly, replaced by a look of utter shock. His eyes dart around the room, searching for the source of the voice that seems to have materialized out of thin air.

CUT TO:

The CAMERA SLOWLY TURNS towards an open window where the curtains billow dramatically, caught in a sudden, inexplicable gust of wind. The papers on Smith's desk flutter in the turbulence, the air charged with an unspoken tension.

CUT BACK TO:

MORTON SMITH, his face a canvas of confusion and disbelief, stares into the void, grappling with the invisible presence that has invaded his sanctuary of scholarly solitude.

The whisper echoes in his mind, a haunting reminder of doubts he dared not acknowledge, challenging the very foundation of his discovery and, by extension, his belief in his own narrative.

As the CAMERA PULLS AWAY, Smith remains frozen, a solitary figure engulfed in the shadows of uncertainty cast by the flickering light and the restless curtains, leaving the audience to ponder the implications of Leah's cryptic message.

FADE OUT.

Scene 31 1976 INT. MAR SABA MONASTERY - LIBRARY - DAY

A room filled with old books, dimly lit and coated with dust. PROFESSOR GUY STROUMSA, along with HEBREW UNIVERSITY PROFESSORS DAVID FLUSSER and SHLOMO PINES, and GREEK ORTHODOX ARCHIMANDRITE MELITON, navigate through disarray under the guidance of MAR SABA MONK SERAPHIM.

CUT TO:

The team moves with a sense of purpose, yet the chaos of the library challenges them. Books are strewn about without care, a silent witness to neglect.

SERAPHIM
(optimistically)
It should be here somewhere. Smith's findings rarely move beyond these walls.

Amidst a pile on the floor, Flusser uncovers a book. He coughs as dust clouds the air, flipping it open to reveal the writing at the end.

FLUSSER
(excitedly)
This is it! The manuscript of Clement!

The team gathers around, awe and disbelief mingling in their expressions. The long-sought manuscript of Clement lies before them, just as Smith described, forgotten in the dust.

FLUSSER
(disapprovingly)
What kind of a scholar, could permit this? To walk off, leaving such a discovery to fate like this?

MELITON carefully picks up the manuscript, his resolve evident.

MELITON
(resolutely)
We can't leave it here. It will be safer in the Patriarchate library in Jerusalem.

CUT TO:

INT. JERUSALEM - GREEK ORTHODOX PATRIARCHATE LIBRARY - DAY

With the manuscript now in a safer place, the conversation turns to authenticating the text through ink analysis.

STROUMSA
To confirm its authenticity, we must test the ink.

MELITON hesitates, aware of the implications.

MELITON
The Jerusalem police have the necessary equipment, but...

Flusser and Pines share a look of concern, understanding the complexity of the decision.

MELITON
(continuing)
I cannot leave it with them. We'll forgo the test.

Though the team is visibly disappointed by the decision, they agree, prioritizing the manuscript's safety over the quest for definitive proof.
EXT. JERUSALEM STREETS - DAY

DAVID FLUSSER and SHLOMO PINES walk side by side, leaving the tranquil confines of the Greek Patriarchate behind. The bustling streets of Jerusalem encase their thoughtful discussion in the hum of the city.

FLUSSER
(pondering)
What do you think, Shlomo?

SHLOMO
(quirking an eyebrow)
Think about what?

FLUSSER
Either it's a fake or it's authentic. But those priests, what do they care?

SHLOMO
This is their religion; it has nothing to do with us. We tried to preserve a document.

Flusser's gaze drifts, lost in thought, as they navigate the ancient cobblestones.

FLUSSER
Remember, Shlomo, even though I am Jewish, as a young schoolboy, my parents sent me to a Christian school. It was only when I came here, to Israel, before the War, that I became an observant Jew. I don't believe in Jesus, but he still means something to me personally.

Shlomo listens, understanding the complexity of Flusser's identity and beliefs.

SHLOMO
We are scholars. We aren't supposed to get involved unless it means the destruction of ancient testimonials.

FLUSSER
But is it an ancient text? I knew this man, Morton Smith, during the war. He went to the Hebrew University. Was supposed to even marry a Jewish girl. Very strange fellow.

Their steps slow as they approach a crossroad, symbolizing the intersection of their scholarly pursuits and personal beliefs.
As they continue their walk, SHLOMO PINES turns towards DAVID FLUSSER, an expression of familiarity and gentle rebuke on his face.

PINES
David, I've known you for a long time, and you always think the worst of people.

FLUSSER
(shrugging)
History hasn't been kind.

PINES
Morton Smith is a scholar. Scholars don't forge ancient documents.

FLUSSER
(with skepticism)
But what are the odds? A man comes all the way here from America, rummages around in an old library, and then finds a miraculous document like this. He could have brought the book with him and penned that silly little letter long before any of this. Who would be the wiser?

Shlomo stops walking, turning to face Flusser fully, a challenge in his gaze.

PINES
Would you do such a thing?

Flusser falls silent, the question hanging in the air between them. After a moment, Pines continues, his voice firm.

PINES
(earnestly)
Exactly, and neither would I, neither would anyone who is an academic pursuing the truth. It would be a sacrilege.

FLUSSER
(softly)
It would make a great story, though.

PINES
(chuckling)
That it would. But as we know, old books aren't that exciting. There's a lot of handwriting and handwringing, but all this only unfolds in the mind of the scholars studying these old texts.

Pines gently pats Flusser on the shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie and consolation.

PINES
(concluding)
Best to leave these storylines for pulp fiction novels and the movies.

They share a knowing look, their friendship and mutual respect for their profession bridging any disagreements. As they walk on, their conversation fades into the bustle of Jerusalem, a city that has witnessed countless stories, both real and imagined.


FADE OUT.

[StephenGoranson]

Prof. A. D. Nock (and his office) was at Harvard rather than Columbia.
Some other bits don't ring true to me, but I don't know if you want such feedback.

[Secret Alias]

I do desperately. I know Nock was at Harvard. My assistant sometimes blurs details. I just drop thinks on my assistants pile of things to do. I am open to anything within certain bounds. I am usually the agent booking artists so the one chance I have to play artist I want to take advantage of it. I have rewritten the middle part of the last section. I keep telling my son to watch old William Shatner acting roles to be more demonstrative on the football pitch. So my soliloquy for Morton Smith sounds (and plays out) a little too much like a Shatner speech on Star Trek. I have added the whole soliloquy. I am wondering whether to put the NEA stuff later between the 1976 move of the text. But I want to show that Morton Smith used the media to get revenge on his critics. The 1982 book was sort of like that. He was break the mold of how a scholar could behave. I tried to make the narrative (in my bad William Shatner way) like Doubt. Like we're never sure he isn't the forger. Perhaps it's not done to the right degree. It's just a first draft. I still plan to have Smith visit a gay bar in Manhattan (to balance out the made up stuff on the other end of the spectrum). The ideas are just coming together. I know what I think happened. But there is another demand for good cinema (which this certainly isn't as it stands now, it's wretched). But out of the mud sometimes comes a flower.

The basic schedule of scenes to come are:

1. 1982 being contacted by the television production company. Smith sees this as getting one up on his critics.
2. 1983 Quesnell has to be tipped off by someone that the manuscript has been moved. The two in Jerusalem. Don't know how much I can go in to this as we're already approaching an hour plus of material.
3. 1985 gay bar visit? I still have to grapple with his sexuality what it all means.
4. has to have another conversation with his Palestinian Orthodox friend. But I want to contact his family first.
5. him dying.

[Secret Alias]

Scene 32 INT. LONDON WEEKEND TELEVISION (LWT) PRODUCTION OFFICE - DAY

A hive of activity, the production office of London Weekend Television buzzes with the frenetic pace of creativity and controversy. DWR, the director, paces back and forth, phone pressed to his ear, while JCD, the lead researcher, pours over stacks of biblical scholarship papers and notes.

DWR
(into phone)
Yes, yes, I understand the churches are upset, but that's exactly the point. We're not here to parrot the same old narratives. This is about pushing boundaries, asking the hard questions!

JCD, nearby, hangs up a call of his own and approaches DWR.

JCD
David, I've just been on with Vermes. He's in. Says he's looking forward to shaking things up a bit.

DWR
(smiling)
Fantastic! And what of Smith and Koester?

JCB
They're both on board. Smith's particularly eager about discussing Secret Mark.

David nods, then turns his attention to a storyboard that shows an outline for the three-part series.

DWR
(contemplating)
We've got a real chance here, Jean-Claude. To change the conversation. To bring these academic debates right into people's living rooms.

The camera PANS to a corner of the room where a TV plays news footage of religious leaders vocally criticizing the yet-to-be-aired documentary.

CUT TO:

INT. CHANNEL 4 MEETING ROOM - DAY

Channel 4 executives sit around a large table. A sense of anticipation and concern fills the air as they discuss the potential fallout from the documentary.

FIRST EXECUTIVE
This could be the most provocative thing we've aired since launching.

SECOND EXECUTIVE
Precisely. It's exactly what Channel 4 was created for. Catering to minority views, pushing the envelope.

FIRST EXECUTIVE
But are we ready for the backlash? Churches are already threatening to mobilize against us.

SECOND EXECUTIVE
Let them. It proves we're doing something right. Besides, we're filling a gap that traditional broadcasters have ignored. This is about academic freedom, about questioning accepted truths.

The executives nod in agreement, a sense of resolved determination settling over the room.

CUT TO:

EXT. BRITISH STREETS - DAY

A montage of British citizens from various walks of life. Some look curious, others skeptical. All are unaware of the storm that's about to hit their serene living rooms.

NARRATOR (V.O.)
(voice of JEREMY KEMP, authoritative, BBC English)
In the run-up to Easter 1984, a documentary will challenge everything you thought you knew about Jesus. Join us as we embark on a quest for the historical Jesus, a journey that will lead us from the Dead Sea Scrolls to the Nicene Creed, through exploding myths and excommunicated scholars.

The montage ends with a family sitting down in their living room, turning on their TV, the Channel 4 logo appearing on the screen.

FADE OUT:

END OF SCENE

Scene 33 INT. QUESNELL LIVING ROOM - EVENING

QUENTIN QUESNELL, mid-50s, scholarly and intense, sits in a comfortable, well-lit living room, absorbed in reading a newspaper. His wife, JEAN, early 50s, thoughtful and supportive, knits quietly on the other sofa. The atmosphere is one of domestic tranquility, undercut by the tension in Quentin's posture.

Suddenly, Quentin slams the newspaper down onto the coffee table, a look of frustration crossing his face.

QUENTIN QUESNELL
(urgently)
I think Smith is going to get away with it.

JEAN looks up from her knitting, puzzled.

JEAN
Get away with what, Quentin?

QUENTIN QUESNELL
(standing up, beginning to pace)
He's got a major television company to bring his dysvangelium to the world. We live in unprecedented times, Jean.

Jean sets aside her knitting, giving Quentin her full attention.

JEAN
(concerned)
What? What will it do?

Quentin stops pacing, facing Jean, his expression one of deep concern.

QUENTIN QUESNELL
Don't you see what's happening in the colleges, with young people across the country? The world is falling apart.

Jean considers Quentin's words, then offers a reassuring perspective.

JEAN
(optimistically)
In some ways, things are getting better.

QUENTIN QUESNELL
(shaking his head)
But this... this clever forgery he's concocted. It's taking advantage of the general weakness in faith, in morals, in the loss of certainty.

Jean gets up, walks over to Quentin, and places a comforting hand on his shoulder.

JEAN
(smiling)
It will blow over, Quentin. Besides, it will give you more to write about. I like seeing you engaged. I see something of that old priest that I fell in love with.

Jean leans in and kisses Quentin gently. He responds, but his eyes betray a mind still troubled, still racing with thoughts of what's to come.

The room is filled with the glow of evening light as QUENTIN, now more agitated, continues to discuss his concerns about Morton Smith and the upcoming TV series.

QUENTIN
(shaking his head)
Can it really be that easy to get away with it? To just make up a gospel, have it introduced by some Church Father whose orthodoxy was questioned, and scribble it into the blank pages of a book?

Jean listens, her surprise growing with each of Quentin's revelations.

JEAN
(surprised)
Jesus is gay? What is going on, Quentin?

QUENTIN
(frantic)
That's Morton Smith's real game. He's lost his faith and now he wants to bring everyone down with him, to blaspheme Christ's name on a grand scale.

Jean rises, picking up her knitting, a thoughtful look on her face.

JEAN
(optimistically)
What about the research grant application you made for Jerusalem?

QUENTIN
(distracted)
Monday. I find out Monday.

JEAN
(encouragingly)
But what I mean is, when you get the approval, you can go to Jerusalem and prove he's a fraud. You can sneak right under their noses while they're filming this horrible TV series and prove everything.

Jean walks into the kitchen, leaving Quentin in deep thought. She calls back.

JEAN
(offscreen)
Why didn't they ask you to be part of this TV show?

Quentin breaks from his thought, a hint of bitterness in his voice.

QUENTIN
(sarcastically)
I guess I wasn't interesting enough.

JEAN returns, snuggling up to Quentin, her voice playful and teasing.

JEAN
(teasing)
Really? I would have thought our story is quite compelling. "Provocative temptress gets dashingly handsome priest to give up his vows..."

Quentin chuckles at Jean's imagination, his mood lightening.

JEAN
(looking at the newspaper)
Look, they're making a big American TV show about our story.

She points to a story about the adaptation of "The Thorn Birds" with Richard Chamberlain.

JEAN
(dreamily)
I imagined you playing the role Richard Chamberlain is going to play.

QUENTIN
(ironically)
They couldn't find anyone better to play the priest?

JEAN
(defensively)
Quentin. I think Richard Chamberlain is dreamy.

QUENTIN
(muttering)
I think he's a little light in the loafers if you know what I mean.

They share a moment of light-hearted banter, a brief respite from the gravity of their earlier conversation. Quentin's expression softens as he looks at Jean, a reminder of the depth of their connection.

FADE OUT:

END OF SCENE

[Secret Alias]

Scene 33 May 28th 1983 INT. NEW YORK AIRPORT - DAY

MORTON SMITH and HELMUT KOESTER, both scholars, stand beside each other, luggage at their feet, looking eagerly at the departure screens. They are surrounded by the hustle and bustle of travelers, but they are in their own world, discussing an adventure that blends academia with the thrill of international travel and television.

MORTON SMITH
(with a hint of excitement)
It's a good time to go to Israel. For once, there's no chaos, no violence.

KOESTER
(admitting)
I hate to say it, but I'm strangely excited about being on TV.

MORTON SMITH
(teasingly)
The money's not too bad either, eh, Helmut?

KOESTER
(slightly amused)
So, we go to London first, meet with the producers, and then they fly us directly to Jerusalem where I give my lecture on your discovery, and you go off into the desert for the third time.

MORTON SMITH
(enthused)
This time with an army of assistants and documentarians.

KOESTER
(half-joking)
Those monks will have no idea what's coming.

SMITH
(remembers fondly)
I hear they're putting us up at the Colony Hotel. That's not cheap. I never stayed there the last time I went to Jerusalem. It was strictly on the cheap.

KOESTER
(encouragingly)
It seems like it's your moment, Morton.

MORTON SMITH
(determinedly)
Yes, indeed. We get the manuscript, I show the manuscript on camera. The world sees that it exists. Everyone who bought into everything that nitpicky Quesnell threw at me, hoping to make something stick, will be eating crow.

Smith's face hardens with resolve, but there's a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

MORTON SMITH
(continues)
It's finally going to be over. The pressure from the international community will force the Greek Patriarchate to do something they would never allow me to do—to test the ink of the manuscript.

Koester looks at Smith, a mix of admiration and concern in his gaze. He knows the journey they're embarking on is not just about proving a point; it's about vindication, about history, and about the complex tapestry of faith, academia, and human ambition.

As their flight is called, they gather their things, ready to step into the next chapter of their adventure, the weight of history and the thrill of discovery propelling them forward.

Fast forward to the same airport two days later. The airport is bustling with travelers, but JEAN and QUENTIN QUESNELL make their way through the crowd, Quentin pulling a suitcase, Jean matching his pace with an eager stride. There's a strategic gleam in Quentin's eye, matched by Jean's supportive and enthusiastic demeanor.

JEAN
(reminding)
And you remember we still have to make arrangements for your return.

QUESNELL
(nods)
Of course, Jean.

JEAN
(curiously)
And you're certain the document has been moved from the monastery?

QUESNELL
(confirms)
That's what Flusser wrote me to tell me. No one else seems to know. Not even this million-dollar production company.

Jean's smile broadens with mischief, imagining the upcoming twist in their plans.

JEAN
(beaming)
I would give anything to see the look on their face when they realize that the manuscript has vanished.

The two continue their brisk walk towards the departure gate.

QUESNELL
(pondering)
Of course, they might find out where it was moved to.

JEAN
(laughing)
But you've taken care of all that, haven't you, darling?

QUESNELL
(with a smirk)
Well, I did have the Catholic representative tell the Greek Orthodox Patriarch in Jerusalem all of Morton Smith's plans to destroy our common faith.

JEAN
(admiringly)
Brilliant, my love. I would just love to see their faces when they are shut out of the monastery Morton Smith thinks of as his second home.

QUESNELL
(concerned)
They will never let him anywhere near that forgery of his. I just hope they don't tear it to shreds before I get a chance to examine it and prove it's a forgery.

Jean gives Quentin a quick, encouraging hug and waves him towards the security line.

JEAN
(encouraging)
Hurry on, my priestly detective.

QUESNELL
(playfully)
Father Brown at your service. Detecting forgeries is my specialty.

Jean's expression shifts to one of concern, pondering the depth of the challenge ahead.

JEAN
But Quentin, how exactly are you going to do that?

QUESNELL
(queried)
Do what, dear?

JEAN
Prove that it's a forgery.

QUESNELL
(confidently)
That's easy. It was written just twenty-five years ago. I'll open up that three-hundred-year-old printed book, and just by looking at the ink, it will be obvious that it was handwritten just yesterday.

Quentin's assurance does little to dispel the shadow of doubt that flickers across Jean's face. She hesitates, voicing a thought that seems to have just occurred to her.

JEAN
(pausing, then)
What if the ink looks just like a three-hundred-year-old handwritten manuscript?

Quentin is now just one person away from the ticket counter, but he turns to Jean, reading the worry in her eyes.

QUESNELL
It won't.

He offers her a reassuring kiss, a gesture meant to allay her fears.

QUESNELL
(cont'd)
And besides, all we were given were blurry photos in that book of his. Once I get close up to that handwriting, there will be other telltale signs.

JEAN
(concerned)
Like what?

QUESNELL
You know, ink blotches, tremors, shakiness, uncertainty.

He pauses, the gravity of their conversation settling in.

QUESNELL
(cont'd)
We know he did it, right? Now, it's just a matter of proving it. It will be a piece of cake.

Smiles with a twinkle in his eye as he leaves Jean.

Besides Father Brown always gets his man.

Jean watches Quentin as he advances to the ticket counter, the concern in her eyes mixing with a newfound resolve. They're stepping into uncharted territory, armed with conviction but facing an uncertain outcome.

FADE OUT:

END OF SCENE

[Secret Alias]

I think this part of the screenplay is the first part that doesn't completely suck. It's also vaguely factual. I was comparing my notes between JCB's visa stamps. Here's the email:

Hi Stephan

Well, I’ve spoken to both David Rolfe and the Production Assistant at the time and all we can recall is the following:

We know from the stamps on one of our passports that we were in Israel between 31st May 1983 and 19th June 1983 for the filming.

We would have stayed at the American Colony, and so would our contributors. We would have paid for their flights and for their accommodation for the duration of the filming – so a maximum of two or three nights.

The drama shoot with the mss would have been done in our studios at London Weekend Television.

All we can recall about our Israeli fixer is that his first name was Danny, and that he would have been the one to negotiate access to film in Mar Saba.

We were completely unaware at the time of anything going on behind the scenes in regards of the secret gospel.

Sorry I can’t be of any more help.

All the best

Jean-Claude

Jxxx Cxxxxx Bxxxxxx
Creative Director

When I look at Quesnell's transportation he arrives in Jerusalem literally on May 31 and I think leaves like June 20. Doesn't mean the documentary people stayed right until the 19th but it's kooky.

[Secret Alias]

Scene 34 INT. JERUSALEM PATRIARCHATE - DAY

Quentin Quesnell approaches the grand entrance, a determined look on his face. He pushes open the heavy door and steps inside.

CUT TO:

INT. PATRIARCHATE RECEPTION AREA - CONTINUOUS

Quentin approaches the RECEPTIONIST, a young man in clerical attire.

QUESNELL
Good morning. I'm here to see the Chief Secretary on urgent business regarding a manuscript.

The receptionist eyes him warily but picks up the phone to make a call. Moments later, Quentin is escorted to a waiting area.

CUT TO:

INT. CHIEF SECRETARY'S OFFICE - LATER

Quentin sits across from the CHIEF SECRETARY, a man of authority yet warmth in his eyes.

CHIEF SECRETARY
Mr. Quesnell, I understand you have concerns about a manuscript?

QUESNELL
Yes, I believe it to be of significant historical and theological importance. I need to see it.

CHIEF SECRETARY
(sighing)
These matters are delicate. However, your credentials are impressive. I will arrange for you to meet with our librarian.

CUT TO:

INT. PATRIARCHATE LIBRARY - THE NEXT DAY

CHARISTOS, the librarian, greets Quentin.

CHARISTOS
Mr. Quesnell, I was informed about your interest. Follow me, please.

They walk through rows of ancient texts to a secluded section of the library.

QUESNELL
I'm particularly interested in a manuscript brought here from Mar Saba. It's said to be from the 18th century.

CHARISTOS
Ah, yes. Sophia discovered it. Quite a curiosity. I'll show it to you, but please, we do not allow photographs or assistants.

QUESNELL
Understood. May I inquire if others have shown interest in this manuscript?

CHARISTOS
Few. But its origin from Mar Saba, a place known for its heretical texts, makes it intriguing. We consider it a fragment, possibly unrelated to Saint Clement.

QUESNELL
(nodding)
Fascinating. And you're confident of its age?

CHARISTOS
I am. Though, as with all things ancient, some mysteries remain. Please, return on Monday, between 8:30 to 11:30 am. That will be your time to examine the manuscript in detail.

QUESNELL
I appreciate the opportunity. You mentioned it was brought from Mar Saba about ten years ago?

CHARISTOS
Yes, indeed our esteemed colleague, discovered it amidst other treasures. I am quite confident in its 18th-century origins.

QUESNELL
(noting)
An 18th-century manuscript... And you believe it's not related to Saint Clement?

CHARISTOS
Correct. Mar Saba was a haven for heretics and their teachings. This manuscript is likely a fragment from one of their texts. Historical records suggest similar findings in the 16th or 17th centuries.

As the conversation between Quentin and Charistos comes to a close, Quentin has one more question on his mind.

QUESNELL
Before I leave, Charistos, may I inquire if there are other books within your collection that contain 18th-century notes similar to the manuscript's?

CHARISTOS
(thoughtful)
No, not within our library. However, Mar Saba may hold what you seek. Its archives are vast and filled with antiquities. Should you wish, I can arrange for you to visit and explore its collection.

QUESNELL
(perking up)
That would be invaluable. To see the context in which our manuscript was found... Yes, I'd like that very much. Could you really arrange such a visit?

CHARISTOS
(smiling)
Of course, Mr. Quesnell. It would be my pleasure to facilitate your research. Let us see what secrets Mar Saba can unveil to those who look carefully.

QUESNELL

QUESNELL
So, there is a precedent. This adds another layer of complexity.

CHARISTOS
Indeed. And while I understand the potential implications of the manuscript, I must insist that you work alone. No assistants or external help.

QUESNELL
Understood. I wouldn't want to cause any disturbance. And your stance on the manuscript's use for anti-Christian propaganda?

CHARISTOS
(smiling faintly)
Mr. Quesnell, truth withstands scrutiny. If the manuscript challenges beliefs, then let it foster discussion. Fear of controversy should not dictate the pursuit of knowledge.

QUESNELL
(a respectful nod)
Wise words, Charistos. I look forward to delving deeper into this mystery. Thank you for guiding me through this process.

CHARISTOS
It's my duty and pleasure. Remember, history is not just about the past; it's a light that helps us navigate the future.

QUESNELL
(pondering)
A light indeed. I shall see you Monday, then.

Charistos nods, and Quentin makes notes in his journal, his mind abuzz with theories and possibilities. The journey ahead promises revelations and perhaps, confrontations with long-held beliefs.

CUT TO:

EXT. PATRIARCHATE LIBRARY - DAY

Quentin exits the library, the weight of the upcoming examination heavy on his shoulders. The mystery of the manuscript beckons, promising answers and perhaps more questions.

FADE OUT.

Scene 35 INT. LECTURE HALL, HEBREW UNIVERSITY - NOON

The hall is filled with academics, students, and enthusiasts, all gathered to hear Helmut Koester's lecture on the Mar Saba letter. The atmosphere is charged with excitement and anticipation. As Koester speaks, his words captivate the audience, drawing them deeper into the mystery and significance of the document.

KOESTER
...And it is with great pleasure that I announce the presence of Professor Morton Smith among us tonight. Tomorrow, he will lead us to Mar Saba, where we aim to document the manuscript for a major television broadcast. This is a monumental moment in biblical scholarship!

The audience erupts into applause, standing to cheer and show their support for Smith. The enthusiasm is palpable, a testament to the importance of the discovery and the reverence held for Smith.

In the midst of the celebration, Quentin Quesnell sits quietly, a wry smile on his face. He knows something that most in the room do not—the manuscript they seek is no longer at Mar Saba but safely housed within the Greek Patriarchate library.

QUESNELL
(whispering to himself)
Oh, if only Jean could be here to soak in this moment...

His smirk widens as he contemplates the irony of the situation.

QUESNELL
(to himself)
It is like the celebration of the coronation of the antichrist. They laud the creation of his false gospel as if it were the second coming of Christ himself. It's fitting that it is among Jews too that this is occurring.

As he muses, his gaze wanders across the room, locking eyes with David Flusser. Flusser's expression mirrors Quesnell's, a knowing smirk that seems to say he too is aware of the truth.

QUESNELL
(to himself, with a hint of satisfaction)
It’s as if he's in on our little secret, Jean...

The scene ends with Quesnell's contemplative look, a man amidst the revelry, holding onto a secret that could change the course of the evening's jubilation.

FADE to Koester's lecture The lecture hall is silent, all eyes fixed on Helmut Koester as he delivers his compelling case for the authenticity of the Secret Gospel of Mark. Morton Smith sits in the audience, his expression one of pride and agreement, occasionally nodding as if to underscore Koester's points.

KOESTER
...and so, given the textual analysis, historical context, and comparative literature, we find strong evidence supporting the authenticity of the Secret Gospel of Mark. It opens new avenues in understanding the complexities of early Christian traditions.

The room hangs on Koester's every word, the weight of the argument settling over the audience. As he concludes, Koester opens the floor to questions, scanning the room expectantly.

KOESTER
Any questions?

A brief moment of hesitation sweeps the room, an anticipatory silence before Quentin Quesnell, with deliberate poise, raises his hand. The shift in atmosphere is palpable as eyes turn to him.

QUESNELL
Yes, thank you, Professor Koester. A compelling presentation indeed. My question, however, is directed at Professor Smith. How do you respond to skeptics who suggest that the document's discovery—and its content—seems almost too convenient, aligning too perfectly with modern sensibilities? Could this not suggest a more... contemporary origin?

Morton Smith shifts uncomfortably in his seat, the sudden spotlight unnerving. He takes a moment before responding, his voice tinged with nervousness.

SMITH
I... um, the evidence speaks for itself. I found the manuscript where it lay hidden for centuries. Its authenticity is supported by the scholarly work, not by the whims of modern sensibilities.

Quesnell, undeterred, presses on with a follow-up, sharper this time, the inference of forgery hanging unspoken but unmistakable in the air.

QUESNELL
But does the evidence speak, or does it whisper a convenient narrative?

Smith opens his mouth to respond, then hesitates, a visible reluctance to engage further in this public forum.

Before the tension can escalate, David Flusser interjects, his authoritative voice carrying a demand for transparency and scholarly integrity.

FLUSSER
Morton, you must answer the question. It's a fair point, and this audience deserves clarity.

Smith, cornered and under the gaze of his peers, clears his throat, mustering the remnants of his composure.

SMITH
The discovery of any ancient text raises questions. My discovery is no different. I've presented my findings transparently, subjected them to peer review, and welcomed scrutiny. The conclusions I've drawn about the Secret Gospel of Mark come from rigorous analysis, not from any desire to create a sensation.

The room is charged with an electric silence, the exchange laying bare the tensions and complexities inherent in the field of biblical scholarship.

Cut to scene of Morton Smith and Helmut Koester talking to one another by the lectern.

Morton Smith and Helmut Koester exit the lecture hall together, their conversation a mix of professional camaraderie and concern. The aftermath of the lecture hangs over them, an unexpected shadow on what was to be a day of triumph.

KOESTER
(laughing)
From coronation to crucifixion in less than an hour. Quite the spectacle.

SMITH
I can't believe Quesnell is here in Jerusalem. Is he involved in the documentary?

KOESTER
(shaking his head)
I don't think so. He’s not on the list of presenters or contributors. It's curious, indeed.

SMITH
(puzzled)
Then why is he here? It just doesn't add up.

KOESTER
Maybe it's a pilgrimage of sorts.

SMITH
(sarcastically)
A pilgrimage? In the middle of this?

KOESTER
(chuckling)
Let’s not dwell on it. Tomorrow is a big day for you, Morton. Mar Saba awaits, and with it, your manuscript. That’s what matters. And besides, Flusser's invited Quesnell to the reception. That should be interesting.

SMITH
(uneasily)
Flusser invited him? What's brewing between those two?

KOESTER
Perhaps something scholarly, something to do with Josephus? Or maybe, just maybe, Quesnell's here as I said to see the sights.

SMITH
(half-joking, half-serious)
Or maybe he's here to finish what he started at the lecture. My own personal crucifixion.

KOESTER
(laughs heartily)
Oh, Morton, I think in his mind, he's already done just that.

The two scholars continue their walk, the setting sun casting long shadows. Despite the levity of their conversation, there's an undercurrent of tension—a sense of impending confrontation that neither can quite shake off.

[Secret Alias]

Scene 38 INT. JERUSALEM HOSTEL - EVENING

Quentin Quesnell stands in the dimly lit corner of the hostel's common area, the payphone receiver pressed to his ear. After a few moments, David Flusser answers.

CUT TO:

EXT. JERUSALEM RESTAURANT - NIGHT

Quesnell and Flusser sit across from each other at a quiet restaurant, the hum of the city a muted backdrop to their intense discussion.

QUESNELL
(flipping through notes)
So, if we're to dissect this logically - was it a hoax by Clement? Highly improbable.

FLUSSER
(nodding, taking a sip of wine)
And a Carpocratian forgery seems off the mark as well. Their teachings don’t align with the text's implications.

QUESNELL
Exactly, their doctrine called for salvation through the union of the sexes, not what's proposed here.

FLUSSER
And a 17th-century forgery? The Decameron, Marlowe... it’s possible but feels anachronistic for Clement.

QUESNELL
(leaning forward, lowering his voice)
Which leaves us with the possibility of it being modern... by Smith himself.

Flusser pauses, setting down his wine glass, and looks directly at Quesnell.

FLUSSER
(surprised)
You believe Smith fabricated this because he's gay?

QUESNELL
Yes, and it’s odd. Smith usually doesn’t push for endorsements so aggressively. It’s unlike him.

FLUSSER
(thoughtfully)
Let's entertain that for a moment. Smith, a homosexual. I knew a woman, Leah, almost married him. He refused her, claiming a Protestant couldn't marry a Jew. A convenient excuse?

QUESNELL
(perking up)
Was it a cover-up, then? For his sexuality?

FLUSSER
All through our conversation, it felt like peeling back layers, looking for deeper motivations... as Father Brown might.

QUESNELL
(revealing)
After my article, I was told it was common knowledge in the Columbia Seminar that Smith was gay.

FLUSSER
(leaning back, contemplative)
So, we're dealing with a puzzle where each piece raises more questions. Smith's motivations, his personal life, how it all ties back to this document...

Their conversation continues, delving deeper into the complexities of historical analysis, personal motivations, and the elusive truth behind the Mar Saba letter. The night wears on, and the two scholars remain entrenched in discussion, surrounded by the ancient city that holds the keys to so many mysteries.

EXT. JERUSALEM RESTAURANT - NIGHT

Quentin Quesnell and David Flusser stand outside the restaurant, the cool night air enveloping them as they prepare to part ways. The evening's conversation has left an atmosphere of introspection.

QUESNELL
(adjusting his coat)
Before we part, David, there’s something that’s been nagging at me. Why didn’t you or Stroumsa tell Smith that the manuscript had been moved?

Flusser takes a moment, his gaze shifting to the distant lights of the city before returning to Quesnell.

FLUSSER
(sighs)
Ah, that. Yes, we were part of the group that found it again. The state of the library... it was in disarray, and there it was, the manuscript, among a scattered pile, forgotten and covered in dust.

QUESNELL
(shaking his head)
Incredible. And Smith?

FLUSSER
(frowning)
What kind of a scholar allows such a discovery to meet that fate? We were set to bring it back when Abbott Seraphim intervened. Demanded a formal request, which we made, and he sent it to us. Honestly, I thought it would have been returned to Mar Saba by now.

QUESNELL
(nodding, thoughtful)
I see. You know, I’ve always admired Smith’s earlier work. There was a part of me that hoped, upon exposing the document, he’d come clean. Admit to the hoax, reveal it as a grand trap for New Testament scholars. I imagined him laughing over how many fell for it and praising the one who didn’t.

Flusser listens intently, the weight of Quesnell’s words hanging in the air between them.

FLUSSER
And instead?

QUESNELL
(gazing into the distance)
Instead, he doubled down. Carried his indignation far and wide, never wavering, never confessing. I must admit, it’s... disappointing.

FLUSSER
(somberly)
It’s a complex web we weave, Quentin. The truth, motivations, the pursuit of knowledge... all entangled in the human element.

They share a moment of silence, each lost in thought about the mysteries they chase and the personal quests that drive them.

FLUSSER
(softly)
Well, good night, Quentin. Let’s see where this journey takes us.

QUESNELL
(nods)
Good night, David. Thank you for the insights.

As Quentin Quesnell and David Flusser are about to part ways, Flusser adds a crucial piece of information, pausing as if reconsidering the weight of his next words.

FLUSSER
(seriously)
To be honest, Quentin, Abbott Seraphim was quite disturbed when we attempted to remove the manuscript. I had assumed, given his reaction, that Jerusalem's authorities would have arranged its return by now.

QUESNELL
(raising an eyebrow)
Why would they want a book that Smith planted there? It's bewildering.

FLUSSER
They believe it's an authentic text.

QUESNELL
(scoffs)
These Greek Orthodox types aren’t too sharp, then. Almost as bad as the Jews.

Flusser's expression hardens, a clear sign of disapproval at Quesnell's insinuation.

FLUSSER
(voice colder)
Yes, well, I better be going.

The tension between them is palpable, a stark contrast to the camaraderie of moments ago. Flusser turns to leave, his disappointment evident. Quesnell watches him go, a hint of regret in his gaze for the words he let slip.

FADE.

Scene 39
INT. HOSTEL ROOM - NIGHT

Quentin Quesnell sits at a small desk, bathed in the soft glow of a desk lamp, pen in hand, and a piece of hotel stationery before him. He seems contemplative, occasionally pausing in his writing to gather his thoughts.

QUESNELL
(voiceover as he writes)
Jean, my love, I had quite an eventful evening. Met with Professor Flusser for dinner, and, I must say, it was enlightening. Our conversation ventured through the maze of ancient texts and modern controversies. Yet, I fear I may have stumbled, mistakenly assuming Flusser's allegiance...

He chuckles softly to himself, shaking his head at the memory.

QUESNELL
(voiceover)
...Oh well, tomorrow is the big day. The culmination of all our efforts and suspicions. I stand on the threshold of what could be the most significant discovery of our time - or the greatest disappointment. Either way, I find solace in knowing you're with me in spirit.

He signs the letter with a flourish, folds it neatly, and seals it in an envelope.

QUESNELL
(voiceover, more determined)
Regardless of what tomorrow brings, we've played our part in this grand narrative of history and faith. And, for better or worse, we'll see this through to the end.

He stands, stretching briefly, and walks over to place the letter on a dresser. Quentin gazes out the window at the Jerusalem skyline, a mix of ancient stone and modern light, contemplating the day ahead with a mix of excitement and apprehension.

FADE OUT.