The Babylon Idol

by Scott Mariani

  ‘Piece by piece,’ Ben said. ‘Like the Acropolis going to Beijing. Makes sense. But there are too many ifs and buts. What you’re saying is only supposition.’

  ‘Wrong,’ Anna said firmly, fixing him with a serious look. ‘The circumstantial evidence is strong enough to be taken seriously. Because the same clay tablet shipping records specifically mention not just one item of cargo, but many large pieces, all wrapped up and packaged aboard an entire small fleet of merchant vessels, which set sail from Babylon’s river port in early October 539 BC. We even have a kind of passenger manifest, listing the names of all the important Muranu family members who accompanied their precious cargo down the Euphrates as they fled the coming war. We know, for instance, that one of the passengers was a young Muranu boy named Ashar, who according to the family birth records listed on other clay tablets was around eight years of age at the time.’

  ‘All you need now is a buyer’s receipt, so you know where the idol ended up.’

  ‘Sadly, that’s something we’re missing. No further transactions were recorded, for the reason that events unfolded so quickly afterwards. Belshazzar’s plan had come too late to rescue Babylon from the mobilising Persian army. Just days after the ships sailed, Cyrus the Great’s forces swept in and invaded the city. The Book of Daniel describes how Babylon fell in a single night. Nabonidus fled but was soon caught. His fate is uncertain: it’s very possible that Cyrus had him executed by burning, his favourite method of punishment, though some historians have believed Nabonidus was spared and allowed to live in exile, in what is now Kerman Province in modern-day Iran. We do know for certain that Belshazzar was killed in the defence of Babylon, during what little fighting took place against the massively superior Persian army. And with his death and the collapse of the state, the contract between him and the Muranu family was effectively rendered null and void, along with the need to sell the idol to raise money for the war effort.’

  ‘So the question is,’ Ben said, ‘what happened to the idol?’

  Anna nodded pensively. ‘I ask myself, if I had been an elder of the Muranu family, fleeing with our children to a new life in exile far away from our beloved Babylon and probably leaving behind much, if not all, of our worldly wealth, what would I have wanted to do with it? Sell it to restore our fortunes? Melt down the vast quantity of gold into ingots or coins, or smaller statues that we could trade? Or would we perhaps have chosen to keep it for ourselves, passing it down from generation to generation in whatever new place we had made our home, preserved in its original state, in honour of a king we believed to have been the last great ruler of their land, and to commemorate the Babylon that once had been? I like to think that’s what I would have done, and what they did.’

  ‘Then they’d have had to hide it pretty well,’ Ben said. ‘You couldn’t leave a ninety-foot golden statue sitting in your backyard and not expect it to draw attention.’

  Anna heaved a sigh. ‘Who knows what became of it? But one thing’s for sure. If just one surviving fragment of the idol could be rediscovered and verified, what an incredible find that would be.’

  ‘Another thing’s for sure, too,’ Ben said. ‘Whether this theory of yours is right or wrong, either way we’re beginning to understand why Usberti ordered his men to take you alive. Whatever Gianni told him about what you’re searching for, it wouldn’t take much for Usberti to suss out the rest. He knows the Bible better than most people.’

  ‘That would make sense, given his former profession,’ Anna said.

  ‘And he also lusts after gold more than anyone. When I say he’s obsessed with it, I’m not joking. He believes that the Nazis were using some kind of alchemy to create gold bars out of base metals, and he tried to do the same. I guess that didn’t work out for him, and now he wants to get his hands on as much of the real thing as he can. He also has a long history of kidnapping people he thinks can help him achieve his goals. That would be you, Anna. He wants you to lead him to the Babylon idol.’

  ‘And if he gets it, he’ll kill me,’ she said with a shiver. ‘It’s the only thing keeping me alive.’

  ‘Not the only thing,’ Ben said. ‘I’m here.’

  Chapter 28

  While they’d been talking, too deep in conversation to notice much of what was happening around them, the restaurant had gradually emptied at the same rate as Ben’s second bottle of wine. Now Talia was dropping hints by turning off lights and hovering in the background with her arms folded.

  ‘I think someone’s trying to tell us something,’ Ben said, rising from his chair and picking up his bag, which had been nestling at his feet all through dinner. It wasn’t the first time he’d eaten in a restaurant with a loaded automatic weapon concealed among his personal effects.

  Talia led them up a bare wooden staircase and showed them the two upstairs rooms for let, of which they could have their pick. Kris and the family lived on the floor above. ‘We’ll take both rooms,’ Ben said, explaining to the surprised Talia that they liked to spread out. Talia shrugged, as if to say, ‘It’s your money.’

  ‘All our luggage is in the car,’ Anna told her. ‘I have nothing to sleep in. Do you think—?’

  Talia said she would ask her mother if Anna could borrow something to wear. She disappeared for a few moments, then returned with a pair of well-worn pyjamas several sizes too large for Anna, and a woolly dressing gown. Anna thanked her. Talia smiled and left them alone.

  ‘Good night, Ben,’ Anna whispered at her door.

  ‘Good night, Anna. Try and get some rest.’

  Ben’s room was the smaller of the two, and had an even smaller balcony overlooking the village street. He was dog tired and aching from the day’s exertions, but the wine had done little to relax him and he stood out in the cold for a while, smoking and gazing over the rooftops at the starry sky, now that the rain had stopped and the night had cleared. He had to keep fighting the urge to call Sandrine again, even though he knew she’d phone him if there were any changes in Jeff’s condition. Maybe he just wanted to hear her voice, he thought. He didn’t want to dwell too much on the reason why that might be, and lit another Gauloise to empty his mind.

  But it would take more than the effects of a few micrograms of nicotine from a strong, unfiltered cigarette to still his thoughts to some Zen-like state of emptiness. He was thinking about the two Croatian soldiers he’d seen blown up while sweeping for mines in the Bosnian war. One had lost three limbs, the other had been disembowelled; yet the blast hadn’t killed them and they’d lain in the dirt for an hour, pleading and screaming for someone to come and put them out of their misery. A memory that had always stayed with him; just the way it had been for Jeff Dekker, after the similar things he’d witnessed in his time with the SBS.

  That was why, one night, a long time ago, over a chessboard and a bottle of scotch, Jeff had said to him: ‘Mate, if anything like that ever happened to me, I’d rather eat a bullet than spend the rest of my days sucking baby food out of a tube, know what I mean?’ By the time they’d reached the end of the bottle, they’d made a pact whereby, worst-case scenario, each could rely on the other taking care of it for him.

  And that, in turn, was why Ben had already decided that, if Jeff didn’t wake up after six months, or a year, then he, Ben, was going to do the right thing by his friend. It would be quick, and quiet, and merciful.

  It would be what friends did. They didn’t call it ‘taking care’ for nothing.

  Ben was still deep in his thoughts when he heard the creak of his door slowly opening, and turned to peer through the darkness of the room at the figure stepping inside.

  ‘I can’t sleep,’ Anna said softly, stepping past the single bed and into the light of the window. She was wearing the borrowed pyjamas and the dressing gown, topped off by a patchwork quilt from her bed draped around her shoulders. ‘Cold in here,’ she whispered.

  ‘I’ll close the window.’

  They sat side by side on the edge of the bed. Anna moved close to
him. For the warmth, he assumed.

  ‘Ben?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘All this talking, and there’s one thing I never said to you.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘To thank you, Ben. Every time you come into my life, you save it.’

  ‘A man has to make himself useful somehow,’ he replied.

  ‘Don’t joke. I can’t even begin to imagine where I’d be now, if you hadn’t done what you did.’

  ‘I’m sorry you had to witness what happened back there,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry for a lot of things.’

  ‘You’ve nothing to be sorry about,’ she whispered. A pause. Then: ‘You know, I always hoped you would show up again one day. Years have gone by, life has gone on the way it has, but I often thought about you. I tried to imagine where you were, what you might be doing.’

  ‘There’s not much to tell,’ he lied.

  ‘And I’ve often pictured your face. It hasn’t changed. Perhaps a little wiser, a little more rugged.’

  ‘That’s a kind way of putting it,’ he said.

  ‘And sadder, too,’ she said. ‘I can see that in your eyes. Has life been unhappy for you, Ben? Do you have love? Are you lonely?’

  He said nothing.

  She moved closer again, her shoulder pressing against his, and he realised she was about to kiss him on the lips. As gently as he could, he avoided the kiss and pushed her back.

  ‘Why?’ he said, because he didn’t know what else to say.

  ‘To thank you. And because … I …’ Her words trailed off. She rested her hand on his thigh. Her eyes were shining in the starlight from the window and her breath had quickened. He could feel its warmth on his cheek. The quilt slipped off her shoulders.

  He laid his hand on top of hers, and squeezed it affectionately. ‘I don’t need that kind of thanks, Anna. But I appreciate the sentiment.’

  ‘Isn’t it what you want?’ she murmured, backing off from him. ‘You don’t like me?’

  ‘Let’s not complicate things,’ he replied softly. ‘You and I are going to be together for a while until we get this business sorted out.’

  She paused. The moment had passed, the tension easing. ‘I had assumed you’d be going home.’

  He shook his head. ‘I can’t leave you, Anna. Not while Usberti’s still out there. Tomorrow, we head back to Italy, where I’m going to make sure you’re safe. But I won’t be far away, I promise.’

  ‘I’m not going back to Italy, Ben.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Not yet. Greece was only a stop on my journey. From here I plan on travelling to Turkey. I have to meet a man in Ankara.’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘Ercan Kavur. I told you about him. The archaeologist who supervised the excavation of the clay tablets. He’s one of the few people in the world who can read the ancient Akkadian language in all its Assyrian, Babylonian, Mariotic and Tell Beydar dialects. He’s been working on piecing together the damaged tablet we found, with a view to deciphering its meaning.’

  ‘He has it? I’m surprised the Iraqi Ministry of Culture let him take something like that home to Turkey with him.’

  ‘Technically, it would be the State Board for Antiquities and Heritage,’ Anna said with a crooked smile. ‘But the thing is, you see, we didn’t exactly tell them everything we found. I mean, once we began to realise how important it could be, how could I live with myself knowing it was languishing in a packing crate in some government storehouse where it might never be seen again? You hear all kinds of stories of precious items going missing, or being sold off to illegal traders. So Ercan took the pieces of the tablet home to work on. Such a long time went by, and I heard nothing from him. Then just a few days ago, when I had already arranged to see Theo Kambasis, he called to say there had been some developments in his research. He told me that he was running into difficulties with the tablet fragments, which were too badly damaged to decipher.’

  ‘So the tablet was no use after all?’

  ‘Apparently not. I was very disappointed to hear it, but I could sense from Ercan’s voice that he was tremendously excited about something. That was when he told me he’d made another related discovery, something hugely important, that he needed to tell me urgently.’

  ‘And?’

  Anna shrugged. ‘And that’s all I know. He wouldn’t say, except face to face.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Ercan is very cautious. He doesn’t like to talk more by phone than is strictly necessary. He’s always worried that someone might be listening in.’

  One of those, Ben thought. ‘Fair enough. What happened to email or Skype?’

  ‘You don’t understand. Ercan is … well, he’s Ercan. He makes a virtue of mistrusting the modern world, and most people for that matter. If you want to see him, you have to go to him in person. He believes that all modern communications are monitored by hidden powers, and will have as little as possible to do with that kind of technology. That’s just the way he is. You have to accept it. And so, it seemed the logical thing to do to extend my journey to see both of them – first Theo Kambasis in Olympia, then on to visit Ercan.’

  ‘But all the way to Ankara, just to talk to one man?’

  ‘For Ercan Kavur to speak even just a few words by phone, it must mean he has something genuinely urgent and important to say,’ she insisted.

  Ben wasn’t liking any of this one bit. ‘Tell me one thing, Anna. Did Gianni know about this meeting in Ankara, like he knew about your trip to see Kambasis?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Gianni booked all my travel tickets, so he knows my whole itinerary. My plan was to take the train back to Athens and—’

  ‘Do I need to tell you why this makes travelling to Turkey a really bad idea?’ he said, interrupting her. ‘We can’t afford to assume they didn’t press that information out of him too.’

  ‘Olympia is a small town,’ she protested. ‘Anyone could have found poor Mr Kambasis there. But Ercan is a completely different case. A virtual recluse, with few friends, no family, social life or regular employment, living on the margin of society in a city of over four million inhabitants. Unless you knew his exact address, which Gianni doesn’t, you could never find him.’

  ‘My interest here is in keeping you safe,’ Ben said.

  ‘Please, Ben. I know it’s asking a lot. But I really need you to come with me to Turkey. I can’t do this alone, with all that’s happening. It’s so important to me.’

  ‘I can’t stop you going. And I told you I wouldn’t leave your side until this is over. I meant what I said.’

  ‘Then you’ll come? We’ll travel to Turkey together?’

  He nodded reluctantly. ‘But not by the same route you planned. We’ll travel by road instead of train, leaving first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Thank you, Ben. You make me feel safe. I’ve never been so frightened in my life.’

  ‘Usberti won’t hurt you,’ Ben said. ‘That’s a promise.’

  A promise which, if he’d known what lay in store, he would never have made.

  Chapter 29

  Not many dead men lived in such comfort as Massimiliano Usberti. What his new home lacked in scale and opulence compared to his Lake Como estate, it more than made up for in seclusion and privacy. The balcony of his top-floor living room commanded a sweeping view like that from the bridge of a ship, from which you could gaze westwards across five miles of the Ionian Sea towards the distant medieval Sicilian coastal town of Taormina, with the shadow of Mount Etna looming behind; while to the north, on a clear day you could just make out the southernmost tip of Calabria, the toe of Italy.

  Very little boat traffic came within pistol shot of Usberti’s island even in summer, mainly because there was nothing there except a couple of acres of trees, a rocky cove and a single three-storey house perched on its highest point, surrounded by a few stone outbuildings. Now that winter had come, the fishing ports were quiet and the leisure boating season was
over, nobody ventured out this way at all and the only living souls Usberti saw were the members of his retinue. Silvano Bellini, his personal assistant, lived in a basic but comfortable converted cottage adjoining the main house that he shared with his colleague Pierangelo Volpicelli. The remainder of the entourage were content to occupy the rougher outbuildings, as befitted their status as soldiers of the down-but-not-out Gladius Domini.

  On a day like today, with gusts buffeting the windows, it was too cold to go outside, and Massimiliano Usberti stood instead at the broad balcony window gazing thoughtfully at the grey sea with his hands clasped behind his back. The ‘Agnus Dei’ from Monteverdi’s Vespers of 1610 played softly in the background, filling the large room with beatific sounds of reverence that elevated his soul.

  Usberti was a far more contented man these days. He was looking and feeling better, stronger and sharper. He’d regained some of the weight he’d lost through the dark times, and felt fired up with a renewed and invigorating sense of purpose. In fact, as he liked to joke to himself, he’d never before felt as fit and healthy as he had since his death.

  Hearing the door open, he turned to see Silvano Bellini enter the room. The younger priest had nobody to whom to preach God’s word these days, but he still wore the long black vestments and the silver crucifix. He was a slim, tall man, dark-haired and intense, with sharp pallid features that made him look like an alabaster hawk. Unfortunately for Bellini, the deity he venerated hadn’t blessed him in the genetics department. He wore spectacles as thick as bottle bottoms to correct his terrible astigmatism, and he walked with a permanent lurch in his step as a result of severe scoliosis, which got worse when he was nervous. His had never been a relaxed personality, but at this moment he seemed more agitated than usual as he limped about the room, looking anxiously at his watch.