“How many?” Paul asked in bewilderment.
“Well, the initial report talked about 170,000 items, stolen or destroyed, but this number is far-fetched. Although the museum might have contained about a half a million objects, the real number of missing artifacts from the theft that took place in 2 days, from April 12 to April 14, could well be around 15,000.”
“15,000 pieces!” Paul exclaimed. “That’s a huge number,” he concluded.
“Yes, it is, and it took place as US troops stood by and watched, while others were busy guarding the oil ministry,” he said with disdain. “This museum had contained an enormous and unbroken collection of human history, recording more than six thousand years of the ancient Mesopotamian civilization, including Sumerians, Assyrians, and Babylonians. This loss is a real tragedy that has only one parallel in world history: the blazing of the Royal Library of Alexandria in Egypt,” Mikhail explained, turning to his plate in silence.
Although Paul thought he should respect the silence Mikhail had imposed at the table, he felt a great urge to know more about this robbery-of-the-century. He had heard of it before but without all the important details Mikhail had so far provided, and could provide in the coming few hours, perhaps days. This cannot wait any longer, he thought. His eyes fixed on Mikhail.
“Did the museum get anything back?” he managed to ask, minutes later.
“Yeah, of course,” answered the Iraqi. “Nullifying the damage has been a laborious task though, only half of what was stolen, maybe less, has been returned by the efforts of the Iraqi Government and the help of American and Italian officials, in addition to the police and customs worldwide.”
“And… where have the objects been found?” Paul asked; his curiosity stamped in his inquiring eyes.
“Ever since the looting took place, an investigation began—just like the ones in detective novels or American movies.” Mikhail smiled, his eyes fixed on his guest, as he added, “The recovery of the major pieces was managed through an international ploy, and the investigation led them to many countries around the world, including: Syria, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Germany, Italy, Holland, Sweden, and the United States,” he ended.
“Interesting! What were the stolen objects, if I may ask?” the Historian engagingly questioned.
“Many priceless objects of different kinds, which are still missing, like the Sacred Vase of Warka and the Mask of Warka, Sumerian pieces from around 3000 BC. The fabulous Treasure of Nimrud is still lost. Thousands of pieces of gold, crowns, necklaces, rosettes, bracelets, and precious stones from the eighth century BC are missing too.” He paused for a moment in recollection. “But many have been recovered, like the headless statue of a Sumerian king, a basalt statue of the Assyrian King, Entemena—who ruled around 2400 BC, some golden necklaces, daggers, clay statues, pots, and other artifacts, along with a few cuneiform stone tablets and tiny cylinder seals,” he recounted.
They finished lunch some ten minutes later. The watch in Paul’s wrist marked 04:45 PM. More than two hours had passed since he had arrived in Baghdad, and he already liked it here. The information conveyed by Mikhail sounded very stimulating to Paul, and he knew it would lead to something more important.
After the ‘Mann wa Salwa’, Iraqi’s favorite dessert, had been offered and consumed at the table, Mikhail invited Paul to sit with him on the balcony for coffee. On a table, next to the balcony door, rested a framed picture of an elegant woman. Paul came closer to look at it.
“My wife, Theresa,” said Mikhail in a sore voice, from behind him. “She was murdered two years after the war—in a terrorist explosion—on her way out of church.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Paul said immediately. “I’m sure you miss her,” he said, and then regretted having said it. He didn’t mean to open wounds that might have been well healed after more than five years.
Mikhail did not speak for a couple of minutes. He stood still, in reverie, perhaps of the most beautiful moments he had spent with his lovely wife. “I’m sure she is in the good hands of God,” he sighed then smiled.
While the smell of coffee being prepared pervaded the house, Mikhail explained to Paul that Christians had inhabited Iraq since the early times of Christianity, and those still living in Iraq today were mainly adherents of three different Churches—the Chaldean Catholic Church, the Syriac Orthodox Church, and the Assyrian Church of the East—aside from the Christian Armenians. He, Mikhail, belonged to the Syriac Orthodox Church, and Syriac is a dialect of the Aramaic—spoken by Jesus and his Apostles.
Five minutes later they were having coffee in the veranda. Although it was mid-November, the weather was still very hot. Somehow, Paul managed to disregard it, and enjoyed the view of the Tigris from the balcony. Looking at the river made him remember something. He turned to Mikhail.
“When we were in the car, on the way here, you said you would convey to me what you thought was the truth, concerning the decline of the city of Ur,” Paul said; his eyebrows lifted in anticipation.
Mikhail lit a cigarette, took the first drag, and turned to face Paul, “Well, I believe that things happened because the Persian Empire decided to shift the importance of historical facts from Ur to Babylon, and then to Jerusalem,” he said, with a piercing stare at the Tigris.
“Aha… It seems the Persians had a greater plan than I thought,” Paul said. “I’m excited to know more.”
Mikhail gave his eager guest a wide grin, before he replied; “Dr. George Hanna will explain everything to you on Wednesday. He was the head of Iraqi museums, based in the National Museum in Baghdad, before and a bit after the war in 2003.”
“Where are we going to meet him?” Paul asked in excitement.
“In Ur,” replied Mikhail at once. “As for now, try to enjoy your coffee.”
.39.
The city of Ur
Wednesday, November 17, 10:25 PM
A short, muscular man, Dr. George Hanna had a white-haired moustache that accentuated his round-shaped face. Perhaps around his mid-seventies, he was almost completely bald with little hair left on the sides, neatly trimmed at ear length. Thick eyeglasses covered his brown-colored eyes. With a wide grin, he received Mikhail and Paul inside his small house on the outskirts of Ur.
“Ahlan wa sahlan,” said Dr. Hanna, welcoming them in an Arabic accent that sounded a bit peculiar to Paul.
After the introduction between Paul and Dr. Hanna had been made, both men smiled at each other. Then, a few seconds later, Paul rushed to say, “I’m very pleased to meet a person with your degree of expertise. Well, in fact…” he sounded hesitant, “I have an urgent matter that’s been lingering in my mind since Monday, and I would like for you to clarify it for me, if you may.”
An Iraqi Christian of the same denomination as Mikhail, Dr. Hanna also had a Master’s degree in classical antiquities from Berlin University. He looked at Paul with determination in his eyes. “What is it?” he asked.
“Since you were the head of Iraqi museums in 2003, how did you find the US troop’s indifference at the sacking and looting of the National Museum that took place while you held office there?” Paul asked.
“Aha, that is an important question. I will try to answer you adequately. Now, why the museum had not been protected, cannot be elucidated at all,” he looked at Paul and then at Mikhail, “The US military officers have tried to justify their carelessness, by claiming that Saddam Hussein’s loyal band was already in the Museum when looters rushed inside, creating additional chaos that prevented them from taking any action.” He smiled ironically before he added, “Nonsense. I still feel resentful, even today, that they did not guard the National Museum’s treasure of ancient relics and art, which preserves Human History. I blamed the US forces, and I still do now,” he said, and walked towards the window. “I remember there was a tank, very close to the entrance gate, and one of my assistants ran to them, and pleaded for them to do something, but they would not budge. ‘We have no orders to stop the looters,
’ they said.”
“But were they really inside? I mean, Saddam’s band?” Paul asked hastily.
“I’m not of Saddam’s band, but I’m an Iraqi,” he answered, just as hastily. “As the head of the National Museum, I felt obliged to do my job. I had, in fact, ordered a few of my most trusted staff members to move the most valuable items into storehouses and other secret locations around Iraq, only 2 weeks before the war. Thousands of ancient books and other Islamic manuscripts and scrolls had been totally secured.” He sighed before he added, “Every Iraqi man and woman, including myself, deep down, was happy that Saddam’s Ba’ath regime had fallen apart with the help of the United States. We’re definitely grateful for that.” He paused for a thought, “And yet, the uncontrolled situation that ensued was bad, terribly bad. It makes you wonder about the consequences in the aftermath.” He took a sip at his coffee. “Look at Iraq now…” His eyes watered.
“So… excuse my enthusiastic curiosity, Doctor, but do you really think the US military forces and other arts-and-antiquities global crooks had been acting in concurrence?” Paul inquired with eyes gone wide open, “I mean; it seems as if raiders were allowed to roam the city freely after the fall of Baghdad, in search for anything of value.”
Dr. Hanna turned his head towards Mikhail then Paul, “I have been asked that question many times before. I don’t just think they were involved, I believe so. Yes, I believe there was some kind of cooperation going on. It is ludicrous to think they received no orders to protect world history—humanity’s heritage by rights—when they say they were here in Iraq to bring democracy and security to the country. Well, if you cannot secure a country’s history, how can you secure its present and future? I’ve often wondered,” he said, as he returned to his seat, and sipped at his coffee, still hot. He seemed sunk in his past memories.
Paul looked at the old man in front of him. Dr. Hanna was knowledgeable about governments and how they worked, an erudite man, certainly nothing could escape him.
“I recall some of the damage done to a few Galleries and stockrooms,” he added. “Heinous, don’t you think?” he turned to his guests. “Yet, over the two months that followed the robbery, things became steadily clearer that most of the items, which had been exhibited in the Museum, had been removed well before the war had started. It’s true that the operation had been orchestrated by the US military and global mafia outside Iraq, nevertheless, most of the serious looting had been organized by-and-with insiders,” he added in disgrace.
“Insiders!” Paul exclaimed. Mikhail nodded.
“Yes. In truth, the inspection showed that there were two separate—and perhaps coordinated—thefts,” Dr. Hanna rejoined with great concern. “The first one was an inside job, where very few employees and Iraqi militaries passed-up the opportunity to become rich by smuggling ancient artifacts, and selling ancient scrolls to the big players—the International Mafia. The second was definitely the work of professionals, who were only seeking the great and secret knowledge these scrolls contained,” he informed, as his eyes veered to look through the window, in remembrance, or maybe for security reasons.
“It’s true, the United States aided in recuperating some stolen artifacts, but that doesn’t mean they were innocent,” he added, regaining some courage at this point. “Why the situation was not controlled remains a mystery. During the occurrence of the theft, three of the Museum employees had been killed, and one of them was an Iraqi Archaeologist,” he said.
“An Archaeologist!” Paul snapped out in disbelief.
Anguished moments passed through his mind, as he remembered the three men recently killed in his homeland. Hiram Melki—the famous Architect—found dead in his house in Tyre. Dr. Hamid Saab—former Professor of Archaeology at the AUB and head of the Archaeological Research at Mount Hermon—found dead in his house in Beirut. Gabriel—the Guardian of the Chamber, the man who came from that great lineage of Scribes—murdered in his cafeteria in Gebel.
All three victims had been eliminated by an extremely dangerous secret group known as ‘Seth Servitors’—the ‘BB’. They had been killed in the same manner, strangled to death, throats sliced with a swift movement of a sharp knife, and having the 18th letter Tsaddi imprinted on their chests, close to the heart. It had been determined that the three deaths were connected to historical research related to Phoenician Mysteries of the city of Gebel: the sarcophagus of King Ahiram, the Seven-Pillared Temple, and the Cup of Life that held the blood of Jesus Christ.
Paul looked at Mikhail then back at Dr. Hanna in wait for some answers, concerning the deaths of the Iraqi Archaeologist and the other two Museum employees.
“It has all been masterminded by the Babylonian Brotherhood from the beginning,” said Mikhail with a pointed gaze on Paul. “I would like to bring to your attention something of great significance that you may have missed during our conversation, back in my house in Baghdad.” He took a deep breath. Paul sat still, waiting. “The looting was not only planned to grab hold of some works of art, but has stretched hands to retrieve ancient tablets and scrolls,” he halted for a moment, in which he sipped at his last bit of coffee, and continued, “We wondered, at the time, why some scrolls, cuneiform stone tablets, and tiny cylinder seals had been ransacked at all. If the sole purpose of pillaging Iraq of its ancient history were, in fact, monetary gain then those tablets and seals would not fill robbers’ ambitions. Not at all, we guessed. The International mafia has no interest in history, and the tablets would certainly sell for a much lesser value than any of the many-thousand-years-old statues,” he said, seemingly done with his observation, his eyes on Dr. Hanna.
“After we realized that,” Dr. Hanna joined in, to continue where Mikhail had left off, “This imperative issue took on new relevance. We wondered why and how such scrolls, tablets, and seals had found their way to Switzerland, and ended up in the possession of a powerful Swiss Governmental body, one bank in particular,” he informed.
“A bank!” Paul exclaimed. “I see…” he said firmly, as if he remembered one of the conversations he’d had with the Keepers, regarding the Templars and their world banking strategy. “What bank was it?” he asked, filled with curiosity and anxiety.
“The Crown Temple Bank in Basel, Switzerland,” Mikhail replied, and then added, “He who has the power of Gold, rules the world. In fact, the UBS—known as the Union Bank of Switzerland—is perhaps the largest bank in all of Europe. It has a three-keyed logo in the form of the Star of David. It is, indeed, the financial emblem of the Babylonian Brotherhood.”
“He who has the power of Knowledge, rules the world,” Dr. Hanna said, looking at Mikhail with a smile.
“What is in those tablets and scrolls, of such vital importance that it would make the Babylonian Brotherhood keep them locked in their bank?” Paul hastened to ask, holding his breath for a moment.
“Exactly!” Dr. Hanna replied firmly. “Your question, which we have asked ourselves many times before, reveals the wary nature of this entire theft operation. In truth, the global media has only given a small bit of attention and focus to the story, mainly at the outset. Of course, with all those stolen artifacts, how couldn’t they? However, they made no effort to consider the genuine story, which, I believe, hides what lays behind the looting of the ancient tablets and scrolls.” He paused for a thought, looked around him and then through the window, before he added, “They didn’t care about the potential knowledge these tablets and scrolls may hold, and they haven’t wondered a bit, outside the typical investigative report, about who might actually have been behind the larceny itself,” he stated.
“Of course, the media won’t do that…” Mikhail said. “It won’t stress the notion of such an important story. We all know who’s behind the majority of the media outlets.”
“Yes, but with the coming of new technology, say, the Internet, I believe this has changed enormously,” Paul suggested. “A monopoly over the media is impossible nowadays.”
“Right!”
answered the former head of Iraqi museums. “With the retrieval of the stolen artifacts—a process that took many years—people began to forget about the old scrolls and cuneiform tablets. There were perhaps hundreds of tablets in the National Museum in Baghdad, which have not been examined, translated, or even cataloged,” he said with great sorrow, as his mind weighed the calamity of such a historical loss.
“Truth be told,” Dr. Hanna said, “what makes the theft all the more dubious was, and still is, the rejection of the powerful Swiss Governmental body—the Union Bank of Switzerland—and others, especially the US and Israel, to return the scrolls and tablets to the Iraqi Government, saying that Iraq had not delivered official proof of their theft.” He paused for a thought, “Total nonsense!” he began, “It’s quite obvious that the Babylonian Brotherhood has only one goal: to possess the ancient scrolls and tablets in order to monopolize the viable knowledge in them,” he concluded.
“True!” Mikhail said abruptly. “We’ve discussed the issue many times, and we’ve seen how things were carefully manipulated. This all means one thing: someone, somewhere—and we know who and where—was not, in fact, looking for artifacts and antiquities, but rather, for knowledge, and this is what makes the theft more clinical than we had ever imagined.”
“If you’re both right, and it seems you are,” Paul joined in, “Then I can see this whole theft operation as nothing more than a deliberate act.”
The Phoenician Code Page 34
