by Will Adams
‘Ah,’ said Iain. ‘Him I’ve heard of.’
‘The father of Israel,’ she said. ‘Our champion and national hero. Charismatic, smart and ruthless, as every great king should be. He united Israel, defeated our enemies, established our capital at Jerusalem. His son and successor Solomon was proverbially wise and rich. He built our first temple and founded cities across the land. It was Israel’s first flowering, a glorious era of prosperity, abundance and high culture. But it didn’t last. Solomon died, Israel split and the United Monarchy ended.’
‘And that was Jakob’s speciality? That period from Saul to Solomon?’
‘In a sense,’ she said.
‘In a sense?’
‘There’s long been a vigorous debate about how much of the Tanakh is true. Some scholars believe in every word. Others reject it almost entirely. Most fall in between, broadly holding it to be a mix of truth and folklore that becomes increasingly unreliable the further back you go. The Babylonians certainly invaded in 586 BC, for example, and the United Monarchy is typically seen as broadly historic too, though many of the stories about David and Solomon are clearly folklore. It was only before that, with the Sojourn, Exodus, Abraham and the rest, that its historicity was truly controversial. But a strange thing happened when we archaeologists started trying to reconcile the stories in the Tanakh with the physical record of the twelfth to ninth centuries BC. Because what we found shocked us.’
‘And that was?’
She smiled. ‘Israel before the United Monarchy was rich and prosperous, with a material culture every bit as fine as that later attributed to David and Solomon. And Israel after the United Monarchy mapped neatly onto the Bible accounts of Ahab, Omri and the rest. But the period of the United Monarchy itself …’ She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing. No David. No Solomon. No cities, no palaces, no conquests. Just some scattered hill-tribes struggling grimly to survive. That’s all. This whole period, this founding narrative of our nation, this flowering of heroism, wealth and power, was in truth the poorest and most desperate in Israel’s entire history.’
TWENTY-ONE
I
Her name was Hannah, she told them, as she brewed a pot of mint tea in her kitchen. She had worked alongside Jakob at Haifa. Then, when his wife had died and this house had become available … She looked defiantly at them both, daring them to comment.
Considering her obvious fondness for him, her stoicism at his loss was impressive. But she’d known where he’d been staying in Daphne and so had been braced for the worst even before confirmation had come. She talked of him as they drank tea. Uri tapped his watch surreptitiously, but Iain wasn’t quite ready to leave yet. ‘You know about artefacts, I assume?’ he asked.
‘I’m an archaeologist,’ she shrugged.
He went to the car to fetch the samples case, the memory stick. The smartphone screen was too small for her old eyes so she led them through to her study, brought the photos up on her monitor. She sagged a little when she saw one of the men holding a piece for the camera. ‘Jakob,’ she said.
‘You’re sure?’
She touched his ring. ‘Ten years a widower, and still he wouldn’t take it off.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
She shook her head to clear it, frowned back at the piece he was holding: a ceramic bowl festooned with lines and patterns. ‘Geometric,’ she said. ‘Probably middle geometric, though you can never tell for sure with geometric.’
‘Important?’
‘Unusual for southern Turkey, and in remarkable condition; but common enough in itself.’ She went through the pictures one by one, identifying the pieces as best she could. Most were pottery, either geometric or a style she called black-on-red, but there were a few other pieces too: a brooch encrusted with semiprecious stones, a pitted dagger, several seal-stones and some seal impressions too. Tenth to eighth century, as best as Hannah could tell, mostly in exceptional condition. More to the point, she didn’t recognize any of the pieces, which implied that – if authentic, at least – they came from somewhere new.
Iain nodded. So it hadn’t just been a few choice pieces that had lured Coates and Bejjani to Daphne. It had been the possibility of a whole new site. She opened another picture now, a different man holding a clay oil lamp, and something snagged his eye. He took the mouse from her, zoomed in on the man’s forearm. The faded tattoo beneath his shirt cuff was finally large and clear enough to make out. It showed a wolf. A grey wolf.
‘Hell,’ muttered Uri, with a glance at Iain. ‘Did you know they were involved?’
‘I was beginning to wonder.’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Hannah.
‘You don’t want to know,’ Iain told her. ‘Really, you don’t.’
‘You think this man is one of the bombers?’ she frowned.
‘No,’ said Iain. ‘He was killed in the blast. But the group he’s connected with …’ He looked back at the screen. It was finally taking some shape in his mind. A Grey Wolf who’d needed shutting up before the antiquities police could arrest and interrogate him. But why? What had he known that was so dangerous? With startling clarity, Iain realized suddenly that this man was the key. Find out who he was and why he’d had to be killed and he’d have Mustafa’s murderers. And, banned from Turkey as his way, his best hope of finding him was surely to first find this site. ‘These pieces,’ he asked Hannah, gesturing at the samples case. ‘Where did they come from?’ But she shook her head. The styles were Eastern Mediterranean, she told him, but too diverse to be specific. A trading centre of some kind, perhaps. Maybe on Cyprus or one of the other islands. Iain scowled. ‘There has to be some way to find out.’
‘You could test your samples,’ she said. ‘The composition of clay varies significantly from place to place. The same goes for metal and paint and pollen.’
‘Can you do that here?’
Hannah smiled. ‘No. You’ll need state-of-the-art equipment for that level of analysis. There’s a lab in Tel Aviv we used to use. It won’t be quick or cheap, but I could give you their number if you’d like.’
‘It’s okay,’ said Iain. ‘I’ve got a better idea.’ It was getting late. They thanked her and returned to the car. While Uri turned the Merc, Iain found his Antioch hotel receipt then called the switchboard and asked for Karin. Slightly to his surprise, they put him through. ‘Yes?’ she said.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘It’s me. Iain.’
‘Hey yourself,’ she said. He could hear gladness in her voice, the creak of bedsprings as she sat down. ‘How are you? What’s going on? They said downstairs they’d taken you to the airport.’
‘I’m calling from Israel,’ he agreed.
‘No!’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Why?’
‘Things got a bit fucked up,’ he admitted. ‘I was only ever in Turkey to look into that Lebanese guy I told you about; the Dido fan. Turns out he was there to meet the same guy your boss was. But we didn’t know that at the time, so we set up cameras around the hotel. They caught the bombers parking their truck. I sent the footage in to the police. I sent it anonymously, but they managed to trace it back to me.’
‘They deported you for that? But why? You helped them.’
‘They said it was because I’d violated my visa. But I don’t know. The whole police investigation stinks, if I’m honest. It’s like they’re trying to avoid finding the truth.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Remember those Grey Wolves I mentioned our first night? I keep seeing signs of them. Word is that the Turkish police are infested with them. And the thing is, whenever they’ve been involved in shit like this in the past, it’s been a sure sign of something bigger coming down the pipe.’
‘Like what?’
Iain hesitated. As long as Karin remained in Turkey, there was a risk that the police would pick her up and interview her. ‘I’m still working on that,’ he said. ‘Which is why I called. Remember that package
Nathan gave you to post? The one I took from you after the bomb?’
‘Christ! I’d forgotten all about it. Where is it?’
‘I’ve got it here. I brought it with me in all the chaos this morning. I had to check what was in it before I boarded my flight, make sure it was benign. It’s samples, like you said. Pottery and shit. The thing is, I want to get them tested. Apparently you can tell where the clay and metals originally came from.’
‘Yes,’ she said. But she sounded extremely doubtful.
‘I know it’s a long shot, but I’m pretty sure that the bomb was meant to kill the guy selling those pieces. So I need to find out who he was and why he needed shutting up. This is my only lead. But I can’t take the samples to just anyone, not without inviting awkward questions. That’s why I was thinking your friend Mike Walker in Cairo. He was expecting them anyway.’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘Only if I ring him up out of the blue and start yapping about black market artefacts …’
‘You want me to call him for you? Tell him he can trust you?’
‘Could you?’
‘I’ll do it now,’ she said. ‘When can you get them to him?’
‘If he’s okay with it, I’ll fly them down tomorrow.’ He gave her his number so that she could call him back, then hung up.
Uri slid him a look. ‘Who was that?’ he asked.
‘Just some girl.’
‘Sure.’
It was another minute or two before Karin rang back. ‘Mike’s fine with it,’ she told him. ‘He’s actually pretty excited.’ She read out his contact details. ‘He’s got his in-laws staying, so he can’t put you up or anything. But he said to let him know your flight number and he’ll pick you up from the airport.’
‘I’ll call him when I’m booked.’
‘Let me know if you find anything.’
‘Of course. Give me your mobile.’ She did so. He jotted it down. The conversation had reached its natural end, but he didn’t want to let her go, and she seemed in no hurry either. ‘How about you, then?’ he asked. ‘Get your stuff back yet?’
‘This morning. You’ll have to give me your address so I can pay you back.’
‘Your passport and green card too?’
‘Everything.’
‘Brilliant. So it’s back to the States, is it?’ He tried his best to sound pleased for her, but didn’t quite succeed.
‘Not straight away. It didn’t seem worth changing my bookings, so I’ve got a couple of nights at the Nicosia Grand. Then God knows what I’ll do. Nathan was a fluke. I’ll never get a job like that again. And, honestly, it was the only thing keeping me over there.’
‘Holland, then?’
‘If Leiden will still have me. Otherwise I’ll have to start sending out résumés.’
‘Come to London,’ he said. ‘They’re crying out for Homeric specialists there.’
She laughed. ‘Is that right?’
‘It’s all anyone ever talks about.’
‘Don’t tempt me. I’ll take you up on it.’
‘I hope you do.’ His directness caught her by surprise. Silence stretched a little awkwardly, but he was in no mood to retract. ‘I want to see you again,’ he said.
‘I’d like to see you too,’ she said. ‘But I’ve got to sort America out first. When I get back.’
‘Sure,’ he said.
‘Good night, then.’
‘Good night.’ He ended the call, tucked away his phone.
‘Just some girl, huh?’ grinned Uri.
‘Just some girl,’ agreed Iain.
II
Asena arrived dispirited at the Grey Wolves’ Istanbul safe house. She reported her failure with Iain Black to the Lion but agreed with him that they should carry on with their plans regardless. She duly fed the three stories and supporting materials to the journalists they’d identified, then ate a light meal and fell exhausted into bed.
The night was warm; the city noisy. Sleep eluded her. She was tossing restlessly when her phone began to buzz. Her eyes were gummed; she had to squint to read. The Lion wanted to talk again. She threw on a shirt and went up onto the roof to set up her satellite phone. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Your friend Iain Black,’ he said.
‘What about him?’
‘I had our Antioch team check deeper into him. They went back to his hotel and made the staff talk. It turns out that Black was sharing his room with some Dutch woman he met after the blast. It further turns out that she’s still there. So they put a tap on her phone.’
Asena stiffened. ‘She called him?’
‘He called her. Two hours ago. They spoke twice. I’m sending you the transcripts now. As you’ll see for yourself, he now constitutes a definite threat. We need to deal with him urgently.’
‘He’s in Israel,’ said Asena. ‘No way can we set up that kind of operation in Israel at this short notice.’
‘That’s the thing,’ said the Lion. ‘He’s flying on to Cairo in the morning. We have friends in Cairo. Suppliers. You can get at him easily there.’
Asena grimaced. ‘Is this absolutely necessary?’
‘Read the transcripts. It’s absolutely necessary. And I warn you that there may be other work too, specifically the Dutchwoman I mentioned. It depends how much Black has shared with her. Perhaps if you could persuade him to tell you somehow …’
Asena fell silent. When she and the Lion had started out on this enterprise, it had been to remedy the grotesque injustice inflicted on her father and so many others like him. She’d felt righteous, therefore, certain that the scales of justice tilted heavily in their favour. But every episode like this brought them closer and closer to the level. ‘I hate this,’ she said. ‘I want it over. I want us to be together again.’
‘We will be. Soon. If we keep our heads.’
‘Yes.’
‘The Lion and the Wolf,’ he said.
She sighed and touched her screen. ‘The Lion and the Wolf.’
TWENTY-TWO
I
The first story was published in plenty of time to be picked up by the main breakfast shows. But because it appeared on the blog of an opposition muckraker, or ‘citizen journalist’ as she styled herself, with a history of bombshell announcements that went phutt, it received a cautious and sceptical response. But then she published the supporting documentation and suddenly it had legs.
The claim was simple: Turkey’s Ministry of Tourism had spent vast sums improving the roads and other infrastructure of certain Mediterranean resorts, and also offering generous tax incentives to encourage privately funded projects. One such project had been granted a stretch of prime national parkland south of Bodrum to develop into an eco-resort. Instead, however, a small number of opulent villas had appeared; and now it transpired that the Minister of Tourism owned one of these himself via an offshore holding company, though he had no family wealth to speak of, and its market value was far beyond his salary. To make matters worse, the Minister had been making his name by denouncing corruption and calling for shared sacrifice. His own sacrifice, it seemed, had involved taking bribes of luxury villas in exchange for prime public land, huge tax subsidies and the licence to profiteer.
TV reporters went out onto the street to solicit reaction. They’re all the same, people fumed. They’re all in it for themselves. One rule for them, another for us. No wonder we’re all getting poorer. And they were agreed, too, on whether the Minister would ever stand trial for it: not a chance.
II
The annual khamsin had started blowing in Egypt. Iain landed at Cairo International Airport in a see-saw of such brutal crosswinds that for once he was tempted to join in the general cabin applause for their safe arrival. He cashed some Egyptian pounds near passport control then found Mike Walker waiting in arrivals, holding up a sheet of foolscap with his name scrawled in purple marker pen upon it. He was tall, thin, angular and younger than Iain had judged from his voice, mid to late thirties. ‘Thanks so
much for coming to meet me, Professor,’ said Iain.
‘Mike, please. And it’s my pleasure. Nothing else on today. To be honest, I’d pretty much cleared the whole week for these pieces of yours.’
‘Interesting, are they?’
‘Not the foggiest.’ He turned and led the way through the crowded and chaotic arrivals hall with characteristic British diffidence, murmuring soft warnings and wincing apologies to everyone he bumped. They made it to the doors then outside into the hot, dry wind, a yellowish smog of dust and sand gusting violently enough to make Mike hold his glasses in place and raise his voice. ‘But when your main sponsor asks you to run some tests, you don’t tell him about the slot you’ve got available the week after next.’
‘Big supporter, was he?’
‘Our biggest, by a mile. Frankly, I don’t know how we’re going to manage without him.’
‘Maybe he’ll have left you something in his will.’
‘Yes. And maybe we’ll have three Christmases this year.’ They reached his car, climbed in, brushed themselves down with smiles of relief. Mike flipped his wipers to clear his windscreen then leaned forward to squint through the gloom as he pulled away. ‘But we’ll figure something out. This is Egypt, after all. If it’s coming easily, then you’re clearly doing it wrong.’
Iain laughed. ‘That’s always been my experience.’
They passed out of the airport. Conditions improved, but only marginally. Out on the open road, Mike proved a bolder driver than Iain would have anticipated, keeping up a decent pace and not being shy with his horn when anyone tried to cut in. But then an accident ahead brought traffic on the el-Nasr road to a complete standstill, and he sighed and ratcheted his handbrake and turned off his engine and raised his eyebrows at Iain as if to warn him that they were likely to be there awhile.
