by D J Mcintosh
PENGUIN
THE BOOK OF STOLEN TALES
D.J. McINTOSH’s The Witch of Babylon has been sold in twenty countries, was shortlisted for the Crime Writers’ Association Debut Dagger Award, and won a Crime Writers of Canada Arthur Ellis Award for best unpublished novel. It was a national bestseller, an Amazon.ca Best Book, and was named one of CNN’s Most Enduring Historical Thrillers. McIntosh is a member of the Canadian Society for Mesopotamian Studies. She is a strong supporter of Reporters Without Borders and the Committee to Protect Journalists. She lives in Toronto.
Also by D.J. McIntosh
The Witch of Babylon
PENGUIN
an imprint of Penguin Canada
Published by the Penguin Group
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First published 2013
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (WEB)
Copyright © D. J. McIntosh, 2013
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Manufactured in Canada.
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
McIntosh, D. J. (Dorothy J.)
The book of stolen tales / D.J. McIntosh.
ISBN 978-0-14-317574-2
I. Title.
PS8625.I53B66 2013
C813’.6
C2012-908386-0
Visit the Penguin Canada website at www.penguin.ca
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For the children I am blessed to have in my life: Will and Mary Natasha, Brendan, Christian, Madeline, Devon, Sarah, Morris, Louis and Jaycee.
And to libraries that open magical worlds to the child in all of us.
The Book of Stolen Tales is Book Two of the Mesopotamian Trilogy. It takes place in November, symbolized by Nergal, Babylonian god of war and pestilence.
In December 1631, Naples fell dark. Mount Vesuvius erupted, sending burning ash and toxic gas onto the settlements below. One year later, plague swept through the city. The origins of that plague are unknown to this day.
A European Estate, All Souls’ Day
Firelight on the faces of the villagers showed their lust for the burning. They held their torches proudly in front of the captain and his guard. Stunted and malnourished from years spent working in the mines, the villagers leapt at the chance to destroy the noble family’s precious property. They fought over who would throw the first firebrand, yearning to see the great estate crumble and burn.
Throughout the day, encouraged by the lord’s guard, the villagers set about destroying the garden. They’d ripped up the maze of boxed yew hedges, the cedars clipped into shapes of unicorns and centaurs, and the carefully tended orange trees, bunching them in a ring around the stately home.
The much-admired statue of Eros and Psyche stood under a little arbor thronged with roses, their blossoms long turned a papery brown, but their leaves still verdant after a prolonged summer. The sculptor believed he’d seen the forms of the two lovers in the gray veins of the prized Brocatelle marble. In contrast to the other garden ornaments, this statue had a compelling authenticity. The villagers pried it from its base with brutal force and threw it against the massive entrance doors. They smashed stone outbuildings and piled the rocks on top of the sculpture, demolished wooden stables and added this wreckage to the ring of uprooted trees and hedges. They sealed doors and windows with hot pitch. Enclosed in the circle of vegetation, the great building loomed out of the fog like a pale monument.
The time had come. The captain brought down his hand swiftly and issued the order. His soldiers knelt and raised their muskets. They opened fire. The villagers, unable to comprehend how they had suddenly become targets, froze in shock. Cruel pikes impaled those not felled by bullets. A young man whose wits had not yet left him broke away and tried to crash through the gauntlet of the soldiers’ line, but one of the men punctured and gutted the boy’s belly with his rapier.
The massacre ended quickly. Bodies lay on the ground like slaughtered lambs. The soldiers heaved them onto the makeshift pyres. The captain’s horse, a rare white Camargue tethered to a nearby tree, cried out in terror at the reek of blood.
The captain ordered one of his men to climb through a window broken by the youths and retrieve the prized object. The man returned clutching a small cedar box embossed with a red shield and white cross.
Soldiers added oil-drenched faggots of wood to the mounds of greenery and then joined their captain behind the ring and set it alight. Dense clouds of smoke from the fresh leaves and branches intermingled with the fog, obscuring the red tile roof and grand facade of the manor house.
Pleased by their good service, the captain ordered his aide to gift a gold piece to each member of the guard along with a generous serving of his finest cognac. The aide was permitted to join in, a privilege not normally granted him. The captain toasted his men.
His soldiers threw back their drinks and cheered as the blaze tossed sparks heavenward.
One soldier gripped his throat and sucked in a breath. Cognac could burn when drunk too rapidly but surely not like this. He strained again for air before toppling to the ground. The others followed, stumbling toward the fire, blinded by the poison. Within minutes the entire company lay dying, save one. A soldier who’d cursed aloud when he’d spilled his drink now stood dumbly, gazing at his fallen brothers. The captain pulled a dueling pistol from under his long cloak and shot him through the throat.
The horse flailed in panic, its gleaming white withers slick with sweat, its soft fleshy lips bloody and torn from wrenching at the bit. The captain lashed the animal into submission and mounted, digging his boots into its flanks. He tucked the cedar box into his saddlebag and smiled to himself, anticipating a rich reward from a lord well pleased with the night’s work.
The wood was abnormally silent. No rush of wings or predatory growls signaled the waking of its night creatures. The horse, usually a cautious animal alert to the signs of danger, kept up its frenzied pace along the forest trail, focused only on fleeing the smell of murder and fire. A shape like a bloom of ink on parchment spread across their path, darker than the gloom of the night forest and foreign to the natural forms of the trees and plants surrounding it. Both the rider in his reverie and the frightened horse failed to
notice the deepening shadow ahead.
Part One
THE PLAGUE DEMON
Of such great powers or beings there may be conceivably a survival … a survival of a hugely remote period when … consciousness was manifested, perhaps, in shapes and forms long since withdrawn before the tide of advancing humanity … forms of which poetry and legend alone have caught a flying memory and called them gods, monsters, mythical beings.
—ALGERNON BLACKWOOD
One
November 17, 2003
London
My brother, Samuel, wrote in his journals religiously, and after he died I kept one of them with me to remember him by. On the long overnight flight from New York to take up a new commission in London, I read his journal again. Although the secrets it held were known to me now, seeing his thoughts and drawings inscribed in his own hand brought his memory close.
If only those first steps my brother had taken during the looting of the Baghdad museum could be undone. Because of his efforts a great Mesopotamian treasure was discovered and saved. But at what price? It was not worth his life or the consequences for the other people I cared about. I wished he’d never gone down that road. It was a fanciful thought, one that comforted me, if only a little. Even our most fervent desires cannot bring a loved one back from the grave.
People always expressed surprise, learning we were brothers, because we looked so different. Our ages contributed to this. I’m thirty-three and Samuel was in his seventies when he died. We had different mothers and I inherited the olive skin, dark hair and eyes of her Turkish forebears. Samuel could easily have been taken for a North European.
I closed his journal just before the plane set down. I’d brought walk-on luggage, so getting through the jungle at Heathrow proved easier this time. I opted to take the tube into the city and pick up a car rental at a place I knew that gave good deals. Despite the long ride on the Piccadilly line, I enjoyed the different faces of the city—farmers’ fields in the outlying areas, banks of ivy and holly skirting the tracks, red tile and slate roofs, chimney stacks reminiscent of Dickens, the engaging names of stations as we flew past. Only in London would a station be named Cockfosters.
Once in my hotel room I cast away the sad memories of Samuel and looked forward to my new commission. The promise of a lucrative job had me feeling optimistic for the first time in many months and elated my business had taken such a positive turn.
In a few short hours, I would realize how fleeting this moment of satisfaction was. My good fortune wasn’t destined to last long.
Later that night, cold air wafted in through the hotel room window, open for relief from the stifling heat and poor air circulation in the cramped room. Rain fell gently on the pavement outside. The ancient radiators rattled and hissed. I’d shut the lights offeven though dusk had fallen, hoping the man outside would give up his post and go away.
I kept out of his sightline, although I doubted he could see anything against the dim background of my room. Five floors down and across the street, the man lingered just outside the yellow arc of light cast by a street lamp. He hadn’t moved for hours. Suddenly he looked toward the window as if sensing my presence. What sixth sense did he possess, knowing I watched him?
I’d brushed past him on my way back to the hotel earlier that evening, after acquiring the rare book I’d been hired to bid for at Sherrods auction house.
The man called out to me as I hurried past, “Mr. John Madison, isn’t it?”
At first glance he appeared elderly; both of his hands rested atop an ebony cane. A rearing white horse had been expertly carved into the shaft. The horse’s rippling withers and powerful legs were meticulously rendered; its flashing mane, arched neck, and head formed the curved handle. In an oddly formal gesture, he bowed and took a few steps toward me. His fluid movements and sure step belied the initial impression of frailty.
“Do I know you?”
“Not yet.” His accent was hard to place, but in his voice I detected the faint suggestion of a threat. “My name is Gian Alessio Abbattutis. Perhaps you have heard of me?”
“Haven’t had the pleasure. I don’t live in London.” I pulled my trench coat up to my ears. A light rain began to fall, stirring the dead leaves at my feet.
He indicated my case with the ferrule of his cane. “I think you have in there something that belongs to me.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Those tales were stolen. I want them back.”
“Excuse me?”
“As compensation for your trouble,” he added, “I will give you twice what you paid.” He dug into his coat pocket and produced a gold coin. It lay in his palm, which was creased with deep lines.
I moved closer. The coin looked familiar. “May I see that?”
He snatched it away, as a magician might. “When you agree to our transaction.”
I gripped my case harder and tried to keep the impatience from my voice. “It belongs to my client now. The sale was entirely legitimate. I couldn’t sell it to you even if I wanted to. And I don’t.”
It may have been a trick of the light, the street lamp playing strangely on his face, but his pupils narrowed to sharp, bright pinpoints. “I did not ask to buy it, sir! You’ll wish you hadn’t kept it. You’ll regret this”—he paused—”deeply.”
“Good evening,” I said curtly and turned away, having had more than enough of his hostile manner. I hastened to the hotel lobby, feeling both a little unnerved at the exchange and annoyed at myself for caring.
The old brick hotel had seen better days. The travel agent neglected to mention shabby corridors, intermittent hot water, and constant gurgles and clangs from the radiators. Convenience won out over comfort because it was close to the Earl’s Court tube station. In any event, my stay was for a week—at most—and the room came at a bargain rate.
I unlocked the door with an electronic key card and tossed my trench coat over a chair. Then I poured two fingers of scotch into a tumbler and put David Gray’s “Babylon” on the CD player to take my mind off the menacing words of the strange man outside. The solicitor’s letter originally proposing my commission was in my pocket. I fingered it, and thinking it might shed some light on the man I’d encountered, pulled it out and read it again.
Dear Mr. Madison,
At the behest of my client, who for the time being wishes to remain unknown, I am writing to seek your services. On Monday, November 17, at 7:30 p.m., Sherrods will offer at auction a rare book. You are being asked to represent my client to bid on it. Details about the item may be found in the enclosed catalog on page 21, item 164. The owner has fixed a price and will not agree to sell the book below that figure. Nor is it available for public viewing beforehand.
Should you be willing to accept this task, funds will be forwarded by my office to cover your travel, accommodation, and ancillary expenses. There is one further stipulation. Once you have concluded the purchase, do not attempt to read the book. My client advises that a repellent history is associated with it and the precaution is for your own protection. Sherrods will deliver the item to the successful bidder in a wooden box. Do not attempt to disturb the contents.
We have set a maximum of 175,000 pounds sterling. My client is unwilling to go beyond that sum; however, we don’t anticipate the final price will rise nearly that high. Assuming you are successful, 25 percent of that figure will be forwarded as your commission. Should you decide to accept these terms, please reply by letter.
You are welcome to contact my office should you have any further questions.
I thank you for your consideration.
Cordially,
Arthur S. Newhouse LLP
The solicitor had a swanky Lincoln’s Inn address. I made a few inquiries, checked Newhouse out, and agreed to take on the job. Twenty-five percent was very generous in my line of work so I jumped at the chance. After coming close to bankruptcy in recent months, I was in no position to turn down such a lucrative offer.
Other than the reference to the
book’s dark history and the secrecy surrounding my client’s identity, there was no indication in the letter of why the man who’d accosted me would be interested in it. Nor could I recall seeing him at the auction. Not for the first time, I speculated about the repellent history of the book and wondered if it was like others I’d stumbled across. Mina Vanderlin’s copy of the Picatrix, for example, a grimoire containing spells to summon demons. Or the Necronomicon by the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred, although that work existed only in the mind of its twentieth-century creator, H.P. Lovecraft. Newhouse’s meaning remained obscure. I couldn’t fathom why the old man outside wanted the book so much.
Most of my deals were conducted privately, in the sedate climate-controlled offices and homes of wealthy men and women, but I relished auctions. They had the same drama as casinos. Reading the auctioneer’s expressions and gestures, watching whom he’d trade glances with and whom he avoided: the psychological art of the auction shared a lot of similarities with poker. A false showing of your hand, deadpan expressions as tension rose when sums reached astronomical levels, the barely perceptible intake of breath during the count for the winning bid—all were the stuff of legend.
Sherrods was a small auction house specializing in rare books and antiquities, located in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. The place was buzzing as a result of a number of spectacular items on the block—a dozen leaves from the Gutenberg Bible, known in the business as “Noble Fragments”; a gorgeous Abbotsford edition of Sir Walter Scott’s twelve Waverley novels, including 2500 steel and wood engravings; and ten steatite Mesopotamian cylinder seals circa 800 B.C.
Sleek, well-dressed men and women milled about the Gutenberg display and the Waverley set, catalogs in hand. Some jotted notes in the margins of the item entries; others whispered into their cellphones. In contrast, the object of my attention, ticket 164, garnered little interest. It sat in lonely splendor in its little cedar box adorned with a red shield and white cross.
