Treasure of Eden

by Sherer, B. K. ; Linnea, Sharon

  The girls of the camp crowded around Yasmin. They were smiling, all talking at once. She knew they were each imagining what it would be like when their own time came, their own henna night.

  As they prepared to go, playing tambourines and carved flutes, Yasmin turned around, and nearly bumped into Migdim, who had been Yasmin’s best friend since birth. They were the same height and coloring, and had often been mistaken for each other. The girls’ mothers were also friends and they had been inseparable as far back as they could remember.

  Until Yasmin’s mother had remarried.

  Then Yasmin had begun keeping to herself.

  It was too late to turn away. As she found herself face-to-face with Migdim, the two girls studied each other. Even as the maelstrom of activity happened all around them, for that one moment it seemed they were alone.

  Neither spoke.

  Yasmin gulped. She knew she deserved recriminations from her friend: Why did you forsake me? Did our friendship mean nothing to you? And now you are leaving as though our years of sisterhood meant nothing.

  Then Migdim reached out and took Yasmin’s hand. As they stood connected, the warmth of Migdim’s hand said unexpected things: I remember. I hope you will be happy. I will miss you.

  Goodbye.

  Yasmin squeezed Migdim’s hand in silent reply: My heart stays here, with you.

  And what she had never had the occasion to say before: Good-bye.

  This time both girls knew the good-bye would be forever.

  They dropped hands, and Yasmin let herself be led away by the women before she started to cry.

  January 26, 2007, 12:30 p.m.

  (22 hours, 0 minutes until end of auction)

  Alma Beach, Jaffa, Israel

  * * *

  “Try the salmon tartare; it’s the best thing on the plate.”

  The South African jeweler pushed the plate of tapas toward Frank McMillan, who was ripping into fresh homemade bread just brought by the waitress.

  The two men sat on the open-air veranda of the Manta Ray restaurant, overlooking the rolling surf of the Mediterranean. It was a nice afternoon, a comfortable sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit, yet both men wore light suit coats. The jeweler was rarely caught without a coat because in his business it always paid to look professional. McMillan, on the other hand, was hiding his Beretta.

  Around them, tables were filled with customers grabbing a quick lunch with friends or associates before heading home to celebrate the Sabbath. The crowded tables, crashing surf, and occasional cawing seabird provided a convenient cover for two men who wished not to be overheard.

  Frank’s Tel Aviv CIA contact had met him at Ben-Gurion Airport an hour earlier and given him the keys to a Jeep that contained all the items he would need for this mission: papers, weapons, maps, and a satellite phone. The agent was then all too happy to direct Frank to the restaurant where he was to meet the jeweler whose brother he would impersonate.

  Frank ignored the tapas plate and continued to tear off pieces of the bread as he considered what he had learned so far about his lunch companion. The jeweler, Erich Myndhart, was born in Capetown, South Africa, and had studied the jeweler’s trade with his Afrikaner grandfather. With the waning influence of apartheid, he had left his home and moved on in search of greener pastures, but those greener pastures proved elusive. After many years Erich had landed in Tel Aviv, where he created a niche for himself as the man with the ability to obtain rare gems. This was due in no small part to the connections he maintained in Africa, which caused many Israeli jewelers to seek him out when they required rare gems for their creations. And, on occasion, Erich himself would use his not so inconsiderable skills to create a unique piece of his own design.

  “Few people here know my family, so a brother operating on my behalf will not arouse suspicion.”

  Frank glanced at the South African passport open in his lap. Hans Myndhardt was the name he had been given. Looking back up at Erich, he noted enough similarity in the width of his jaw, the eyes, the hair, that he supposed they could pass as kin.

  He listened closely to the other man, focusing on the accent. Frank assumed the Bedouin weren’t sophisticated enough to recognize a “Cape Dutch” accent.

  If I affect a British accent with a few German words thrown in, the Bedouin shouldn’t be any the wiser.

  Frank had once impersonated a blood diamond trader, in a much more dangerous and challenging setting…This should be a snap.

  “Have you dealt with this tribe before? How is it they chose you over all these local artisans?”

  “Their leader, al-Asim, likes rare things. He has many wives, and loves to lavish fine jewelry upon them. I can obtain gems no one else can find and have made several special pieces for him. Bracelets. Pendants. Simple things. But this time, it’s different. Al-Asim seems to want something grander. He is welcoming a new young bride, and I sense a greater desire to please her than I have seen before.”

  Frank listened, in silence. Finally, “So, what has the CIA bought from you? What will I bring that may capture her heart?”

  “Ah, this is something very special!” The jeweler’s eyes glowed as he pulled a flat hinged leather case from inside his jacket. He opened it slowly, dramatically, revealing a silver-colored pendant with two large diamonds, below which hung a deep blue five-sided stone.

  “What is it?” asked Frank. He was never impressed by jewelry, but since this was the man’s livelihood, he didn’t want to seem uninterested.

  “It’s tanzanite. Very rare. So named because it is found only in Tanzania. The chain is platinum, and the two diamonds are, well, perfect.

  “This necklace was my pride and joy, created for a husband wishing to win back the affections of a wife on whom he had cheated. Alas, it seems she was not disposed to forgive him. She did not like the deep blue of the stone, felt it would make her own blue eyes look washed-out. At least, that was her excuse. Sadly, he returned it.”

  Frank McMillan held out one hand to take the jewel case from his companion, who grudgingly handed it over. Without a second glance at the beautiful pendant in his possession, he flipped the case shut and slipped it into his own jacket pocket.

  Myndhart looked almost hurt as he noted the agent’s disrespect for the piece.

  “You will need to show a passion for gems if you are to convince them you are a jeweler,” he scolded.

  “Oh I have a passion for gems. Just not these.”

  Ruby, carnelian, turquoise, lapis, jade, mother-of-pearl. Only then did his eyes glow.

  January 26, 2007, 1:23 p.m.

  (21 hours, 7 minutes until end of auction)

  Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea

  Israel

  * * *

  “You’re here!” called a young girl, running toward Jaime’s companion. The woman stooped to catch the girls in her arms in an embrace of reunion.

  “May I present Rabi and Safia–two of my best students when I taught them, two years ago. How you’ve grown! Girls, this is my cousin Jami. Her brother is Ahmet. I believe he’s already here.”

  The girls both nodded solemnly, then went back to excited chatter, filling in their former teacher on the details of the wedding and their lives.

  Jaime breathed deeply and looked around. Something inside her stirred, responding to being in the Judean hills, with their timeless landscape carved of sand. The fact that she was wearing Bedouin clothing–a beautiful hand-embroidered tunic, soft pants, and a Bedouin-style burqa, which covered the top of her head and the bottom half of her face and was decorated with beads and coins–led her to feel as though she could have been here a hundred years ago, or two. Jaime also carried a special herga, which was a wedding shawl, decorated with beads and sequins, edged with multi-colored pom-poms. The desert exploded with color when there was a wedding.

  Jaime’s flight from Paris to Tel Aviv had been uneventful. Since it was a private plane, she’d even managed to get a little sleep. She’d been met by a guide in Tel
Aviv and taken to a safe house, where she’d met her current traveling companion, a woman named Johanna Skilling. All former residents of Eden were expected to be agents of change in the world. Some of them, while not being highly trained Operatives, acted as support staff as they were needed–flying planes, piloting boats, introducing Operatives into closed societies such as the Bedouin. That was Johanna’s current task with Jaime.

  There had been a range of colorful but modest Bedouin clothes from which Jaime could choose. She’d been happy to take the first galabia that fit, as well as sandals, a selection of dangling bracelets, and some half-moon earrings.

  Johanna, although raised in the United States, was gardener support staff who specialized in this section of the world. At five foot four she was three inches shorter than Jaime, with auburn hair and green eyes. She was quick, bright, and compassionate, and apparently had entrée into several hard-to-breach groups. She’d spent two years teaching early elementary school for Bedouin girls, including those of the tribe where the box was being sold. Johanna explained that this tribe was one of the very last that was still semi-nomadic, which meant the children boarded at the schools when they attended.

  Johanna told her that “Jami”–a version of her name spelled only slightly differently–was an acceptable female Bedouin name. She’d done Jaime’s hair in a braided bun that denoted she was a married–albeit widowed–woman.

  And they’d met Johanna’s male “cousin”–Jaime’s second guide–whose mission name was Alim. Together they climbed into a white flatbed truck. It would cause far more consternation than it was worth if the two women had turned up at the Bedouin camp unescorted, driving themselves. The truck had a bench seat, which, thankfully, had enough room for three. Although she’d managed to hide it from Johanna, Jaime’s back was still extremely sore. She was more than grateful that Johanna was willing to ride in the middle.

  The asphalt ribbon that wound through the desert seemed like an odd umbilical cord, attaching the desert nomads to culture, whether they wanted to be born into the twenty-first century or not.

  It was hard to tell how big the camp normally was. Its population had swelled exponentially for the wedding. The “big tent,” which would be the purview of the Hajj, the men, and the elders, was long and rectangular; the goat-hair tenting seemed bright beige in the dazzling sun. Other families’ tents, with small pens for goats, dotted the landscape. A white tent sat off by itself: what those in the West might call the honeymoon tent–soon to be occupied only by the bride and groom.

  The succulent aromas of cooking were pervasive. Dill and tarragon were the first herbs Jaime could identify.

  “You must have coffee!” the little girl identified as Rabi said, pulling on Johanna’s hand.

  Jaime had been warned that cardamom coffee and mint tea–and lots of it–were the traditional way of welcoming guests. The Bedouin were known for their hospitality. Once a guest arrived, the person was honored and under Bedouin protection, not only for the length of their stay but also for three days after they’d left. The flip side was also true: if anyone hurt a tribe member or guest, the Bedouin’s revenge was known to be ruthless.

  “We will feast also!” young Rabi continued. “There is mutton, and lamb, and goat–miles and miles of food!” She was a short girl, with a wide face and a grin that currently sported several missing teeth.

  “I guess we’d best come along, then,” said Johanna. The women followed behind her, Johanna greeting other women she passed along the way.

  “He must go in to join the men’s feast,” Rabi whispered to Johanna, pointing at Alim as they neared the big tent. One flap was fastened open to the ma’gad–the men’s sitting place–so that the young men could enter easily with the platters of food. Alim gave Rabi a small bow followed by a smile, then entered the tent, bowing his greetings to the others already gathered. Multiple calls of welcome urged him inside.

  Jaime knew she shouldn’t even glance inside the tent, but as Alim moved from the doorway she could see about half the men who sat on the long cushions surrounding the communal serving dishes in the center. One dish had obviously just been brought in: it was heaped with steaming portions of lamb and grape leaves, with chickpeas prepared into something like a ragout.

  Each man had a small plate in front of him, from which he would eat–only from the part of the plate closest to him, and only with three fingers of his right hand. Jaime was fascinated observing these customs that, until now, she’d only studied. So much so that there was a delayed moment of shock when she realized that one of the men talking, laughing, and eating…was Yani.

  The kaffiyeh on his head was white with an intricate black design; the double ‘agal-rope surrounding it, which signified manhood and the bearing of responsibility, was also black. He was talking in fluent Arabic, and she knew the accent he used would be exactly that of this local tribe. He looked very much like he had when she’d first met him in the ruins of Ur, in Iraq. Only then his kaffiyeh had been white and red.

  There was a catch in her chest as she recognized him, as if someone had hit her with a small blade that sliced easily through all her defenses and lodged steel in her heart.

  He hadn’t seen her. Even if he’d noticed that two women had walked past, half her face was veiled.

  “Come in; come in–'Ahlan wa Sahlan!” was the excited greeting as Jaime and Johanna entered the maharama, the place of women, the section of the large tent divided off from the men by a ma’nad, a colorful woven rug, this one in reds and blues.

  Jaime cleared her mind. She was here because of the box. TC2 had explained that their first plan was simply to be the high bidder in the auction. A gardener in England, one positioned as a purchaser of fine art, was bidding. But, given the value of the box and the notoriety of those who were after it, clearly it was best to have people in place at the scene. If Frank McMillan knew who currently owned it and where they were, certainly others did as well.

  Then the cup was in Jaime’s hand, and the hot, bitter coffee was in her cup, and she called on what Arabic she knew to pay attention to the strains of conversation she could hear, hoping more than anything to become another anonymous, welcome member of the celebratory group.

  January 26, 2007, 1:30 p.m.

  (21 hours, 0 minutes until end of auction)

  Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea

  Israel

  * * *

  Abihu el-Musaq sat quietly as the flurry of wedding revelry swirled around him. He had wrapped his red and white kaffiyeh around his face in such a way that his unique facial features were, for the most part, obscured and he could observe the other men with few of the curious glances he often experienced in public.

  These barbarians know nothing of music. El-Musaq found the incessant noise from the rababa guitar an annoyance, especially when accompanied by the meaningless whiny chanting the Bedouin called singing.

  And what did they have against chairs? The body was not meant to sit on the floor like this, at least not anymore. We have evolved beyond this. We have tools, so make a stool or a table!

  Did my mother truly live this way as a child? This is such a hard life. But the people do seem relatively happy. At least they enjoy a good party.

  Young men brought in extra helpings of mensef, and those who were not intent on smoking a water pipe reached in to grab more of the meal from the plate. All of the talk, the music, the smoke, could make a person’s head spin. But el-Musaq was very focused. He had been intent on watching the Hajj ever since arriving with his mother late in the morning in a beat-up old Ford Falcon and being welcomed to the celebration as a distant cousin.

  For a man preparing to marry a pretty young bride, the Hajj seemed rather subdued. He did not laugh. He did not boast. He did not play the role of the magnanimous host with a tent full of guests.

  He seemed, yes, distracted.

  Some women passed by the open tent flap, and a young man entered to a great call of greetings.

  Everyone
except the Hajj was treating this as a normal wedding, a time of celebration. Did the Hajj suspect that el-Musaq was already among them? Did he suspect how much danger his own actions had brought into the camp?

  It won’t be long now, my friend. It shall come to the ending I desire—or to the ending you fear most.

  January 26, 2007, 3:03 p.m.

  (19 hours, 27 minutes until end of auction)

  Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea

  Israel

  * * *

  Just when it seemed to Jaime that the feasting would never end, Johanna leaned over to the woman sitting next to her and said, “Do you think, since it is such a celebration, that the Hajj will display the box?”

  The woman, who had been laughing moments before, was suddenly sober. She said, “I hope he will display it among the family. I’m sorry to say he’s never shown it to anyone from another clan. But it is the box that has brought us so much good fortune. The box that has kept us free when all around us tribes are herded into shantytowns,” she said. “But the men say the Hajj has spoken of selling it.” She was quiet. “We choose to believe that’s not true. He would not do such a thing!”

  “So we might be able to see it? The children have talked about it in such glowing terms when they were in school.”

  “You never know. Perhaps the Hajj will bring out the box tomorrow, since it is his own wedding!”

  Jaime looked around the tent to see if anyone registered anything more than normal interest in the conversation.

  “What other kind of good fortune has it brought?” Johanna quietly asked the two girls who had been her pupils.

  “It made us rich,” Rabi said, as if by rote.