by Sam Bourne
‘I told you already. He sent some to me. When I was on border duty in Lebanon, we used to text all the time.’
‘So this phone has definitely been wiped.’
‘I think so.’
‘Which means his email account is likely to have gone too. Whoever did that to your mother probably came in here too. But let’s look.’
The familiar desktop appeared on the screen. Maggie went straight for the email account. A box appeared, demanding a password. Damn.
‘Uri?’
He was clutching a bundle of papers to his chest, adding to it each time he examined a sheet from the pile on the desk in front of him. She could see progress was going to be painfully slow.
‘Try Vladimir.’
‘Vladimir?’
‘As in Jabotinsky. The founder of Revisionist Zionism. The first serious hardliner. My dad’s hero.’
She keyed in the letters slowly. Without fanfare, the screen began to fill up with email. Uri smiled. ‘He always used that. Used to write love letters to my mother under that name.’
Maggie scrolled down, looking at the unopened messages. They had kept coming, even now, since his death. Bulletins from the Jerusalem Post; a soldiers’ relief fund; circulars from Arutz Sheva, the settlers’ radio station.
She went back earlier, to those that had arrived before his death. Still the same round robins and circulars. Hold on: some personal ones. A request to speak at a demo next Wednesday. That was today. An inquiry from German TV; a request to be on a BBC radio panel. She looked further, hoping for a message from Ahmed Nour or anything which might explain the fevered words of Rachel Guttman in this very house just two days earlier. She checked the sent box, but there was not much there that stood out, and certainly no communication with Nour. How stupid could she be? With confidence, she searched for the codename she had unscrambled, Ehud Ramon, certain it would be here. Not in the inbox, not in sent messages. Nothing.
Maybe Maggie’s assumption was right. Whoever had killed Rachel Guttman had stopped in here first, methodically deleting any emails of significance. She looked in the recycle bin, just on the off-chance. Nothing in there since Saturday, the day of Guttman’s death. Which meant that either someone had hacked into this computer and was skilled enough to cover their traces-or the dead man simply avoided using email for any communication that mattered.
‘Are you certain your father used email? I mean properly.’
‘Are you kidding? All the time. Like I said, for a man his age, he is very modern. He even plays computer games, my father. Besides, he is a campaigner. They live on the internet, these people.’
That gave her an idea. She clicked the email away and looked instead for the browser. She opened it up and went straight to the favourites. A couple of Hebrew newspapers; the BBC; the New York Times; eBay; the British Museum; Fox News. Damn. Her hunch had been wrong. She shut down the browser and stared at the desktop which, at this moment, looked to her like an electronic brick wall.
She stared hard at the icons on it. A few Word documents, which she opened. She saw Yariv1.doc and her heart leapt. But it was only an open letter, in English, addressed to the Prime Minister and headed ‘For the Attention of the Philadelphia Inquirer’. Whatever it was Guttman had wanted to say to Yariv, he had not left it lying around here.
Then, at the bottom of the screen, an icon she had on her own machine but had never used. She clicked on it and saw it was another internet browser, just not a very famous one. She looked for the favourites, here called Bookmarks, and there was only one.
gmail.com
It was what she had been hoping for. An email account, separate to his main one, effectively hidden away. Here, she had no doubt, was where Guttman’s serious correspondence would be kept.
A box appeared, this time asking for both a name and a password. She typed in Shimon Guttman, with Vladimir as the password and waited. No luck. She tried Shimon on its own. Nothing. She tried lower case, upper case and then no spaces. None if it worked.
‘Uri, what would he use besides Vladimir?’
So she tried Jabotinsky, Jabo, VladimirJ and what seemed like three dozen other permutations. No luck. And then it hit her. Without pausing, she pulled out her cellphone and punched at the numbers. ‘The office of Khalil al-Shafi please.’
Uri reared back, dropping a clump of papers onto the floor as he did so. ‘What the hell do you think-’
‘Let me speak to Khalil al-Shafi please. This is Maggie Costello from the State Department.’ It was her Sunday best accent.
‘Mr al-Shafi. Do you remember you told me that Ahmed Nour had received some mysterious emails prior to his death, requesting a meeting? That’s right. From an Arab name his family did not recognize. I need you to tell me that name. It will go no further than me, I assure you.’
She checked the spelling back twice, making sure every letter was right, knowing there was no room for error. She thanked the Palestinian negotiator and hung up.
‘Do you speak any Arabic, Uri?’
‘A little.’
‘OK. What does nas tayib mean?’
‘That’s very simple. It means a good man.’
‘Or, if we were to translate it into German, a Gutt man, nein?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
L ONDON , SIX MONTHS EARLIER
Henry Blyth-Pullen tapped the steering wheel along to the Archers theme tune. Tum-tee-tum-tee-tum-tum-tum, tum-tee-tum-tum-tumtum. He was, he decided, a man of simple tastes. He might have spent his working life surrounded by sumptuous antiques and precious artefacts, but his needs were modest. Just this-an afternoon drive through the spring sunshine, with no more onerous obligation than listening to a radio soap-was enough to cheer his spirits.
He always liked driving. Even this, a forty-five-minute run from the showroom in Bond Street to Heathrow Airport, was a pleasure. No phone calls, no one bothering him. Just time to daydream.
He did the drive often. Not to the main terminals, teeming with passengers and all kinds of hoi polloi on their way to their tacky vacations in heaven knows where. His destination was the turning almost everyone else ignored. The cargo area.
He pulled into the car park, finding a space easily. He didn’t get out straightaway, but stayed to listen to the end of the episode: Jenny breaking down in tears for a change. He got out, straightened his jacket-a contemporary tweed, he liked to call it-shot an admiring glance at his vintage Jaguar, polished to a shine, and headed for the reception.
‘Hello again, sir,’ said the guard the instant Henry walked into the Ascentis building. ‘We can’t keep you away, can we?’
‘Oh come on, Tony. Third time this month, that’s all.’
‘Business must be good.’
‘In truth,’ he said, mimicking a courtly bow, ‘I cannot complain.’
At the window, he filled in the air waybill. On the line marked ‘goods’ he wrote simply ‘handicrafts’. For ‘country of origin’, he wrote ‘Jordan’ which was not only true but suitably unremarkable. Imports from Jordan were entirely legal. Asked for his 125 number he wrote down the string of digits Jaafar had given him over the phone. He signed his name as an approved handling agent and slipped the form back under the glass.
‘All right, Mr Blyth-Pullen, I’ll be back in a tick,’ said Tony.
Henry took his usual seat in the waiting area and began leafing through a copy of yesterday’s Evening Standard. If he looked relaxed, it was because he felt relaxed. For one thing, he was dealing with the staff of BA, not Her Majesty’s Revenue & Customs department. Sure, Customs would look at the forms but he couldn’t think of the last time they had asked to open anything up, let alone a crate that had been vouched for by a recognized, and highly respectable, agent like him. The truth was, they were not really bothered with the art trade. Trafficking, whether in drugs or people, that was their game. The lead had come from the top. The politicians, pushed by the tabloids, wanted to keep out crack, smack and Albanians-not the odd mosaic fragment. A
s Henry had explained to his overanxious wife more than once, the uniformed men at Heathrow were playing at The Sweeney, not Antiques bloody Roadshow.
Sure enough, Tony soon emerged with a set of papers and his usual smile: Customs must have nodded the forms through. Henry Blyth-Pullen wrote out a cheque for the thirty pounds release fee and went back to his car, waiting, with Radio 4 now deep into an afternoon play, to be called into the secure area. Eventually he was beckoned forward, driving through the huge, high gates until he reached Door 8, as instructed by Tony. Another short wait and soon he was putting a single brown box into the boot of the Jag. One more signature, to confirm receipt, and the shipment was officially signed, sealed, delivered-and one hundred per cent legitimate.
When it came time to open the crate in the back room of his Bond Street showroom, he felt the same pulse of pleasure he experienced whenever a truly special consignment arrived. It was almost sexual, a stirring in the loins, that he had first known as a teenager, smoking an illicit joint at his boarding school. He levered open the top, taking care to avoid the splinters these tea-chests could skewer into your fingers. But his mind itched with that most delicious of questions, known to any child tearing away at ribbons and paper on Christmas morning: what’s inside?
Al-Naasri had told him over the phone to expect tourist souvenirs. Henry had been intrigued, assuming this was code for items brought to Jordan from somewhere else. But as he peeled off the first layers of styrofoam and bubble wrap, he felt uneasy. He saw a set of six music boxes, each in the form of a Swiss chalet in luridly cheap colours. He lifted the lid of the first one and, to his great disappointment, it played a tune. Edelweiss.
Below them were horrible, shoddy glass frames an inch thick containing patterns of coloured powder, complete with a transparently fake sticker, announcing each one as ‘Genuin Sand from Jordan River’. Al-Naasri had never let him down before but this, Henry Blyth-Pullen had to admit, had him foxed. Finally, encased in triple layers of bubble wrap and tissue paper, were a dozen nasty charm bracelets, the kind, Henry decided instantly, oiks might buy from a coin-operated machine on Blackpool pier. Of all the shipments he had received in his eighteen years in the business, this was easily the most disappointing. Handicrafts, my eye. This was tourist tat, plain and simple.
When they had spoken, Henry had thought ‘souvenirs’ was simply a euphemism, necessary when talking on the telephone. But that bloody Arab wasn’t kidding. Still, he had worked with Jaafar al-Naasri for a long time now. He had never been let down before. Falling into a chair, he now reached for the phone. He would get this sorted. He dialled and waited for the long drone of an international ring.
‘Jaafar! Thanks for this latest arrival. It’s-how shall I put it-surprising.’
‘Do you like the song?’
‘On the music boxes? Yes, er, yes. Most…tuneful.’
‘Ah, that is because of the workmanship, Henry. Look inside the cylinder drum; you can see a technique there that is very old. Ancient even.’
‘I understand.’ Listening to Jaafar, with the phone cradled in his ear, Henry moved back to the crate, where he picked out the first music box. He wrenched the wooden roof off its hinges to get a closer look at the mechanism. He would need a screwdriver.
‘And these are a local product?’ Henry asked, stalling.
Too impatient to find his tool box, Henry grabbed a kitchen knife and levered out the innards of the first music box. It was stubborn-too bloody meticulous, the Swiss, that was their trouble-but eventually it pushed out. And there, inside, sure enough, was a perfect example of a cylinder seal.
‘Oh, I now see what you mean about these music boxes, Jaafar. The mechanisms are exquisite! They could only have come from the very birthplace of the, er, music box. The place where it all began!’
‘And what about the sand displays?’
‘Well, their immediate appeal is a little less obvious.’
‘You know of course, that every grain of sand was once a much larger stone. One that has been changed, its appearance altered by time. Look hard in any grain of sand and you can see the rocks and stones of the past.’
Henry picked up the first display and smashed it against the side of his oak desk, sending sand all over the carpet. He peered out through the doorway, hoping no one out front-staff or, worse, a customer-had heard the sound of breaking glass.
There, filling the palm of his hand, was a clay tablet. Etched on it was line after line of cuneiform writing. It was covered in sticky sand now, like party glitter, but it brushed off easily.
‘Oh, and my dear Jaafar, these sands from the River Jordan are perfect. And I see you have sent me at least-’
‘Twenty, Henry. Exactly twenty.’
‘Yes, twenty it is. Quite so.’
‘And, my friend, the bracelets are especially charming, don’t you think? Do they not perhaps remind you of the leaves on the trees in springtime?’
Henry had to marvel at the ingenuity of it. It was brilliantly done. Jaafar had surpassed himself. He had seen the opportunity of 2003, bided his time and then come up with a flawless disguise. Henry felt honoured to be part of it.
The next day he made an appointment to see his friend, Ernest Freundel, at the British Museum. They had jointly run the Art Club at Harrow, where Freundel, even then, was the more accomplished scholar. When Henry came up with the wheeze of combing the art books for female nudes, then charging boys 10p a time to look at them, it was clear which of the two was headed for business and which for the academy.
Ordinarily, Ernest Freundel was happy to indulge his old pal, even if he couldn’t help but resent the ever-widening gap between their incomes. He would decipher whatever piece had landed in Henry’s lap, then give him a rough value for it. Once or twice he had even urged the trustees of the Museum to purchase one of Henry’s items for the permanent collection. But this time was different. Henry had barely pulled the first clay tablet from his bag when Ernest all but recoiled, refusing even to touch it.
‘Where has this come from, Henry?’
‘From Jordan, Ernest.’
‘Don’t insult me. Via Jordan, possibly. But I think we both know where this comes from.’
‘Isn’t that what makes it worth so much?’
‘Theoretically.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean that nobody with half a brain cell is going to buy this stuff. It’s radioactive. There are half a dozen conventions banning the trade in looted antiquities from Iraq.’
‘Ssssh!’ Then in a whisper, ‘Aren’t you going to examine it? Aren’t you even curious?’
‘Of course I am. But this is one of the greatest cultural crimes in human history, Henry. I won’t be an accomplice to it. I should really call the police this second and have you arrested.’
‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’
‘No. But I should. Go. And take that bag of swag with you.’
Henry refused to be disheartened. Freundel was just a goodiegoodie, always had been. But he was right. The I-word had become a taboo in the antiquities trade. Governments had got heavy on stolen Iraqi goods and most collectors and buyers were fighting shy. Wait for the dust to settle, they said. Wait till London and Washington have got something else to worry about, something even more embarrassing than the rape of Baghdad, and then we can talk. For now, we’d rather not.
The only solution was to give Jaafar’s hoard a patina of legitimacy. If he could make it look legit, then he could begin the more pleasurable task of selling it. But no one would risk buying any of these treasures if they lacked ‘provenance’. It would be too risky: any day they could be seized and repatriated to Iraq, with meagre compensation. The world’s collectors had seen what happened to the Munchs and Klimts that had been looted by the Nazis. Their new owners had to give them up, even decades later. No multi-millionaire wanted to repeat that mistake.
Henry Blyth-Pullen waited a day or two then called up an old academic acquaintance, Paul Cree, one w
ith even less money and far fewer scruples than Ernest. Henry suggested they operate in the usual way. Cree would see the items, take photographs of them, then submit an article for one of the journals, perhaps Minerva or the Burlington Magazine, which specialized in publicizing new finds. Once they had been written about in a respectable outlet, they would be on a fast track to legitimacy; the aura around them would change. They would no longer be looted, but rather discovered. Their history would be entered and logged in neat black and white type. Future buyers could check the Burlington Magazine and see that Henry was not flogging any old rubbish but rather works that had featured in a prestigious journal: I happen to have a copy right here, would sir perhaps like to take a look? In return Cree would be compensated for his time and expertise. In other words, he would either get a wad of twenties from Henry’s Bond Street till or, less likely, a slice of the profits from the eventual sale.
But even the shabby Cree would not do business.
‘I’m sorry Henry, dear boy-’
The ‘dear boy’ was a particular irritant to Henry, who knew it was hardly natural lingo for a comprehensive boy from Bedfordshire, which is all Neather was.
‘-I’m sorry, but the mags have all clammed up. Tighter than a nun’s whatchamacallit these days. They won’t feature just anything. Not any more.’
‘But, Paul, this is not just anything.’
‘I know old boy, I know. But the journeaux worry when things might have, how shall we put it, a dubious provenance.’
‘Dubious?’
‘If they’ve fallen off the back of a Baghdad lorry. After Iraq, everyone’s lost their bloody marbles.’
‘What am I supposed to do?’
‘I’m sorry, Henry. But you’ll just have to find another way.’
Henry chose not to relay any of this to al-Naasri, but the messages the Jordanian was leaving on his voicemail were getting less and less friendly.
‘I need to speak to you, Henry. Remember, those souvenirs belong to me and cost me a lot of money. I hope you are not letting me down. For your sake.’
