Babylon

by Camilla Ceder

  Henrik observed the man more carefully, and with a growing sense of unease. He had very little idea of where he was. The few people visible on the other side of the passage leading to the yard looked incredibly shady. They would feel no solidarity with him. They wouldn’t come to his rescue. He ought to take the opportunity to do a runner. But he didn’t. His curiosity outweighed his fear.

  Perhaps the man was younger than he had first thought. The limp made his posture resemble that of an old man, but although the dry skin on his face was deeply lined, his physique and the sharpness of his eyes told another story. He had only the faintest shadow of a beard on his chin, but he had a splendid moustache, grey just like the hair on his head.

  He held out his hand to Henrik.

  ‘Come now!’

  Henrik slowly moved closer, his eyes fixed on the pale bundle in the man’s arms. The man squatted down and opened it out on his lap.

  Henrik had been unconsciously holding his breath, and what first met his gaze was a conglomeration of varied objects. They looked scruffy. Disappointment washed over him. He didn’t know what he’d expected but his fear, combined with his pride at having gone off the beaten track, had created a sense of anticipation.

  The man poked the objects with his dirty hands. Just to be polite, Henrik moved closer to have a look.

  ‘Is it bone and . . . metal?’

  The man held up the items one after another: collar-like necklaces, hair slides and boat-shaped earrings, all ingrained with dirt and mud. Henrik touched something shapeless and cream-coloured that looked like a dog’s bone.

  ‘I don’t suppose any of it’s gold?’

  ‘No . . . Yes, gold,’ the man said quickly. ‘Ceramic. Different materials.’

  He doesn’t know, thought Henrik. But he certainly doesn’t think it’s gold.

  There were small figures made of clay, depicting animals and people; perhaps some thirty items including the cylindrical seals at the bottom of the bundle.

  Suddenly Henrik’s interest was reawakened. Something about these items seemed familiar. He picked up a necklace and tried to blow sand and earth off the intricate leaves. Turning it over and over, he weighed it in his hand: what he realised almost made him topple forwards.

  His voice wasn’t entirely steady. ‘May I see it in daylight?’

  The man kept his eyes fixed on Henrik the whole time, his expression tense.

  ‘A hundred dollars,’ he said, gripping Henrik’s wrist tightly.

  ‘What are these things? Where did you get them?’

  The man didn’t reply, but seemed intensely aware of Henrik’s movements.

  I need to pull myself together, he thought. Act calmly – think. I mustn’t let him see . . . If these are what I think they are . . .

  ‘I must get them valued before I know if I want to buy them.’

  One hundred dollars. I ought to buy them anyway, take the chance. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity; he was almost certain the objects were worth a fortune. He must make sure the man didn’t get away before the deal was done.

  ‘I want to buy them as a gift for my wife,’ Henrik said cunningly. ‘All of them.’

  The man held up nine fingers. ‘Nine hundred dollars.’

  Then he bundled up the sheet and stood up, impatient for something to happen. Did he think Henrik was about to produce the money from his back pocket?

  ‘Yes, but of course I don’t have the money on me,’ Henrik said.

  The man backed away a couple of steps, no doubt to indicate that he could easily tire of this game. Desperation caught up with Henrik. He tried a placatory tone.

  ‘Listen. I’m staying at a hotel near here, this is the card.’ Eagerly he dug the card out of his pocket. ‘I’ll take one of the sculptures or a necklace with me . . .’

  Henrik hesitated for a second, then threw caution to the winds. What the hell. ‘You can take my passport as a guarantee.’

  If the worst came to the worst, he could always go to the embassy.

  ‘Then you come to the hotel in the morning. I get the chance to value the things, and to get your money.’

  A minute or so passed without the man saying anything, and just when Henrik began to think that the man’s English wasn’t up to processing so much information all at once, he opened his mouth.

  ‘You go hotel, get money. We meet tomorrow, and you buy.’

  ‘But how can I be sure I’ll get to buy them, that you really will come?’

  ‘You must trust me. I come.’

  He lifted the bottom of his long shirt and began to bind the bundle of objects around his hips and against his chest.

  Adrenaline sent Henrik’s blood racing through his veins like a herd of wild horses. Can’t let him disappear, got to keep him talking. Got to find out what he’s got in that bundle.

  ‘Where do you come from?’ he began hesitantly, moving imperceptibly so that he was in the way if the man tried to climb into the rusting heap of metal and drive off. He tried to keep his voice calm.

  ‘You a salesman?’ He noticed he was following the man’s speech patterns.

  The man slid away. ‘Farmer. Other things too.’

  ‘OK, like me. Doing different things for a living. In the countryside?’

  ‘Up mountain, little village.’

  ‘What’s it called, this village?’ said Henrik, instantly aware that he wasn’t going to get an answer to that question.

  ‘You don’t know it,’ the man said curtly, pushing past Henrik to get in the truck.

  He had to work fast now.

  ‘OK, friend. I will get you your money right away. But you have to follow me. Not far, just back to the museum.’

  The man squinted up at him, his expression suspicious. Henrik spread his arms wide, as if to show that he had neither concealed weapons nor intentions.

  He’s realised he asked for too little, now I’ve shown that I’m keen. But he’s already set a price, we’ve got a verbal agreement. But Henrik was well aware that traditional rules didn’t apply in this situation.

  Ann-Marie, he thought suddenly. Ann-Marie would be able to carry out a valuation.

  The man clutched at his chest, reassuring himself that the items were in safe keeping next to his heart. He stared at Henrik, assessing him one last time. Then he nodded.

  26

  Istanbul, September 2007

  ‘Stop moving them like that!’

  Ann-Marie Karpov grabbed the man’s wrist and held on tight for a couple of seconds, but she was looking at Henrik.

  ‘Do you have any idea what this is?’

  She turned her head and gazed towards the museums on the hill, as though she were expecting someone to rush in to rescue her, or possibly arrest her. Then she slowly lowered her arm and pondered deeply for a few seconds.

  ‘Arto Suleyman came here with me after our meeting, he’s up there now . . . I’ll go and get him. He has to see this.’ There was a severity in her voice that Henrik had never heard before. ‘And you make sure he stays here!’

  ‘Ann-Marie, for God’s sake!’

  Henrik’s brain was working overtime. It had been a miscalculation to drag the man here, but it was too late to change his mind. Ann-Marie knew what was going on, and he had to make sure she didn’t ruin everything. It hadn’t occurred to him that, by bringing the man to Ann-Marie, the treasures might slip out of his grasp.

  As soon as the artefacts landed in the hands of Suleyman, head of the archaeology department, they would be no more than a distant memory.

  Fuck. A naive series of images had scrolled through his mind: he and Ann-Marie together; a life of freedom. Without debts or limitations, obligations or traps. But he hadn’t thought it through; he’d moved too quickly. And now he had to act again.

  First and foremost, he needed money, quickly, and Ann-Marie was the only one who had any. In a few rapid strides he caught up with her.

  ‘Listen to me.’

  He kept his voice low, even though the risk o
f anyone nearby understanding Swedish was minimal. ‘I realise it’s stolen property, for fuck’s sake. But can’t you wait a minute before you . . . Can’t we just think about this together? Decide what to do?’

  She stopped dead and stared at him. Her throat was shining in the heat.

  ‘What exactly is it you want to discuss, Henrik? This man is a criminal, he’s offered you stolen goods for next to nothing.’

  ‘He said he was a farmer, he could just as easily have dug them up on his land, and he’s trying to get rid of them because he doesn’t realise how valuable they are. In which case, in what way would it be unethical to—’

  ‘For pity’s sake, Henrik! Don’t pretend to be stupid, you understand as well as I do that if these items have a cultural and historical value, then they belong to the state, and not to the first greedy, immoral tourist who comes along. Do you mean you’re happy to be a part of this, to finance the continuation of these ravages? I’m not even going to have this discussion. I’m going to fetch Suleyman. Make sure that man doesn’t disappear.’

  She moved a step backwards and waved to the man, who had sat down for a smoke by a tree trunk a little way off.

  ‘One second! I’ll be back soon, just wait for me!’ She tottered as her heel caught in a hole in the tarmac, but managed to regain her balance. She had put on her best strappy sandals for the meeting with Suleyman.

  Just before she disappeared from Henrik’s view, she turned around. Her expression was affectionate once more. ‘It looks as though about half of those artefacts carry an inventory number from the Iraqi Museum. The rest are unmarked. What amazing fieldwork – it will be so exciting to be involved in identifying and dating them. And to help make sure a small percentage of a cultural heritage ends up in the right place!’

  She waved and disappeared over the brow of the hill.

  Henrik’s hands were shaking as he took a cigarette out of the packet. He braced himself. In his head a plan was rapidly taking shape. By the time he stubbed out the cigarette beneath his new sandals, an icy calm had spread through his body.

  The man stood up and greeted him with an outstretched hand. ‘We have deal?’

  ‘We have a deal.’

  They arranged to meet later. The man limped off in the direction of the yard where his truck was parked. Henrik watched him go. He couldn’t help worrying that the man might be robbed in the time it would take to get hold of the money; it was a lot of money, after all. But it could be done.

  In a way it felt wrong to go behind Ann-Marie’s back. He wanted honesty to be a key part of their relationship. But he consoled himself with the thought that he wouldn’t keep the secret to himself for ever. She would gradually come round to the idea. All he had to do was choose his moment, put things to her in the right way.

  He quickly tried phoning home, then Rebecca’s mobile, but there was no reply. He bit his nails. Sometimes she didn’t answer, and sometimes she didn’t call back. He thought about calling his parents and asking them to transfer some money into his account, but it went against the grain and, anyway, how long would that take? He could try his fellow students, but he was well aware that none of them had much money with them. Besides, what would Ann-Marie make of his sudden desperate need for cash?

  He splashed out on a taxi. From the back seat he called Ann-Marie and left a voicemail explaining with considerable agitation that the man had conned him, disappearing with both the money and the artefacts.

  ‘You were right, he wasn’t to be trusted. It looks as if he realised he was sitting on a gold mine when we started to look really keen. But I’m OK,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘It was horrible, but I’ve just ended up with a bloody nose. And, of course, I’ve lost all my money. I don’t know what I’m going to do about that, but at least I’m alive. Maybe I could borrow some cash, just until we get home.’

  He said he was going to go back to the hotel to lie down for a while, to have a rest after the shock.

  Then he leant forward so that the driver couldn’t see him in the rear-view mirror and pushed his nasal bone upwards with his knuckles in one sharp thrust. Tears blinded him. He thanked his lucky stars that he’d always had weak blood vessels in his nose. Just to be on the safe side he let the blood drip onto his chest, staining the expensive shirt – it had to be worth it.

  None of the other students were on the street outside the hotel or in the lobby. He wiped his face clean as best he could with an old receipt.

  It was almost evening by the time Henrik turned up in Arto Suleyman’s office. Two hours earlier he had rung Ann-Marie and said that he felt dizzy from the blow and needed to sleep.

  ‘Why haven’t you been answering your phone, I’ve rung you a thousand times!’ she said agitatedly. ‘I’ve been trying to explain that to Suleyman, but I only saw the artefacts for a few moments, you were the one who had the chance to look at them properly. He really wants you to come over here, Henrik. I know it must have been terrible to be robbed like that, and don’t worry about your money, we can sort that out later. But I think it would be a really good idea for you to come over and tell Suleyman what happened yourself.’

  She lowered her voice at the last sentence, softening her tone; he knew that she was manipulating him, but he melted all the same. And what did it matter? He had already put down a hefty deposit on the treasures – all the money he had, plus what he had been able to scrape together from the other students. Within the next few hours the rest of the deal would be done.

  Suleyman’s room at Ordu Caddesi had nothing in common with Ann-Marie’s poky little office back in Gothenburg. Where she had linoleum on the floor and faded blinds, he had a chequered stone floor and deeply recessed windows. Seats were grouped around the tiled stove, which was beautifully decorated with a mosaic in shades of green and blue.

  There were no lights on; the room appeared gloomy and hazy. Henrik had dried blood in his nostrils and was still wearing the stained shirt. He made sure he looked completely disorientated, as if he had just woken up.

  Suleyman came towards him.

  ‘What can I say?’ he exclaimed, pressing Henrik’s outstretched hand between both of his, then apologising for the city and his countrymen, for the state of the government and the resulting poverty, for the immorality that afflicted both the rich and the poor, before eventually drawing breath and pushing his small, round glasses up on top of his head.

  He was a slender man, middle-aged and anaemic-looking. The yellowish colour of his skin contrasted sharply with the wine-red pullover he wore neatly over his shirt.

  ‘Are you in a lot of pain?’ he asked anxiously; his English was heavily accented but grammatically correct.

  Henrik shook his head. ‘It’s OK, actually. I just needed a couple of hours’ rest. Sorry I didn’t get round to changing my clothes.’

  The last remark was addressed to Ann-Marie. She waved away his apology; she still seemed anxious.

  Suleyman clapped his hands, which made Henrik jump. As Henrik had expected, he was a man who quickly dispensed with small talk. Suleyman walked over to a round table at one end of the large room.

  ‘And you are a student, yes, Henrik? You find the subject interesting?’

  He smiled to himself as he poured hot water from a flask into three glasses. ‘In that case, I can promise that you will find what I am about to show you very interesting indeed.’

  He kept his eyes firmly fixed on Henrik. Just as Ann-Marie got to her feet, Henrik took a couple of steps into the room.

  ‘I wish I could have stopped him.’

  Suleyman pursed his lips, shushing Henrik. ‘You’ve got a bloody nose. I’m sure you did what you could. Please sit down, both of you.’

  The tea glass was almost unbearably hot in spite of the starched serviette wound around its base.

  ‘I also wish you could have stopped him, of course. But I am wondering about the figures – you saw them, didn’t you, Henrik? The jewellery, the other artefacts? Perhaps you remember certain things a
bout them?’

  Henrik nodded, raising the glass to his mouth. His tongue was quickly scalded into numbness. He felt as though he would never be capable of speech again.

  ‘Good. In that case I am wondering whether you have heard of The Red List, Henrik?’

  Henrik didn’t reply, his mouth still paralysed.

  ‘Naturally you know what I am talking about, Ann-Marie. Perhaps you would be kind enough to explain to Henrik?’

  Ann-Marie Karpov nodded and stood up.

  27

  Gothenburg

  ‘Isn’t there a psychological term for that, Beckman?’ Karlberg joked. ‘It affects burnt-out detectives. The classic symptom is seeing connections everywhere. A double murder in academic circles somehow relates to one drugged-up tourist having a go at another out on the street.’

  A telephone was ringing persistently somewhere down the corridor. Tell tipped his chair back and slammed the door.

  A pile of coloured copies of a photograph Beckman had brought along to the last briefing was lying in the middle of the table. He grabbed one and held it up.

  ‘Listen to me. You know Beckman went round to Rebecca Nykvist’s the other day, with nothing particular in mind, just to get a feeling for Henrik’s secrets. An excellent idea, by the way. She was looking for something, anything, that we might have missed. She found a porn film under a mattress – not very exciting – and this photograph of a clay figure and a necklace. An amateur photo that Henrik may or may not have been trying to hide. She has shown a copy not only to the archaeology department at the university, but also to the staff at an antique shop who made a call to the police the day before yesterday. Over to you, Beckman.’

  ‘Holmström’s Antiques is a shop not far from the cathedral. They had a Danish customer in the day before yesterday. Apparently it was all very odd. He seemed to be drunk, or under the influence of something else, he looked like a junkie. He wanted an object valued, the atmosphere got a bit strange and he took off. The thing is, just after he left the shop, he was attacked in a doorway just around the corner. All hell breaks loose and a girl comes running into the shop to ask the antiques dealer to call the police.’