The Black Madonna

by Peter Millar

  The nutty professor had come through Calais on the P&O ferry in a black Renault Espace, accompanied by two French nationals of Algerian descent. So they were keeping them apart. It made sense. It made sense primarily if Frey and Hashrawi were reluctant collaborators, which according to the ‘Box’ man they almost certainly were.

  There were, to say the least, elements of the operation Delahaye had never been happy with and he still wasn’t. For a start, he had not got his head around the significance of the ‘archaeological thing’. The idea that people were risking their lives for what might or might not be some statue of the Virgin Mary was beyond his comprehension. This was the twenty-first century for Christ’s sake. The only Virgin Mary Seb Delahaye had ever known had been one of his sister’s friends who came round to play on Saturdays. And that name hadn’t stuck long.

  Mr so-called Saladin on the other hand was a prize he sorely coveted. There were innumerable intelligence reports positively linking him to the beheadings of hostages, first in the early days of the occupation of Iraq, and latterly in the Gaza Strip where he was believed to have been amongst the most insidious influences on the hardline anti-negotiating elements within Hamas. There was also more than enough reason to want to question him in connection with both the London and Madrid bombings, but in truth the only real evidence trail had led to one of his associates, the one whose body parts had ended up split between an Israeli border post and a Bavarian monastery.

  The tangential Madrid connection had been one of the reasons Delahaye had been unwilling to involve Spanish security forces. The temptation to grab the man for themselves would almost certainly have been too much for them, and the last thing anyone wanted – in particular the Americans – was for a player like ‘Saladin’ to end up slipping through a wide net because of insufficient evidence to hold up in a court of law. The transatlantic ‘cousins’ idea of a future for Mr al-Samarri was at the very best an orange jumpsuit and a piece of paper that said ‘take me to Cuba’ or wherever they now substituted for Guantanamo Bay. For that reason, even here in Britain, it was important to get Mr Saladin to blot his copybook in public. One excuse, that was all Delahaye needed.

  As he left the museum gates on Great Russell Street he stopped and looked up at the imposing portico of the great building. Where he was standing was a favourite spot for tourists to take pictures of Sir Robert Smirke’s masterpiece of the Greek Revival movement. But Sebastian Delahaye was not admiring the architecture. He was looking at the roof.

  He had gone fishing and hooked a shark. Now he had played him back into his own swimming pool. It was a case of eat or be eaten.

  64

  The sun was setting slowly over the Victorian rooftops of Bloomsbury as the black Mercedes pulled up at one of the few parking meters within walking distance of the British Museum. Nazreem had her heart in her mouth as they approached the great steps. She had phoned Ed Mansfield who said he would be delighted to see her, and yes, of course, her bag was still where she left it. She almost detected a slight nervousness to his voice, but realised it was probably down to the man’s foolish and ill-disguised infatuation. He was just plucking up the courage to ask her out. She had read that in his face the last time she had seen him. Now she wished she could have hinted he had a whole lot more to worry about.

  The man by her side, who had listened to every word she said over the phone was the same man who had tailed her from Heathrow she had realised when he and two burly thugs had collected her, al-Saladin and a third bodyguard who had travelled on the coach from France with them, at a car park on the outskirts of Canterbury and supplied them with firearms. Now he was telling her to make sure the meeting was somewhere public, somewhere open. Saladin was not stupid enough to walk into some tight corner like a blind man. But she need not have worried:

  ‘How about a cup of coffee in the Great Court,’ Mansfield was saying. ‘Upstairs round the back of the old Reading Room. It’s very pleasant and quite quiet in the early evening, when most of the tourists have gone.’ Next to her, Barani smiled his agreement. Public and open, he signalled to the spiritual leader he stood in awe of, even when the man was dressed as now so untypically in a cheap French business suit.

  But at the entrance to the museum itself, she was relieved at last to see Marcus emerge from the Renault Espace, even if in the company of the two men she had feared at the slightest provocation would have killed him. He smiled, and she was happy to note there was still a genuine warmth in it. Over the past twenty-four hours, since she had witnessed three brutal murders in the space of an hour, her mind had been in turmoil. The risks she had taken were too great. Not too great for her, but too great for him. He thought she had lied to him, while she had told herself she had been trying to protect him, but the outcome had been the same.

  Saladin took her firmly, but forcefully, by the arm and walked up the steps to where Marcus and his minders waited. Then together, leaving Barani and his men outside on the steps, they walked into the echoing marble foyer. On either side people were pouring out of the galleries. The main part of the museum was closing. Even the Great Court would close at six p.m. to all but reserved diners in the restaurant. They walked through the great double doors that opened onto the most grandiose space in London.

  Above their heads the great soaring tessellated glass roof with its myriad triangular panes let in the last rose-tinged vestiges of the dying daylight to cast a surreal shadow network across the majestic pale limestone walls. From one corner a giant elongated stone head from Easter Island looked at them with its blind almond eyes, from another the great stone lion from the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus. And at its heart was a circular structure into which the great glass roof folded, a building within a building that had at least as much historical import as any of the museum’s exhibits. This was the former Reading Room of the British Library, the repository of freely available learning in which Karl Marx had dreamt up the roots of what was to become one of the most oppressive social systems on earth. Amidst the relics of so many religions, here too the totem of another, the militant atheism of communism.

  To Marcus all of this was – as ever – a source of constant wonder. To Saladin, as they climbed the steps that led to the Court Coffee Shop elevated behind the Reading Room, all of it was an irrelevance: heresy, apostasy and idolatry. There was no God but God. All others deserved destruction.

  Edward Mansfield sat alone, at a table by the balcony looking down onto the rapidly emptying courtyard below. But for one or two bored-looking staff the café was deserted. All around the court concealed lighting had come on, turning the multi-paned roof above their heads into a gleaming celestial net that held the darkening sky with its handful of evening stars. From the Great Court the gleaming pristine Portland stone of the vast neoclassical gateway led into the collections from Iran, Arabia and ancient Egypt. And yet, thought Marcus, could it be that the nondescript garish nylon bag that lay on the floor by Mansfield’s table contained an object as important at least as any wonder they contained?

  ‘My dear, Dr Hashrawi,’ said Mansfield, standing up as they approached. ‘How very, very nice to see you again. And are you going to introduce me to these gentlemen?’

  65

  Sebastian Delahaye flicked open the Comms Link and checked his dispositions.

  ‘All clear out front.’

  ‘Affirmative. Support discreetly positioned. Most civilians moving off from immediate vicinity. We’ve had museum staff clear outer courtyard early. Both vehicles still in position outside. Owners feeding meters.’

  Delahaye smiled: ‘Well, I suppose if the worst comes to the worst, we can always book them for that. Keep me posted.’

  ‘Will do.’

  He switched to his other link. ‘How’s things with the night owls?’

  The voice on the other end was cool and calm.

  ‘Couldn’t be better. Lovely evening. Perfect view.’

  ‘That’s what I like to hear.’

  ‘Oh, and by the way t
he apron really suits you.’

  ‘Ha ha. Just do your job.’

  He clicked off the Comms Link and moved out into the serving area. Hashrawi was even prettier close up.

  ‘Can I get you ladies and gentlemen anything? A glass of wine perhaps. We shall be closing shortly.’

  Saladin dismissed with an angry hand gesture the infidel waiter who had dared to offer him alcohol. His two heavies moved forward to flank him and Nazreem was surprised not to see the waiter rapidly retreat.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said rapidly, pulling out a chair next to the worried-looking Mansfield. ‘My friend doesn’t drink alcohol. Please bring us four coffees. For you, Edward?’ Marcus was amazed at her cool.

  ‘Not for me, thank you,’ said the middle-aged academic, ‘I really must be off.’ Marcus thought he looked decidedly as if he meant it. ‘Just wanted to be sure you got your bag. Good luck with the sale.’

  ‘Sale?’

  ‘Of the books. I hope you get a good price.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m sure …’

  Mansfield went to get up, but one of the two bodyguards crossed and put a hand on his shoulder. Nazreem turned angrily towards Saladin and said to him, in Arabic: ‘What does this mean. Let this man go. He is not involved.’

  Marcus was reduced to reading body language. Edward Mansfield, however, as an Arabic scholar, was clearly not at all happy about what he was hearing. The waiter meanwhile, far from fetching their coffee, was hovering about ten metres away and another one had come into sight. Marcus doubted if either would be much use against the two Algerian thugs, especially if they were packing guns, and he could not imagine they were not. His two minders had been handed weapons at a service station on the M20 into London.

  Mansfield was staring transfixed at the tall man with his recently trimmed beard and ill-fitting dark suit who spoke as if he expected only obedience. ‘Fetch the bag,’ he heard him say and watched the other man lift the nylon bag and move it towards his master.

  ‘You have what you want,’ said Nazreem. ‘Now take it and go.’

  ‘Perhaps we should open it first, just to be sure.’

  ‘You wish to burn your eyes with the image of a pagan idol, or the Christian Madonna, whichever you prefer? Take it away if you must and destroy it at your leisure.’

  Mansfield jerked forward in his seat as if he had been kicked up the backside: ‘The Madonna? You mean all this time …? No. You can’t let some fundamentalist destroy it.’ And then, with unexpected boldness he turned on the still standing Son of Saladin and his henchmen and all but shouted, in fluent Arabic: ‘You, you would destroy a priceless archaeological find, a piece of world history.’

  As if noticing him for the first time Saladin said: ‘You speak the language of the prophet (peace be upon him). Then you should understand why it is necessary to rid the world of a blasphemy, a corruption of sanctity, a crime against God.’

  For a moment Marcus thought Nazreem had taken leave of her senses. She threw back her head and laughed in the man’s face.

  ‘You’re the one who doesn’t know what he is talking about. Are you afraid of a Christian idol? Afraid that the Christian world will push Islam from their “holy land” because they have found the original image of the mother of their God? Are you that poor a Muslim?’

  Marcus saw the man raise his hand as if to slap her face and wished he knew what the hell she was saying to him. Whatever it was, there was no stopping her:

  ‘Because even if you are, there was never anything here to fear. Don’t you understand? It’s proof that for years these so-called Christians have had a joke played on them by their own priests. The statue that all their black Madonnas, their Holy Virgins are based on is not Mary, not the Maryam of the Qu’ran, but the ancient earth goddess of the Phrygians, the Magna Mater adopted by Rome, the figure that was fetched from its Asian home to protect their “Eternal City” when it was under threat from Hannibal. It is the graven image to end all graven images, proof of the foolishness of their idolatry.’

  The man’s hand had come down, but the fiery glint burning deep in his eyes suggested to Marcus, listening in helpless ignorance, that he was about to erupt in rage. Instead, he looked at Nazreem as if his eyes could burn through her and said: ‘You are more – and perhaps less – of a fool than I expected. Do you not know what material your graven image is made of?’

  For a second she was totally taken aback: ‘Stone,’ she said.

  ‘But what sort of stone?’

  This wasn’t making sense: ‘Black stone. Basalt, maybe, I don’t know. I’m not a geologist.’

  He almost smiled. ‘No. Not that a study of earthly material would help when dealing with that which comes from the heavens. Have you so neglected your duty to your faith that you have never performed the Hajj?’

  ‘The Hajj …? No, I … But what has that to do with …?’ She was annoyed with him for throwing her religion – no, not her religion, her culture – in her face. What did the pilgrimage to Mecca have to do with anything. It had always annoyed her anyhow, the vast crowds, the whole ritual, the ridiculous superstitions, the throwing of stones at rocks, the endless circling of the … No, not that. It wasn’t possible. A blinding light had appeared in front of her and she hid her eyes from it.

  ‘You don’t mean that! How could that be?’ She stared at him aghast. Against all expectations, he had taken the wind from her.

  He was nodding now, like a teacher whose pupil has finally seen the light, just too late:

  ‘Yes. The Hajr-e-Aswad itself, the Black Stone of God, given to Ishmael by the angel Gabriel, and the cornerstone of the Ka’aba itself, the first holy shrine built by Ibrahim. I trust you know the history: that when Ibrahim died the people reverted to their pagan ways and the Ka’aba once again became the home of idols.

  ‘This thing, to which you have given sanctuary, is one such idol, the greatest offender of all, the ultimate blasphemy: a graven image carved from the holiest rock on earth. A rock not of this earth, but fallen from heaven. Go ahead, open it and touch the defiled heart of the universe. See the abomination at last for what it truly is. The ultimate blasphemy.’

  For a moment it seemed as if Nazreem had lost the will to live. Her face was blank, her eyelids drooped as if she was still imagining the image in her mind’s eye rather than opening the bag at her feet to see it in this new, alien light. Could it be? The holy stone of Islam carved into a graven image of a Christian icon. And yet it wasn’t, was it? Not a Christian image. That was the point.

  Al-Saladin was smiling as if he were a good shepherd watching one of his flock turn back from the edge of the cliff and return to the fold.

  ‘Now you see why we want it,’ he said, his eyes gleaming.

  ‘To destroy it,’ said Nazreem, her voice coming as if from underwater.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ there was triumphalism in the cleric’s voice. ‘But only after we have shown it for what it is. Shown the children of Islam how the Christians defiled the holy of holies. How should we be surprised that these infidels make cartoons of the prophet as if he were Mickey Mouse, when they can take the sacred black rock, the stone fallen from heaven, and carve it into a pagan totem pole.

  ‘We will put your graven image on display, have no fear. We shall hold it aloft to show the world what Christianity thinks of Islam. We shall unite Shi’ite and Sunni in the pure hatred of the infidel pagan crusader. The armies of Islam need no graven images to win their battles for them, but we shall hold this one in our hearts, the ultimate symbol of sacrilege against the invisible God. We shall invoke the wrath of Allah, to spur us to victory. Once and for all.’

  Marcus, who had understood next to nothing of an exchange conducted wholly in Arabic, watched the expression on Nazreem’s face change from defiance to what appeared to be dumbstruck shock and then, just as quickly to anger as, apparently following orders she produced a key, knelt down, opened the padlock and tugged at the zip on the bag.

  And then suddenly she wa
s on her feet, lightning quick, a long, thin, razor-sharp stilletto in her hand, fished from the bag and now held against the mullah’s throat. Marcus fell back against his chair, tumbled to the floor, lay there in shocked awe at the tableau before his eyes.

  ‘So that was your excuse,’ Nazreem, spitting in the eyes of her tormentor, shouted at him. ‘You who defile the name of a great Muslim warrior, a man of virtue and honour, rather than a fanatic and a warmonger. A superstition about a piece of stone. That is your reason for stealing from your own people, for violating a trust, for’ – screaming now – ‘for violating ME!’

  Yet for all of it she could see no fear in his eyes, only scorn and disbelief, maybe even admiration.

  ‘You poor deluded bitch,’ he said at last, his eyes studiously avoiding the blade at his throat. ‘The man who raped you paid for his pleasure. I thought you knew that. He had ceased to be one of us. He had chosen to cease even to be a man. I granted his desire. We didn’t just cut his heart out. We cut his balls off, and his prick. We took your revenge for you. Ask the nun,’ he all but sneered in her face, ‘though I doubt you will ever see her again.’

  ‘What the …’

  And then she was gone, spun round and fallen to the floor.

  ‘No!’ Marcus screamed. ‘No.’ But there was a gun pointing at his head. And another smoking from the barrel that had floored Nazreem. And a knife, more like a scimitar, a great curved blade good only for cutting the throats of halal cattle, or helpless humans, in the hands of the so-called Son of Saladin. Nazreem was not dead yet, but in an instant she would be.