by Jay Amberg
“Would you like me to take a look at the piece?” Mustafa asks. “My background is in Hellenistic antiquities. And a Sekhmet piece from Pergamon is rare, indeed.”
“We know that, too,” she answers. “And we appreciate your expertise. In fact, we’re counting on it.” She touches Medusa’s severed head with her forefinger. “But we trust our source.”
“And, may I inquire—”
“No,” Jack interrupts him. He doesn’t add any American claptrap about protecting sources or the importance of confidentiality. The issue is, quite simply, not going to be discussed.
Mustafa reaches for his flute but then stops himself. The Americans have not touched their champagne, and this deal certainly isn’t closing as he expected. He nods again, but his mind is boiling. There have been no recent government-authorized digs near Bergama. None. And any artifacts from the area discovered more than a few months ago would have come to his attention. Bora, who oversees the family’s current clandestine digs, is the most likely suspect. But he, more than anyone else, would understand the consequences. No amount of money would have been worth it. Some stupid farmer gone rogue? No. None would have any access to clients like these Americans. Serkan, that social climbing shit? He would not have access to anything as valuable as a Sekhmet amulet. Unless… Unless Serkan’s mother has discovered a cache. Yes, someone must have. And that old bitch has got to be the one. She can’t have done it alone! One of the family’s government sources in Bergama or Ankara should have, must have, known about it, even abetted her. Heads are going to roll…
“Mustafa!” The American husband is speaking to him, has already said something to him.
“Yes,” he answers, his voice courteous even though he has no idea what the man said.
“Keep your fucking head in the game, boy!” the man growls. He is leaning forward, red-faced.
In his meetings and negotiations for the museum in America, no one ever spoke to Mustafa that way. There, he dealt mostly with Ivy-educated money, who understood the etiquette. In fact, no one other than his father has ever called him “boy” in that demeaning way, but he remains outwardly calm. He uncrosses his leg and leans forward, both attentively and aggressively. He knows his place in the world; he just needs a moment to think through his position here. One of the family’s Georgian bodyguards is stationed outside the apartment door, but this is not the moment for the family’s old heavy-handed ways. He’s smarter than that. Appeasement galls him, but he needs information from this old fart—and he needs this deal to work now. “You were saying?” he asks, his tone anything but servile.
The American glances at his wife, shakes his head—condescendingly, Mustafa thinks—clears his throat, and grumbles, “I was saying that Clare and I made time to meet with you today in order to purchase the amulet. She wants it. We intend to pay a fair price, but there is one stipulation.”
A stipulation… Money, Mustafa thinks, it’s always about money with Americans.
“You must deliver Athena…,” the old fart points to the amulet that his wife is putting back on the black cloth, “to us in Los Angeles.”
Mustafa starts, but only for a second. He was ready to negotiate price. But this… He is no one’s delivery boy. And he is not going to be theirs.
“We,” the old fart asserts, “aren’t taking any antiquities out of Turkey, even if the provenance is perfect and you have received assurances that all will go smooth.”
His wife is smiling at Mustafa again. “Not in the current political climate,” she says, almost sweetly. “I’m sure you understand, Mustafa.”
He does, and a week or two in LA, especially if it included a Las Vegas excursion, would relieve the tedium of overseeing the search teams and, far worse, the diggers here. But the Russian business isn’t yet resolved—and it must be. There’s also the American’s insult—he is no one’s errand boy! “My schedule,” he says, not quite able to keep his voice cordial, “will not permit me to travel to the U.S. in the near future.”
The old fart rubs his palms together and then twists his signet ring. Shrugging, he says, “That’s unfortunate.” He turns his head to his wife. “At least you have Sekhmet, dear.”
Her smile fixed, Clare continues to stare at Mustafa, seeming to size him up as a possible trophy.
42
ISTANBUL
Mustafa Hamit slouches in the Istanbul apartment’s armchair. His father paces by the coffee table where the Athena amulet still rests on the cloth in the center of the three champagne flutes. The Krug no longer bubbles.
“You told me you’d close the deal in under an hour,” the father says, glancing at his gold wristwatch. “That didn’t happen.”
“They’ll be back,” Mustafa says, his tone defensive. “She wants it.”
The patriarch stops pacing and stands over his son. “But it will take another day. At least. We’ve got more important work to do.”
“I know.”
“But have you thought it through? What will you do when they tell you they’ll only take the deal if it’s COD when the amulet is delivered in Los Angeles?”
“That won’t work!”
“Of course, it won’t!” His father starts pacing again. “But what the hell are you going to do when they make it a stipulation?” He practically spits the last word.
Mustafa’s head jerks up, and his jaw tightens.
“Say that your schedule won’t permit it?” There’s clear disdain in his father’s voice.
Mustafa jumps to his feet. “You were listening?” He looks wildly around the room. “You bugged this place? My meeting!”
“Yes, I did. It’s business.” The patriarch presses his hand into his son’s chest, quick and hard, so that Mustafa slumps back into the chair. It doesn’t hurt, physically, but Mustafa glares up at his father.
The patriarch waves at the crystal flutes. “They weren’t drinking, and you had champagne!” He shakes his head.
“I’ll fix it.” Mustafa takes out a pack of Marlboros. “It’s a done deal!”
“Not in the apartment!” his father says.
Mustafa tosses the pack onto the coffee table. “I’m going to get the bastard who sold them Sekhmet!”
His father shakes his head, not unlike the way the old American did. “Yes. Of course. But it’s not the priority.”
Mustafa clenches his fists. “That Sekhmet amulet’s got to be fake!”
“I hope so,” his father answers. “For your sake.” He grabs the pack of cigarettes, crushes it with his hand, and drops the mangled pack back onto the table. “But what if it’s not a fake? Have you thought about that?”
“What does that mean?”
“Have you thought about the possibility that despite all of your fancy equipment, somebody’s beaten you to the Galen cache?”
“It’s that old bitch!” Mustafa grabs the arms of the chair. “And Serkan. I’m going to—”
“I thought you were already taking care of her.” His father’s voice is sarcastic.
“I’ve handled it!” Mustafa gapes at his father. “It’s all set up. Perfectly!”
“Perfectly!” His father mimics Mustafa in a high voice.
“I said I’ve—” Mustafa wipes his mouth that has suddenly gone dry.
“And then you plan to fly off to America again?”
“Only when I’ve taken care of what needs to be done here.”
“You’ll do the American’s bidding?”
“Yes.” He looks up at his father. “No! I’ll only go when the time is right for the family. I’ll make the deal work. And make the family a lot of money.”
His father scoffs at him. “We can send somebody else.”
“Who? I’ve already got the visa. The language. Good reasons to travel back and forth.”
“Th
e connections,” his father says with an edge. “The sophistication.”
“I can evaluate that Sekhmet amulet. Track the bastard that sold it. Even develop new markets for our surplus Syrian artifacts.”
His father’s eyes narrow. “You’re right,” he says as he leans over the coffee table. “You’re the right man for that job.” He carefully folds the cloth and puts the amulet in his pants pocket. His voice devoid of emotion, he adds, “You can certainly do all that.”
Mustafa knows the abrupt change in his father’s tone is ominous. His father is rethinking—or has already rethought—his role, his usefulness here. “I’ll only go after we’re done with the old bitch. And the deal with the Russian is wrapped up.”
His father glares at him. “Go sooner if you want. I’ll deal with Vlad. I’ve already met with him.”
“What? You did? But—”
“As you say, you’ll have the opportunity to evaluate the Sekhmet amulet. And set up other conduits for our Syrian antiquities. Bora can oversee the field work here.”
Mustafa feels as though he has been slapped. “Bora? He doesn’t know anything about antiquities…except what I’ve taught him.”
“You’ve been an excellent teacher.”
Mustafa looks up at his father, trying to discern any more sarcasm. It could actually be a compliment.
“And Bora likes to get his hands dirty.”
This, Mustafa believes, must be mockery. He stands up again, facing his father.
“And he’s absolutely loyal.”
“And I’m not?” Mustafa’s voice rises.
His father neither steps back nor pushes his son into the chair. “Of course, you are,” he says, his voice still even. “I know that. But much of what needs to be done here is beneath you. You’re far too valuable to risk…”
“Are you saying I’m not tough enough?” Mustafa takes a quick breath, balls his fists. He is almost a head taller than his father, stronger, and more fit.
His father takes half a step back, not giving ground, but getting a better angle to look into Mustafa’s eyes. “I did not say that.” His tone suggests to Mustafa that his father meant exactly that.
Mustafa is about to argue the point, but he sees in his father’s eyes a coldness, a hardness that he has seen only a few times before. Although his father has provided him with so much in his life, he has never given in on anything when this look comes over him. Mustafa takes a full step back, in his mind not capitulating but rather de-escalating the situation.
“You will go to America in a couple of weeks,” his father says. “In the meantime, you’ll still direct the search. Bora will do the daily hands-on work. I’ll deal with the Russian.”
“But—”
“The decision has been made.” His father continues to stare at him.
Mustafa feels like he needs to defend himself. “I can—”
“It’s final!” his father interrupts him. “Final, final.”
43
KOZAK, TURKEY
On the third morning after young Mehmet Suner’s funeral, fourteen women, packed into the sitting room of his family’s house in their village, are murmuring prayers. The TV, switched off, serves as a stand for two black-framed photographs, one of Mehmet posing gleefully between his parents and the other of him hugging his grandfather. The parlor’s walls are decorated with more photos of the boy—kicking a football, driving an old tractor, and cavorting with two large dogs.
All the women wear headscarves and long traditional print dresses. Hafize, Mehmet’s mother, sits on the divan between her cousin and her mother-in-law. She is slumped to her right so that her head rests on her cousin’s shoulder. Her long auburn hair is bunched and pinned beneath her white headscarf. She is too exhausted to sit up alone and too grief-stricken to sleep. Her closed eyes are puffy, and her face is pale, waxen, gray-green. Whenever she falls asleep, she starts, goes rigid, and begins to weep again. At the funeral, she barely made it through the Imam’s prayers and, as is the custom, did not accompany her son’s body to the cemetery for burial. She returned to the house where women from the village stayed with her through that night and the next two.
Hafize’s cousin has her arm around her shoulder as though she is bracing an injured friend. Her mother-in-law, hands raised in prayer, whispers in somber piety. Özlem Boroğlu and her mother sit across the room near the folding table stacked with pide and dishes brought by neighbors and relatives. Boroğlu’s mother’s basket rests on the floor next to her. They arrived in the Dacia just after dawn, thinking others would want to sleep, but no one has left yet. Boroğlu’s mother recites prayers, but Boroğlu does not—and will not. She is deeply sad for the family, but she asks for neither divine intervention nor divine assistance. The boy was murdered by an ISIL suicide bomber. That’s it. God may indeed be great, but the corruption in this world is the work of men. And so, too, is any measure of justice.
Engin Suner, Mehmet’s father, wearing dark pants and a white shirt with a collar, stops for a moment at the doorway to the left of his wife and mother. As soon as Boroğlu notices him, he nods and vanishes. She waits five minutes and then leaves the parlor for the family compound’s courtyard. Although the village is only nine kilometers from Bergama, it is high in the mountains on the road beyond Kapıkaya. The ground is hardscrabble; electrical wires crisscross above her. Smoke swirls from the outdoor wood-burning oven’s chimney. The morning is bright and hot, and so Suner stands smoking alone in the shade of a cinder block storage building with a flat metal roof. The only other person around is a thin old man sitting on a wooden bench in the shade of an even older building with a roof topped with four solar panels.
Suner’s eyes are bloodshot, and his beard has grown out. His hand trembling, he takes a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, jiggles out two, lights both from his lit butt, hands one to Boroğlu, and takes a deep drag on the other. He grounds the old butt against the sole of his black shoe and cups it in his left hand. Only then does he exhale.
“Thank you,” she says. “Hafize is not any better?”
His eyes brimming, he shakes his head. “She will not recover. Never.” He leans back against the shed’s wall, which has recently been whitewashed. “While Mehmet was with us, she held hope for the impossible… Pleaded with Allah… But…”
They smoke in silence for a minute. A cock crows somewhere in the village. A large beige dog meanders over to them, sniffs Boroğlu’s shoes, and then settles in the shade.
“And your mother?” Boroğlu asks, looking over at a bright-blue plastic tarp covering a motorcycle.
“Angry at everybody. At Allah, for everything. At me for letting Mehmet go with Dede on his birthday.” He shakes his head again. “At Hafize for getting all the attention. My mother needs to be consoled, but she also needs to be strong, which makes her mad.”
There is no breeze at all, and smoke spirals from their cigarettes. Boroğlu taps her ash onto the ground. “And you? How are you?”
“Angry, too. But not at Hafize or my mother.”
“At Allah?” she asks.
“No.”
“At Daesh?”
“Yes.” He shakes his head more vehemently. “No. More at the men who brought the kafir here. At whoever helped the terrorist.”
“And the police?”
“They have done nothing.” His voice rises, the bitterness starting to pour out. “Nothing! They say they have found nothing!”
She nods. “Or nothing they will say.”
“I am the father! But they tell me nothing.” He glares at his cigarette.
No one has told her anything either. But then, they wouldn’t. She has a pretty good idea, of course, but it’s too soon to tell Mehmet’s father.
“They ask me questions!” The ire in his voice runs deep. “Here,” he says and st
eps around the corner of the shed.
She follows him around the side of the shed to a small herb garden where a high, crumbling brick wall provides additional shade. The smell reminds her of her own rooftop patio. An old tin can with the label removed stands next to a hand trowel and garden fork. His hand still quivering, he drops the extinguished butt into the can. His shoulders slump, and his eyes become bleary again. “I…,” he begins, but then stops himself. “I need to…” He tugs at his shirt collar.
Boroğlu takes a final drag on her cigarette, stoops, puts it out on the side of the can, and drops it in with the others. Whatever he needs to tell her is going to take time.
He runs his hand through his beard. “Hafize… She… It makes her too sad to go to Dede’s village, to his house. The house she grew up in… So I have been cleaning it… After the…attack…but before Mehmet was taken from us…” He lowers his voice. “I needed sometimes to get away from the hospital and this house. Work is good for me.” As with the last time they spoke, his words begin to stream. “I must stay busy. I am not able to do nothing. Sit in a café, no. Drink çay, no. It hurts too much. The sadness…” He pauses, seeming to look for the right word. “It steals my breathing.” He clutches his beard under his chin. “Strangles me. So I walk to Dede’s—it’s less than three kilometers—and clean.” His smile is sad. “It doesn’t need it. He is…was…very organized. But I still do it. In a box in his room, I find land deeds. He bought land when Mehmet was born. Even before. Before the dam. Before land cost too much. Not just farmland. Land far up in the hills.”
Boroğlu nods. She has seen Hafize’s family name on three of the land deeds she researched.
“He never spent money. Always saved. Fixed his own tractor and truck.” His smile is again weak. “Sewed the holes in his socks. He didn’t tell Hafize about the land. Didn’t tell me. Bought more land when Mehmet was five.” He waves in the direction of the steeply rising hills. “You are the archeologist…”
She cannot tell from his voice if his words are a question or a statement. “Yes,” she says. “I was in charge of archeology in this area for years.”
