The 13th Tablet

‘Never mind,’ she continued, ‘no-one’s fighting out here. You said you were an engineer, but you seem to me more like a poet, lost in an Arabian tale, far from home.’

‘I thank thee, oh beautiful Princess Scheherazade!’

They both laughed. As they gazed out into the desert and sipped the wine, Jack felt his attraction to Mina growing, but relied on the wine to help him overcome his unexpected shyness towards the beautiful scholar. He edged his hand ever so slightly towards her and reaching out with the tip of his fingers, gently stroked her leg, but she didn’t respond to his touch. Should he be more forward? He hesitated but eventually decided to keep his hands to himself and just enjoy the moment.

When the wine was finished they walked back to the village and he introduced her to Muhad’s mother. He parted from her a little reluctantly, and wondered how the night might have turned out had they met in the US instead of this village.

‘What’s wrong with me? I’m acting like a schoolboy,’ Jack thought to himself, unsettled. ‘Maybe it’s the setting, after all, even the fanciest bar in New York couldn’t compare to drinking wine with a beautiful woman in the middle of a desert under the vastness of the starry Iraqi sky.’

‘Miss Mastrani?’ asked Mr Bibuni over the phone.

‘Ah, Mr Bibuni,’ answered a cold voice.

‘I’m sorry to call you at such a late hour,’ said the shifty art dealer.

‘It isn’t late here,’ replied the matter-of-fact voice.

‘Of course, of course,’ he replied, adding ‘what a pleasure to hear the sound of your voice.’

‘Have you found anything interesting?’ she replied curtly, knowing perfectly well that hearing her steely voice brought no pleasure at all.

‘I have come across something that might interest that special client of yours. The flood collector.’

‘What is it?’ she asked, coolly.

‘A very unusual artefact with an inscription relating to the Babylonian flood.’

‘Unusual?’

‘Yes. It is not a clay tablet and I’m told by my young assistant Hassan that this version differs from the canonical version in more ways than one.’

‘Where did it come from?’

The art dealer winced. This was turning from a business proposal to an interrogation.

‘Somewhere in Mosul.’

‘Email me a photograph of the object.’

‘I am so sorry Miss Mastrani, but I can’t have any traces of this transaction on the internet. I’m sure you understand. All I can say is that it is the most important discovery since the 19th century when the Gilgamesh tablets were found in the Library of Ashurbanipal here in Mosul.’

‘Hmm.’

Natasha Mastrani paused. She was fantasising about how, if she had it her way, she’d watch this fat crook slowly roasting, rather than barter with him.

‘Of course, this is just a courtesy call,’ said Bibuni. ‘Your client was very generous last time we did business but if he is not interested, I’m quite sure others will be.’

‘Is it in your possession?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he lied.

‘I’ll be in touch.’

Just before Bibuni put the phone down, he thought he heard a faint clicking sound in the background. He did not give it a second thought.

A man sitting in a car with all the lights out outside Bibuni’s shop, took the miniaturised listening device from his ear and dialled a number on his mobile phone.

‘Master?’ said the man in a deep voice.

‘Yes?’ came the reply in clipped tones.

‘Bibuni, the art dealer in Mosul, has the object we seek. What should we do?’

‘Nothing. Observe and report to me.’

Chapter 8

December 4th, 2004. Malibu, California

Oberon Wheatley, the powerful owner of a corporation worth hundreds of millions of dollars, was jogging back to his Californian mansion. He always thought best when running. At this moment he was thinking about what Natasha had told him a few hours ago, that this artefact might be the one he had been seeking for years. Wheatley trusted her; she seemed to have a sixth sense about such things. She had scouted artefacts from all over the world on his behalf for many years. She also dealt with other, less artistic aspects of his business, when the need arose. A seasoned professional, her involvement was always utterly discreet. She was well-mannered and kept her mouth shout. Even her name, Natasha Mastrani, was a cover. He had asked her once what her real name was before she had quit her ruthless past as a CIA operative. She had answered with a smile that implied she could tell him, but if she did, she’d have to kill him. To secure her services and guarantee that she would go above and beyond the call of duty, he paid her a very handsome salary.

The fact that the tablet had been found in Mosul was good news, but he had to be careful this time. He had been indirectly involved in the looting of the Baghdad Museum, and although no-one had pointed a finger in his direction, many people knew that the lootings were too well organised to have been as random as it might have seemed at first.