by Jeff Spence
"I wouldn't mind that even if I don't officially need it."
"Of course," Bass smiled, "I'll get on it, see what I can do that way. In the meantime though, we need to keep this thing pretty quiet. I do intend to store it in a museum, to give people a chance to view it, then to have a decent replica set up while the scroll itself is safely stored. Preserved. But that will take some time, and some funding. A thing like this in a private collector's hands, shared or not… It's a touchy issue with a lot of very powerful people. You understand?"
"Yeah, I think I do." Ben thought for a moment. "You think there could be trouble?"
"I doubt it, but why take chances, right? Keep it to yourself. Strictly. It'll be better that way. I'll let my colleagues know that you're working on this part of it, and we'll meet again in — how long do you need?"
"A week or so from when I get the images, I suppose, for a rough translation. It's an estimate. Depends a lot on the condition of the other sections. This one’s pretty good."
"Of course. That sounds fine. But the sooner the better. If cash is a factor…"
"No, no, you were more than generous before."
"Okay, but I might send on a little more just in case. You might be ordering in a lot of take-out!"
Ben smiled as Bass grabbed his jacket and stepped out into the night. Bass’s ride had pulled up again sometime while they'd been talking, a Bentley this time, and sat idling at the curb. Ben watched Greg get in and then turned back into the house as the tail lights rounded the corner out of sight. He walked over to the table, picked up his mobile and considered for a moment. Checking a list taped to the inside of the cabinet drawer, he found the number for Kirstin Getz, a friend of his who worked in the conservation department of Ancient Near East Studies at Columbia. He dialled.
"Hey Kirstin, Ben here. How are you? … Good, good. Look, I won't keep you, I just have a quick question: do you know of a guy named Greg Bass? … Not someone who has some ties with the department, maybe donations, that kind of thing? … I see. You doing anything with Scrolls right now? I mean with actual items? … Yeah, okay. … No, no, I just heard a rumour and thought you might be in the mix. … Yeah, sure, I'll let you know if I can send anything your way, you never know. All right, thanks. … You too. Bye."
He hung up the phone and set it on the counter.
The department at Columbia had never heard of Greg Bass.
SIX
Marina settled into her favourite chair and let her head fall back until her eyes stared up at the ceiling. She had walked home. The alley had been deserted by the time she made it out there, the distant tail lights of a couple of luxury SUVs the only sign that anyone had been there at all.
She had missed them.
She looked on the ground outside of the exit doors. It was dark, but even so she had thought any blood on the ground would be visible. There didn't seem to be any. Should she call the cops? Probably.
But she wouldn't.
Like all people who live through revolution, invasion, and governmental corruption on a large scale, she had little faith in, and no time for, the police. If anything needed handling in her life, she handled it on her own. That was what she had been taught. It had worked so far.
But Barry… what to do about Barry? The guy she had been dancing with — one of the younger prof's, she remembered seeing him on the podium earlier in the evening — would probably be fine. The guys in the jackets hadn't seemed to have any problem with him. Hopefully.
Barry though… She had seen the shot he got to the kidneys. He deserved that, she had no doubt there, but whatever had happened in the alley afterward might well have been too much. And what had it all been about? Why had the guys grabbed him and hauled him out like that? The bar didn't have that kind of security. Did Doctor Gela? Why would a professor need that kind of protection?
Whatever it was, it made her feel like she was being watched, like some cosmic figure was dangling things at the edge of her vision to see how she might react. A sociological experiment. A game. Or maybe she was the thing being dangled, a wiggling mouse suspended by its tail in front of the cosmic cat of fate.
"Pull yourself together, girl," she whispered, "think it through." The professor wouldn't have bodyguards. No one, so far as she knew, was after Barry. So what was it? Somebody in there had security. There was that function in the lecture hall… maybe that was it. A high-powered guest. A VIP with security. The mayor, or a governor or something. A scuffle breaks out, they take care of it.
But why drive them away? To the police maybe?
Her phone was dead by the time she had gotten home, so she had plugged it in, waited for the ping to indicate that it had sufficient juice to work again, and scrolled to tap Barry's number.
"What do you want?"
Good. Barry was okay then. "Just seeing what happened there. Are you okay?"
"Not that I think you care, but yes. Fine."
"What happened?"
"Nothing happened. Don't bother."
"Look, Barry-"
The call disengaged. She set her phone down and leaned back again in her chair. At least he was fine, and there wouldn’t be any messy threads left behind the breakup. Not ideal, but at least a good, clean break. She could feel her shoulders drop a little, her breathing deepen. She wiggled the stress from her fingers and toes.
What the hell was happening? She was thirty three years old, how was she still getting into these little dramas? Other people her age were raising children, climbing the career ladder, approaching their second marriages…
She got up and walked over to the fridge. She pulled out a bottle of beer and rolled it back and forth over her forehead and closed eyes. Then she popped the top off of it on the edge of her ancient toaster and took a long, drink, feeling the cool trickle of liquid all the way down to her stomach.
Today would be a day like so many before it. Booze to take the edge off, a movie or two to distract the mind, maybe a run. But first the sweet oblivion of sleep to put another night behind her. With a little grace she wouldn’t dream. Yes, what she needed was a solid eight hours of uninterrupted sleep, and then a restful Sunday. Wrap up a shitty weekend.
But then, Monday morning, some changes needed to be made. She had start them with a stop by the professor’s office, and an apology for the part she played in a very strange ending to his evening.
Ben leaned back in the chair, a tumbler of Irish whiskey in one hand and cigar in the other. David sat across from him, likewise equipped, and told a story about his daughter that they'd each heard or told a dozen times before. Mimi fussed away in the kitchen, the muffled clink of dishes coming faintly through the french doors and into the den.
Ben often came to visit David when he needed to think. Sometimes if he needed advice, too, but usually just an hour or two in the presence of his former father in law was enough to set him on a right train of thought. Donna had been his wife for almost three years when she had been diagnosed. It had been quick. Merciful.
For her.
At least that’s what people said.
For Ben it had been six months of hell, from which he wouldn't have emerged at all if it hadn't been for David, bearing his own pain and bitterness, and yet always being there, strong in the shadows when not needed, right up front when there was something to be done. It was David's way of coping, maybe.
Ben's way was near-total collapse. For a year after her death he had stayed at home, avoided any contact with women, except his mother in law, and grew steadily more depressed.
Then David set him up.
It was casual, nothing serious or formal, but enough that Ben picked up on the dynamic. At first he was offended, felt offended for Donna, too. It had been terrible. He had been sullen. Sharp. The woman uncomfortable. She had made some excuse, cut the evening short and made her exit with a visible sigh of "Thank God that’s over" showing in her every step down the walk to the waiting cab. Then David had called him into the den, placed the usual drink and the
cigar in front of his frowning face, and set him straight. "I told Donna," he said, "That I would do all I could to get you through this. I was to give you a year, at most, then get you out there."
Ben had said nothing.
"My daughter loved you. I do too, like a son. So does Mimi. The last thing either of us want is to see you martyr yourself for something that is gone. God knows I'd bring her back, if I could, but that's not how it works. I know you'll always love Donna, and that you made her happy. That's enough for me."
David had taken a big sip of his drink then, and steadied himself from the emotional nudity. "Now go get some, boy, before you shrivel up and I never get to see grandchildren."
It had worked. Sort of. Ben had had a few dates since then, a lover or two, but nothing serious. Nothing approaching serious.
As the story David had been telling drew to the familiar close and they both chuckled, the older man leaned a little farther back in his chair, and waited. Ben pondered for a while, letting his thoughts drift, and watching the pungent smoke swirl around the room.
"David?"
"Yes?"
"What would you do if you were faced with the most amazing professional opportunity of your life, but there was something about it that made you hesitate? Like it was too good to be true, or like someone involved wasn't being quite real with you?"
"I'd trust everybody… and get it in writing."
Ben smiled. "Really, how would you handle it?"
"I wasn't completely joking, but it depends a lot on how much a good contract could do to protect you. You'd have to think about everything that could possibly go wrong, and try to write in some safeguards. You'd need to watch your back, and you'd need to figure out who your friends are in the situation, and who might be enemies."
"Yeah."
"And then, once you were doing that, you'd need to ask yourself if it was really all that great in the first place, if it was still great in light of those extra considerations. Trust your instinct. If it still feels like your dream job, then go for it. If it feels like something else, it probably is."
"I suppose you're right."
"It's not too far from here, is it?"
"No, no. There would be some travel, but I couldn't leave a town where the whiskey and cigars are free, now could I?"
David laughed, "Actually, I think we're nursing the bottle you brought for Christmas, so this one was on you." With that sentiment, he poured them each another one.
On the walk home, Ben's steps felt a little lighter. He couldn't believe that he had made the decision so easily. The Silver Scroll… he ran the words around in his head a few times, he was about to turn down exclusive work on the Silver Scroll.
For what felt like the millionth time, he thanked the universe, or God, or whatever held the strings of fate, that he had married the daughter of a man like David. He missed Donna deeply, but every time he sat in that chair across from his father in law, he was reminded of who she was, of why he had loved her so much. The influence of her father had no small part in making her the woman he loved. It was an influence that was now brought to bear on Ben himself. He had been the son in law before, but now he had been adopted into the family fold. He didn’t feel like an ended marriage was the only thing tying him to David and Mimi; he felt, probably for the first time, like a fully accepted and embraced son.
A hint of motion caught his eye and broke his train of thought. As he rounded the corner, a block from his home, his glance had happened to take in a blue sedan parked just up the street. Had he seen someone inside? The lamp above cast shadow on the interior, there was something about the silhouette of the headrests inside it… were two people seated in the front seats, facing him?
Would it be so strange if there were?
Maybe they were waiting for someone to come out of the house, or having a talk after an evening out. Nothing strange there. No reason to get paranoid about a car parked on the street. No reason to be paranoid about anything, really.
But explain it as he might, it broke the light mood and cast him back into shadow and doubt. Each sound on the dark street seemed closer, sharper. Even the spaces between street lamps seemed longer and darker than they had been on the walk to David and Mimi’s. When he passed through the shadowy spaces between the tall poles, he felt vulnerable; the heart of the light itself felt too exposed. He quickened his pace, almost jogged up his front walk, thrust his key into the ground-floor unit, and then locked it again behind him.
His apartment was all glass on two sides, surrounded by lush bushes and trees, just high enough to show themselves, but let the sun shine in on clear days. He had loved that about the place when he had first seen it, but this night what had seemed so open and inviting seemed unnervingly exposed. He walked around the two exterior walls, dropping the blinds and adjusting the slats until there was a thin wall of wood-stamped vinyl between him and the outside world.
It seemed a pretty weak barrier.
He grabbed a nine-iron from the bag in the hall and leaned it up against the bedside table. He hated the idea of it, was ashamed of his paranoia even, but if he had a reason to be so much on edge, he made up his mind to be prepared, at the very least. David’s advice hovered not far from his scotch-addled ears.
Trust your instinct.
Noises. Creaks. Taps on the window, real or imagined. Each time the fridge motor kicked in, Ben jumped from restless sleep. While it ran, he felt isolated, like the noise impaired his hearing and camouflaged the approach of whatever it was he feared. The night. The shadows in the car. The unknown. At four fifteen he had finally had enough; rested or not, he wasn't going to get any more sleep.
He hauled himself up from the bed and pulled on his jeans from the day before. He walked to the kitchen, making the conscious decision to leave the golf club behind in the bedroom, and turned on the kettle. He popped an English muffin into the toaster and prepared his cup.
Routine.
Routine would pull him out of this funk just like it had when Donna was sick. One foot, then the other. Nothing too difficult about that.
The kettle whistled. He poured his tea. The crunch of the muffin and the smell of the melted butter helped to shrug away the inner cobwebs of the night. As the numbers on the stove turned to five o'clock, he suddenly got up and strode over to the covered windows. He pulled the blinds up with decision, exposing the room once again to the openness of the many windows. One after another until he looked out on the dim street, just waking to the slight glow of the eastern horizon.
The car was gone. Good. It was nothing then.
A neighbour.
That was better. His imagination, friend or foe, was a strong one. He smiled at himself and turned back into the apartment. A hot shower would turn his day around.
The dark, prone form of a man lay in the shadow of the bush just outside Ben's kitchen window. He had ducked below the sill just as Ben had reached the blinds, the professor's unexpected action almost causing a face-to-face confrontation. As Ben receded down the hallway toward his bathroom, the man pulled out his mobile phone and dialled.
"I could do it now. He's in the shower. … No, nothing much, he had a drink with his dead wife's father, then home. Got a bit spooked I think. … No, he didn't see anything, just a bit on edge. … Yes. … Okay."
He pocketed the phone, rose and stepped carefully from the shadow, out onto the street. Before he had made it a dozen steps past the house, a dark sedan pulled up and he got in. The engine revved in the morning stillness, and they were gone.
SEVEN
Ben was still fresh from the shower when he arrived at the university. He parked his slightly dented VW Golf in his spot and almost whistled as he walked to his office. He had felt so silly once the water had washed the uneasiness of the night away. He was being paranoid; he was sure of that. Something was not right with the job offer, but nothing said he had to take it, either.
He would let this opportunity go past him, and he had keep plugging away as he had
been, happily writing and teaching — just what he had wanted to do for as long as he could remember. He had just come up with an idea for a new book on the Copper Scroll, perhaps mentioning its black market cousin, when he opened the door to his office and stepped in.
A man was there, sitting in the worn leather chair in the corner, leafing through Ben's work diary.
"Can I help you?" Ben tried to sound offended, authoritative, but he heard the tremor in his own voice and all the stress of the last night flooded back at once. He had no doubt the other man had heard it as well.
"You've been talking to someone about a job?"
"Who are you? How did you get into my office?"
"You've been talking to someone about a job." It was not a question. There was no tremor in the man's voice though he was the one intruding on another’s home turf. Probably breaking the law even. University policy, for certain.
Ben said nothing.
"You won't take this job. You'll turn it down. Have you been given any money?"
Ben paused, then nodded. Something about the man in the chair chilled him. He thought it best to be honest. After all, he had nothing to hide. He heard footfalls in the hallway and hoped that whoever it was would come in, ask him something, get him out of there without the danger and shame of having to flee.
"How much?"
"It's none of your-"
"How much?" The man leaned forward, the polished black glint of a pistol showing clearly from the shoulder holster. The footsteps went on past the door and faded from hearing. Ben could feel the cold sweat run down his back.
"A few thousand."
"How many few?"
"Five."
The man stood. He pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and tossed it onto Ben's desk. "Here's ten. You're done. Give him back his money, and step out of it. You're done. You understand?"
Ben nodded.
"Good." The man stood, straightened his jacket, and smiled as he left the office. Just a friendly visit. Ben locked the door, fingers fumbling, and sank into the chair behind his desk. He looked at the envelope, a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills poking out of the opening.