by Jeff Spence
The man stepped slightly to the side, revealing a pistol levelled at Ben, right behind his kidney.
"Fine then, you'll join us. Professor, you walk in front. I'll walk with the lady. Either one of you does something stupid, and I'll be gone before anybody knows where all the blood is coming from. You need to understand that I've been in this situation before. Most of the time everyone behaves and it works out just fine… but there have been times when it hasn't."
He held Marina's stare, his warm smile showing beneath cold eyes. She had been in that kind of situation before too. Powerless. It was as if her bones themselves ached. But ache didn't make it anything other than what it was.
She nodded. Ben walked.
The three of them left the building.
Forty minutes later, Leonard Kantor's man stood on that same spot, a cup of hot coffee in his hand. He had been to Ben's office at the agreed-upon time. No one had been there. He had called the mobile and the house numbers. Nothing. He had even checked if the professor had been held up in a lecture or something. He had one scheduled for that day, but had cancelled it. The young woman in the student services office had assured him that missing a meeting was unusual for Professor Gela, sometimes wires got crossed, that's all. Ben Gela was a busy person with a full teaching load and ongoing research projects.
The man didn’t like it. Didn’t like the feel of the air in the empty hallway. He pulled out his phone and called Tel Aviv, despite the early hour in Israel. He informed his employer of Ben Gela's absence, and of the administrator's explanation: Ben Gela is a busy man.
Yes, Leonard thought, his face darkening, it seems he is.
EIGHT
Nawab Khoury lifted his head from his mat as he completed his prayers and rocked back up onto his feet. He pushed his hands against his knees and rose. He was not an overly religious man, at least not a fanatical one, but the regimen of prayers seemed to relax him, even when business was growing increasingly stressful. The motions themselves, regardless if the deity for which they were intended actually heard and responded, relaxed him. It was a ritual, a meditation, in a world that could otherwise be very chaotic. Life could be unsettling.
Most thought it shouldn't be, not at his level. He was wealthy, very wealthy, rich beyond many people's imaginations, and he had been so since his birth. He had taken his father's immense fortune and grown it through a series of successful ventures: buying land and developing high-rises, golf courses with american pro-tour designers and Italian architects. Then there were the oil fields, lots of these. In the last twenty years he had even expanded into gold and platinum mining in South America and Africa. His success was so apparent that he no longer had to invest his own money in risky projects. Other rich men flocked to him, struggled to be first in line to put money into his latest projects. He used his own as well, of course, and leveraged both his own wealth and that of others to best advantage, always hiding away nest eggs and backups in untraceable places. The machine of wealth was revved high, and he rode at the front of it, his hand on the wheel.
But that didn't mean he could rest. It didn't mean he could stop.
The nature of business in the Arab world meant that his wealth attracted all kinds of pressures. He had been approached by Al Qaida, the Islamic Brotherhood, Islamic State, and a dozen other extremist groups hoping for another rich patron. To a few of them he had given funds, just enough to ensure that he wouldn't find his way onto any target list. He did so graciously and with the understanding that, though he supported them, the funding must be kept secret in order to not jeopardise his position and his income. His money drying up would mean that he could not give again. They had seemed to believe him.
He was not surprised.
Cagey as those extremist types could be, Khoury dealt in billions every day, with men who would kill if it might make a deal they wanted go through — or stall one they didn't want. At any moment there were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of powerful people waiting for a detectable weakness. The wrong person finding the right weakness and all could be lost. At his level, law was a matter of who had the most power. Power came in a multitude of forms.
No, for those initiated into the world of multi-billion-dollar business and fortunes too vast to easily count, there was no misconception that his life was one of carefree ease.
A knock at the door stirred him from his thoughts.
"Yes?"
"A visitor, sir. Your sister."
"Maali?"
"Yes sir."
"Ah, good. Send her in."
Maali was his youngest sister, and the one of whom he was most fond. She had been very beautiful when a child. The day before her seventeenth birthday, though, a truck hauling propane tanks had overturned on the road beside her school. Several of the tanks had been ruptured and flew like missiles into the side of the building. Bricks had shattered into deadly shards.
Maali had survived, but her left cheek had been badly cut up. The wound had required grafts and did not heal well. The scars were not grotesque, but her face had been reduced to a marred reflection of what her beauty had been before the accident. The perfection there had been lost.
Marriage was still a surety, of course — the Khoury wealth would ensure that — but even among the super-rich there were beautiful daughters without scarred faces. His sister had not done as well as she otherwise might have. Still, Gulam Thoma was a decent match.
He had been wealthier when he had first married Maali. Considerably so. Since then he had been frittering away his inheritance and the income from his family's textile firm. Religious projects. Jihad. Artefact collecting was the latest thing. He called it 'conservation of antiquities.' Khoury smiled. Pretension reared its head at every level. Still, the man treated Maali well enough, and as long as that continued, Khoury would help out when his beloved sister asked him to do so. As much as it pleased him that Maali had come to see him, he guessed that today was just such a visit.
"As-salamu alaykum, little sister, how have you been?"
"Nawab, alaykumu s-salam, my brother. I have been well."
The pleasantries would come first. Khoury would meander through them, taking his time and not allowing a graceful door to open to the request until he had had some time with his sister. Besides, he didn't want these requests to come too frequently; it was better for a man to support his own wife, than to rely on his wife to bring money from her own means and family. Emergencies could happen, but Thoma was growing a bit too complacent in this way. Maali knew the etiquette, and did not rush the conversation. She was in some awe of her elder brother, but there was no mistaking the genuine affection in his eyes and tone. It would be a pleasant visit, and neither of them minded if it took some time to get to its primary purpose.
They talked of their family, updated each other on gossip and rumour, and shared coffee and pastries brought in by one of Khoury's personal assistants. As he neared the end of his second small cup of coffee, Khoury reached for a little finger pastry, brought it to his lips and, with a slight pause as his sister watched, placed the whole of it in his mouth.
It was not a rude gesture, the bite was not so large as to distort face or even speech much, but it was a signal rather. As he took time to chew the light texture there was a pause in the conversation, just enough to allow a difficult segue for his little sister.
"Nawab," she began. He nodded. "There is something I would like to talk to you about. It is important." Still chewing. A subtle nod. "It is Gulam."
Khoury made a small sound at the back of his throat; he had expected as much.
"It is money, like before, but not like before."
Khoury swallowed the last of his pastry, but remained quiet.
"You know of the Discoveries in the Judaean Desert?"
Of course he did. Most of the world called them the Dead Sea Scrolls, but they were found in Jordan. Arab land at the time. The Arabs had some of them, the Copper Scroll was still in Jordan for instance, but the Israelis had the lion's share. H
e was not a keen follower of the issues, but it was a matter of cultural pride to know that the scrolls themselves were Jordanian in origin. Another kind of occupied territory, in his opinion. He nodded.
"Gulam can get one."
Khoury's brow narrowed. "Which one? How can he get it?" He was a proud Arab, true, but he knew that the money required to buy a significant scroll would be astronomical. No, worse than that, no Israeli would even consider selling such a thing, especially to an Arab or a Muslim. Money wouldn't enter into it. Blood then? Was it stolen? Had the owner been killed? Was some war coming of which he had not heard?
"There is a new one. I don't know too much about it."
"And how much does he want? How much money?"
"He did not tell me."
"Then how are you supposed to…?” then he knew. "He is here.”
"Yes, he is waiting outside."
A pause, just enough to communicate some displeasure at this new method of interaction. It was one thing to visit with his sister, and to grant her money. It was another to hand wealth across to Gulam himself. Still, Maali waited, her eyes lowered and respectful.
“Very well." He pressed a button on a small device in the folds of his robes and his PA stepped into the room. "Gulam Thoma is waiting outside, please have him come in."
With a quick bow of her head, the PA left the room and returned a silent three minutes later with a man following her. Khoury rose and took a few steps toward him. Thoma rushed forward and took his brother in law's hand.
Where Khoury was tall and fine featured, Thoma was shorter, thicker, and had the mottled skin of a man who'd spent too many hours playing backgammon and checkers in the street. Khoury preferred his own gambling to be in back rooms: luxurious hotels, private jets, or yachts. A difference in means, no doubt, but the essence was the same. People were never so different as most supposed.
Khoury smiled with perfect white teeth, Thoma with his mouth closed, mindful of the yellowing that long years of smoking and coffee had left on his own. He knew he was not the physical specimen that Khoury was, but he did see himself as an equal in the realm of business acumen. Given Khoury's advantages, Thoma was sure, he and Maali would be twice as rich as her elder brother.
"As-salamu alaykum, my brother, thank you for seeing me."
"Alaykumu s-salam, brother, of course, of course, it is good to see family after so long. Maali tells me you have an opportunity.” No point in wasting time.
"The Arab people have an opportunity, brother… the Jordanian people."
"The Discoveries are rare, Gulam. They are in the hands of the Israelis. How is it that you think you can get one?"
"One has been acquired already — a new one — and it is like nothing found before."
"Then how can one know it is authentic?"
"It is. Well, the experts think it is."
"Sit down, have some coffee. Tell me what it is you know, and then what you need."
Thoma sat as instructed, but did not touch the coffee; his stomach was already tight and full of acidic nervousness. He had never asked for so much before and, even though this was not for him directly, he did plan to improve his circumstances significantly through the current situation.
"A new item has surfaced on the black market. Not a tiny fragment or blank bit of parchment as most of them are… this one is big."
"How big is 'big'?"
"It is called the Silver Scroll, after its copper twin.”
Now Khoury's interest was piqued. Of course he knew of the Copper Scroll, the treasure list of the Jewish Temple. He also knew what wealth it purported to locate if one only knew the key locations — and if only they had not been previously looted. He was educated enough, as well, to know that the Copper Scroll mentioned another, similar scroll that had never been recovered. Or so it was thought. For another such chance, if this were authentic? He took his own coffee from his lips and set it on the table in front of him before settling back in his seat and staring straight at his brother in law. Against expectations, the man had his attention now. "Go on."
"There is a man, a rich man, who has acquired the scroll through apparently legitimate means — at least there is no one seeking it with claims of rightful ownership, and the man intends to go public with it in time."
"Have they read it?"
"They have begun, we are certain. An American specialist on the Copper Scroll has been hired. Some powerful players from the other side of the sea are involved." He thrust his head south-westward, toward the Dead Sea and Israel. "If we can gain possession of the scroll before its existence goes public, then we can sweep away any arguments regarding rightful ownership… just as the Israelis did when they gained theirs in the war."
He almost spat as he said this, then continued.
"If the world criticises us for this item, it must at the same time criticise them for all of the others. If they demand this item back, then can we not demand the treasures of the Shrine of the Book in return? So they cannot. The Silver Scroll will be ours and can lie in a place of honour beside its brother, silver beside copper, lesser honour beside the greater. Such is the natural order of things."
Thoma was not without his negotiation skills either and, though Khoury saw the flattery of course, it was not without its effect. Such an opportunity was rare. It might be worth risking a bit of cash.
"And what do you need from me, brother." His sister smiled.
"There are costs."
"Of course."
"There are men involved who are preparing for a treasure hunt. They are serious men, and are seriously equipped."
"I grow impatient, Gulam. You have me on the hook — tell me a number."
"One hundred eighty thousand dinars, brother."
Khoury pulled down the corners of his mouth and pursed his lips. A quarter of a million US dollars. He paused, not because it was a lot of money for him, but to show his little brother the import of asking for this gift. Still, it was a gift that went beyond Thoma's petty ambitions. Khoury had no doubt that his brother-in-law would pocket some of it, but that was close enough to standard business practice anyway. Khoury would have done the same in his position. A finder's fee. Consultant. Something like that.
His sister smiled again.
"Yes, Gulam, I think this is agreeable."
"Thank you brother, thank you with all my heart! May the prophet, blessings-be-upon-him, reward you for this."
"It is enough to know that I have made my family happy, and that what you do is for the glory of Allah and of our people."
Thoma bowed and shook Khoury's hand.
"If you would not mind, brother — I know you have much to do — I would speak a while longer with my sister. I know you will need to get started." It was a polite way to dismiss him for a private word with Maali.
"Yes, yes I must go. The arrangements for the money will be as before?"
"Yes, I will let my secretary know and it will be delivered. You do not want it in an account, as it is a larger sum?"
"Best not, I think. The people I will need to deal with prefer cash payments, and it is wisest to be cautious, and discreet with such things."
"I am glad to hear you say so. I will ensure some security for the money while it is in your possession. And I will not be mentioned, of course, nor the family name."
"Of course, brother."
"As-salamu alaykum then."
"Alaykumu s-salam." And Thoma left the room.
"You are kind to show him this generosity, my brother."
"It is you to whom I show it. You are truly well?"
"Of course."
"He is treating you well?"
"Always. He is a good husband."
"And gambling?"
"Some, but he is a man — do you not all gamble a little?" She pinched his forearm. He could not argue with that, and was delighted by her small show of familiarity and mischief toward him.
"Still, you will inform me at once if there is a problem."
; "I am sure he will be fine."
"Again, my sweet one, it is you over whom I watch. Stay away from trouble, and if trouble finds you, you flee to me. Do I have your word?"
"And my heart, brother. Do not worry too much. All is well."
She kissed him on his cheek, as he pressed her hands, and they parted. He called in his PA and directed her to have the money delivered, discreetly, to his brother-in-law's home. He asked too that a handbag be chosen and given to his sister. Something nice. He knew his PA would know just the thing. Then he picked up the phone and made another call. If this ancient item were to come to them, someone would need to be ready to care for it. If a treasure anywhere near what was purported by the Copper Scroll were to surface, he would need a small army to defend it. And maybe not so small.
He would let Thoma do the groundwork, feel out the situation and see if there was anything true to the rumours. If there was, then Khoury himself must be ready to step in.
NINE
They were in the Escalade, the one that had picked Ben up from outside the bar on Saturday night. They drove to the southeast edge of town and into a light industrial area, a tangle of chain-link fences, parking lots, truck bays and sturdy, plain buildings. Marina kept her eye on the man with the gun, watching for openings to turn to her advantage, all the while noting anything that might make her think their lives were in imminent danger.
So far, it seemed they were not.
A gun on them, of course, was not optimal, but there was a difference in the way an executioner carried himself, different from a courier. This man acted like a courier. She had no doubt he would kill if need be, that he had killed, in different times, but his demeanour on the drive was one of a man told to bring Ben Gela alive. So long as this was happening, he would be calm and satisfied. Was she expendable? Could be. But hiding a body, a missing person, maybe cctv in the university hallways or parking area… the man would avoid such trouble if he could — of this she was just on the positive side of confident.