by Jeff Spence
Thoma's eyes darted from side to side and his thumbs worked against his closed fists, but he said nothing more.
"Give my love to Maali, and buy her something nice. Do not think I am blind to your treatment of her: you are a good husband, and for that I am more grateful than you can know. Truly, brother. If we are successful in this venture, I will see that your pride is seen to then."
Thoma turned, without a word, and left the room.
Khoury set the cup down on the table as the door closed. His eyes returned to the vista of lawns just as the sprinklers hissed to life and covered the sprawling view in ten thousand diamonds of water droplets, glinting in the low angle of the sun. With business and family matters settled, his stomach, at last, had settled into its healthy state. His hand moved to a pocket in the depths of his robe, and he produced a phone.
A single call would be made, and with it a team of prepared men would spring into action. Such a small motion, to cause such a powerful result, like a bullet exploding from its casing when the tiny, sharp firing pin struck.
His finger tip tapped the little screen.
TWENTY-SEVEN
David Hartman stood up from the front porch swing with a groan. He picked up his Scotch tumbler with two fingers and stretched. It was late, the smell of lilacs thick on the cool breeze. He had been up much of the night. He hadn't heard from Ben since that evening he had called, and after Mimi had returned home from the hospital and expressed interest in a quiet dinner with her son in law, David had tried to contact him. He had had no word back. He tried the university. They said Ben was away on a family emergency, that his cousin had called in for him. But he didn't have any other family. He didn't have a cousin, not that David knew of.
After the discussion they'd had the last time Ben was over, David was concerned that something serious had happened. He had considered calling the police, but wasn't sure of that either. He didn't want Ben to get into trouble. If Ben was already in trouble, he didn't want to make it worse.
Another thing that held him back was the possibility that he was mixed up in something by choice. Ben had had misgivings about his potential business partner, but also seemed very keen on the project itself, whatever it was. David knew that money was a little tight, since the loss of Donna’s income and the extra expense of her care, but he didn’t know if it had become a problem. He’d made it clear that he was there to help if needed. He knew though, that pride could be a powerful deterrent. Would David himself accept family money in the same situation, if he had a way to earn his own, even if it did come with some strings attached? Probably not.
He had told Ben to go by his instinct, but that was easier said than done. Instinct, too, was sometimes fallible. If Ben had chosen to get involved in a dodgy situation, the last thing David wanted was to be the one who made it all go wrong. Honest men, like Benjamin Gela, were sometimes the easiest to set up… hell, they were always the easiest. David had seen it many times in his life, and it was only through a healthy dose of cynicism and paranoia that he had avoided being that guy himself.. probably some luck, too. He had always felt he had an uncommon dose of luck, to season his hard work, though losing his daughter had shaken that belief. Maybe Ben was lucky too, maybe not. David had lost his daughter. Ben was his son now. He didn't want to lose a son too.
And so he had been up, swinging gently on the porch swing, thinking and drinking. Waiting for word from Ben, from anyone, about what was going on. He needed sleep though, his thoughts were wandering farther afield with each sip… getting harder to follow… and he needed to check on Mimi. He stepped inside the front door and turned the deadbolt behind him, making sure the door was secure. Something didn't feel right about the darkness between the street lamps that night. Or it could have been the scotch.
Two figures watched as a blue Ford Escape pulled up a little farther down the street, drifting a few yards even after its headlights had been turned off. The one nudged the other, but he had seen it too. Hands reached into the opened fronts of jackets and remained there, with a ready ease.
Three figures emerged from the Ford, a fourth stayed in his seat, the engine idling. As they approached the Hartman house, one of the three walked ahead of the others, moving up the porch steps, quiet as a panther, and reached up to his full height, used his outstretched fingers to press against the bottom of the porch light with a gloved hand. With a quick twist, the light went out and the other two men veered off from the street, over the lawn, and onto the porch where the first man had already crouched down in front of the deadbolt, the faint glint of lock picks apparent to the two men standing in the brush of the neighbours rhododendrons.
David sat up in bed. Had he heard something? He glanced down at Mimi. She was out, the pain killers no-doubt giving her the sleep of her life.
He slid out of bed and carefully walked out into the upstairs hallway. He reached into the den and picked up his father's old cane from where it always leaned against his desk, the heavy cast image of Winston Churchill sat atop the hardwood stick. David grasped it in both hands. He felt silly doing it, but did it nonetheless. Instinct. After a brief listen at the top of the stairs, he slowly descended, not sure if the shadows on the blinds were the same as were always there, or something different… something sinister.
At the bottom of the stairs he looked up and down the hall, and over into the kitchen area. All was still. The fridge compressor kicked in, sending little tremors of vibration through the floorboards and the air. A normal nighttime noise. The house itself seemed as it always did. He walked up to the front door and checked the lock. Still bolted. He turned the tiny handle and heard the click as the bolt came free from its slot. He turned the knob and opened the door.
The Scotch had begun to wear off already and the chill of the night air spread shivers over his whole body. He took one step out onto the porch and looked in both directions. The bulb was off. Had he turned it off? He reached behind him and flicked the switch up and down a couple of times. Nothing. He looked up at the bulb in the darkness. Not broken. Hmm. Burnt out? Would he hear that from upstairs if the night was quiet, the tiny pop of a spent bulb? He doubted it.
Nothing else out there though. He let the rubber-capped tip of the cane touch the wooden floor of the porch and sighed, wrapping his fingers around Winston’s well-worn forehead. The deal with Ben was getting to him. He made up his mind: in the morning he had make a call. For better or worse, he couldn't live with thinking that Ben might need help, and his father in law did nothing.
He closed and locked the door, made a note to replace the bulb, and returned to bed. He paused at the darkened door of the den, then moved on. He leaned the cane against the bedside table, and fell into a fitful sleep.
To the side of the porch, two men crouched in the shadows. They let out their breath slowly. One of the bodies on which they leaned was still twitching slightly, the killing blow not as efficient as the those of his partners had been. They were thankful that the old man had been slow getting down the stairs.
The light breeze had had enough time to drift the smell of fresh blood off over the rhododendrons, into the neighbour's yard where the cat was picking it up, searching its memory for the scent. The darkness hid the spatter marks of blood on the boards and the siding. They'd have to do something about that before the daylight hours. Time enough to think of something though — after just one more chore. One dark shadow looked toward the other and nodded at the Ford Escape idling down the street, its occupant craning his neck to see what was happening in the darkened porch and the building beyond it.
The second shadow moved off toward the back of the house and into the alley. In a few moments, the blue Escape would be easing out of its space and around to the back of the house. That hatchback will be handy, the first shadow thought, I hate stuffing bodies into a trunk.
TWENTY-EIGHT
"Do you see them?"
"No, but I'm thinking if they're any good, we won't. Besides, they're thinking we're headed up Banb
ury…” Ben reached over and took Marina’s hand as they rode, pretending it was somehow adding to their cover as an everyday couple, sitting on the upper deck of an Oxford bus.
"Which we were…"
"Which we were, but this will take us up the Woodstock Road instead.” Woodstock ran more or less parallel to Banbury, and the space between was webbed with little connecting streets and lanes. Lots of choices to cut through once they were parallel with Park Town — and lots of choices for their pursuers to cover. It would get them to the same place, in the end, but without taking the predicted route. The shops and homes passed by below their window. "Once we're north of Park Town, we'll hop off and cut across."
"How far do we ride?"
"I'm not sure. Once we're even with the cluster of shops at Summertown, we should be good. We can head back south then. Hopefully they won't expect that — we’ll see them before they see us if they’re there…" They waited, watching each home as it passed by below them. "Here are the playing fields, we can hop out now."
The street was clear, except for a few small clusters of uniformed schoolchildren moving toward the vast green lawns where cricketers were warming up for practice. The couple disembarked and crossed the main road, cutting through a dense residential area before reemerging into the bustle of midday Oxford, Banbury Road. Ten minutes from there they finally arrived at the small arrangement of streets known as Park Town. It ran off of the larger street like a cul-de-sac, secluded and quiet. If their pursuers had been waiting there, catching them would have been like grabbing goldfish in a bowl… but it was also one of the least likely places they would look. They entered the street, scanned for the men they’d seen, and let out long breaths of relief at the empty street and paths. They found Eli's number and walked up to the tiny porch. A last look around and Marina tapped the knocker against the door.
The man who answered was unlike anyone Marina had ever seen, more mole-like than man-like. Ben, having spent some years in Oxford, was less surprised. Eli Bannerman was old, but just how old was anyone's guess. He had white whiskers from the bottom of his neck up over his chin and cheeks, the sideburns sticking out like mutton-chops from the shorter-cropped beard around them. The crown of his head was bald, but around it curly wires of white hair sprang out in every conceivable direction. Even his ears looked like they had been stuffed with tiny bouquets of white hair. He was dressed in dark brown corduroy trousers and a blue flannel shirt. Over this was a threadbare plaid vest complete with pocket-watch. His eyes were deep-set and sharp.
"Eli Bannerman?" Ben asked, reaching out his hand, "I'm Professor Ben Gela, from the United States. I used to be a student here. Martin Goodman told me where I could find you. May we come in for a moment? There is some research you might be able to help us with."
The man muttered as if to himself, "Yes, yes, American of course. Midwest. A hint of the semitic in the background though, I'll wager. Lived abroad… well educated, but still dangles the participle now and then though." He chuckled to himself, waggling his finger in mock chastisement of Ben’s grammatical error. He then turned his attention toward Marina. "And who is this lovely young creature?"
She smiled and reached out her hand. He took it and, to her surprise, bent and kissed it.
"I am Marina Saalik. Don't try that 'hint of the semitic' trick with me though, my name gives just as many clues as his does. Not to mention that he said he had been a student here, and so obviously lived abroad, and is well-educated.” She was very pleased with herself.
He smiled, his finger slowly uncurling as he spoke, until it pointed at her, like a trivia contestant gesturing as he gets the final question to win the night. “Bosnian… But grew up in the east, maybe Dubrovnik, thereabout?”
Her face paled.
“Yes, I thought so. Long time in the midwest as well, trying to rid yourself of the European, but the edges are there, my dear — nothing wrong with it mind! — but the edges don't fade once one reaches a certain age, do they? No, they don't. Not an academic though. Bright, judging by your eyes, beautiful eyes, but not an academic." He nodded, slightly, seemed a bit disappointed on her behalf, as if that were somehow a misstep in anyone's life path.
"Ah, may we…" Ben asked again, motioning toward the inside of the house. He felt far too exposed on the open steps of the little house, so close to Banbury and the men who were pursuing them.
"Oh yes, yes, of course, how rude of me, come in come in. Will you have tea? Yesss, you'll have tea. I was just about to have mine, kettle's already on. Mother always said to boil a full kettle, even when alone. One never knows when unexpected company will arrive. No, one doesn't. And unexpected company is just that, isn't it," he looked at them both in turn, quite seriously, "…unexpected." Then he turned and left them in the suddenly silent sitting area.
He was gone less than five minutes, but in that time they were able to soak in the thick atmosphere of the room. To Marina's eyes it was all strange, vaguely Middle-Eastern kitsch, but to Ben's trained gaze, there were diamonds amid the chunks of coal, and he instinctively calculated the many articles and bits of research that could be done — or had already been done — on artefacts in this room alone. It was impressive. Aged shofars of kudu horn hung from twine high on the walls; mezuzot lined one shelf, each of them containing a scroll of tiny writing; bowls on display stands were grouped on a low table near the thick-curtained windows, lines of fading Hebrew characters on them, and one in Greek.
Amid all of the artefacts, books and scrolls filled every nook and crevice, some of them crisp and new, but the vast majority showing varying degrees of respectful age. They were in English, Hebrew, Aramaic, Greek, Latin, French, German, Dutch, even Syriac and cuneiform. A small section looked like it might be Polish; Ben was not familiar enough with the language to know for certain. Something Eastern European though. Eli Bannerman may not be a professional scholar in the normal sense, Ben thought, but if the evidence of the room were anything to go by, he did get around.
The man came back into the room, balancing a tinkling array of mismatched cups and saucers crammed around an ornate, silver-plated teapot. He set the tray on a stack of books near a circle of armchairs, and wandered back into the kitchen. Marina steadied the tray and glanced at Ben as if to say "This is the guy we're relying on to get us out of this?"
He returned with a plastic container of miniature cucumber sandwiches and placed them on the cluttered coffee table. He looked over the spread, and seemed very pleased with the result. He then sat, claimed a cup of tea and a cucumber sandwich, shoved the latter wholly into his mouth, and grinned at them.
"Well then," he began, the words muffled between bites, "what is it I can do for you?"
Ben sat and took up a teacup. Marina did the same.
"I was at a lecture some years ago, at the Oriental Institute. I saw a fragment there that I understand is yours."
"I see. Which one then? Are you writing a paper?"
"It's a small triangular fragment, inscribed in Hebrew. I believe you call it the ‘Final Battle’ fragment?"
"Ah yes! Tantalising little trinket. And you would like to see it? To borrow it? Only my father gave it to me, years ago. He wasn't one to do such things you see. Mother always said he tried, but I didn't believe it. Not until then. Perhaps not again since. Fascinating little thing though, fascinating."
"I don't think I'll need to take it anywhere. I just need to transcribe the text."
The tiny eyes grew wide and his mouth opened, revealing bits of masticated sandwich, "You've found it!"
Ben faltered, at a loss for words.
"The rest of it — you've found it, yes?"
"It is possible."
"Fantastic! Fantastic! Yes, yes, I'll get it, it is… ah, it is…" he glanced around the room like he had just been dropped into it for the first time, "Oh yes, here, here." He stopped his search and, turning, looked at them very seriously. "Once had a cat die. Buried it in the back garden. Still called it everyday for almost a month
. Memory like a sieve I have. Like a sieve."
He then returned to his retrieval of the fragment. He pulled open a drawer in a small cabinet tucked away in a corner, and from it he produced a tiny box — a cheap jewellery box, Marina guessed. He popped the lid and there it was, a triangular piece of ancient silver nestled on some discoloured tissue paper, the whole thing small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. While Ben squinted down at it, Eli rummaged through another cabinet drawer until he produced a folded sheaf of off-white paper. "And here is what you need." He handed it to Ben.
There is was, neatly transcribed with alternate word choices and a skilled drawing of the placement of each letter.
"Well done…" Ben muttered, instantly aware that he had given the compliment as if to one of his students, whereas this wire-haired old man had obviously achieved a degree of expertise that, in many ways, dwarfed Ben's own. The old man beamed, nonetheless.
"I had always hoped to see its sibling before my years ran out. The chances were slim, I have always known that, but hope doesn't care for such things, does it? No," he answered his own question, suddenly grave, "It certainly does not."
"My I copy this?" Ben asked, ready to transfer the neat little letters into his larger, scribbling hand.
"Of course, of course," the old man grinned. "Here, we can use this." He produced a thin scanner, then reached into a leather satchel and pulled out a Macbook. "Let me just…" he pulled out a pair of thick bifocals and stared down at the screen through the lower half of the lenses. Marina watched the thick tips of his short fingers as they pecked away at the keys. "Here, and… here." The scanner hummed to life and he lifted the thin lid.
Ben looked beside him and was met by Marina's amused smile, both at the old man's apparent tech savvy, and at Ben's sheer amazement. Something made her think that Eli probably had a Twitter account too.