I told him I had always thought that distinction belonged to the epics of Homer.
“The Rig Veda was composed a thousand years before Homer,” he said. “It’s the oldest of the Vedas, the Veda of Adoration. Over ten thousand verses, mostly adoring or adulating the gods. Many of the gods survive to this day, in one form or another. The Vedic worship of ancient India evolved into the world’s oldest living religion.”
“Hinduism,” Oriana said.
“The Rig Veda was the fountainhead of Indian civilization.”
I recalled the nearly unintelligible lines Dan had translated in the margin. “The stuff seems a little strange to build a civilization on.”
“‘The gods love the obscure,’ they say.” Steinberg ran his light up to a shelf of Indian titles. “Hence the profusion of translators.”
Stretching up, rasping, he retrieved an elegant leather-bound volume embossed with Sanskrit lettering. He opened it to the first page of verses and compared it to the first page in Dan’s book. “Yes. It’s as I thought. Your brother’s text employs a more archaic version of the ancient Sanskrit. The words are separated, not run together, which makes the original meter and rhythm more apparent. It should make for more accurate translation as well.”
I knew meter and rhythm were essential to poetry, but I didn’t understand how it could change the meaning of the words.
Steinberg explained. “In a way, the sound is more important than the meaning. It’s believed the verses capture a kind of divine, elemental vibration. In fact, the ancient rishis who composed the Vedas believed the creation of the cosmos began with a subtle vibration of sound: Aum. ‘By His utterance came the universe.’"
“In the beginning was the Word,” I said. “Just like in the Bible.”
“Exactly,” Steinberg said. “‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.’ The cosmos emerges from a thought in God’s mind. Thought is the subtlest form of sound. This is where the idea of the sacred sound, or mantra, is derived. It’s a kind of tool for transcendence. A link to the divine. Transcending sounds are the pre-eminent means for attaining the state of enlightenment. ‘By sound vibration one becomes liberated.’”
“Dan’s translations didn’t strike me as very enlightening,” I said. “A lot of it seemed to be about war.”
Steinberg aimed his light up at the book’s empty slot on the shelf. It was near the end of a line of nearly identical, numbered volumes. “What you have here is the ninth book of the Rig Veda,” he said. “It contains some of the oldest hymns of them all. They praise a god known as Soma. Soma took the form of a sacred plant from which a divine elixir was derived, an intoxicating nectar, also called soma. Many of the hymns describe ritual celebrations in which the juice was pressed from the soma plant, filtered and mixed with milk and honey, and consumed by warriors before heading into battle. They believed it bestowed an invincible courage.”
He paused to read a passage: “Divine Soma, who art the beverage of the gods, flow at the sacrifice for their abundant food; urged on by thee may we overcome even mighty foes in battle; purified do thou render heaven and earth happy abodes for—”
At this point I interrupted the scholarly Steinberg to ask him the obvious question.
“It may have been a lotus,” he replied. “Many suspect it was, given the central place of the lotus plant in the history of Indian religion. But others think it was the mountain shrub containing the stimulant ephedra, or the hallucinatory fly-agaric mushroom, or the harmal perennial, Syrian Rue, even the common cannabis plant. In truth no one really knows the identity of the original soma. Descriptions of the plant seem to vary in the text, and translations are often contradictory. It’s also quite possible—in fact, it’s very likely—the plant may long ago have disappeared.”
Disappeared, then reappeared again. It made more sense now why Maya had been involved, given the plant’s historical relationship to India. But I couldn’t understand the Iranians’ obsession. Had they really believed the claims of some ancient Indian myth?
“The Iranians have their own mythology,” Steinberg said. He led us around the corner, up a step into another room, and down another cavernous aisle. This time his light beam panned the lower shelves until it came to rest on a mauve-colored spine. He bent and tipped out the well-worn book. The cover featured a golden cauldron sprouting flames of fire, and above it, in Latin script, the one-word title, Avesta.
Steinberg licked his fingertips and leafed through the tawny pages. His flashlight beam threw a harsh glare at his face, flaring off his magnifying eyeglasses. “This is the sacred text of the ancient Persian religion that preceded Islam in Iran: Zoroastrianism. It emerged out of the prehistoric religion of the Indo-Iranians, and the verses were composed in a language remarkably similar to Vedic Sanskrit. For instance, the Vedic word for ‘god,’ deva, is daeva, ‘demon,’ in Avestan. And here”— his fingers stopped at a passage—“here’s another word that should sound familiar to you: haoma. ‘Haoma grows while he is praised, and the man who praises him is therewith more victorious. The lightest pressure of thee, Haoma, the slightest tasting of thy juice, avails to the thousand-smiting of the daevas.’”
Steinberg lowered the book and the flashlight, but his eyes seemed to glimmer with their own internal light. “Soma. Haoma. They are both derived from the Indo-Iranian root word sauma, and no doubt refer to the very same—”
A sudden loud banging startled him into silence. He instantly clicked off his flashlight, and the three us listened breathlessly in the dark. Again the loud knocking rattled down the aisles.
Someone was pounding at the shop’s front door.
34.
Cowboy
“I NEED TO ANSWER IT,” Steinberg said. “It may be the police.”
“What if it’s not?” Oriana whispered.
From the pocket of his bathrobe, Steinberg withdrew a small revolver. “You’ll have to back me up.” He offered the pistol to her.
She took it from him, gravely, and nodded in assent. The two of them turned to me.
Again the knocking broke the stillness.
“Wait in the workroom,” Steinberg said. “If you hear any shooting, leave out the back.”
I hesitated, heart pounding, wondering if somehow I couldn’t help.
“Go,” he ordered. I started off. “Other way,” he said. I turned and headed in the opposite direction, and the two of them headed for the door.
I didn’t get far before I realized I didn’t know which way to proceed. Assuming that Steinberg would lead our way back, I hadn’t paid attention to the route. Trying to retrace those steps in the dark now struck me as virtually impossible. Better to make myself useful, I thought. I turned around to follow them instead.
Hurrying as quickly as I could in the dark, I went back to where I had left them, then headed in the direction from which the knocking had come, hoping I could quickly catch up. But after only a couple of turns in the maze, I lost all sense of direction.
I paused a moment and listened. The knocking, I noticed, had stopped. The shop was completely quiet.
Whoever was at the door must have left, I thought. They assumed nobody was here.
I continued making my way down the aisle, listening for Steinberg and Oriana. Why don’t I hear his wheezing? Why don’t I hear her voice? The opaque air hung humid. A trickle of sweat crept down my neck.
Maybe it wasn’t the cops at the door.
I pushed forward through the darkness until suddenly the floor fell away—the step into another room. Stumbling, I lost my balance and crashed face-down onto the carpet.
It took me a moment to recover. I strained to lift my head. On the bottom shelf beside me, barely visible in the dark, I noticed a shiny golden book title: Shambhala.
I was back in the South Asia section.
Shambhala. The cursive letters glimmered like a scraggy vein of gold. I started to reach for the book.
That’s when I noticed the pair of
cowboy boots. Pointed toes, snakeskin leather, caked with mud and dust. Mud-splattered jeans had been tucked neatly into them. A duffel bag hung from a pair of broad shoulders draped with a long, canvas duster. Though his face could barely be discerned in the dark, I was relieved to see he had no beard. And wore a cowboy hat.
“Who are you?” I asked.
He pointed the barrel of a pistol at me. “Who are you?”
My eyes froze on the gun.
The beam of a flashlight found the man’s chiseled face. Steinberg stood at the far end of the aisle. “Don’t shoot!” he commanded.
The man raised his hand to block the light, squinting into the glare.
“Put down your gun,” Oriana shouted.
He turned. Oriana stood at the other end of the aisle, aiming Steinberg’s pistol.
The cowboy peered down at me while replacing his gun into his shoulder holster. “Looks like the Jews want to spare you,” he said. “You must be the American.”
I peered up at him, trying to place his accent. Uncombed, unwashed, unshaven, he looked like he’d just crossed the Caucasus Mountains in the pan of a pickup truck.
He offered me his hand.
“Jack Duran,” I said.
He pulled me firmly to my feet. “Glad to meet you. I’m—”
“Sar!” Oriana rushed up and embraced him.
Steinberg approached with his flashlight. “You scared the daylights out of us!”
THE BRIGHT GLARE of the workroom came as a shock to our dilated eyes. Steinberg hauled shut the bookshelf door. “I expected you at noon,” he said. “I’d all but given up.”
Sar dropped his hat and bag on the table. “I was in the Sinai. Came as quickly as I could.” From his pocket he retrieved the front door key and handed it to Steinberg. “I was afraid they beat me here.”
“Never got this far,” Steinberg said. “Oriana made sure of that.”
Sar lit up a cigarette as she told him what had happened—the two men at the hospital, a third killed in the cab.
“That leaves only the two then,” Sar said.
“Three,” Oriana said. “A man followed Jack on the flight from Istanbul.”
“A Turk?”
“Possibly.”
Squinting over the cigarette clamped between his teeth, Sar pulled a passport out of his coat pocket and tossed it across the table to her. “This fellow greeted my flight from Ben Gurion.”
The passport’s cover, embossed with Turkish crescent and star, was splotched with what looked like a wine stain. Oriana opened it to the photo, then stared in surprise at Sar. “That’s him,” she said.
“Then we only need to worry about the two,” he said.
Her stare stayed on him. He coolly exhaled a stream of smoke.
Steinberg took the passport and thumbed through its visas. “Awful lot of trips to Iran,” he said. He held it up, looking to Sar. “May I?”
Sar nodded.
Steinberg bent to open the bottom drawer of his desk and deposit the passport with the others. I wondered now how many had blood on them.
“So what’s the plan?” Sar asked.
Steinberg rose up, red-faced, wheezing. “They make the crossing tonight,” he said. “Pashazadeh has offered to take them.”
“Pashazadeh? How generous. Are there no Caspian sturgeon left for him to poach?”
“The man owes me a favor.”
“Whatever he owes you won’t be enough.” Sar turned to me. “You have dollars?”
“I’ve got about 500 euros, cash.”
“Don’t pay him more than 200. And don’t let his manner fool you—he’s nothing more than a thief.”
“I’ll deal with him,” Oriana said.
Steinberg assured her, “He won’t be a problem.”
“Good,” Sar said. “Because Jack will be making the crossing on his own. Oriana and I will take passage on the ferry.”
She stared at him; it was an order. I wondered why she didn’t object. “Didn’t you say they’d be watching the harbor?”
She shifted her gaze to me but didn’t respond.
“They will be watching the harbor,” Sar said. He stepped up close, appraising me. “What are you—six-one? One-eighty-five?”
“Huh? No—180.”
“What size are those sneakers?”
“Ten and a half.”
“Excellent.” He inspected my jacket. “I assume you wore this on the plane?”
“Yeah?”
“Give it to me. Please. The shoes and trousers, too.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He was taking off his duster. “These men haven’t had a good look at your face. All they know for sure is you’re traveling with her.”
I looked at Oriana. She still said nothing. Steinberg gazed down at his feet.
“You’re going to try to bait them?” I asked.
“Something like that,” Sar said.
“You’ll get yourselves killed,” I said.
Sar sat down to remove his boots. “Let us worry about that. For now, just give me your clothes. And the backpack, too. You can use this.” He shoved his bag across the table.
I turned, gaping, to Steinberg and Oriana. “Who is this guy?”
The two exchanged a glance. Oriana helped herself to one of Sar’s cigarettes. “Sar is my cousin. We work together. Please, Jack, just do as he says.” She lit up, nervously.
Sar said something to her in Hebrew. Oriana nodded, then glanced again at Steinberg. Steinberg shrugged.
I looked at Sar, struggling to pull off his snakeskin boot. As weary as he was, he seemed driven, with a plucky sort of vigor he could barely contain. He was strong, fit, handsome, confident—a charismatic, yiddisher kop cowboy. I realized suddenly I envied him, but at the same time I feared he would get Oriana killed. And I, for one, didn’t want to lose her.
“Are you with Mossad?” I asked.
“Me?” Finally, he unplugged his foot. “I work for Proctor and Gamble.”
I stared at him blankly. “Is that some kind of joke?”
He yanked off the other boot and looked at me. “It would be really good of you,” he said, “if you would please give me your jacket.”
“It would be better if we just got the hell out of here,” I said. But even as I said it, I began to remove my coat.
Steinberg helped me out of it. “Jack may have a point,” he said. “There’s plenty of room on Pashazadeh’s trawler.”
Sar looked aghast. “I didn’t come here to go fishing.”
Steinberg handed him my jacket. “I’m only suggesting you consider the alternatives.”
“He’s right,” I said. “There’s no reason to confront these people if you don’t have to.”
The suggestion brought a look of disgust. “There’s a very good reason to confront them. These men are our enemies.”
It struck me as anachronistic, his use of that word, as if he’d just returned from battling Nazis in the middle of the previous century. “They’re not my enemies,” I said. “They’re just…I don’t know, misinformed?”
Oriana crushed out her cigarette after having barely smoked it. “They tried to kill you, Jack.”
“I know,” I said. “I got the message.”
“Apparently the wrong message,” Sar said.
I asked him what he meant. He stepped close and looked in my eyes. “I mean they didn’t try to kill you.”
“The hell they didn’t.” I showed him my throat. “I came this close to—”
Sar slapped me, knocking my head to the side.
“Wake up.”
I glared at him, stunned.
The Israeli spoke through a clenched jaw, his face only inches from mine. “You need to be clear about something. These men are trained assassins. They’ve murdered at least two hundred people in the last three years. Two hundred that we know of. In Iran, Iraq, Syria, Lebanon, Egypt, Yemen, Saudi. Reformers, mostly. Moderates. Politicians, police officers, businessmen, reporters. Their t
hroats slashed, their bodies dumped, gutted like butchered animals.” He looked off briefly, wincing at some memory, then turned his burning eyes back on me. “These men are not fools. And they don’t like being made to look like fools. If they had wanted to kill you, believe me, you’d be dead. The only reason you’re not is because they think you hold information. They want you to reveal it to them. If not, they’ll have to extract it from you. When that happens—and it will happen—you won’t be able to run away. You’ll be forced to confront them. On their terms, not ours.”
I swallowed a lump of fear—and thought of my brother and Phoebe.
Sar turned to Steinberg. “If it’s all right with you, Oriana and I’ll cross on the ferry. We’ll leave the fishing to Jack.”
35.
The Hidden Imam
STEINBERG GOT DRESSED and drove me to the harbor. Wearing a light overcoat and a wide-brimmed Fedora that covered his head to his brow, the old man appeared both morose and perturbed, and kept to himself on the ride. He seemed to be brooding over the fate of Oriana. Later that morning, she and Sar would purchase tickets for the Caspian ferry, and that evening depart for Turkmenistan. The Iranians weren’t the only ones who needed information. Sar, posing as me, hoped to lure the two assassins aboard and turn the tables on them. He planned to conduct his own interrogation, intent on uncovering the whereabouts of the seven other assassins still remaining from the list.
I wondered how far he would take it. What would he do—slap them? Or use the very same methods he claimed the assassins would use on me? And what would happen if that didn’t work? Given my experience with Oriana, I assumed he would fit his gun with a silencer, blast a hole in each of their heads and dump them into the sea. Then the charming cousins could continue their cruise and rendezvous with me at the dig site.
The Assassin Lotus Page 14