The Eden Deception

by Nathan Swain

  Samir ran quickly, striding past the bohemian shops and pubs clustered together on Mill Road, beyond the golden dome of the Abu Bakar Jamia mosque and through Fenner’s cricket ground. He timed his run so that the sun began to peak above the University’s medieval spires just as he crossed Fenner’s immaculate lawn. Water-soaked clumps of grass clogged the cleats of his running shoes. Grazing cows, which at times seemed to occupy every green space in Cambridge, looked at him with indifference. He picked up a winding footpath along the banks of the Cam River and followed it to the heart of the University’s medieval campus, Trinity College.

  Sunlight creeped up the sides of Trinity’s historic buildings, but not high enough to pierce the bedroom windows of the slumbering undergraduates. It was at this hour, when the grounds were eerily quiet and only the most ambitious students had begun their morning routines, that Samir allowed himself to stand still and marvel at the University’s historic spires and green quadrangles. He did not dare look so starry-eyed during the harsh glare of day. Each time that he did he could hear his father’s admonition: “Samir, remember why you are there. Remember who you are and who you are not.”

  How could I forget?

  Samir arrived at Cambridge in late August, two weeks before Michaelmas term. He had spent scores of hours since running through the grounds at dawn, memorizing the inter-locking roads and gardens of the colleges and their maze of courts, cloisters, halls, and chapels.

  Now he stood before King’s Gate in Trinity’s Great Court. Above, golden rays of sunlight glanced off towering stained glass windows. A tinny chime sounded from the Great Clock on the north side of the Court. In fifteen minutes, the Clock would strike fourteen times—two times for each hour. It was a historical quirk, ordered by a Trinity headmaster in the seventeenth century who couldn’t bear honoring Trinity without acknowledging his own alma mater, St. John’s College, with a second strike.

  At times, Samir could barely stomach the pretension of his new home. That’s the kind of nonsense that passes for a problem here.

  Samir turned to run home, more quickly than usual this time. He was scheduled to meet with his tutoring fellow for the better part of the afternoon.

  Back at his flat, he showered, shaved the rough coat of stubble on his face, and ran a dollop of product through his thick, black hair.

  As a “mature” student at Cambridge, meaning older than twenty-one, Samir dressed far better than most of his peers. He liked French labels and Dolce & Gabbana suits. Today, he affixed a silver pin to his jacket lapel. On his first day in Cambridge the pin was hand delivered along with a note written by his father. “This is the insignia of your family,” it read. “It symbolizes our mission and sacred duty.”

  It was his family’s mission that sent him to Cambridge. He felt the burden of it weighing on his shoulders at every moment—like the yoke worn by his brothers’ cattle back home. And it weighed on his conscience, too, as he prepared for the meeting with his tutor.

  He would use the meeting to do as he always did, as his father instructed him to do: direct the conversation toward his tutor’s historic archaeological work—the discovery of the ancient city of Tell Eatiq. Once again, Samir would ask her many questions—questions for which people back home, most of all his father, wanted answers. Samir also hoped to learn more about his instructor’s personal life. It was a subject of great interest to him. After all, it was not the study of archaeology or even the pursuit of a degree that had brought him to Cambridge. He had come to watch Olivia Nazarian.

  Chapter 4

  It was not the bellowing of the protesters she had just left behind that rang in Olivia Nazarian’s ears as she flopped down on the couch in her University office, but the sound of disappointment in her father’s voice. Olivia expected him to call any minute now and report his displeasure. “You’ve really sent a poker up my arse, haven’t you?” she imagined him saying. “You’ve really got your knickers in a twist!”

  Olivia had just returned from improvising an anti-war speech at a rally in Market Square. She had not planned to speak—especially with cameras there from the BBC and Sky News. But she found it impossible to stand by as squeaky-voiced underclassmen spewed inarticulate nonsense at the expectant crowd.

  As a ponytailed teen began to rail about Mad Cow disease, she grabbed the microphone. Olivia’s points were well reasoned and delivered with passion. And while her professional fame might have played a role in the crowd’s enthusiasm, she knew the loud cheers in response to her speech were due to something else. Olivia Nazarian, a professor of Archaeology and the Ancient Near East at the University of Cambridge, was the daughter of Dashni Urias Nazarian, the UK Foreign Secretary.

  As Olivia stretched her legs out on her office couch and closed her eyes, the recollection of some of her sharpest attacks still lingered in her mind. “Our leaders are driving us headlong into an unmitigated disaster,” she had warned. “This war is not about weapons of mass destruction, it’s about oil. Don’t let the politicians fool you.”

  These observations will not sit well with daddy.

  In times of stress, Olivia sought sanctuary in her campus office. The harsh midday sun reflected off the screen of windows above her brown leather couch. Through the windows, she could look down on a plush, green quadrangle lined by cloisters dating back to the fifteenth century. The first shoots of roses and peonies began to bloom in the gardens bordering the courtyard. Soon, the fragrant aroma of spring flowers and mowed grass would float in through her office windows.

  Built-in, stained oak bookshelves filled the wall opposite her couch. An unapologetic obsessive-compulsive, Olivia spent hours at the beginning of each semester taking the books off their shelves, categorizing them by subject matter and sub-categorizing them by author, only to re-shelve them in virtually the same place they sat the semester before.

  The first shelf was dedicated to the classic texts of Assyriology. Many were first editions purchased and passed down by her father. The second shelf held original and translated works used to document and teach Sumerian, Akkadian, ancient Greek, and a smattering of other ancient languages she was expected to know. Texts related to Olivia’s great discovery of Tell Eatiq, including her best-selling book about the discovery, occupied the third shelf. On the fourth, Olivia placed modern and contemporary literature of the Middle East, like Kahlil Gibran’s “The Prophet” and “The Satanic Verses” by Salman Rushdie, books used to teach an inter-disciplinary seminar on the region.

  A twinge of guilt pierced Olivia’s psyche as she looked at the fifth bookshelf, which didn’t contain any books but was more of a media library, displaying framed copies of newspaper and magazine articles about Olivia herself.

  Lying on her couch, tapping together the toes of her metallic Manolo sandals, Olivia indulged in a guilty pleasure—looking at the front page of the Times, dateline December 1, 2001. It read: “Cambridge Prof Discovers Garden of Eden.” Of course, the headline was an overstatement. She had gone out of her way at the time to make clear that no definitive proof existed that Tell Eatiq was the place referred to in the Bible as Eden. But the dozens of inscriptions at the site referring to edin—the Sumerian root of the Hebrew word “Eden”—and the many reliefs and sculpture suggesting the site once was home to a bountiful garden, including multiple fruit-bearing trees watered by a river with four branches, and a resident serpent with the head of a man, appeared to be compelling evidence of a profound connection between Tell Eatiq and the Biblical Eden. It certainly was enough proof for the British press—still high from millennium fever and Y2K hysteria—to declare it to be Eden itself. It fit the media’s agenda perfectly, her father said: “Never let the facts get in the way of a good story.”

  The hype was not limited to the tabloids. To take advantage of the public’s fascination with her discovery, the British Museum created a “pop up” exhibit and conference about its Mesopotamia collection. The brightest lights of London turned out to listen to Olivia’s keynote speech. She had
her picture taken with the Prince of Wales. David Bowie asked her for an autograph. For the next fortnight, the cognoscenti of London sprinkled conversations with references to the Royal Library of Ashurbanipal and Royal Cemetery at Ur. An anonymous Cambridge alum endowed two new chairs in archaeology and oriental studies.

  The BBC proposed that Olivia host a five-part series about Tell Eatiq. Aired over the Christmas holiday, the program—part documentary, part detective story—turned Olivia into an instant celebrity. Her good looks and natural charisma nicely suited the TV age. The Sentinel was shameless: “Bookish Babe Beams On BBC.” The Times-Herald was worse: “Heaven on Earth: Beauty Queen of Cambridge Reports on Garden of Eden.”

  “I’m flabbergasted and ashamed with how all of this has turned out,” Olivia told Professor Sidney Allison, her department colleague and mentor, as her fame continued to grow.

  “I’ve been flabbergasted and ashamed of the British media my whole life,” Allison responded.

  Privately, Olivia relished the attention. Buttressed by her unimpeachable academic credentials, her celebrity won her invitations to some of England’s most exclusive events, like the Boodles Boxing Ball. She was asked to join London’s poshest social club, the Jacket and Fox, which normally was open only to the scions of old money.

  “This is all becoming a little too much, isn’t it?” Allison asked her, a few months after her discovery was first reported.

  “It’s ridiculous, I grant you.”

  “I just hope the academy doesn’t lash out at you.”

  “How could they? Misdirected as it might be, all of this hype has brought more attention to Assyriology than they could have ever imagined. And money.”

  As far as Olivia could tell, the only downside of her star turn was her exposure to a lunatic fringe that had previously ignored her. The past six months, she had received a series of letters in her department mailbox from a group calling itself the Flaming Sword. The letters warned her to stop looking for Eden—or face dire consequences.

  The letters were disturbing, but so were a host of other letters and phone calls she had received over the years from fundamentalist cranks or Bible conspiracy theorists. She reported the Flaming Sword letters to the university police. As usual, its investigation lead nowhere. When a new letter arrived, she warily tossed it into a trash can in her office she called the “loony bin.”

  Reluctantly, Olivia turned her eyes at last from her bookshelves to the growing stack of unanswered correspondence on her desk. Then her cell phone vibrated.

  Damn. It was an angry text from her father, she assumed. With her luck, he had been sitting with the prime minister watching a broadcast of the protest live on the tele.

  Olivia dug her phone out of her pocket and flipped it open. But it was not her father. Instead, an alert on her cell reminded her it was 12:45. Almost time for her next appointment.

  “Fresher seminar Samir Farah,” it read.

  Olivia sighed in relief and reviewed the notes she had prepared at her desk. Most of them related to questions she thought Samir might ask. Samir always had a lot of questions, particularly about Tell Eatiq. There was nothing especially peculiar about that. Many of her pupils were star struck by Olivia and fascinated by her discovery. But Samir’s fascination was a bit extra—and went outside the office. She had noticed him watching her while she talked with colleagues and other students outside the archaeology museum. She had even spotted him a few times sitting in the car park outside her office. He would drive away as soon as she left the building, as if he had been waiting for just a glance of her.

  And then there was the way he looked at her during seminars—the way his eyes locked on hers as she opined on some subject or other, his refusal to look away even if she returned the gaze. It was a little creepy, probably even chauvinistic and conceited. But Samir’s relative maturity and raw mannishness were an undeniable attraction.

  She couldn’t see herself dating the son of an emir, or whoever he was. But she could have some fun considering the prospect. She plucked a sharpened pencil from her desk and traced a long and looping question mark onto her notepaper. What would Samir have in store for her today? she wondered.

  Chapter 5

  The name of the man who might be able to help was given to Eastgate by Ahmad Makiya. In a panic, Zibari’s young chief of staff tore a paper map of the museum in half and wrote the name and Baghdad address on the back. “This man is very wise about antiquities. He can help you, I hope,” Makiya said. The address was barely legible due to Makiya’s trembling hand. “Please pardon my handwriting. I’m not quite myself right now.”

  That was understandable. The US military had just cleared Baghdad of the last of Saddam’s regular infantry. The day before, Iraqis had joined US troops in toppling the mammoth stone statute of Saddam located in Firdaus Square in downtown Baghdad. Years of pent up energy and rage began to surface. Exhilaration and terror spread through the streets of the capital. Mass celebrations and outbursts of joy mixed with thievery and ransacking. Rumors spread of ethnic cleansing and bands of fighters setting out on murder sprees.

  For Makiya, a native Iraqi and son of a top Baathist official in Saddam’s government, the events of the past week must have been surreal, Eastgate assumed. Eastgate’s unit had managed to dam the outflow of artifacts from the museum. But in the aftermath of looting, the museum was chaos. Much of the staff was making plans to leave the country for Jordan or Syria. Just as the US was expecting life to go back to something resembling normal, Iraqis were fleeing. It perplexed Eastgate. What do they know that we don’t?

  But Eastgate had more immediate concerns. The tablet remained a mystery. The museum renounced any ownership or interest. The Army didn’t want any official involvement either. “Do you want the media to start writing stories about the Army’s growing collection of unidentifiable ancient artifacts?” McQuistad asked Eastgate. “Find out where it belongs, Eastgate. That’s an order.”

  Eastgate soon learned that no one seemed to care that the old man promised “unspeakable harm” would fall upon him.

  Still, he wasn’t going to wait to be hunted down by the old man’s clan or his gang of criminals. He had an innate bias for action, to go on the offensive. He felt no differently now. He hoped the expert Makiya suggested would have answers—answers about the tablet and the pin worn by the old man and his grandson.

  Eastgate hitched a ride to Baghdad on a Stryker transport vehicle. But this wasn’t official Army business. Nor would it be safe for him to lope around the streets of Baghdad in uniform. So he arrived at Nisour Square in his civilian uniform of choice—tan cargo pants and a blue button down polyester shirt. He carried an M11 SIG SAUER pistol in a tactical shoulder holster and an HK 23 handgun on his leg. His clunky gray-framed bifocals were propped on the tip of his nose. But no one would confuse Eastgate for an international peacekeeper. His physique and demeanor were that of a downrange operator, and to anyone with an inkling of street smarts, it was clear he was carrying.

  Nisour Square was near the Tigris River and Baghdad’s imposing Radio and Television Building. Eastgate’s fixer, Hadi, a 24-year old dentist from Mosul, lugged the briefcase and tablet through the neighborhood’s twisting city blocks, away from the river. Hadi squinted at the paper where Makiya wrote the address, shaking his head. “Here, this one I think,” he said, looking across the street. “The one with the green shutters.”

  Eastgate rubbed the splotches of bluish-purple under his eyes and tried to make out Makiya’s scrawl. It read: Omid, Antiquities Dealer, 111B Abu Nuwas Street.

  Low, white-washed buildings lined both sides of Abu Nuwas Street where locals walked under the scalding hot sun. “A street sign would be nice,” Eastgate said, scanning the streets and buildings, “or even an address.”

  Hadi shook his head. “In a country like this, your friends already know where you live. Address signs invite trouble.” Hadi looked around nervously, splotches of perspiration spreading over the back of his blue
t-shirt. They had been on the street for only a few minutes, but the locals had already begun to notice.

  Hadi finally fixed his eyes on the antique dealer’s shop. “There it is,” Hadi said. “Staring at us the whole time.” He led Eastgate across the street. The door to the shop was made of a massive block of wood. It looked like it could have been the gate to a medieval castle. There was no door bell, only a large brass knocker carved in the shape of a fleur-de-lis.

  Eastgate had come across plenty of intel over the years about booby-trapped knockers that triggered door-rigged bombs. Preferring an old-fashioned entrance, he walked up to the door and rapped his knuckles on its midsection. A minute passed before a man slowly pulled the door ajar, straining as if he was opening a bank vault. He wore a long caftan and turban, and carried a bejeweled scimitar on his hip. The man reminded Eastgate of a dancer at a schlocky club he once visited in Myrtle Beach.

  “Entry is granted by appointment only,” the doorman intoned in Arabic, dismissing Eastgate with a wave of his hand. Eastgate understood him perfectly. “I have an appointment. The name is William Eastgate. Makiya sent me.”

  A pained expression passed over the man’s face. Leaving Eastgate and Hadi standing in the open doorway, he scuttled to the back of the shop, where an older man in brown khakis and a white linen shirt was speaking with an elegantly dressed woman.

  The servant whispered into the older man’s ear.

  “That must be Omid,” Hadi said, nodding at Eastgate.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment, Mr. Eastgate,” the older man said in Arabic, motioning them inside. He kissed the cheeks of the woman visitor and walked her to the front of the store where she slid past Eastgate and Hadi, brushing Eastgate’s waist with tendril-like fingers.

  Eastgate recognized her approach from a mile away. She was frisking him, likely at the request of Omid. Better her than the doorman.

  Omid stood at the doorway, apparently deciding whether to let them pass. He looked to be about fifty years old. His skin was olive-toned and clear. Splotches of sweat speckled his bald head. His green eyes seemed to hum like traffic lights.