The Eden Deception

by Nathan Swain

  “I know these passages from the Quran, father,” Samir said.

  “Then you also know that Allah told Adam to beware of Shaytaan so that he not drive them out of the Garden, so that they are made miserable.”

  “Yes, and that’s exactly what happened.”

  Reso nodded and laughed. “Such is the fate of man. We are not very bright!”

  “I know that very well father. I despise most men.”

  “Good, you should. But do not despise all things. Some things we must treasure above all else. Like the Garden where man lived.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The Garden from the Quran, Samir. What I have to tell you is that the Garden is a real place. It remains so to this day, and it is very sacred.”

  The piney aroma of firewood swirled around them. Orange embers floated like flaming dust above the crackling logs and dissolved into the blue-black sky.

  Reso placed his hand on Samir’s shoulder. “We, our family and tribe, are guardians of the Garden. We are called the Flaming Sword.”

  “Guardians? Why? From what?”

  “From men. Since Adam was first cast out of the Garden, men—including Adam himself—have tried to come back to it. Some are naturally drawn to it, like fledgling birds cast prematurely from their parents’ nest, always yearning to return. These men deny their sinful nature and wish to challenge the edicts of Allah, to subvert his authority. Others are chasing fame or motivated by money, thinking the Garden will bring them both. Allah entrusted our family with preventing that from happening, with protecting the holy site.”

  Samir was captivated by Reso’s story. It felt to him as if time had stopped, that the spin and tumult of the world had paused for a brief moment, so Samir could take in Reso’s every word.

  “You were adopted into this family, Samir.”

  “I know.”

  “But you didn’t know that you were brought into this family to join in this calling,” Reso said, emphasizing the point by poking his finger into Samir’s chest. “When you were brought to me as a child it was clear that Allah had a higher purpose for you.”

  Samir was elated. He had known for years that he was different, and that he had a special purpose. Why else would Allah have spared him from the shame of poverty in the slums of Istanbul, and led him to a life of plenty with one of the richest clans in Kurdistan? In this one moment, by the fireside with Reso, the missing piece, the vital fact of his life had been revealed at last.

  “Who else knows of this place?” Samir asked, excitedly.

  “It is described in the Quran, the Bible, and other ancient texts.” Reso shook his head. “Of course, most people are ignorant and believe these are merely stories and folklore.”

  “Then the Garden is not in danger of discovery?”

  “No, it is always in danger,” Reso responded, stern and glowering, as if the very question offended him. “Now listen carefully.”

  Samir wished he could write down what his father was saying. He didn’t want to forget a single word. He knew from experience, it may be the only time Reso spoke of it.

  “When the holy place was created, so, too, was a tablet with an ancient script describing its location. Samir, this is the most important historical document ever written.”

  “Why?”

  “It is written by the first man himself—Adam. Throughout time, the possessor of this tablet has had the ability to locate the holy place.”

  “Where is this tablet?”

  A gleeful smile spread across Reso’s face. “The Flaming Sword has it. We have it.”

  Samir was astonished. The Garden of Eden was real. His family was its sworn protector. It seemed fantastic, but it also rang true. It explained why Reso was never home, why he could never speak of his work and travels. He was protecting the tablet, protecting the Garden.

  “Would you like me to destroy it?” Samir asked.

  “What?”

  “The tablet.”

  Reso was aghast. It was clear that the young man still had many troubling tendencies. In response to fear, Samir’s first instinct was destruction, Reso had observed. That was his fault, he assumed, as an absent father whose only goal as a parent was to harden his sons to the reality of a harsh world. But Reso needed to trust Samir now. He was the only person who could perform the task that urgently needed completion.

  Besides, his son also had several positive qualities. Samir was not squeamish about physical intimidation. He had recently participated in terrorist activities in the Kurdish militant underground. By all accounts, he handled himself well. Reso learned that Samir had already taken a man’s life, and done so with great skill and without remorse. On top of that, Samir was a keen seducer of women. They flocked to him like starlings. The former skill might be necessary. The latter skill, Samir came to learn, was the main reason he was chosen for his mission to Cambridge.

  “Don’t worry about the tablet,” Reso said. “The Flaming Sword has kept it safe for millennia. For now, I have a far more pleasant mission for you. One that you’re particularly well suited for.”

  “What is it?”

  “There is a professor at the University of Cambridge who claims to have located Eden and intends to continue a major archaeological dig there. This woman is hell-bent in her pursuit of the Garden. She will not stop looking for it. She is the greatest challenge to the Flaming Sword in my lifetime.”

  “You would like me to stop her.”

  “Yes, but you must listen to me. First, you must get close to her and report her plans to me.”

  “How will I do that?”

  “You are going to enroll at Cambridge. In fact, you are already enrolled. Your classes begin soon. One of them, the most important of them, will be with this professor of archaeology.”

  “Move to England? I was just beginning to be useful to you here, father.”

  “I have more important work for you now. Besides, war is coming to the Middle East. You’ll be safer in the UK.”

  Samir didn’t bother asking how Reso knew war was coming. Reso seemed to know everything.

  “I will report on her plans father. You can trust me.”

  “Good.”

  “You will see the fruit of my works.”

  “Good.”

  “Is that all? There must be more I can do.”

  “There is. Assuming she intends to move forward with the dig, you’ll need to stop her.”

  “How can I do that?”

  Reso folded his hands and grinned. “You must make her fall in love with you.”

  Chapter 15

  Samir turned away from the mirror, released from his memories for a moment. He shot a bullet of mucous into the sink and allowed a stream of warm water to carry it down the drain.

  He let the towel wrapped around his waist fall to the floor and walked across the soft carpeting of his flat to his study. The titles of the books on his desk were familiar to any first-year student in Assyriology: Myths and Memories from Mesopotamia, History’s Sumerians, and The Poetics of Akkadian Literature. He neglected to open any of them. Had his father wanted to send a scholar to Cambridge, he could have chosen his brother, Khaled, a sickly little mongrel with a love of British crime novels.

  Instead, Samir spent most of his time at home smoking on the balcony and watching movies on his laptop. His father instructed him not to watch television or read newspapers. Western media would pollute his mind.

  At the center of his desk was the most important text of his first-year reading. Finding Paradise: Discovering the Garden of Eden by Olivia Nazarian. The top selling book at the University bookstore, it wasn’t unusual to see Cambridge students lying about the University’s grounds underneath an apple tree or on a plaid blanket in the sun, perusing a copy. Second only to Stephen Hawking, the professor of physics famous for his theories on black holes and the Big Bang, Olivia was Cambridge’s most famed academic.

  Samir’s goal was to devour Olivia’s book, to have it completely mem
orized by year’s end. He needed to know everything about her, how her mind worked, what words and phrases she tended to use. Samir would sometimes fall asleep at his desk as the opening words of the book’s groundbreaking preface ran through his semi-conscious mind: “The Garden of Eden was not a myth, but a real place—and we may have discovered its location. Eden has been portrayed as the first home inhabited by man on Earth, but only by looking at Earth from the heavens have we uncovered its secrets.”

  Since arriving at Cambridge, he had received regular phone calls from Reso. “How are you? How are you fitting in?” Reso would ask. But his father quickly dispensed with questions focused on Samir’s well-being. “What is Professor Nazarian doing? What have you learned?” That was his father. He was a man of business.

  For once, Samir had a reason to call Reso. He had important information to report. He could now confirm that Professor Nazarian was determined to move forward with her second dig at Tell Eatiq, despite the war. It was information Reso had been seeking for months.

  Samir felt a surge of satisfaction. He looked forward to receiving his father’s praise. Well done, Samir. I see I sent the right man for the job, he imagined Reso saying. It would feel like standing in the sun.

  Samir sat down at his desk and took a breath as he dialed his cell phone.

  “Samir, what is it?” Reso asked, picking up Samir’s call.

  “I have important information for you.”

  “Wait a moment.”

  Samir imagined Reso excusing himself from a meeting with a table of gray-haired bankers in Zurich, or dismissing a gaggle of generals in Lahore. The Flaming Sword had far flung operations, Samir had learned, and he imagined Reso at the head of all of them.

  “OK, what did you learn?”

  “Professor Nazarian intends to continue with the excavation.”

  “I see.”

  Samir heard a trace of apprehension in his father’s voice.

  “Has something happened?”

  “Yes, the situation is grave. Your mission has become much more important.”

  “What is it?”

  “The US military has the tablet.”

  Samir felt his blood pressure jump. He withdrew the handset from his ear and looked at it nervously, as if it had taken his father’s words and scrambled them into nonsense.

  “How is that possible? How could you let that happen?”

  There was a long pause at the other end of the phone. Samir knew he had crossed a line by questioning Reso. He had hoped the line had changed in light of his good work, that his father might give him some leeway and treat him like a colleague and not a pawn.

  “Samir, do not doubt me, or it will be the end for you. Do not ask these questions. You do not need to know the answers. You need only to worry about your role.”

  Samir knew better than to respond. He looked out the window of his study at the rush hour traffic inching along the street below. The days were getting longer. The sun was just beginning to pass behind the University’s steeples in the distance, projecting slender, trembling shadows onto the green lawns and inner courts.

  “Since you have successfully completed your first task can I infer that you are well on your way in completing your second, more difficult assignment?”

  Samir rolled his eyes.

  “Father, I need time.”

  “I know. You cannot rush love.”

  “She is a very desirable mate and has many suitors.”

  “Samir, if your misspent youth has taught you anything, it should be that you can seduce anyone.” Samir looked out the window and ran his hand through his coarse, black hair. At times, it seemed to Samir that his father regarded him as little more than a gigolo. A year earlier, he had tested his skills—based on a plan conceived by his father, he came to learn—with a female minister in the Turkish government in Istanbul.

  “She sees me as a student right now, nothing more. If I move too quickly I might lose my access to her altogether.”

  “I agree. Take your time. Let her gaze into your sensitive blue eyes.”

  “That is my problem. She is either locked in her office or running around London at the latest party. The only time she can gaze at me is during our tutorials.”

  “She is half Kurdish, isn’t she? She will grow tired of the pale, timid boys of England and in the wings, will be….”

  “I will keep updating you, father.”

  “Yes, do. Goodbye.”

  Samir walked over to his desk and picked up Olivia’s book. He stared at the photograph of Olivia on the jacket cover. She was positioned in the classic pose of academic condescension: standing in front of a shelf of books, her right hand propped underneath her chin, as if she couldn’t help but contemplate the riddles of the universe even as her picture was taken.

  Her brown eyes reflected droplets of light, and her perfect white teeth looked like beads of ivory. As he quietly scanned the photograph, Samir wondered if he was merely eager to please his father, or if he really had fallen in love with her.

  Chapter 16

  Dashni Nazarian walked briskly through St. James Park and flipped open his cell phone. He dialed Olivia. He had been trying to reach her for days. Again, there was no answer.

  “Damn, what is that girl up to?” he muttered to himself.

  He had learned long ago never to make an important call from his office landline. Although the days of Cold War paranoia had dissipated, Dashni knew that Britain’s foreign intelligence service, MI6, continued to spy on the Foreign Office, as did Britain’s European allies. The US also listened in on most of his official calls. “With friends like these, who needs the Soviets?” he complained to his assistant.

  For most of Dashni’s life in the diplomatic service, he maintained secrecy by communicating through hand-written notes scribbled on stationery. But after he purchased his first cell phone in 2000, Dashni spent his lunch hours pacing the tidy walkways of St. James, keeping in touch with family and contacts as he watched the pelicans and geese preen themselves and swallow food thrown from tourists. He switched out his cell phone every month as a precaution.

  Dashni frowned at the device in his hand, as if it was responsible for his daughter’s failure to answer. He couldn’t remember a time when Olivia had so clearly evaded his phone calls, or disobeyed his wishes.

  He and his wife had raised Olivia to be a proud daughter of the British Commonwealth. They hung a Union Jack in her bedroom. They read her Kipling at bed time and introduced her to all the principal languages of what was once the British Empire—Arabic, Hindi, Mandarin, even Swahili.

  But it was a small picture book they bought from a peddler in Damascus, Gilgamesh the King—a children’s version of the Epic of Gilgamesh published by British Museum Press—that set Olivia’s heart alight, filling her with wonder about the ancient world. The story about the Sumerian king and his road trip with his buddy Enkidu brought the ancient world alive for her.

  “This is the oldest story in human history,” Dashni told her. “Older than the Bible by a thousand years.” What really amazed her, however, was Dashni’s aside about how the story was discovered on a splintered tablet in the palace of an ancient king by people called archaeologists.

  “What’s an archaeologist?” the young Olivia asked Dashni.

  “A detective of the buried past,” he said.

  The idea enthralled Olivia, and at that moment her fate was sealed. Dashni couldn’t have imagined then what influence his words would have on his daughter, or how they would shape both of their destinies.

  Even now, they shared a mutual fascination with the ancient world, recommending books to each other and chatting about archaeological digs and department gossip. They even developed a cypher for written communications. Part Akkadian, part English, they used it more for entertainment purposes than to keep information confidential. Dashni believed a grounding in ancient languages and writing to be one of the best foundations for a career in the Foreign Office, and Olivia regularly s
ent him her top undergraduate students—the “firstlings of her flock” she called them—to fill openings in the Diplomatic Service.

  Dashni even took occasional trips to the Middle East to work on his own digs, which he described to Olivia as “my personal excavations.” Olivia shuddered at the thought of her father and a coterie of Indiana Jones wannabes crashing their spades into the remnants of an ancient temple, but she decided not to object. Given the pressures of his day job, he was entitled to a little escapism into the ancient world.

  Despite their intellectual bond, Dashni feared that his special relationship with his daughter had frayed over the past year. Olivia’s vocal support for the anti-war movement had damaged his standing in the government. Olivia was aghast at Dashni’s push for war and eager alliance with the US. Unlike other members of the cabinet, Dashni passionately supported the Iraq invasion both privately and publicly.

  Of course, the news networks broadcasted Olivia’s appearance at the anti-war demonstrations in Cambridge for days. The most squalid among them spun the story as political penis envy. The Gazette hired a fringe shrink to psycho-analyze the incident. The headline read: “Olivia to Dashni—Time to Pass the Torch and Hand Over the Big Stick.”

  Unlike his daughter, however, Dashni believed he understood firsthand why war was necessary. An ethnic Kurd, Dashni’s family had been persecuted by the dictators of Iraq since he was a boy. Saddam Hussein was only the latest of a series of cruel tyrants who brutalized the Kurds, removing millions from their homes and villages and massacring them with chemical weapons.

  Olivia was sheltered from Dashni’s violent past. Dashni left Iraq when he was twelve. He attended Oxford, worked in the Diplomatic Service, and slowly ascended the ranks of the government as a member of parliament. Olivia’s mother was the scion of British aristocracy. Her family tree was a who’s-who from Burke’s Peerage, Baronetage and Knightage.

  Olivia grew up in London and attended England’s finest public schools. The closest she came to experiencing the life of Dashni’s childhood was when she acted as a shepherd in the public-school Christmas Pageant. What does she know of toil and persecution? Dashni asked himself, as he watched Olivia’s speech on the news. Her hardest decision each week is which cocktail to order at brunch.