The Templar Inheritance

by Mario Reading

  ‘And you can prove that this is what he is after? And that he knows exactly where to find it? And then you can give him to me?’ Hassif could feel the laughter urge beginning to overwhelm him, but still he forced it back. How naive this silly little girl was to think that she could trick him. Copper Scroll or no Copper Scroll, he would emerge the victor from this trade he was about to undertake with her. Revenge. Riches. They were all the same in the end. They weighed up similarly in the great scales. Both were equally sweet.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You will come here to my office, of course. With the requisite proof.’

  ‘I cannot do that. You know I cannot do that.’

  ‘Then I will release film of your mother and father on the Internet.’

  ‘I don’t think you will. I know of your position now in the Iranian government hierarchy. I think we are both after different things. But we both need to protect our backs. I want what you have. You want what I have.’

  ‘But I do not know what you have.’

  ‘If I cause the Britannia to be held? And for you to come and see him?’

  This time Hassif did laugh.

  ‘Then what?’ said Nalan. ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘Where is he coming to collect this scroll? And when? This is what I need to know.’

  ‘Do we have a deal?’

  Hassif made a fluttering motion with his hand, which of course Nalan could not see. He was enjoying this process immensely. ‘You know I will come with many people. You know that he will have no chance of escape.’

  ‘I know that. Of course I know that. But I need bona fides.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I need proof that you will do what you promised.’

  ‘Give you what I have, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay. I tell you what. I will put some videos in the post to you. By courier. You will get them later today.’

  ‘You are joking.’

  Hassif shrieked with laughter. Then he remembered the people outside his office. It wouldn’t do to sound as if he was enjoying something outside of official matters. Someone might start asking questions. These Iranians had no sense of humour. ‘Yes. I am joking. I am testing you. To see how stupid you are. But you are oh so clever. Like your mother. She knew what to do. Who was boss.’

  ‘You are the boss. I know it.’

  Hassif nodded his head. ‘Good. This is an improvement. Now we are getting somewhere.’ He thought quickly. Maybe someone was taping this call. Maybe all his calls were being taped and he didn’t know it. He was receiving this on a personal pay-as-you-go mobile phone. One not associated with his office. But still. He had already prejudiced himself by asking the border area guards to look out for the Abuna girl. In his opinion it had been a risk worth taking. The request had been buried amongst a dozen others. Which was why those lazy corrupt bastards had not prioritized it. But the communications people were a different matter entirely from the border guards. They were hardline servants of the state. He had made one call to the Abuna girl on his office phone. Just one, before he had been able to pass her his mobile number. Maybe this had been a mistake and maybe not. It was too soon to tell.

  ‘I will send a man. In a car. One man. To Kitakeh. He will leave a parcel. Wherever you want. A present from me. Then you will phone. Tell me where the Britannia is going. You will be there too. This is essential for me. I have things I need to show you. You will be in no danger. I am a kind man. Although you may not think so. But much has changed. I knew your father well. I liked him so much before he betrayed me.’ Hassif stopped. He listened hard for any sounds at the other end of the line. Maybe he had gone too far. Maybe he had curdled the milk with his lies.

  ‘We will both be there. If what you show me has any value to me, that is.’

  ‘Oh yes. Believe me. It has value to you. Much value. And value to me. I am a sentimental man. I honour the past. It will cost me much to part with it. Do we have a deal?’

  Nalan held her silence for the count of five. Now Hassif was doing the asking. This was how it should be. ‘Yes, Hassif. We have a deal.’

  FORTY-FOUR

  ‘But what if he comes with many men, as he says? He could surround the place. Bring in helicopters. Seal every road. None of us would stand a chance. He’d just sweep us into his net.’

  This was the first time Hart had been alone with Nalan since his return from Solomon’s Prison. Her cousins had dispersed. Her grandmother had grudgingly left for the market without being able to persuade her unmarried granddaughter to accompany her. Hart was meant to be resting in his room. But, glory be to God, Nalan had come in to tell him about her call to Hassif.

  ‘This area around the volcano cannot be sealed, John. You have seen it. You have been there with Elwand. One road in and one road out. But around it, mountains and plain. Hassif would need a thousand men to secure it.’

  ‘Still. He has every advantage. We will have none.’

  ‘We have his greed.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  ‘I remember him.’

  ‘Three- to five-year-old children, as you were at the time you were imprisoned at Amna Suraka, don’t remember such things.’

  ‘I remember.’

  Hart shook his head. ‘You remember what you have been told since. Or what you imagined when you revisited that place a few years ago.’

  ‘No. I remember everything. When we were freed by the Peshmerga I was nearly six years old. I remember Hassif drinking whisky while my mother was being raped. And eating kleicha and qatayef so greedily that the cheese ran down his beard. I remember him pretending to offer me some, and not knowing whether to take it or not, as I was so hungry. I remember my mother weeping in humiliation as he offered them to her, and then weeping more when he raped her himself and wiped his fingers down her face and breasts to clean them. This man is greedy. He wants things for himself. Now he wants me and the scroll.’

  Hart could feel the blood draining from his face. When Nalan spoke to him like this, it was as if he was talking to a stranger. She was somewhere else. Somewhere he couldn’t hope to reach her. ‘He wants me too, remember that. Are you sure that the kudos of catching a British spy on Iranian soil – because that’s how he’ll spin it – won’t outweigh the rest? I’ll be bait enough, surely. You have no need to risk yourself.’

  Hart’s interjection had allowed Nalan enough time to compose herself. She sat down a few feet away from him on the bed. ‘Elind knows for whom Hassif works in the government. He is not in a strong position there. They will distrust him because of who he is and what he was. They will use him, but they will distrust him. We are offering him a way to get out of the country. A way to get significant money. You are the cream, as you say. You are his security if things go wrong. He will have something to show his bosses. A reason for his apparent misbehaviour. But it is me he really wants. I know this in my bones. He will only agree to come for the two of us.’

  ‘You know he will not come alone.’

  ‘This, too, we understand. It is a risk we must take.’

  Hart hunched forwards on the side of the bed. He stared at Nalan. ‘This thing with Hassif was always on the agenda, wasn’t it? Even before I met you? You and your family have been waiting all this time, haven’t you, to get your revenge? And the bombing triggered it. It brought him out into the open.’

  Nalan shook her head. ‘This is not true. We thought he was dead. We thought someone had killed him when Saddam was brought down, that maybe he was the unknown man who died with Saddam’s sons, Uday and Qusay, at the final shootout. When they were betrayed for the Yankee blood money. The truth is we did not know what to think. Hassif had disappeared into thin air. Now we know he was in Iran all this time. This has changed everything.’

  ‘But you still think my plan can work?’

  ‘Only God knows what will work and what will not. God placed us here to make our own decisions. You came here for the Copper Scroll. It was a dead en
d. Your ancestor misled you. But your presence is a gift to us. To me and my family. You can still say no, John. Still go back to the village. You will be back in Iraq in a couple of days. Back to your old life. As if nothing had happened.’

  ‘You know why I will never do that.’

  ‘Do I?’ She looked at him.

  Hart raised his hand, intending to cover hers. He ended up by placing it on the bed between them. ‘Yes. For you. I will stay for you.’

  FORTY-FIVE

  Rahim Hassif was not a man to take risks lightly. His entire life was premised on weighing up the advantage and disadvantage of any action, and basing any future course he chose to take on the outcome of his cogitations. So he had made some calls. Privately. On a newly bought phone that was untraceable. He had used a pseudonym too. He had chosen the name of a Lebanese Christian. He could manage the accent. No Jew would be able to pick it apart.

  First he had called the Israel Museum in Jerusalem. The one which housed the Dead Sea Scrolls. He had been very cautious. He had talked only generally. But it soon became apparent that the Copper Scroll, if it did indeed hold the secrets of King Solomon’s plans for the new Temple of Jerusalem, and the location of the lost treasures of Solomon – to include the Ark of the Covenant, the Tabernacle and the wherewithal to rebuild the Temple to a preset design – would be cheap at any price. The Jews would mortgage half their state to get their hands on it.

  Next he had telephoned Bernhardi, Tauschwitz and Seeligman in New York. During his time as head of the Mukhabarat, Hassif had had occasion to buy certain artefacts for Uday Hussein, who had been an avid collector and hoarder of valuable items. Uday was in the habit of helping himself to articles, too, from the Iraqi National Museums collection, on what might charitably be called a permanent loan basis, and then selling them privately, via amenable dealers, to generate a little ready cash with which to fund his pleasures and his own private collections. BT&S had been Hassif’s first port of call whenever one of these eventualities had happily presented itself.

  Nothing had changed. Yussuf Bernhardi recognized his voice immediately. He had shown no surprise at Hassif contacting him from, as it were, beyond the grave.

  ‘I won’t tell you where I am,’ said Hassif.

  ‘And I won’t ask you.’

  The conversation had gone on from there, taking pretty much the same line as the conversation with the custodian at the Israel Museum had taken. But this time Bernhardi had talked real money, as Hassif had known he would.

  ‘We would pay ten million dollars.’

  ‘That does not seem a lot, in the circumstances.’

  ‘But we would be taking all the risks. These things take time to certify. The item or items will have to be authenticated. Politics will be involved. There will be much publicity. We will be forced to operate in its full glare. Not to speak of the perils of attribution.’

  ‘There will be no attribution problems. The object will have been found on land I own in the Lebanon. On this land there are caves. It will be found in there.’

  ‘But your name. . .’

  ‘Is not on the deeds. Another name is. A name I will be using from the day after tomorrow.’

  There was a heavy silence from the New York end of the line. ‘And where will you be based for this transaction?’

  ‘Bermuda.’

  ‘Ah. Good choice. An excellent climate. Easy access to the USA.’

  ‘I will not be going to the USA.’

  ‘But your representative will?’

  ‘No. You will be coming to Bermuda.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And you will be bringing twenty million dollars with you. In bearer bonds.’

  ‘Twenty million? That is impossible. And bearer bonds are far too dangerous now. Our government has clamped down on them since your time.’

  ‘I have spoken to the Israel Museum. The Jews will pay anything you ask for this scroll. And there are one hundred million dollars’ worth of bearer bonds still in circulation. It is those or nothing else.’

  ‘But I’ve told you about the risks.’

  ‘Then I will phone London. You know exactly who I will call.’

  ‘No. No. Don’t do that. I’m sure we can come to some accommodation.’

  ‘Yes. A twenty-million-dollar accommodation.’

  The conversation had continued along those lines for some little time. The final sum agreed had been fifteen million. In bearer bonds. Five per cent on delivery. Residue on authentication. Hassif liked dealing with professionals. And he had a track record. Nothing he had ever traded had proved a fake. BT&S must have made a fortune out of him in the past. They would make one again from the scroll. But fifteen million was fifteen million. It was enough, with what he had salted away already, to allow a man to live out his retirement in luxury. And it never did to be too greedy. Leave that to the man you were dealing with.

  Hassif made some more phone calls. For a long time now he had been in the habit of weighing up the prisoners who fell into his hands to see if any might, one day, be of service to him. These lucky few, once certain undertakings and safeguards had been put into place, he agreed to let go. It was to these men he now addressed himself. They were the lowest of the low, of course, but they would do the trick. They feared the Iranian state – and they feared the things Hassif had on them. It was the perfect position to be in. And the ultimate beauty was that if things went wrong, the recidivists were guaranteed not to hang about and tell tales out of school. They would disappear into thin air. Back to the sewers they sprang from. Because if the authorities ever got hold of them, and if Hassif was forced to declare all he knew, which was a given, they were all doomed.

  Over the next two days, Hassif smuggled all his videos and secret files out of the office. It was easy enough to do. No one knew they were there. He had not left them in his house because it went without saying that the Iranian Security Services would have conducted a thorough search of his premises at some point during his tenure of office. It was what he would have done himself in similar circumstances. No. Hiding them in his office had been a stroke of genius. The best place to hide something was always in plain sight.

  Now he took them all out in a series of journeys and hid them in a Mercedes he had bought privately at the same time as he had bought the unmarked Mercedes his martyrs had hidden their car bomb in. Mercedes were far and away the best receptacles for car bombs, because they were made entirely of metal and not of plastic, and the fuel tank was located behind the rear seat, making for a more concentrated explosion. The fuel tank and the attached air-storage unit for the vacuum pump were also ideal places to hide stuff in if one didn’t wish to be caught with one’s trousers down at unfriendly borders. Hassif was a past master at this sort of engineering. He didn’t get his own hands dirty, of course. But he knew exactly what to ask for from his mechanics, and how to ensure the job was done to his entire satisfaction.

  When the car was ready, and loaded with all his necessities, Hassif signed off for the Iranian weekend, which always fell on a Friday. It was a one-day weekend, which was entirely typical of the cheeseparing motherfuckers who ran the country – but it would be more than enough for his purposes.

  He did not have far to go. The Abuna girl had received his sample video in Kitakeh. He, in turn, had received photographic proof of the parchment rescued from the Holy Spear, which clearly spoke of the location of the Copper Scroll. Once again, only a fool would fabricate such an elaborate and unnecessary device for entrapment purposes. The parchment was original. There were enough clues for the trained eye to pick up to confirm that fact. Hassif had not wasted his tenure in Iraq all those years ago. He was something of an expert on ancient artefacts. He thought with nostalgia of some of Uday Hussein’s collections, which he had facilitated, and of what must have happened to them after the overthrow of Saddam Hussein. Such a waste.

  Fifty kilometres outside Bukan, on the road to Shahin Dezh, Hassif stopped at a Kurdish teahouse, sat on one of the ra
ised carpets inside the glass interior, and drank three glasses of tea. He also ate half a dozen potato pancake patties called kukuye zibzamini, drenched in Iranian shahde golha honey. Most Iranians would have considered pouring honey over such a savoury dish sacrilege. Hassif didn’t care what they thought.

  Twenty minutes after his arrival a minivan with six men inside it turned into the gravel parking space. Hassif got up, licked his fingers, and then accepted the bowl of scented water and the towel the owner of the teahouse was holding out to him.

  When the man requested payment, Hassif produced his identity card and was gratified when the man bowed and ushered him to the entrance without further ado. Hassif never paid for anything if he could avoid it. It was a habit he had got into years ago in Iraq, and which he had no intention of changing. Why carry money when you can put the fear of God into people, and earn yourself a free ride instead?

  When he left in his Mercedes, closely followed by the minivan, Hassif did not see the owner of the teahouse, who was wearing a red and black turban and traditional Kurdish men’s clothes, run to the telephone to make a call. Three minutes later, the woman who had been posted on the highway to watch in case Hassif’s car came past the teahouse without stopping, also came inside.

  ‘Six, no?’

  ‘Six men, yes, Father.’

  ‘Armed?’

  ‘I could not tell. But yes. Of course they will be armed.’

  ‘I have phoned already. Hassif is on his way.’

  ‘You are sure it was Hassif?’

  ‘Totally sure. The damned fool even showed me his identity card so that he would not have to pay. The bill was for a few thousand rials. Hardly enough to get his shoes polished. But still he is greedy. What do they say about such men? “May God strike the rich man blind by his own gold.”’