by Zoe Sharp
We sat. I pulled my chair out at an angle first so I could see both doorways leading into the room. Dawson did the same. Lihaibi nodded, as if recognizing the automatic gesture for what it was.
“So, ladies, what can a humble man such as myself do to assist the esteemed Western press?”
I avoided glancing at Dawson, just pulled a suitably journalistic-looking notebook out of the bag I’d placed at my feet.
“Perhaps we could start with a little of your background, sir.”
The fat man beamed. I had, I guessed, just prompted him about one of his favorite topics. He eased his bulk from side to side, as if shifting his weight from one giant buttock to the other. The chair creaked beneath him in protest.
“Ah, I received my degree at your King’s College London, which is, as I’m sure you are aware, one of the finest universities in the world. Then I took up a post at the University of Baghdad. And, although my work here is of the greatest cultural importance, currently I am in discussions with regard to a place with the Department of Anthropology at the most prestigious Smithsonian Institution in Washington.”
“In relation to which collection, sir?”
His eyebrows climbed a little. “Excuse me?”
“I like to be precise—in the articles I write.” I smiled in apology. “I understand the Department of Anthropology at the Smithsonian comprises several different collections. To which does this offer relate?”
“Ah . . . you are most well informed. Archaeology, of course. And I wouldn’t yet say we have quite reached the offer stage of our negotiations. But as one of the foremost experts on the artifacts and antiquities of this region, I am a natural choice when the present curator retires.”
Artifacts and antiquities . . .
“Of course.” I scribbled a meaningless hieroglyphic I hoped he’d mistake for the shorthand my mother had always pined for me to learn. “Please, go on.”
He took another sip of his coffee, eyes darting brightly between Dawson and me. There was something a little more wary about him now, I noted, wondering how much of what he’d just told me held any truth.
“Perhaps it might be easier if you simply asked your questions.” He pointedly tipped his wrist upward to display the face of his gold watch and gave a shrug that was not as regretful as it was intended to appear. “Sadly, my time is not unlimited.”
“What are your feelings on the extremists in the north?” Dawson asked. “After what happened in Palmyra . . . ?”
She gave a casual flip of her hand to indicate that the destruction of the ancient Neolithic city in Syria was well known enough not to need repeating here. It was a neat way of covering a lack of detailed knowledge.
Lihaibi’s expression drooped into mournfulness. There was something spongy about his features that lent a certain exaggeration to their every move, like a rubber caricature. Or maybe he felt he had to boost his emotions so they might show more clearly through to the surface.
“A tragedy. Treasures that are beyond price, utterly irreplaceable, have been stripped away and may have been lost forever.”
“When you say ‘stripped away’ . . . I thought they blew up or bulldozed most of it?” I queried.
“Ah, yes, of course, but looting of important sites has been a terrible problem in my country for many years,” Lihaibi hurried on. “And as you will be aware, the original location of a piece is so important. As soon as it is disturbed—maybe even badly damaged if amateurs are employed during its removal—then the provenance of the artifact is lost and its archaeological significance is greatly reduced.”
I dutifully made more squiggles on my notepad. Lihaibi craned forward a little, as if making sure I was accurately recording his words. I don’t know what he thought he read there, but when I underlined the last part twice, as if for emphasis, he gave a grunt of approval.
I dredged my memory for old news items I should have paid more attention to at the time.
“I understand that the National Museum of Antiquities in Baghdad was badly looted during the second Gulf War.”
“Sadly, this is true. Many of these treasures were plundered when the Americans invaded our country in 2003. It is said perhaps as high as ninety percent of the inventory was taken. It was another tragedy—one that should have been foreseen and prevented.”
I seemed to recall that it was the Iraqi people themselves who did much of the looting but didn’t think pointing this out would gain me favor. I glanced at Dawson, grasping for anything that might keep the fat man talking.
“Ninety percent?” she repeated incredulously. “How much of that has been recovered?”
Lihaibi hesitated again, then gave a lurching shrug. “It is hard to say. Our Department of Tourism has been working most rigorously with UNESCO for the safe return of stolen objects and the prosecution of perpetrators, but it is very difficult when artifacts turn up in auction houses right across Europe and the Americas.” The accusatory note in his voice swelled as he got into his stride. He seemed to hear this for himself. He stopped, took a breath, and smiled in such a way it made my skin shimmy. “My apologies. I am a passionate man, and this is a subject which arouses me.”
He glanced at his watch again. As if on cue, the door from the front of the café opened and a young man in a keffiyeh and a Nike sweatshirt stuck his head through.
“Duktur jamaeaa, yjb ‘an nnatruk alan.”
Lihaibi waved him away and placed both hands flat on the table as if about to rise.
“Ah, it is with much regret, ladies, that I—”
“What did he just say?”
Both Dawson and the fat man looked taken aback by my interruption. “That was my driver. He merely told me that it is time we were leaving.”
“But that wasn’t all, was it? What else?”
“Nothing else, I can assure you.”
“Charlie, he’s telling the truth!”
“So, what does that first part mean—‘duktur jamaeaa’?”
Dawson stared at me as if I’d lost a good chunk of my mind. “It just means ‘professor’—the guy’s title. It’s nothing sinister.”
“Maybe not,” I agreed. “Maybe it’s just a coincidence and Yusuf was talking about somebody else entirely. But, just in case . . . he told me to show you this.”
As I spoke I leaned down, reached into the open bag at my feet, and pulled out the ugly statuette, plonking it into the center of the table and twisting it to face the startled professor.
TWENTY-SEVEN
LIHAIBI REARED BACK IN HIS SEAT HARD ENOUGH FOR ME TO fear for its structural integrity. I watched him quickly run through an assortment of emotions before he settled on outrage.
“What is this? What is the meaning of this? I come here, spare my most valuable time—in good faith—and you accuse me of . . .”
His voice trailed away as he seemed to realize we hadn’t actually accused him of anything. Not yet, anyway. He took a deep breath, his chins wobbling with the effort of control.
“A man gave me this specifically to show to you,” I said with careful deliberation. “It’s not the first time, is it?”
Yusuf had given something similar to Sean with the same instruction. Was it a message, or some kind of token to prove my own provenance?
Lihaibi’s eyes strayed to the doorway where his driver had made his brief appearance, as if contemplating making a run for it. His mouth straightened into a mulish line.
I reached for the heavy statuette. Once again I made the mistake of using my left hand and didn’t quite get a grip on it. Only because my eyes were locked on the fat man’s face did I see the flicker of alarm that crossed his features as I momentarily fumbled, letting the base slip back onto the table.
The mental fog parted and I caught a glimpse of something on the other side. I looked again at the statuette with its ungainly shape and garish hues, and saw it suddenly not as an object in itself but as a disguised gift in lumpy Christmas paper, waiting to be unwrapped.
“Be care
ful of what you are asking. Journalists are not always made welcome in my country.”
“We are not journalists,” I said.
For a moment I saw him waver. But whatever the temptation, it didn’t last.
“I am furious at this deception and shall be making my displeasure known at the very highest levels.” He flapped both hands as if to shoo us away. “That is all. Good day to you both. Please go now.”
He did manage to haul himself to his feet then, reaching for a sturdy cane that was hooked over the back of his chair. When I stepped in toward him, he brought the cane up sharply. I don’t know if he actually intended to use it to defend himself, but I didn’t give him the opportunity.
A long weapon like a bat or a cane is dangerous because it extends your attacker’s reach, allowing them to engage you at a distance. The answer is to close that distance as fast as possible. Maximum damage is usually inflicted by a section about two-thirds of the way along the length of the weapon. Stay outside that range, or get inside it, and what starts as a tactical advantage for your aggressor now becomes a hindrance.
Much as I disliked the idea of getting closer to Lihaibi’s sweating bulk than I had to, I crowded into him, shoving upward on one elbow to tip the cane out of his hands. Dawson nipped in and seized it before it had the chance to clatter onto the floor.
Lihaibi tried to take a step back, lost his balance, and began to fall. He made a grab for me, purely as a reflex, I think, but I swatted his fingers away. There was no chance I could have kept someone of his size on his feet even if I’d wanted to. This was one instance where, if I’d been asked to act as the man’s bodyguard, I would have passed in favor of a six-foot-plus ex-squaddie. Preferably a knuckle-dragger who could bench-press twice his own body weight.
Someone like Clay . . .
I clamped down on that line of thought before it could take hold, stood over the professor as he sat splayed on the ground, mouth open and fear in his eyes.
“Who are you?” he asked then, bluster deflating. “What do you want?”
I moved the statuette closer to the edge of the table, where he had an unrestricted view, and patted the top of its head. “I want to know everything you can tell me about this.”
He wriggled on the concrete floor, clearly unhappy to stay where he was and unwilling to beg us for the assistance he needed to regain his feet. We made no moves to offer it. After a few moments he sighed and tried for nonchalance, folding those plump hands into his lap.
“It is impossible to tell under all that . . . cheap veneer.”
“Then take your best guess.”
“I never guess.”
“Humor me.”
Another sigh. He reached up, flicking his fingers impatiently when I didn’t hand him the statuette quickly enough, and gave it a cursory inspection with pursed lips. “As I said, it is very hard to express an expert opinion under all this . . .” He indicated the artifact’s outward appearance with a dismissive gesture and a moue of distaste. “. . . but if you insist . . .”
I didn’t miss the way his eyes drifted to the doorway. “Less stalling, more talking.”
“If I must . . . then I would suggest this might very well prove to be a Mesopotamian representation of a mother and child, most probably carved from calcite alabaster, and dating back to, ah, 3000 B.C.—approximately, of course.”
Dawson’s eyes widened. “And . . . valuable?”
He grimaced. “If it was offered for sale to the right buyer . . . in the right place . . . naturally so.”
“And would you be that buyer, by any chance?”
“Most certainly not! This artifact is a part of the cultural heritage of my country and as such it is priceless. It should not—”
“Spare me,” I said. “So why were we told to bring it to you?”
“Ah, perhaps so that I might return it to the site from which it was taken.”
I moved in until I was looming over him, close enough to smell the oil in his hair, the spices exuding from the pores of his skin. He tried not to cringe away from me and only half succeeded. Intimidation I could do in my sleep. Forcing an avaricious calculation into my voice was harder.
“We didn’t risk our necks coming here with this just so you could give it away.”
“Then why did you come, when you did not know what you had?” He was aiming for confusion but wasn’t entirely convincing.
“To find out.” I remembered what Yusuf had said, took a guess and a chance. “And then to do business.”
“Ah, you wish to sell?”
“Why? Are you in a position to buy?”
“Not me personally, no. But I may be able to arrange an introduction . . . for a small commission, of course.”
“How about we pay you an introductory fee, you tell us the name of your buyer, and we deal direct?”
“That will not be possible.” Flat and final.
“Is that because we’re Westerners?” Dawson demanded. “Or because we’re women?”
“Because the sky is blue and the grass is green,” the fat man said, which I gathered was his way of saying both answers were so obvious they didn’t need stating.
He took a last, almost affectionate look at the statuette, even camouflaged as it was, before reluctantly offering it back to me.
As I took it, I saw the way his gaze lingered.
“How about if I were to give you that piece,” I said, “in return for information.”
“What kind of information?”
“We’re looking for someone,” Dawson said, and just when I would have silenced her, she added, “someone who owes us, big time.”
It was as good a story as any.
“Ah. He must be greatly in your debt, this man, that you would follow him here.”
“Did anybody say it was a man?”
“No, but . . . you are women . . .”
I narrowly avoided punching him repeatedly in the face. “OK, yes, it’s a man we’re looking for. We believe he came to see you about three or four days ago.”
“A man of my reputation sees many people.”
“Not Westerners, and not like this man. You would not have forgotten him. Possibly he brought with him similar . . . merchandise?”
Merchandise. The same word Moe’s uncle in Zubayr had used. He’d advised us against mentioning his name in introduction, but considering how vehemently he’d expressed his opposition to the insurgent uprising and lawlessness that followed, why had he directed us to Lihaibi at all?
And what the hell was Sean doing in all this?
“It’s him we want to find, more than we want to find your contact.”
“You say he owes you money . . . ?”
I shook my head before Dawson could answer, knowing by the gleam that had suddenly appeared in the fat man’s eye he was about to bring up the subject of commission again, and this time it would not be small. “She said he owes us, big time. She didn’t mention anything about money.”
His disappointment was palpable.
“Just suppose, for a moment, that I do remember this man you speak of . . . ? Even if he does not owe you money, he must be of no small importance to you, yes?”
I stared him down and said nothing.
Lihaibi cleared his throat. “I . . . may be able to use my influence, my connections, to make some inquiries on your behalf regarding this man.”
“That’s very generous of you, but of course you are getting a ‘priceless part of your country’s cultural heritage’ in return.”
“Ah, yes, yes . . . It will take a few days—perhaps a week. And there may be some expenses incurred, naturally, which you will need to meet—”
“No.”
“No?”
“No delays. No expenses. No influence or connections required,” I said. “Just tell us what you told the guy—where you sent him. Then take the statue, and we all leave happy. Surely that’s worth more than a small commission?”
Haggling was a ritual so ingrained for
Lihaibi it was now almost a muscle memory. He was clearly loath to deviate from the habit.
“Two days. Three at the most. And a mere five hundred US dollars. No more—on that you have my word—”
Aware that we were fast running out of time, I stepped in and backhanded him across the face, hard enough to get his attention rather than do him any serious harm. He jerked back with a squawk. A thin trickle of blood began escaping from one nostril, which I put down to stratospheric blood pressure rather than impact. Still, I was glad I hadn’t really put my weight behind the blow.
“I’ll give you two hundred and fifty dollars, plus the statue, but you tell us right now, or you will be carried out of here on a stretcher.”
“You would not dare! I have friends in the highest of places. You do not have the least idea who you are dealing with!”
“Two hundred dollars and the statue. The more you argue, the more the price goes down.”
“And the more she hurts you,” Dawson put in. She pulled the neck of her shirt away just far enough to reveal the puckered scar over the plate holding her collarbone together. “See this? Last time I disagreed with her.”
I thought that was pushing the bounds of credibility a little too far, but the fat man looked as if he had no trouble believing it. I didn’t know whether I should be flattered or insulted. Besides, I’d always found that greed was a far better motivating factor than fear, which tended to fade the moment you walked out the door. With greed at least they had something shiny to look at after you were gone.
“Very well! Two hundred and fifty, and the piece, and I will tell you exactly what passed between us,” Lihaibi said sourly, mopping his upper lip. “But there will be consequences, of that you can be quite certain.”
I waited. He raised an eyebrow and smoothed the pad of one thumb across his fingers in the universal gesture for money. Without a word I went to my bag and fished into the pouch containing the bribe allowance Parker had provided, counting out the amount by touch alone, just so he didn’t get any fancy ideas.
I put the stack of notes on the table, next to the statuette.