The Witch of Babylon
Page 1
PENGUIN CANADA
THE WITCH OF BABYLON
D.J. (DOROTHY) McINTOSH is a former co-editor of the Crime Writers of Canada newsletter, Fingerprints. She divides her time between her cottage on the shores of Lake Huron and Toronto, where she indulges in two loves: live music and museums. She is a strong supporter of Reporters Without Borders and the Committee to Protect Journalists.
D.J.McIntosh
the WITCH of
BABYLON
PENGUIN CANADA
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3
(a division of Pearson Canada Inc.)
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published 2011
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (WEB)
Copyright © D.J. McIntosh, 2011
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Manufactured in Canada.
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LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
McIntosh, Dorothy J
The witch of Babylon / Dorothy McIntosh.
ISBN 978-0-14-317572-8
I. Title.
PS8625.I54W58 2011 C813’.6 C2010-906648-0
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In memoriam:
Major General Nicola Calipari and Mazen Dana, a gifted journalist
In War, truth is the first casualty.
—AESCHYLUS, 525–456 B.C.
The Witch of Babylon is Book One of the Mesopotamian trilogy.
It takes place in the month of August, blessed by Shamash, Assyrian god of the sun.
Author’s Note
In 1922 a centuries-old scientific quest was finally solved. At the Sarcelles Gas Works, in the presence of two eyewitnesses, legendary French alchemist Eugène Canseliet succeeded in converting one hundred grams of lead into gold. He never shared his secret and the formula remains a mystery.
Historical Note
Perched on an arc of the Tigris River, Nineveh was once the star in the crown of the great Assyrian empire. Immense walls, six feet thick at their narrowest point and eight miles long, with fifteen magnificent gates, fortified the city. An aqueduct from the foothills of the Taurus Mountains brought water to the glorious temples, libraries, palaces, and gardens within.
Nineveh’s splendor did not last. In 612 B.C., Cyaxares, King of the Medes, supported by Babylonians from the south and Black Sea region tribes, laid siege to the city. In short order Nineveh fell. It was burned, sacked, and abandoned, never to rise again.
Through the centuries, dust from the surrounding plain blew across the ruined capital to form a mound, or tell, that could be seen for many miles. Nineveh disappeared. Over time it was erased from human memory and became a lost city.
In the mid-1800s French diplomat Paul-Émile Botta, British explorer Sir Austen Henry Layard, and Iraqi archaeologist Hormuzd Rassam excavated what had become known as the Kuyunjik mound. They unearthed remarkable objects—monumental sculptures of human-headed, winged bulls, elaborate friezes, and an entire library of clay tablets.
Barely noticed among these remarkable pieces was a simple basalt engraving. Little did anyone realize then, this would prove to be the most spectacular find of all.
Prologue
The Gods have abandoned us,
like migrating birds they have gone.
[Our city] is destroyed, bitter is its lament.
The country’s blood now fills its holes
like hot bronze in a mold,
bodies dissolve like fat in the sun.
Our temple is destroyed,
smoke lies on our city like a shroud,
blood flows as the river does.
The lamenting of men and women,
sadness abounds,
[Our city] is no more.
Hours before the final attack few believed the city would fall. How could the proud gates of Ishtar, those strong bridges spanning the Tigris, be breached? Were not the nation’s soldiers visible everywhere? Was not the palace, mirrored by the river’s serene waters, well defended? Did the ruler not promise all was well?
And yet on the ninth day of the month of Nissan, a time well chosen by the invaders to avoid the brutal heat of summer, the city did fall, crushed as easily as the delicate shell of a baby bird. Soldiers fled, threw off their battle dress, and hid among the people. Women gathered their children and cowered in dark rooms. Fires raged, turning homes to cinders. Flames gorged on the bountiful banquet of papyrus and parchment scrolls in the great library. Bodies lay everywhere, unclaimed in the streets, floating down the river like drowned and bloated livestock. Cages of exotic animals and birds kept for the people’s pleasure were wrenched open, the animals stolen and butchered for food. Statues of the ruler were desecrated; the man himself was nowhere to be seen.
War’s twin sister, plunder, went on a rampage. Neither the meager possessions of ordinary citizens nor the splendid hall of treasures was spared. Swarming like a colony of ravens fighting over the same piece of flesh, the pillagers stole precious ivories, necklaces of chalcedony and lapis, temple statues, and alabaster vases. One man smashed the head of a terracotta lion from Harmel’s temple. Another sat cross-legged on the floor, stripping inlay from the Lyre of Ur.
By April 14, 2003, Baghdad hung its head in defeat. Its hall of treasures, the famous National Museum of Iraq, had become a casualty of war.
Threading through the crowd, a thief moved with silent efficiency, a slim man with jet-black hair and pale skin. A mark, an odd configuration the color of an old bloodstain, stood out on his left wrist. The thief allowed himself a quiet laugh at the many hands grabbing for booty. They had no idea what they were taking. The disgraced son of a diplomat, the thief had spent ten years in Baghdad and knew the museum well.
Strapped to his waist in a custom sheath hidden under his loose black jacket, he carried a Viking Tactics Assault knife, ready for anyone who dared cross the line. He’d come seeking only two objects. The first, the lifelike copper head of the goddess of Victory from ancient Hatra, he’d already deposited in his carryall. The second, even more important relic was only moments away. He kept the man named Tomas Zakar firmly in his sightl
ine.
Tomas Zakar bent his head and pressed his hands against his ears as if blocking out the scene would stop the carnage. The visions refused to fade. Gangs of looters used machine guns to smash display cases and heaped wheelbarrows with clay vessels, chipping and cracking them in the process.
Almost all the museum records had been dumped on the floor and set alight. They burned like funeral pyres. Tomas fell to his knees to beat out the flames with his bare hands. His brother Ari, the much bigger of the two, dragged him away. “Stop this, Tomas; you’ll harm yourself.”
Tomas fought him off and moved toward a looter wielding a chainsaw to cut off a stone head from Khorsabad. The chainsaw was designed to cut through pliant wood fibers. Its blade could fracture limestone and destroy the object entirely. Tomas lunged toward him. The man brandished the spinning blade. Ari grabbed his brother, clamping his big arms around his waist, and pulled him back in time. “For God’s sake,” he cried, “they’ll kill you.”
Ari cast around wildly, uncertain where to go. This was his brother’s domain; Tomas knew the museum’s pattern of corridors and rooms better than he. Light-skinned and ginger-haired, Ari stood out, making the two of them all the more vulnerable. Without electricity the galleries were dim, illuminated only by natural light. The place resembled a giant tomb. The largest artifacts, too heavy to move and blanketed with protective wrap, resembled bulky giants awaiting burial.
Through the haze Ari could make out the colossal Lamassu, winged bulls with human heads, forming an entrance arc to the Assyrian gallery. He pleaded with Tomas, “Come this way. Help me. I don’t know where to go.” Forcing Tomas against one of the stone guardians, he held him there. “Take some deep breaths and calm yourself.”
Tomas tried to break free of his grasp. “I’ve got to go back outside. There’s a tank nearby.”
“The director already tried. He’s been to the Palestine Hotel three times pleading with the military for help. They refused. Come, Samuel’s waiting for us. We’re already late.”
“I can’t go through with it. We’ll be no better than these thieves.”
“Would you prefer to leave it here for the looters?”
Tomas made another feeble effort to resist, but this time Ari was adamant. They took a convoluted route down blacked-out corridors to a small and dusty restoration room.
A diminutive older man waited for them, his face tight with anxiety. When he saw the two brothers, Samuel Diakos sighed in relief. “You’re finally here. I was so worried.”
Tomas pressed his lips together in a grim line. “Let’s get on with it then. May God forgive us.” On the floor clay vessels lay broken and in disarray, as if a whirlwind had spun across the room.
Samuel barely heard him. With a much younger man’s agility he rushed over to a row of stacked shelves against the wall. Ari put his shoulder to the last one in the row, pushing it outward to reveal a small, square steel door in the wall. Samuel knelt. “I don’t think the lock has been touched.” He motioned for Ari to bring over a canvas sack and asked him to place it on a long table that held cotton wrap, brushes, and measuring tools used for the few tablets and fragments of engravings lying nearby.
Samuel unlocked the steel door, peering into the shadowy interior. “It’s still inside. We got here in time.” He slid out the heavy basalt oblong and laid it carefully on the table.
A figure dressed in black, the handles of a carryall looped over his shoulder, appeared in the doorway. Samuel, preoccupied with the engraving, didn’t notice at first, but Ari and Tomas rushed to block the man’s way. The thief removed his bag and set it gently on the floor. He motioned toward Samuel. “I’ll take that,” he said.
“Get out of here.” Tomas charged toward him.
The thief powered a kick straight to his groin. Tomas doubled over with the pain and collapsed. The assault knife appeared in the thief’s hand. Ari stepped over Tomas, blocked the forward motion of the man’s knife arm, and sent a hard punch to his chest. The man reeled but twisted his knife so its razor edge caught Ari’s palm, splitting it open. Blood spurted between the ugly flaps of skin surrounding the wound.
The thief held his weapon lightly, ready to make a fatal strike. He believed the knife possessed its own blood scent: just as a divining rod detects water, it could sense the location of an artery and sever it instantly.
“No!” Samuel held out the engraving already sheathed in the cotton wrap. “I’ll give it to you. Take it. Don’t hurt them anymore.”
“You’re old. You couldn’t stop me anyway,” the thief sneered as he picked up his carryall and handed it to Samuel. “Put it inside.”
Samuel complied.
A commotion sounded at the entrance, a group of looters pushing their wheelbarrow through the door. They stopped in their tracks when they saw Tomas on the floor and Ari gripping his hand, losing his battle to stanch the flow of blood.
The thief grabbed his carryall and strode over to the door. He pointed the sharp tip of his knife toward the looters. “Move away,” he said.
Terrified, they dropped their wheelbarrow and backed off.
The thief disappeared into the dark hallway beyond.
Outdoors, night had fallen. People scurried in all directions, white phantoms in the gloom, arms bursting with raffia bags and cardboard boxes. One man carried a computer monitor, cables flapping around his neck like birthday ribbons. Another dragged a couch, its chrome legs carving furrows in the dirt.
When they finally reached their Toyota, Tomas slumped down angrily into the driver’s seat. Ari got in, gripping the rough bandage of cotton wrap that bound his hand.
Samuel took the back seat, setting his canvas sack beside him. “It’ll be all right now,” he said. “The worst is over.”
“What do you mean?” Tomas barked. “It’s been a total failure.”
“You still have your lives. That’s far more important.”
“Listen to him, Tomas,” Ari said. “He’s right.”
“In any event,” Samuel continued calmly, “I gave him the wrong one. Our engraving is in my bag. Start driving. We need to get out of here.”
Near Tell al-Rimah, Iraq
April 20, 2003
The sun directly overhead told Hanna it was noon. Heat had turned her body into a limp rag. Her eyelids burned. She dreamt of water—the feeling of cool liquid slipping down her throat, reedy pools at the edge of the Tigris, icy moisture on ancient rock walls. She was cracking and she knew it.
At daybreak the rough hands of the men had dragged her to a hollowed-out pit. They’d pulled her arms back and bound them to a post. The spades and trowels they’d used to dig out the hole, building a pyramid of dirt the height of her waist, had been thrown down in a haphazard pile at her feet.
Hanna watched the three men return and bend down to gather stones the size of a child’s fist, each one big enough to draw blood, but not so large as to bring death quickly. They dumped the stones in a small pile at the crest of the pit.
One of the men detached himself from the group and walked down the incline toward her. He was thin and had a shock of black hair that contrasted with his skin, unnaturally white for someone who’d spent so many hours under the merciless sun. A red-inked tattoo was visible on his left wrist. He pulled off her scarf, letting it dangle around her neck, bent his head until it was inches from her face, and lowered his voice so only she could hear.
“Where did they take the engraving? Tell me and I’ll spare you.”
Hanna said nothing, sensing a lie.
“You feel the heat, Hanna, don’t you?” He reached into a pocket and brought out a green glass bottle filled with water. Pulling off the cap, he touched her lips with the bottle’s wet rim. When she opened her mouth he jerked it away cruelly. “You can have all the water you want—just tell me.”
She rejected this with a sideways motion of her head. Her hands were numb and her body strangely cold given the heat of the day. “I don’t know,” she replied. “Samuel would
n’t say.”
“That’s a lie. You were one of his most trusted assistants.”
“Not anymore. I’ve heard nothing from him. He suspected me after I tried to steal it the first time.”
“What did he offer you?”
Hanna wanted to spurt out a cynical laugh but her swollen tongue interfered. A dribble of spittle ran down the corner of her lips. She was so very tired. She looked at him and thought of the sand vipers that hide in the dust, waiting to strike the foot that passes too close. His eyes were like theirs: hooded, red-rimmed, so light they looked almost yellow.
Her words came out in a whisper. “Nothing. Why would I agree to join your side if I could get money out of Samuel?”
“How did he know I was coming to the museum then? He was ready for me. That information could only have come from you.”
“You know what it’s like over here. Word leaks out. No one keeps secrets for long.”
“Your sacrifice is a waste. We’ll find it anyway.”
She smelled his sweat and wondered whether some part of him, too, might be afraid. Did she have any chance with him at all? “Oh God. Let me go. I’ll die out here.”
In a rage he heaved the bottle away. It shattered on a rock. Splinters of green glass lay on the ground, winking in the sunlight. “Let the devil have you then.” His words felt painful as a lash. He climbed back up the slope.
“Hanna has betrayed us,” he shouted to the others. He raised his left hand to make the sign of the horn, extending index and baby fingers, keeping the other fingers closed, sending a terrible curse toward her. He picked up one of the rocks and walked toward the smaller of the other two men, pressing the rock into his shaking hands. “Stone her.”
“You said we were only trying to scare her. She’s in bad shape already. This has gone too far.”
“She still doesn’t think we’re serious.”