The Moses Stone

by James Becker

  Once he'd dispatched the email, there was usually nothing else for him to do until the following day, but on that afternoon, within minutes of sending the message, his computer emitted a double-tone that showed an email had been received. When he opened his inbox, the coded name of the sender jumped out at him, as did the priority. He scanned the message quickly, then read it again.

  Whatever the importance of that old clay tablet, it looked as if the article he'd sent had stirred up a hornets' nest in Tel Aviv, and the new instructions he'd been given clearly emphasized this. He glanced at his watch, weighing his options, then grabbed his jacket from the hook in the hall, left his apartment and headed for the stairs leading to the small car park at the back of the building.

  With any luck, he should reach Canterbury in just over an hour.

  10

  'This,' Talabani said in English, 'is Hafez Aziz, and he's the man who saw the accident. He only speaks Tamazight, so I'll have to translate for you.'

  Bronson was in another interview room at the Rabat police station. On the other side of the table was a short, slim Moroccan wearing faded blue jeans and a white shirt.

  For the next few minutes, Jalal Talabani translated what Aziz said, sentence by sentence, and at the end of it Bronson knew no more than he had before. Aziz patiently repeated exactly the same story that Talabani had told him earlier, and what he said sounded to Bronson like a statement made by an honest man.

  He said he'd seen the Renault approaching the bend, travelling very quickly. He'd watched the car start to make the turn, but then swing wide and hit the rocks at the side of the road. He'd seen it fly into the air, tumble sideways over the edge and vanish from sight. He'd stopped his car at the scene and called the police, then scrambled down into the wadi to try to help the occupants, but it was already too late.

  There was only one question Bronson really wanted to ask, but he kept his mouth shut and just thanked Aziz for coming to the police station.

  When the Moroccan had left the interview room, Bronson turned to Talabani.

  'I'm very grateful for all your help,' he said, 'and for arranging that interview. I think I've seen almost all that I needed to. The last thing is the suitcases and stuff you recovered from the car. And I think you said you'd already prepared an inventory?'

  Talabani nodded and stood up. 'Stay here and I'll have the cases brought in,' he said, and left the interview room.

  Twenty minutes later, Bronson acknowledged that the Moroccan had been right. There was nothing at all in the O'Connors' luggage that was in any way unusual, not that he had expected that there would be. It was just one last check he'd needed to make. In fact, the only unusual thing about the inventory was not what was on the list, but what wasn't. One item he was certain he would see – the O'Connors' camera – simply wasn't there.

  'One last thing, Jalal,' he said. 'There wasn't any sign of an old clay tablet in the car when you recovered it, was there?'

  The Moroccan looked puzzled. 'A clay tablet?' he asked. 'No, not that I remember. Why?'

  'Just something I heard. No matter. Thanks for everything. I'll be in touch if I need anything more.'

  Bronson's last appointment was to see the O'Connors' daughter and her husband at their hotel the following morning. He folded up the printed inventory, slipped it into his pocket, and glanced at his watch. He should, he hoped, be able to catch a flight out of Casablanca the following day and be back home by late afternoon.

  When Jalal Talabani left the police station in Rabat that evening, he didn't follow his usual routine and walk to the car park to collect his car and drive to his home on the northern outskirts of the city. Instead, he visited a local café for a drink and a light meal. Then he followed a circuitous route around the nearby streets, varying his pace and stopping frequently to check behind him. Only when he was quite certain that he was unobserved did he walk to a public telephone and dial a number from memory.

  'I have some information you might find useful.'

  'Go ahead.'

  'There's a British policeman named Bronson here in Rabat looking into the deaths of the O'Connors. He's also interested in finding an old clay tablet. Do you know anything about that?'

  'I might,' the man replied. 'Where's he staying?'

  Talabani told him the name of Bronson's hotel.

  'Thank you, I'll take care of him,' said the man, and ended the call.

  11

  Early that morning, in a conference room in one of the numerous Israeli government buildings near the centre of Jerusalem, three men met by appointment. No secretaries were present; no notes were taken.

  In front of each man were two large photographs, one in colour and the other monochrome, depicting a grey-brown clay tablet in considerable detail. There was also a photocopy of the article from the British regional newspaper, together with a translation of the text into Hebrew.

  'That report appeared yesterday in a British newspaper,' Eli Nahman began. He was elderly, thin and stooped, with a white beard and a mane of white hair topped with a black embroidered yarmulke, but his eyes were a clear and piercing blue, and sparkled with intelligence. He was a senior professor at the Israel Museum in Jerusalem, and an authority on pre-Christian relics.

  'The story was spotted by one of the Mossad's assets in London and forwarded to Glilot,' he continued, gesturing to the younger man sitting at the head of the table.

  Levi Barak was in his late thirties, with black hair and a tanned complexion, his otherwise regular features dominated by a large nose that would forever stop him being described as handsome. He was wearing a light tan suit, but had hung the jacket over the back of his chair to reveal the shoulder holster under his left armpit, from which the black butt of a semi-automatic pistol protruded.

  'As you know, we have standing instructions to inform Professor Nahman when any such reports are received, and I called him yesterday afternoon as soon as I saw this article,' Barak said. 'What you see is all the information we have at present. We've instructed our asset to monitor the British press for any further information about this story. He's also been ordered to drive over to Canterbury – that's the city in Kent where these people lived – and obtain copies of all newspapers printed there. He will forward to us any other reports and articles he can find.'

  Barak paused and glanced at the two other men.

  'The problem we have is that there's very little hard data here. All we really know is that two elderly English people died a couple of days ago in a road accident in Morocco, and that at some point prior to this they came into possession of an old clay tablet. What we have to do today is decide what action, if any, we should take.'

  'Agreed,' Nahman said. 'The first step, obviously, is to decide if this clay tablet is a part of the set, but that's not going to be easy. The picture printed in the paper is so blurred as to be almost useless, and the report gives no indication as to where the relic is now. To help us make a decision, I've supplied photographs of the tablet we already possess, so we can at least compare the appearance of the two of them.'

  He paused and looked across the table at the young man sitting opposite him. 'So, Yosef, what's your opinion?'

  Yosef Ben Halevi stared down at the photocopied picture of the newspaper article for a few seconds before he replied. 'There's not much to go on here. Without a ruler or something else in this picture to provide scale, we can't do more than estimate its size. It could be anything from about five to twenty or thirty centimetres long. That's the first problem. If we're to determine if this is one of the set, the size is critical. Is there any way of finding out the dimensions of this relic?'

  'Not that I can think of, no,' Nahman said. 'The newspaper report describes the object as a "small clay tablet", so the chances are that we're looking at something no more than, say, ten or perhaps fifteen centimetres in length. Any bigger than that and I doubt if the word "small" would have been used. And that, of course, is about the right size.'

  Ben Halevi nodded.
'The second point of comparison must obviously be the inscriptions. Looking at the pictures of the two relics, it appears to me that both are superficially similar, and both have the diagonal mark in one corner that I'd expect. The lines of characters are different lengths, and that's not a normal characteristic of Aramaic script, but the newspaper photograph is too poor to allow me to do more than try to translate a couple of words.'

  Like Nahman, Ben Halevi worked for the Israel Museum, and was an ancient language specialist and an expert on Jewish history.

  'Which words can you decipher?' Nahman asked.

  Ben Halevi pointed at the newspaper article. 'Here, along the bottom line. That word could be "altar", and I think the second word from the right is "scroll" or perhaps "scrolls". But the image is very blurred.'

  Nahman regarded his friend and colleague keenly. 'How confident are you, Yosef?'

  'You mean, do I think this tablet is one of the four? Perhaps sixty or seventy per cent, no higher. We need to see a high-quality picture of the inscription or, better still, actually recover the tablet. Only then can we be certain.'

  'That's my view exactly,' Eli Nahman agreed. 'We have to get our hands on that tablet.'

  Levi Barak looked at the two academics. 'It really is that important?'

  Nahman nodded. 'If it's what we think it is, then it's vital we recover it. Make no mistake about this, Levi. What's written on that tablet could be the final clue we need to locate the Testimony. It could mark the end of a search that's been running for the last two millennia. Take that to your masters at Glilot and ensure they know just how serious this is.'

  'It won't be easy, and it might not be possible,' Barak pointed out. 'Even for the Mossad.'

  'Look,' Nahman said, 'that tablet exists, and we simply have to find it before anyone else does.'

  'Like who?'

  'Anyone. Treasure-hunters, obviously, but we can deal with people whose only motivation is money. What worries me are the others – the ones who would be desperate to find the relic so they can destroy it.'

  'Muslims?' Barak suggested.

  'Yes, but perhaps radical Christians as well. We've always been a persecuted minority, but if we could find the lost Testimony it would validate our religion in a way that nothing else ever could. That's why we simply must recover that clay tablet and decipher the text.'

  Barak nodded. 'We have assets in Rabat and Casablanca. I'll instruct them to start looking.'

  'Not just in Morocco,' Nahman emphasized. 'The couple who found it were English, so you should search there as well. Spread your net as wide as possible. Thanks to that newspaper, a lot of people will now know about that clay tablet. Your men are likely to find they're not the only ones hunting for it.'

  'We can take care of ourselves.'

  'No doubt. Just make sure you also take care of the tablet. Whatever happens, it mustn't get damaged or destroyed.'

  12

  'Thank you for meeting us out here,' Kirsty Philips said, shaking Bronson's hand. They were sitting in the lounge bar of the Rabat hotel where she and her husband had booked a room. Kirsty's brown eyes were red-rimmed and her dark hair dishevelled, but she seemed to be more or less under control.

  'David's gone over to the British Embassy to sort things out,' she said, 'but he shouldn't be too long. Have a seat here and I'll order some coffee.'

  'Thank you,' Bronson said, though he really didn't need anything to drink. 'That would be very welcome.'

  A few minutes later a waiter appeared carrying a tray bearing two cups and saucers, a cafetière, milk and sugar.

  'I'm very sorry about the circumstances,' Bronson began, as the waiter walked away.

  Kirsty nodded, her lower lip quivering slightly.

  'I've been discussing what happened with the police out here,' Bronson hurried on, 'and it looks as though it was simply a tragic accident. I know it won't be much consolation, but both your parents died instantly. They didn't suffer at all.' He paused for a few seconds, looking at the attractive young woman in front of him. 'Do you want me to explain what happened?' he asked softly.

  Kirsty nodded. 'I suppose I'd better know,' she replied, a sob in her voice, 'otherwise I'll always wonder about it.'

  Bronson sketched out the circumstances. When he'd finished, Kirsty shook her head.

  'I still don't understand it,' she said. 'Dad was such a good driver. He was always cautious, always careful. As far as I know, he'd never even had a parking ticket.'

  'But he was driving an unfamiliar car on a road he didn't know,' Bronson suggested. 'We think he failed to anticipate how sharp the bend in the road really was, and unfortunately there were no crash barriers.' Even as he said the words, he knew he didn't really believe them either.

  'Now,' he said, opening his briefcase, 'this is a copy of the inventory of your parents' possessions.'

  He passed Kirsty the typed sheets of paper prepared by the Rabat police, and then sat back in his chair.

  Kirsty put the papers down on the table in front of her, barely glancing at them. She took another sip of her coffee, then looked across at Bronson.

  'It's such a stupid waste,' she said. 'I mean, they'd only recently decided to take proper holidays, to actually start enjoying themselves. They usually went to Spain for a couple of weeks. This was the first time they'd done anything even slightly adventurous. And now this happens.' Her voice broke on the last word, and she began to cry softly.

  'They were having a good time out here,' she continued after a minute, blowing her nose. 'Or at least my mother was. I don't think Dad was all that fond of Morocco, but Mum simply loved it.'

  'She sent you postcards, I suppose?' Bronson suggested, though he already knew the answer to that question.

  Because the Canterbury paper had printed a picture of the tablet, either Margaret or Ralph O'Connor must have had a camera and have emailed a copy of the photograph to their daughter. But he also knew that no camera was listed in the inventory the police had given him. And he certainly hadn't seen one when he'd examined the O'Connors' possessions.

  Talabani had told him that the suitcases had burst open in the accident, so maybe the camera had been flung so far away that the police hadn't found it when they recovered everything. Or maybe Aziz or somebody else at the scene had picked it up and decided to keep it? On the other hand, modern digital cameras were both tiny and expensive, and he would have expected Margaret O'Connor to have kept hers in her handbag or perhaps in one of her pockets.

  Kirsty shook her head. 'No. My mother had started using computers when she was still working, and she was heavily into email and the internet. Their hotel had internet access, and she would send me a message every evening, telling me what they'd been up to that day.' She tapped the black bag on the floor beside her chair. 'I've got them all here on my laptop. I was going to print all her messages and give them to her when she came home, and do decent copies of the pictures she'd sent.'

  Bronson sat up a little straighter. 'Did she take a lot of photographs?' he asked.

  'Yes. She had a small digital camera, one of the latest models, and one of those memory stick things that could read the data card. I think she plugged that into one of the hotel computers.'

  'May I see the pictures your mother sent you? In fact, could you make me a copy of them? On a CD, perhaps?'

  'Yes, of course,' Kirsty said. She picked up the bag, pulled out a Compaq laptop and switched it on. Once the operating system had loaded, she inserted a blank CD into the DVD drive, selected the appropriate directory and started the copying process.

  While the CD was being burnt, Bronson moved his chair around beside Kirsty's and stared at the screen as she flipped through some of the pictures. He could see immediately that Margaret O'Connor had not been a photographer. She'd simply pointed the camera at anything that moved, and most things that didn't, and clicked the shutter release. The images were typical holiday snaps – Ralph at the airport, waiting for their luggage by the carousel; Margaret standing beside
their hire car, before they set off on the drive to Rabat; the view through the windscreen as they drove out of Casablanca, that kind of thing – but the images were sharp and clear enough, the high-quality camera compensating for the inadequacies of the person holding it.

  'This is the souk here in Rabat,' Kirsty said, pointing at the screen. She extracted the CD as the copying process finished, slipped it into a plastic sleeve and passed it to Bronson. 'Mum loved going in there. It was one of her favourite places. She said the smells were simply intoxicating, and the goods on display just amazing.'

  She clicked the mouse button, cycling through the pictures. Then, in contrast to the earlier footage, Bronson saw a succession of clear but very poorly angled shots, apparently taken almost at random.

  'What happened with these?' he asked.

  Kirsty smiled slightly. 'That was the day before they left Rabat. She told me she was trying to take pictures in the souk, but a lot of the traders weren't keen on being photographed. So she hid the camera beside her handbag and clicked away, hoping that some of the pictures would come out.'

  'What's this?' Bronson pointed to one of the photographs.

  'There was some sort of an argument in the souk while they were there, and Mum took about a dozen pictures of it.'

  'Ah, yes. The story in the Canterbury newspaper. I wish you'd talked to someone about this before you went to the press, Mrs Philips.'

  Kirsty coloured slightly, and explained that her husband David had a contact on the local paper and that he'd asked him to write the story.