The 13th Tablet

by Alex Mitchell

They left him bleeding in the alley. Hassan shivered on the ground, curled up in pain. There was no other way out. He would have to contact Bibuni and tell him about Mina’s tablet.

  Chapter 7

  December 4th, 2004. Evening

  Mina sat on a flat rock, watching the villagers at work, taking photographs and writing in her diary. The sun had almost dipped below the horizon. She felt conflicted; she loved this beautiful country but her relationship with it was uneasy. ‘Probably like any second-generation immigrant returning to their country of origin,’ she thought.

  She felt angry when she observed dispossessed men and women walking by her in the bombed streets. There were so many people with makeshift houses, jobs and lives. Although she had not seen any bombings or gunfights, the bullet holes in every other building said it all. A sense of utter ruin was everywhere. It literally hung in the air, burnishing the whole country with an intense sadness.

  On the other hand, she knew perfectly well that road-side bombings and kidnappings were carried out by terrorists. It was as if the US had stumbled into a hornet’s nest, between the Kurdish separatists who used the war to further their own agenda against the Turkish government and the Christian Armenians who probably wondered how long they could survive in an increasing ‘Muslim versus the West’ conflict. People of various denominations and sects fought each other constantly since the end of Saddam’s reign.

  Those who had been oppressed under Saddam’s regime, longed to rise stronger after their lengthy ordeal. After Saddam, the power vacuum had been quickly filled by the US, but it could not last. America would have to leave soon, before the people’s frustration and resentment turned to uncontrollable anger.

  Yet, the presence of American troops in Iraq did not deserve to be compared to the tyranny of living decades under Saddam Hussein. Mina’s parents had left Iraq long before the first Gulf War in 1989 but she remembered her father saying at the time, ‘Bush is calling for the Iraqi people to rebel against Saddam, but he won’t step in to get rid of him. Bush is no idiot, he won’t get involved in internal Iraqi politics because he’s got no-one up his sleeve to replace a tyrant. Iraq is not ready for democracy, not as we experience it here. Tribalism, corruption and internal wars cannot be dealt with through formal debate.’

  ‘Not yet’, thought Mina, ‘Not yet’. She really hoped that things would improve sometime soon.

  The heat had gone, and there was a slight chill in the air. It was time to return to the village. Jack gathered his maps and various calculation sheets and then started rounding up the villagers. They all looked tired but happy after a rewarding day’s work. Jack joined Mina and walked by her side, silent but contented.

  ‘Are you satisfied with the amount of water at the village’s disposal? Will it be enough to supply everyone?’ she asked him.

  ‘Hopefully. I still have to make further calculations when I return to the village. I’m so pleased we found this water pocket, but I’m slightly worried about the distance from the village and its altitude: as you know, in a qanat the water flows under its own gravity. I really hope it works. I told you how we couldn’t set up a water system all the way to the Tigrus, but what’s worse is that there is no point connecting our water pipes to the Mosul water system’.

  ‘Why is that?’ she asked, genuinely interested.

  ‘Two reasons. The first is that during the summer, there is hardly any water in the water network anyway, so people tend to use water-pumps.’

  ‘And the second?’

  ‘Purifying and sterilizing the water would cost too much.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised the situation was that bad in Mosul.’

  ‘God yeah. The pipes are at a lower level than the groundwater. The pipelines are fractured and lots of stuff has got into them that shouldn’t be there. You can’t imagine the amount of germs and infectious diseases that have appeared in Mosul in recent years.’

  ‘That’s a bleak image of Mosul,’ she replied.

  ‘Yeah. Listen, as you are staying overnight in the village—’

  ‘Am I?’ she asked with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘Well… yeah. Your car’s broken. I’ve lent my jeep to a friend in the next village and no taxis will drive outside Mosul at this time of night. It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘It’s just that I didn’t plan…’ she started.

  ‘Oh I’m sure Muhad’s mother will lend you everything you need. You can stay with them.’

  He stuck his hands in his pockets and mumbled ‘I’d invite you to stay at my place, but everything is very traditional out here and unmarried men and women simply don’t sleep under the same roof.’

  ‘I know. It’s much better like that,’ she replied.

  They walked on in silence. After a while Jack cleared his throat, ‘As I was saying earlier, I won’t be working tonight as you are here, and I think we should join the villagers for a small feast they’ve organised to commemorate this special day’.

  ‘That would be wonderful.’

  They continued to walk side by side, slightly self conscious and all too aware of their proximity. When they finally arrived at the village, the women were crying out the joyful and guttural sound which one hears all across the Middle East, at weddings or occasions of great mirth. A magnificent fire, set up near the biggest house, was blazing up to the stars. The men and children sat down on thick woollen blankets, while the women cooked and brought food. There was laughter, chattering and loud calls for more food. All of it was almost drowned by the sound of traditional Arabic music. Someone had brought a stereo cassette tape player. Jack and Mina were guests of honour and were seated on cushions laid out on the richly-patterned rugs. Mina was beaming with pleasure.

  The music was turned down a little as an old woman walked towards the fire, holding something wet wrapped in a white cotton cloth. She opened the cloth ceremoniously and brought out a fish. She then sliced off the fish’s head and tossed it into the fire all the time muttering words in some long forgotten language. The men clapped and the women cried out. The old woman walked back slowly, and vanished into one of the neighbouring houses. The music came back on again, as though the scene had never taken place.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ said Mina.

  ‘Neither have I. I was hoping you might be able to tell me more about it,’ replied Jack, looking quite surprised.

  ‘Not really. Maybe it’s an old ritual which has passed down through the ages. The old name of the capital of this region is Nineveh, the city of the goddess Nina.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She’s the goddess of fish. The cuneiform symbol for Nineveh is a fish pictogram.’ Jack seemed at a loss, so Mina added, ‘cuneiform, you know, the most ancient and common writing form in this part of the world’.

  ‘I’ve heard of cuneiform. Tell me more,’ he said, leaning back on one elbow to look at her.

  ‘The word comes from the Latin cunei for wedges, as the writing takes the shape of permutations of wedges or nails in soft clay tablets or inscribed on stone.’

  ‘Wow. That was a pretty clear and concise explanation. Do you speak like that to your students?’

  She laughed and thought of friends back home, anthropologists who would have killed to witness the fish sacrifice scene. She imagined how they’d be writing theories on the ‘anthropology of fish’, fighting epic scholarly battles over the bones of an ephemeral custom.

  She looked up at the stars and sighed, ‘I’d love some wine right now.’

  ‘Yup. So would I, but you won’t get any of it here!’ She knew as much, but it was still disappointing.

  ‘Wait a second, you Christian heathen. I’ve got an idea. Stay put. I think I have a bottle in my house. You pinch two glasses, and meet me at your car in ten minutes’.

  He walked off, chatting with a few villagers on the way, thanking them for their hard labour all day. She waited a few more minutes before casually picking up two glasses and then sauntering off in the direction of her car.
Jack was already there, hiding a bottle of wine under his jacket and carrying a shawl. ‘You don’t propose we sit in my car and hope no-one notices us?’ she asked.

  ‘No, no. They’re lovely people, but they wouldn’t like that much. We need to be out of sight. Let’s walk a little way away from the village. It’s a bit of a steep walk up some rocks but there’s an amazing view when we get to the top. The moon and stars can be our drinking buddies.’

  The walk was steeper than she thought but they eventually reached the top. He was right, the landscape was breathtaking. As there was no man-made light for miles, the stars shone like beacons in the night sky and the moon illuminated the desert in a mesmerising way. They sat down on his jacket and Jack proceeded to open the bottle of red wine. He poured her a glass, then one for himself.

  ‘What shall we toast to?’ he asked.

  ‘To the cleanliness of the desert,’ she answered looking out over the sands.

  He laughed, ‘To the cleanliness of the desert,’ he echoed, smiling.

  ‘What a place. Do you come here often?’ she asked.

  ‘Not that much. Sometimes at the end of the day to gather my thoughts.’

  ‘How did you end up here? I mean, here in Iraq?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a long story. What about you?’

  She told him about her despair when the lootings began in the museums in Baghdad and Mosul, how she’d flown out here and had worked at the university ever since.

  ‘What do you think of the war?’ he asked.

  ‘I hate war.’

  ‘Who doesn’t?’ he answered with a sigh.

  ‘I don’t understand how anyone would want to be a soldier. How could anyone want to learn how to maim and kill other human beings?’

  He remained silent, but pulled out a heavy embroidered shawl with which he covered Mina and himself.

  ‘Never mind,’ she continued, ‘no-one’s fighting out here. You said you were an engineer, but you seem to me more like a poet, lost in an Arabian tale, far from home.’

  ‘I thank thee, oh beautiful Princess Scheherazade!’

  They both laughed. As they gazed out into the desert and sipped the wine, Jack felt his attraction to Mina growing, but relied on the wine to help him overcome his unexpected shyness towards the beautiful scholar. He edged his hand ever so slightly towards her and reaching out with the tip of his fingers, gently stroked her leg, but she didn’t respond to his touch. Should he be more forward? He hesitated but eventually decided to keep his hands to himself and just enjoy the moment.

  When the wine was finished they walked back to the village and he introduced her to Muhad’s mother. He parted from her a little reluctantly, and wondered how the night might have turned out had they met in the US instead of this village.

  ‘What’s wrong with me? I’m acting like a schoolboy,’ Jack thought to himself, unsettled. ‘Maybe it’s the setting, after all, even the fanciest bar in New York couldn’t compare to drinking wine with a beautiful woman in the middle of a desert under the vastness of the starry Iraqi sky.’

  ‘Miss Mastrani?’ asked Mr Bibuni over the phone.

  ‘Ah, Mr Bibuni,’ answered a cold voice.

  ‘I’m sorry to call you at such a late hour,’ said the shifty art dealer.

  ‘It isn’t late here,’ replied the matter-of-fact voice.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ he replied, adding ‘what a pleasure to hear the sound of your voice.’

  ‘Have you found anything interesting?’ she replied curtly, knowing perfectly well that hearing her steely voice brought no pleasure at all.

  ‘I have come across something that might interest that special client of yours. The flood collector.’

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, coolly.

  ‘A very unusual artefact with an inscription relating to the Babylonian flood.’

  ‘Unusual?’

  ‘Yes. It is not a clay tablet and I’m told by my young assistant Hassan that this version differs from the canonical version in more ways than one.’

  ‘Where did it come from?’

  The art dealer winced. This was turning from a business proposal to an interrogation.

  ‘Somewhere in Mosul.’

  ‘Email me a photograph of the object.’

  ‘I am so sorry Miss Mastrani, but I can’t have any traces of this transaction on the internet. I’m sure you understand. All I can say is that it is the most important discovery since the 19th century when the Gilgamesh tablets were found in the Library of Ashurbanipal here in Mosul.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  Natasha Mastrani paused. She was fantasising about how, if she had it her way, she’d watch this fat crook slowly roasting, rather than barter with him.

  ‘Of course, this is just a courtesy call,’ said Bibuni. ‘Your client was very generous last time we did business but if he is not interested, I’m quite sure others will be.’

  ‘Is it in your possession?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he lied.

  ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  Just before Bibuni put the phone down, he thought he heard a faint clicking sound in the background. He did not give it a second thought.

  A man sitting in a car with all the lights out outside Bibuni’s shop, took the miniaturised listening device from his ear and dialled a number on his mobile phone.

  ‘Master?’ said the man in a deep voice.

  ‘Yes?’ came the reply in clipped tones.

  ‘Bibuni, the art dealer in Mosul, has the object we seek. What should we do?’

  ‘Nothing. Observe and report to me.’

  Chapter 8

  December 4th, 2004. Malibu, California

  Oberon Wheatley, the powerful owner of a corporation worth hundreds of millions of dollars, was jogging back to his Californian mansion. He always thought best when running. At this moment he was thinking about what Natasha had told him a few hours ago, that this artefact might be the one he had been seeking for years. Wheatley trusted her; she seemed to have a sixth sense about such things. She had scouted artefacts from all over the world on his behalf for many years. She also dealt with other, less artistic aspects of his business, when the need arose. A seasoned professional, her involvement was always utterly discreet. She was well-mannered and kept her mouth shout. Even her name, Natasha Mastrani, was a cover. He had asked her once what her real name was before she had quit her ruthless past as a CIA operative. She had answered with a smile that implied she could tell him, but if she did, she’d have to kill him. To secure her services and guarantee that she would go above and beyond the call of duty, he paid her a very handsome salary.

  The fact that the tablet had been found in Mosul was good news, but he had to be careful this time. He had been indirectly involved in the looting of the Baghdad Museum, and although no-one had pointed a finger in his direction, many people knew that the lootings were too well organised to have been as random as it might have seemed at first.

  He stopped on his front steps to catch his breath and measure his pulse. Excellent. He did not smoke, hardly drank, had a trainer and a dietician working for him round the clock and enough money to last him, his three ex-wives and their descendants for generations to come. He was clever, handsome and rich. But, what he really craved was power and he did not yet have enough of that to satisfy him. As much as he lied to the world, he was always completely honest with himself.

  Showered and refreshed, Wheatley walked into his private museum. The walls were covered with exquisite paintings by Braque, Monet and Picasso. But these paintings were merely a screen for his real passion. He pushed a button on a remote control and a large mirror glided silently to one side, uncovering a hidden metal door. He punched in a code on his remote, and the door clicked open. He strode down a glass corridor. At the far end stood another door and beyond it, a bank of monitors linked to complex seismological, barometric and humidity measuring devices. He closed the door tightly behind him and walked through to the end door. As he pushed it open, di
mmed lights automatically came on throughout the large room.

  This was the place where he kept his most valuable treasures. Even Natasha, who knew so much about his quest, was rarely permitted to enter this vault. In the back room he had hung famous paintings of the Biblical flood story. It had taken him almost two decades to buy or steal these paintings, most of which had been replaced by the faithful copies now admired by curators and the public alike in many illustrious museums and galleries. A series of glass cabinets snaked their way through the room. They contained dozens of cuneiform tablets, stone fragments, Chinese oracle bones, European papyri and manuscripts, all with some relevance to the primordial flood. Over the years he had wasted precious time researching the lost continent of Mu, a hypothetical landmass that allegedly existed in one of Earth’s oceans, but disappeared at the dawn of human history. But he had soon concentrated all his efforts on ancient Mesopotamia. If the piece Natasha had told him about really was the one he had been searching for for so long, it would be the crowning jewel in his Flood Room.

  He had the perfect shrine for it at the back of the room; a large gold casket, near his marble desk. Once he had the tablet in his keeping he would have all the time he wanted to decipher its wonders. After all, in his line of work, he had access to the most powerful computers in the world.

  Natasha had asked him how much he was willing to pay to obtain it. ‘Any price,’ he had answered. Then she had asked how far he was ready to go if money could not buy it. He had given her a look that told her exactly how far.

  Chapter 9

  December 5th, 2004. Mosul, Iraq

  Hassan woke up with a start. His mother had opened the shutters in his room and catching sight of his battered face, had started to scream. He hoisted himself up gingerly and tried to calm her down but she was inconsolable.

  ‘What happened? Who has done this to you? Why are you not studying? How much more pain can God send me? He took my husband away, then my beloved sons. What am I to do with you?’