The 13th Tablet

by Alex Mitchell

  Mina was early. She waited at the university cafeteria looking around her constantly. She had been here so many times, and had felt completely safe and carefree. Now, everyone seemed suspicious. What would she tell the professor? He would want to help her, but what if he ended up like Hassan? She could not let that happen. She opened her bag, took out a sheet of paper and wrote him an apology note. It would be better not to meet him at all. That way he would not be involved.

  Chapter 12

  December 6th, 2004

  Hassan had managed to sit up and was assessing his situation. He’d been kidnapped and forced to tell the American thugs all about Mina and where she lived. He hoped with all his heart that she had managed to flee before they got to her. His jaw ached and his right eye was so bruised, he wondered if it would ever see normally again.

  They had put a canvas sack over his head, bound his hands, and beaten him in the back of the van until they had arrived at this basement flat. He guessed that they were in the suburbs, they would have needed a secluded place to conduct their dirty work. They had kept the sack over his head and two men held him on the ground, while a third poured water over the sack and into his mouth. So much water. He felt like he was drowning. With his lungs bursting and every muscle straining against his captors, he had felt death approaching fast. When they had eventually yanked the sack from his head he told them everything they wanted to know.

  Having got all the information they needed, they had dumped him in an empty room, with his hands still tied behind his back. As far as he could tell, he had been here for at least two days, drifting in and out of consciousness. He had to find a way out. They had kept him alive for a reason; they certainly were not the sort of men who would let him live after they had got what they were after. Perhaps they had kept him as a back-up plan, in case they couldn’t get hold of Mina. If this was true, and he’d been here for at least two days, there was some hope – she must have eluded them. He had to get out of there before they returned.

  What could he do? First and foremost, he needed to untie his hands. He looked around and noticed for the first time that the walls were made of rough concrete blocks. He dragged his arms across the jagged surface and before long he found a particularly sharp edge near the door. Pushing himself against the wall, he managed to stand up. He couldn’t help looking down at his soiled trousers. Hopefully, one day, he would forget all this. He started rubbing his bonds against the concrete block. A couple of hours later Hassan had picked the door lock and was running down a Mosuli suburban road.

  ‘The airport please’ said Mina, getting into a cab. She had a long journey ahead of her. There were only domestic flights leaving Mosul – she would have to fly to Baghdad, then take a connecting flight to Amman in Jordan and from there to Tel Aviv. She would buy herself proper clothes in Amman. She had been so dazed when she woke up in the infirmary that she had not noticed that Jack had brought her laptop and some clean clothes from her flat. She found them on a chair against the wall before leaving. But they were hardly interview material.

  She had her passport, which she always carried with her, and that was all she cared about for now. As the cab headed out of the city, she tried to gather her thoughts but found it very difficult. She was still in shock after the events of the past few days, and she was terribly worried about Hassan. She could still hear his mother’s voice telling her what a good boy her son was.

  She had a pounding headache. ‘It must be the drugs they gave me,’ she thought. She couldn’t get over the fact that Jack had deceived her. He had lied through his teeth about more than a decade of his life; that was no small fib. What else was he hiding?

  Walking through the airport’s busy main entrance, Mina spotted a bearded man looking directly at her. Something about his dark suit made him seem out of place. Their eyes met, and he quickly looked away. Mina checked herself; she was being paranoid. She glanced again in the direction of the man, but could not see him anymore. She looked around, but there was no trace of him. He had simply vanished. She quickly bought her tickets and walked through customs.

  The plane took off and Mina felt relieved to be on her way. Her heart still raced at the thought of what she’d been through but she was safe now, on a plane, flying far away from all this madness. She suddenly felt American again and wanted to hug a US flag or dress up as Wonderwoman, her favourite superheroine. She was also an immigrant of sorts, with long black hair, who had left the Amazons to embrace America. Mina was tired of feeling guilty or ashamed of her American heritage, tired of being a woman in a man’s world. ‘No-one will miss me,’ she thought.

  She was looking forward to spending time in Israel, where few people knew her. A good opportunity to stop rehashing what she’d gone through and instead focus on her research. Maybe she would even find time to write a scientific paper on the tablet.

  What would she do in Tel Aviv? The interview was taking place at the Sheraton Tel Aviv Hotel and Towers, a five star hotel overlooking the Mediterranean sea. The foundation had paid for her room in advance for three nights. The corporate world certainly knew how to take care of candidates. She had never been to Israel but she did have a friend there who worked at the Eretz Israel Museum in Tel Aviv.

  Liat was an Israeli archaeologist who had studied with Mina at Columbia for a Master’s degree. They had had a small falling- out over their political beliefs, but she liked Liat both as a scholar and as a friend. Hopefully Liat would feel the same when she called on her. She would just pop by the museum on arrival. Mina thought back to that year, when she was going out with Charlie, whom Liat had introduced her to. He had been heartbroken when she left for Iraq. She did not feel she had a choice, and to be honest – hindsight can be cruel – she doubted whether she had ever really been in love with him.

  Charlie was a lawyer with an international firm in New York. He spoke a number of languages, was fun to be around, quick-witted and handsome. But Mina had always felt there was something missing. Their relationship was too easy-going. They could have gone on for years before realising that they were not really meant to be together. She thought back to the last time they had spoken, in a small Italian restaurant in the Village. Charlie could not understand why she wanted to leave the country, she had such great prospects in New York. She could do anything she wanted, even leave academia and write for a living. He had offered to help her out if she wanted him to. She toyed with the idea, but it was neither in her character nor her upbringing to be financially dependent on a man. She told him as kindly as she could that she needed a clean break and that their relationship was not significant enough to make her change her mind. He told her she sounded phoney, and she smiled sadly and said that she was sorry. Thinking back to how sure she had felt about her decision then, she worried that she might never find what she was looking for. She had felt a flicker of promise, of something meaningful emerging between her and Jack but the revelation about his past had left her feeling deeply betrayed by him.

  After changing planes in Baghdad, Mina flew on to Amman. She thought back to the wonderful trip she had taken there years ago with her parents, they had even rented a Jeep to visit Petra’s countryside. They were so proud of her and wanted to share her passion for the archaeology of the Near East. Mina had been studying the civilisation of the Nabateans, the ancient inhabitants of Petra, and she had begged her parents for months to let her take a trip there with a group of girlfriends. They had refused outright, it was too dangerous. Instead, her father had come into her room one day and told her he had arranged everything and they would take the trip together as a family. She had discovered aspects of her parents she never knew. Her father was a doctor but seemed ill at ease in most circumstances. Her mother had been a journalist in Iraq, but now worked as a translator. For the first time, Mina saw her parents totally in their element. It had been a lovely trip.

  She decided to buy a few clothes in the duty-free shops in Amman’s airport. She had a few hours ahead of her before the next plan
e to Tel Aviv. She bought a new handbag, chose a pair of fitted trousers, a serious blouse and cardigan for the interview, and a top, jacket and boots for travelling to Safed. She would buy whatever else she needed once she had the grant money in hand.

  Having completed her shopping, Mina sat down in a café for a much needed break. She sipped the hot coffee and looked around her at the bustling throng of travellers. Suddenly she saw the bearded man again. He passed in front of her for just a few seconds, but she was sure it was him. One thing most archaeologists have in common is a nearly autistic capacity to notice small details among huge bodies of evidence. Here, among the thousands of travellers, she was convinced she recognised the man from Mosul.

  Arriving in Amman and buying new clothes had made her feel light-hearted again. But she was back in hypersensitive mode, observing everyone around her. Now that she thought about it, since she left Mosul she had felt that she was being followed a few times, especially in Baghdad.

  It must have been this bearded man. Who was he? He did not resemble the thugs in her flat at all. His features seemed more refined and his complexion was definitely Middle Eastern. Just for a moment, she wished Jack were around.

  Back in Mosul, Natasha Mastrani, in a red tailored dress and slick knee length boots, was standing near her car. She took off her sunglasses and tapped them gently on the bonnet of the car while waiting to be patched through to Oberon Wheatley’s phone. She caught her reflection in the tinted window, and seemed pleased with her look, especially how her icy blue eyes glinted under her platinum blond hair.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Ah, Natasha. What’s the update?’

  ‘Not the best of news. I wish I’d stuck to the usual operatives.’

  ‘You’re slipping Natasha, you’re slipping.’

  He was obviously amused by her uncharacteristic incompetence and enjoyed teasing her.

  ‘I’m really sorry sir. However, the flat was cleaned and the right people were paid off. There will be no sign of our involvement.’

  ‘So what’s worrying you?’

  ‘The surviving operative disappeared and so did the young man, Hassan. And we still don’t know where Miss Osman is.’

  ‘The story gets funnier by the second. Clearly the operative did not want to face the music on your arrival.’

  ‘Probably not, sir.’

  ‘Do I need to remind you that I am paying you far more than the CIA ever did because you have accustomed me to perfect results? There is no red tape with me. You have full latitude to carry out your missions.’

  She tried to sound as contrite as she could.

  ‘Yes sir. There are still unanswered questions. I need to work out the whereabouts of Miss Osman and this Hassan and find out who the man was who killed our two operatives.’

  ‘No. Please make preparations for my arrival tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re coming here? I wouldn’t advise that sir.’

  ‘No. Tel Aviv. Make sure security is tight in the harbour, around and on my yacht.’

  ‘Is there something I should know?’

  ‘Mina Osman will be visiting Tel Aviv for a few days.’ That was why he sounded so amused. She knew better than ask questions. Oberon Wheatley hadn’t become one of the most powerful men in the world by twiddling his thumbs. He didn’t wait for events to pass. He was always one step ahead. She got in her car, and drove off to the airport.

  PART 2

  ISRAEL

  The apple cannot be stuck back on the Tree of Knowledge; once we begin to see, we are doomed and challenged to seek the strength to see more, not less.

  (Arthur Miller, 1915–2005)

  Chapter 13

  December 6th, 2004. Tel Aviv

  Mina landed at Ben Gurion Airport late that evening. If Mosul seemed security conscious it was a walk in the park in comparison. Luckily she had the invitation for an interview and a reservation at the Sheraton Tel Aviv Hotel & Towers to explain her presence there and her route from Baghdad via Amman. She noticed how many policewomen guarded the airport. It was a change from Iraq to see women in uniform. They were fit and aggressive, much like their gun, the famous Desert Eagle. Half-asleep she hailed a cab under the starry winter sky.

  When Mina arrived at the hotel she was duly impressed. Walking through the plush lobby, she felt for a moment like a high-flying businesswoman and wondered briefly if she was not in the wrong line of work. But she knew all too well that she was only thinking that way because of the stark contrast between the conditions of the last few days spent in a wartorn country and those here, in this luxurious five-star-hotel. As soon as she got to her room, she had a quick shower and then collapsed on the bed, still in her bathrobe.

  The next morning, Mina woke up fully energised, ordered a light breakfast to be brought up to her room, she had a shower and did her stretching exercises. She followed a complex chain of yoga asanas she had learned from a young Indian yogi, who had since become quite a celebrity. She had worked with him every day for three months and remembered the first month, when she thought she would never be able to stretch into the positions he demonstrated. As he was as relentless as she was driven, eventually, by the end of the three months she had managed to stretch into every position in his programme. She would have pursued their work, but he had fallen in love with her and she had had to explain to him, as kindly as she could, that she was not interested in him in that way. Unfortunately, he had been very hurt and they parted on a bitter note.

  After breakfast, she started preparing for the interview. It was her understanding that the grant had been practically offered to her, but you never quite knew with these things and it was not in her nature to go anywhere unprepared; she would express her gratitude for the offer, try to show off the little she knew about the Foundation’s goals and explain what her project encompassed. If the grant was as substantial as she thought it might be, she would need to add all the postfieldwork expenses: various expert opinions, chemical analyses, thermo-luminescence, 3D digital scanning, the whole works. She needed to put together a much more extensive budget than she had first planned when applying for the in-house grant at Columbia.

  She did a couple of hours’ work and then decided to take a break and walk around Tel Aviv. Mina still had a day to get ready and loved discovering new cities. She went downstairs and picked up a few flyers and a map of the city in the lobby. She walked along the beach for a while thinking how disappointing it was she had not come during the summer, as she would have loved to swim in the Mediterranean. Instead, she headed resolutely into the city, following the directions on one of the leaflets to the best shopping areas. After some pleasurable window shopping on Dizengoff Street, she arrived at the crossroad with Gordon Street, where she saw a café with a large bay window and people sitting out on the terrace. She sat down and ordered a double espresso. It was brought to her promptly, along with a glass of water, by a charming and clearly gay waiter in an extremely tight t-shirt and designer sunglasses; in fact, all the customers looked somewhat flamboyant. She was surrounded by artists, media people and intellectuals – it was so different from Mosul. Mina felt almost reborn, back in a mini-New York. She looked on her map and found the Eretz Israel museum, but it was quite a hike from where she was, so she thought that she would take a taxi and surprise Liat. She hoped her friend was at work today and could spare some time.

  ‘Are you a tourist?’ a young man seated at the next table asked her in English. He said he’d be delighted to take her sightseeing. Mina thanked him and told him she was waiting for a friend. He did not insist. She really wasn’t interested in him, but she was impressed by the direct yet courteous way in which he had approached her. The truth was that she could not help thinking of Jack. Had she been too harsh with him? She kept replaying their last meeting on the military base, over and over again. As she often did when she felt lost, Mina took out her notebook. It was her preferred method for clarifying her thoughts and feelings – she would often make detailed lists of pros and cons.
In Jack’s case, she had been brutally direct with him and had made it clear she did not want to see him again. And yet she had a nagging, irrational feeling that she might have been wrong. Even though he had lied to her, she had loved that magical evening with the villagers, and their walk up the hill in the desert. And above all, he had saved her life. Something told her she would be seeing him again, whether she liked it or not. More pressingly, she knew that she was in deep trouble with the department and needed to email Professor Almeini to clear things up. She would email him once she knew the result of the grant interview. She also had to try to find out what had happened to Hassan, but doing so would make her relive her ordeal at the hands of the three men in the flat.

  Natasha was at Ben Gurion airport, waiting for Oberon Wheatley. She had spent the previous night checking and re-checking every aspect of security at the harbour. No-one could approach the yacht uninvited, nor leave it for that matter. Natasha could not help but admire how her boss gathered information on everyone. Mina Osman had arrived at her hotel just as he said she would. Wheatley suddenly appeared outside the main entrance, saw her, and walked straight to the car. She took his luggage, put it in the boot and together they drove off immediately to the harbour.

  Oberon had bought his yacht from the famous Italian yacht designer Benetti, for an obscene amount of money. With its steel hull and aluminium superstructure, the 230ft Rêverie moved at a maximum speed of 16 knots, weighed 1600 tons, had seven decks and an interior designed by John Munford. Oberon had had his eye on the boat for some time and once it became his, he had had his technicians transform it into much more than a dilettante’s pleasure vessel. One sensed that under the aristocratic veneer of absolute comfort and luxury, dark mahogany and top-quality marble, the yacht possessed every technological amenity that the modern world had to offer.