‘I’ll ask you again. Who were those men?’
‘Two men . . .’ The librarian stammered through the blood bubbling from between his lips. ‘An American – an archaeologist. Dr Hitchens. Dr Benedict Hitchens. And Ilhan . . . Aslan. Ilhan Aslan . . . antiquities dealer . . .’ He dropped his head. ‘Please . . .’
‘What were they looking at?’
‘A book.’
‘Do I look like an idiot?’ With an open hand, the man slapped Fatih in the side of the head. The librarian collapsed against the weight of the blow. ‘Of course they were looking at a book, you stupid old man. Which book?’
‘Out there. On the desk. It has a page . . . the Emerald Tablet.’
‘And has anyone else been here to see it?’
‘No . . . I mean, yes . . . two . . . three. No – four people. I don’t . . .’ The librarian was panting, his eyes clouded with fear.
‘I was always a terrible student,’ the man said in a conversational tone. ‘Didn’t have the patience for it. But there’s one field of research that has always fascinated me: the countless – very creative – ways people have found to hurt each other. For me, history is one great lesson after another in how to inflict pain. I’ve become something of an expert . . . a student of suffering, you might say.’
He took something out of his pocket. ‘I’m also not a very patient man. So the quicker you tell me what I want to know, the happier I’ll be. And, believe me . . . if you don’t like me now, you don’t want to see me unhappy.’ He held an object in Fatih’s line of sight. ‘Do you know what this is?’
‘Shell . . .? A . . . a . . . a . . . mussel shell?’
‘Correct. ‘A . . . a . . . a . . . mussel shell,’ the stranger mimicked the old man. ‘When the Christians murdered Hypatia in Alexandria in 415 AD, they scraped the flesh from her body with oyster shells while she was still alive. She was a librarian too, you know?’ He turned the inky-black mollusc in his hand. ‘I couldn’t find any oysters. But inspiration struck as I was eating lunch. Those stuffed mussels in the Spice Bazaar – fucking delicious. And I figured their shells’d do the same trick as oysters.’ The man inspected Fatih as if he were a corpse on a slab. ‘Guess I’ll find out soon enough, won’t I?’
The old man began to weep. ‘I have a wife. Grandchildren. Please. I’ll tell you anything.’
‘Yes.’ The man smiled grimly as he pressed the scimitar- sharp edge of the shell against Fatih’s rheumy eyelid. ‘I know you will.’
4
Istanbul
‘So. What do we do now?’ Ben took a bottle and two glasses out of the top drawer of Ilhan’s oak desk.
‘“We”? There’s no “we” in this, my friend.’ Ilhan raised an eyebrow and shook his head at the offered glass. ‘Isn’t it a bit early in the day for that?’
‘Never.’ Ben poured himself a measure of raki, the potent aniseed-flavoured Turkish spirit. Throwing his head back, he savoured the warm rush as the alcohol hit the pit of his stomach.
‘You’ve a stronger constitution than me, then. But you should water it down with some tea. Yilmaz?’ Ilhan summoned his assistant. ‘İki çaylar, lütfen.’
The young man nodded and retrieved an ornate brass tea tray from beside the front door. ‘Tabii, efendim.’
Yilmaz darted out onto the narrow street, dodging the compliant groups of tourists snaking along the pavement behind tour guides who regaled their charges with the history of the Grand Bazaar, Istanbul’s Kapalıçarşı – the ‘Covered Market’. Founded as a market for textiles in 1455 by Mehmet the Conqueror soon after the Ottomans seized the city from its Byzantine rulers, by the early 1600s it was home to three thousand stores and was the centre for trade in the Mediterranean, bringing together goods from Asia, Africa and the Near East. Ben had heard the same tale a thousand times before, told in a hundred tongues.
The tourists peered through the front window of Ilhan’s store where the two men sat like mannequins among the Aladdin’s Cave display of oriental treasures: hand-painted ceramic figurines of Ottoman sultans, belly dancers and whirling dervishes; gleaming copper hamam bowls and shimmering silk carpets.
‘Well?’
‘Well, what?’
‘What’s your plan, Dr Hitchens?’
‘Plan? Ha! What plan? I’m just making it up as I go along.’
‘It was a stupid thing to do . . . you know Hasan will find out. What good’s the manuscript to you, anyway?’
‘No idea at all. Not yet, anyway.’
‘So why take it?’
‘Seemed like a good idea at the time. Whatever this means – whatever message it contains . . . well, it’s going to require a fair bit of effort on my part to decipher it. It’ll certainly require more than an hour or two in the Yeni Kütüphane. The poisonous Frenchman and that damned woman have quite a head start on me already. I have to get moving if I’m going to position myself as the fly in their ointment. And unfortunately I’d rather die than ask the only person I know who could decipher this nonsense without breaking a sweat. Ethan Cohn. I’ll never give that old bastard the satisfaction of turning up on his doorstep, cap in hand.’
‘Your pride will be the end of you, Ben.’
‘There’s a good twenty candidates ahead of pride in the race to finish me off.’ He paused. ‘Niğde – have you ever been there?’
‘Of course. There aren’t many corners of the country that have escaped my attention.’
The tiny bell above the door to Ilhan’s store jangled as Yilmaz returned from the tea vendor carrying two tiny, waisted glasses of toffee-coloured Turkish çay.
‘It wasn’t that far from my dig at Eskitepe, but I never had the chance to visit – other things on my mind at the time.’ Ben dropped a small sugar cube into his glass and stirred it with a silver spoon. The tannin-rich aroma made his mouth water. ‘Nice place?’
Ilhan shrugged. ‘Unremarkable. Why?’
‘The town of Tyana in Cappadocia is where Balinas is supposed to have discovered the Emerald Tablet. It’s also where he lived in the first century AD after finding the path to enlightenment and took the name Apollonius of Tyana. Discovering the secret of eternal life had quite an impact on him – as you can imagine. He spurned worldly possessions, cured the ill, raised the dead, took to the road as an itinerant preacher with a devoted band of followers, and was persecuted by the Romans.’
‘That story sounds familiar.’
‘Yes, I’ve always suspected the early Christians plagiarised the best bits of Apollonius’ life story for their Messiah.’
‘That sounds like blasphemy, Dr Hitchens.’
‘I’m a historian, not a Christian, Ilhan.’ He swirled the dregs of his tea in the bottom of the glass, crystalline fragments of sugar accumulating in the curved base. ‘So – Niğde. Or its museum, anyway. That’s where all the archaeological material from Tyana ended up. If my memory of Ethan’s ranting and raving serves me correctly, it’s also where I might be able to get my hands on the scant remains of Balinas’ life. Care to join me?’
‘Take time out from my business at the tail end of the tourist season for a pointless journey into the Anatolian hinterland? Not a chance.’ Ilhan dropped his voice. ‘Yilmaz messed up the sale this morning royally. There’s that saying you people have about running before you can walk. It will be some time before I’ll trust him with such an important customer again.’
Ben shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. I don’t have the luxury of choice, and it gives me a good excuse to leave the city. Hasan’ll be on my heels, so the quicker I can interpret this bloody document and its hidden message, the better. If I can return it to him with the sweetener of Eris’ head on a platter, he might find it in his heart to forgive me. If you change your mind . . .’
‘I won’t.’
‘Well, there’s one thing you can do for me if you’re not going to join me on the road.’ Ben took the notebook out of his pocket and carefully removed its priceless cargo. ‘If I actually had any beliefs, I’d say t
his goes against all of them,’ he said as he reached for a pair of scissors and carefully snipped a tiny piece of parchment from along the manuscript’s bound edge. ‘I need you to get this to Raphael Donazetti.’
‘Donazetti? That degenerate Italian . . . why get him involved?’ Ilhan snapped. The Italian was a master of the art of deception – skills he put to good use lining Ilhan’s coffers by crafting the forgeries the dealer sold to unsuspecting tourists on the black market. The collaboration between Ben, Ilhan and Raphael the previous year had resulted in the sale at auction of three spectacular, and exquisitely fake, antiquities that had earned the three men a windfall and financed the acquisition of Ben’s waterside mansion. Not that it eased the tension between the Turk and the Italian. The two men couldn’t have been more different; Ilhan was urbane, dignified and charming while Raphael was raffish, foul-mouthed and an unapologetic opium addict.
‘I need to know what’s been used to make this ink,’ Ben responded. Raphael had acquired a working knowledge of chemistry that could have landed him employment in a professional laboratory if he’d had either the desire or the ambition. Ben also knew he’d analyse the ink used on the document without asking any questions.
Ilhan looked at Ben quizzically. ‘So . . . what do you plan to tell Fiona? She can’t be too pleased that you’re chasing off after that woman.’
‘It’s not like that.’ Guilt made his stomach clench. As always, Ben hadn’t given Fi a moment’s thought. ‘This is about getting some of my own back . . . She’ll understand,’ he said hopefully.
‘Are you the eternal optimist, or just delusional?’
‘It’ll be fine. I haven’t made any promises. We’re just having some fun.’
‘Does she know that?’
‘I suppose so. We haven’t really spoken about it. But she knew what she was getting herself into.’
‘Really?’ His friend laughed and shook his head. ‘Good luck with that.’
5
Istanbul
Fat raindrops spattered on the slow-moving waters of the Bosphorus as Ben manoeuvred his decrepit motor launch between the bulky hulls of ferries crisscrossing between continents. His boat dipped and bobbed in the choppy swell and the motor roared as it plunged in and out of rank water scented with seaweed and sump oil.
He didn’t regret the substantial investment in his run-down seaside yalı. The roof leaked and the floors creaked, and he loved it. But he was less enthusiastic about the spur-of-the-moment decision to acquire a boat to get about town. Unfortunately he very quickly realised he was born a landlubber. He’d never really had the chance to sample recreational boating during the war when every occasion he found himself at sea had had an operational purpose and meant his mind was on something other than the movement of the boat beneath his feet. Now, he found that the persistent lurching made him queasy, and the salt spray on his face wasn’t bracing or refreshing, just irritating. Ilhan had warned him about the potential pitfalls of his house’s location, but, true to form, Ben had ignored him. Now he was damned if he was going to admit defeat.
At the time, the decision to move from his home base in the crowded streets and lanes of Beyoğlu on the city’s European shore to the gentrified surrounds of Üsküdar in Asia seemed intrepid and audacious. He had also figured that removing himself from temptation would force him to reform. But the move had come at a cost. Nowadays, when he felt the urge to socialise in the meyhanes and restaurants at the foot of the Galata Tower, the commute was murderous. He’d been on his best behaviour in the months after he’d opened the excavation on Mt Ida. But now the sirens’ call of the clubs and bars across the water was irresistible. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d ended the night passed out on the sofa in Ilhan’s apartment, only to wake and face a gruelling boat ride across the Bosphorus fighting the symptoms of a noxious hangover.
Ahead lay the salt-bleached timbers of a dilapidated jetty. Beyond that his two-storeyed home was set back from the water’s edge amid a lush and overgrown garden. He cut the motor as the launch eased towards shore. Through the arched window in the morning room, he could see Fi bent over a table, sorting through her portfolio of drawings.
His heart sank at the thought of what was to come.
Think of it as tearing off a bandage, he counselled himself. Just rip it off. Besides, you’re doing her a favour.
She looked up as she heard him docking the boat. The door out to the terrace opened and she flitted, barefoot, towards him through the ankle-deep grass, a newspaper held aloft to shield her head from the autumn shower.
‘Fi, do you have a minute?’
Shushing him with an upraised finger, she interrupted. ‘Later, Ben. You’ve got a visitor.’
‘Visitor?’ His muscles tensed as he feared the worst.
‘Superintendent Demir. And he doesn’t look happy.’
For a moment, he entertained the thought of jumping back into his boat and fleeing. But his infirm water vessel would be hard-pressed to outpace an arthritic turtle, let alone the Turkish water police. Besides which, he had nowhere to run.
With a rueful sigh, he turned towards the house.
The door to his study was open. Hasan barely seemed to register Ben’s entrance. He stood with his back to the door, deep in thought as he gazed out at the picture-perfect view of boats steaming along the Bosphorus; one hand rested on his hip, and the other absent-mindedly flicked a set of amber tesbih beads about his fingers.
‘Playing with your worry beads, eh?’ Ben tried to be flippant. ‘Never seen you with those before. Must be serious.’
The Turk turned, his expression dire. ‘Benedict. Something has happened at Topkapı –’
‘I can explain –’
‘Explain?’ Hasan’s face blanched. ‘Please tell me you had nothing to do with this – deceiving tourists, forgeries, that’s one thing. But murder . . .?’
‘Wait . . . what? Murder? What are you talking about?’
‘Fatih Alkan. The Head Librarian. He’s dead.’
Ben’s mind whirred. ‘That’s . . . I can’t believe it! . . . Murder? No! An accident, surely.’
‘Unfortunately not. One of the gardeners heard him screaming. He had to break the door down, and then he found . . .’ The Turk paused and drew a deep breath, crossing his arms in front of his chest. ‘Well, it was ghastly. Both his eyes scooped out of his skull and chunks of flesh torn from his bones. Like he’d been picked over by carrion birds. He died of blood loss before they could get him to a hospital.’
‘Jesus . . .’
‘When did you leave the library?’
‘It’s hard to say exactly – early afternoon. Do you know who did it?’
‘Not yet. But it’s not my case. The investigating detectives only contacted me because the appointment I arranged for you was in the librarian’s diary. And given the coincidence between your visit to the archive and his death, they’re very keen to speak to you.’
‘Why? I had nothing to do with it!’ Ben’s stomach dropped. ‘I don’t know anything! Christ! He was alive when we left. Ilhan can confirm that!’
‘Well, with the reputation Ilhan has acquired over the years, he’s probably not the best corroborating witness.’
‘Wait . . . there was a man . . . he passed us as we were leaving the library. At first I thought he was Turkish. But when I think about it, I’m not so sure. About my age. Not too tall. Heavy-set. Dark hair. It could have been him.’ His heart was racing. ‘Hell . . . what should I do?’
‘I don’t know that there’s much you can do. And that should concern you.’
‘Are you here to warn me?’
‘Despite our history, well, let’s just say I don’t want to see you blamed for something you didn’t do. You might find it hard to believe, but there are far more belligerent police in the force than me. The men who’ll be knocking at your door are a different breed. The death of such a revered public servant in such a horrible manner – they’re very eager to find someon
e to blame.’ He paused and locked Ben in a meaningful gaze. ‘Finding the truth is less important to them than arresting somebody. Whether or not they accuse the right suspect is irrelevant. And a high-profile perpetrator of a high-profile crime – it would be quite the feather in the cap.’
‘Looks like I owe you a debt of thanks.’
‘Yes. It’s getting to be a habit. One day I may need to call in the favour.’ Hasan paused. ‘There’s one other thing. The book.’
Ben flinched. ‘What about it?’
‘It was the only thing out of place – other than that poor man’s death, of course.’ Hasan looked Ben in the eye. ‘The edition of Balinas – it’s gone. Any idea what happened to it?’
‘I left it with Fatih. I don’t know where it went after that.’ Ben was relieved that he didn’t have to lie. It also didn’t hurt to know that if the book had disappeared, then nobody would notice it had a page missing.
‘And did you notice anything unusual about it that might suggest why Mrs Estelle Peters was so keen to examine it?’
‘No. Nothing. Just a run-of-the-mill transcription of the Emerald Tablet as far as I could tell.’ He winced. Now, that was a lie. ‘Sorry I can’t help, Hasan.’
‘No matter. So whoever killed Fatih took that book.’ He shook his head. ‘As I said, wherever that woman goes, trouble follows.’
Ben and Fi stood in uncomfortable silence by the road, waiting for the Kadiköy dolmuş that would transport her to the Eminönü ferry.
The rain had passed, leaving the air humid and heavy with the scent of damp earth and asphalt steaming in the sun’s hot rays. Ben’s fine cotton shirt stuck to his back and he could feel perspiration beading on his forehead. He rammed his fists deep into the pockets of his chinos and scuffed at the gravel by the side of the road with the heels of his worn work boots.
When he’d told Fi about the librarian’s death, he’d spared no details, hoping that it would stimulate her sense of self-preservation and prompt her to leave voluntarily. Most importantly, he thought the shock would make her forget Estelle’s involvement in the events of the past twenty-four hours. He was wrong.
The Emerald Tablet Page 5