Lisa Emmer Historical Thrillers Vol. 1-2 (Lisa Emmer Historical Thriller Series)

by Rob Swigart

  “In our calendar, yes, but our March-April was the first month in Mesopotamia, the time of the winter harvest and the beginning of dry summer. The year started with the first new moon of spring. The fifteenth day…”

  “Full moon! And this, ‘two years after Mari was destroyed’?”

  “Dates it to the reign of Sargon of Agade, twenty-third century. Mari is down the Euphrates from Harran, seen here as a snake, and the distant future he writes about is….”

  “Today.”

  “More or less.”

  The door to the apartment opened and Ted bustled in holding a take-out bag from a Japanese place on St. Germaine. “Dr. Izri, you must be hungry. Breakfast was far too small. Do you like sushi?”

  Usem looked puzzled. “I’ve never had it.”

  “Well, you’ll love it, won’t he, Mrs. Maintenon?”

  “He certainly will,” Marianne replied. She placed a large bottle of beer on the table next to the sushi. “Cuvée des Jonquilles, according to some France’s finest beer. We’re told it goes well with tuna tataki and salmon roe.”

  Ted, wearing his customary blue smock, added, “We have half an hour to enjoy our meal. Then, I’m afraid, we must prepare for a guest.”

  “What guest?” Frédo exclaimed.

  “A man named Nizam al-Muriq called. He’s coming to visit. I believe you know of him.”

  “At the house at Monceau. I only got a glimpse, but he was scary.”

  “Yes,” Ted said drily. “So I’m told.”

  “You’re letting him come here?” Frédo was shocked.

  “Oh?” Ted’s reaction was mild, almost indifferent. “You think I should not have given permission? Lisa approved it. We, Marianne and I, thought you knew.”

  “No!” Frédo was on his feet. “Nizam’s people attacked this place. They brought snakes…”

  “We know this, Frédéric. Lisa suggested we let him talk. He’s coming alone and unarmed.”

  “I wouldn’t trust him,” Frédo said.

  “Of course not,” Ted answered mildly. “He wants the tablet, of course, so it will be hidden. You might also want to eat your translation or something.”

  “Are you ser—”

  “No, we’re not serious,” Marianne said. “Are we, Mr. Maintenon?”

  “Certainly, we’re not serious. You don’t have to eat your translation. You might even have to give it to him in the end. It won’t matter. But he must not have the tablet itself. We’ll tell him a story.”

  “Whatever story you tell, he won’t believe,” Usem said quietly. “He’s too smart and too suspicious. Paranoid. He’ll tear this place apart.”

  “Lisa’s instructions are to keep the enemy close,” Ted assured him. “We’re all here to make sure he doesn’t get into too much mischief.”

  “Oh, God!” Frédo moaned.

  “Come,” Ted said cheerfully, snagging a piece of sushi from the plate and popping it in his mouth. “Enjoy lunch. I’ll just put this somewhere safe.” He slid the tablet into the hollowed-out Lettres Philosophiques and carried the book upstairs.

  The meal was just over when the street buzzer sounded. Nizam al-Muriq stared into the camera at the street door. Moments later Frédo opened the apartment door.

  Al-Muriq’s black robe was divided horizontally by a crimson sash and decorated with red piping. The robe shimmered as he walked across the parquet toward the dining area. A large crucifix swung at his side. His movements were small, precise, and economical to the point of obsession. He seemed not just reluctant to part with a single unit of energy, but to hang on until the very last moment. He stood in the archway and a stillness gathered around him that seemed to suck air out of the room. He said nothing.

  A snake twined up the crucifix and draped over both arms of the cross. Its head hovered where a crucified man’s would be.

  Marianne tidied up the last of the meal when Ted returned from upstairs. Usem and Frédo sat at the opposite ends of the now bare table. They looked at the visitor.

  “Please, sit, monsieur,” Ted said, indicating a chair.

  Nizam nodded once and sat. Again, his stillness seemed to deprive the room of oxygen.

  Marianne returned. Ted offered her a chair opposite their visitor and sat down next to her. They exchanged surreptitious looks.

  Frédo’s hand furtively touched his jacket pocket, hoping the gesture was invisible: al-Muriq’s eyes were so dark and featureless it was impossible to know where he was looking, what he saw.

  “You’ve come to see us,” Ted said affably, breaking the silence. “What is it you want?”

  Al-Muriq seemed to be sorting through responses to this question. He chose one. “Three good men disappeared into this place. I wanted to see it. They had names: Kemal, Toufic, and Shamaoun.” He shook his head slowly. “Martyrs.”

  “We know nothing of these men,” Ted said.

  “Of course not.” Al-Muriq said, turning his head toward Usem. “The Tablet of Destinies.”

  “What of it?”

  “It is a sacred text and belongs with us.”

  “You didn’t even know it existed until I found it,” Usem said mildly.

  Nizam raised a finger. “Now that,” he said, “is where you’re mistaken. We have long known of the tablet, have been looking for it since an omen priest in Harran named Udnamekam wrote it. Unfortunately, he shattered it and sent pieces all over the land between the rivers before he could be stopped. For that, Udnamekam came to a very unpleasant end. Don’t desire to join him.”

  Ted pursed his lips. “Even if we had it or knew where it was, we would have to clear it with the woman who owns this apartment, wouldn’t we, Mrs. Maintenon.”

  “Indeed we would, Mr. Maintenon.”

  Nizam’s lipless mouth opened so slightly it was more the symbol of a sarcastic smile than a real one. “Don’t try my patience, M. Maintenon. Lisa Emmer, Pythia of this Delphi Group, isn’t here and her absence puts you in charge.”

  “The tablet isn’t here, either. She took it with her.”

  “You lie.”

  Ted shrugged. “Feel free to search the apartment.”

  Nizam’s right hand lifted a centimeter from the surface of the table and fell back. “Later, perhaps. For now, I’m quite sure Dr. Izri has translated the tablet and can tell us it’s precise contents.”

  “Why would I…?” Usem began.

  Nizam dismissed the interruption. “Having made that assumption, and knowing him as I do….”

  Usem gulped, and cleared his throat. “I don’t know you.”

  “Perhaps not. You were sleeping very soundly when we met. But do I know you, Dr. Izri. Now you have translated the tablet, you may give it to me. Don’t lie or pretend it’s too difficult. I will know.”

  Usem looked at Ted, who nodded.

  The old man took folded sheets from his jacket pocket and handed them across the table. Nizam picked them up and scanned them, a deep frown carved between his brows. He tossed the papers aside. “These are notes. It’s good they confirm the omens, but I require something more complete than this scribbling.”

  “I haven’t had time,” Usem protested.

  “Mmm.” He turned to Ted. “Perhaps I will look around, now.”

  “Certainly,” Ted replied. “Come with me.”

  They toured the apartment. Ted described the art in the salon with its bookcases and cabinets, the harpsichord and music. He took Nizam through the kitchen, pointed out the antiques in the dining area. Nizam opened all the cabinets, pulled out all the drawers. His eyes twitched in small increments right and left, taking in everything. He murmured appreciation for the beauty of the apartment. Ted answered his questions fully.

  He paused once to admire the famous forgery of William Byrd. He reached out to touch it, but stopped at the last moment.

  Ted released a silent sigh of relief. It was surely best if Nizam didn’t get a chance to examine the monitoring equipment it concealed.

  Frédo and Usem remained at
the table, listening to the tour’s progress. Ted and Nizam started up the stairs and Frédo whispered, ”They really call him The Gnome?”

  “I was more asleep than awake, but I’m sure he wasn’t in the room when they called him that.”

  Frédo’s smile spread and lingered and died away. His hand was on the oily weapon in his coat pocket, and he nodded to himself. “He looks like some kind of gnome, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, but I think they only called him that behind his back. Why? What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing much. Just that it’s easier to have him here if I think of him as a small garden statue.”

  Usem tried a smile. It nearly succeeded.

  Upstairs Nizam was admiring the Sarouk carpet in the study. “Fine work,” he said, rubbing his shoe over the nap. “From Markazi Province in Iran, not far from Alamut.” He looked at Ted. “You know of Alamut?”

  “Of course, home of the Assassins.”

  “Mmm.” Nizam examined the bookcases, opening each glass door and reading the titles aloud.

  The window behind the ornate desk was closed to keep out the traffic noise from the rue du Dragon, but the windows over the court were open to let warm, humid afternoon air waft in.

  The books radiated the warmth of old leather. Al-Muriq touched a spine and questioned Ted, who shrugged. He removed it and carefully turned over a few pages. “A 1679 edition of Histoire de Théodose le Grand by Valentin Esprit Fléchier,” he murmured. “A real treasure, this. Your employer has very good taste.” He replaced it.

  Ted murmured something indistinct.

  Al-Muriq’s hand stopped at the Lettres Philosophiques and Ted swallowed hard. “Voltaire,” he murmured. “A very misguided man. One could hardly call him a philosopher.” He released a puff of air and moved on.

  After skimming the rest of the titles and occasionally touching the bindings, Nizam searched the desk, pulling open drawers and sifting through their contents. Since he was pawing through even the smallest items, Ted saw he really had no idea of the tablet’s size.

  After they surveyed the two bedrooms and the bathroom, al-Muriq proffered a bleak smile and suggested they return to the others.

  “It’s not here,” Frédo said.

  Ted put his hand on the back of Marianne’s chair. “He knows.”

  “She took it with her,” Frédo added.

  Nizam tipped his head to one side and looked askance at Frédo. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Frédéric Daviau. A colleague.”

  “Ah, yes.” Nizam’s tug at his chin with the tip of a forefinger displaced his lower lip, such as it was, into a kind of pout. “You were the one who overpowered Walid. And you were the recipient of this man’s package.”

  “I never saw the package,” Frédo said truthfully.

  “Perhaps not, but you were responsible for Walid’s detention. We had some difficulty attaining his release. You were also at Alamut helping to abduct Dr. Izri from our care two days ago.” He dropped his finger. It touched the odd crucifix hanging at his hip, and repeated, “Two days. So much can transpire in two days. So much. As we now all know, time is very short. Dr. Emmer and the Canadian are making inquiries in Turkey.”

  “What makes this tablet so special?” Usem asked mildly, suppressing the tremor in his voice. “To you in particular, I mean.”

  Nizam sniffed. “The tablet….” He paused and continued, “I can’t tell you that. You’ll have to take my word for it, what Dr. Emmer is doing is extremely dangerous. She has no idea how dangerous. You should warn her.” He turned back to Usem and his voice hardened. “Now, you will bring me the tablet.”

  “I don’t know where it is.”

  “Wrong answer.” The Gnome withdrew into himself, and his sudden unnatural stillness inspired dark foreboding in the others.

  Marianne froze in place next to Ted, who gaped open-mouthed. Usem’s eyes were closed. Possibly he was praying.

  Frédo slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, fist clenched to quell the shaking. He relaxed his fingers and wrapped them around the butt of the revolver, taking comfort from its oily warmth. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “That’s awkward.”

  Nizam’s head tilted a fraction.

  “I don’t like it. That was a threat,” Frédo observed. He could do nothing to control the slight tremor in his voice, but he pressed on. “Usem is the most truthful man I’ve ever known. He does not give wrong answers. And we do not like threats.”

  The V between Nizam’s dark brows tightened. “Threat?” He sounded genuinely puzzled. “There was no threat, it was an observation. Dr. Izri gave the wrong answer. He has the tablet. He will give it to me.” He took a step toward the old man.

  Frédo leaned forward. “Stay away from him.”

  Usem looked at Frédo. “Now, Fréd…”

  “I said stay away from him.”

  Nizam took another step.

  Though the unnatural calm of his movements, their economy and control, were more ominous than any overt threat, Frédo’s dogged determination remained. “That’s far enough.”

  Nizam turned his head. His tongue darted between his lips, out and back. “What are you going to do, shoot me?”

  Frédo, staring back into those blank eyes, slipped the gun from his pocket.

  Nizam dismissed him, and returned his attention to Usem. He took a third step. His thick, powerful hands rose, reaching toward the frail old man’s neck. His thumbs would press against the sides of his windpipe and he would squeeze slowly until Usem cooperated or the breath stopped in him.

  “I’m warning you,” Frédo shouted.

  Al-Muriq was a step away from Usem and didn’t respond. The old man’s watery eyes showed he knew the meaning of fear. He had the tablet. He would hand it over.

  The sudden explosion of the revolver thundered in the enclosed space.

  The Divine Mother

  The dark blue windowless bus did not slow as it rumbled under the sign identifying Şanlıurfa GAP Havalimani, Urfa’s modern airport. The driver ignored the guard window and passed the commercial terminal to pull up beside a Gulfstream 500 business jet.

  Discreet blue letters under the pilot’s window identified the plane as Agronatur. Apart from the tail numbers, there were no other markings. The pilot’s head was down and he did not acknowledge the arrival of his cargo.

  A special doublewide door on the bus slid open, extruding a platform. A hydraulic lift pulled alongside. Four men wheeled a large motorized box 2.43 meters wide from the bus, across the platform, and onto the lift. The lift rose to a special cargo door, where the men maneuvered the dolly inside and locked the box in place.

  The four men then took their seats and settled in. Moments later they were nearly asleep. The entire slow, deliberate operation had taken twenty-three minutes.

  The bus drove away, and ten minutes later the plane was climbing to 40,000 feet, where it flew for four hours and seven minutes on a course a few degrees north of west. The four men awoke and stared out the windows in silence at the scattered clouds. One by one they dozed off again.

  Clouds increased as they moved west, and closed in as they began a descent two hundred nautical miles from Asturias Airport. Had any of the men been awake they might have caught glimpses of the Bay of Biscay off to their right, but when they did wake up they were flying inside dense cloud. They landed straight in on runway 29. Moisture streaked the windows. Gusts shook the jet as it touched down.

  The Gulfstream rolled to a stop on a remote concrete pad at the edge of the sea. The engines whined down. Waves of rain rattled against the fuselage.

  Fifteen minutes later a motorized lift and black cargo truck pulled up next to the aircraft. The rain had stopped. The lift rose to the cargo door, and the truck backed up to it. The four men brought out the pod, lowered it, and rolled it onto the waiting truck. When it was secured inside they closed the back. They could see nothing as the truck drove away. Although they had come from outside the Eu
ropean Union, no one, no officials of any kind, challenged them.

  The pilot watched the truck disappear into a rainsquall. When it was gone, he made himself a sandwich in the galley, settled into one of the white leather seats, and opened a short book called Ophiolatreia: An Account of the Rites and Mysteries connected with the Origins, Rites and Development of Serpent Worship, in various parts of the World, enriched with interesting traditions and a full description of the celebrated Serpent Mounds and Temples, the whole forming an exposition of one of the phases of Phallic, or Sex Worship. He considered it entertaining nonsense.

  The bus drove for an hour. It took the peripheral road around the city of Oviedo and pulled into a warehouse on the southern fringe of the city. The steel door rolled down with a clang. Inside, the eldest of the men prepared a meal for the occupant of the pod.

  The others settled in to wait.

  Celia at the Crossroads

  Monday afternoon Sister Mary Lamiana instructed Sister Rafael to bring Celia back from the infirmary. They walked down hall after hall, up stairs, another hall. Celia saw dark clouds through the few windows not blocked by shutters, and yearned to be comforted. She wanted to be inside them, wrapped in their moist, directionless cover. She could be invisible.

  She knew her baby was strong, but it still needed her protection. It was not a simple thing, rejecting Father’s enticements. It was different now. Now she scared him. He hurt her. Once he had told her she was vulnerable and now she no longer believed him.

  Weak as she was, she could fight back. She had pushed him away, stopped what he was doing with his black instruments, his bag. His fists, she remembered his fists. He was trying to kill her child.

  This would not happen. She would not allow it.

  She was on her bed back in her cell. That’s what they called it— a cell, like the ones they had in jail. She had been there once, in jail, for days, perhaps weeks. It was when she was younger, thirteen or fourteen, after her mother died, but she remembered the loud crash of doors, the unending coughing and singing.