by E. M. DAVEY
“All total conjecture, of course,” said Jenny.
“It’s a lead, though,” said Jake. “Trust me, I’m a journalist.”
She raised an eyebrow. “No comment on that. Anyway, everything in this file’s a bloody lead.”
Jake closed the box. “Thank god I wrote a good review of Beloff’s book.”
“You did it because you’re a good man.” Jenny accepted his gaze for the first time since the reunion. “A fair man. You refused to follow the pack. You gave Michael Beloff a fair crack of the whip, when everyone else was getting their kicks in.”
Her hand flinched on the table and for a joyous heartbeat he thought she was going to place it upon his. She did not.
Jake looked at her hand, so slender, so strong.
Looked at her hand …
And it came to him.
“Beloff’s painting,” he said. “We know from the Telegraph article that the inscription depicted on Napoleon’s scroll is unknown. But what of the handwriting?
*
Before they departed, Jake sought Ursula Beloff again. “What was your husband reading in the weeks before his death?”
The widow wrinkled her nose. “I haven’t a clue, books were arriving here the whole time. Have a look in his study if it satisfies you.”
Jake scrutinised the historian’s bookshelves. The recent Etruscan connection was evident: in a library chiefly concerned with the nineteenth century, books on ancient Italy had carved themselves a niche.
And there, slap bang in the middle of Beloff’s desk, was a package wrapped in brown string. It was decidedly book-shaped.
“This one arrived two days after Beloff was killed,” said Wolsey, studying the postmarks. “Sent from Henry Pordes Books in Charing Cross.”
“Knock yourself out,” said Mrs Beloff.
Jake tore open the paper to reveal a tome bound in red leather, marbled down the sides.
Napoleon at Fontainebleau and Elba, Being a Journal of Occurrences in 1814-1815 with Notes of Conversations, by Sir Neil Campbell.
“Elba!” Jenny exclaimed. “Napoleon’s gilded cage. Where he was held before escaping for his last hurrah and Waterloo.”
“Pithy title,” said Jake. “This is a first edition, published in 1869. Must be eye-wateringly valuable.”
Michael wouldn’t have had it any other way,” said Mrs Beloff. “Keep it as a souvenir if you’re interested, darling. I ain’t gonna read it.”
“Sir Neil Campbell was a British colonel,” Jake read from inside the cover. “When Napoleon was exiled to Elba after his first abdication – before his escape and restoration to the throne – Campbell was sent to the island to keep an eye on him.” He weighed the book in his hands. “This is a first-hand account of Napoleon’s imprisonment at exactly the time he disposed of the Disciplina Etrusca.”
30
Tiwai Island loomed through the mist, a vision of Avalon in the dawn whiteout. Captain Bracknell thought the rebels were more likely to be sober at daybreak, not so erratic. Less chance of us getting fucked, as he put it. Serval was glad of the soldier’s presence in the dinghy as it buzzed across the waterway, and his eyes narrowed as he scanned for signs of life on the island. A crocodile propelled itself from the bank and arrowed away across the river; Wally’s head had disappeared, and Serval imagined the two were not unconnected. The boat sat low in the water, heavy with tins of corned beef and sardines, sacks of sugar and rice. A white flag fluttered at its prow and Suleiman the fixer clucked with anxiety. When they were close enough to see the bloodstains on the canoe, Bracknell cut the engine. The dinghy drifted along the island with the current.
“Flag of truce,” shouted Captain Bracknell as reams of trees slid by. “Don’t shoot.”
The island was still.
“We come in peace,” murmured Serval.
A rasping noise above surprised them: a single hornbill, tracing a line through the sky like a Reaper Drone as air vibrated through its wings.
Silence again.
“SBU sir, over there.” The translator pointed at movement in the forest.
“SBU?” said Serval.
Bracknell smiled sadly. “Small Boys Unit. Their abbreviation, not ours.”
The children emerged silently from the mist, like spirits of the forest arraying themselves along the bank. They were naked or dressed in rags, armed with machetes, Kalashnikovs or bows and arrows. One brandished a golf club. The tallest wore a grimy Real Madrid shirt with Cristiano Ronaldo’s name and number on it and a pair of yellow Y-fronts. He said something to a lieutenant and the nine-year-old bent double with a jerk of laughter which evolved into a swaggering dance. Bracknell started the engine and kept it to a low burble, holding the boat stationary.
“Good morning, lads,” he shouted.
The resultant dutiful chorus of good mornings could have come from a primary school classroom anywhere in the world.
“I want to talk to Jason Bourne,” Bracknell said. “Where’s the boss?”
“He sleep pasmak,” said Ronaldo, toeing the ground shyly.
“He sleeps late,” translated Suleiman.
“It’s about time you woke him up then, eh?” shouted Bracknell.
The riverbank blared with hoots and screeches of laughter.
“’im angry, if ahmbohg,” the child disclosed, exposing beautiful teeth.
“He gets angry when he’s humbugged,” said Suleiman.
The child levelled his AK at the boat, wobbling under the weight of it.
“Bang-bang! Bang-bang!”
All three men flinched. More laughter, tiny heads bobbing up and down.
“Come along now.” Bracknell raised a bag of sugar to instant silence. “One of you run and fetch Jason Bourne – and I’ll give you some of this stuff.”
After a huddled conference the smallest child was dispatched, leaping and bouncing away through undergrowth and fallen trees. He returned with three men. One of them was naked, the second had no ears and the third wore a red flat cap, pink sunglasses and a Hawaiian shirt, like a pimp from 1970s Harlem.
“None of these guys are Bourne,” Bracknell muttered.
“I know, I’ve read the file.” Serval raised his voice. “I’m coming ashore.”
Flat Cap barked something in Mende and the bank bristled with assault rifles. Arrowheads meandered in circles as infant arms strained to keep bowstrings taut.
“I’m coming ashore,” Serval repeated calmly. “We’re unarmed.”
A child lost his grasp on a bowstring and the arrow whistled high into the air at a skewed angle before landing in the river with a plop.
Flat Cap burst into laughter. “You kin kan insai, baboonay.”
You can come here, white man.
Bracknell gunned the motor. “You’ve got some cahoonies, Jacob.”
“Not at all.”
The dinghy coasted in to land and Serval clambered ashore, offering Flat Cap his hand.
“Jacob. Pleased to meet you. I’ve brought these gifts, with compliments of the British people.”
Flat Cap’s eyes went left. “Wetin dis man no ears?”
Serval’s hand hung in the air. “Is this a joke? I don’t know. Why does he have no ears?”
The naked man giggled. “Jason Bourne dohn eat.”
Jason Bourne has eaten them.
“Aw yu lekh am?” Flat Cap asked his comrade.
“How did you like it?” translated Suleiman.
No Ears smiled. His expression was diffident, rather sad.
They will eat you up.
Serval lowered his hand. He was not smiling any more.
“I warn you, you will find me a better friend than an enemy. Fetch Jason Bourne right now.”
Flat Cap removed his sunglasses and the men stared into each other’s eyes. Serval’s face had a fierce intensity and his glare bored into the warrior’s skull. The SBU fell silent. Flat Cap swallowed and glanced downward. When he resumed eye contact his smile had become fixed, a little si
lly.
Serval had not flinched.
Flat Cap nodded toward the jungle. “Kam.”
Come …
“Tell Bourne to come here,” ordered Serval.
Flat Cap shook his head.
“He won’t come to the water’s edge,” Bracknell muttered.
The rebel’s confidence was returning and he mustered a grin. “Us time you de go?”
“When shall we go?” Suleiman translated smoothly.
“Don’t,” warned Bracknell. “They’ll kill you for sure.”
“You return to base,” said Serval. “I’m going to make friends with these chaps.”
“Jacob, this wasn’t part of the plan …”
“Captain Bracknell. Your orders are to offer me every assistance. I require the services of your very capable translator. That is all. If you don’t wish to accompany us, the boat’s right there.”
Bracknell shook his head and he leaned an elbow on Serval’s shoulder. “Oh Jesus. Ooooh Jesus Christ. I should have my head examined.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m coming with you, man.”
*
The daylight in the jungle was feeble. A few shafts of light sliced through the canopy high above and steam billowed through the trunks. Serval glimpsed the black and white tail of a colobus monkey dangling like a curtain tassel before it darted away. Human excrement glinted in the grass and a naked woman watched them with a dull stare.
“Bush wife,” explained Suleiman. He was shaking with fear.
Warriors slumbered on the ground, oblivious to the mosquitoes. Those awake wore New York Raiders caps, basketball shirts and baggy jeans. Their skin was freshly scarified with brown-brown, the potent mixture of gunpowder and cocaine rubbed into sliced bodies. Serval spotted the charred bones of a chimpanzee, scored with knife marks. He was reminded of a line from Kaplan’s The Coming Anarchy.
A rundown, crowded planet of skinhead Cossack and Juju warriors, influenced by the worst refuse of western pop culture and ancient tribal hatreds will find liberation in violence.
They were led into a clearing. Hammocks were strung from trees; muscles gleamed; ammunition belts were slung over shoulders. Bandanas were worn and joints smouldered between teeth.
“Not small lads, are they?” said Bracknell.
A hush fell over the encampment at Bourne’s approach. He was powerful but obese, like a black Pavarotti with his thick beard. He carried a sabre, and the ensemble was piratical in the extreme. He wore the Stars and Stripes as a cape, and on his head was a hot pink rabbit hat, something a twelve-year-old girl would wear. It had long fluffy ears and one glass eye had shattered.
“You must be Mr Bourne,” said Serval. “Charmed.”
The warlord’s smile turned into a sneer, the sneer became into a scowl, then his bloated face was full of violence and he pointed the sabre at Serval.
“Go insai bak.”
Yahooing and war cries. Rough hands, grips. Knives and fists. Serval took a blow to the jaw, another to the kidney. He lashed out twice, felt a queer twist of joy as his knuckles connected with a face. (How soft it was! How squishy!) He was jerked off his feet; glimpsed Bracknell on hands and knees, bleeding from the lip. Suleiman stood wonderstruck. They were dragged through the forest at speed, toes brushing the ground, like French aristocrats borne off by the mob. Serval took a meaty blow to the forehead and blacked out completely.
He revived in time to see a bamboo grille in the jungle floor rushing closer. It was opened and headfirst into a latrine he went, crashing into two feet of sewage. Suleiman and Bracknell were flung in after him and the bamboo jaws snapped shut with a rickety crash. This was followed by the tinkle of urine as ten men relieved themselves through the gate. Into Serval’s face, his hair.
“I’ll kill you!” Serval was white hot and he lunged for the grille so wildly he nearly dislocated a shoulder. “Kill you, kill you, kill you!”
Surprise once more, at this thing he’d found in himself. This jet fuel. But the grille was out of reach and the men simply laughed, jiggling the last drops of urine over the prisoners before sauntering away.
The pulse of anger subsided.
“You all right, mate?” Captain Bracknell was wide-eyed.
“Fine.” Serval wiped slurry off his cheek with a brawny forearm. “Sorry about that.”
“Understandable in the circumstances,” panted Bracknell through gritted teeth. “We’re in a bit of a pickle, but they’ll get us out. The British Army’s rather good at that sort of thing, actually.”
They weren’t alone in the pit. A boy of about six shrank against the mud walls, cowering in fright. The wounds where they had whipped him half to death were turning septic. Serval remembered the girl in the slum.
Her flaking skin.
He had absolutely no idea where all this would end.
31
Jerusalem’s preeminent forensic handwriting expert resided in Yemin Moche, a neighbourhood of cottages overlooking the walls of the Old City: built as poor houses, now worth millions. The hillside was presided over, obscurely, by a windmill. Meshi Aberlieb was a Falstaffian figure with a jovial burst of goatee beard who looked like he’d swallowed a barrel. It took the old man three hours to make a leap that had eluded Sotheby’s, the Telegraph, Michael Beloff and MI6. Aberlieb rose from his study, rolling arthritically back through the little house. He brandished two pieces of paper. The first was a photograph of Beloff’s painting, the second was an Etruscan inscription. The words were different. But the script was exactly the same.
“Sit, sit,” he said.
Aberlieb lowered himself into a rocking chair and smoothed his beard. He sighed contentedly. His eyelids began to droop.
“Mr Aberlieb?” Jenny touched him on the forearm.
Aberlieb awoke with a jerk. “Ah! Yes, yes.” He placed half-moon spectacles on the very tip of his nose. “Pardon me, madam. This inscription, this inscription,” he raised the two pieces of paper, “I think is by same hand. But this is, ah, not normal case, no. I must make you the warnings.”
Jenny nodded, urging him on.
“First warning. You have here painting of manuscript, not original. So all depends on painter, yes? If painter is true to life, if has talent. Warning two. In the painting is a small sample, only three sentences. On sample this size, not good evidence in court, no. Judge is laughing at me.”
“I see,” said Jenny.
“Three. I am expert in Hebrew, Arabic, Roman script. Not this, this Etruscan. This also serious problem, yes? Because I not know which characteristics of the letters belong to the individual, which part of the general style. Is making difficult. No good for court of law. But, ah, you cannot prosecute the dead, yes? Mr Aberlieb have nothing to fear from Napoleon Bonaparte. So I can say, I think I know.” He lit a cigar end and puffed away, rocking on his chair. “Mr Aberlieb know.”
Jake and Jenny shared a secret smile. They shared a fondness for the human species, in all its wondrous variety.
“So, I find this inscription,” said the expert, waving the printout.
Jake was surprised to see strips of linen, adorned with runic letters.
“First of all, I look for signs these two writings are by different writers, yes?”
Silence as they awaited the verdict.
“I find nothing, no. Nothing to say is different scribe.”
Jake breathed out.
“Second of all, I look for signs that it same person, yes? Here, much to commend the theory. Letter forms are same. Relative height of big and short letters is same. Slope of hand, spacing of letters, also same. Line quality is similar. Motor actions behind the hand movement …” His head tilted from side to side. “They could be the same man. If painter is good painter.”
“How sure are you?” asked Jenny. “Give us a percentage.”
“If artist can paint like take photograph, I am eighty to eighty-five per cent sure. Also there is this.”
He pointed at a letter i
n Beloff’s painting that resembled a double axe head.
“And also here.”
The same symbol on the linen.
“What’s the significance?” said Jenny.
“This form of the letter, I cannot find anywhere else, no. Is unique. Maybe it came into use locally for short time before went away. To conclude, Mr Aberlieb think artist was painting this book of linen. One of the missing segments, yes? Because handwriting is same, but words are different.”
Something between hope and fear inflated Jake’s lungs. “Where’s the linen book from?”
“Egypt.”
“Egypt,” Jake repeated. “Egypt!”
In Egypt I was full of dreams. I saw myself founding a new religion, marching into Asia on an elephant, the new Qur’an in my hand.
“Correlation is not causation, Jake,” said Jenny. “But I’ll give you this – the correlation here is pretty damn strong …”
Aberlieb handed him the linen book’s Wikipedia entry. “I print it for you.”
At 1,300 words, the Linen Book of Zagreb is the longest known Etruscan text. The manuscript has been carbon dated to approximately 200 BC, give or take a few decades. Although linen books are thought to have been used widely in the ancient world, it is the only one to survive from antiquity, preserved because it was later used to bandage a mummy in Ptolemaic Egypt. The text is a ritual calendar, an instruction book for religious rites. It formed a part of the Disciplina Etrusca.
Jake blew air into his cheeks before continuing.
The story of its discovery is fascinating. In 1848, a Croatian bureaucrat bought a mummy in Alexandria. When it was unwrapped, an unidentified language was discovered on the linen. Both mummy and bandages were subsequently donated to the Archaeological Museum of Zagreb, where they remain. During the nineteenth century numerous experts examined the linen, including the Victorian explorer Richard Burton, who was interested in the Etruscans. But it was not until 1891 that the writing was proven to be Etruscan. It is not known who wrote the manuscript, nor how it came to be in Egypt. However, there is evidence it originated in northern Italy. The twist of the thread is in a ‘Z’ direction, typical of that region – whereas Egyptian linen of the period has an ‘S’ thread. Another curious feature is that the linen was carefully cut into strips with scissors before being wound around the mummy, whereas mummy linen was usually roughly torn.