by Chad Brecher
Jonas straightened his back and pulled the chair close to the table.
“You are not the best dealer. What would prevent me from taking this tubing and leaving you with nothing? Always have the other person show their cards first. You are in the driver’s seat. Or were,” Jonas said.
“I am a priest…I am not a dealer,” said Father Marconi. He was aghast.
“A pity. Don’t worry, Father. We are not evil. Quite the contrary,” the well-dressed man replied. “GBM,” he added matter-of-factly.
“Scusi?” replied the priest with a look of annoyance.
“Glioblastoma Multiforme. It’s what you have. It’s the most aggressive form of brain cancer. The glial cells that compose part of your brain have decided to divide and grow uncontrollably. There is no cure. You will be dead in three months.”
“But a cure?” The priest looked around the room desperately.
“No cure, I’m afraid. But I do give you hope.” The man reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a blue vial. He held it up between his right thumb and middle finger. “I’m holding a sample of RD-485. It’s not available on the market now and may not be available for some time. You will be long dead before it receives a proper name and graces the pages of magazines and television commercials. We are making this available to you in a limited, advanced engagement. This medication is designed to specifically target your tumor.”
“It is safe?” asked the priest.
“Three months, Father. Three months is all you have without treatment. I believe it is safe to say that you are beyond the concern for safety.” Jonas ran his hands through his hair. “You must take these pills four times a day. On the first Monday of each month, a new supply of medication will be left in this safety deposit box.” The man patted the black metal box at the edge of the table. Father Marconi made a mental note of the number of the box. He looked down at the table as Jonas pushed a key across it.
“You’ll need this,” Jonas added.
“It will work…yes…it will work, the pills?” implored the priest.
“We will see. I guess we will have to have something you already know quite a bit about…faith.”
“How can I contact you?” asked the priest.
“You won’t be able to. All contact will be severed today. You will get the pills as promised. That is our deal. I will follow through on my side as you have followed through on yours.” The man got up from his chair and placed the tubing under his left arm.
He extended his hand and helped the priest to his feet. “Good luck, Father. I know this was a difficult thing for you to do, but you have done a good thing — something that will help the world one day.”
The priest shot the man a perplexed look. Jonas winked, turned away from Father Marconi, and walked slowly to the door, then paused.
“Good luck, Father,” Jonas muttered again, before pulling open the door and walking out.
The priest could hear the door snap shut behind him. He looked down at the palm of his hand. The blue vial felt cool. There was nothing written on it, no name, no instructions. He had heard of people given placebos — sugar-pills — in scientific experiments without their knowledge. What if that is the case? Have I been duped? It was too late. The man had already left.
Faith?
The priest sat down on the chair and cradled his head in his hands. He hadn’t cried like this since he was child.
Mosul, Iraq
2005
Ellie felt ridiculous. The oversized blue flak jacket dug into her thighs as she reached up to steady her helmet. The Armored Personnel Carrier had temporarily come to a halt before suddenly lurching forward, nearly catapulting Ellie from her seat. White-knuckled, she clung to the metal frame underneath her as she fought to steady herself and keep the growing nausea at bay.
“It’s like Heart of Darkness,” Gordon muttered, wiping beads of perspiration from his brow with the black and white handkerchief tied around his neck. “To think, you fought tooth-and-nail to come with me. Two hours in a windowless tin can. Not a heck of a lot of glory. Having any second thoughts?” Gordon cocked his head, slightly curling his lips into a wry smile. It was a smile she had become familiar with over the past couple years.
Ellie brushed back a strand of blond hair and poked Gordon in the chest, shooting him a look of false indignation. “Gordon, my dear, don’t forget that Hamzi is my contact. MART would still be searching the cellars of the Iraq National Museum without me. I think I earned this, don’t you? I’m not a schoolgirl.”
Gordon nodded as he rubbed his brown beard, allowing the smile to temporarily reappear. “Dr. Griffin, one thing I learned quickly is that you are definitely no schoolgirl, and there is no convincing you otherwise once your mind is made up. You are as stubborn as they come.”
‘Stubborn’, ‘recalcitrant’, ‘pig-headed’, and ‘fixed-in-your-ways’ were all things she had heard before during her days at Oxford. She had secretly enjoyed terrorizing the ancient, white relics who filled the Antiquity Department. Tenured and mired in old-fashioned ideas and theories, these tweed-wearing academics would invariably cross paths with the seemingly demure five-foot-four Brit and make a monumental miscalculation. Once challenged by Ellie, they would be left to putter around the university, greeting her entrance into a room with uncomfortable coughs and averted eyes. Such was the legacy of Eleanor Griffin.
When she was recruited to join the Mesopotamian Antiquity Recovery Team, or MART for short, she was chosen precisely because of her passion for the field of antiquities, as well as her uncompromising drive. It was a fire in her that immediately attracted Gordon and terrified him at the same time. She could be a force of nature, remarkably beautiful and unpredictable.
He had seen countless young academics come his way through the years. As a minor celebrity in the field of Mesopotamian archeology, Gordon had the opportunity to teach many of them in the classroom and on archeological expeditions throughout the Middle East. But Ellie was special. This fact was unmistakable. She had a gift for the field. Perhaps it was genetic — Ellie was after all the only child of the late-great Harold Griffin, world-renowned Egyptologist. The more time he spent with Ellie, the more Gordon was confronted with a feeling that rarely surfaces in the life of an accomplished academic: the uncomfortable realization that a student’s career will inevitably eclipse one’s own. Staring at her in the stifling heat of the APC, he quickly computed the ratio in his head…nine parts pride, one part jealousy.
A rhythmic clanging echoed through the vehicle. Ellie’s eyes drifted away from Gordon and caught the glare of a soldier in desert fatigues hunched over the barrel of an M-16. With sunken cheeks and dark eyes, the soldier scowled and continued to rap the butt of his gun against the reinforced steel floor.
“Will you quit it, Macowski? Jeez,” piped up a soldier beside Ellie who had remained silent, seemingly comatose, since they left the base. He now squirmed uncomfortably in his seat as the vehicle slowed.
Macowski stopped, laid the barrel of the gun across his lap, and leaned back. Ellie felt uneasy as the soldier’s eyes followed her own. “Hey Sarge…why we risking our lives for a piece of pottery? Shit. I didn’t ship over to this hell-hole, and I mean freakin’ hot-as-balls hell-hole, to get shot up so we can find Queen Who-Gives-A-Shit’s clay dildo.”
“Shut it, Macowski. I’m sorry we had to drag you away from the PlayStation at the base, but you got a job to do. I don’t care if you don’t like it,” snapped Sergeant Rafferty. It had not taken Ellie long to realize that this sergeant ran a tight ship. His loyalty lay with the mission and keeping the soldiers under his command, many of whom were fresh out of high school, alive. He was ruggedly handsome with gray hair and faded blue eyes and carried himself with a calm confidence that somehow seemed to keep the wheels from falling off the wagon. Ellie could imagine him joining the ranks of the military analysts that were spreading across American newscasts — delivering good or bad news with a matter-of-factness that allowed the vie
wer to finish dinner. The sergeant nodded to Ellie as if to apologize.
Ellie could feel Macowski’s eyes searing into her and she began to resent how uncomfortable she felt amongst the men. She pushed her helmet back off her forehead and leaned forward. “You know, it is more than just a bunch of clay pots. These artifacts are thousands of years old. They’ve withstood earthquakes, floods…” she motioned around the vehicle “…wars, and it would be criminal to just write them off. These items are older than the Bible, for Christ’s sake. Some of these items are the oldest artifacts produced by mankind still in existence. I’d say that it is worth our lives to find them.”
Macowski rolled his eyes. “Speak for yourself,” he mumbled under his breath and looked away.
Ellie could feel Gordon’s hand slide into hers. His lips brushed against her ear momentarily. “Well done. I hope they don’t decide to leave us here.”
Here…where exactly is here?’ Ellie thought, feeling increasingly claustrophobic in the APC.
The last year was a blur. The images of Iraqi’s celebratory toppling of statues of Saddam Hussein had long faded from television sets across the world, replaced by questions about faulty prewar intelligence and an increasingly deadly insurgency.
The looting of Iraq’s vast collection of Mesopotamian artifacts had become emblematic of mistaken priorities and served as an embarrassing black eye for an already beleaguered American administration. The international press lambasted the military’s defense of the oil ministries while widespread ransacking of the nation’s heritage was tolerated. Prominent figures in the field of antiquities were already labeling it as one of the greatest calamities in history — a cultural Chernobyl.
To counter this criticism, the United States government had organized a motley assortment of task forces, mixing together FBI and customs officers, ex-special forces, and even New York City detectives. Interpol, for its part, had expanded investigations into international rings specializing in the illicit acquisition and trade of Mesopotamian antiquities, but with only lukewarm results. Several of the most famous pieces had resurfaced predominately intact, including the Lady’s Head from Warka and the Bassetki Statue. The Warka Vase, dating from 3000 B.C., was eventually located but had not fared as well — it was broken into numerous pieces. Thousands of other items had not been recovered.
Conspiracy theories inevitably began to swirl as the media filmed empty but intact display cases and storage units in the National Museum in Baghdad. The robberies seemed focused and deliberate. The questions mounted. Were the thieves organized? Were these inside jobs? Some even argued that the American military itself had systematically emptied the museums.
In this atmosphere, MART was well-positioned. As an NGO, or non-government organization, MART was attractively “independent.” Amply funded by private, often anonymous donors, MART was seen by the government as a bargain as the financial costs of the occupation continued to soar. As Iraq increasingly slipped towards civil war, the government readjusted its priorities and happily passed the baton into Gordon’s hands.
Gordon Russell had been a professor at the Oriental Institute at the University of Chicago for over a decade before the war broke out. He enjoyed the unique status of being one of a handful of American scholars permitted into Iraq during the Baathist regime to help supervise several archeological expeditions in Umma, Nippur, and Lagash. Under seemingly constant surveillance by Saddam’s security minders, Gordon was able to navigate a political tightrope, successfully arranging for cultural exchanges even in the midst of seething hostilities.
It was in Nippur that Gordon first encountered Ellie. At the time, she was squatting in an excavation pit holding a nearly intact water vase.
Gordon had knelt down beside her and said, “Now there’s a find. May I?” Ellie smiled and handed over the jug. She watched as Gordon peered at it from every angle, finally holding it aloft against the desert sun before handing it delicately back. “I can already see it on the cover of Biblical Archeology Review. What do you think, 2000 B.C.?” Gordon asked with a smile.
Ellie grinned back, shielding her eyes with her hands. “Try 2000 A.D.” Ellie tilted the jug precariously in her hands; “…probably made in China. I bought it from that bloke selling postcards over there. I thought my aunt might like it. But something tells me you knew it was a fake.”
Gordon chuckled briefly, shrugged, and extended his hand. “I’m Gordon Russell.”
Ellie placed the vase down on the sand beside her and rose to her feet, her hands finding the small of her back. She accepted his handshake and replied, “I know who you are, Dr. Russell. I’ve read all your work on the Great Ziggurat of Ur. Your book Excavating Ur was a bit long-winded for my taste, although I did cough up fifteen pounds or so for it. The way I see it, you owe me a cup of Turkish coffee at that price. It was highway robbery, if you ask me. I much preferred your earlier work on religious iconography in early Babylon when you were still at Columbia.”
Gordon scratched his head in amusement. “Well, you seem to know all about me. Other than the fact that you are spot on about my book — I could have used an editor with a very large chainsaw — I know nothing about you.”
“I’m Eleanor Griffin from Oxford. I’m your new assistant. And I wasn’t kidding about the coffee.”
Ellie flourished in Iraq. She organized several excavations on the outskirts of Nippur, uncovering an ancient Jewish settlement built upon Babylonian ruins. Unlike many of the expatriates who tended to gravitate towards each other socially, Ellie intentionally pulled away from her colleagues and immersed herself in Iraqi culture — making friends and contacts in the small but active local antiquity community. It was through these contacts that Ellie found herself one weekend in Baghdad on a private after-hours tour of the National Museum with Hamzi.
Hamzi Hussein, although unrelated to the Iraqi dictator, had enjoyed the benefit of the doubt in pre-war Baathist Baghdad. He grew out the regulation Saddam moustache and slowly clawed his way to the coveted position of security chief at the National Museum. He knew every hall, display case, and storage closet better than the faces of his own children. He boasted that he probably knew more about the museum collections than even the curator.
During their private tour of the museum, he directed Ellie through the Sumerian gallery. Pausing periodically to admire a cuneiform tablet, he suddenly pulled her aside and whispered that he had seen many wondrous, secret artifacts hidden in the vaults of the museum, items that even Saddam himself did not know about, items of great historical importance. When pressed about the nature of these items, Hamzi grinned devilishly, brought the tip of his index finger to his lips, and shook his head disapprovingly.
“I should have never spoken of this. If you speak too loud, they can come one night and…” Hamzi frowned, dragging his finger across his neck. “…zippp…you and your family. This is a strange country and even stranger times. Yes, let’s go. There is more I wish to show you.”
Knowing all the chambers in the museum turned out to be very useful. When the smart bombs began to fall and the Americans pushed into the city, Hamzi was set to act. The time was ripe. He knew the right men for the job and most importantly, he knew the right exits.
After the fall of Saddam, Hamzi vanished into the chaos. When Ellie returned to Iraq as a member of MART, she immediately began to track the shadowy figure through black market channels and successfully made contact one afternoon in a Baghdad restaurant. Feigning illness, Ellie left Gordon and the team at the hotel, slipped the hijab over her head, and melted away. At the restaurant, she listened as Hamzi spoke of tablets, ancient maps and seals, and of artifacts unseen for centuries.
Hamzi drew a white napkin across his mouth, temporarily letting his fingers run across the smooth spot beneath his nose where his moustache once sat. “I want you to know that it is not all about money. I, too, love these artifacts, this history…just like you. You understand? I have many suitors, unscrupulous people who would offer quite a lo
t. I like you. I always have. I want you to keep it safe, you see. It is not all about money, but I am a businessman, too. I have a family and you must see, there are no heroes in Iraq. Do you understand? Do you trust me?” Hamzi brought the cup of tea to his lips and paused.
Ellie pulled the hijab taut against her head and whispered, “I trust you.”
Hamzi smiled and jotted down a number on the napkin, pushed it across the table, and stood up stiffly. “When the time comes, it may be necessary for me and my family to leave this country, and I will need your help. Ellie…it is good to see you. Be careful in all this madness.”
Ellie watched as Hamzi retreated towards the door and out to the street.
“This is it!” barked Sergeant Rafferty. He tightened his helmet strap beneath his chin and watched as his soldiers filed quickly out of the APC and into the searing yellow sunlight.
Ellie and Gordon followed the soldiers, nearly stumbling out of the vehicle as they tried to shake off the heaviness that had seeped into their legs during the trip.
Mosul was a maze of narrow streets — a city where mosques, churches, and ancient fortifications were interspersed with stores and marketplaces. As one of the most ethnically diverse Iraqi cities, simmering sectarian divides were threatening to erupt into violence. As much of central Iraq slipped into disarray, the City of Two Springs seemed to be bracing for the inevitable fall.
As the sergeant conferred with another soldier beside an armored Humvee that had pulled up alongside the APC, Ellie watched as the remaining soldiers crouched with the barrels of their guns directed towards the surrounding windows and rooftops.
“Over here!”
Ellie and Gordon turned to see the soldier who had confronted Macowski squatting behind the bumper of the APC. He motioned to them with the wave of his hand and a look of exasperation. As they pushed their bodies against the steel frame, the soldier quickly glanced back and said, “You’re going to get yourself killed. There could be snipers, IEDs, god-knows-what…jeez.” The soldier looked away, training his gun on the empty street.