by Phil Swann
“Well, I'm not crazy about it either, but things are the way they are. Sometimes in my job I have to make deals I don't necessarily like in order to get done what needs to be done for the museum…and for history. Call it the cost of doing business.”
Ellie could see she had pushed a button with Beatrice and dialed it back. “I know. I'm sorry, Bea. I can be a bit of a brat sometimes.”
“That's okay, luv. You're entitled to be incensed. Makes my job easier knowing someone gets to be.”
Ellie offered Beatrice an understanding smile.
Beatrice continued, “So what do you want to do?”
“Find out for sure what this thing is and how it got to Nigeria. This could turn a monumental victory into a catastrophic disaster for the museum.”
“And me,” Beatrice Whitt added.
“Well, we can't let that happen, can we? We need answers.”
Beatrice walked across the room, nibbling on a nail. “Who knows about this?”
“Just you.”
“You've told no one? Not even that pilot who flew you out?”
“No,” Ellie answered, waving her hand, “of course not.”
“Well, that's something in our favor. Okay, here's what we're going to do: get this to the lab—use the one up in Redbridge, no one's there. I'll make sure it stays that way.”
“I'll need a tech,” Ellie said.
“Right,” Beatrice replied, her pacing becoming more deliberate. “We’ll use Stewart. We can trust him to keep his mouth shut.”
“Stewart's good.”
“Find out everything there is to know about this lyre,” Beatrice said, pointing to the ancient instrument. “Lord, if I have to tell the Nigerians the Noks were a settlement of ancient Greeks, they'll go insane. They'll claim it's another European narrative created to show Aryan superiority. Of course, that won't matter because my own government along with British Petroleum will probably hang me by my tongue in Trafalgar Square.”
“That's not going to happen, Bea,” Ellie said, putting her arm around her friend.
“You're right. You'll be hanging with me. Now get in the shower, Dr. Scotes,” Beatrice ordered, heading for the door. “You still have work to do.”
»»•««
The mid-morning drizzle did little to assuage the horde of busy Londoners from getting on with their day. Buttoned-down professionals and hipsters alike, each immersed in the importance of his or her own life, myopically hurried past the neat garden squares and Victorian terraces that showcased the cosmopolitan area of central London known as Bayswater. No one gave a second glance to the black London cab parked off Leinster Place, a block west of Ellie's flat but still within clear view of the building's entrance.
“She's coming out,” the young woman in the passenger compartment said into the phone. She gestured to the driver, who began moving slowly down the block. “Yes, a lab in Redbridge.” She listened. “Understood.” The young woman placed the phone inside her purse and nodded to the driver. Both removed earpieces, hiding them under their collars.
Beatrice Whitt stepped out of Ellie's building and opened her umbrella. She looked at her watch. If she hurried, she could get back to the museum, deal with some paperwork, and make it up to the lab by day's end. She saw the taxi down the block and raised her arm. The car rolled to a stop in front of her. The passenger compartment door opened, and a young woman in a dark business suit got out. The woman smiled and held the door as Beatrice closed her umbrella.
“Thank you, dear,” Beatrice said, getting into the cab.
“My pleasure, ma’am,” the young woman replied, closing the door behind her.
“The Museum of Great Britain,” Beatrice said to the driver.
“Very good, ma'am.”
The cab driver turned off the “for hire” sign and drove away.
Chapter Thirteen
Ben got up before the sun the following morning—which was easy given he never fell asleep to start with. But before even getting out of bed, he called Timon. The old man didn’t pick up, and Ben assumed he was still asleep like most of Nashville. He left a brief message saying he would be heading out in a few hours and he’d call back later. It was a meaningless message, but Ben wanted to call anyway for no other reason than to make sure the previous night’s events weren’t just an alcohol-induced dream. Just having the hotel operator connect him to Timon’s room without hesitation was enough. He was real. It wasn’t a dream. It did happen.
After tidying up the bedroom and making the bed, Ben proceeded downstairs and went at the kitchen. Two hours later, the science experiment growing in the sink had been terminated, the table cleared, and the counters scrubbed back to their original color. Without thinking, Ben tore through the rest of the house with a garbage bag, gathering up empty bottles of booze, fast food bags, and a sundry of Thai take-out containers. The entire house needed to be dusted and vacuumed, but Ben conceded that was going to have to wait until later. The sun was now up, and it was time to get on with the day. And what a day it should be.
When he phoned Paul and asked if they could meet at their office, he could tell his friend didn’t recognize his voice at first. It occurred to him after he hung up he actually called Paul ”Pauly”—he hadn’t called him Pauly since before the assassination, and for that reason alone, Ben guessed, was why Paul readily agreed to cancel his morning appointments and meet. It wasn’t until he was in the car cruising out Murfreesboro Road that another realization hit him; he actually felt good—not great like everything was back to normal but still, good. Moreover, he knew why. For the first time in—he couldn’t remember how long—he was making a proactive decision instead of reacting to shit coming at him. He wasn’t fooling himself. He knew it was highly unlikely the numbers Tom muttered were a combination to some secret safe. The idea was ridiculous on many fronts. They were more than likely just the ramblings of a dying man. But at the moment, that didn’t matter. What did matter was it just wasn’t another day of waking up and instantly going into duck and cover. He was on the offensive, he was doing something to change things, and it felt damn good. And who knows, he considered, even if only half of what Timon Baros had told him last night was true, then maybe there really was a reason to all the insanity. And if that were the case, he was going to do everything in his power to get to the bottom of it.
Ben pulled into a gravel parking lot in front of what looked to be an old silver railroad car. This was his and Paul’s office, the corner booth in a small diner fifteen miles southeast of Nashville. The regulars knew it as Flo’s, all others by the name on the hand-painted tin sign in front, Good Eats. This was where he and Paul had hatched their enterprise way back when. Over the years, it had remained the secret destination when one of them needed to get off The Row and talk, or have a good laugh, or a bitch-fest without the ears of the entire music industry listening in. Ben smiled when he saw Paul’s black S-Class Mercedes already parked in the parking lot.
“Hey, man,” Paul said as Ben walked into the empty diner.
“Hey,” Ben replied, sliding into his side of the booth. They’d tacitly chosen their respective sides years ago and hadn’t altered them in over a decade and a half.
Paul cut right to it. “So what’s going on?”
“Not much,” Ben answered as a woman came to the table.
“Coffee, boys?”
“You bet,” Ben said. “Also, I’ll have two eggs, over medium, with bacon and grits.”
“Biscuits or toast?”
“You have to ask, Flo?” Ben replied with a wide smile. “Biscuits, of course.”
“Just coffee for me, thanks,” Paul added, watching Ben carefully.
“Comin’ right up,” the woman said, writing as she walked away.
“Not eating?” Ben asked Paul.
“Already did. What’s going on, Ben? Why are we here?”
Ben raised his hand to signal Paul to stop talking as Flo returned with two cups of coffee.
“Thank you, m
a’am,” Ben said.
“You’re very welcome, darlin’,” Flo replied.
Ben waited until the woman was back behind the counter. “It’s a real nice morning, isn’t it, Paul? I mean, for September, it’s not too hot or too chilly, and the humidity is actually tolerable. I think it’s going to be a beautiful day.”
“Okay, now you’re just scaring the shit out of me. Are you dying or something?”
Ben chuckled. “Well, there’s a thought. Between the lawsuits, the boycott by radio, and there not being an artist in the western hemisphere who’ll even consider cutting a Ben Lambros song, I’m pretty much screwed. Death wouldn’t be the worst thing…but no, I’m not dying.”
“So what the hell’s up?”
“Why would you think something’s up?” Ben said, sipping his coffee.
“Well, for one thing, you actually seem happy. For another, you shaved and your clothes don’t look like you slept in them.”
Ben laughed again and toasted his coffee cup. “Touché.”
Paul replied with a stare.
“Okay,” Ben said, looking over his shoulder before leaning into the table. “Here’s the thing. You’ve been a real friend, and I want you to know I’ll never forget it. I want to tell you something. I can’t tell you a lot, but you of all people deserve to know something.”
“Know something about what?”
“I’ve recently…acquired some information about Tom’s murder.”
“What kind of information?” Paul replied, leaning into the table himself.
“I can’t tell you. All I can say is it has to do with my family, actually, mostly my dad, but that’s not important. What’s important is it could change everything.”
“Change everything, how?”
Ben looked around the diner again. “I might be able to prove that I was set up, put in that room on purpose when Tom was killed. Also, I might be able to prove D.J. was a patsy.”
“Seriously?” Paul whispered.
“Very seriously.”
“How? Why were you put in the room? Ben, how do you—”
“That’s really all I can say, Pauly. It’s crazy, right? At first, I didn’t believe it myself, but now I think I do. I was set up, and I’m going to find out by whom.”
“Where did you get this information?”
“Buddy, really, I can’t say anything more. I just wanted you to know.”
Paul fell back in the booth. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You’re to say nothing,” Ben ordered. “Paul, I probably shouldn’t have told you what I have, but…you know, it’s you. But you can’t tell anybody. Got it?”
“Of course,” Paul replied. “Is there anything you need from me?”
Ben smiled. “No, but thanks.”
Just then Flo arrived with Ben’s breakfast.
“Oh, man, this looks great, Flo,” Ben said. “Thank you.”
“You got it, darlin’,” Flo replied, warming up both Ben’s and Paul’s coffee. “Let me know if you boys need anything else, you hear?”
“You bet,” Ben replied, staring right at Paul. “I’ll let you know if I need anything.”
Paul nodded, and Ben knew he’d made himself clear. His friend wouldn’t push the subject any further nor utter a word of it to anybody. Beyond loyalty, one of the many admirable traits of Paul Welker was complete discretion. He’d built a career on it.
Effortlessly the subject changed. Ben asked how things were on The Row and enjoyed hearing Paul dish the latest twang-town dirt. He was also amazed to learn how none of it was about him. Life goes on, he thought, as Paul dished on. He’d been so removed from anything remotely related to the business that everything Paul said sounded new again. It was still the same chorus of who’s sleeping with who, who got axed, and who’s about to get axed that Ben had been hearing for years, but still, right now, it all sounded new again, and it felt good.
Paul graciously picked up the check, leaving a healthy gratuity. Before reaching their cars, Paul turned and took Ben’s hand to shake. “I mean it, Ben. You need anything…”
“I know. Thanks, Pauly.”
“So where’re you off to? Or can’t you tell me?” Paul asked, opening his car door.
“I’m off to see Stevie Donnellson.”
“No way.”
“Then, I’m going to see Sarah.”
Paul looked confused for a moment until it dawned on him who Ben was talking about. “Sarah? Sarah Lambros? As in your brother’s wife, Sarah?”
“Yeah.”
“Holy shit,” Paul replied, running his hand down his face.
“Uh huh,” Ben said, opening his car door. “Should be an interesting afternoon.”
“Do they know you’re coming?”
“Hell no,” Ben answered. “I need to talk to them. If they knew I was coming, they might leave the country.” Ben smiled and got into his car.
Chapter Fourteen
At six-feet-five, one hundred sixty pounds, Stewart Duff Cornwall MacDougall was a redheaded string bean of contradictions. While holding advanced degrees in chemistry, art history, geology, and anthropology, Stewart also boasted the largest collection of Star Wars action figures in the UK. He enjoyed playing the bassoon, but took his football equally as seriously. He liked beer, chips, and sausages, but had an almost pathological hatred for fish. He volunteered for the homeless pantry at a church, but sported a tattoo on his left arm that read “Galileo Galilei was screwed.” People who didn't know the young Scotsman tended to write him off as an oddball. Those who did know him, of which there were few, thought of him as a brilliant young man still searching for what he wanted to be when he grew up. Both characterizations were wrong. Stewart Duff Cornwall MacDougall was simply curious about everything.
Stewart pulled the latest data from the mass spectrometer and studied it. It was the third pass, and the results were predictably the same, but the orders from Beatrice Whitt and Dr. Scotes were clear; check, double check, and then check again. He looked up when he heard the sliding glass doors open. Ellie entered the lab with a yawn and a cup of coffee.
“Did you have a pleasant nap, Dr. Scotes?”
“Thanks, Stewart, I needed that,” Ellie said, rolling her head from side to side. “Still a bit knackered from the trip, I guess. Have we heard from Beatrice? I tried her cell, and it went straight to voice mail.”
“No, ma’am. Did you try her office?”
“They haven’t seen nor heard from her since early this morning.”
“She told me she’d be lying low until we had some answers. Perhaps she is.”
“Perhaps. Okay, from the top, where are we?”
Stewart sat up straight and delivered his report like a good soldier. “We have confirmation on many of the assumptions we made at the outset. However, there is some new data that I am having difficulty processing. Obviously, that brings me discomfort.”
“Okay,” Ellie replied. She could tell Stewart had discovered something while she'd been on the couch in the outer office, something he couldn't explain. Stewart didn't like the unexplainable; it went against his basic view of the world. Watching him wrestle with it was like watching a supercomputer trying to repair its own glitch. “Well, go on.”
Stewart put down the paper printouts and considered his words. “It's Mycenaean, no question. Carbon dating definitely puts the tortoise shell sound box at around 1420 BCE to 1460 BCE. However, from the looks of the crossbar, or yoke as it's sometimes called, it’s slightly newer, probably replaced sometime around 200 CE, which wouldn't be surprising given that this instrument has been played a lot.”
“How can you tell?”
“By the bridge, look at the wear,” Stewart said, his gloved hand indicating toward the bottom of the instrument. “You can see indentations where strings under tension crossed and connected to the tailpiece. It had seven of them—strings, I mean.”
“You are an old girl, aren’t you?” Ellie said, picking up a magnifying glass and
looking where Stewart was pointing. “Not as old as the Lyres of Ur but still…” Ellie glanced up. Stewart’s eyes asked the question. “The Lyres of Ur date back to 2600 BCE. They’re considered the world’s oldest surviving stringed instruments. In 1922, Dr. Leonard Woolley led a team that discovered four instruments as part of an excavation of the Royal Cemetery of Ur.”
“Brilliant. Where are they now?” Stewart asked.
“Distributed between the museums that took part in the dig. The University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology hold two. One called the Queen's Lyre, because it was found in the grave of Queen Pu-abi, is here in the British Museum. But the best of the lot was the Golden Lyre of Ur. It was given to the National Museum of Iraq. Unfortunately, it was severely damaged during the second Iraqi War. Man's mindless ability to kill and break things never ceases to amaze me.”
“Are you a pacifist, Dr. Scotes?”
“No, I'm not,” Ellie answered, returning to the magnifying glass. “I come from a military family, Stewart, both sides, going back generations. I'm not naïve to the fact there is evil in the world and that humans have been killing each other since the beginning of time. I just wish we weren't so bloody good at it. Continue, please.”
Stewart nodded. “It’s amazing any of these instruments survive. They're not exactly built to last. Which makes the condition of this one even more brilliant. Look at these curved arms extending from the sound box. Hollow.”
“Yes, for better tone, I suspect,” Ellie said, looking where Stewart was pointing.
“It must have sounded awesome. If it weren't a priceless artifact, I'd be slapping some gut on this baby right now and—”
“Yeah, that's not going to happen,” Ellie interrupted.
“How was this instrument tuned, Dr. Scotes?”
“Two ways. One was to turn these pegs on the tailpiece, not unlike how we tune a guitar. The other was to change the placement of the strings on the crossbar itself.”
“You wouldn't know how to play it, would you?” Stewart asked.
Ellie gently picked up the instrument. “You held it upright, like so. Then you strummed or picked the strings at the top. You used your other hand to touch the strings down here around the sound box to silence the notes you didn't want to be heard.”