The Showstone

by Glenn Cooper

  ‘I hate them. You?’

  ‘I hate them too. Always found them annoying. On digs whenever we have pottery shards to assemble, I leave it to others.’

  ‘How many pieces are there all together?’ she asked.

  He proceeded to do an inventory of the contents of the file box. All the samples mentioned in his father’s journal were there.

  ‘With the one piece we already have, there should be a hundred-five. They were found in three different grids reasonably close to one another but we don’t know if they were scattered and represent a single torn-up papyrus or whether the ones found together are from different sheets. I think we should start with the assumption that they were from three different papyri and try to piece them together that way.’

  ‘How should we do it?’ she asked. ‘Like an upside-down jigsaw puzzle or a right-side-up one?’

  He grunted. ‘Right-side-up I’d say. Let’s work together. I’ll start with shapes of pieces and the Aramaic letters, you refine by the phonetics to make sure we’re looking at whole words.’

  The irregular shapes and frayed edges made Cal think that the pieces had been torn by hand. One of the larger fragments gave another clue. It didn’t lie flat – there was a fold through it. Cal thought that a sheet might have been folded before someone ripped it to pieces. It took ten minutes of trial and error before Cal was satisfied he’d gotten a good match of two corresponding edges.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked

  ‘It seems like a good fit,’ she said. ‘Sound it out for me.’

  He pieced the phonemes together a few different ways with different intonations until she told him to stop. She started writing on a piece of scratch paper, trying a few things out.

  ‘I think it says, let them vex.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Pretty sure, yeah.’

  ‘Okay, then. Let them vex,’ he said. ‘We’re on the way.’

  She squeezed his hand like an excited kid.

  They worked for several hours but it was exceedingly slow going. The fragments were shaped similarly to one another and the handwriting was so sloppy that Cal came to believe the writer had not been a professional scribe. By the time hunger and fatigue overtook them, they had found only four contiguous pairings. They kept them pressed between two pieces of glass. Cal asked one of the conservators if there was a cafeteria in the museum and they went there on break.

  After lunch they returned to the laboratory and kept plugging away, but they had so little success that Cal reached a conclusion.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I think we’ve got to abandon the idea that there were three separate sheets. It’s got to be one bigger puzzle.’

  ‘I think so too,’ she said. ‘You want to do the honors?’

  He swore under his breath, reached for the folder, and began carefully removing fragments from the other two grid references. He laid them onto the table in their own groupings, ink-side-up. In case he was wrong in his assumption, he took multiple close-up pictures of each grouping to restore them to their original associations if need be.

  A half-hour later they had their answer. One fragment from one grouping paired perfectly with one from a different group.

  Cal sounded it out and asked her what it said.

  She sucked in a little air and said, ‘Cast down.’

  ‘Isn’t that interesting?’ he said. ‘Fallen angels, cast down to Hell?’

  ‘Cal, I’ve got a bad feeling,’ she said.

  All he could manage to say was, ‘Let’s just keep going until they close for the day.’

  When the conservators around them started packing up for the evening, they began tidying their work station. They had fourteen pairs and two triplets plated under glass to show for their efforts. The rest went back into envelopes.

  At the museum exit, Cal told her to stay alert. ‘He could be anywhere. Let’s grab the first taxi.’

  There was a taxi rank just off the museum square. They briskly walked over and hopped in the lead car. When the driver heard they were only going as far as the Four Seasons he began to argue, but Cal pushed a large-enough bill into his hand to shut him up.

  As they drove off, Barzani, who had been loitering in the square, almost lost his fedora rushing to the taxi rank. He climbed into the next available cab and ordered the driver to follow Cal’s car.

  After a few short blocks, the lead taxi pulled into the hotel forecourt and Barzani told his driver to let him out on the street.

  ‘Too fast, too fast!’ the driver complained in his best English, pointing at the meager fare in his meter. ‘I not take you if I know.’

  The big man swore at him and tossed some coins onto the front seat. Then he walked to the lobby and with his hat pulled low, had a look around. Cal and Eve apparently had gone to their room, so he settled into the farthest corner of the bar, ordered a soft drink, and made a call.

  ‘What’s going on, Tariq?’ Hamid asked.

  ‘They spent the whole day in the basement, in the papyrus room.’

  ‘They must have found it!’

  ‘Maybe, but I don’t know.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘Back at their hotel. I’m in the lobby.’

  ‘Okay, listen, Tariq. This is a good development. Keep watching them but don’t let them see you. Let them keep doing what they’re doing. When it looks like they’re ready to leave Cairo, that’s when you make your move, okay? I want the papyrus. You must not fail.’

  ‘And the stone?’

  ‘It’s somewhere in Cambridge. God willing, we’ll find it.’

  Up in their room, Cal was also on the phone. He got Julia D’Auria’s voice mail, but she called him back a few minutes later.

  ‘Funny ring tone,’ she said. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Cairo, Egypt.’

  ‘You get around. What are you doing there?’

  ‘On the trail of the papyrus.’

  ‘Must be a lot of them there. What can I do for you?’

  He told her he wanted to see if Detective Inspector Proctor from the Metropolitan Police had contacted her.

  ‘Yeah, he did,’ she said. ‘He sent us a series of shots of the suspect from CCTV outside the place where Rasouly was murdered.’

  ‘They’re calling it a murder?’

  ‘After the autopsy, yeah. It looks like his chest was compressed till he asphyxiated.’

  ‘Is it the same man?’

  ‘Looks like it. The thing is we haven’t put a name to the face yet. Obviously, he flew into London from the States but without knowing the flight details or even the day, it’s a needle in a haystack situation sorting through CCTV at the London airports.’

  ‘I think he may be in Cairo.’

  ‘What?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Somebody matching his description was poking around the museum.’

  ‘Jesus, Donovan, you’ve got to watch yourself.’

  ‘Believe me, I know. We’re going to get the hell out of here ASAP. But if he followed us to Cairo—’

  She finished the thought for him. ‘Yeah, this could help. What day did you travel?’

  He told her.

  ‘You don’t think he was on the same flight?’

  ‘We would’ve seen him.’

  ‘We’ll work with the British authorities. There are only one or two relevant travel days he could have used, yours and the day before. There can’t be that many flights a day from London to Cairo. I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Try not to get killed, all right?’

  ‘I’ve got very little interest in that outcome.’

  Cal and Eve didn’t venture out that night. They had room service on the balcony, watched the city lights and river traffic, and he drank half the mini-bar. Then they began in the living room and continued in the bedroom, making love until exhausted.

  They dawdled in the morning; there was no point leaving until the museum opened. On the way out, Cal told Eve to take he
r passport in case the security guard at the restricted area wanted to check their IDs against their passes.

  The conservators at the nearby desks were used to them by now and they got a few smiles as they settled in. The work progressed as before. There were no shortcuts. A couple of hours into it, Cal announced he needed a coffee badly.

  The cafeteria wasn’t crowded. He stirred sugar into his coffee. Eve poured hot water onto her tea bag.

  Then Barzani poked his head in.

  Perhaps he only wanted a coffee or a water and didn’t want to go out into the hot square. But it was a sloppy bit of tradecraft.

  Cal saw him right away. The squared-off, bulky body was unmistakable. Their eyes locked. Cal hadn’t seen the face under the balaclava. The man was older than he imagined; he fought younger.

  Barzani retreated.

  Cal waited a few seconds before reacting.

  ‘Eve, we’re leaving. He’s here.’

  ‘Who? Him?’ she said, looking around.

  ‘He saw me and backed off into the gallery. We’re going to leave through the courtyard.’

  ‘And go where?’

  ‘I don’t know. We’ve got to lose him and figure out what to do.’

  They cut through the courtyard and circled back around to the main entrance. Cal scanned the crowds by the audioguide rentals, the gift shop, and the ticket counters. He didn’t see him.

  Eve followed him out the door into the garden square.

  ‘Quick, let’s grab a taxi,’ he said.

  They were halfway to the taxi rank when Cal looked over his shoulder and saw the big man coming toward them.

  ‘Hurry!’

  The taxi rank was empty.

  Barzani had a hand in his pocket around a folding knife that would open with the flick of his wrist.

  He had a makeshift plan.

  He’d follow them into a crowd, cut Cal’s throat from behind first, then hers, and leave them to the screaming masses. Then he would backtrack to the museum, barge into the papyrus laboratory, get someone to show him what they had been working on, and take it.

  Would it work?

  He didn’t know but George Hamid would expect him to try.

  Cal knew none of this but he was scared. He reached for Eve’s hand and simply said, ‘Run.’

  Their hand-hold lasted only until the first knot of tourists blocked their way. They went around them, Cal to the left, Eve to the right, and reunited side by side. Cal’s plan was to outrun the killer back to the hotel, and once safely in their room, maybe call the police, maybe get the FBI to help with the authorities. To get there they’d have to pass through Tahrir Square, which would be packed with people and cars this time of day. The problem with the plan was that Eve was wearing loose sandals and she couldn’t keep up. The sidewalks were baking hot so barefooted running wouldn’t work either. The big man’s long legs were getting him closer.

  They had to circle around Tahrir Square to get to the Four Seasons. A quarter way around, Cal saw they weren’t going to make it. He had been forced to slow down for Eve’s sake and the killer was gaining on them too fast. Glancing down El Tahrir Street, Cal saw something.

  Slowing the man down wasn’t good enough. If they were going to get out of Egypt alive they needed to stop him cold.

  ‘This way,’ he shouted.

  ‘The hotel’s that way,’ she shouted back.

  ‘I know. Come on!’

  There was a cafe with an awning a hundred meters down the street and Cal pulled her inside.

  Barzani was right behind them, out of breath. He paused outside the cafe and looked like he was going to come inside, but when he saw them getting seated at a window table he backed off. He crossed the street, keeping them in sight, and leaned against a wall, panting and sweating, using his fedora as a fan.

  Inside, a waiter gave them menus and a bottle of water.

  Cal was drenched. Eve used a napkin to dry her face and neck. Their stalker was in plain sight, staring at them like a hungry wolf.

  ‘Eve, here’s what I want you to do.’ Cal rattled off instructions and finished with, ‘Can you do it?’

  She nodded, took a drink of water, and asked the waiter where the toilet was.

  Through the window Barzani saw Eve getting up from the table. He started to move but held off when he saw Cal staying put.

  Eve ducked into the toilet, quickly washed and dried her face, then made her way to the open door at the rear of the restaurant. There was an alleyway lined with garbage cans. She went in the opposite direction from the square and at the first parallel street she made a right, heading back to El Tahrir Street, about a block from the cafe.

  The police car Cal had spotted was double-parked midway between the cafe and where she was.

  She slowly approached it, head down, until she was at the window. Two policemen were inside. She tapped the driver’s window with her knuckle. The officer lowered it and looked at her suspiciously.

  A blast of air-conditioning hit her. ‘Do you speak English?’ she asked. ‘Can you help me?’

  ‘What is the trouble, miss?’

  Barzani was about fifty meters away on the other side of the street, staring straight into the cafe window. It didn’t look like he had seen her.

  She pointed. ‘That large man, over there, across the street. He assaulted me.’

  Both officers craned their necks. ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He was walking behind me. He put his hand up my skirt.’

  The policeman stuck his head out the window a bit to look her up and down.

  ‘Maybe you shouldn’t wear these kinds of clothes in this country. Egyptian men are not used to this.’

  His partner laughed.

  She was dressed demurely, at least by Western standards, but Cal had told her the conversation might take that turn.

  ‘I don’t think he’s Egyptian.’

  ‘Not Egyptian. You sure?’

  ‘Pretty sure.’

  She leaned toward the officer, getting a few inches from his face so he could hear her talking low. Even though she was on foreign soil in a culture she didn’t understand, her job back home dealing with aggressive, burly contractors clamoring for her building permits prepared her for dealing with this type.

  She gave him her friendliest smile. ‘I know how busy you men are. You have a very important job. But I would greatly appreciate it if you could help me.’

  She reached into her bag for the cash that Cal had thrust in her hand. She dangled the wad in front of his face.

  ‘Do you think, for a thousand dollars, you could hold that man for at least two hours?’

  The officer diverted his attention from her breasts to the money.

  ‘One thousand dollars for two hours,’ he said, his eyes widening.

  ‘At least two hours.’

  He took the cash and said, ‘A foreign man should not do something like this to a nice lady such as yourself.’

  With that, he put his car in gear, pulled a U-turn, and switched on his flashers. He stopped in front of Barzani and both policemen got out, unholstering their guns.

  ‘You, mister, I want to talk to you.’

  Cal saw what was happening, dropped some money on the table, and left the cafe.

  By the time he and Eve began running toward the museum, Barzani was in handcuffs, shouting and cursing in the back of the police car.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Krakow, 1587

  The beginning of the end was three years earlier when John Dee and Edward Kelley received the 48th Call. Dee had been entirely satisfied with the explanation that the one missing call was not for man to possess but Kelley had vehemently disagreed. He stewed with anger when Dee would not allow him to press the case to Ilemese, Nalvage, or any of the angels who appeared in the showstone.

  The years in Krakow had not been fruitful for the fortunes of either man.

  Nothing had come from Prague. Dee had waited for over a month for his audience with the Holy Roman Emperor
. Rudolf was known to have a deep interest in spiritual, mystical, and occult matters and Dee’s conversations with angels were well known. During their hour-long meeting, Dee stood or kneeled before the Emperor, lecturing him in mathematical detail on his personal forty-year quest for spiritual enlightenment and his insights into the mysteries of Creation. The monarch sat on his throne listening, his Habsburg jaw set, saying little, occasionally stroking his face in non-comprehension of Dee’s arguments. Finally, in frustration, Dee lashed out as he might to a dim student saying, ‘If you will not hear me, the Lord, the God that made Heaven and Earth, will throw you headlong down from your seat.’ The audience concluded shortly thereafter and unsurprisingly, patronage was not granted.

  Back in Poland, both Dee and Kelley increasingly turned to alchemy to solve their monetary woes. They often pressed the angels to guide them to hidden troves of treasure, but the responses were vague. Dee continued to labor at his alchemical laboratory at the university and Kelley, who had been booted from his own laboratory in the university district over failure to pay rent, persuaded some local merchants to give him money to buy glassware, scales, and burners to conduct experiments in more modest rooms, promising fat returns if he succeeded in making precious metals. When these efforts came to naught, Kelley became increasingly fixated on the belief that if only he could acquire the 49th Call, he might, from a fallen angel, receive the knowledge needed to find the philosopher’s stone, the substance that would transform his meager alchemy laboratory into a gold factory. But every time he broached the topic with his employer, Dee sternly rebuffed him. For his part, Dee was so distracted by his financial predicament that he hardly had the time or inclination to use the precious angelic calls to explore the hidden springs of the universe. Most nights the showstone lay in its box, unused.

  Edward Kelley had even more frustrations. As his wife Jane grew plumper and more complaining, Kelley’s obsession with the other woman in the household began to dominate his waking thoughts. Jane Dee’s iciness merely inflamed his passions and he resolved to find a way to have her.

  Then he had an inspiration.

  On a chilly early April night, he was scrying with Dee in the older man’s study. Peering into the showstone, he told the magus that a black velvet curtain had parted revealing the angel Zebaoth. What followed was a sermon on their need to be diligent in obedience to their superiors and to do justice to angelic direction.