Alex Mitchell - The 13th Tablet

The fact that the tablet had been found in Mosul was good news, but he had to be careful this time. He had been indirectly involved in the looting of the Baghdad Museum, and although no-one had pointed a finger in his direction, many people knew that the lootings were too well organised to have been as random as it might have seemed at first.

He stopped on his front steps to catch his breath and measure his pulse. Excellent. He did not smoke, hardly drank, had a trainer and a dietician working for him round the clock and enough money to last him, his three ex-wives and their descendants for generations to come. He was clever, handsome and rich. But, what he really craved was power and he did not yet have enough of that to satisfy him. As much as he lied to the world, he was always completely honest with himself.

Showered and refreshed, Wheatley walked into his private museum. The walls were covered with exquisite paintings by Braque, Monet and Picasso. But these paintings were merely a screen for his real passion. He pushed a button on a remote control and a large mirror glided silently to one side, uncovering a hidden metal door. He punched in a code on his remote, and the door clicked open. He strode down a glass corridor. At the far end stood another door and beyond it, a bank of monitors linked to complex seismological, barometric and humidity measuring devices. He closed the door tightly behind him and walked through to the end door. As he pushed it open, dimmed lights automatically came on throughout the large room.

This was the place where he kept his most valuable treasures. Even Natasha, who knew so much about his quest, was rarely permitted to enter this vault. In the back room he had hung famous paintings of the Biblical flood story. It had taken him almost two decades to buy or steal these paintings, most of which had been replaced by the faithful copies now admired by curators and the public alike in many illustrious museums and galleries. A series of glass cabinets snaked their way through the room. They contained dozens of cuneiform tablets, stone fragments, Chinese oracle bones, European papyri and manuscripts, all with some relevance to the primordial flood. Over the years he had wasted precious time researching the lost continent of Mu, a hypothetical landmass that allegedly existed in one of Earth’s oceans, but disappeared at the dawn of human history. But he had soon concentrated all his efforts on ancient Mesopotamia. If the piece Natasha had told him about really was the one he had been searching for for so long, it would be the crowning jewel in his Flood Room.

He had the perfect shrine for it at the back of the room; a large gold casket, near his marble desk. Once he had the tablet in his keeping he would have all the time he wanted to decipher its wonders. After all, in his line of work, he had access to the most powerful computers in the world.

Natasha had asked him how much he was willing to pay to obtain it. ‘Any price,’ he had answered. Then she had asked how far he was ready to go if money could not buy it. He had given her a look that told her exactly how far.

December 5th, 2004. Mosul, Iraq

Hassan woke up with a start. His mother had opened the shutters in his room and catching sight of his battered face, had started to scream. He hoisted himself up gingerly and tried to calm her down but she was inconsolable.

‘What happened? Who has done this to you? Why are you not studying? How much more pain can God send me? He took my husband away, then my beloved sons. What am I to do with you?’

She would not stop the wailing and questioning, and Hassan did not know what to answer. He could not bring himself to explain the danger he had placed her in. He had had such wonderful news to share with her before the money-lender’s henchmen stopped him outside his home. He felt as if any attempt to get back on the straight and narrow was thwarted at inception. His good intentions were crumbling under the weight of the reality of his situation. His head was pounding with pain and anguish. As he lay there, mute, his mother eventually stormed out of his room, muttering age-old imprecations under her breath. He dressed quickly and made himself some breakfast, as his mother left the house for work.

How was he going to convince Mina to sell him the tablet? He felt miserable. She would never accept. The academic stakes were too high. He would have to find a way to steal it. And do it pretty soon as Bibuni thought he already had the tablet. He had tried calling Mina a few times the night before and this morning but her mobile was out of range or switched off.

He had to be very careful. He did not want Bibuni to know about Mina. It was one thing to betray her trust, but quite another to involve her in the dangerous underworld he was forced to engage in. He refused to have that on his conscience. As he was planning how to break into Mina’s flat, his mobile phone rang. It was Bibuni.

‘Hassan?’ the dealer gasped.

‘Yes Mr Bibuni?’

‘Where are you right now?’

‘At home, why?’ asked the young man, apprehensive.

‘Get the hell out of there,’ Bibuni screamed.

‘What’s happened?’

‘I’ve made a terrible mistake, my boy.’

Hassan thought Bibuni’s voice sounded different, a little slurred, as if he were drunk.

‘Some people are on their way to your flat. They’re after your tablet.’

‘Who are they?’

‘I barely survived their visit myself. Run!’

Hassan ended the call and tried to think as quickly as possible. The first thing to do was phone his mother at work. She would have to stay with her sister for a few days in their ancestral village near Kirkurk until things calmed down. He rushed out of the house and slammed the door. He had just reached the corner of his street, when he heard the screeching tyres of a van stopping just behind him. Two men in dark suits ran up, grabbed him and pushed him into the van. Inside the vehicle another man punched him in the side of the jaw. They climbed into the back after him and slammed the door shut. A few seconds later, the van was gone. Everything had happened so quickly that passers-by hadn’t noticed a thing.

Jack came by Muhad’s house in the morning. Mina had slept wonderfully well. Muhad’s mother had practically adopted her, and they had been chatting all morning over breakfast. Jack walked in smiling.

‘Morning Mina,’ he said, giving her a quick hug.

‘Morning Jack.’

He sat at the table and sipped the cup of coffee that Muhad’s mother had offered him.

‘I got my jeep back,’ Jack said. ‘Do you want a ride into Mosul? I need to get some spare parts for your car and a few other bits and bobs.’

‘Thanks, that would be great. I was also going to ask you a small favour.’

‘What is it?’

‘I need to meet an old man to ask him a few questions about an artefact I’m researching. He lives in a dodgy part of the old town and I’d feel safer in your company.’

‘My pleasure,’ he answered. He turned to Muhad and handed him an envelope, ‘Can you give these written instructions to the village elder? Just so he knows what to do while I’m away for a week or two.’

‘Of course Jack,’ said the boy solemnly, as if he’d just been appointed Secretary of State.

Jack and Mina took their leave from Muhad’s mother after much hugging and headed back to Mosul. The road was in a sorry state and even though they had less than thirty miles to cover, the drive took a long time. They passed two check-points, where Jack showed his papers. Both times the guards let them through without even asking who Mina was. ‘How typical of this place,’ she thought to herself. ‘Women are invisible.’