Alex Mitchell - The 13th Tablet

After changing planes in Baghdad, Mina flew on to Amman. She thought back to the wonderful trip she had taken there years ago with her parents, they had even rented a Jeep to visit Petra’s countryside. They were so proud of her and wanted to share her passion for the archaeology of the Near East. Mina had been studying the civilisation of the Nabateans, the ancient inhabitants of Petra, and she had begged her parents for months to let her take a trip there with a group of girlfriends. They had refused outright, it was too dangerous. Instead, her father had come into her room one day and told her he had arranged everything and they would take the trip together as a family. She had discovered aspects of her parents she never knew. Her father was a doctor but seemed ill at ease in most circumstances. Her mother had been a journalist in Iraq, but now worked as a translator. For the first time, Mina saw her parents totally in their element. It had been a lovely trip.

She decided to buy a few clothes in the duty-free shops in Amman’s airport. She had a few hours ahead of her before the next plane to Tel Aviv. She bought a new handbag, chose a pair of fitted trousers, a serious blouse and cardigan for the interview, and a top, jacket and boots for travelling to Safed. She would buy whatever else she needed once she had the grant money in hand.

Having completed her shopping, Mina sat down in a cafe for a much needed break. She sipped the hot coffee and looked around her at the bustling throng of travellers. Suddenly she saw the bearded man again. He passed in front of her for just a few seconds, but she was sure it was him. One thing most archaeologists have in common is a nearly autistic capacity to notice small details among huge bodies of evidence. Here, among the thousands of travellers, she was convinced she recognised the man from Mosul.

Arriving in Amman and buying new clothes had made her feel light-hearted again. But she was back in hypersensitive mode, observing everyone around her. Now that she thought about it, since she left Mosul she had felt that she was being followed a few times, especially in Baghdad.

It must have been this bearded man. Who was he? He did not resemble the thugs in her flat at all. His features seemed more refined and his complexion was definitely Middle Eastern. Just for a moment, she wished Jack were around.

Back in Mosul, Natasha Mastrani, in a red tailored dress and slick knee length boots, was standing near her car. She took off her sunglasses and tapped them gently on the bonnet of the car while waiting to be patched through to Oberon Wheatley’s phone. She caught her reflection in the tinted window, and seemed pleased with her look, especially how her icy blue eyes glinted under her platinum blond hair.

‘Sir?’

‘Ah, Natasha. What’s the update?’

‘Not the best of news. I wish I’d stuck to the usual operatives.’

‘You’re slipping Natasha, you’re slipping.’

He was obviously amused by her uncharacteristic incompetence and enjoyed teasing her.

‘I’m really sorry sir. However, the flat was cleaned and the right people were paid off. There will be no sign of our involvement.’

‘So what’s worrying you?’

‘The surviving operative disappeared and so did the young man, Hassan. And we still don’t know where Miss Osman is.’

‘The story gets funnier by the second. Clearly the operative did not want to face the music on your arrival.’

‘Probably not, sir.’

‘Do I need to remind you that I am paying you far more than the CIA ever did because you have accustomed me to perfect results? There is no red tape with me. You have full latitude to carry out your missions.’

She tried to sound as contrite as she could.

‘Yes sir. There are still unanswered questions. I need to work out the whereabouts of Miss Osman and this Hassan and find out who the man was who killed our two operatives.’

‘No. Please make preparations for my arrival tomorrow.’

‘You’re coming here? I wouldn’t advise that sir.’

‘No. Tel Aviv. Make sure security is tight in the harbour, around and on my yacht.’

‘Is there something I should know?’

‘Mina Osman will be visiting Tel Aviv for a few days.’ That was why he sounded so amused. She knew better than ask questions. Oberon Wheatley hadn’t become one of the most powerful men in the world by twiddling his thumbs. He didn’t wait for events to pass. He was always one step ahead. She got in her car, and drove off to the airport.

December 6th, 2004. Tel Aviv

Mina landed at Ben Gurion Airport late that evening. If Mosul seemed security conscious it was a walk in the park in comparison. Luckily she had the invitation for an interview and a reservation at the Sheraton Tel Aviv Hotel amp; Towers to explain her presence there and her route from Baghdad via Amman. She noticed how many policewomen guarded the airport. It was a change from Iraq to see women in uniform. They were fit and aggressive, much like their gun, the famous Desert Eagle. Half-asleep she hailed a cab under the starry winter sky.

When Mina arrived at the hotel she was duly impressed. Walking through the plush lobby, she felt for a moment like a high-flying businesswoman and wondered briefly if she was not in the wrong line of work. But she knew all too well that she was only thinking that way because of the stark contrast between the conditions of the last few days spent in a wartorn country and those here, in this luxurious five-star-hotel. As soon as she got to her room, she had a quick shower and then collapsed on the bed, still in her bathrobe.

The next morning, Mina woke up fully energised, ordered a light breakfast to be brought up to her room, she had a shower and did her stretching exercises. She followed a complex chain of yoga asanas she had learned from a young Indian yogi, who had since become quite a celebrity. She had worked with him every day for three months and remembered the first month, when she thought she would never be able to stretch into the positions he demonstrated. As he was as relentless as she was driven, eventually, by the end of the three months she had managed to stretch into every position in his programme. She would have pursued their work, but he had fallen in love with her and she had had to explain to him, as kindly as she could, that she was not interested in him in that way. Unfortunately, he had been very hurt and they parted on a bitter note.

After breakfast, she started preparing for the interview. It was her understanding that the grant had been practically offered to her, but you never quite knew with these things and it was not in her nature to go anywhere unprepared; she would express her gratitude for the offer, try to show off the little she knew about the Foundation’s goals and explain what her project encompassed. If the grant was as substantial as she thought it might be, she would need to add all the postfieldwork expenses: various expert opinions, chemical analyses, thermo-luminescence, 3D digital scanning, the whole works. She needed to put together a much more extensive budget than she had first planned when applying for the in-house grant at Columbia.

She did a couple of hours’ work and then decided to take a break and walk around Tel Aviv. Mina still had a day to get ready and loved discovering new cities. She went downstairs and picked up a few flyers and a map of the city in the lobby. She walked along the beach for a while thinking how disappointing it was she had not come during the summer, as she would have loved to swim in the Mediterranean. Instead, she headed resolutely into the city, following the directions on one of the leaflets to the best shopping areas. After some pleasurable window shopping on Dizengoff Street, she arrived at the crossroad with Gordon Street, where she saw a cafe with a large bay window and people sitting out on the terrace. She sat down and ordered a double espresso. It was brought to her promptly, along with a glass of water, by a charming and clearly gay waiter in an extremely tight t-shirt and designer sunglasses; in fact, all the customers looked somewhat flamboyant. She was surrounded by artists, media people and intellectuals — it was so different from Mosul. Mina felt almost reborn, back in a mini-New York. She looked on her map and found the Eretz Israel museum, but it was quite a hike from where she was, so she thought that she would take a taxi and surprise Liat. She hoped her friend was at work today and could spare some time.