Sam Bourne - The Last Testament

It was midnight by the time he got off the bus. He hadn’t realized how bad it smelled until he was off it, the odour released in waves as the unwashed, exhausted passengers emerged into the night. He breathed in the Amman air, inhaling the excitement of a place that wasn’t Baghdad. Last time he had been here it had been even more thrilling: handling bank notes that did not have his face on them, seeing statues that depicted men other than him . There were no real elections here either, but at least the Jordanians had not shamed themselves by approving their tyrant with a one hundred per cent vote.

One of al-Naasri’s boys was waiting for him, bored and listless by the railings. He said nothing, nor did he offer to take Mahmoud’s bag-not that Mahmoud would have let him-as he set off for the short walk down King Hussein Street. Before long there were signs for the Roman Amphitheatre, which meant the souk was close by. As they headed down the cobbled alleys, the boy increased his speed; Mahmoud had to run to keep up. Some kind of mind game, Mahmoud decided.

Most of the stalls were closed at this time of night, their steel shutters down. The boy was turning through the market, twisting left and right, so fast that Mahmoud knew he would never be able to find his way out alone. He reached inside his suit jacket, under his arm, to check that his dagger was still there, in its leather holster.

Eventually Mahmoud caught a smell: fresh pitta bread. There must be a night bakery near here. Sure enough, the row after row of empty, unmanned stalls was broken by a cluster of lights just around the next corner. Tinny music was playing on a radio; men were sitting outside, drinking coffee from small cups and mint tea from glasses. Mahmoud sighed his relief. This felt like home.

The runner made his way inside, Mahmoud following. He reached the table where a man was sitting alone. The runner nodded curtly and left just as quickly. From beginning to end, he had not said a word.

Mahmoud did not recognize the man at the table. He was too young, younger than Mahmoud himself. ‘I’m sorry, perhaps there has been some mistake. I am looking for Mr al-Naasri.’

‘Mahmoud?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am Nawaf al-Naasri. I am my father’s son. Come.’

He led Mahmoud out of the coffee shop and down another alleyway. He could stab me here, thought Mahmoud, take my bag and no one would ever know.

Instead Nawaf was tapping lightly on one of the steel shutters. After a second or two, it began to crawl upward, apparently operated by some electric mechanism. Inside, fluorescent lights flickered on to reveal what looked like a souvenir shop: big glass windows and fifty-seven varieties of junk inside.

‘Come, come. Some tea?’

Mahmoud nodded as he surveyed the merchandise. Clock faces on highly-polished slices of timber; jars of coloured sand and bottles of water ‘Guaranteed from the River Jordan’. It was crap, doubtless aimed at the Christian pilgrim market. One day, Mahmoud thought, we’ll have trash like this on sale in Baghdad: ‘Guaranteed from the Gardens of Babylon’. And the tat stores in Iraq will do the same job as they do here in Jordan, serve as fronts for the antiquities business.

‘Mahmoud! A pleasure.’

He wheeled round to see al-Naasri senior beaming a wild smile. Mahmoud, who had an eye for clothes, could see that the Jordanian was wearing a well-tailored suit, the fabric hanging properly. He was ashamed of his own black leather jacket, rumpled after the marathon bus journey, its patches worn almost to baldness. It wasn’t just the suit: all over, al-Naasri had the gloss that comes with wealth. It had only been a matter of weeks since the treasure had started flowing from Baghdad, but already it seemed to have transformed Jaafar al-Naasri. Maybe serious money worked its magic fast. Whether or not that was true Mahmoud was determined to find out for himself.

‘So, my friend, to what do I owe this pleasure?’

‘I thought maybe we would meet for a later night cup of coffee, perhaps a piece of cake. Talk about old times.’

Al-Naasri turned to his son, who was fussing in the back of the store. ‘I forgot that our friend from Baghdad is something of a joker with us!’ Then he turned back to Mahmoud, still smiling. ‘Would you forgive me, Mahmoud, if we got straight to business. It’s late and I am a busy man.’

‘Of course.’ Mahmoud tried flashing his own smile: he wanted to learn from this wealthy man, to copy him. He reached into the holdall, bringing out the first of the two seals that a young cousin had brought him within hours of what Mahmoud liked to think of as the museum’s grand opening. Others had reached him later, chipped and damaged. But none were as good as this one.

Al-Naasri took it from him, checking its weight in his hands, testing its solidity. He reached into the breast-pocket of his suit and pulled out a pair of half-moon reading glasses.

‘It’s real, I assure you. Mahmoud wouldn’t spend fifteen hours getting his arse pounded on that bus for a fake-’

Al-Naasri halted him with an upward glance of the eyes, peering out from above the lenses. The expression demanded quiet. The Jordanian was concentrating. ‘OK,’ he said finally. ‘What else?’

Mahmoud produced the second seal, larger and more ornate. He had the sequence of items all worked out, building to what he thought would be an irresistible climax.

Al-Naasri submitted the seal to the same scrutiny then placed it down on the table so he could examine Mahmoud with similar thoroughness. ‘You have done well here, my friend. I am impressed. Do I have the feeling the best is yet to come?’ He flashed the teeth once more.

‘You do, my friend, you do indeed.’ Mahmoud pulled the bag up onto his lap, and dug both hands in to bring out the clay tablet that had come to him in the café a few days earlier.

Al-Naasri extended his hands to take it from him. He held the envelope in one, and pulled out the tablet with the other. Suddenly he called over his shoulder to his son: ‘My glass, please!’

Nawaf brought out a jeweller’s eyeglass, which al-Naasri expertly lodged in his left eye. The older man hunched over the table, studying the object closely. He let out a low murmur, but said nothing.

‘So what do you think?’ Mahmoud couldn’t help himself.

Al-Naasri leaned back, the glass still wedged in place, so that his left eye was magnified grotesquely. ‘I think you have earned the right to see the al-Naasri collection.’ He let the glass fall out, catching it in his hand.

Without prompting, Nawaf began to unlock a door behind the shop counter which opened, Mahmoud presumed, onto a storeroom. All the big dealers worked like this: trinkets sold out front, the real deal hidden behind. Hurriedly, he stashed his hoard back in the bag and got up.

They walked in single file through a back room that was filled with cardboard boxes and two giant rolls of bubble wrap. This, surely, was where the treasure was to be found. But the al-Naasri men did not linger; they did not even switch on a light. Instead, with the father in front of Mahmoud and the son behind him, they kept walking, until they reached a second door. This one was sturdier and more heavily secured; al-Naasri had to use three keys to unlock it.

To Mahmoud’s surprise it opened onto the outside, a cool breeze of night air touching his face. Down a couple of stairs, and the three men were standing in a decent-sized backyard.

‘Nawaf, do you have the spade?’

Mahmoud swung round to see the young man holding a solid metal spade. Instinctively Mahmoud’s free hand reached for his dagger and whipped it out, thrusting it in Nawaf’s direction.

‘Oh, my dear brother, don’t be so ridiculous!’ said Jaafar al-Naasri, catching Mahmoud’s hunted expression and laughing broadly. ‘Nawaf here is not going to hit you. The spade is so he can show you our collection.’