Sam Bourne - The Last Testament

‘Oh, and my dear Jaafar, these sands from the River Jordan are perfect. And I see you have sent me at least-’

‘Twenty, Henry. Exactly twenty.’

‘Yes, twenty it is. Quite so.’

‘And, my friend, the bracelets are especially charming, don’t you think? Do they not perhaps remind you of the leaves on the trees in springtime?’

Henry had to marvel at the ingenuity of it. It was brilliantly done. Jaafar had surpassed himself. He had seen the opportunity of 2003, bided his time and then come up with a flawless disguise. Henry felt honoured to be part of it.

The next day he made an appointment to see his friend, Ernest Freundel, at the British Museum. They had jointly run the Art Club at Harrow, where Freundel, even then, was the more accomplished scholar. When Henry came up with the wheeze of combing the art books for female nudes, then charging boys 10p a time to look at them, it was clear which of the two was headed for business and which for the academy.

Ordinarily, Ernest Freundel was happy to indulge his old pal, even if he couldn’t help but resent the ever-widening gap between their incomes. He would decipher whatever piece had landed in Henry’s lap, then give him a rough value for it. Once or twice he had even urged the trustees of the Museum to purchase one of Henry’s items for the permanent collection. But this time was different. Henry had barely pulled the first clay tablet from his bag when Ernest all but recoiled, refusing even to touch it.

‘Where has this come from, Henry?’

‘From Jordan, Ernest.’

‘Don’t insult me. Via Jordan, possibly. But I think we both know where this comes from.’

‘Isn’t that what makes it worth so much?’

‘Theoretically.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean that nobody with half a brain cell is going to buy this stuff. It’s radioactive. There are half a dozen conventions banning the trade in looted antiquities from Iraq.’

‘Ssssh!’ Then in a whisper, ‘Aren’t you going to examine it? Aren’t you even curious?’

‘Of course I am. But this is one of the greatest cultural crimes in human history, Henry. I won’t be an accomplice to it. I should really call the police this second and have you arrested.’

‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’

‘No. But I should. Go. And take that bag of swag with you.’

Henry refused to be disheartened. Freundel was just a goodiegoodie, always had been. But he was right. The I-word had become a taboo in the antiquities trade. Governments had got heavy on stolen Iraqi goods and most collectors and buyers were fighting shy. Wait for the dust to settle, they said. Wait till London and Washington have got something else to worry about, something even more embarrassing than the rape of Baghdad, and then we can talk. For now, we’d rather not.

The only solution was to give Jaafar’s hoard a patina of legitimacy. If he could make it look legit, then he could begin the more pleasurable task of selling it. But no one would risk buying any of these treasures if they lacked ‘provenance’. It would be too risky: any day they could be seized and repatriated to Iraq, with meagre compensation. The world’s collectors had seen what happened to the Munchs and Klimts that had been looted by the Nazis. Their new owners had to give them up, even decades later. No multi-millionaire wanted to repeat that mistake.

Henry Blyth-Pullen waited a day or two then called up an old academic acquaintance, Paul Cree, one with even less money and far fewer scruples than Ernest. Henry suggested they operate in the usual way. Cree would see the items, take photographs of them, then submit an article for one of the journals, perhaps Minerva or the Burlington Magazine , which specialized in publicizing new finds. Once they had been written about in a respectable outlet, they would be on a fast track to legitimacy; the aura around them would change. They would no longer be looted, but rather discovered . Their history would be entered and logged in neat black and white type. Future buyers could check the Burlington Magazine and see that Henry was not flogging any old rubbish but rather works that had featured in a prestigious journal: I happen to have a copy right here, would sir perhaps like to take a look? In return Cree would be compensated for his time and expertise. In other words, he would either get a wad of twenties from Henry’s Bond Street till or, less likely, a slice of the profits from the eventual sale.

But even the shabby Cree would not do business.

‘I’m sorry Henry, dear boy-’

The ‘dear boy’ was a particular irritant to Henry, who knew it was hardly natural lingo for a comprehensive boy from Bedfordshire, which is all Neather was.

‘-I’m sorry, but the mags have all clammed up. Tighter than a nun’s whatchamacallit these days. They won’t feature just anything. Not any more.’

‘But, Paul, this is not just anything.’

‘I know old boy, I know. But the journeaux worry when things might have, how shall we put it, a dubious provenance.’

‘Dubious?’

‘If they’ve fallen off the back of a Baghdad lorry. After Iraq, everyone’s lost their bloody marbles.’

‘What am I supposed to do?’

‘I’m sorry, Henry. But you’ll just have to find another way.’

Henry chose not to relay any of this to al-Naasri, but the messages the Jordanian was leaving on his voicemail were getting less and less friendly.

‘I need to speak to you, Henry. Remember, those souvenirs belong to me and cost me a lot of money. I hope you are not letting me down. For your sake.’

Henry was beginning to sweat. He had stashed the items in the heaviest, double-doored safe in the shop, but he was still anxious. He knew these were items of serious value: Jaafar would not have taken such painstaking care to disguise them if they were not.

He called Lucinda at Sotheby’s, a move that always smacked of desperation.

‘Hello, darling,’ she drawled, audibly exhaling cigarette smoke. ‘What do you want this time?’

‘Lucinda! What makes you think I want anything?’

‘Because you never, ever ring me unless you want something.’

‘That’s not true,’ Henry said, even though it was. Apart from one highly regrettable snog tumbling out of the Christie’s Christmas party, their relationship had only ever been about what Henry could get out of her. Maybe including the highly regrettable snog. If he thought about it, about the girl who, in their college days, had been quite a beauty but who had descended rapidly into blowsy, he would have felt sad for Lucinda. But Henry didn’t think about it.

‘On the contrary, I have something of an opportunity.’

He went to see her that same afternoon, Lucinda being easily enticed by the promise of a gin and tonic afterwards.

‘So what are these delights you have to show me, Henry?’

He produced a small jewellery box, holding it in the palm of his right hand.

‘Oh, Henry, you’re not going to propose, are you? Here?’

Henry rolled his eyes indulgently, then popped open the box, revealing a pair of fine gold earrings, each one consisting of a single leaf. Extracting them from the charm bracelets and putting them back together had taken a delicate touch, but it had not been too difficult. Luckily the earrings had been photographed more than once, and he had found a clear colour picture in a reference book. ‘Photo reproduced by kind permission of the National Museum of Antiquities, Baghdad,’ the caption had said.

‘Good God, Henry. Those are…those are…’

‘Four thousand five hundred years old.’

‘Magnificent was what I was going to say. Four thousand five hundred years old? Incredible.’