Dorothy Mcintosh - The Witch of Babylon

In my younger years, the word saint popped up on a regular basis. “Your brother’s a saint for taking you on, you know,” people would say. “You’re family, of course, but he didn’t have to.” One of my private school headmasters once said, “I’m giving you a second chance out of respect for your brother. That man must have the patience of a saint.”

Now that I was older, thinking more clearly and not acting according to the impetuous appeal of the moment, I had to face up to my talent for self-destruction. Samuel always gave me the benefit of the doubt. “That’s your way,” he’d say after mopping up one of my calamities. “You’re young; you haven’t found your path in life. You have a brave disposition, John. I often wish I were more like you.”

That Samuel had died because of my actions was something I could confront only in brief moments. Had someone sideswiped my car, or was that just a trick played by my imagination, some fantasy I’d made up? I was unable to admit fault to the rest of the world. Let the pain eat a hole in my heart. I deserved no better.

I gave myself a mental shake and tried to concentrate on the new problem. What was the missing object? It could only have come from Iraq. The last time I’d spoken to Samuel he told me stolen pieces were being recovered. So if Samuel had taken something temporarily to protect it from looters, why hadn’t he just given it back? It wasn’t the famous Sumerian Uruk vase. That had been dropped off at the museum by three men in a car. The vase had been broken in fourteen pieces but was salvageable—it was well known in the trade that thieves would break an object and mail it to Europe or the States a few pieces at a time, reassembling it once they’d all been sent. Nor was it the Lyre of Ur. That had been ruined in the looting although its famous golden calf’s head attached to the sounding board had been removed for safekeeping beforehand.

For Samuel to take the huge risk of bringing a relic over here suggested that it was a very valuable piece indeed. Mesopotamian artifacts could range in value from thousands to many millions of dollars, depending on their condition and inscriptions. Though the looting was over, for some reason this object must still have been under threat. Otherwise, Samuel would have returned it. Through a process of elimination, I thought I could narrow down the possibilities, but at least fifteen major objects and close to ten thousand small ones—cylinder seals, jewelry, and figurines—were still missing. The precious Lion of Nimrud, an 850 B.C. ivory relief, was gone, along with an exquisite copper head of the Roman goddess of Victory found in the Parthian ruins at the Hatra site. Had he rescued either of those?

In one of our last phone calls before he came home, Samuel told me about the devastation at the museum. “It could have been worse,” he’d said. “Mercifully, the museum staff had the foresight to empty several galleries and conceal hundreds of objects beforehand. The American investigation team that went in afterward was brilliant. They devised a ‘no questions asked’ return policy and spent a lot of time publicizing it in the markets and mosques. This got really good results, but they paled in comparison to the scope of the loss.”

So if the staff had hidden many of the important objects, why did Samuel feel the need to take one of them? Until I had more information, I couldn’t sort out my brother’s motive. When we’d talked about the museum looting he’d broken down and cried on the phone. Sacrificing his values to keep a stolen object must have torn him apart.

The phone rang. My landline. Few people had that number, and fewer people used it.

“John Madison here.”

“John, it’s Andy Stein. How’re you doing?”

“Well, things have certainly been piling up. I appreciate your calling me on a Sunday, Andy.”

“No problem. Listen, you know I’m commercial; I can’t help you with your … matter, but I’ve been in touch with a criminal attorney. Joseph Reznick. He’s one of the best. I briefed him about your situation. You should talk to him—soon.”

“Sure. How can I reach him?” I scribbled down the guy’s number and email address while Andy spoke.

“Oh, and one more thing. He’s not cheap.”

“What are we talking about here?”

“I couldn’t guess. It’s not a straightforward situation, is it? He’ll want a retainer for a start.”

“So what do you think that would run?”

“A couple of thou at least.”

I had five credit cards. Only one had any space left, and not much at that. Where the money would come from was anyone’s guess. My job was feast or famine, and right now I was on the brink of starvation. In the past Samuel had always been good to tide me over, but that option was lost to me until his estate was settled.

“Do you have any idea how long it will take to get Samuel’s estate cleared up?”

“Under these circumstances? If there’s culpability over the accident, it’s unclear. I don’t do estates, but you could be waiting for a long time.”

The intercom buzzed as I hung up. Amir, calling to say that an envelope had just been couriered to me and he’d bring it up.

“I’m surprised you’re still here,” I said when I opened the door.

Amir looked wiped out. “The day man came really late so I had no choice. I wanted to get this to you before I left.” He handed me a plain white business envelope with my name and address typed on it.

“Who brought this?”

“A bike courier. I’m really sorry, but he took off so fast I couldn’t ask him to sign for it.”

I thanked Amir and he left. Inside the envelope I found a USB flash drive enclosed in bubble wrap. No indication of who’d sent it. I got my laptop booted up and inserted the device. A page opened up on the screen.

John, greetings.

Consider this a treasure map of sorts. I’ve entrusted my law firm to send this to you should anything happen to me.

By now you probably know I acquired an object of great value, a seventh-century B.C. Neo-Assyrian stone tablet engraved in cuneiform. A famous biblical prophecy, as it turns out. I employ the word “acquire” with some latitude. In fact, it belonged to Samuel.

To my way of thinking, you didn’t deserve it.

I set out to sell it and reap the rewards. Upon receiving a promising inquiry, I commenced negotiations. The prospect of so much money clouded my judgment. Carelessly, I disclosed my identity. I now know my knowledge of the object’s existence has condemned me.

When I first became aware of the danger, I designed this little game. Solve the four puzzles in order, and you’ll find the engraving. You might well ask, why the change of heart? Wouldn’t you be the last person I’d choose for a beneficiary? Put it down to my quixotic nature, I suppose. Each time you face one of my puzzles, if you listen hard, you’ll hear me laughing at you from beyond the grave.

Your opponents in this game are clever. I can feel them closing in on me now. There are five of them, and I dread to think they’ll win. My only solace is knowing the same fate awaits you.

Will you learn who they are in time? On the slim chance you do succeed, will greed take over, or will you do the right thing and return the engraving? My guess is you have no finer instincts and will choose the path that directly benefits you.

Feel free to prove me wrong …

Hal

I gaped at the screen. Score one for Diane Chen. Here was the secret message.

Hal’s deceit had run much deeper than I’d thought. This wasn’t about Samuel at all. Hal had targeted me. Believing himself in danger, he’d purposely sent his enemies after me, actually getting off on the prospect. I hated being manipulated like this.