Dorothy Mcintosh - The Witch of Babylon

Nothing happened. I swore. Could this end up as some tragic-comic anticlimax when it turned out no one was home? I pressed the button again and heard the front door click open. A diminutive figure dressed in slacks and a polo shirt peeked out at me. A man, but not Tomas.

He turned and said something to whoever stood behind the door then walked toward me. He waited about eight feet away, making no move to open the gate, and jabbered on; it sounded like the Assyrian Tomas spoke. I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. “Tomas Zakar,” I said. “Is he here?”

The man glanced over to the front door once more then pressed a remote he held. The gate swung open, closing automatically the second I walked through. He motioned for me to follow him inside and indicated a seat in the vestibule. Minutes ticked by. The room broadcast an air of elegance despite its sparse furnishings. Several kilims in gorgeous reds and ivories hung on the walls. A spray of roses sat in a tall alabaster urn placed on the floor. Imagine finding fresh flowers in this beleaguered city.

A second man entered, dressed in the long black cassock of a priest. His hair was dark but he had light blue eyes that gave him an ethereal look. He tilted his head forward in a slight bow. “How may I assist you?” I detected a hint of a British accent.

I put on my best face. “My name is John Madison. I just arrived in Baghdad with a cultural delegation. Tomas Zakar gave me this address and asked me to contact him when I arrived. Is he here by any chance?”

“Zakar? How do you spell that?”

“Z-A-K-A-R. Zakar,” I said again.

He shook his head slowly. “I’m awfully sorry. I can’t help you. There’s no one here by that name. A misunderstanding, no doubt?”

“I don’t think so. He gave me his card.”

The man responded with a weak smile. “That is strange. My father has owned this property for years; I can’t imagine how anyone could make such an error. Have you come here alone?”

“Yes.”

“I’d advise you to take great care then.” He gestured gracefully toward the window. “Hostages are taken every day in the city. Two doctors live on this street. The son of one of them was kidnapped three weeks ago. They still don’t have him back. The other doctor is so frightened he’s barricaded himself and his family inside his house. It’s a miracle you even made it alive from your hotel to my home.”

I was growing impatient. I had to take something back to Ward. “Look, I appreciate your concern for my welfare and any privacy worries you may have, but it’s imperative that I speak to Tomas. I know his brother, Ari, is in London. We were together recently in New York. I can be trusted.” A flash of irritation crossed his features. “Sir, I will allow that someone has misled you, but I assure you, I’ve never heard of these individuals. If you don’t mind, I think it is best you depart.” He hesitated. “You’re staying at a hotel?”

“Yes. Al-Mansour.”

“I presume you don’t speak Arabic?”

I shook my head.

“Their staff are very competent and speak English. I’d suggest you enlist their help in your search. They will have directories and other resources.” He moved over to the door. “I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a busy moment. You’ll excuse me now, I hope.”

I thanked him and walked away. What else could I do? I had about two minutes to forge a story that would satisfy Ward. I desperately searched for ideas and came up with something that might work.

Ward and Eris met me when I reached the taxi. “Well?” he asked. “Tomas didn’t show up, as you predicted. The man I spoke to claimed he’d never heard of him. But I saw something.”

“What?” Ward thrust his face closer to mine. Streaks of sweat ran from his temples to his chin.

“The guy was lying. At least Ari’s there—that much I’m sure of.”

“Why do you think so?”

“I saw his camera propped up against a cabinet in the front room. The same one he carried in New York. If he’s here, Tomas has to be close by.” I decided this sounded more convincing than saying I’d seen either of them in person.

The flush left his skin; the tension that had produced crevices of worry between his brows and around his mouth subsided. Ward was clearly not prepared to raid the house right now. By the time they stormed the place, interrogated the owner, and discovered there was nothing of substance to my story, I might have found a way to extricate myself from this nightmare.

Eris pulled out her phone.

“Who are you calling?” I asked.

“There are people who need to be alerted if Ari Zakar is back,” she responded. She saw the question mark on my face. “It’s nothing to do with our little venture. Just a quid pro quo for some important people.”

“Why do they care?”

“A story he’s working on. Something about Abu Ghraib. Nothing to do with us.” She punched in a few numbers and delivered the information I’d just given her to the voice on the other end. I smiled inwardly. Ari had that prison story to thank for being safely holed up in London.

When we reached the hotel room we saw the button on the hotel phone flashing. Ward picked it up while Eris went back into the bedroom. Just as she was about to lock me up again Ward called out. “Hold on, we’ve got a new development.”

I pushed my way past Eris. Ward beamed. “Congratulations, you delivered.”

I managed to cloak my shock at this news.

“We just missed a message for you.”

“I’m officially registered here?”

“We had to.”

“What’s the message?”

“You’re to meet a contact of Tomas’s at the museum. Three o’clock.”

Thirty-two

The instantly recognizable facade of the Children’s Museum, featured on the front pages of the international press this spring, sat at the intersection of Qahira and Nasir streets behind a high wrought-iron fence. Its sand-colored limestone structure— two square towers joined by a bridge over the central arch—was a handsome example of museum architecture. Distinctly Islamic with classical grace.

Between the central frieze and the roof of the arch, a black circle—a shot from an American cannon—looked like the point on an exclamation mark. The arch was impassable now, the space taken up by a tank.

A little late, I thought grimly. Probably just there for show. The place looked forlorn. It reminded me of those abandoned factories in the Rust Belt, once thriving concerns built at the turn of the century, now lonely outposts without a purpose.

The museum’s story was familiar to me. Founded at the zenith of British power in the Middle East, when the boundaries of modern Iraq were carved out, it was at first only one room in a Baghdad building. When more space was needed a small museum was built overlooking the Tigris. Inaugurated in 1926, the museum resulted from a collaboration between the Iraqi king Faisal and a remarkable Englishwoman, Gertrude Bell. Al-Khatun, they’d called her. An explorer, writer, and archaeologist, she’d dedicated a good part of her life to protecting Mesopotamian culture.

The present site, a complex of buildings, was established in the sixties. The main galleries were housed in a rectangular structure with an inner courtyard. Since the museum’s establishment, periodic bouts of looting had broken out, the most notorious occurring during the Gulf War. It had been shut off to the public since then.

After I walked through the gate I handed the passport Ward had restored to me to an American Marine, who helped me locate the right entrance. I was met by an older woman wearing black-rimmed glasses and a hijab who introduced herself as Hanifa al-Majid. This was Tomas’s colleague; I’d imagined someone much younger. “Much welcome, sir,” she said after I greeted her. Her English was rocky but we managed to communicate well enough.