The Showstone Page 2

  ‘Did I ever tell you that you’re an overbearing son-of-a-bitch?’

  ‘On more than one occasion.’

  ‘Good. I’m saying it again. You do whatever you’ve got to do. I’ve got a date with someone who gets me.’

  ‘And who is that?’

  ‘A Russian named Stolichnaya.’

  Over the following week, Hiram Donovan ran up an astronomical satellite-phone bill in aid of rehabilitating his disgraced son. Fortunately, he was a wealthy man and to him, it was merely a trifle. The Donovans were main-line Boston Catholics who had made a fortune trading textiles at the turn of the previous century, later acquiring substantial real-estate holdings and becoming tenement landlords to waves of immigrants arriving in Boston from Europe. Hiram’s father had known Senator Kennedy’s father, Joe, and had done some deals with him. He had been a guest at the presidential inauguration of John Kennedy. A call from Hiram Donovan carried weight and Ted Kennedy personally placed a call over to the Pentagon, and the Secretary of the Army set an honorable discharge in motion. It went without saying that despite the lateness of the calendar, Harvard College readily agreed to accept Cal into the freshman class. So, Donovan was reveling in the smugness of a successful fixer the evening that two men came to visit him at his field tent.

  He was working at his desk and Najib was whisking when a voice called out in a heavily accented English.

  ‘Excuse me, is this the tent of Professor Donovan?’

  Donovan unzipped the flap and saw a squat Iraqi gentleman, perhaps forty, dressed formally in a black Western suit. He was with a much larger and much younger companion who wore a traditional flowing dishdasha.

  ‘Yes, I’m Donovan.’

  The older man said, ‘Apologies for arriving unannounced, at nightfall no less. My name is Hamid. Mustafa Hamid, although my Western friends call me George. This man is my assistant. I wonder if I might have a word with you regarding a matter of great interest.’

  Donovan didn’t like being disturbed while he was working, and this had the look of some kind of a shakedown by a local official.

  ‘I’m sorry, who are you with?’

  ‘With? I am with no one, Professor. It is simply me, George Hamid.’

  ‘You’re not with the government?’

  ‘No, no, no, nothing like that. I try to stay away from politics, if I am being completely honest. May we enter?’

  Donovan mumbled something about the infernal sand and had them remove their shoes.

  ‘My man can make you some tea.’

  ‘No, we are fine,’ Hamid said. ‘Please do not trouble yourself.’

  Hamid accepted a chair but the younger man declined one and stood by the entrance, clasping his hands at his waist, his face something of a cipher.

  Before his guest could speak Donovan began. ‘So, you’re not with the government. What is it you do?’

  ‘I am a businessman,’ Hamid answered.

  ‘From Mosul?’

  ‘Not Mosul. Kirkuk.’

  Donovan saw the man eyeing Najib’s sweeping and told the servant to hold off. The fellow happily sat on his haunches in the corner.

  ‘Your Arabic is good,’ Hamid said.

  ‘Thank you. Tell me how I can help you.’

  ‘What you do here interests me, Professor. I have a great appreciation for the wonders of antiquity. So many of my friends and colleagues care only about the wonders of modern life – the latest electronics, automobiles, and the like. I care passionately about the wonders of the past.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad to hear that. Do you have any background in archeology?’

  ‘Unfortunately, not. I studied economics in college. It was very practical but very dry. I happened to be in the area this evening – I rarely get up this way – and thought that perhaps I might steal a few minutes of your valuable time.’

  Donovan was getting impatient. ‘Toward what end?’

  ‘I was hoping to see some of the treasures you have been able to pull from the ground.’

  ‘Well, look, Mr Hamid, I would love to give you a tour of the site and show you some of the artifacts we’ve discovered but it’s very late and that’s just not possible. Let’s set a date for your return, all right?’

  Hamid’s thick black mustache twitched with displeasure.

  ‘You see, Professor Donovan, I have been fortunate in life. I am a rather wealthy man who dearly loves his country and its historical legacy. If you would honor my impudent request I would see fit to make a donation, a sizable donation, to support your illustrious work here.’

  ‘Well, that’s very generous, sir, but we have adequate funding. I’m sure the museum in Mosul would love to have your support. Now, if you want to pick a convenient date I promise you an excellent tour when you return.’

  Hamid shook his head and gave Donovan a sad smile. His swarthy, stubbled face became flushed and he loosened his tie as if the maneuver might help drain the color.

  ‘Actually, there is only one particular treasure I wish to see. Surely you can spare a small amount of time to honor my request.’

  Donovan ran his hand over his bushy beard. ‘And what treasure is that?’

  ‘It is a piece of round obsidian. I believe you discovered it only a week ago. Please, may I see it?’

  Donovan could feel his blood pressure rising. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  Hamid literally made a clucking sound. ‘Please do not sully your reputation with a lie. I made certain inquiries about you, Professor, and you are an esteemed gentleman. You are also a Catholic, are you not?’

  ‘I am. What does that have to do with anything?’

  ‘I only mention it to invite a sense of camaraderie. I too am Catholic. Syriac Catholic. That is why I have always been keenly interested in what might be discovered at the Rabban Hurmizd Monastery. Perhaps you intended to eventually declare your discovery to your Iraqi colleagues. Surely you are not a thief, a looter of our sovereign treasures. Imagine the scandal if you were to be found to be a looter.’

  ‘I thought you said you weren’t with the government,’ Donovan said. ‘Are you a policeman?’

  ‘Nothing of the sort. As I mentioned, I am only a businessman. Show me the black stone and I will say nothing. I only wish to see it.’

  ‘I said I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now please, leave.’

  Neither visitor moved from their spots.

  ‘Your student, the girl, Mina. She makes reports to me. She saw the stone.’

  ‘Mina? You hired her to watch over me? Why?’

  ‘There were legends, Professor, but who knows about legends? Mina is my eyes and ears in case the legends were true. The stone, please.’

  Donovan stood up. ‘I don’t know what she thinks she saw but I don’t have what you’re looking for.’

  The large man seemed attuned to Hamid’s intentions. At the slightest nod of his boss’s head, he produced a pistol and pointed it at Donovan.

  ‘I ask again,’ Hamid said.

  Najib looked alarmed but stayed glued to the floor when Hamid waved a menacing finger at him.

  Donovan sat back down. ‘I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t have any obsidian.’

  ‘Please remain seated,’ Hamid said before politely apologizing as he began searching the tent.

  ‘These are my things!’ Donovan exclaimed.

  ‘Don’t worry. I will be respectful.’

  He seemed to be just that. The man’s methods were careful and neat. Everything he searched – the desk drawer, the filing cabinet, the foot locker, the suitcase, the shaving kit, the mattress and bedclothes – he returned to their natural state. When he had finished examining every last centimeter of the tent and its contents he sighed through his nostrils and sat on the chair to rest.

  ‘I know you did not deposit the stone with the other excavated artifacts. Mina told us this. And it is not in the tent.’

  Hamid stood over Najib and asked him in Arabic about the stone, descr
ibing it in such perfect detail that Donovan became confused. He said it resembled a black mirror. He made a circle with his hands to show its circumference. How did he know what it looked like? The servant replied that he had seen nothing like this black stone.

  ‘You are sure?’ Hamid asked.

  Yes, he was sure.

  ‘Don’t worry, I believe you,’ Hamid told him. Turning back to Donovan he said, ‘But you sir, you I don’t believe. So, for the last time, where is it?’

  Donovan remained defiant. By his calculus, his best tactic was to continue to stonewall. This man, whoever he was, would not find the disk. If he admitted his crime he’d be charged with a crime, removed from the excavation, and his positions at Harvard and within the international archeology community would be jeopardized. He wished he could take back a very bad decision, but that was water well under the bridge.

  ‘For my last time, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What is it about this piece of obsidian that’s so interesting anyway?’

  ‘Ah, a salient question. I was wondering when you would ask. I am sure you have no idea what it is you found. Even the greatest expert may stumble around in the dark sometimes. The short answer is this: it is not for you to know. It is something that I have been searching for my entire adult life. It is an object that has been sought by others for centuries. It has great importance and for this reason your obstinacy pains me. The stone is closer than I ever imagined but alas, still far away.’

  Hamid gave another small nod and the large man pocketed his gun into his robe. At this, Donovan looked relieved until the man strode toward him and roughly clamped his meaty hands over his ears.

  ‘Hey!’ he shouted, trying to wriggle free.

  His cry was short-lived and when police would arrive the next day to interview the diggers in the tent village, it seemed that no one had heard anything unusual. The brute pulled Donovan’s head all the way forward until his chin thudded against his own breastbone, then snapped it back with astonishing speed and force. As his occiput rammed into the hollow between his shoulder blades, Donovan’s thick neck gave way in a sickening crunch. He fell onto the floor where his body convulsed for a time until it went still.

  Najib said nothing but a pool of urine spread from under his rump.

  Hamid said to him, ‘You are afraid, Najib Toubi. Yes, I know your name. I know your village. I know the names of your wife and daughters. You are a countryman and more importantly, you are a fellow Christian. You do not need to die. Your family does not need to die. Will you be silent?’

  The servant nodded.

  ‘Will you tell anyone we were here?’

  Najib shook his head.

  ‘Will you clean up your puddle and go back to your village for the night?’

  ‘Balaa.’

  ‘Good. Do it and get out. Say nothing and live long. Talk and this man will kill you and all those you hold dear. I hear everything.’

  Hamid addressed the large man by his name, Tariq, and told him what to do. He hoisted Donovan’s body onto his shoulder as easily as if it were a sack of flour and stood by the desk, waiting. When Najib finished mopping up his mess and scurried away, Hamid left the tent, looking around to see if anyone was about. When he was satisfied the coast was clear, he whistled for Tariq to follow. The deep cutting where Donovan had found the black stone was only a short walk from the camp.

  It was there that his body was dumped, and it was there that he was discovered by a digger the next morning, the apparent victim of a tragic, late-night fall that had broken the neck of the famous archeologist. He had been perfectly fine, working at his desk when the servant had left him the night before, Najib told the police. Then the servant broke down in tears and one of the policemen patted him on the shoulder and told him he was a good man.

  ‘What happened was God’s will,’ the policeman assured the servant, but Najib was inconsolable.

  TWO

  Baghdad, Iraq, the present

  The surgeon, a middle-aged man in sweat-stained scrubs, had been on his feet for nearly thirty-six hours. He looked marginally worse than his patient, who had at least slept through the night. The patient’s chart was hanging at the foot of his bed in a crowded, noisy surgical ward that smelled of strong disinfectant. The doctor picked it up and scanned the newest entries.

  ‘Was the sump emptied during the night?’ he asked the nurse.

  She checked the tube emerging from the surgical wound and the plastic bottle it drained into. ‘It should have been emptied on the night shift. Doesn’t it say?’

  ‘No, there’s nothing. Look.’

  She glanced at the chart and shrugged. ‘There was a new girl on last night. Maybe she forgot.’

  ‘Forgot to empty or forgot to write it down?’

  ‘Either is possible.’

  ‘This is unacceptable! How can I do my job?’ the surgeon said, his voice rising above the ward chatter.

  The patient, an elderly skeleton of a man, awoke at the outburst, and looked at the surgeon through watery gray eyes.

  ‘How are you feeling this morning?’ the surgeon asked.

  The septuagenarian shrugged. He pointed at his nasogastric tube.

  ‘That must stay another day, maybe two,’ the doctor said. ‘We only did your operation two days ago, you know. It’s too soon to take it out.’

  Another passive shrug.

  ‘How’s your pain?’

  ‘My belly hurts,’ the man rasped.

  ‘The nurse will give you morphine soon.’

  The doctor noticed the small amount of almost orange fluid in his catheter bag.

  ‘He’s not making much urine,’ he told the nurse. ‘What’s his IV rate?’

  She told him and he grunted that she should draw blood to check his kidney function. Then he asked her if the patient knew his diagnosis.

  ‘I don’t think he was told,’ she said. ‘It would have come from you.’

  ‘To be honest, I can’t remember if I told him. Yesterday is a blur.’ Leaning over the bed, the surgeon said, ‘We found why you were vomiting blood. You have a tumor in your stomach. I stopped the bleeding, but the tumor was very large, and I had to leave most of it. Do you understand what I am saying?’

  The old man nodded and whispered something the doctor couldn’t quite hear. He put his ear closer. The man repeated himself.

  ‘Please ask a Catholic priest to come.’

  The priest was summoned to the Baghdad Medical City from the Chaldean Catholic Archdiocese on the other side of the Tigris River. These days there were only about a hundred fifty thousand Catholics in Baghdad but there were never very many more. The priest’s hair looked particularly white atop his black garments and when he entered the surgical ward, the Muslim patients and their families regarded him with some curiosity. He looked around for a staff member to help him but seeing none, he called out for Najib Toubi.

  The wife of a patient whose bed was next to his raised her hand and called for the priest.

  ‘That’s the fellow, there.’

  The priest stood over the sleeping man and cleared his throat to try to rouse him and when that didn’t work, he touched his shoulder. Najib blinked awake in gratitude and extended a shaking arm.

  ‘I am Father Warda,’ the priest said. ‘How are you, my son?’

  ‘I am dying, Father.’

  ‘I am most sorry to hear that. Do you wish to confess your sins? Is that why I was summoned?’

  ‘Yes, Father. I want to confess one particular sin. A great one.’

  The priest pulled the curtains around the bed to give the man a modicum of privacy.

  ‘Unburden yourself, Najib Toubi, and I will give you absolution.’

  The old man’s voice was thin and weak. The priest had to strain to hear.

  ‘Nearly thirty years ago I witnessed the murder of a man and I did nothing,’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘Do you know the Rabban Hurmizd Monastery?’

  ‘Of course.
I am from Kirkuk.’

  ‘I worked as a manservant to an American. His name was Donovan. He was a famous archeologist who was exploring the ancient ruins. He was a good man, a Catholic man. One night, two Iraqis came to his tent. They wanted an object he found.’

  ‘What object?’

  ‘It was a polished black stone that was like a mirror. When the light struck it, it made the light come alive.’

  The priest leaned closer. ‘This American. Donovan. He found this stone under the ground at Rabban Hurmizd?’

  ‘I believe so, yes.’

  ‘And you saw it yourself?’

  ‘Only for a few moments.’

  ‘The Iraqi men. What did they say?’

  ‘Only one spoke. The older of the two. He wanted to see the stone but Donovan lied to him. He told them he did not know of it. They searched the tent, but they were never going to find it.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘The day after Donovan discovered the stone he went to Mosul with a large envelope.’

  ‘You think he mailed it?’

  ‘The package had the name of his wife. I saw it before he left that morning.’

  ‘And what did the men do when they could not find what they were looking for?’

  ‘They asked me if I knew. I told them I knew nothing. Then the other man who was young and very strong broke Donovan’s neck. They threw him into the deep hole where Donovan had been digging so that it would appear as an accident. They told me if I said anything they would kill me and kill my family. They knew my name and where I lived.’

  ‘Why do you think you were spared?’

  ‘The older man said it was because I was a Christian.’

  ‘This man was Christian?’

  ‘Yes, a Catholic man.’

  ‘Did he reveal his name?’

  ‘Hamid. Mustafa Hamid.’

  The priest all but gasped.

  ‘You know him, Father?’

  ‘Everyone from Kirkuk knows him.’

  The old man said earnestly, ‘I feared this man for the rest of my life. Now my life is over. My family are dead in the war. I am all alone. I don’t fear him any longer, but I fear God.’

  The priest nodded and said, ‘Then let us pray. God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.’