The 13th Tablet

she didn’t respond to his touch. Should he be more forward? He hesitated but eventually decided to keep his hands to himself and just enjoy the moment.

When the wine was finished they walked back to the village and he introduced her to Muhad’s mother. He parted from her a little reluctantly, and wondered how the night might have turned out had they met in the US instead of this village.

‘What’s wrong with me? I’m acting like a schoolboy,’ Jack thought to himself, unsettled. ‘Maybe it’s the setting, after all, even the fanciest bar in New York couldn’t compare to drinking wine with a beautiful woman in the middle of a desert under the vastness of the starry Iraqi sky.’

‘Miss Mastrani?’ asked Mr Bibuni over the phone.

‘Ah, Mr Bibuni,’ answered a cold voice.

‘I’m sorry to call you at such a late hour,’ said the shifty art dealer.

‘It isn’t late here,’ replied the matter-of-fact voice.

‘Of course, of course,’ he replied, adding ‘what a pleasure to hear the sound of your voice.’

‘Have you found anything interesting?’ she replied curtly, knowing perfectly well that hearing her steely voice brought no pleasure at all.

‘I have come across something that might interest that special client of yours. The flood collector.’

‘What is it?’ she asked, coolly.

‘A very unusual artefact with an inscription relating to the Babylonian flood.’

‘Unusual?’

‘Yes. It is not a clay tablet and I’m told by my young assistant Hassan that this version differs from the canonical version in more ways than one.’

‘Where did it come from?’

The art dealer winced. This was turning from a business proposal to an interrogation.

‘Somewhere in Mosul.’

‘Email me a photograph of the object.’

‘I am so sorry Miss Mastrani, but I can’t have any traces of this transaction on the internet. I’m sure you understand. All I can say is that it is the most important discovery since the 19th century when the Gilgamesh tablets were found in the Library of Ashurbanipal here in Mosul.’

‘Hmm.’

Natasha Mastrani paused. She was fantasising about how, if she had it her way, she’d watch this fat crook slowly roasting, rather than barter with him.

‘Of course, this is just a courtesy call,’ said Bibuni. ‘Your client was very generous last time we did business but if he is not interested, I’m quite sure others will be.’

‘Is it in your possession?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he lied.

‘I’ll be in touch.’

Just before Bibuni put the phone down, he thought he heard a faint clicking sound in the background. He did not give it a second thought.

A man sitting in a car with all the lights out outside Bibuni’s shop, took the miniaturised listening device from his ear and dialled a number on his mobile phone.

‘Master?’ said the man in a deep voice.

‘Yes?’ came the reply in clipped tones.

‘Bibuni, the art dealer in Mosul, has the object we seek. What should we do?’

‘Nothing. Observe and report to me.’

Chapter 8

December 4th, 2004. Malibu, California

Oberon Wheatley, the powerful owner of a corporation worth hundreds of millions of dollars, was jogging back to his Californian mansion. He always thought best when running. At this moment he was thinking about what Natasha had told him a few hours ago, that this artefact might be the one he had been seeking for years. Wheatley trusted her; she seemed to have a sixth sense about such things. She had scouted artefacts from all over the world on his behalf for many years. She also dealt with other, less artistic aspects of his business, when the need arose. A seasoned professional, her involvement was always utterly discreet. She was well-mannered and kept her mouth shout. Even her name, Natasha Mastrani, was a cover. He had asked her once what her real name was before she had quit her ruthless past as a CIA operative. She had answered with a smile that implied she could tell him, but if she did, she’d have to kill him. To secure her services and guarantee that she would go above and beyond the call of duty, he paid her a very handsome salary.

The fact that the tablet had been found in Mosul was good news, but he had to be careful this time. He had been indirectly involved in the looting of the Baghdad Museum, and although no-one had pointed a finger in his direction, many people knew that the lootings were too well organised to have been as random as it might have seemed at first.

He stopped on his front steps to catch his breath and measure his pulse. Excellent. He did not smoke, hardly drank, had a trainer and a dietician working for him round the clock and enough money to last him, his three ex- wives and their descendants for generations to come. He was clever, handsome and rich. But, what he really craved was power and he did not yet have enough of that to satisfy him. As much as he lied to the world, he was always completely honest with himself.

Showered and refreshed, Wheatley walked into his private museum. The walls were covered with exquisite paintings by Braque, Monet and Picasso. But these paintings were merely a screen for his real passion. He pushed a button on a remote control and a large mirror glided silently to one side, uncovering a hidden metal door. He punched in a code on his remote, and the door clicked open. He strode down a glass corridor. At the far end stood another door and beyond it, a bank of monitors linked to complex seismological, barometric and humidity measuring devices. He closed the door tightly behind him and walked through to the end door. As he pushed it open, dimmed lights automatically came on throughout the large room.

This was the place where he kept his most valuable treasures. Even Natasha, who knew so much about his quest, was rarely permitted to enter this vault. In the back room he had hung famous paintings of the Biblical flood story. It had taken him almost two decades to buy or steal these paintings, most of which had been replaced by the faithful copies now admired by curators and the public alike in many illustrious museums and galleries. A series of glass cabinets snaked their way through the room. They contained dozens of cuneiform tablets, stone fragments, Chinese oracle bones, European papyri and manuscripts, all with some relevance to the primordial flood. Over the years he had wasted precious time researching the lost continent of Mu, a hypothetical landmass that allegedly existed in one of Earth’s oceans, but disappeared at the dawn of human history. But he had soon concentrated all his efforts on ancient Mesopotamia. If the piece Natasha had told him about really was the one he had been searching for for so long, it would be the crowning jewel in his Flood Room.

He had the perfect shrine for it at the back of the room; a large gold casket, near his marble desk. Once he had the tablet in his keeping he would have all the time he wanted to decipher its wonders. After all, in his line of work, he had access to the most powerful computers in the world.

Natasha had asked him how much he was willing to pay to obtain it. ‘Any price,’ he had answered. Then she had asked how far he was ready to go if money could not buy it. He had given her a look that told her exactly how far.