Nabil's face as he said it, 'simply the 'Eye of Providence'?'
Nabil nodded but displayed no other reaction. 'Exactly so. You know your history.'
'Some,' said Benjamin. 'But I understand what you mean about Masonic nonsense. The fact that it's on the Great Seal stirs up a lot of talk of conspiracies. People seem to forget, or don't know, that this part of the seal wasn't even designed by an American, but by a Frenchman, Pierre Eugene du Simitiere.'
Nabil nodded. 'If you wish to get truly conspiratorial, Mr. Wainwright, you might mention your own secret intelligence agency, DARPA.'
'DARPA?' Benjamin asked. He had no idea what it meant.
Nabil smiled. 'The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, of your Pentagon. They have something called the Information Awareness Office. Look at their icon sometime. It is a pyramid with a glowing eye at the top.' He set the pen down, took up his wine, and tilted the glass toward Benjamin. 'See what I mean? Everywhere cartoons.'
Now Benjamin nodded. 'But in this particular 'cartoon,' there is more than just the pyramid and eye.' He held out his hand. 'May I?' Nabil handed him the pen, and Benjamin continued with his own sketch.
'You see, beneath this circle or eye at the top of the triangle, there is a line. And then two more similar lines, like this, in each lower corner, to make smaller triangles. And inside both of those are these other lines, but with tiny legs at the bottom. And then between them, there's what looks like a snake…' But as he was attempting to draw a thick serpent, the pen's point tore through the thin napkin. He turned the napkin so Nabil could examine it.
'I see,' said Nabil, looking down at his sketch. 'Very interesting.'
'So you've never seen anything like this?' Benjamin asked.
'Well.' Nabil took another sip of his wine. 'Not as a single Egyptian hieroglyph, no. But as a combination of different symbols…' He studied the sketch for a moment. 'You see, these two 'lines with legs,' as you called them, in the bottom corners? These are the symbols for 'enemy.' And this serpent between them, this means 'conflict.' '
He was silent for a moment, thinking.
'Odd,' he said finally. 'Usually there is no barrier beneath the eye, as you have drawn it here. If there were no such barrier, I would say these were lines of power coming down from the eye. Or not power… more like control.'
'Controlling what?'
'Why, the serpent of conflict, of course.'
'Well, that line, or barrier as you call it, I am certain it was there, beneath the eye. Why, what could that mean?'
'I have never seen it done so. But were I to hazard an interpretation, I would say it suggested the power or control of the eye was hidden.' He studied the sketch for another moment. 'In which case, one would say this hidden agency was creating conflict between the two enemies, here in the corners. Provoking them, then sitting back in silence to watch their struggle.'
He laughed, shook his head, picked up his wineglass. 'But that's all very much guesswork, Mr. Wainwright. Like trying to read ancient Egyptian without a Rosetta Stone.' He looked at Benjamin with a very steady gaze. 'And where have you seen such a symbol, Mr. Wainwright?'
Now Benjamin was in a quandary. He couldn't possibly explain the entire story to Nabil, but to tell him only the part about the mural would seem insane. He decided again to be half honest.
'In my research at the Library of Congress,' he said. 'I saw it among the details of a sketch…' And then he stopped. He wasn't sure he even wanted to share the information about Horatio Gates with a total stranger. 'A sketch made during the Revolutionary War.'
'Well,' said Nabil, 'perhaps it meant there was another war going on. One less visible to the public.' He smiled. 'A 'fight behind the veil,' as we say.'
Benjamin was about to respond, but then the waiters came with the dessert: blintzes with fruit served in red wine. Even as they turned to their desserts, the lights in the dining room were dimmed, and then lights at the front of the room were turned on to illuminate the stage area. And it was at that moment Benjamin felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned.
Natalya stood over him. But before she said anything, she turned to Nabil.
'Good evening, Mr. Hassan,' she said.
'Masa'a AlKair,' replied Nabil, making to rise.
'Please, do not get up,' Natalya said. 'I would like to borrow Mr. Wainwright for a moment. Do you mind?'
Nabil smiled. 'Of course not,' he said. 'How could I object to another man's good fortune?'
'You are a true diplomat, Mr. Hassan. Spasiba. '
Benjamin stood up, extended his hand to Nabil. 'Thank you, Mr. Hassan. You were very helpful. I hope we meet again.'
'Ahlan wa shalan,' said Nabil. 'You are welcome. And inshaalha, Mr. Wainwright. If it is God's will.'
Benjamin wasn't sure what to say to that, so he merely nodded.
Natalya led him into the foyer, turned to him. Once again, Benjamin felt intimidated in her presence. She was smiling at him, but he sensed the strong will behind that smile… and something else-that trace of hostility he couldn't explain. And as before, her striking beauty made him feel like a high school boy too nervous to speak.
'Now, Mr. Wainwright, you said you brought a CD?'
'Yes.' He fumbled in his pocket, brought out the disc. 'Here.' He handed it to her.
'There's a computer upstairs, in my office. Please, follow me.'
As they climbed the staircase to the second floor, Natalya held her dress up just a little, so it didn't drag on the carpet.
Benjamin looked again at the elaborate decorations-red-and-gold trimming on the stairway, red roses everywhere.
'Isn't this all a little grand for the former Soviet Union?' he said-but it sounded peevish and he regretted the words immediately.
Natalya replied over her shoulder as she continued walking ahead of him.
'It is ironic, really,' she replied, sounding slightly condescending. 'This house was built in 1895 for Evalyn Walsh McLean, a very wealthy capitalist who owned, among many other things, the Hope Diamond. The Soviets bought the house in the 1950s, used it as a school for children of the embassy staff. They did not trust American schools. Then it was renovated and reopened as the Russian Cultural Center in 1999. We host all sorts of events, from poetry readings to film premiers. Just last week there was the Tsvetaeva Bonfire.'
'Bonfire?' asked Benjamin.
'Not really a bonfire.' They'd reached the end of a hallway on the second floor, and Natalya entered an area of small offices. She stopped in front of one with stenciled on the door. 'It is a celebration of the poet Marina Tsvetaeva's birthday. And then the week before that we premiered a new Russian film, one of those ridiculous spy thrillers Americans like so much, something called, in English, Chasing Piranha. Something about agents and secret weapons. I do not care for such stories myself.'
She gathered up her gown and sat down at her desk, turned on her computer.
' That's a little ironic, isn't it?' Benjamin asked.
Natalya watched the system start up, inserted the CD into its slot.
'Why is that?' she said, not looking at him.
'Well, with all this,' he waved at the CD, the building, the general situation, 'it just seems like perhaps you're in such a story.'
Now she turned and looked at him. Her blue-green eyes were bright spots in the dim light. Again he sensed the strong will behind her beautiful face.
'I hope not, Mr. Wainwright,' she said. 'For both our sakes, I truly hope not.'
