A Deceit to Die For (16 page)

He turned his computer on and logged into the university’s online library. It was time to test his theory about the document.
First the date.
He looked for a calendar converter and plugged in the Islamic date Zeki had written down.
September 19th, 1736
.
That would be just two months before Sale’s death. What about the seal?
Twenty minutes later, he poured himself a glass of wine and leaned back in his chair.
So, Zeki, you say it’s a seal of sorts. Why didn’t you just tell me it was a Sultan’s seal?
He shook his head and smiled at Zeki’s restraint. He had always been impressed by how the man handled himself, but for the first time he realized that what he most admired in the man could be summed up with a single word—caution.

He wasn’t sure why, but suddenly Ian felt apprehensive. His intuition seemed to be paging his reason. Zeki had clearly withheld information. Why? He could think of no logical reason. Coupled with Zeki’s low-key warning to keep the document close, it was like a needle pricking his subconscious. Had the bird been captured? Was that why the world was left with only half of the Spanish copy? Ian reread Zeki’s translation, typed “Südde-i Saadet” into the search field and clicked on the third link down. His eyes opened wide in wonder as he read. Zeki would have known Südde-i Saadet was just another name for Istanbul. He hid that from me too? Why? To hide the Turkish connection?

The doorbell rang and Ian looked at the clock. It was 9:35. He sighed, walked to the door and put his eye to the peephole.

“Mr. O’Brien, I wouldn’t impose if it weren’t important.”

He opened the door.

“Good evening, Mrs. Askwith. How can I help you?”

The seventy-year-old widow stood there in a flannel nightgown with a tight-fitting white embroidered nightcap on her head.

“Mr. O’Brien, I meant to come over earlier, but I hit a snag on my crossword puzzle, and it completely slipped my mind. I remembered just as I was turning in for the night.”

“What is it, Mrs. Askwith?”

“I was at a neighborhood crime-stoppers meeting last week. Quite interesting. Have you ever attended one of those?”

“No, Mrs. Askwith, I haven’t. My schedule leaves me precious little free time.”

“That’s no surprise with all the ladies calling at your door.”

“Mrs. Askwith! I can only assume you are referring to Mrs. Herrin, so that would be a ‘lady’ not ‘ladies’. Is that what you came to talk to me about?” he asked, trying to remain calm.

“Heaven sakes, no! Who you consort with is none of my business, although that dress she was wearing on Saturday looked more like black cellophane than fabric. You see, I simply adored Patricia. She will always have a special place in
my
heart even if she doesn’t in yours.”

“Mrs. Askwith, the woman is a colleague, nothing more. She is working with me on a research project. That’s all.”

“Well, that may be what it is
now,
but take it from me, Mr. O’Brien, that’s not what the hussy wants. For Patricia’s sake, and then God’s, you’d do well to keep your guard up against floozies like that.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Askwith, for the advice,” said Ian with a sigh. “If that is all, I’d better get back to my work.”

“Mr. O’Brien, you don’t think I came over here to gossip about your love life, do you? I can do that with any of the other tenants. I told you about the crime-stoppers meeting.”

“Yes, you did,” Ian said, in a tone meant to convey his exasperation. “And, I told you I’m not able to attend.”

“Who’s asking you to? I came over here to tell you that they said suspicious activity should always be reported to the police, but I didn’t know if it was suspicious enough.”

“What, Mrs. Askwith? What was suspicious enough?”

“Well, the fellow from the telephone company who was in your apartment today.”

“In my apartment?”

“Yes, I just happened to be looking out the peephole when he arrived. I would never do that, of course. Coincidence really. Anyway, I thought it was a service call until he came out with a surgical cap on his head and latex gloves on his hands.”

“That wasn’t suspicious enough for you?”

“I thought he might be compulsive-obsessive, suffering from pathophobia, amathophobia, or something like that. I called management after he left, and they said there were no scheduled service calls today. You know what was really weird though? He oiled the door hinges on his way out. Don’t you think that was strange?”

Ian wasn’t even listening anymore. He stood there like a bucket of cold water had just been dumped on his head. This confirmed everything he had just learned. More than that, it was proof that after three hundred years the game was still being played.

“Mr. O’Brien? Don’t you think it strange?”

Ian said nothing. He merely stepped back, pulled the door almost to and then opened it again. The hinges turned as silently as a ghost moves through a wall.

“That is unusual. I’ll have to check with the telephone company tomorrow. Thank you for letting me know.”

“Not at all,” she replied. “I did it for Patricia’s memory anyway.”

Ian watched as she went back down the hall to her own apartment, only closing his own door after he saw her go inside. He began walking through his home searching for any sign of intrusion. It was the same apartment he had sat in all night, and yet it felt different. A sense of personal violation hung heavy in the air, haunting him as he stepped through each doorway and opened every closet. Everything seemed to be exactly as he had left it, which meant only that it wasn’t a common burglary.

It was another thirty minutes before Ian had convinced himself nothing was amiss. He looked at the clock. It was getting late. He would try to spend some time on
English sunset
and
Suri-Strend
tomorrow night. He shut down the computer and headed for the bedroom. When his head hit the pillow, it was with a silent, desperate prayer that Patricia would visit him again. Somebody heard.

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The computer accepted the password and Windows began the two-minute process of installing start-up programs and connecting to cyberspace. He noticed there was an RSS feed from an art blog. He clicked on the link http://landscapeart19.blogspot.com
.
The browser opened to a photograph of a beautiful sunset, which he ignored entirely. He clicked on December 2010 and then the comments.

FanofCairo says: Go red sunset! That is awesome! Did you take this yourself?

The man leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. The operation was a go. He could feel his pulse quicken and knew that his sweat glands would be activated momentarily. It was strange how something as ethereal as a thought was capable of causing a physical chain reaction in the brain that affected the whole body.
No wonder Descartes had been a dualist
. It certainly seemed as if mind triggered the cascade of chemicals that put everything into motion and not vice-versa. He did not, however, have the luxury of time to engage the philosopher in an imaginary discussion of the metaphysical.

He had work to do and less than twenty-four hours to prepare. He went back to favorites and clicked on a different blog—http://art19travel.blogspot.com. He clicked on 2010 and left a comment under the red sunset.

I am going to take one like that too. Yours turned out really good
…

CHAPTER
13

T
UESDAY,
L
ONDON 
 
Ian slipped into consciousness as softly and effortlessly as a feather drifting on the wind. It was a strange feeling for him to find himself suddenly and completely awake without the normal sensation of sound. He hadn’t heard a car drive by, a horn honk, a door slam, or anything else, much less an alarm clock. He had not even experienced the sensation of light gradually getting stronger as the sun rose . . . Then he began to swear softly. It was late morning. Golden light was streaming in the windows of his spacious apartment. He looked at the clock beside the bed and panicked. He had forgotten to set the alarm. It was 8:18 and the conference’s first session would begin in just forty-two minutes.

His panic faded, and the memory of his dream came rushing back with such ardor and vividness that he fell back on his pillow in sheer delight. Patricia, his lovely wife, had been standing in a vast meadow of wildflowers that reached to the horizon, beckoning for him to join her. He wanted to cry. Not for sorrow at having lost her, but with the incredible joy of having been loved by such a beautiful soul.
No time for nostalgia.
Ten minutes later, Ian grabbed his coat, his bag and keys on his way out the door to meet the waiting taxi.

The crowded London streets slipped past in a blur that reminded him just how fast six decades of life had flown by, much of it filled with the drudgery of research in old libraries. Patricia had always been the spark that fired his passions when research turned into an academic grist mill. She had been a law student at SMU when they met. He was studying at the University of Dallas. She was the oldest daughter of a Protestant Scotch-Irish family that had left the Deep South after the Civil War. Sickened by the intrusion of carpetbaggers and their alliance with corrupt scalawags, her great-grandfather had packed up and headed west. She was a genuine Southern belle. Her family cherished the Southern charm and culture they had inherited. Ian’s family, on the other hand, had emigrated from Ireland during the Great Famine and gradually moved west, stopping first in Tennessee, then moving to Missouri to join the abolitionist movement. His father, one of twelve children, had left the Ozarks for a farm in East Texas.

It had been a whirlwind romance. Graduate school had followed marriage with children making appearances in Notre Dame, London and then an early birth in Rome. With a PhD in Byzantine studies, the most promising career opportunities were all in Europe. So, O’Brien found himself pulled back to the continent his forefathers had left, and for twenty-five of the last thirty years, they had travelled the world, teaching, and conducting research at five different universities.

Patricia had always been gracious about their move. She possessed the charm, intellect and culture to enjoy every moment. She loved history and so Europe was a never-ending adventure of discovery for her. Yet, he had always felt guilty about taking her away from the simple life of pecan plantations, hay meadows, and cattle. It was a life the children never really understood. They had grown up in the urban centers of Europe, listening to Blondie, Dire Straits and Pink Floyd. He was afraid to even ask what his three grandchildren listened to. Now, from the backseat of a taxi, on his way to another conference, it all seemed like a lifetime ago—it almost was. He smiled at the prospect of seeing two of his three children later that afternoon. Patricia lived on in each one of them.

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Zeki could hear the first speaker of the morning session being introduced from the podium and he was tempted to curse fate. It was two minutes after nine o’clock. He carefully scanned every face as the late-comers hurriedly made their way up the sidewalk through the lobby doors and towards the conference hall.
Where is Ian?
The man was never late and this was not the time for him to be acting unpredictably. He spotted the tall, red-haired Irishman a few seconds later, cutting across the grass, obviously in a hurry. Zeki stood patiently in the hall waiting. The uneasiness on Ian’s face flashed like a neon sign. The smile that had graced his face when he left his apartment had been replaced with a look of consternation as he mulled over the facts he had learned the previous night. Zeki could tell he had left home in a rush. His hair was disheveled and his tie was crooked.

He must have caught his reflection in the building’s glass windows because he stopped before opening the door, took a comb from his pocket and started tidying his appearance. Once he was satisfied with his hair, he walked through the revolving doors, waved at the security guards and made straight for the main conference hall. That was when he noticed Zeki standing about mid-way down the hall. Zeki smiled and started towards him, but before they met, one of the conference room doors swung open and Ian found himself face-to-face with the department secretary.