A Deceit to Die For (12 page)
“Well, at least the weather was nice this weekend.” The smile faded and Zeki grew solemn. “Ian, I was deeply touched by the thoughtful gift you left with the hotel.”
“Please don’t mention it. We are still on for lunch after the first session, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“Great, we can catch up a bit then. Listen, I have an old Ottoman document I want you to take a look at too, but right now I have to introduce Dr. Herrin. Let’s meet at the conference hall entrance when we break for lunch.”
Ian and Zeki had found a quiet corner in the dining hall. Lamb with mint sauce was a dish they both enjoyed, but today it was merely an excuse to catch up. After the customary inquiries about their health, family and conference gossip, Ian pushed his plate away and pulled a folder from his briefcase.
“This is the document that I mentioned this morning. I was told by one of our Arabic professors that it’s probably Ottoman Turkish. It is a shame that I’ve never taken the time to learn the rudiments, but I am not an Orientalist. Take a look and tell me what you make of it?”
Zeki took the transparent folder and fished his glasses out of his shirt pocket. Ian watched Zeki’s face as he scanned the document and noticed how his eyes narrowed when he reached the end.
“Where did you find this document? It appears to be quite old.”
“Actually I found it in an old Byzantine history by Laonicus Chalcondyles that I picked up at private sale last week.”
“That is odd. Doesn’t seem to be the sort of thing you would find just tucked away in an old book.”
“What’s it about?”
“Well, that’s difficult to say.”
“You mean you are unable to decipher it?”
“My dear man, it is written in Ottoman Turkish and dates back several centuries. There are only a handful of men even in my country who can read it. Give me a moment.”
Zeki took out a notebook. As his friend worked to decipher it, Ian nursed his wine and finished his salad. Zeki was writing in earnest now.
Ian ventured another question. “So, you are able to understand it, then?”
“Yes and no. What I mean is that it was not written to be understood,” said Zeki matter-of-factly.
Zeki finished the sentence he was writing.
“Well, the letter begins with traditional flowery greetings and expressions
of gratitude for services rendered and information provided, but once the pleasantries are over the real message gets very cryptic. From what I can tell, the important section is this part.”
Zeki began reading from the translation he had just rendered.
The council’s decision to cancel son of prophet and erase every trace remains among our most solemn duties. It will be a red English sunset on Suri-Strend with a golden sunrise in Tunis when the bird which has flown is brought back to Südde-i Saadet. Walk in the snow, but leave no footprints. Assistance for the sendoff may be obtained from our ever faithful D. Hasten delivery.
“You see, unless you are already privy to the plot, it is almost impossible to understand it. It’s like a poem written to your friend about a summer of adventures that only the two of you experienced, and in which you use your own pet names for the events and people.”
Ian frowned and then probed further.
“But, it mentions the city of Tunis in North Africa so that is something and what is Südde-i Saadet and Suri-Strend?”
“Well, Südde-i Saadet means the ‘threshold of happiness’, but I am not familiar with the other name.”
“And what of that phrase ‘son of prophet’? Does that mean anything to you?”
“No, it is quite peculiar,” Zeki admitted.
“Maybe it is personal correspondence as you suggest, and nothing really important at all. Still, I have my doubts.”
“And why is that?”
“Well, it was not just lying loose in the book. It had been cleverly concealed by placing it between two pages and then gluing them together.”
“Purposefully concealed?”
“Clearly. Is there a date on the letter?”
“Let me see. Yes. 13
Jumaada al-awal
1149 on the Islamic calendar, which begins with the Prophet’s flight from Mecca to Medina.”
“What does that correspond to on the Gregorian calendar?”
“I’m not exactly sure, but probably around 1730.”
“Then it’s not as old as I thought. The manuscript I found it in dates back to the fifteenth century. Is there anything else that might be significant?” asked Ian.
“There is one more thing,” said Zeki. “The second part of the manuscript is written in a different hand and, though it uses the same script the language is not the same.”
“You mean there are two parts?”
“That’s right,” replied Zeki. “I thought it was Arabic at first, and my knowledge of Medieval Arabic is admittedly poor, but I see now that it is definitely not Arabic or Persian.”
Ian looked around to see if there was a waiter handy to fill his wine glass. Conference attendees were still streaming in and the staff was bustling about trying to keep everyone happy. He waited for a waiter to look his way, but finally gave up and turned back to Zeki, who was still scrutinizing the document.
“What do you think? Is it something worth pursuing?”
Zeki remained silent as if weighing several different possibilities. Finally, he looked up at Ian and smiled.
“My friend, make no mistake about it; this is an interesting piece of paper you have found.”
“Well, let’s begin with the obvious questions.” Ian put his elbows on the table and leaned forward in earnest. “Is the sender or the recipient named? Is it an official letter or a personal one?”
“The answer to your first question is ‘No’, which is odd to say the least. As for your second question, I would say it is official except that we are unable to answer the first question in the affirmative. If it were official, the names of the sender and recipient would obviously be prominent.”
“Then it must be a personal letter as you have already suggested. It’s probably nothing. There could be any number of explanations for why it would be hidden. Still, I thought that there was a place at the bottom of the letter that looked like it might be a seal. What do you make of that?”
Zeki smiled.
Clever old man. How many people without any knowledge of Ottoman culture could have guessed that the fancy script was actually a sultan’s tugra?
“Well, that is exactly why I said that I would have called it official if there had been some identification. It is a seal of sorts.”
“What about the little pictograph at the top of the page? Is that just Ottoman letterhead? Is it standard or something peculiar to this document?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t know what it means. Would it be possible for me to get a copy of this?”
“Of course. Give my secretary a call and have her email it to you. She took a digital photograph of it this morning.”
“That would be great. Okay, well, I think you should keep a close eye on this document of yours. Let me do a little research and see if I can find anything.”
“Would you mind it if I kept that translation you just made?”
“Not at all.”
Zeki tore the sheet of paper from his notebook and handed it to Ian. Then he looked down at his watch.
“It would be nice to check my email before the afternoon sessions start.”
“The password for guest Internet usage was in the invitation everyone received via email.”
“Right, I think I’ll just sit out in the lobby and see if I can get a connection.”
“If the rain has let up, I think I will take a stroll around the neighborhood to stretch my legs before the afternoon session begins.”
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As soon as he stepped outside, Ian noticed that the clouds were breaking up and the gloomy atmosphere that had hung over the city early that morning was lifting. Soon the streets would be bustling with Londoners wanting to take advantage of the last rays of summer. Ian’s mind was racing.
Tunis. That could be evidence of a Morisco connection, but the reference to an English sunset was perplexing, clearly a veiled reference of some sort. Walk in the snow and leave no footprints. Obviously, an assignment that required secrecy.
Ian noticed he was heading to Hyde Park, but that would be a four kilometer walk and he didn’t have that much time. Bloomsbury Square was close, but sure to be crowded, so he decided to go to Regent’s Park instead. If he kept a brisk pace he could get there, wander around for a bit and still be back in thirty-five minutes.
His phone rang. He looked at the screen. It was Judith. It rang twice more. He stood there indecisive, a feeling he was not accustomed to. He finally answered on the fourth ring.
“Hello, Judith.”
“On your lunch break?”
“Yes. I hope the weather is as nice in Brussels as it is here.”
“Better, I’m sure. I invited the German and French committee members to a terrace cafe, and we are sipping champagne in the sun, or rather I am. They just left.”
“How are your meetings?”
“The American delegation is applying more pressure than even I had hoped for. The Senator understands the importance of the initiative and has assured me that the Committee on Foreign Relations will lend its full support. In fact, he’s personally introducing legislation next week that requires the Department of Education to mandate that interfaith dialogue be included in all state curriculums. I felt like there was rapport, so that gives me hope. How is the conference going?”
“The first day was a bit hectic.”
“Any progress on the document?”
“To be honest, yes. It’s an Ottoman document from the early eighteenth century.
“About what?”
“Don’t know. It’s short and a bit cryptic.”
“You mean, like you’re talking with me right now?”
Ian shook his head. She always came straight to the point.
“I’m just trying to put the pieces to together. That’s all.”
“Ian, you’ve been looking for Morisco documents ever since I met you. You could lecture experts on the subject, and it’s not even your field.”
“Well, that’s what I get for taking a hobby too seriously.”
“I know you’re brewing up a hypothesis. What is it?”
“Well, it mentions Tunis, so it may well be linked to the Moriscos in some way. The peculiar thing is its reference to England.”
“Really? In what context?”
“That’s the problem. There is no context.”
“Is there a date?”
“The date is given according to the Islamic calendar, and I haven’t worked it out exactly on the Gregorian calendar, but it’s around 1730.”
“Hmm. Early eighteenth-century connection between England and North African Muslims. Nothing comes to mind. Anything else?”