The Sword of Moses (13 page)
——————— ◆ ———————
National Museum of Iraq
Baghdad
The Republic of Iraq
Ava needed to clear her head—to think about what she was getting herself into.
She headed from the Abbasid Palace down to the nearby banks of the river. She always found it helpful to look at the ancient slow-flowing waters of the mighty Tigris. There was something timeless about its permanence—connecting her directly to the ancient world she spent her days thinking about.
Even its name evoked exotic images in her mind.
She took a mental boat ride, from its source in the snowy peaks of eastern Turkey, down past Baghdad, and on for another three hundred and fifty miles south, until it joined with the equally powerful Euphrates, where the two rivers together pushed through the Shatt al-Arab waterway and out into the Arabian Gulf.
She had been down in the fertile marches around the Shatt al-Arab earlier in the year. It was a vitally important area for her ongoing research work.
Along with most other modern archaeologists, she believed it was the most likely site of the biblical Garden of Eden. She had even written an audio-guide for the British Museum on the reason why—explaining that key elements of the Genesis story all came from older Iraqi tales. The creation of the world from a formless void with darkness over the waters, six phases of creation, making man in God’s image, a plant of immortality, a serpent that caused man to lose eternal life, a temptress, a loss of innocent nakedness, and even the Flood with its ark and rescued animals, were not originally written by the Hebrews in the Bible, but were borrowed directly from Iraqi creation traditions that were thousands of years older.
Ava found that many people were at first shocked by this, but it made more sense to them when she pointed out the Bible specifically stated that Abraham originally came from Ur—a city in southern Iraq by the lush fertile marches of the Shatt al-Arab, where it also explained that his ancestors ‘worshipped other gods’.
Her musings on the Bible brought her back to the Ark of the Covenant—another ancient Hebrew story with modern resonances. One, she was now aware, that was taking centre stage again in the Middle East.
Once the driver had dropped her back at the museum, she flicked on the laptop in her office and slipped in the sleek black disc.
As she watched, the screen went inky black, and a fiery scrollwork border of iridescent lions and sphinxes appeared, marching around to form an edge. Once it was complete, neat silvery text started appearing inside the animal border—each sentence materializing then dissolving into the next with a shimmering liquid effect.
It read:
WELCOME, LEO.
TWELVE IS THE FIRST SUBLIME NUMBER.
TWELVE IS THE NUMBER OF GODS OF OLYMPUS, LABOURS OF HERCULES, TRIBES OF ISRAEL, SONS OF ODIN, SIGNS OF THE ZODIAC, DISCIPLES, IMAMS, BATTLES OF ARTHUR, DAYS OF CHRISTMAS, MONTHS OF THE YEAR, AND HOURS OF THE DAY AND NIGHT.
NOW TWELVE WILL PARTICIPATE.
AN ARTEFACT OF INCOMPARABLE MYTH AND MYSTIQUE.
VIEWING AT TWELVE NOON.
AUCTION AT TWELVE MIDNIGHT.
ENTRANCE BY THIS TICKET ONLY.
That was it. Nothing further.
There was no date or venue, but Saxby had given her all the details she needed.
She popped the disc out of the computer and put it safely in her pocket.
After printing out the travel documentation and the phone number for her to call afterwards, she gathered her things, grabbed the emergency overnight bag she always kept in her office, checked she had her passport, and left for the airport.
——————— ◆ ———————
British Museum
Bloomsbury
London WC1
England
The United Kingdom
It was drizzling lightly as the paunchy academic made his way up the grey stone steps of the British Museum's south entrance.
High above the Ionic columns, monumental Grecian statues looked down on him and the other insignificant people beetling across the grand esplanade.
The academic nodded approvingly at the pagan Greek style of the building, thinking of all the adepts down the ages who had handled the powerful objects within. It was a fitting tribute to the great
Mouseion
, the Temple of the Muses in ancient Alexandria, after which all museums were named.
Carrying a clear collapsible umbrella and brown leather satchel, and dressed in a dark grey mac flapping around a green suit and light brown shoes, he looked every inch the continental intellectual. The impression was completed by a pair of round horn-rimmed glasses.
Arriving at the top of the stairs, he pushed through the portico's heavy wood and glass doors and into the neo-classical Weston Great Hall. It was teeming with visitors criss-crossing the floor, flitting between the galleries, concierge services, and shops.
Heading out of the hall, he moved into the iconic Great Court—the largest covered square in Europe, spanned by a breath-taking airy vault of triangular glass panels funnelling into a central point above the old reading room.
Turning right through the East Wing’s grand doorway, he entered his destination—the Enlightenment Gallery.
His usually sea-green eyes were now brown, thanks to the cheap cosmetic contact lenses he had picked up at a chemist that morning, and the towel taped around his waist changed his normally athletic figure into the flabbier form of a man who sat in libraries all day.
On entering the gallery, he was immediately confronted by the vast Roman Piranesi vase. At nearly nine feet tall, its ancient Bacchic scenes dwarfed the visitors milling about it.
He looked around, noting that the book-lined walls and first-floor gallery had clearly changed little since they were built to house King George III’s library in the early 1820s. It was, he knew, one of the oldest rooms in the museum.
But he was not here to mingle with the tourists and museum goers gawping at the exhibits from the Age of Enlightenment. He was in the gallery for a specific purpose—Case 20.
He could have found it in his sleep. Turning left, he headed towards the gently lit north end. Case 20 was on his right. It was a tall antique glazed wooden display cabinet labelled ‘Religion and Ritual Magic—Mystery and Rites’.
He was aware most people thought of the Enlightenment as a rational age. But he knew better. For all its empiricism, it had remained heavily influenced by magic and alchemy—the forerunners of modern experimental science. There was a reason, he liked to remind himself, that Sir Isaac Newton, the greatest scientist of the time, had been described as not the first of the age of reason, but the last of the magicians.
Peering through the cabinet’s glass, he could see small white labels explaining that the case housed, among other things, artefacts formerly belonging to Dr John Dee.
Malchus shivered with anticipation as he noted that Dee’s possessions had been removed, leaving visible gaps filled only with small handwritten notices simply stating ‘Temporarily Unavailable’.
Two greasy looking young men with rucksacks and cameras were complaining loudly to each other, annoyed by the removal of Dee’s collection. Malchus looked at the gory T-shirt one of them was wearing advertising a death metal band. He snorted quietly to himself in derision—the name of the band, ‘
Legio Lucifero
’, was a basic schoolboy error of Latin grammar.
Idiots.
He made his way to the guard standing at the end of the ornate gallery, and handed him the letter from the curator, explaining that Mrs Pamela Richards was expecting him.
The guard asked him to wait, before returning a few minutes later accompanied by an attractive dark-haired lady in her early forties.
“Professor Schottmüller?” Pamela Richards greeted him, extending her hand and shaking his warmly. “Please follow me.”
She cheerily led him through a labyrinth of corridors, before showing him into a small room with a chair, a simple Formica desk and black Anglepoise lamp, and a window covered by a thin beige roman blind.
On the desk were a number of objects, each nestling on plump grey cushions in a pair of large padded trays.
“Do you know much about our Dee Collection, Professor?” she asked, walking over to the table.
A lot more than you do
. Malchus kept the thought to himself—he had a role to play.
“A little,” he answered. “But it’s all somewhat new to me. My work has mainly been on Renaissance humanism. I’ve known about Dr Dee for a long time, of course, but I have only recently had cause to concentrate on him.”
“Well, handling objects a historical person used is always the best way to connect with that individual,” she smiled, “to help get into their mind. We have over eight million artefacts here. I just wish more people could handle the collections. It makes history so much more immediate.”
He nodded, feigning interest.
If only you knew
.
She handed him a folder. “I thought you might be interested in these. It’s just a small collection of articles on Dr Dee, covering his time as astrologer and mathematician to Queen Mary then Queen Elizabeth I, his work on maps and the Gregorian calendar reform and, of course, his obsession with using shiny objects to communicate with angels.”
Scrying,
Malchus mentally rebuked her.
It’s called scrying.
She pointed to the objects on the desk. “Two of them are what he called his ‘shew stones’, as they showed him messages from angels.”
She picked up a polished round flat black stone. “This is the most famous one. We just call it Dr Dee’s mirror. It’s actually volcanic obsidian glass from Mexico, and was brought back to Europe by conquistadores under Cortés, becoming one of Dr Dee’s most treasured possessions. Apparently it was originally used by Aztec sorcerers in their sacrificial cults.”
Not sorcerers.
He was getting impatient.
Sacrificial priests of the great god Tezcatlipoca, or Smoking Mirror. And not just any sacrifices—human sacrifices. The mirror was a sacred channel.
He gritted his teeth to stop himself saying anything. He just wanted her to leave so he could be alone with the objects.
He had waited so long for this moment.
“Aside from the shew stones, the collection also includes his seals.” She indicated the three large wax discs on the trays.
Malchus nodded. “Are these all the ones you have?” He knew the answer perfectly well, but did not want to appear too knowledgeable.
“Yes, just the three I’m afraid,” she shot him an apologetic glance. “But they’re very good examples, in excellent condition considering their age. We’re particularly proud of the biggest one, the
Sigillum Dei
, or Seal of God. It’s Dee’s version of an ancient magical device known from at least the 1200s.” She pointed to a grey wax seal the size of a dinner plate, three fingers thick. It was covered in magical symbols, with a large pentagram in the centre.
“The seals all worked together,” she explained to him. “Dr Dee put a small one under each leg of a special table.” She pointed to the two smaller ageing grey seals. “We only have two of the four, unfortunately. Then he put the
Sigillum Dei
onto the surface of the table, and a shew stone on top of that. He called it his ‘Table of Practice’—it helped him talk to angels, he believed.”
Not talk to angels.
Malchus was finding it increasingly hard to bite his tongue at her inane prattling.
Dee was not an idiot. It helped him summon the angelic energies.
“Anyway,” she concluded. “The details are all in here.” She handed him the folder.
“Thank you,” Malchus took the folder, nodding his appreciation.
“Well, you know what you’re doing,” she smiled at him as he set down his satchel and took out a notebook and pencil. “We do, of course, ask that you use the gloves we provide.” She indicated a pair of white cotton gloves on the desk. “How long will you need?”
“Two-and-a-half, maybe three hours,” he replied, anxious for her to leave so he could get started.
She made a quick call on the wall-mounted telephone by the door, and a few moments later a guard appeared. He wore the universal security guard’s uniform—black trousers, white shirt, and black tie, but in addition the shirt had black epaulettes with a crown and the designation ‘BM Security’.
“Peter will sit in with you,” she explained to Malchus, nodding towards the guard. “I do apologize for the intrusion, but it’s museum policy, I’m afraid.”
Malchus smiled absent-mindedly back at Mrs Richards. “Of course. I quite understand.”
He had assumed he would be watched. He had chosen the afternoon specifically for this reason. The guard would no doubt be getting dozy soon.
“It’s just that we have to be particularly careful with the Dee Collection. You probably heard that one of Dr Dee’s shew stones was stolen from the Science Museum a few years ago.”
“Yes—terrible.” Malchus looked down at the floor.
“Fortunately they got it back, thank heavens. And we still have ours.”
“Some people,” Malchus muttered, shaking his head.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it then,” she concluded. “If you need anything at all, just call me on extension 43.” She pointed to the wall-phone, and left the room.
The security guard nodded at Malchus, sat down on a chair just inside the door, and pulled out a book.
Alone with his thoughts at last, Malchus moved over to the desk, and turned his full attention to the trays.
——————— ◆ ———————
British Museum
Bloomsbury
London WC1
England
The United Kingdom
Malchus gazed covetously at the ancient objects resting in their cushioned trays in front of him—a gold disc, a small crystal ball, the three seals, and the Aztec mirror of Tezcatlipoca.
Making a selection, he tentatively stretched out a hand and picked up the golden disc.
It was about three inches in diameter, with a small hole punched through it, as if it had once been attached to a cord.
Etched onto its shiny surface was an image Malchus knew intimately—the diagram of the four castles from the Cracow vision of 1684. The design was formed of two concentric circles—one near the edge, and a smaller one just inside it. Within the band they created were four castles, one at each point of the compass. Inside the smaller circle, filling the disc, a wide equilateral cross radiated off a central motif, creating four quadrants, each filled with minute theurgic writing.
He wrapped his hand tightly around the occult talisman and closed his eyes. Breathing in deeply, he willed the cold metal to yield up some of the energies left by Dee and his séances.
Yes.
It felt good. There was still power in it. Dee’s magic had been strong.
Placing it onto the velvet again, he turned to the seals.
His eyes fell first on the large
Sigillum Dei
.
Dee had left precise descriptions and exact drawings of the enormous seal, so Malchus had been able to give detailed specifications to the owner of the
Okkultismus
shop in Quedlinburg.
Soon. Very soon.
He told himself.
Turning to the smaller seals, he examined them closely.
They were the second most important reason he was at the museum.
He placed them side by side, and exhaled with pleasure, drinking in the sight.
They were the same waxy grey colour as the
Sigillum Dei
, each the size of a saucer.
Unlike the
Sigillum Dei
, he had not found any drawings or descriptions of them, so it was crucial that he did not miss anything in what he was about to do.
Turning them over, he noted that one had extensive damage to the front face where a section had been smashed off, taking a portion of the image with it. But he was relieved to note the other was identical and fully intact, with only minimal chipping to one of its grimy edges.
He gazed at the occult stars and symbols on each of them, revelling in their power.
Exquisite.
Putting aside the broken seal, he concentrated on the undamaged one.
He took out a ruler and callipers and began measuring it exactly, making detailed notes in his book.
Then he pulled a slim silver digital camera from his pocket. It was a specialist model, with advanced macro options for detailed close up work.
Attaching the camera to a lightweight mini desktop tripod, he plugged in the shutter release cable, set a small aperture, disabled the flash, and began to take long exposure photographs, turning the seal carefully to ensure he got it from all angles with maximum depth of field.
He sensed the guard looking up at him occasionally, but he seemed unconcerned by Malchus photographing the objects.
He was careful not to miss anything.
Finishing the macro shots, he flicked the lens to a more normal image ratio and took a series of photos at regular magnification.
When he was done, he cycled through the pictures on the camera’s display screen to make sure they had come out sharply. They all looked crystal clear—exactly what he needed. He would e-mail them directly to Quedlinburg when he got home.
Putting the camera, tripod, and cable back into his satchel, he knew that photographic images alone would not be enough. He would also need precise physical information about the depth and contours of the complex ridges and whorls of the image ornamenting the seal.
Keeping his back between the desk and the security guard behind him, he pulled a miniature perfume atomizer from his pocket, and sprayed a fine mist of fluid over the seal’s grey surface.
Next, he took out of his satchel a shallow flat round tin a shade larger than the seal and half an inch deep. He gently eased off the lid to reveal a clear-coloured plastic putty.
Throwing a quick glance over his shoulder to check the guard was still engrossed in his book, he pulled the seal closer towards him, ensuring his back blocked the guard’s view of what he was doing.
Taking the seal, he carefully placed it face down into the putty, pressing hard enough to register a clean impression.
As he lifted it gently, he was pleased to see it came away cleanly and that the silicone spray had prevented any of the putty from sticking to its ancient wax.
Placing the lid carefully back onto the tin, he slipped it unobtrusively back into his leather satchel.
So far so good.
With another surreptitious glance over his shoulder to the security guard, he pushed the tray with the seals aside, and turned his attention to the mirror of Tezcatlipoca.
This was it.
His heart beat faster.
This is what he had been yearning for.
It looked an unassuming object—a flat piece of shiny black glass cut into a circle no bigger than the span of his hand and no thicker than a finger. It had a small bulge the size of a large coin on one side with a hole bored through it to enable the mirror to be hung on a rope or chain. It was an odd object, he mused—most people would probably have thought it was a kitchen stand for a hot pan.
He sneered. People were so unobservant. They wandered blindly around their pointless lives, never seeing what lay right in front of their faces.
He stretched out a slightly trembling hand, and shuddered at the small electrical charge he felt as his fingers closed around the cold black glass.
He closed his eyes to savour its power.
At last.
He had waited so long, and now he could finally feel its energies coursing through him.
He saw before him the terrible and wondrous annual Aztec ceremony. A young man was dressed as the fearsome god Tezcatlipoca for a full year, honoured in the court, and ritually seduced again and again by four nubile ceremonial wives. At the year’s end, he climbed the pyramid and was offered to the god of the smoking mirror—his chest cracked open and his steaming beating heart held aloft as a bloody living sacrifice before his flesh was eaten and his head hacked off, cleaned out, and displayed on the skull rack.
Malchus let the image fade, and moved forward in time, still gripping the mirror tightly.
Now he was in sixteenth-century Mortlake—a town just west of London. It was night-time, and he was inside an Elizabethan room—the smoky candles illuminating a low-ceilinged study with leaded casement windows. Sitting at the Table of Practice, he could see Dr Dee, with his high white ruff and black skull cap, his lined elderly face shining with perspiration as he pored over the mirror, reading in its smoky black surface the mysteries of the universe revealed by the angelic hosts.
Malchus pulled himself slowly out of the scene.
Not yet.
He opened his eyes and put the mirror down, careful to check his back was still blocking the security guard’s view.
Patience.
He breathed deeply and counted to ten.
Now.
Reaching into his leather satchel, he pulled out a replica of the mirror and a small sealable watertight bag.
He looked at the two mirrors side by side, and felt an icy chill run through him.
They were identical.
No one would be able to tell them apart.
It had been simplicity itself to obtain the duplicate. He had given the elderly glass-cutter photographs of the original mirror—which were easy to find in books on Dee, and the old man had visited Case 20 in the Enlightenment Gallery numerous times to ensure he had exactly the right colour of volcanic obsidian and that he cut and polished it accurately. For a craftsman of his experience, it was child’s play.
Checking that the guard was still reading his book, Malchus smoothly placed the reproduction mirror onto the padded tray in front of him, and slipped the real one into the sealable plastic bag.
Simple.
Standing up, he lifted his grey mac off the back of the chair where he had draped it. As he unfolded the material to put it on, he dropped the watertight bag into a large poacher’s pocket he had specially ordered to be sewn into the mac’s lining.
The guard looked up. “Finished, sir?”
Malchus shook his head, grimacing. “My back gives me pain. I need to stretch. I’ll have a coffee in the excellent café across the road. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
“No problem, sir,” the guard eyed the table, checking all five objects were still there. “Just knock on the door when you want to come in again.”
Malchus nodded, and headed out into the corridor, the mirror nestled safely inside the folds of his mac.
He retraced his steps along the route Pamela Richards had brought him earlier. He had memorized it carefully, noting all the doors leading off it.
Slipping into the washroom he had spotted without needing to ask her, he made for one of the old shiny wooden-doored cubicles, pushing its brass handle, and locking himself in.
Once inside, he was relieved to see his research had been accurate. The plumbing in the non-public parts of the building had not been modernized, and the Victorian cubicle was like thousands of others in old English institutions up and down the country, exactly as he had expected it to be.
Above the large rectangular porcelain bowl and smooth mahogany seat, a short shiny brass pipe led up to a white porcelain cistern tank bolted to the wall with curled wrought-iron brackets.
He gently lifted the cistern’s lid, wincing at the grating sound as it came free. Inside, the cistern was full of clear water, and a large red limestone-stained ball bobbed on a brass rod, operating the water flow system for refilling the tank.
As he had anticipated, there was plenty of room, and he slipped the sealed bag containing the mirror into the water, carefully wedging it into the side behind the refill pipe so it did not obstruct the ball and rod. When it was done, he replaced the lid.
Back in the public part of the museum, he made his way out of the building, across the esplanade filled with tourists taking photographs, and into the café. He chose a seat by the window, where he sat sipping the hot liquid, impatient to be done here and to start work back home.
When he had drained the last of the bitter coffee, he headed back into the museum, and up to the private study room.
The guard let him in without fuss. He hung his mac over the chair once more, and sat back at the table.
He had nothing more to do for the afternoon, so leafed through the folder of articles on Dr Dee that Pamela Richards had given to him.
There was nothing in them he did not know. It was the usual pointless academic dross—obsessively focusing on trivial biographical details, completely missing the importance of the ancient traditions Dee followed.
He despised people like Professor Schottmüller. What pathetic lives they led. What was the point of knowledge without power?
He checked his watch repeatedly and waited patiently until its hands showed it was half past five. He wanted to be sure the building would be emptying of back-room staff keen to get home for the day.
Feigning a stretch and a yawn, he stood up and turned to the security guard. “That’s everything, thank you, Peter.”
The guard stood up, and put his book on the seat before heading to Malchus’s table. “You’re welcome. I’ll just have to check the objects, sir.”
Malchus stiffened.
The guard walked over to the table and picked up a clipboard. He read off the items and checked they were in the trays. “Well, that all seems to be in order, sir.”
Malchus put his coat on and turned to leave. He could not believe the museum’s idiocy. How could they trust priceless objects to a security guard who probably would not have realized if he had swapped the mirror for one made of sugar pink plastic?
The guard held out his hand. “I’ll just need to check your bag, sir.”
Malchus froze. “Yes, of course,” he answered robotically.
The guard took the leather satchel off the table, unzipped it, and peered inside. Malchus knew what he would find. A notepad and pencil. Ruler and callipers. Camera equipment. And the impression pad.
Damn.
He should have put the impression pad into the cistern too.
He felt in his pocket for the knife. He could not allow the guard to find the impression pad and create a scene. That would cause delays and questions. Doubtless they would soon find out he was not Professor Schottmüller.
He could not let that happen.
Inside his pocket, he flicked open the knife’s blade and locked it, preparing to do what was necessary.
The guard zipped the bag up again and handed it to Malchus. “That’s fine, sir.”
Malchus breathed a sigh of relief. He would have no problem ending the guard’s worthless life. But it would be messy, and the last thing he needed was unnecessary police involvement.
“Thank you again,” Malchus replied with a formal nod, taking his hand out of his pocket, picking up the bag, and heading for the door.
Once in the corridor, he made straight for the washrooms, and the cubicle he had visited earlier.
There was no one in it, and he locked the solid wooden door, before again removing the cistern’s heavy white porcelain lid.
His heart beat harder as he felt around in the water—but his fingers quickly found the bag and fished it out of the tank.
Pulling his prize from the wet bag, he slid it into his pocket, and flushed the plastic bag down the bowl.
After washing his hands, he stepped out into the hallway, and headed briskly for the door leading back into the public part of the museum.
Reaching it, he heard a familiar voice. “Professor Schottmüller?”