“Did they?” asked Gary.
“I wasn’t there,” smiled Zeki. “And the record does not tell us what they said, but Molla Kabiz must not have been convinced, because in spite of their appeals to forsake his so-called heresy, he refused to recant and was executed.”
“That’s horrible,” exclaimed Gwyn.
“No, as your friend here pointed out, that is
realpolitik.
”
“But, how can you punish someone for an idea?” Gwyn protested. “How can an idea be a crime?”
“Simple,” replied Matt. “Make a law against it.”
Zeki put his hand up. “I think we should get back to the Moriscos.” Everyone nodded in agreement. “I’ve given you the general background to what is obviously a long and miserable story. I don’t see how the details of their suffering and the political intrigue help us much, but there were some strange discoveries in Granada after the second rebellion that I think might be relevant. Gwyn is the one who stumbled upon this, so I’ll let her tell you about it. The tea should be ready. Let me get it.”
CHAPTER
48
L
ONDON
“Mrs. Davenport?”
“Yes, how can I help you?” Cathy said, turning away from the computer screen to find herself looking at two MPS officers. He could tell from the way her face fell that she had already guessed why they were there.
“I’m Chief Superintendent McIntosh. If you have a moment, I’d like to ask you a few questions about the O’Brien case.”
“Of course.” She pushed her chair back from the desk, stood up and walked around to where they were standing.
“Won’t you have a seat?” she said, pointing to the chairs against the wall.
“I spend too much time atrophying those muscles already, Mrs. Davenport. I’ll stand if you don’t mind.”
She shrugged and leaned against the edge of her own desk. McIntosh was trying to take in everything about the room. Her desk was neat as a pin, decorated with a bouquet of fresh flowers in a beautiful glass vase he would have bet was crystal. Judging by the wrinkles and gray hair, he guessed her to be around fifty, although if he had just gone by her physique, she could have easily passed for a forty-year-old. She wore a flowing black dress that was tight at the hips and flared out from there to her ankles. He wondered if it was just a favorite color, or if it was a sign of private mourning for the passing of Dr. O’Brien.
“I understand that you are the department secretary and have worked with Mr. O’Brien for a long time.”
“That’s right,” she said. “I took the position the year Dr. O’Brien was hired.”
“And that was how many years ago?”
“Twelve, this month,” she replied. “But, then you don’t need to ask me questions you already know the answer to, do you?”
McIntosh smiled. He liked women with spirit.
“Right,” he responded with a smile. “Let me come right to the point then. I know you already spoke with someone from the department last week, but there has been a new development. We believe that Dr. O’Brien’s death may have been connected to a document he had in his possession. That document is missing, and we have not yet been able to receive a copy of it.”
“Yes, Dr. O’Brien asked me to take a digital photograph of an old document. In fact, it was a week ago today, last Monday.”
“Do you have the digital copy?”
“Of course. It’s on my computer,” she replied, walking back around the desk. “He asked me to send it to Dr. Brown.”
“Dr. Brown?” McIntosh looked at his colleague who was taking notes. “Jack, did Pete talk with Dr. Brown last week?”
“No sir.”
“Mrs. Davenport,” continued McIntosh.
“Please call me Cathy,” she inserted quickly.
“Very well. Cathy, would you mind calling Dr. Brown for me? If he’s available, we’d like to speak with him.”
“Classes haven’t started yet, so if he is on campus, I’m sure he would be more than happy to speak with you. But I doubt it will do much good. He’s new here and didn’t even know Dr. O’Brien.”
“Didn’t know him,” asked McIntosh. “Why would Dr. O’Brien want you to send a document to a professor he doesn’t know?”
“I’m not sure. I suppose it was related to Dr. Brown’s area of expertise.”
“Which is?” prodded McIntosh.
“His specialty is Arab history. Would you like to see the document first, or shall I call Dr. Brown?”
“Please, call Dr. Brown. We can look at the document while we wait for him.”
While she made the call, he stared out the window on a damp, drizzly day. So far, everything pointed to a document he still hadn’t seen. It was the only lead they had that could shed light on a motive. Two professors were dead. O’Brien’s daughter had been attacked by professional assassins whose fingerprints were not contained in any criminal database.
What made the professor give the document to his daughter? Why and how did Zeki show up on the scene? Who wants it? We won’t get anywhere until we answer these questions.
The secretary’s voice brought him back.
“Dr. Brown is in today and said he’d be right over.”
“Excellent.”
She sat down at her computer and moved the mouse to bring the screen back to life. She clicked through a couple of folders, scanned down the list of files and began muttering to herself.
“Is something wrong, Mrs. Davenport?” asked McIntosh.
“I’m quite sure I saved it to a folder that I have reserved for Dr. O’Brien, but it’s not there.”
“Try a search by date or name if you can remember what you called the file.”
She began typing into the search window and hit enter. From across the room, McIntosh could see that her search did not return any results. He remembered what they had found at Ian’s apartment and had a sinking feeling of
déjà vu
. The secretary tried another couple of searches before turning back to McIntosh.
“I don’t understand this at all,” she said, clearly flustered. “I know that it was here. This is inexplicable.”
“Inexplicable? I’m not sure that’s the right word,” McIntosh said staidly. “You see, on the force we operate on the assumption that nothing is inexplicable. Our job is to explain why things happen and bring those responsible to justice. If it isn’t there, the explanation is that someone erased it. You said you sent the document to Dr. Brown. Maybe you could check your sent items,” he suggested.
She turned back to the screen, opened her email program, double-clicked on the Sent Items folder and scrolled down the list to last Monday, but once again, what she expected to find was to her mind inexplicably absent. Her email to Dr. Brown and Dr. Öztürk were both missing.
“This is weird,” she said. “Those emails are also missing. I sent a copy to Dr. Brown and Dr. Öztürk on . . .”
McIntosh cut her off. “You sent one to Dr. Öztürk?”
“Yes, Ian asked me to on Monday afternoon.”
“We’ll have someone from computer forensics take a look at your computer and see if the file can be recovered. But, right now, I need you to tell me anything you know about the document. How did Dr. O’Brien obtain it? How long had it been in his possession? How many people knew about it? Anything you can tell us might prove to be helpful.”
Cathy continued to stare at the screen for a moment and then turned back to McIntosh.
“I know nothing about the document other than what I have told you. I don’t know what it was, where he got it, or how long he had been in possession of it. He asked me to take a flashless digital photograph of it and send it to Dr. Brown. In fact, the next day, he left me a note asking me to send it again because Dr. Brown hadn’t received the first email. I also sent a copy to Dr. Öztürk. Dr. O’Brien had asked him to do some more research on his behalf. That’s all I know. But seeing these files missing just reminded me of something else. When I arrived in the office on Wednesday morning, my computer was on. I remember being surprised because I never leave it on. I figured I had just forgotten to turn it off.”
“And you think someone was here?” he asked.
“Well, I can’t see how. The computer has a password. How could anyone else have turned it on?”
There was a knock at the door. McIntosh turned to see a man in his mid-thirties standing at the door.
“Dr. Brown?”
“Yes. Mrs. Davenport said you wanted to ask me some questions about Dr. O’Brien.”
“Thank you for coming, Dr. Brown. I’m Chief Superintendent McIntosh. I know you’re busy, so I’ll try to keep this short.”
“If there is anything I can do, I’m glad to help.”
“Cathy tells us that Dr. O’Brien shared a document with you on Monday of last week.”
“That’s right.”
“Would you mind providing us with a copy of the document?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have a copy,” said Dr. Brown.
McIntosh didn’t have to feign surprise. It was genuine.
“You don’t have a copy of the document that Dr. O’Brien gave you?”
“Well, he didn’t actually give me a copy. He came to my office with the document and asked me to translate it. Unfortunately, it was not written in Arabic, so I was unable to help him.”
“So, why did he ask his secretary to send you a copy?” asked McIntosh.
“Superintendent, I am a professor of Arab history and one of my interests is the development of calligraphy as an art form in Islam. The language was not Arabic, but the script was. I asked Dr. O’Brien if I could have a copy of it because the style was unique. He said that Mrs. Davenport would send me a digital photograph, but I never received it.”
“You never received it?”
“No, sir.”
“But, she sent it twice.”
“Then, I didn’t receive it twice,” said Dr. Brown with a slight bit of irritation. “Besides,” he continued, “I’m not sure that I understand the purpose of your questions. Are you suggesting that Dr. O’Brien’s death was in some way related to the document?”
“We have reason to believe that it was, but the document is missing, so we’re trying to find out what it contained.”
“Like I said, it wasn’t Arabic. I told him that it might be Ottoman Turkish or maybe Persian.”
“I’m sure you’re also aware of the death of Haluk Bayram, a renowned Ottoman scholar who was attending the conference.”
“Yes, his passing was announced at the conference.”
“Would you be surprised to know that the two deaths are connected?”
“As much or as little as the next man, I suppose. I didn’t know either of the men.”
“Of course. Back to the document. Was there anything unusual about it?” asked McIntosh.
“No, nothing remarkable at all. It was a single page document. Obviously quite old, but I couldn’t hazard a guess at its age.”
“Did he tell you where he found it, or why he was interested in it?”
“No. Our conversation was very short. He said that he had obtained it only recently. After I told him that it might be Ottoman Turkish, he said that he knew a couple of scholars at the conference who might be able to help.”
McIntosh rubbed his chin and found a rough spot he had apparently missed that morning. To no one in particular, he said, “It’s odd, even counterintuitive, but apparently Ottoman and Byzantine scholarship have unexpected occupational hazards. One may be thankful to have chosen Arab history after a week like this.”