The Angel of Eden (35 page)

On the long plane trip home I'd read through the latter pages of Samuel's journal. The revelations they contained amazed me. In the early twentieth century a professor, George A. Barton, translated from Sumerian tablets something he called the Kharsag Epic, which recounted the earliest settlements of the Sumerian people. Samuel had transcribed some of its original words—concrete descriptions of a mountain fortress called Ed-in under the protection of a snake goddess. And that fortress encompassed a magnificent red-walled garden with granaries, a water reservoir, and a tree plantation.

The Serpent Lady … spoke of creating a watered garden—with tall trees …

She spoke of the sunny, watered settlement—of the future for it; …

The mountainside with much overflowing water— all was brightness

The inscriptions even hinted at a reason the people were driven out from this Eden—storm water, flooding, sickness. Had the original mountain settlement of Eden been damaged by floods and its people overcome by some form of plague? Did the travelers I'd found in the salt cave come from this mountain paradise? None of this could be considered hard proof of Sumerian origins or the Garden of Eden's location, but they had convinced me.

As Yersan and I had walked away from the temple I'd remarked on the oddity of there being only one cart rather than a whole caravan.

“The area around Tabriz is situated on a main artery of the Silk Road,” Yersan had said. “But that's only its more recent name. These trade routes stretch far back in time. Over thousands of years, the landscape has changed dramatically. The cart may have been part of a larger company, perhaps in the lead of a caravan as it moved along the plain. The cave roof at that time was perhaps only a thin crust and the heavily laden lead cart fell through. Over thousands of years, erosion of rock from the higher elevations and sediments blown by the wind covered that section of the plain to become the series of foothills there now.” He shrugged. “Who really knows? It's my guess, only.”

My phone rang and broke into my thoughts.

“Madison? It's Lucas Strauss.”

“I just got back. Haven't had time to call you.”

“That's quite all right.” His voice came through the phone like a tinny cackle. “Our mutual friend tells me you've been quite successful.”

“You've been talking to Bennet?” That didn't please me; the news wasn't hers to offer. “I thought she'd washed her hands of the whole thing.”

“Yes, well …” He cleared his throat. “She's reluctant to continue with the article. Not a very reliable young lady, as it turns out.”

“She had a very bad experience. I don't blame her.”

“When may I expect to see you?”

I looked at the side table where
The Steganographia
sat beside Samuel's open journal, its beaten up leather covers a testament to all it had gone through. “Soon. Possibly tomorrow. If I do come then, it'll be late in the day.”

“That would suit me just fine.” His voice had taken on a strange ingratiating tone very much at odds with what I'd experienced before. I didn't trust it. “Hate to rush you. I'll have a bonus ready for all your good work.”

“I'll call to let you know when I'm arriving.”

He thanked me and hung up.

I poured myself a second bourbon. And after that, a third. There wasn't much left in the bottle so I downed that too. I struggled over to my bed and crashed for the night. Around five in the morning I woke abruptly. When I tried to sit up, I couldn't move. Minutes of dread passed by before my body came under my control again. I'd been wrong. The night terrors were back.

I got out of bed and opened a window in the living room, thinking the fresh air might help calm me down. Listening to New York wake up has always been a pleasure for me. My favorite time of the day. I'd often come rolling home from some party and instead of going to bed, sit and listen to the squeal of the trash trucks, the bang of an iron gate, cars zooming past, footsteps down the sidewalk— someone on their way to an early shift—and the reverential quiet in between. The day getting started. The great city readying itself for the deluge of millions, each one wanting something from it.

I closed my eyes, liking the feel of the cold air on my face. A stray dog yelped somewhere down below, probably in a contest for garbage with raccoons. Another yelp. A very familiar sounding one. I didn't bother tugging on a shirt, just snatched my keys and raced down the stairs in the jeans I hadn't bothered to take off.

A bedraggled black dog with a torn and dirty cast trailing from her back leg limped toward me. I scooped her up, almost crushing her to my chest. Her strange yellow eyes seemed to ask why I'd abandoned her. I was jubilant. Reuniting with Loki seemed to make a lot of things right.

Back in the apartment I gave her food and fresh water, Loki lapping it all up greedily. She'd lost weight again. I wondered whether she'd come here every night looking for me. I wound a clean bandage carefully around the torn cast, musing that now we both had bad legs. Then I carried her to the armchair in front of the window where she curled up contentedly in my lap. I put my head back. We both fell into a peaceful sleep.

Fifty-Three

March 19, 2005

W
hen I woke up, two messages were waiting for me. I'd been holding out hope that I'd hear from Bennet, but other than sending me an email with all her pictures and notes, she hadn't spared even one personal word. Diane texted to ask whether I was home yet. It felt good to be able to tell her about Loki.

I took Loki with me when I retrieved the contents of my treasure chest from the FBI. Back home, I restored everything to the vault except the cameo. It bore a beautifully carved head of a woman whose identity had always been a mystery to me—and now I was resolved to find out who she was. I scooped up Loki again and headed out to visit Evelyn.

When I arrived she lifted her arms from the wheelchair rests for a hug, only to drop them when she spotted Loki.

“This is the black dog you told me about?” she asked. “Will it bite?”

I laughed. “Nope. Loki will be quite content to settle down with the bone I brought. She's very friendly.” I took out an antler bone, all the doggy rage these days apparently. Loki snatched it from my hands and retreated with her prize. We'd never had pets at home. I realized now that growing up in the place she did, as the daughter of a sheep herder, Evelyn regarded animals as strictly utilitarian.

“You're shocking me,” Evelyn said. “What happened to your beard?”

I rubbed my hand over my gristled jaw. “Just thought I'd try it for a change.”

“Well, I don't like it. Please grow it back.”

After I'd made us some mint tea in the alcove that served as her kitchen, I settled on the small sofa—the only seating in Evelyn's one main room—as she wheeled her chair beside me. I launched into a sanitized version of my time in Turkey, feeling the lump in my throat swell at the prospect of talking about Kandovan.

“And where is your girlfriend—that Miss Bennet?”

“She stopped off in London on our way back. Visiting with friends.”

Evelyn sighed. “Easy to be any place in this world now, isn't it?”

I took her hand. “Yes, Evie. Listen, I went somewhere else too. Not just Turkey.”

I drew in a deep breath. “I went to Kandovan. I met your brother, sister, and father. I know everything.” Before she could react, I leaned over and folded her in my arms. I could feel a tremble run through her frail body. She cried softly for a few minutes and then sat back. She took a tissue out of her pocket and wiped her eyes.

“How did you know enough to go there?”

This time I lied, not wanting her to know I'd looked through her things. “Strangely enough I was sent there by a client to retrieve
a rare book. I ran into Alaz Nemat and he saw the mark on my jaw. It reminded him of his sister's baby. So we began a conversation and one thing led to another.” I avoided mentioning my experience in the salt caves or in the garden but said I'd fallen ill while in Kandovan and her sister Marya had very kindly looked after me.

I held out the beautiful cameo with a woman's face etched in profile. “I think this is a picture of my mother. It's you, isn't it?”

She'd seen it many times before and glanced at it now. “No, John. You are wrong.”

“It's all right, Evie. You can tell me now. Knowing this makes me very happy.”

But Evelyn wasn't listening. “You said you were sent to Kandovan for a rare book. What book?” she said sharply.

“The one George Helmstetter stole from his employer, written by a sixteenth-century scholar named Trithemius.”

She turned pale. This time I worried I'd gone too far. “It's okay. We can talk about this some other time if it upsets you too much.”

She sighed then looked up at me. “No. I should say it now. Keeping secrets is not good. Samuel tried to tell me that. But I insisted because … I made a promise to hide the book and … to keep another secret.”

“A secret?”

Now it was her turn to give me some solace. She patted my arm. “You said that Marya cared for you when you were taken ill. Did that not strike you as strange?”

“Why would it? She was a kind woman. I think she just felt sorry for me. They were overjoyed to hear about you. Marya especially.”

“John,” she said sternly. “Although you are family, you're a stranger, a male, and worse, an American man from the West. Even an older married woman would not be allowed to touch you like that or be alone with you.”

“They're not Muslims.”

“No, their codes are even stricter that way. Yet there is an exception.”

“What are you trying to say?”

Evelyn's voice trembled. “If she was your mother—that would be allowed.”

I thought back to Marya's steadfast care, sitting up night after night no matter how tired she was, her glances when she thought I wasn't looking, how tender they seemed. Her sadness when she knew she was seeing me for the last time.

Loki whined and came up to me but I barely noticed her. “God, Evelyn. I had no idea. You're my aunt then?”

She turned her kind, dark eyes on me. “Not of the blood, no. I was an orphan. My parents died of influenza one very cold winter. The Nemats took me in when I was six and raised me as their own. I owe a great debt to them for that.”

“Did you know about my father?”

She cast her eyes down then. “Yes. The village men killed him. In a cruel way. They were going to come after Marya, too; she had to flee from them. And they planned to end your life, you, just an innocent baby. They feared you because of that mark on your jaw. They said it was an evil mark and that it showed you were the same as your father. Marya pleaded with me to take you away and save you. I put on a heavy scarf that hid most of my head and wrapped you in a serape. Alaz rode me out on a horse. Marya would take another route. Go through one of the mountain roads and join us later. But she was not fast enough and they caught her. They beat her very badly but they did not kill her, because the baby was gone.

“After that, I knew you would not be safe even in Tabriz and we were not sure whether Marya would live. I fled to Mosul with you
and met Samuel. He fell in love with you—and me. The chance to come to America seemed like a dream. And that is how it went.”

Again, I reeled. The world seemed to wobble on its axis. “I am as much your son as hers, Evie,” I finally managed to say. “You raised me.”

She smiled then. “Yes. That is how I wanted it to be. I am so lucky compared to poor Marya.”

I remembered Marya's scarred face and felt sick at the thought of what they'd done to her. “Why did you never get in touch with them again, once you were safe in New York?”

“What do you mean? I did! Every letter was sent back. They didn't want to know about me—or you.”

The men in the family, she meant.
They'd decided the bastard son was best forgotten. If the price was leaving Marya in the dark about my fate, so be it.

“Why not tell me this long ago? Or at least when I asked you about my parents.”

“Marya made me promise. The magician beguiled her. She fell in love. After, she was ashamed. And I thought it was better you didn't know you were born into a tragedy.”

“But then why go to all that trouble to hide the book?”

“Marya believed it to be magical. Helmstetter put that idea in her head. She was afraid that if she destroyed it, bad fortune would come to her.”

“It did anyway.”

“But you inherited one gift from your real father, so perhaps there was a little good in his soul after all.”

“What was that?”

“The medallion in your treasure box. The green-colored one with the picture of a vulture on it.”

So Helmstetter
had
taken the medallion from the salt caves, and it had found its way to me.