A Deceit to Die For (7 page)
“Would you like that?”
“No,” he responded just a bit too hastily. “I just don’t want you to get bored. It shouldn’t take long now. The expansion and contraction caused by the application of heat and humidity should force the pages to loosen their grip soon.”
“Then, books must be very unlike humans. Byron says a sultry climate has the opposite effect on us.”
She never misses an opportunity.
“Actually I do have to leave in about twenty minutes. I promised Mother I’d stop by for dinner.”
Ian turned back to his work. Ten minutes later, they were no closer to getting the pages apart than when they had begun.
“This is the darnedest thing I’ve ever come across. I’ve never seen two pages adhere to one another so tightly.”
He unplugged the device, put it back in its box and stood there puzzled.
“Turn on that light,” Judith said, pointing to an elegant art nouveau lamp on the other end of the desk. Ian reached over and switched it on. Judith held the page vertical to the book and flipped it back and forth.
“Am I seeing things or do the edges of these two pages seem to be slightly discolored? It is like an irregular border about a centimeter wide along all three sides.”
Ian held the manuscript under the lamp.
“I believe you’re right.” He was irritated at himself for not noticing it earlier. He stood there for a minute and then turned abruptly, strode into the kitchen and pulled out a two-million-candle emergency flashlight. He turned off the overhead lights and switched on the flashlight.
“What are you doing?” she asked curiously.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he held the flashlight up to one side of the page and looked at the other side to see how much light would penetrate. What he saw only served to pique his curiosity.
“Do you see that?” he asked. “There is noticeably more light coming through the outer edges than there is penetrating the middle. In fact, the demarcation is a perfectly straight line, but it doesn’t correspond to the width of the discolored border.”
He moved the flashlight back and forth, looking for clues that would help him.
“It’s probably just a loose leaf, folded in half and stuck between the two pages,” ventured Judith.
He turned the overhead lights back on and sat down to nurse his teacup.
“I would say you were right except for the uniform, discolored border you pointed out and the fact that we can’t get the pages apart. What if . . .” but he never finished the thought. There was no need. Instead, he headed straight for the bathroom.
“Ian, what are you doing?”
He returned carrying his shaving kit. He had kept his father’s straight-edge razor in that bag for nearly twenty years, and thanks to Gillette Inc. and its many imitators, he had never found opportunity to use it until now.”
“Ian, are you going to tell me what is going on?”
“The uniform discoloration can only be one thing. The intentional application of some chemical substance to each of the three sides.”
“You mean it was glued?”
“Exactly, which means that whatever is between those pages wasn’t meant to be found.”
He held the page straight up, perpendicular to the book and the razor sliced effortlessly through the thick paper along the binding to detach the two pages completely. He examined the edge he had just cut and his suspicions were immediately confirmed. He could see that the paper was not stuck together there. He held the pages horizontally in front of him and blew gently to force them apart; then he took a pair of tweezers out of his shaving kit and gently slid a piece of paper out from between the pages like he was pulling it out of an envelope.
Judith let out a low whistle. He laid the paper down on the desk in front of them. Judith knew, and Ian hoped, that they were looking at a clue.
“It looks like Arabic, doesn’t it?” asked Judith.
“I’m not sure, but that would be my guess.”
“This is incredible.”
The script was flowing and ornate, written with a dark, high quality ink. The instincts of a man who had spent most of his life in research swung into action and questions began racing through his mind.
Why had it been so carefully hidden inside an ancient manuscript? Who had put it there and when? Who had written it and to whom? What was it about? More questions without answers.
Ian glanced at the clock.
“Well, you had better be going. Your mother doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Oh, we stumble on a perfectly delightful mystery, something that could be a clue, and you show me the door.”
“The mystery will still be here tomorrow.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“If you like.”
“I’d take you up on it, but my daughter’s new play opens tomorrow night and I promised I’d be there.”
“Don’t worry. It’ll be our mystery and we’ll solve it together.”
“I’ll hold you to that, Prof. O’Brien, but it will have to wait until I return from Brussels.”
“The attacks in Germany?”
“Yes. The UN has asked three members of our committee to participate in the diplomatic meetings. We’ll also be meeting with a delegation from the US led by Senator Tom Giovanni. They want to use the incident to show that this is no time for Europe to get cold feet. We must move forward with the interfaith dialogue initiative. It’s the only way to achieve peace.”
He walked her to the door; she gave him a peck on the cheek and squeezed his hand.
“Thank you for a lovely time, Ian.”
“Give my love to your mother.”
“I think I’ll just keep it for myself,” she rejoined with a smile.
Ian walked back to his study and stared at the piece of paper sitting on the desk. This was an enigma to be sure. As he sat down at the computer and his fingers began flying over the keyboard, he could almost feel the years falling off in the youthful joy of discovery.
The next time he looked at the clock it was almost midnight. He sighed. He still had to put the finishing touches on a paper he was presenting at a conference on Byzantine history Wednesday morning. For him, sleep was a wretched necessity, proof of a world gone wrong. Still, without it, he knew he would be worthless the next day when he needed a clear mind to work on his presentation. Time to turn in, he said sternly to himself.
It was the same game every night. Ian would patter around the apartment trying to put off going to the bedroom where his wife, Patricia, had succumbed to breast cancer two years ago. He knew it was childish, foolish for a grown man. Yet, her absence from that room more than any other reminded him of the hole she had left in his life. That had been their private sanctuary and now the bedroom was a bittersweet place he dreaded entering. He would probably never get used to her absence, but a man had to sleep, and so here he was again, alone with himself.
A glint of sunlight caught the concierge’s eye, and he turned just in time to see the porter opening the door for Professor Zeki Öztürk. He pushed the button under the counter to let the manager know his VIP guest had arrived. He didn’t know who Zeki was, and he didn’t care. The hotel manager wanted to be on hand when the professor arrived, and he had been staked out in the lobby all day just to notify him of Zeki’s arrival. He sized up the man walking across the marble floor of the hotel lobby. He was nothing like what he had been expecting. That morning, the manager had shown him a photograph of Zeki, proof that no picture could capture a person, much less a personality.
The man wore a pair of thin wire-rimmed glasses, but that was the only thing that fit the profile of a professor. Just under six feet tall with enough breadth in his shoulders to make a 34-inch waist look small, the man literally floated across the floor carrying a large piece of luggage and a laptop case in one hand and his suit coat in the other. His jet black hair created a striking contrast with the metallic silver Paul Fredrick dress shirt, which was a flawless accent to his muscular build. He looked like an Olympic gymnast showing up to practice a floor routine. But, it was the man’s eyes that captured the concierge’s attention. They were black as coal and shone with an eerie light. The man exuded confidence, his eyes danger.
“How can I help you, sir?”
“Zeki Öztürk,” he said extending his passport. “I’d like to check in.”
“Of course.”
The concierge heard the door to the office open behind him.
“Mister Öztürk!
As-salamu alaykum
.”
“
Wa Alaykum As-salam.
”
“How wonderful to see you again.”
“Your castle is my London residence.”
Mustafa was a jovial Bedouin from Qatar who leveraged his cultural understanding of hospitality to tremendous profit.
“Where is your friend, Haluk?” asked Mustafa.
“He’s scheduled to arrive on Sunday, I believe. I came early just to enjoy the last few days of summer weather here in London. The conference starts Monday.”
“You have been preparing for quite some time now. How many esteemed professors will be attending?”
“I haven’t seen a final list, but I expect there will be over a thousand people in attendance from thirty different countries. Not all researchers, of course. Your business is brisk, I hope?”
“Yes, partly thanks to your recommendation in the conference literature.”
“I’m sure that has little to do with it.”
Few people saw Mustafa as anything more than a personable hotel manager, but this was just an outward front. Zeki’s instincts for people bordered on the paranormal. When combined with years of training in how to piece together random tidbits of information to draw ironclad conclusions, Zeki knew more about most people than they knew about themselves. He had friends who could confirm his hunches too. Mustafa played a dangerous game serving multiple masters. The man had connections with agencies across the Middle East.
“I have you staying in room 319, Mr. Öztürk,” said Mustafa extending his key.
“You remembered?”
“I never forget a compliment or a customer preference.”
“I did like the view,” smiled Zeki in reply.
“A Mr. O’Brien has left a rather large package and a note for you. Shall I have it sent to your room?”
Zeki’s face broke into a smile as he took the note from Mustafa’s hand. It was just like the professor to do something thoughtful.
“Yes, please do,” he replied, turning to follow the bellboy towards the elevator. Once inside the elevator, he opened the note:
Merhaba Dostum,
I hope your trip was not too tiring. I look forward to seeing you at the conference on Monday. I’m sorry I will not be able to be there early, but let’s have lunch together after the plenary session. The books are a small token of my appreciation for all of your help in Istanbul.
Sevgilerle,
Ian O’Brien
Zeki smiled at the Irishman’s use of his own native language.
Is he studying Turkish at his age?
He felt sure that the largish package held under the bell boy’s arm contained the books Ian had referred to.
