Monograph and murder, p.6
Monograph and Murder, page 6
Finally, when we were out of the city and moving at a slower pace, Beattie leaned forward and said, “It’s time we know what’s going on.”
Aaran had his arm around her and squeezed her shoulder as she spoke. “She’s right, Boss,” he said. “It’s not protecting them anymore to keep them in the dark.”
Somewhere, deep down in my belly, I felt a small sphere of fiery rage beginning to burn, but I kept it held down because now was not the time to express how angry I was at being put in this position. Now, we needed to get out of this position. The anger could be dealt with later.
Boone nodded and then moved back from the front seat to join us on the black, high-back seats that lined the rear two-thirds of the van. We looked like we were one of those cargo planes that the CIA always used in movies to travel incognito to remote locations. After I heard what was going on, I planned to list out, mentally, all the films and shows that used that setup so that I could calm myself and keep from losing my mind.
“First, let me say that this job was a discrete one. It was not at all connected with any other job you have done for us,” Boone began, holding first my gaze and then Beattie’s. “I would certainly have brought you into the loop before this if it had been.” He sighed. “Or if I had known they would arrive.”
I was trying to be patient but was running out of resolve. “And who are they, please?”
Boone nodded. “They are a conglomerate called Buchverteiler Express, BE for short, and they market themselves as expert book collectors.”
“But they are thieves,” Ahmed said with more venom than I had heard him use before. “They pretend to be legitimate buyers, posing as museum officials and librarians, but they are just mobsters.”
I looked over at Boone, and he nodded. “That is true. They operate a legitimate business as a front, but their primary income source is the purchase and sale of illegally acquired and usually quite rare texts.”
Beattie nodded and sat forward. “So they were working with Zariyah?”
Both Boone and Ahmed shook their heads. “No, Zariyah isn’t legitimate, but she’s also not violent,” Boone said, then paused. “At least, she didn’t used to be.”
“So she could be working with BE?” I asked.
Boone looked over at Frank, who shrugged and said, “Anything is possible, I guess.” Frank shook his head. “Just doesn’t seem like her style.”
I had a lot to say about the “style” of anyone dealing in stolen goods, especially stolen books, but I held my tongue. It wouldn’t do any good for me to express my low-level disgust by ranking criminals based on their preferences or how they committed their crimes.
“So when you heard people speaking German at the ruins?” Beattie nudged.
“It became clear we were all in danger. If BE is involved, then we need to go underground immediately.” Boone reached over and took my hand. I resisted the urge to jerk it away. I was mad, and his explanation did not calm me at all.
“These people are very dangerous,” Aaran said. “In Iceland, we were able to distract them from you two”—he squeezed Beattie’s shoulder—“by setting up another, more prestigious deal at the same time.”
My stomach knotted. “But they found out. And now they are here to—” I didn’t want to finish the sentence.
“Yes, now they are here, and while they are business people at heart, they do not take kindly to being double-crossed,” Ivan spoke quietly from the driver’s seat.
Boone’s fingers rubbed over and over again on my knuckles, and I tried to focus on the sensation. “We will need to lay low for a few days, and in the meantime, we’ll put out feelers to see if the codex comes onto the market. But our top priority is keeping everyone safe.”
I sighed and suppressed yet another inclination to be snarky and say something like, “Now, you want us to be safe.” Instead, I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes.
A few minutes later, Ivan said, “We’re almost there, Boss.”
I opened my eyes and leaned forward to see where “there” was.” I couldn’t see much except for more of the empty landscape like what had been around Ugarit, but I didn’t really care. This whole situation was so far beyond my comprehension that I had no choice but to trust Boone to get us to safety.
Boone stood up and reached into a bag behind Ivan’s seat. “These are your passports. Please memorize the information quickly.” He handed each of us a blue passport, and when I opened mine, I saw my picture but not my name. “Ariel LeBlanc,” it read. The birthdate was the same as mine but two years more recently; apparently, I lived in Mobile, Alabama.
“We are crossing into Beirut on our way to Cyprus from Damascus as a small, private tour. I’m your guide.” He looked at me. “Just do what the guards tell us, and we won’t have any trouble.”
The fireball in my stomach now raged through my entire torso, and suddenly, the fact that I hadn’t yet had a chance to pee became very urgent. “I’m going to need to use the restroom,” I said. “Right away.”
Boone nodded. “That’s good. Thala will go with you.”
The van stopped, and Ivan leaned out the window and said something in Arabic. The guard nodded and pointed to a small dirt pullout to the right of the road. After he parked, the back doors to the van opened, and two guards waited as we each stepped out.
Thala turned to one of the men and said something. He nodded and pointed toward a patch of trees just behind the small building I assumed was a guardhouse for the border crossing. The two of us walked in that direction, and when we were behind the building, Thala said, “No facilities, but at least we can go.”
I laughed. It had been a while since I’d had to squat in the woods, but I did it and felt much more at ease in many ways afterward. Still, returning to the van and the site of the machine guns in the guards’ hands didn’t make me feel relaxed.
Fortunately, with the right paperwork, our fake passports, and Ivan’s continual joking with the guards, our passage through the border was quick and smooth. Within a half-hour, we were on our way to Beirut and then, by ferry, to Cyprus.
Someday, I’d like to return to Beirut and enjoy the city. It was lively and beautiful, and I could almost feel the stories in the air, but given that we were running for our lives, I decided I was completely fine with foregoing sightseeing and moving right along to an island full of vacationing tourists, purportedly like us. Fortunately, Boone had arranged a boat crossing to the island directly from Beirut. I appreciated this since Frank said the typical way was to drive north, enter back into Syria, and then cross into Turkey before taking a ferry from the south coast of Turkey to the island. I did not want to be in a car for any more time, but more, I didn’t want to go into Syria again, probably ever, but definitely not after just fleeing a couple of hours before.
So we parked the van on a side street near the seaside and made our way with duffel bags, which Frank had insisted we switch to instead of our formal suitcases, to a very sketchy dock, where we sat for an hour waiting for our boat.
While we waited, I imagined a fishing boat with a small cabin and a crew of rapscallions with eyepatches and great swearing vocabulary. I had even convinced myself it would be an adventure. Still, when the massive yacht docked beside us, I almost cheered with joy, mostly because I had to pee again, and a boat this nice would definitely have a real bathroom.
Even though I slept for much of the yacht ride, I still thoroughly enjoyed its luxury, especially its four bathrooms. I didn’t use them all, but I did stand in each and marvel at the amenities, including the radiant floor heating . . . on a boat. The vessel also came with a full staff, including housekeeping, waitstaff, and a Michelin-star chef in the kitchen. I’d never been on a cruise before, and I sure wouldn’t go now . . . not unless it came with these luxuries. I could get used to my own private yacht.
Sadly, the voyage ended. Not sadly, really, as it ended in Cyprus, where the water was so blue it reminded me of water with toilet bowl cleaner in it. Not exactly the most appealing image but one that speaks fully of my experience with the Mediterranean islands. We got checked into the house Boone had rented for us in Kyrenia, a two-story villa with a view of the sea toward Turkey.
As instructed, we unpacked and gathered in the front room of the villa, where a breeze whipped white curtains into the air around us. If we hadn’t been running for our lives, I might have felt like Beattie and I had found our own mid-life “sisterhood of the traveling pants” moment.
But we were running for our lives, a fact made abundantly clear as soon as we sat down, and Boone handed us yet more passports, this time with new names. “If we are asked,” he said as he handed the documents around, “we are a film crew researching Blue Zone Diets for Netflix.”
I nodded since I was quite familiar with that diet and every other diet available, given that I’d grown up a woman in the United States. “Do we get to eat a lot?” I had, finally, given up on diet culture in favor of actual health, and I was all about seizing the opportunity to try Cypriot cuisine under the guise of “research,” of course.
“Precisely,” Frank said. “I’m your cameraman, and Ivan is your grip. The two of you are going to eat at several restaurants here as cover.”
I was nodding along with this plan enthusiastically when Beattie had to burst my food bubble by asking, “And how will this help us recover the codex?”
My head spun toward Boone reflexively, and when I saw him sigh, I knew my dreams were dashed. This wasn’t just going to be a vacation—in hiding—in a Mediterranean paradise. We had to work, too.
“Each of your meals will include a sit-down dinner with your special guests, all of whom are culinary masters but also experts in our, er, trade,” Boone said as a bit of color rose to his cheeks. “They are part of our team”—he looked down at his watch—“and should be arriving any minute now.”
As if on cue, a knock sounded at the door, and a moment later, Ivan returned with an entire entourage of five. Boone quickly introduced our new team members—Link, Hildy, and Omar.
Link said, “My pronouns are they and them. Yours?”
Quickly, we ran through our pronouns, and with that, we got to work.
“All right,” Omar said as he leaned over the dining room table and spread out what looked like a giant family tree. “First things first. Let’s get you acquainted with the players.” He gestured for Beattie and me to join him at the table. I resisted the urge to grab my best friend’s hand for comfort and walked over to the table, where Boone handed me a large glass of what I hoped was wine.
After taking a long, slow sip of the delicious dry wine, I sighed. “Okay, teach me, Omar.”
He flashed a brilliant smile and began going through all the names on the chart, starting with the folks at the bottom, “the sardines,” he called them. By the time he reached “the shark,” a woman named Olga, I was convinced I was now filming an organized crime movie or was the next victim of Ashton Kutcher’s Punk’d revival.
“There is no way I am going to keep this straight,” I said.
“You don’t need to. Take a picture of the chart with your phone,” Link said as they walked over. “That way, you can reference it if need be. But one of us will be with you all the time anyway. You’ve got this.”
Their smile was genuine, and their tone so casual that I decided to believe them and snapped the photo. “So to be clear, this, um, family is the one we think stole the codex.” I looked over at Boone. “The Germans.”
He nodded, and Thala spoke up. “Do we have photos of any of these people?” she said as she tapped the chart on the table. “Maybe we’ll recognize them from Ugarit.”
“Moving right along, then, to part two of our two-part lesson,” Hildy said with an accent that sounded Australian. She flipped open a laptop, and her screen appeared on the large TV across the room. “Let’s play name that thief,” she said as she clicked a button, and an image popped up on the screen.
For the next half-hour, she ran us through photos and gave names to the people in the images. Thala and Ahmed recognized a few of the people, and I definitely knew the face of one young man because he had been studying me at Ugarit. At the time, I had thought it was just because I was an American in Syria, but now I knew better.
After we’d gone through the photos in various orders a few times, I finally felt like I had names paired with faces. But since no one had ever gotten a picture of the shark, she became Bruce, the shark from Finding Nemo, in my mind—not exactly the sort of imposing creature she might have been, but at least I associated her with the top of the food chain.
I was exhausted by the time our study session was over, but I finally felt like I had a bit of a grip on what was at stake here, or at least who the players were. “Now what?” I said as Beattie opened another bottle of wine and filled our glasses. She was a brilliant woman.
“Now you get ready for dinner with Omar and me,” Link said. “Boone, you got them the proper attire?”
Boone nodded and then looked over at me with a sly smile. “Do you like togas?”
“This isn’t Greece,” Beattie said with a sneer.
“Close enough,” Boone said as he winked at me. “I hope you’ll both like what we picked.” A quick glance over at Aaran told me who he meant by “we.”
I was terrified and immensely curious about what I’d find in my bedroom. Fortunately, my nervousness gave way to delight when I saw a sleeveless maxi dress in a gauzy white fabric hanging outside the bathroom door. Add to that the beautiful strappy sandals with actual arch support, which I noticed as I put them on, and I was delighted with my outfit.
A few minutes later, when I entered the living room and found Beattie in a pink sheath dress with a high slit and gold flats, I knew our men had actually paid attention to our preferences and probably asked for some womanly advice from Thala, Amanda, or Hildy. Boone was quite dapper, though, so maybe he managed on his own. I’d ask later.
At that moment, Omar and Link ushered me out of the room. Both looked quite fetching, with Omar in a very nicely tailored pair of white pants, boat shoes, and an open-necked shirt, and Link in a gorgeous leopard-print caftan over white leggings, Converse All-Stars, and a necklace that looked like it was one solid opal. We were going to be quite the foursome at, well, wherever we were going.
As we made our way down the long stairway from our house and onto the beach, Link talked quickly. “We are two couples—Beattie, you’re with Omar. Poe, you and I have been dating for two years. The two of you”—they looked from me to Beattie—“are old college friends, and the four of us always vacation together. This year, it’s Cyprus. Last year, we were in Bali. Next year, we’re planning for Peru.”
“We’re quite the international travelers,” Beattie said as she took Omar’s arm.
“Well, you are, aren’t you?” Link said with a smile that made them look absolutely radiant.
“If we’ve been together so long, we better know more about each other. Tell me everything,” I said as I followed Beattie’s lead.
By the time we reached the adorable beachside restaurant about a mile from our house, Link had me laughing so hard that I was almost crying. Their stories about growing up queer in a tiny Alabama town were hysterical. I tried to imagine even the people of oh-so-progressive Charlottesville knowing what to do with a person who didn’t subscribe to any gender expectations and who combined, as they told us, really glittery eye make-up with their football helmet for games.
Our table was, of course, right beside the beach, and while I was a bit worried about getting sand in our food, I let go of that concern when the most amazing dish of pasta arrived at my seat and filled the air with an aroma that was refreshing but eluded me. But when I tasted the pasta, the zing of mint hit my tongue, and I almost groaned in delight. “Holy moly,” I said as I filled my fork again. “It tastes like spring.”
“A local specialty,” Omar said and pointed over my shoulder. “Fresh from the garden.”
I turned to look behind me and saw a small collection of raised beds, one absolutely running with mint. “Ooh, and do you think the peas are local, too?”
“They are,” a deep voice said from just over my left shoulder. “I have a small hydroponic garden in the basement, where it’s cool. That way, I can grow cooler-weather vegetables all year round.”
I turned to look at who had spoken and saw a man with a full beard and a chef’s coat behind me. “You’re the chef,” I said because, well, obviously.
“I am, and if I may, I’d love to join you.” He pointed to an empty chair at a nearby table and, when Omar nodded, spun it to face the end of ours.
It was only then that I realized no one was seated at any of the tables immediately around us. Several other groups and a handful of couples were further afield in the restaurant, but care had been taken to be sure we were not overheard.
“How is Cyprus for you so far?” the chef asked.
I started to answer, but Link spoke before I did. “It’s been a delightful stay. We’ve got a lot of reading on the beach done.”
We had, of course, not even sat on the beach, let alone read a page there, so I was puzzled. But once Link stopped talking, the chef leaned forward and said, “Thank you for confirming who you are. Now, how can I help?”
I stared at him for a minute, but Link poked an elbow into my ribs and looked at my plate. “Keep eating. We need to look like we’re having a casual conversation,” they said quietly.
Given the delectable food, I wasn’t about to complain about that order and scooped up another cheesy, minty bite of my new favorite dish.
