The Babylon Idol

Chapter 50

Massimiliano Usberti drew himself up and stepped towards them, arms spread as though greeting long-lost friends. He was dressed in an immaculate double-breasted suit tailored from white silk over a black shirt. His hair was carefully slicked back and the gleam of his shoes was as dazzling as the Panerai watch on his thick wrist.

Usberti’s men spread out around him. Groppione stalked over to the driving cab and lounged in an armchair not much smaller than his boss’s throne. The bug-eyed Starace stayed near Ben and Anna, covering them cautiously with his weapon. Bozza was as motionless as a hunter-killer cyborg in standby mode, recharging itself before the next electronic data command sent it back into combat. Hovering nervously in the background stood a tall, stooped, gaunt, bespectacled younger man Ben had never seen before. The way he was standing hinted at some kind of severe spinal curvature. He certainly didn’t have the look of one of Usberti’s typical foot soldiers, either, wearing a shortened version of priestly black vestments and a large silver crucifix on a neck chain.

‘I really hate being called that,’ Ben said.

Usberti affected a look of surprise. ‘It bothers you to be addressed by your former rank of major? Please accept my sincerest apologies. I must have forgotten what a modest fellow you are.’ Smiling, he turned towards Anna. ‘Likewise, I must confess it had previously slipped my notice just what a truly attractive creature the professor is. No photographer’s lens could accurately capture such radiant beauty. I am honoured and delighted to make your acquaintance in person at last.’

Anna said, rapid-fire, ‘Usberti, ficcati una barca in culo con i remi aparti.’ Or, ‘Stick a boat up your ass with the oars out.’

Ben was impressed. Jeff Dekker himself couldn’t have come up with a more colourful turn of phrase, or said it half as well.

‘Unfortunately, her magnificence is betrayed by the ugliness that spouts from those pretty lips,’ Usberti said, his smile unbroken.

‘You’re looking rather well yourself, old boy,’ Ben told him. ‘I have to say, death becomes you. Should try it for real sometime. I could give you a hand with that. In fact, I intend to, and soon.’

Usberti gave a gracious nod. ‘I admire your bravado, Benedict. Am I permitted to call you Benedict? We are old friends, after all. On this occasion, however, your defiant spirit is much misplaced. You know as well as I do that you are outmatched, outgunned and outwitted, with no possibility of escape.’

‘Maybe I just wanted to see if it was really you,’ Ben said.

‘In the flesh, as you see. Rumours of my demise have been, as the saying goes, greatly exaggerated.’

‘And the poor sod they fished out of Lake Como with half his face chewed off was who, another of your old Gladius Domini cult followers? You always did look after your own.’

If Usberti objected to the word ‘cult’ he didn’t show it. ‘I believe the acronymic term used in the British Army is a “Ponti”,’ he said. ‘A person of no tactical importance. One who had the misfortune to bear a striking physical resemblance to me.’

‘Of all the bad luck, eh?’ Ben replied. He flexed his wrists behind his back. The cuffs were tight. They hurt. He cast a glance at the tall, stooped priest. ‘I see you found yourself a replacement for Fabrizio Severini.’

‘This is Silvano Bellini, my new assistant,’ Usberti said.

‘Let’s hope for his sake that he does better than his predecessor,’ Ben said. ‘Otherwise known these days as Prisoner Five-Six-One-Three-Nine.’

Usberti’s eyes narrowed. ‘Interesting that you should know that.’

‘That’s me, full of useful information.’

‘May I ask how you came by it?’

‘Being your partner in crime is a bad deal all round,’ Ben said. ‘They don’t last long, do they? Those that do, end up hating your guts. Severini hated yours so much that he wrote me a letter from his prison cell, warning me that you might be up to your old tricks again. Imagine my surprise that you hadn’t learned the error of your ways and become a reformed character.’

‘A letter,’ Usberti said, pursing his lips. ‘I wonder what could have motivated him to do such a thing?’

‘He said God told him to. Seems that even the Almighty has it in for you these days. Which puts the rest of us into pretty good company.’

Usberti’s tall, gaunt assistant hadn’t uttered a word since Ben and Anna had arrived. He was shifting nervously from foot to foot, looking ever more bent over and staring down at the floor with his brow corrugated by a deep frown. Ben thought that maybe he didn’t like the Lord’s name brought into this. Or maybe the idea of ending up in jail as a consequence of running around with crooks like these had never occurred to him before now.

Anna hadn’t taken her eyes off Usberti since they’d walked in, glaring at him as though she wanted to slit his throat. ‘Where’s Ercan? What have you done with him?’

Usberti looked at her a moment before replying. ‘Oh, he is nearby. And I must say we owe him a debt of gratitude for his contribution to our knowledge regarding the possible whereabouts of the idol. Having seen the fruits of his research, you do not need me to tell you what a truly diligent scholar he is. So diligent, in fact, that he was able to share with us a number of his most recent discoveries that you would not find in his notes. Discoveries of which you are as yet unaware, but which have cast a very important new light on our little quest.’

Usberti paused, smiling at Anna as if inviting her to say something. When all she did was stare at him in hatred, he went on: ‘You did not know, for instance, that within the last few days your associate, dissatisfied with the progress of his research, delved yet deeper into the Persepolis Fortification Archives to unearth fresh information. He additionally made further inquiries from a contact of his, one Dr Serge Munoz of the Joint International Syrian Expedition, currently surveying the ancient city and Roman legionnaire garrison at Al-Rafina. We now learn that the Babylonian renegade Ashar Muranu did not remain long in Harran, though what became of the rest of the family is unknown. Hitherto-unresearched PFA records show that he fled from here to the ancient city of Karkemish, where he established a new base, attracted new followers, and attempted further acts of insurrection against the authorities. It was in Karkemish that, in 515 BC, he was finally caught and executed. There his story ends, while ours is only about to begin.’

‘Ercan told you all that?’ Anna said in disbelief.

‘Oh, and much more besides. Consequently, it appears that our search must now take us towards Karkemish. A place so steeped in heritage, filled with such ancient wonders. But I would not presume to lecture a learned historian on the subject — perhaps you would like to share your considerable wealth of knowledge with a mere amateur such as myself?’

‘The only thing I share with you, you murdering pig, is the air inside this stinking camper van, so —’ She finished in Italian. ‘— vaffanculo a chi t’è morto!’

Which, roughly translated, was telling Usberti to go and screw the souls of his dead family members. It was hard to tell which offended him more, that or calling the huge luxury RV a camper van. His face purpled for a moment, but he quickly recovered his urbane demeanour.

‘Then you leave it to me to sum up what little I know of Karkemish and its ancient past. Formerly a monumental capital city in north-western Mesopotamia, no more than seventy-five or eighty kilometres from where we stand, to the west and a little to the south. Frequently mentioned both in scripture and in extra-Biblical texts. Once upon a time, an important seat of power for Hittite and Neo-Assyrian dynasties, as well as the site of the defeat of the Egyptian Pharaoh Nacho the Second at the hands of the forces of King Nebuchadnezzar himself, six hundred and five years before our beloved Lord Christ walked this earth. Surely it cannot be a coincidence that Ashar the Babylonian would have chosen such a symbolic location for his last stand against the Persian Empire? And what a fitting resting place for the golden idol crafted in honour of Babylon’s greatest ruler.’

Ben was barely listening to Usberti speak. He was too busy picturing that mental map again. And what he was seeing there wasn’t good news.

Usberti continued: ‘All that remains today, of course, are scattered rubble fields where once stood proud palaces, temples and mighty ramparts. Excavation attempts there have been somewhat sporadic, beginning in 1878 for only three years, then recommenced in 1911 by notable archaeologists including Britain’s own T.E “Lawrence of Arabia”. Sadly, the advent of World War One interrupted these activities with no further resumption until as recently as 2011, when a joint team of Turkish and Italian scholars led by Professor Nicolò Marchetti of Bologna University resurrected the excavation project and campaigned for the ruins of Karkemish to be designated a UNESCO heritage site. However, once again, such worthy efforts were to be hampered by the same endless litany of human conflict and destruction.’

It was the conflict and destruction that Ben had been thinking about, with a sinking heart as he began to realise where Usberti was intending to take them.

Because in modern times the ancient site of Karkemish was overshadowed in every sense by its near neighbour. Just a mortar shot away, straddling the Turkish — Syrian border in one of the most fiercely contested territories of the ongoing Syrian civil war, was Jarabulus.

Ben had had a bellyful of military goings-on during his Army career, and followed little of what was in the news — but he knew enough to know that Jarabulus had been occupied since 2013 by forces of the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant, better known as ISIL, who had used it as a base from which to lob rockets and shells over the border into Turkey. It was only months since Turkish land forces and troops of the Free Syrian Army had responded in a military push called Operation Euphrates Shield, dropping heavy bombardment on Jarabulus and supported by air strikes from US Air Force jets, in an attempt to oust the militants. The last he’d heard, FSA troops had pressed their advance far enough to storm Jarabulus, only to find the city emptied of insurgents and ISIL forces largely pulled out of the area ahead of their invasion. But all kinds of battles were still being fought over the region as the two sides went back and forth in a desperate effort to take and retake the same old ground.

Not just two sides: it was an increasingly confused nightmare welter of warring factions. New Syrian Army, Free Syrian Army, Democratic Syrian Forces, Syrian Islamic Liberation Front; then there were the Russians, supporting the Assad regime, and the Americans, trying to destabilise it, having themselves a fine little replay of the Cold War. The Abu Amara Brigade, the Jaysh al-Islam, the Jabhat al-Shamiya, the Mujahideen, the Kurdish YPG Militia, and probably a thousand more, all slip-sliding around in an ocean of blood and ever-shifting internal allegiances. It hadn’t surprised Ben to hear reports that British Special Forces units were unofficially roving about in the middle of the big ugly tinderbox that was just waiting to kick off into a third world war, if and when the politicians proved insanely stupid enough to let that happen.

In short, it was the last place he wanted either Anna or himself to be.

‘You talk too much, Usberti,’ Anna said. ‘I asked about Ercan. You said he was nearby, so let me see him. Right this minute, you hear me?’

‘How can I refuse a direct request from a delightful lady?’ Usberti said. ‘By all means.’ He turned to Bozza. ‘Ugo, would you oblige the professor by reuniting her with her learned associate?’

Bozza wordlessly walked down the length of the RV and went to what Ben guessed must be the door to a bathroom or bedroom, at the tail end of the vehicle. Bozza opened the door, stepped through it and closed it behind him.

What Ben expected to happen next was for Bozza to re-emerge clutching Ercan Kavur, drag him up the aisle and dump him at Anna’s feet. Probably doped up to the eyeballs and semi-conscious, which would explain the silence from behind the door. Most likely battered and bruised, too. It seemed unlikely that he’d have fed so much information to his captors without being under some duress. It wouldn’t be a pretty sight, and an upsetting one for Anna.

But Ben was dead wrong.

The door reopened. Bozza came out alone, carrying something in his hand. It was a blue plastic cool box with a folding handle, the kind of insulated container people took with them to keep their beer cold on a camping trip. Bozza walked back up the length of the RV. Minute tremors of its suspension rocked the floor under his weight. He carried the box in front of him at arm’s length. Set it down on a table. Then he folded down the handle, unsnapped a catch at each side, lifted off the lid, and tilted the box towards them to display its contents.

It wasn’t a chilled six-pack of beer.

And that was when Ben saw how mistaken he’d been. They hadn’t beaten Ercan Kavur up at all. Or, if they had, they hadn’t touched his face, which looked perfectly unbruised as it stared at them from the blue plastic box.

They’d cut off his head.