Part 16 (2/2)

As she pa.s.sed through the cherrywood galley, she heard the engines ratchet up for takeoff. The dining area had four more ivory leather seats, and in the rear of the plane was a three-place electric berthing divan, the open part covered with a white sheet. That was where Tucker lay, eyes closed. Judd was sitting nearby, leaning forward, elbows on knees, watching as Doug worked on Tucker.

Judd's expression was gloomy. He gestured, and she sat beside him.

”Is there any improvement, Doug?” she asked.

”Sorry, no.” Doug fastened an oxygen mask to Tucker's face.

”Drop into your seats, troops, and snap on those seat belts.” It was Jack's voice on the intercom.

As everyone strapped in, the trijet rolled off. Aware of Judd sitting close to her, Eva turned away and leaned her cheek against the window, gazing out. The moonlit snowscape blurred as the aircraft increased speed and lifted off.

Using his stethoscope, Doug listened to Tucker's heart. He held Tucker's wrist, then pressed behind his ankle. ”Heart and circulation appear normal.” He studied Tucker's torso. ”His bilateral chest expansion is good. He a runner?”

”Yes,” Judd told him. ”Three or four times a week. How did you know?”

”Lungs. Heart rate. Pulse. Thin but muscular. Being in good condition is always a plus.”

Choosing supplies, Doug opened overhead and floor compartments containing what could be the contents of a mini paramedics van-everything from splints and tubing to a portable defibrillator and a roof hook for an IV. ”Alex believes in being prepared.” Pulling up Tucker's coat sleeve and swabbing the arm, he inserted a needle for an IV. ”Saline solution. Aggressive fluid resuscitation is standard.”

”What do you think his chances of recovery are?” Eva asked.

”If the bullet damaged both sides of his brain or struck the brain stem, he's likely to have extensive permanent damage, or end up in a vegetative state, or die. But from what I can tell, the bullet appears to have stayed on the left side and missed the brain stem. There are just too many variables for me to say more than that, and of course I could be wrong.” He hesitated. ”The truth is, I'd feel a lot more optimistic if he'd open his eyes, talk, or move on purpose. That'd tell us the bullet didn't completely destroy the parts of his brain responsible for thinking, understanding speech, and having motor function.”

Eva and Judd were silent.

Then Judd did something unexpected. He took her hand. ”He'll pull through,” he told her.

Without thinking, she squeezed his hand and nodded, her throat tight.

Doug glanced at them. ”If I need help, I'll call. If there's a change in him, I'll call. Get out of here. You have other things to do.”

Standing up, Eva and Judd peeled off their coats. As they hung them in a narrow closet, the trijet dipped and bounced. She grabbed for an overhead handhold and suddenly felt Judd's arm around her waist, steadying her. She listened to the faint hum of the engines. Her emotions whipsawed. And then his arm was gone.

They moved off, grabbing seat backs and the rail. Bosa was sitting in the forward cabin, an iPad on the retractable tray before him. His gray hair was no longer the artfully tousled arrangement of Frank Smith, but brushed straight back, utilitarian, away from his wide face. Drugstore reading gla.s.ses perched on the end of his Roman nose. He wore a long-sleeved black T-s.h.i.+rt and dark blue jeans. His stocky figure was intense, focused on whatever he was reading. Without looking up, he turned off the iPad.

Sitting across from him, Eva and Judd swiveled their chairs to face him.

He peered over his reading gla.s.ses at one, then the other. ”Yes?”

”Are we seeing the real Carnivore at last?” she asked. ”Every other time you've been in some disguise.”

”This is the me you're getting for this operation,” he told her. ”How's Tucker?”

”Not good,” Judd said.

”He's alive. Take the batteries and SIM cards out of your phones so they can't be traced.” There was a Staples shopping bag next to his seat. He reached in, pulled out new cells, and tossed them at them. ”These are disposable and can be used for international phoning. They're also smartphones, so you can e-mail and do research. Memorize your numbers and everyone else's, too. I made a call for you, Judd. The delivery van you left at Chapman's place will be picked up in a few minutes and taken back to the feed store. Whatever's personal in it will be transferred to your pickup, and the pickup parked in your garage, the keys in a holder under the driver's door. Questions?”

”Yes.” Eva gestured at the microfiber box on his retractable tray. ”We want to know about the tablet pieces. Talk.”

41.

As the trijet flew east, Eva watched Bosa lay out the limestone pieces on his seat tray. ”I have Eichel's three pieces. The Padre's three. And my four. Ten altogether. Krot and Seymour have the rest-and maybe Morgan's two pieces, too.” He turned them upside down. ”As you can see, I've numbered the backs to make fitting them together more efficient.”

When he turned them right side up, nearly half the unfinished tablet appeared, a puzzle in pale gritty limestone. About twenty inches long, it was eighteen inches wide and nearly two inches thick. He rotated the tray so it faced Eva and Judd.

Eva leaned close, once again the art historian and ma.n.u.script curator. Some pieces were chipped, and there were gaps near the middle and top where others were missing. The cuneiform symbols were mostly clear.

Bosa watched her. ”Can you read cuneiform?”

She looked up. ”Not as much as I'd like. I studied it when I curated an exhibit about the transition from pictographs to cuneiform. It can take a lifetime to become truly expert.”

”Can you tell whether the tablet is authentic?” he asked.

They were silent as she a.s.sessed.

At last she looked up. ”The artisan was skilled. He carved the wedges clean and deep. There's nothing amateurish about this. Generally, there are three different types of wedges-vertical wedges with the head at the top, horizontal ones with the head to the left, and slanting ones with the head either at the upper left or the center. Putting the heads in the wrong direction or in the wrong place is one of the most common mistakes forgers make. Another mistake is repeating groups of signs. They're being lazy or showing ignorance.”

”The heads look to be in the right places,” Bosa said.

”I don't see any repet.i.tions,” Judd added.

”Yes, the cuneiform symbols are correct,” Eva agreed. ”Also, we Westerners read books by turning the pages from right to left, but cuneiform is read from bottom to top. That's correct on this tablet, too. Of course, there are variations depending on the era and kingdom. From what little I know, the tablet appears to be authentic. Now, the problem is translation. I see the Sumerian word for 'war' on the tablet-the Sumerians invented cuneiform around 3,000 B.C. But which war ... when, where?” She studied the lines and shapes, finally pointing to several symbols. ”I think this means some kind of palace.” She shook her head. ”We need a real expert. I know people in L.A., of course, but that's in the opposite direction we're flying.”

There was a moment of silence.

”Where did the tablet come from?” Judd asked Bosa.

”The Iraq National Museum by way of Saddam Hussein,” Bosa said. ”Iraq had laws against anyone owning antiquities, but Saddam took what he wanted and gave pieces away, even to foreigners. Of course, if someone else took something, Saddam had them shot.”

”Okay, but why this tablet?” Judd tapped his index finger on the tray that held it. ”Why have six a.s.sa.s.sins been fighting over it?”

”I'll start at the beginning, and then maybe I won't have to waste my time answering questions later. Do you know how Saddam began his political career?” When neither spoke, Bosa went on, ”As an a.s.sa.s.sin-just like Eli Eichel, the Padre, Krot, Morgan, Seymour, and me. By the age of twenty he was doing wet work for the Baath party. By thirty-one, when the Baathists took over the country, he was known as a shaqawah, a man to be feared. His rise was spectacular. Eleven years later, he was president. At the same time, Iraq's neighbor Iran was on the verge of revolution. The Shah of Iran needed to hide his fortune. So Saddam hired an international financier who talked the shah into depositing a hefty chunk in the Central Bank of Iraq for safekeeping. The shah paid the financier a 1.5 percent handling fee. Saddam paid him, too-another 1.5 percent-but this time it was to transfer the shah's money out of the bank and into Saddam's personal numbered accounts in the Cayman Islands and Credit Suisse in Switzerland.”

”Did the shah or his family recover any of the money?” Judd said.

”No, and the ayatollahs couldn't get it either. And while they were fighting over the shah's money, Saddam was next door, turning Iraq into his personal piggy bank. He took a cut of everything made, sold, or stolen. A few of his closest family members managed it all until his paranoia got so bad he wanted to be the only one who knew all the parts. That's when he sent for a master of financial deception-”

”The financier who stole the shah's money,” Eva guessed.

Bosa nodded. ”His name was Rostam Rahim. His mother was English, but his father was Iraqi. He lived primarily in London. Rahim brought in five 'a.s.sistants,' each a sophisticated moneyman in his or her own right. They set up a six-part network using more than seventy banks.”

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