The Angel of Eden

PENGUIN

THE ANGEL OF EDEN

D.J. M
C
INTOSH's
The Witch of Babylon
has been sold in twenty countries, was shortlisted for the Crime Writers' Association Debut Dagger Award, and won a Crime Writers of Canada Arthur Ellis Award for best unpublished novel. It was a national bestseller, an Amazon.ca Best Book, and was named one of CNN's Most Enduring Historical Thrillers. McIntosh is a member of the Canadian Society for Mesopotamian Studies. She is a strong supporter of Reporters Without Borders and the Committee to Protect Journalists. She lives in Toronto.

Also by D.J. McIntosh

The Witch of Babylon
The Book of Stolen Tales

For my sister Ellen and daughter Kenlyn who always make sure the wind is at my back

The Angel of Eden
is Book Three of the Mesopotamian Trilogy, symbolized by Enki, the Sumerian god of wisdom and magic, associated with the serpent. The story begins in February, the month of evil spirits.

The real Faust lived in fifteenth-century Germany. Some branded him a charlatan; others regarded him as a gifted magician.
His death was never verified.

December 1970

Kandovan, Northwestern Iran

Y
eva fed and watered the sheep and herded the brown hens into their coops for the night. When only soft rustlings and clucks could be heard she breathed deeply and closed the latch. Sweat slipped down her back and gathered in the curve at her tailbone. Damp spots showed on her dress underneath her arms and around her waist. She fumbled with the dusty serape wrapped around the infant in an effort to conceal the mark near his jaw. The baby's rosy cheeks puffed as he let out a breath. She touched his forehead lightly and he smiled in his sleep.

He is a good boy, no matter what they say.

To the east, the cloudless sky grew dark on the horizon. A pale sphere of moon hung like an ancient coin suspended between heaven and earth. A chorus of crickets sang from the high cliffs. The waning sun turned the tops of the sparse cedars to copper. All spoke of a peace she did not feel.

With the animals tended, she'd run out of excuses to stay outside. She had to go in now and face her father. Surely the whispers she'd heard earlier were false. Had the village men not already exacted a terrible price? Did they want even more vengeance?

Yeva thought of the strange book and shuddered. She'd chosen the hiding place carefully. Prayed it would stay concealed.

A blast of hot air met her as she pushed open the wooden door to the old stone building. The house had sheltered her family for generations, just how far back no one knew. Its very walls were a part of her. Despite the sweltering day, fire roared in the old iron stove; its metal casing glowed amber in the darkened room. The home's few windows were closed, turning the space into a hot, dry cavern.

Candles illuminated her father standing by the stove. His shoulders were hunched, his arthritic hands crooked from years of outdoor work, his skin the color of old leather. “You're late,” he said, without turning to her.

She replied softly in the flickering gloom. “The baby slows me down, Papa. It takes longer to finish my tasks.”

Her father cast a furtive glance at the bundle she held close.
He's afraid of his own blood,
Yeva thought.

He looked away and put an old enamel kettle on the stove. It hissed and sputtered. “They are coming tonight, Yeva. You must leave. You should have gone already.”

“I can't part with you, Papa!”

He shook his head sadly and brushed his hand over his brow. “You will go tonight, Yeva. They killed that man in front of my eyes. Do you need any more proof?”

He picked up a small cloth bag from the table and held it out. He did not take a step toward her and still refused to meet her gaze. “Your brother is waiting with the horse behind the house; Alaz is impatient to leave. And your sister packed a few things. Food,
enough for several days. She will take the mountain trail and meet with you as agreed. There is money in here to last you a while. It isn't much, but it will have to do. My cousin will receive you both in Tabriz. You remember how to reach his house?”

She nodded and took the bag. The child stirred in his slumber as if he felt her apprehension. She whispered, “My life is here, Papa. How can I leave it behind?”

“Only think of the pain in an old man's heart if he is forced to watch his family die.”

She wanted to embrace him but a slight shake of his head stopped her.
He does not want to touch his grandson,
she realized.

When he spoke next, his voice was stronger. “Give me the book. When the village men come, I will throw it in the stove and they can see it burn. That may appease them. Where is it?”

Yeva gestured toward a wooden cabinet, the only fine piece of furniture in the small dwelling. “I put it in the space behind the middle drawer.”

Her father walked over to the cabinet, pulled open the drawer, and reached in. He felt in the space and then grasped the old volume, its leather covers battered with wear, its papers tissue-thin and browned.

He raised his anxious eyes to hers. “Who would think that simple words inked out on a page could cause so much trouble, words in a language that is not ours, from a country we've never seen.” He touched his hand to his lips and held it up to her. The boiling kettle began to squeal. “May God keep you safe, daughter. Now go.”

Yeva rode behind her brother on her father's Kurdish horse, one arm supporting the baby wrapped in the serape and pressed to her stomach. With her other, she gripped a short plaited rope fixed to the saddle. Alaz kicked the horse's flanks to hurry it up the hill
behind the house. She could smell the musky odor of sheep and grass on her brother's rough shirt, feel every rise and drop of the mare's fat rump. The night wind brought with it pungent fragrances of thyme and cedar.

Once they approached the river, Yeva chanced a sidelong glance at the ancient cypress tree. Gnarled and misshapen like her father's hands, hard as iron, it was said to be over a thousand years old. The ground beneath it appeared undisturbed and she uttered a silent prayer. It was a safe hiding place for the real book and well chosen.

Far above her the moon sailed high in the heavens and one bright star shone in the sky.

Part One

THE MAGICIAN

The only magic is really that of words.

—DR. THOMAS ERNST

One

February 14, 2005

New York

T
he box of sweets arrived by courier on Valentine's Day morning while I read the
Times
over black coffee and toast. I'd thought about running out for a proper breakfast, but the driving rain deterred me. To be honest, I was wallowing a little, feeling somewhat adrift, which explains why I was still in my robe when the courier knocked. At the kitchen table I unwrapped the package he brought. Bittersweet chocolate truffles from Black Hounds in a heart-shaped wooden box. They were a guilty pleasure to be sure and one of my favorites. Someone had done their research.

A card accompanied the box, nothing fussy, no valentine hearts and flowers, just a white card with “Have a Good Day” stenciled in gold. Inside, in a fine hand, was a simple message:

I'd love to meet you to discuss a project I'm working on.

Please give me a call.

Margaux Elizabeth Bennet, Ghostwriter

(
555
)
671-2349

Never take candy from a stranger.
I smiled to myself as I bit into a truffle and looked again at the card. I didn't know anyone named Margaux. That alone might have tempted me to call and any woman with such superb taste in chocolates was worth meeting. After a few rings her voice mail came on. I left a message to say that although I was extremely busy, I might be able to squeeze her in around four
P.M
. The extremely busy part wasn't true, but it's never a good move for a guy to appear too eager. Margaux. The name conjured up a statuesque, high-heeled platinum blonde with scarlet lipstick and great legs. My day was looking up.

A quick glance around the apartment convinced me I'd been spending too much time alone. Clothes hung over the backs of chairs, dirty coffee cups were stacked in the sink. I spent the next hour tidying up.

The apartment was a stone's throw away from Madison Square Park. Unfortunately it wasn't mine; I'd moved here from my cramped unit in Queens thanks to a friend on a European sabbatical willing to sublet for less than a king's ransom. The park makeover in 2000 had spurred a frenzy of building renovations in the area and this place, too, was slated for an overhaul into luxury digs. It was a temporary home, but it felt good to be back in Manhattan.

Despite a dubious talent for landing myself in situations of high peril, I'd actually enjoyed the uneventful pace of my life for the last year or so. I'd been dividing my time between my new interest in hunting for rare books on behalf of clients and the steadier occupation of dealing in art and antiquities. So far, business was going well.

Like me, many residents in the building ran commercial ventures out of their apartments. As I had next to no walk-in trade, it never caused a problem. Still, we had nothing as fancy as a doorman, just a security guard who came on duty in the late
afternoon. At precisely one minute after four, the guard rang up to announce my visitor. I spruced up my hair and threw on a jacket.