The Angel of Eden (25 page)

Lazing in bed together afterward, I proposed that the three of us go on a recon mission. If there were any traces of Helmstetter left in this fantastical place, I was determined to find them. Nearer to the present, there was Yersan: he came from here; surely there was information to be gleaned. Most important to me, I wanted to waste no time in finding Evelyn's family. I had only one real lead— Nemat, Evelyn's family name. Rosan had told me of someone who might be able to help trace her relatives.

The weather was still temperate, apparently unusual at this elevation in March. We got away with our windbreakers instead of the heavier coats we'd bought in Tabriz. As we strode down the narrow laneways people would look at us with friendly interest; since the advent of the tourist trade, though, the novelty of Western visitors had faded.

A helpful shopkeeper directed us to where Rosan's contact lived. A grizzled fellow with brown, wind-roughened skin and a thick mustache greeted us. Nick spoke to him in Farsi and introduced us; the man grinned when he mentioned Rosan. After a bit more friendly-sounding talk, Nick turned to us to explain that the man ran mule rides for sightseeing excursions. Six mules munched hay in a large stall behind the man. They were quartered on the first floor of his house; the family lived upstairs. The reek of old hay and manure permeated the room.

Nick turned back to the man and began his questions. I tried to make out what he was asking. A few sentences on, I distinctly heard Nick say “George Helmstetter,” and later, “Yersan.” After more talk, Nick gestured toward me as he pronounced the name “Nemat.”

At this, the donkey man, as I'd begun to think of him, spoke rapidly, gesturing with his hands. Finally, it seemed, we'd scored. Nick chatted with him a little longer and then bade the man goodbye. I smiled my thanks.

“He said the Nemats still live here,” Nick told us once we'd gone a little way down the street.

“That's fantastic.” Elated, my mind started spinning—I might learn something of Evelyn's mysterious past after all.

“Never heard of Helmstetter,” Nick continued in a rush. “So he claims.”

“Do you have any reason to doubt him?” Bennet asked.

“He hesitated before he told me that. Maybe it was just my imagination, but I sensed he was hiding something.”

“And you asked about Yersan?” she prompted.

Nick turned to me. “I told him you were an antiquities dealer and that you'd done some business with him.”

“That's one way of putting it.”

“Apparently he's considered quite a success. Not many people venture far from the village, let alone immigrate to America and become rich enough to send money home. The guy was reluctant to say anything more, which suggests Yersan's still pretty influential around here.”

Following the donkey man's directions to the Nemat home resulted in nearly an hour of wrong turns, with Nick continually checking in with locals and then redirecting our steps. Finally we found ourselves in front of one of the last conical cave houses to the east. We climbed yet another set of steeply angled stone stairs—a few more days here and I'd be in top physical form. I knocked on the stout, weathered wooden door. It opened a crack right away, as if someone had been waiting for us. Had the donkey man sent word? Through the open gap came a male voice. “Yes?”

I was surprised to hear him speak English. “My name's John Madison,” I began. “I've traveled here to see Mr. Nemat about a relative of his who lives in America. May we come in? Do you know who Yeva Nemat is?”

At this the door swung open. A well-groomed man in a white shirt and dark trousers stood before me. I guessed him to be in his late forties. “Please come in,” he said and stood aside. As we were about to enter, he glanced at Bennet and then at our feet. Nick tapped me on the arm and removed his shoes. Bennet and I followed suit.

Two other people looked up when we entered a hot, stuffy front room smelling of wood smoke. An elderly man with a snow-white beard and a white turban, his face a mass of wrinkles, had a blanket thrown around his shoulders. He sat on floor pillows next to an
iron stove. A woman sat beside him. Her age was hard to guess— only her face, neck, and hands were visible—but she was perhaps in her early fifties. She wore a scarf around her head patterned in bright greens and pale yellow. Scars disfigured one side of her face.

An old wooden cabinet, a small green-tiled table with low legs, more floor cushions, and two large Persian rugs were the only other furnishings. Oil lamps had been placed in wall niches in addition to an electric light overhead.

The man who'd opened the door spoke first. “I'm Alaz Nemat.” He tipped his hand toward the old man. “My father, Mernoush Nemat. Please take a seat.” He didn't introduce the woman.

“This is Margaux Bennet and Nick Voss,” I said. Nick dipped his head, first toward the old man and then toward Alaz, before the three of us sat on floor cushions. Alaz walked over and stood next to his father.

“May we offer you tea?”

“Thank you—no,” Nick said quickly. “It's not necessary.”

“But I insist. Have you just arrived in Kandovan?” He turned to the woman and muttered a few words. She scurried through a curtained doorway.

We told him this was our first day visiting the village and chatted about our trip from Van. I complimented his English.

“I live in Tabriz,” he said. “I own a tourist shop there. My father is not well, so I visit often.”

We exchanged more pleasantries. The woman bustled back in carrying a tray with five red and gold glasses of steaming mint tea and a bowl heaped with sugar cubes. She served them, we thanked her, and she resumed her seat. Her silent gaze kept flitting to me. She was evidently following our conversation with intense interest.

I introduced the reason for our visit, pulling the copy of Evelyn's birth certificate out of my inner jacket pocket and
handing it to Alaz. “I'm wondering if you might know this woman—Yeva Nemat?”

He took one look at the birth certificate and his face went white. He raised his eyes to mine. The look was not friendly. “Where did you get this?”

I decided not to reveal too much. “It belongs to an acquaintance of mine in New York. Do you know her?”

The old man had so far said nothing. Now he spat out some words. Nick gave a very slight shake of his head as if to caution me not to speak. Alaz crouched down and showed the birth certificate to his father, who took it with a gnarled, trembling hand. The paper shook as he read it. The woman glanced over the old man's shoulder, peered at the paper, and let out a cry, covering her mouth with her hands. The old man's eyes were bleary and reddened but there was no mistaking the alarm in them. He blurted out more words.

Alaz gave the paper back to me. “I'm afraid I must ask you to leave. My father is upset, as you can see. He does not wish to speak of this person.”

“But we've come all this way to talk to you,” Bennet protested.

Nick darted a warning glance toward her and then addressed Alaz. “It's okay. We'll go now. Please accept our apologies. It wasn't our intention to upset anyone.”

We took our leave quickly. I couldn't conceal my deep regret that this first meeting with the Nemats had turned sour so fast.

“Clearly they knew Evelyn,” I said as we walked away, “and pretty well, too. What the hell do we do now?”

“We'll have to try to talk to Alaz another time,” Nick said. “Maybe find a way to see him on his own. If I can learn where his shop is in Tabriz, we might have more luck when he's not on home ground with his father listening to every word he says.”

Bennet pursed her lips. “He'll probably just clam up again.”

“That remains to be seen,” Nick said.

The sun was waning now and we hurried back along darkening pathways. With the cold night air and strange shadows cast by the conical structures, the village no longer felt quaint, but sinister. Nick stayed close and kept alert. This was Yersan's hometown. Another threat seemed almost inevitable. And it did come. Just not the way I expected.

Thirty-Four

T
he bright lights of our hotel were a welcome sight, and as we entered the lobby I began to relax. Then I stopped in my tracks. Yersan, slouched on a divan, stood up. He walked toward us, halted a few feet away, looked Nick and Bennet up and down. Finally he trained his gaze on me, the hatred in his small, intense eyes unmistakable. “What are you doing here? In my town? If you want artifacts to buy, you'll find it barren ground.”

He'd just handed me an excuse for being in Iran. “Why? Because you've siphoned off anything worth having? I've already sourced some very nice pieces in Tabriz.”

Yersan moved closer. Nick stepped in and blocked his way. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the hotel attendant throw a worried glance at us. Nick put his hand out, stopping just short of touching Yersan. “Give us some space,” he said with quiet menace.

Yersan stepped back but his voice grew harsher. “You are after more of the treasures stolen from my family. There are none left.”
He pulled his trench coat closer around him. “I will go now.” He shot a pointed look at Nick. “I tell you politely to leave Kandovan. Or you will never leave at all.”

“I'll go when my business here is finished,” I said. “And be assured: I'll pay you back for Tricia Ross.”

He seemed about to respond, thought better of it, swept past us like a malicious whirlwind and blew out the door.

Bennet folded her arms around her as if to ward off a chill. “He's afraid of you, Nick. That was plain.”

“He must have heard about what happened in Pergamon,” I said. “Doubtless he did.” Nick looked thoughtful. “But you need to wrap up here as soon as you can. Waging a battle on someone else's home turf is rarely a winning proposition—unless you have a load of firepower. And we don't.”

We had the dining room practically to ourselves. Bennet was famished, having eaten little for the past twenty-four hours. We ordered a meal of local cuisine and wolfed it down; Nick, of Persian extraction, ate with particular relish. As we finished our tea the waiter came over, spoke a few words in Farsi to Nick, then silently retreated.

Nick patted his mouth with a napkin and smiled. “Well. Looks like you're a regular social butterfly here, Madison. Alaz Nemat's just arrived. Wants to talk with you outside.”

I shot out of my seat, hurried through the lobby, and swung open the hotel door. Nick and Bennet rushed to catch up. In the dark I could just make out Nemat's form at the bottom of the stone stair. He peered anxiously up at me.

“I'm glad to see you again,” I said, extending my hand as I walked down toward him. Alaz gave me a tentative smile and
grasped my hand in return. “If you don't mind,” he said, glancing at Bennet and Nick, “I'd prefer to speak in private.”

I nodded to the other two. Nick sauntered across the pathway and leaned against a stone wall, out of earshot yet still within a safe distance. Bennet reluctantly joined him.