The Angel of Eden (7 page)

Halfway through the pile of cards, I found something: a brittle piece of paper wrapped around a photograph and lodged between two larger cards, almost as though she'd tried to hide it. The page was an official-looking government document in Arabic text, complete with a stamp. The photo, an old black-and-white image, yellow with age, showed a settlement of unusual stone houses with conical roofs, seemingly carved from an immense rock face. I snapped a photo of both document and image, wrapped the page around the photo again, and put the items back in the envelope.

On my phone I sent the two pictures I'd taken to a colleague of Samuel's along with a request to translate the document. He was a man I liked, and more important, an archaeologist who'd spent a lot of time in the Near East. A last look around the apartment turned up nothing else. Remembering Evelyn's baklava, before I left I cut a slice, wrapped it in wax paper, and tucked it in my pocket. I let myself out.

On the way to the veterinary clinic I thought about names for the coyote. I considered calling her Wiley after the daredevil cartoon character. That name suited my penchant for taking huge risks only
to find the bottom dropping out from under my feet. But I settled instead on Loki, after the Norse trickster god. She'd come to me in such an unusual way that, had I been of a superstitious turn of mind, I'd have taken it as a sign. Not that I'd be keeping her; it would be a temporary arrangement at best.

I waited in the reception room until Dr. Jefferson came down the ramp carrying Loki.

Her entire hind leg was encased in a pink cast with only the tip of her paw sticking out. He'd shaved her stomach. Her yellow eyes were open. Her black fur looked cleaner, although she was still rail thin. When she saw me she gave a little whimper, which I took, optimistically, to be a friendly greeting.

Jefferson set her down carefully. “As I said, there's not as much damage as I'd thought. She's recovering well so far. And she's definitely not pure
Canis latrans
.” He looked at me over the top of his glasses. “That's Latin for coyote. It means ‘barking dog.' She's indeed a hybrid—and young, probably around one year old. More important, we don't think she's feral. It's apparent she's been domesticated. If anything, she's timid.”

“How do you know?”

“She's been spayed, for one thing. And she's shown a comfort level with our staff that a wild animal wouldn't display. Here's my best guess. It's become popular to sell these hybrids for a lot of money. Drug dealers will buy them for watchdogs, or they're used as bait in dog fights.”

“They actually breed them?”

“They'll take a domestic female dog that's in heat out to a farm where it's known there are a lot of coyotes, muzzle her, and chain her up overnight. That isn't guaranteed to succeed if local farm dogs get there first. But often enough, a male coyote will breed with her.”

“How do you think she ended up a stray?”

“She was probably dumped by someone who bought her and later decided she wasn't aggressive enough.” He gave me a long look. “Are you sure you're up to looking after her? If she's been foraging in the city on her own for some time it will require a lot of patience to train her.”

“I don't see it as a long-term thing. So far I haven't found anyone willing to take her, but I'll look after her until I do.”

Jefferson grunted in response. “She's mildly sedated right now and it's best to keep her that way over the next few days. But once she's perked up, she's likely to run. You'll have to keep an eye on her.”

He gave me enough pills to knock out an elephant. I thanked him and paid the bill, then took her in my arms. She struggled a bit when she got her first whiff of fresh air as we walked to the car, but seemed content once I'd settled her on the passenger seat. As I reached over to start the ignition, she gave my hand a quick lick. I took that as her seal of friendship and broke off a small piece of baklava for her.

At the parking garage near my place, my phone buzzed with an incoming text from Samuel's colleague. He'd gotten back to me with lightning speed.

John:

Confirming the script is Arabic. The document is an Iranian birth certificate in the name of Yeva Nemat, born January 21, 1946.

Then, an even greater surprise:

I'm 100% sure the photo is of Kandovan, a village in northwest Iran.

Eleven

M
y mind spun with possibilities as I got into the elevator to my apartment with Loki in my arms. Kandovan: the name of the town where Strauss's apprentice had mailed the package. Strauss's puzzle had suddenly become much more personal. The birth certificate—Yeva Nemat? That must be Evelyn herself. I knew she'd grown up somewhere in the Middle East, but she never spoke about it. She'd kept the birth certificate and photo together, so I guessed that Kandovan was her family home. “Evelyn” was likely an anglicized version of “Yeva,” and she must have changed her name from Nemat to Farhad when she came to America. Or had she been married at some point before she came over here? Was there a husband somewhere in her past?

I made up my mind right then to accept Strauss's offer, if only as a way to find out what he knew about my parentage. Getting paid to do it would be a bonus. I shot him off a text suggesting we talk about terms.

Loki lay down on a fresh bath towel I folded for her on the kitchen floor and lapped some water from her bowl. I gave her a treat. She pushed it around with her wet, black nose disinterestedly and finally put her head down on her front paws. I looked in the fridge for something more enticing, found some precooked shrimp and a piece of T-bone steak left over from the other night. I warmed them up in the microwave and set them in front of her. She pushed the shrimp away with her nose but seized on the beef—it was the bone she savored. I left her to it.

My phone rang. Strauss was on the other end. “Pleased you've reconsidered, Madison.”

“Once I'm satisfied this is more than just a wild goose chase, we can talk about whether to carry it any further.”

He heaved a quick sigh of relief. “That's splendid. Can you start right away?”

I was tempted to tell him I couldn't see the need to hurry when the trail had gone cold thirty-five years ago. “I'll need some money up front,” I said instead, and named a generous figure. He surprised me by agreeing to it readily. I told him to transfer the money to an account I kept for client deposits. Strauss promised to send the funds the next day.

“One more thing,” he said. “I want to ensure Ms. Bennet is kept informed of your progress every step of the way.”

“Is that really necessary? I'd rather deal with you directly.”

He chuckled. “Her bark is worse than her bite. She'll grow on you, I'm sure.”

“I'll need to speak to Professor Ross about the artifacts. Can you pave the way for me?”

“Consider it done. I'll tell her she can provide you with any information you need.”

“Fine then,” I said. “I'll be in touch.”

I got a couple of Samuel's academic books down from the shelf and leafed through them looking for anything I could find about Kandovan. I glanced up when I heard something dragging across the floor. Loki, the bath towel clenched between her very white canines, was making her way across the living room, her pink cast bumping along the hardwood. She stood in front of me and whined. I'd never had a pet, dog or otherwise, and wasn't sure what she wanted. I picked her up and right away she curled beside my hip and closed her eyes. Definitely not fearsome watchdog material.

Hours passed while I immersed myself in learning about the region. A majestic defunct volcano called Mount Sahand towered over the village. Kandovan was also close to Lake Urmia, a salt lake four times more saline than the ocean. A major river, the Ajay Chay, emptied into the lake. Culturally, the area had been home to the Mandeans and the Medes, the latter fierce fighters who'd joined the Babylonians to vanquish the Assyrian empire. What I found most exciting was Kandovan's proximity to the Silk Road. I put my finger on the dotted line in the graphic indicating the great east– west trading route and traced an important branch that forked northwesterly, running close to Lake Urmia and Kandovan and then passing through Tabriz en route to Turkey. The Silk Road, famously associated with Marco Polo, was much older than that, likely stretching into prehistory. Fascinating though all this was, I couldn't imagine what had drawn Helmstetter, an aspiring magician from upstate New York, to the area.

My cell rang again.

“John Madison? It's Tricia Ross. Lucas Strauss asked me to give you a call.”

“Thanks for getting in touch. Great to hear from you.”

“I understand Strauss has hired you to look into the origin of the artifacts he'd asked me to validate.”

“That's right.”

“You're an antiquities dealer—aren't you?” I noted a suspicious edge to her tone.

“I deal with a range of art objects and rare books. We've never met, but you'll remember my brother, Samuel Diakos?”

“Oh my goodness, of course. I'm so sorry.” The tightness in her voice vanished. “Samuel always talked about you, but usually just used your first name. How could I have forgotten?” She paused. “May I ask? Is Strauss planning to put those objects on the market?”

“I'm not privy to his plans, but I don't think so. You're satisfied they're authentic?”

“As best as I can be. They're at least 5500 years old. Not finding them on-site hampers my conclusions considerably.”

“Of course,” I said. “One of Strauss's seals is identical to the greenstone Temptation Seal in the British Museum. I can't believe it could be genuine—”

Ross cut in. “Strauss's seal is not only a lot older than the Temptation Seal, it isn't identical. There are small differences. It's not unknown for several copies to have originally been made of Mesopotamian seals. The real mystery is where it came from, not what it depicts.”

“You're referring to its source, where it was found in Iran?”

I could almost see her shaking her head. “It's astounding. Was it transported there from the Euphrates delta for some reason? That's pure speculation on my part. Doesn't make sense at all, does it?”

“No, you're right. I've been wondering the same thing myself. Let me know if you think of anything.”

“Will do.” She was silent for a moment. “There's something else that might be helpful. As part of my research I put out a query on a listserv used by academics, museums, and dealers. I also ran a broader check to see whether the artifacts had been declared stolen.”

“And?”

“Couldn't find anything. But I remain very suspicious and haven't given up checking.”

“Lucas Strauss may have acquired them quite innocently. That's happened to other clients of mine.”

“Yes, but …” Now she sounded wary and I could tell she was genuinely worried.

“What?”

“I got a phone call from a man named Yersan a couple of days ago. He wanted to see the objects and became so persistent I had to ask him not to contact me again. He claims to own the seals and the statue. At first he was pleasant enough, and I had the sense he was just fishing, but when I refused to disclose the owner he got belligerent. I told him to talk to the FBI. He just laughed.”

“Do you have a number for him?”

“I think so—yes. Just a minute.” She came back on the line. “No, I don't. I'm sorry. He must have blocked his number. But I did jot down a website address.”

After she provided it, I thanked her and hung up, then checked out the site on my laptop. It sold religious emblems and articles used for the ancient religion of Zoroastrianism. Fire worshipers. From the same region in Iran where Strauss's artifacts had been found.

Twelve