Book Chapter

Following is the first chapter from my book In the Shadow of Babylon. If you're interested you should read the Prologue posted on October 3rd (see archives) before reading this.

In The Shadow of Babylon

Chapter 1

(1)

Baghdad (2004 CE)

“They always come in the middle of the night,” whispered Amira, clutching the sheet beneath her chin.

“It’s nothing, don’t be alarmed,” said her husband, pulling on his undershirt.

“How can you be so sure… they say it happens all the time?”

“What do you mean… IT?”

“You know exactly what I mean.” Her lower lip shivered despite the suffocating heat.

Sitting on the edge of the bed he took her hands in his. “It’s okay. It has happened before. You know that. It’s always some stupid idea they think I can help with.”

“Shhh,” she whispered, holding her finger to her lips.

“They can’t hear me, they’re outside smoking.”

“How can you be so calm?”

His voice smiled at her through the darkness. “Listen my love, I’m just an old retired Professor in an arcane specialty most people have never heard of… what possible use am I to these Ba’athist thugs? Go back to sleep. I’ll probably be back before the call to morning prayers.”

“Will you wake Zahra?”

“No, why disturb her. I’ll be back before she’s ready for school.”

He kissed his wife lightly. The fear sweat on her forehead tasted bitter on his lips.

Slabs of soft muscle turning to fat jiggled as the tired looking man flipped the cigarette over the wall separating Professor Elman Darshi’s house from its neighbor in the middle-class district of Ar Rasafah.

“Ah Professor there you are. We were afraid you might have slipped out the back.” The younger of the two men waiting on the sidewalk smirked at the thought of the Professor trying to slip away. It irked him that the old geezer seemed unafraid. “Sometimes it’s smart to try to escape.” He sneered as he slipped the blindfold over Elman Darshi’s eyes before opening the rear door of the ancient Mercedes.

‘It’s all part of the fear package,’ thought Darshi. The hammering on the door in the middle of the night; no explanation, just “come with us.” No ID, no reason proffered, blind obedience expected. It didn’t matter if the minister just wanted someone to play cards with or if the victim was to be tortured for some real or imagined crime. It was always the same—they always came in the middle of the night.

There were no inside handles on the back seat doors. Big Muhammad and Little Muhammad (that’s what Darshi named them in his mind) climbed into the front. The air conditioner wheezed as it struggled with the 90-degree moisture-filled air of the Baghdad night.

‘Well at least it’s cool,’ he thought. Like most things under Saddam, cool air was a favor to be controlled. A tool, a bribe used to hook a person like a narcotic. With electricity only available a few hours a week, air conditioning was a dream, far behind running water, lights, and refrigeration.

He was tired, yet wide-awake. Music blared from the dash. It was the same song that was playing during his last visit… some sort of screeching Hindi movie theme only Bollywood could conceive. ‘It’s all part of the fear package,’ he thought. The bitter taste of bile rose in his throat. He’d experienced motion sickness even as a child and the blindfold made it worse. The smell of the urine-stained seat mixed with cigarette smoke made him want to vomit.

“Please,” calling toward the front seat, “Is it possible to open a window?” No response.

Darshi managed to keep it together until they reached their destination, the Ministry of Cultural Affairs. Climbing out of the back seat, humid air suffused with car exhaust burned his throat as he gave up the struggle to hold back the contents of his stomach.

“Oh shit, now look what you’ve done,” shouted Little Muhammad. His thin frame shook with anger as he grabbed Darshi by the shirt and pushed him against the car. “Look at the snot on my shoes you old fart.”

Big Mo let out a laugh. “He can’t see your shoes you dumb fuck, he’s blindfolded.”

Embarrassed, Little Mo grunted, “He’ll see ‘em soon enough. When the minister’s done with him he can lick them clean.”

Darshi felt weak and confused as the two goons shoved him down an echo-filled hall. Yanking the blindfold off, Little Mo whispered, “See what you’ve done to my sandals?”

“I’m so sorry… the car ride made me sick.”

“Yeah, well not as sick as I’m going to make you before you leave… IF you leave.” Little Mo pushed the old man down onto a concrete bench running the length of the small, unadorned anteroom.

Darshi recognized the dull green walls broken only by the requisite photo of Saddam waving a shotgun while chomping on a cigar. Strangely, he was calmed by the familiarity of the place. He recalled the two other times he’d been yanked from his slumber by the minister. The first time he’d behaved badly… breaking into tears, clutching at their legs as they pulled him from the car, pleading with the guards to tell him why he was being imprisoned. He was embarrassed to think how weak he’d been.

He was especially ashamed when he discovered he’d been dragged from his bed to place a value on a small Sumerian statue. The Assistant Minister was not the least bit apologetic about the terror he’d caused. His only comment, “This is the personal business of the Minister. You are not to say anything to anyone. Do you understand?” That was it. Back into the car, blindfolded, and dumped a couple of blocks from home. It was still dark! All so the minister could sell a priceless 6000-year old figurine on the black market. ‘Minister of Culture indeed,’ he thought.

The Muhammads sat on the bench across from Darshi. The smoke from their cigarettes filtered through their identical Saddam look-a-like mustaches. Bluish horsetail clouds of smoke layered the air. The Professor slumped in his seat trying to find an uncontaminated layer from which to breathe.

The second summons had been even more bizarre. After the usual fear tactics, he was led to a small room with a tiny wooden desk, two chairs, a pressure pot of tea, and some pencils and paper. After waiting alone the remainder of the night he heard the amplified voice of the muezzin calling the faithful to morning prayers.

A stout lady, her head covered with a hijab, entered the room leading a sleepy looking boy about age 10. “This is Hamid Bin Awase, the Minister’s eldest son,” she said, stiffly pushing the boy toward the desk. “He needs some help with his homework.”

The Professor was dumbfounded. “Homework?”

“Not just any homework. After all you are a big shot professor of ancient Iraqi…”

“Retired professor,” interrupted Darshi.

“No matter. This homework is in your field of expertise.”

Elman looked at the boy staring back at him as though examining a slug. “Homework?” was all he could say.

“Actually its the final term paper for the boy’s graduation from level one to level two. So you see it is very important to the minister. I presume you can develop the paper from memory? We have no books here.”

‘Of course, after all it’s only the Ministry of Culture,’ thought Darshi.

The door opposite the one he had entered from the parking area opened and a smartly dressed man about thirty-five stepped into the room.

“Professor, I’m so glad to meet you.” His outstretched hand bore the unmistakable gold ring of the Iraqi Air Force Academy. “I’ve read many of your works,” he said, shaking the Professor’s hand vigorously.

“You have?”

“That surprises you?” chuckled Colonel Abdullah. “I admit they are a bit obtuse and at times downright dull, but oh what a light they shed on our glorious past.” Guiding Darshi toward the door, the colonel turned to the Muhammads. “That will be all tonight. And oh yes… clean up that mess in the garage before you leave.”

Big Mo stared at his feet, his head bobbing obsequiously. Little Mo gave a sharp nod toward the Colonel, glaring at the Professor.

The conference room was straight out of a Mozart palace. Twelve cream-colored gilded chairs with velvet cushions gracing a table the size of a squash court. No windows. The lower half of wainscoted walls covered with fake wood grain vinyl paneling. The top half festooned with photos of Saddam Hussein.

Colonel Abdullah motioned for Darshi to sit. The muted sound of the powerful air conditioner accompanied the 60-cycle hum of a ceiling full of bare neon bulbs.

“Coffee?” asked the Colonel, reaching for an enameled pressure pot.

“Yes, please.”

“The Minister will join us presently,” he said, handing a Styrofoam cup across the table.

“The Minister?”

“Yes. This is his private conference room. Surely you didn’t think it was mine?” The Colonel chuckled.

“No, no, of course not. It’s just that the other times I’ve been here I’ve… uh well… I’ve always dealt with…” his voice trailed off in uncertainty.

“Yes I know. I’ve read your file,” said Abdullah, picking up a manila folder lying on the table. “Foolish to waste the time of such an exalted academic. I must apologize. It was no doubt the overzealousness of some functionary in response to a request by the Minister. Imagine asking you to do homework when a high school teacher would have served just as well.”

Darshi could imagine the chain of events leading to his selection for the homework assignment. The Minister casually mentions to an aide that his son needs tutoring in history. Seeing an opportunity to ingratiate himself with his boss, the aide orders his aide to find someone to help. Fearful of his boss’s displeasure the aide uses a cannon to kill a sparrow. ‘It is the way the world works under Saddam,’ he thought. People are not committed to the country or to a project… only to the next man in line—an unbroken fear chain of sycophants leading to the man in the pictures on the wall. ‘I wonder if it ever occurs to them,’ Darshi thought, ‘that in a real world the kid would be responsible for his own results.’

“Please Colonel can you tell me why I’m here?”

“I will leave that to the Minister.” Smiling, he continued, “I can say for certain it won’t be for a homework assignment.”

When the Minister entered unannounced, both the Colonel and Darshi sprang to their feet. Taking a seat at the head of the table, the heavyset master of all things cultural said, “Let’s get started.”

“This is retired Professor Elman Darshi, the world’s leading expert on ancient Sumerian and pre-Sumerian languages and the author of the leading textbooks on Assyrian, Eblaitian, and Akkadian. He is, I believe, uniquely qualified to assist with our project.”

Without acknowledging the Professor, the Minister said, “Have you explained what we need?”

“No sir. I thought you would want to do that.”

For the first time, Minister Awase looked at Darshi. His grey eyes, hooded by immense shaggy brows, were dull—absorbing rather than reflecting the light. A prominent nose veined with cave-like nostrils drooped over a salt and pepper mustache.

“Professor, what I’m about to show you has only been seen by me and one other person…” pausing for effect “President Hussein. The President has asked me to personally take charge of this project. Even Colonel Abdullah has not seen these.” Opening a red leather pouch marked Top Secret, the Minister withdrew a sheaf of large black and white photos.

Darshi stared at the films.

“Well?”

“Please sir… can you tell me what I’m looking at?”

“You cannot read it?”

Darshi felt the unspoken rebuke in the Minister’s voice. Avoiding the powerful man’s stare he ventured, “Some symbols are familiar but generally they are unlike anything I’ve seen.” The photos were of panels of indeterminate size with the strange script carved into the surface.

“Surely Professor you’ve seen this writing before. You are, after all, the world’s leading expert… or so says Colonel Abdullah.” The Minister’s voice was as dull as his eyes.

“Look again…” urged the Colonel, “take your time.” Darshi noticed a thin bead of sweat on the Colonel’s lip.

“Yes… take whatever time you need,” said the Minister pushing back his chair. “Colonel come to my office when you’re finished.” Before either man could rise, the Minister left the room trailing a cloud of disappointment.

As soon as the door shut the Colonel said, “Professor you do understand what just happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“This is an order directly from Saddam.”

“Of course Colonel. I understand the President is interested in the results, but…”

“Interested? Don’t be so naïve Professor. The President…” he said pointing to the picture on the wall, “demands results.” The Colonel’s voice had taken on a theatrical air as though performing before an audience.

“I will of course do my best for the President,” offered Darshi weakly.

The two men spent the next twenty minutes examining the photos. Irritated at the Colonel’s lack of understanding, the Professor said, “Colonel… this is an entirely new language, at least to me. Unless you want to call in someone else you will have to be more patient. Look…” he said pointing to one of the photos, “some characters appear to be cuneiform, perhaps Eblaite? Yet others are almost Semitic. Without knowing the date of the panels it is impossible to know whether these might be pre-Akkadian.”

“It is not my patience that should concern you,” said the Colonel seeking Darshi’s eyes.

His back and neck aching from the tension of the morning, the Professor slid his chair back from the table. Flexing his arms and legs he said, “I understand your position Colonel, but without more information, without context, it is impossible.”

“What do you mean by context?”

“Come, come Colonel… the who, what, when, where, and why. Of course I understand the Minister may not have this information, but perhaps we can interview those who do. Barring that, can we examine the actual panels?”

“I can tell you one thing for certain Professor, you will never know the why. Where these panels are located, perhaps… how and when they were found or created maybe… but the why will be known only to Saddam,” said the Colonel in a whisper.

‘The great secret society.’ thought Darshi, ‘Everything is a secret.’ For a time, even his books on the world’s oldest languages were reviewed by a special committee to determine if they should be classified as state secrets. It was only after Dr. Gudabi, Curator of the Iraq Museum of Ancient History, appeared before the tribunal explaining that Professor Darshi’s books were in every university library in the world, did the Committee of Reclassification decide it would be futile to restrict access.

Standing, the Colonel said, “I will talk with the Minister. In the meantime some food will be sent in.”

“Thank you Colonel… but a toilet would be more helpful.”

***

“Professor… Professor.”

Darshi felt a hand shake his shoulder. “Sorry… after eating,” he said, gesturing toward the tray at the end of the table, “I waited for some time then I must have…” he paused, “Colonel is something wrong?” The look of confidence that had so impressed him when they first met was gone. The Colonel’s eyes were unfocused, his lips pursed, his nostrils flaring with each breath. Sitting heavily on a chair across from Darshi, the Colonel stared blankly at the table.

“What’s wrong Colonel? Are you un-well?”

Lifting his head, the Colonel stared at the Professor. Slowly, he brought his index finger to his pale lips signaling for silence. Drawing a tablet and pencil in front of him he began writing and speaking at the same time, his voice uncharacteristically harsh.

“Professor, I cannot accept any excuses. As the top man in your field we expect you to translate this script no matter how long it takes.” Darshi started to object, but once again the Colonel motioned for silence while writing furiously.

“If you need books or reference materials I will get them for you. You are assigned to this department until the job is done… do I make myself clear?” Darshi wondered what could have happened to this sophisticated, pleasant young man after leaving the room.

“Have I made it clear what the President expects from you?” the Colonel said, sternly pushing the tablet across the table. In bold letters it said, AGREE!

Darshi looked into the Colonel’s fearful eyes, “Yes Colonel, I understand.”

Tapping his finger on the tablet the Colonel said, “Good… now I want you to take a few moments to review the notes we made this morning.”

Darshi read the Colonel’s hasty scrawl… THERE ARE NO SURVIVORS. LABORERS WHO DISCOVERED THE PANELS AND THE PHOTOGRAPHERS… ALL DEAD. SADDAM PARANOID ABOUT THREATS FROM PAST. AGREE TO TRANSLATE BUT STALL. OUR LIVES ARE IN DANGER… EVEN MINISTER IS AFRAID.

Darshi’s mouth tasted like metal as he fought back the fuming bile in his throat. His hand shook as he took the pencil and wrote—WHERE CAN WE TALK?

“Here are the rules Professor,” said the Colonel, drawing the tablet across the table. “All work is to be done in this building. I will assign you an office and provide anything you need. You are not to bring anything into or remove anything from this building. Is that clear?” The Colonel again scribbled on the pad.

“Yes.”

Turning the pad toward Darshi, he continued, “You are not to mention this project to anyone… not your family, friends, colleagues. The Minister and I are the only people you can discuss this with. Is that absolutely clear?” DO AS I SAY. I WILL CONTACT YOU.

Glancing up from the pad, the Professor replied, “I will speak to no one.”

“Go now. A car will pick you up each morning after Azhan and deliver you home at sunset until the project is successfully completed. Assalamu alaikum.”

“Peace be upon you also,” whispered Darshi, watching the Colonel stuff the tablet into his briefcase while leaving the room.

***

In a spacious apartment on the edge of the University of California Berkeley campus, an impish Iraqi grad student named Jamilah gestured toward the TV and cried out, “Allah be praised!”

“What are you praising?” said a girl slouched on the couch with a notebook computer on her lap. Tom Wait’s unmistakable voice leaked from the headphones as she pulled them away from her ears.

“What a hunk! Alexandria, come here… I just found you a man!” Jammy called, without taking her eyes from the screen.

“I don’t need any… wow, who’s that?” Coming from the kitchen, Alexandria wiped her hands with a dishtowel. Perching with one leg on the edge of the sofa she said, “Turn it up.”

A man of Middle Eastern descent who appeared to be in his early thirties, was being interviewed by a well-known newswoman from Fox News.

Smiling, he answered a question, his dark eyes sparkling with intelligence. “Yes, of course I’m surprised. Not just because you’re interviewing me, but by your very presence.” His chiseled lips parted revealing perfectly white teeth. “It’s not often we attract national coverage in our obtuse field.”

“That may have been true in the past professor but after 9/11, Afghanistan, and now Iraq, the history of the Middle East has become increasingly relevant.”

“Did you hear that?” squealed Noora, the stunning Kuwaiti roommate of the two Iraqi students. Peeling off her earphones she said, “Middle Eastern history… my major!”

“Shush!” the other girls said in unison.

“The purpose of the American Middle East Society is to bring together academics from throughout the U.S. for a frank exchange of information about current events in the region.”

“What does a professor of Middle Eastern history at the prestigious School of Oriental Studies at University of Chicago have to contribute regarding current events? Seems a little out of your field,” the pretty blond interviewer asked.

The Professor smiled, “Look Marilyn, you’re going to get me in trouble with my boss. I’m an associate professor.”

“Sorry.” She smiled.

“Oh god she’s going to gush all over him,” cried Jammy, pulling off her jogging shoes.

The Professor continued, “There are current events even in history, although I admit that’s a bit of an oxymoron. I’ve just returned from my first trip to Iraq following the invasion. At the conference I presented a paper on the decline of Babylon under Saddam’s rule.”

“He has no accent… he must be second generation American,” mused Alexandria.

“Who cares… he’s gorgeous!” Noor said, moving her feet to make room for Alex as she slid down onto the couch.

“Will you return to Iraq anytime soon?”

“I hope so. It is, after all, the birthplace of civilization. There are so many unexplored treasures to investigate. In fact, the day before I returned to the states, the Iraq Museum of Ancient History announced that the U.S. military had discovered a tomb. Of course it’s not that unusual to find a new tomb in this region, but evidently this one contained panels inscribed with a language never seen before.”

Alexandria’s eyes widened. Her hand covered her mouth. She didn’t hear Jammy say, “Too bad he’s so far away… it’s a long way from Berkeley to Chicago.”

***

Returning from church by bus on a Sunday morning, Professor Darshi was surprised when a woman in an Afghani-style burka carrying a large shopping bag, wheezed herself into the seat next to him. Although this extreme Islamic dress was not unprecedented in Iraq, it was unusual. Completely covered by the heavy black robe, her hands hidden by black cotton gloves, eyes shielded behind the garment’s woven grill. Darshi thought how he often joked with his wife that if she misbehaved he’d convert from Christianity to Islam just to get even with her.

“Doctor.” The voice was so faint Darshi wasn’t sure he’d actually heard someone speak. “Professor… don’t look at me and don’t speak.” The Colonel’s muffled voice was softened by the thick fabric of the burka. Darshi looked through the grimy bus window. Visibility was limited by an early spring storm blowing swirls of sand down the side streets.

As if reading the Professor’s mind, the Colonel whispered, “We are being watched.”

Darshi quickly glanced over his shoulder.

“Don’t do that… keep looking out the window and just listen. You may think I’m being too cautious…” ‘He’s reading my mind,’ thought Darshi. “…Wwell, I’m not. Think of the worst rumor you’ve heard about Saddam… random killings, rape rooms, torture… it’s all true. He lives in constant fear. His paranoia is legendary. In the palace he’s building in Babylon he’s installed a huge portrait of himself and Nebuchadnezzar at the entrance to the ruins. On the bricks being used to rebuild the temple he’s inscribed Built by Saddam Hussein, son of Nebuchadnezzar.”

The Professor let out a sigh. Having spent most of his life trudging through the dusty annals of history, he’d read about this sort of megalomania many times.

“Before being assigned to the Cultural Ministry I served as an aide to Saddam’s son, Uday. Even he claims his father is crazy. I once overheard him talking with his brother about Saddam visiting some sort of oracle who told him the past would destroy him… not the West. Saddam had this shaman, or whatever he was, crushed beneath the wheels of his jeep. He kept driving over the man until he was nothing more than a stain. All the while yelling… I am the son of Nebuchadnezzar!”

The Professor hunched his shoulders, silently asking, “Why are you telling me this?”

“You are an academic… you have been sheltered from the realities of life under this monster but now you have been sucked into his maw. I want to scare you. I want you to begin using that fine mind of yours to think of ways to delay the final translation of the panels. As long as we are needed, we are safe. More importantly once the translation is finished you must read it with paranoia and try to fathom if it could in anyway be taken as a curse or threat to this butcher?” Darshi shuddered at the epithet only whispered in private.

“Everyone connected with this project has been murdered. He will not hesitate to kill us. You must do all you can to shelter your family. If possible, get them out of the country.”

The burka-clad figure reached over Darshi pulling the signal cord to stop the bus. “Take this same bus every Sunday,” whispered the Colonel. Gathering up his shopping bag, he moved toward the exit.

Darshi rested his forehead against the glass, staring out the window. ‘The Colonel’s right’ he thought, ‘I have lived a sheltered life.’ Like most academics at the University he had heard rumors… only distant fears easily ignored. Until now.