I see. In other words, you mean selections are read aloud here after board meetings?
His grandmother tucked away her lace handkerchief. She straightened in her chair.
That's enough now, young Munk. The agendas of our board meetings are no concern of yours, and all of this has nothing to do with our emergency session tonight. Our subject isn't Strongbow's study but Strongbow himself, Strongbow in Constantinople thirty-three years ago. What sinister game was he playing out there then? Just who does he think he is going around and snatching up the Ottoman Empire?
The old woman was shaking in anger, her voice low and menacing.
Yes. Sinister. More than any man in this family could ever know. We've always protected all of you and shielded you from the harsher facts of life. We've spared you the brutal experiences that go with dealing in money. But life isn't just music, my boy, not just beautiful concerts played by baroque ensembles on summer afternoons. It has its sinister side as well and we see it here in the case of this Englishman, this former duke and explorer and sexologist who always pretended business was beneath him. Beneath him? Why these clever disguises in Constantinople thirty-three years ago when he set in motion the financial instruments to buy the Ottoman Empire? And what he did after that? That's even more sinister.
What did he do after that?
He disappeared again, simply disappeared. I told you a banker shuns notoriety. The less that's known about her the better, the more easily she can function and make deals. But to disappear completely as Strongbow did? Now that's truly sinister, truly the act of an archbanker utterly without scruples. It's a diabolical game he's playing. What fiendish plans does he have? Why does he buy an empire, hiding his hand all the while, and then disappear as if he had no interest in that empire? Well we don't know but we must, and you must find out for us. Young Munk?
Munk clicked his heels and saluted.
Madame?
My yacht is waiting down at the landing for your immediate departure. Like the husband of your great-grandmother, you are embarking on a voyage to the Levant, and I want your reports to be as thorough as his were. Off you go now. Eat plenty of garlic and good luck.
All the women in the room rose. Munk stepped forward and kissed his grandmother respectfully on the cheek. He kissed his mother and went around the kitchen kissing in turn his aunts and grandaunts and female cousins.
They were already beginning to inspect the ovens where a late supper was cooking, by the smell of it nearly ready, when he marched out of the kitchen and made his way down the path to the Danube, smiling as he went over a clear memory from his childhood, his mother calling to say she wouldn't be home for dinner and they shouldn't wait up, the press of business being so great it was keeping the Sarahs working late at the office.
One rainy afternoon in February 1924, more than two years after outsiders had first been admitted to the poker game and subsequently spread its reputation throughout the Middle East, Haj Harun came wandering into his back room where the game was in progress, carrying a ladder.
He placed the ladder against the tall antique Turkish safe, climbed up to the top and sat down. He straightened his rusty Crusader's helmet and retied the two green ribbons under his chin, smoothed out his tattered yellow cloak and gazed thoughtfully straight ahead at nothing.
Cairo and Munk smiled up at him. Joe gave him a wave. But the action at the table abruptly stopped as the other players turned to stare at the wizened figure on top of the safe, his spindly crossed legs swinging in the air.
Is he real? whispered a bewildered Iraqi prince.
That he is, said Joe, studying his cards.
But who is he?
Joe looked up.
Well I guess he could be fate, couldn't he? I mean that would be consistent with a game of chance. Fate keeping watch and all.
Is that what he's doing up there? Keeping watch?
Who's to say? Maybe he's surveying the centuries for some forgotten event that ought to be remembered. Now whose bet is it, gents? Let's get on with the bets.
But what does he see up there? Ask him what he sees.
And why not. Haj Harun? Hello up there, what do you see?
How's that, Prester John?
I was just wondering what might be up there on the rainy horizon today. How's the view?
Haj Harun turned to peer into the crumbling plaster of the corner, two feet from his face. He nodded.
I don't like to say it, but the Medes may be coming.
Are you sure? That rabble again?
They may be.
Bad in the rain, very bad, how are the city walls holding up? Safe and strong as they should be? No gates left open? Better check around so we can breathe easy.
I will, Prester John.
Haj Harun looked back at the wall in the corner. He squinted and his helmet went awry, releasing a shower of rust in his eyes. The tears began to flow.
Why does he keep calling you Prester John? asked a Syrian jewel thief.
Because the first time I walked in here I was wearing a Victoria Cross around my neck, being then in retirement and living in the Home for Crimean War Heroes, and because of that he mistook me for the legendary lost Christian monarch of a vast kingdom somewhere in Asia.
Where in Asia?
I don't know and he doesn't know either. I suppose you could ask the scarab, the scarab's likely to know but I doubt that he's talking today. Generally he sleeps away the winter. Anyway, since I was lost he naturally assumed I'd come to Jerusalem to find myself again. Now whose bet is it, I say?
The Syrian jewel thief giggled.
You're both mad. He's just staring at the wall up there.
Not a bit of it, said Joe. That's not a wall he's looking into, it's a mirror. The mirror of the mind, it's called.
Believe me it's true.
The Syrian went on giggling.
Well who does he think that is? he asked, pointing across the table at Munk.
He doesn't think, said Joe, he knows. Just watch. Hello up there, Haj Harun, or Aaron as the Jews and Christians call you. Who's this article down here who's being pointed at?
The wizened old man wiped the tears from his eyes and peered down at the table.
That's Bar Cocheba, he said.
Hey Munk, seems he spotted you right off, whispered Joe. Seems he nailed you right down in the course of history. Was he right now? What moment in history would it be for this gent called Bar Cocheba?
First half of the second century, answered Munk, studying his cards.
Role? asked Joe.
Defender of the Jewish faith, said Munk.
Future?
Death in combat. Dying in revolt against the invincible Roman legions.
Is that so? Joe called up. Are the Roman legions really invincible? What do you see up there?
Haj Harun turned back to the wall. He smiled.
Only for a time, Prester John. After a time they lose.
There. You see, Munk, you see how it is? The Romans turn out to be vincible after all. Time it takes, naturally. Time as it was or will be. Time is all.
Time is, murmured Haj Harun dreamily from his perch on top of the safe.
See anything more? Joe called out.
For Bar Cocheba, yes. I predict this game of chance will be very profitable for him. After all, there are nineteen years in a lunar cycle.
Joe looked confused.
According to the Jewish calendar, whispered Munk.
And thus, continued Haj Harun, since you began this game in the Jewish year of 5682, Bar Cocheba should do very well indeed.
Joe looked even more confused.
And why might that be?
Because that year was the first year of the three-hundredth lunar cycle, answered Haj Harun. And that certainly sounds auspicious to me, given the fact there were three of you who founded the game.