The Angel of Eden

spirits.

Prologue

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

Yeva 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 homes 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.¹

DR THOMAS ERNST

One

February 14, 2005

New York

The 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 voicemail came on. I left a message to say that although I was extremely busy, I might be able to squeeze her in around four pm. 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.

After a tentative tap on the door I opened it to find a gray-eyed waif, auburn hair wringing wet from the rain, wearing no lipstick I could discern, scarlet or otherwise. Her well-scuffed flats would have been sensible if they hadn’t been soaked and her beige belted trench coat was much too thin for February. Petite and very pretty, she clutched a battered leather briefcase to her chest as if it held her life savings.

She extended her damp hand. Mr. Madison? I must look a sight. She gave me an uncertain smile. I forgot my umbrella. I considered going back for it but didn’t want to be late. Then she grinned widely and warmly, showing a confidence that seemed at odds with her apologetic words.

I took her arm and ushered her inside. Margaux Bennet, it’s nice to meet you, wet or not.

She freed one hand from her briefcase and shook mine. Hers was cold and damp. Please call me Bennet. Everybody does. Thanks for agreeing to see me on such short notice.

Well, thank you for the chocolates. I helped her off with her coat. The cream-colored pullover she wore over a miniskirt was damp around the neck. Would you like to dry off? I gestured to the hallway. The bathroom’s just to the right down the hall. Help yourself to a towel. And while you’re doing that, why don’t I make us a coffee?

Any chance of something a little… stronger? A mischievous smile lit up her eyes.

A lady after my own heart. Would brandy do?

Perfect. It’s cold out there! She gave a little shiver as if to prove her point. She set down her briefcase, slipped off her shoes and padded down the hall in her nylon feet, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood.

When she came back, her cheeks were pink and her hair had been tidied so it cascaded in curly ringlets to her shoulders. I detected a delicate hint of perfume. She looked around the apartment like an insurance appraiser. Very nice place, Mr. Madison.

The main living area was one large room; with the judicious placement of a high credenza, I’d managed to screen off a section of it for my office. I handed her the brandy snifter. Please call me John and have a seat. I plumped myself down in my desk armchair. She sat on the sofa, curled up her legs and made an unsuccessful attempt to pull her skirt down to cover her knees. A nice view. I’d had the great legs part right, anyway.

She took a staggeringly large gulp, enough brandy to paralyze a horse, and smiled. That’s better, she said, tipping her glass toward me. Much appreciated. I saw a photo of you taken a couple of years ago. You haven’t changed much. Don’t see a lot of guys with beards, although— She caught herself. What I mean to say is, they’re coming back in fashion again.

A photo of me?

Yes. Where was it? I can’t remember. Newspaper, maybe? You were born in Turkey but raised here – right? I can see that in your face. She bubbled on, Kind of dark and exotic looking.

She was certainly forthright. Well, I’m relieved you approve. Bennet laughed and looked around the room with what seemed to be another admiring glance. Her eyes lingered on the paintings that had once belonged to my brother Samuel and then shifted to the precious Mesopotamian artifacts displayed on glass shelves that he’d brought back from his research trips. You have great taste. She noticed the box of chocolates on the side table beside my chair, half empty. Her cheeks dimpled. You’ve eaten an awful lot of those already.

Well, yes. I assumed that’s what they were meant for. How did you know I like that brand?

Claire Talbot told me.

An art world diva who loved to gossip, Claire had a rep for being as rapacious as a hyena. But she did know me pretty well. I could just imagine the rundown of foibles she’d given Bennet. Claire a friend of yours?

No. I found an article online that said you two had once collaborated on a charity art show, so I contacted her. I wasn’t sure how best to approach you and wanted to get some background.

Background for what, precisely?

The article I’m writing about you.

Two

I set my glass down carefully on the desk top. In recent years my life had been more interesting than most – including some scrapes with the law – but someone going to the trouble of writing about it caught me off guard. An article about me. To be published? For what reason?

It occurred to me that I was in the hands of a scammer. A woman who preyed upon people’s egos to dash off some digital masterpiece, throw it up online and charge the subject a hefty fee for the pleasure of seeing his life story in print. "Let’s cut to the chase. You’re expecting me to pay for this project – correct?"

Oh, no. I’ve given you the wrong impression. I’ve been hired to do it. I stared at her. She blushed and went into damage-control mode. I’m sorry to have put that so clumsily. People say I have a habit of being too blunt.

Hired by whom? I imagined a hatchet job orchestrated by a disgruntled client, angry heirs challenging established provenances.

A headache started to form behind my right eye.

Lucas Strauss.

I frowned. Never heard of him. What’s his interest?

"I’m not sure exactly. He had me pitch the idea to American Archaeology magazine. A profile of you and your recent trips to the Middle East. I understand your brother was quite an expert in ancient Assyrian culture. And of course there’s tremendous interest in Mesopotamia with the war going on and all…"

She paused, catching the puzzled look on my face. It will definitely be published – with your cooperation or without it. Strauss is very determined and he has a lot of media contacts.

I threw back some brandy and tried to stem my rising annoyance. Freelancers often pitched ideas to magazines, but a third party hiring them to do it seemed odd. Who is this Lucas Strauss and why would he have any interest in me?

I can answer the first question for you. She picked up her briefcase, snapped the locks and fumbled with the papers inside. Here, she said, handing over a single page.

The photograph looked as if it had been printed off the Internet: an imposing man dressed in a tux, his longish white hair swept off his face. The arresting blue eyes framed by dark brows contrasted oddly with the hair. He had slim, elegant fingers and the formidable scowl of someone used to having others do his bidding. A dead ringer for Christopher Lee. The short biographical text underneath indicated that he was unmarried, born in 1939 and educated at Harvard.

Is he a collector? Did he know my brother?

He’s an illusionist. A famous one. He only takes on private sessions as a spiritualist now but was once one of the foremost magicians in the world.

A magician. As in ‘hocus pocus’?

She carried on as if she hadn’t heard me. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you. He didn’t explain why he wanted me to take on the job. I know this must sound bizarre.

Oh, just a little, I laughed. It creeped me out that a complete stranger was taking such an interest in my life. I didn’t care for that kind of scrutiny, especially by some hack trickster. Look, Bennet, I don’t know what kind of game is going on but I’m not interested in playing it. I don’t even know if you’re who you say you are. I think we should end this conversation.

She made no move to get up. There is no game. Not on my part anyway. I’m entirely legitimate. I make my living ghostwriting for celebrities. She rattled off some names, including a former baseball commissioner and a film actor in her early twenties who’d barely had enough life experience to warrant a paragraph. You’re welcome to verify all that, she said, handing me a business card. This is my editor. I do a lot of work for her publishing house. Feel free to check me out.

When this didn’t generate the response Bennet wanted, she persisted: I’ve been hired to write this piece and it’s going to happen. I’m not in a position to turn down paying jobs. Anyway, wouldn’t you want to be involved so you’ll be cast in the best light? She dangled that last remark with a sympathetic turn of her lips that seemed sincere. As to Lucas Strauss’s motive, I’m as much in the dark as you. She pulled out her phone and looked at the time. I’m starving. Any chance you’d be interested in dinner? There’s a neat little place not far away. The chef does Loire Valley cuisine.

It’s Valentine’s Day. I have a prior engagement.

Her lips now flirted with a pout. Oh. It’s just. Claire Talbot told me you weren’t dating anyone at the moment.

I cursed Claire under my breath. There’s much about my life I don’t share with Claire. I walked over to the closet in the vestibule.

Her coat was still damp. I’m afraid I’ve run out of time. I hope you’ve warmed up by now. I saw out the window that the rain hadn’t let up. You’re welcome to borrow an umbrella.

She rose reluctantly, stepped into her shoes. I helped her on with her coat. She took the umbrella and, putting on a suitably humble expression, made another plea.

Please at least consider it. Times are difficult for writers, you know. I haven’t had any real work in months and Strauss promised a generous fee. Are you sure you can’t help me out?

I’m sorry, I said with a stony-faced shake of my head.

She had one more pitch in her repertoire. Her face lit up as if she’d just thought of the idea. How about I arrange for you to meet Strauss?

And why would I want to do that?

Aren’t you even the least bit curious?

No. And now I’ll thank you for your time. Her shoulders slumped. I handed her the briefcase, held the door open politely and watched her walk down the corridor.

Once she’d gone, I poured myself another healthy measure of brandy, put on Coldplay, sank back in the armchair and stared at nothing. Life had been good throughout the last year except in one important respect. The physical and emotional punishment I’d endured on my last visit to Iraq had left me weakened. I suffered from sleep paralysis and the episodes had grown longer and more frequent. I’d wake up and find myself unable to move a muscle, unable to speak. It terrified me and I’d begun to fear falling asleep. A specialist had reassured me it was a common enough experience and said my anxiety likely made the syndrome worse. I’d taken to drugging myself with sleeping pills. On top of that, the blood disorder I’d been diagnosed with last year, a genetic anomaly that medicine couldn’t put a name to, still worried me.

Until the accident that claimed Samuel’s life and nearly killed me, I’d taken my strength and endurance for granted, looking forward to the future. Lately, though, I’d grown afraid for my well-being.

The only remedy I’d found for those night terrors was to indulge in punishing physical exercise. Mostly that took the form of rock climbing and extreme trekking. If I pushed myself to the limit, the experience seemed to stabilize me. In January, with a client who’d become a friend, I’d tackled the Devil’s Path in the Catskills. Three days were recommended to cover the entire route, considered the riskiest and most challenging on the East Coast. We accomplished it in two, climbing the treacherous route up six mountain peaks, the highest almost four thousand feet. On our second night out a downpour turned into freezing rain, lashing our faces – and nothing focuses the mind like trying to gain a handhold in a rock crevice smaller than your baby finger when you can’t open your eyes to see. My more cerebral fears and worries fled in the face of such immediate physical danger.

But the relief was always temporary, typically lasting only a few weeks. And now I had another worry. Bennet’s peculiar proposition unnerved me. More than I’d let on.

Three

Despite the rain I was obliged to go out. I’d found a rare street-parking spot on East Twenty-first at Gramercy Park but needed to move my car before six pm. I welcomed the brisk, fresh air and hoped a change of scene would dispel the gloom that had settled over me after my conversation with Bennet.

I reached my car with ten minutes to spare, a silver Porsche I was able to afford only because I got it for a steal off a bankrupt stock trader. I went to unlock my door when a sound caught my ear. A low whine came from somewhere near the trunk. I edged around to the rear of the car. The whine came again, more of a whimper this time. I stooped to check the undercarriage. Beneath the bumper, wedged in behind the right wheel, a black dog lay motionless on the pavement. Had it run out from the park into the street, been hit and crawled to what it thought was a place of safety? I would have backed over it when I moved the car out.

I got an old towel from the trunk, spread it on the passenger seat and gently picked up the dog. It was about the size of a foxhound and surprisingly light. Its head hung loosely, its mouth slack. Streaks of blood and white spittle mottled its pale tongue.

The dog didn’t stir from where I’d laid it on the seat. I pressed my hand against its side to comfort it and felt the ridges of its rib bones sticking out under the layer of skin. It had no collar.

It looked like some kind of cross, with a long tail and upright ears like a German shepherd, its black fur matted and unkempt. If it lived I’d have to figure out how to return it to the owner, if it had one, and who in any case didn’t deserve to get it back.

After checking on my phone, I found an emergency veterinary clinic wedged beside the