Free The 13th Tablet by Alex Mitchell Page B

have any traces of this transaction on the internet. I’m sure you understand. All I can say is that it is the most important discovery since the 19th century when the Gilgamesh tablets were found in the Library of Ashurbanipal here in Mosul.’
    â€˜Hmm.’
    Natasha Mastrani paused. She was fantasising about how, if she had it her way, she’d watch this fat crook slowly roasting, rather than barter with him.
    â€˜Of course, this is just a courtesy call,’ said Bibuni. ‘Your client was very generous last time we did business but if he is not interested, I’m quite sure others will be.’
    â€˜Is it in your possession?’ she asked.
    â€˜Yes,’ he lied.
    â€˜I’ll be in touch.’
    Just before Bibuni put the phone down, he thought he heard a faint clicking sound in the background. He did not give it a second thought.

    A man sitting in a car with all the lights out outside Bibuni’s shop, took the miniaturised listening device from his ear and dialled a number on his mobile phone.
    â€˜Master?’ said the man in a deep voice.
    â€˜Yes?’ came the reply in clipped tones.
    â€˜Bibuni, the art dealer in Mosul, has the object we seek. What should we do?’
    â€˜Nothing. Observe and report to me.’
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    Chapter 8
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    December 4th, 2004. Malibu, California
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    Oberon Wheatley, the powerful owner of a corporation worth hundreds of millions of dollars, was jogging back to his Californian mansion. He always thought best when running. At this moment he was thinking about what Natasha had told him a few hours ago, that this artefact might be the one he had been seeking for years. Wheatley trusted her; she seemed to have a sixth sense about such things. She had scouted artefacts from all over the world on his behalf for many years. She also dealt with other, less artistic aspects of his business, when the need arose. A seasoned professional, her involvement was always utterly discreet. She was well-mannered and kept her mouth shout. Even her name, Natasha Mastrani, was a cover. He had asked her once what her real name was before she had quit her ruthless past as a CIA operative. She had answered with a smile that implied she could tell him, but if she did, she’d have to kill him. To secure her services and guarantee that she would go above and beyond the call of duty, he paid her a very handsome salary.
    The fact that the tablet had been found in Mosul was good news, but he had to be careful this time. He had been indirectly involved in the looting of the Baghdad Museum, and although no-one had pointed a finger in his direction, many people knew that the lootings were too well organised to have been as random as it might have seemed at first.
    He stopped on his front steps to catch his breath and measure his pulse. Excellent. He did not smoke, hardly drank, had a trainer and a dietician working for him round the clock and enough money to last him, his three ex-wives and their descendants for generations to come. He was clever, handsome and rich. But, what he really craved was power and he did not yet have enough of that to satisfy him. As much as he lied to the world, he was always completely honest with himself.

    Showered and refreshed, Wheatley walked into his private museum. The walls were covered with exquisite paintings by Braque, Monet and Picasso. But these paintings were merely a screen for his real passion. He pushed a button on a remote control and a large mirror glided silently to one side, uncovering a hidden metal door. He punched in a code on his remote, and the door clicked open. He strode down a glass corridor. At the far end stood another door and beyond it, a bank of monitors linked to complex seismological, barometric and humidity measuring devices. He closed the door tightly behind him and walked through to the end door. As he pushed it open, dimmed lights automatically came on throughout the large room.
    This was