Open Writing

The Institute of Middle Eastern Studies was impressive. Funded by rich oil magnates and designed by leading Arab architects, it knocked nearby contemporary western buildings to cocked-hats. They sprawled around it like bits of decrepit concrete. By contrast, the Institute building was a gem of modern Arab architecture.

It covered a thirty acre site, a few miles outside Bradford, and was conveniently placed between Leeds and Bradford, two centres of Islam in the North, and two centres of learning. No expense had been spared. It was built from marble, and surrounded by exotic gardens and streams. A modern Xanadu, which had brought the next best thing to an oriental paradise to the West Riding.

An arcade of arabesque arches enclosed the main block, composed of lecture theatres, which rose in levels like Babylonian gardens, each sporting a verandah filled with flowering shrubs. In the centre, surrounded by its own courtyard, was a golden-domed mosque, capped by a crescent moon. A delicate minaret stood next to it.

Inspector Hartley and his sergeant halted at the security gate and as the guard checked them in, Hartley glanced around at the ornate gardens and fountains. An electrified fence ran discreetly through the line of trees surrounding the Institute. Among them, security guards and dogs patrolled.

A tall distinguished-looking academic came to meet them. He was tanned, not long back from Egypt into the Pennine fogs. His hair was close-cropped and greying and he spoke the clipped old-fashioned brand of English. Clearly, he’d spent more time out of the country than in it for the past few years.

He was Professor Richard Edwards, who had spent most of his life in the Middle East. Internationally famous for his excavations, he had returned to England as Principal of the newly opened Institute.

“A sad business. A terrible shock to us all here Manasas being murdered. He was such a popular member of staff. A brilliant researcher in a first-class team,” he said, as they strolled from the car-park to the main block.

Hartley nodded sympathetically. “How long’s he been here?” he asked.

“Not long,” replied the other. “About six months. Came from the Department of Antiquities in Cairo. Came with the strongest recommendations. It’ll be a great loss to them, too.”

By now they’d reached the entrance to the lecture theatres and research laboratories. A set of plate-glass doors opened silently as they approached and inside they were met by a rush of warm air. The doors slid to behind, chopping off the cold winter wind which had followed them from the gate.

The inside of the Institute was as impressive as its exterior. The floors were tiled with black marble inlaid with intricate mosaics. In the curves there were hints of the erotic. Indeed, the whole place made a sensuous impact the moment you entered. The walls were faced with marble, too. Along them in Arabic and Persian script were quotations from the ancient mystics and philosophers, and the professor translated as they walked along. Khan listened intently. He was fluent in Arabic, but kept that card close to his chest.

As they crossed the entrance hall, a receptionist greeted the professor and his guests. They signed in and were issued with identification labels.
“We can’t be too careful,” explained the professor. “We have some valuable artefacts here. Worth a bomb. And we’ve currently an exhibition from Damascus which is priceless.”

“Have you ever had anyone after your stuff?” asked Sgt Khan. “Dealers?”
“I’d call them barefaced criminals. Got to watch ’em all the time…them and the crazy extremists.”

“Extremists?” echoed Khan.

“Every time we deal with the Israelis we get hate-mail from the Arabs. And every time we deal with the Arabs, we run foul of the Israelis,” said the professor. “We work on both sides of the border - in Palestine and in Israel. Their pasts are linked irrevocably. Have been throughout history. But extremists see only their part of history. So we catch it from both sides.”

“And I suppose both say God’s on their side and not the other’s,” murmured Hartley.

Edwards agreed, somewhat surprised by Hartley’s remark. He motioned them to the lift near the reception desk and they went to the third floor where Professor Edwards had a suite of offices. The offices and work-rooms of his staff ran adjacent along the corridor. About half way along was Dr Manasas’ office.

“No one’s been in here since…since we heard of his death. I said it hadn’t to be opened till you came.”

He opened the door and stopped dead. Then gasped. The place was in chaos. Drawers had been pulled out and their contents strewn across the room. A steel cabinet near the window had been forced and leaned drunkenly against the wall. The room looked as if it had been hit by a hurricane.

Professor Edwards stopped just inside the door, staring in amazement. He was prevented from entering further by Sgt Khan.

“We’d rather you let us go in first, sir,” he said. “Don’t inform anyone yet”
Hartley looked slowly round the room, with the perplexed Edwards at his elbow. “It seems Dr Manasas wasn’t as popular as you thought, sir,” he commented.

“Who could have done it?” asked Edwards. “What were they after?”

“That’s the thousand dollar question we all want answering,” said Hartley.

“If you wouldn’t mind, sir, could you leave us here and we’ll come back to your office and let you know if we’ve picked up anything? Oh, and let’s pretend for the moment nothing’s happened. Get yourself a cup of tea, professor. You look as though you need it. We won’t be long.”