A Deceit to Die For by Luke Montgomery

standing at the door and immediately came over to show him to his seat.
    “Mr. Öztürk, As-salamu alaykum .”
    “ Wa Alaykum As-salam . Abdullah. Inshallah , you are well.”
    “Allah is ever merciful. It is a pleasure to see you again. Kismet smiles upon you. The chef has prepared a magnificent buffet of the finest Punjabi dishes.”
    “Well, the only thing better than a meal at Chanbeli is two meals at Chanbeli and a buffet is more like several meals rolled into one.”
    “Ours is to serve. We are slaves of the One.”
    The waiter showed him to his customary seat in the back corner where there was a table for two. The table gave him a clear view of the front door. As Abdullah stood pouring his sparkling water, Zeki asked nonchalantly, “Is there any news?”
    “None that would serve your purpose.”
     
     

CHAPTER 4
     
    S UNDAY , L ONDON    Ian awoke early Sunday morning, determined not to let his curiosity about the mysterious document interfere with his work. After a breakfast consisting of one hard-boiled egg, a piece of toast and tea, he sat down to work on his presentation. It was futile. No matter how hard he tried to focus, the allure of a pristine enigma, a document that had remained hidden for perhaps hundreds of years, was too strong to resist. The vortex of the esoteric pulled at every other thought like a magnet snapping up metal filings. It was pointless to try to resist. He closed the plastic binder which held his speech, walked into the kitchen for another cup of tea, thinking over how it had all started.
    His interest in George Sale had begun many years ago. The man had been an Orientalist of some reputation. He had worked on the ambitious Universal History project and completed one of the early English translations of the Qur’an. As a member of the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, he had edited the Arabic New Testament. Although he was a solicitor, he only practiced law out of necessity. The man was a true scholar. Unfortunately, he had died unexpectedly at the age of thirty-nine.
    He respected Sale as an accomplished fellow historian and for the man’s commitment to learning, which was why he had snatched up one of Sale’s diaries at a private offering twelve years ago. The diary had lain on his shelf for almost five months before he had found time to read it. What he discovered was a man of deep faith violently opposed to blind tradition. The more he read the more convinced he was that Sale had been a kindred spirit.
    Ian walked into his study, pulled the dusty diary off the shelf and sat down at the desk. The book fell open to a series of entries towards the end guided by memory creased into pages and binding. Over the last decade, these pages had turned into a hobby of sorts. Conspiracy and danger were not hard to spot in these short entries. They had led him on a journey of discovery that opened his eyes to the intrigues of culture, and its political value as a weapon. He knew the lines he had circled in red by heart, but read them anyway.
July 5th 1736, My meeting in Amsterdam with the Morisco printer was peculiar in the extreme. His lavish hospitality and overanxious manner made me apprehensive. When I inquired about his business and family, he was elusive. After some pleasantries, he quickly came to the point, offering me ten thousand guineas for my copy of the Spanish translation. It is impossible for me to conceive what purpose would warrant such an exorbitant sum. I asked for a few days to consider his offer, at which point he became very agitated and insistent. When I refused to budge, he dismissed me out of hand, saying I was a fool to even consider rejecting such a magnanimous offer. Needless to say, it is incumbent upon me to ascertain what his true purpose is. A friend recommended I contact an acquaintance of Eugene of Savoy, which I intend to do on my next visit to Amsterdam.
     
    It had taken Ian several months to say with certainty what translation Sale was