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“I would be honored,” Rashad says, and the old man disappears into the rear of the tiny shop. He browses for a few seconds, seeing the familiar offerings and displays of centuries of French history, and tries to imagine a Frenchman his own age coming in here. Not so long ago, France ruled lands in Africa and Southeast Asia, controlled resources and millions of people, and was considered a major power in the world.
And now? France is known for its wines, cheeses, and run-down immigrantbanlieuxwhere young men riot and burn cars in desperation against their Gallic masters.
He reaches over a counter and gently pulls out a long wooden cavalry lance with a sharp metal point, a faded triangular blue-white-red cloth pennant dangling near the top.
Empires. They rise, they rule, they fall.
Always.
He replaces the old French Army lance and Hugo returns with two old pieces of parchment, protected between plastic sheets. He lays them atop the nearest glass counter and says, “See? Something for your collection, am I correct?”
Rashad picks up the larger of the two sheets and Hugo excitedly says, “See? From 1903…a stock certificate for the Baghdad Railway. It is a beautiful thing, is it not? Back then…certificates like this, they were works of art.”
Rashad whispers, “They certainly were.”
The certificate is split into two sections, one in German, the other in Arabic. There are intricately designed Roman columns on each side, two large star-and-crescents, and references to old currencies: francs, reichsmarks, pounds sterling. A banner across the top—in French, no less—readsSOCIÉTÉ IMPÉRIALE OTTOMAN DU CHEMIN DE FER DE BAGDAD.He translates the words in his mind:Ottoman Imperial Company of the Baghdad Railway.
“It’s beautiful indeed,” Rashad says, gently putting the old stock certificate back on the dusty counter. “And the other?”
This piece of protected paper is smaller, and Hugo slides it across. About a third of the page is taken up by a German imperial eagle, along with swirling letters and paragraphs. Rashad doesn’t know German, but he thinks he recognizes the scrawl at the bottom of the page.
“The Kaiser?” he asks.
Hugo nods with delight. “Yes. Indeed. The original order from the Kaiser to his ministry to begin the negotiations and process to start the Berlin-to-Baghdad railway project. A rarity…and it can be yours.”
“How much?”
Hugo quotes a number.
Rashad takes a slim wallet from inside his suit jacket, removes a number of 500-euro notes to match the quoted number, pauses, then adds four more. Hugo lifts an eyebrow.
“That’s quite generous,” he says.
“In the right circumstances, I can be quite generous. And I know I am assured, with the extra payment, that I still have your utmost discretion.”
A deeper nod. “But of course, Monsieur. And now, I shall wrap them up for you.” He picks up the plastic-protected bits of history and says, “Monsieur…if I may…I have many collectors like yourself who shop here. But only you collect memorabilia for a railway that was planned but never completed. May I ask why?”
Rashad replaces his wallet in his jacket pocket. “In some ways the telegraph and the railways, they were the internet of the time, were they not? They erased borders, they passed along information and commerce. And many believed they would usher in prosperity and world peace.”
“Ah,” says Hugo, shaking his head. “Back then, they were so wrong.”
“So very wrong,” Rashad agrees. “There are some who say that the diplomatic maneuvers, threats, and actions against this railway helped start the First World War by raising suspicions and fears. A railway causing so much war—so much terror.”
“A pity.”
Rashad smiles. “A pity indeed, to think a railway ended so many empires back then…and may yet do so again.”
The store owner looks confused, retreats to the rear of the store.
Rashad patiently waits.
Hugo comes back holding a plain brown paper bag with twine handles, and then Rashad says, “Until later.”
“Of course, Monsieur.”
Fifteen minutes after Hugo’s customer leaves, a slim, well-dressed but intense-looking young man in a simple gray suit, white shirt, and black necktie comes up to the counter and presents a photo.
“Did this man come into your shop earlier, Monsieur?”
