The Bible of Clay (11 page)

"I think so too."

"I would like to send my wife and daughters somewhere safe. My two sons are in the army, so there is little I can do for them at the moment, but the women . . . I'm worried about what it will cost me."

"I'll see to them."

"You are a good friend."

"As are you."

Alfred Tannenberg closed the door as the Colonel left his office. It was true—he really had no idea who had sent the men to follow Clara, or why. They were Italian, which meant someone had hired them in Rome and they had followed his granddaughter to Iraq. Perhaps he himself was the target. But who was behind it? His old friends, warning him not to break the rules, signaling they wouldn't allow him what was rightfully his, the Bible of Clay?

Yes, he thought, that had to be it—but this time they weren't going to have their way. Clara
would
find the Bible of Clay, and the glory would be hers. He was not going to allow anything or anyone to interfere in that.

He felt faint, but making a supreme effort, he gathered himself and went outside to his waiting car. He mustn't exhibit any sign of weakness to his men. He'd have to postpone the trip to Egypt. The specialist there was waiting for him, to perform some new tests and operate if necessary. But he was not going under the knife again—especially now. He could be eliminated so easily under anesthesia—they could do away with him forever. His old "friends" were capable of that and more. They might still love him—old bonds such as theirs died hard—but no one could be above the rules. He, more than anyone, knew that. Besides, he thought, no matter how hard the doctors tried, it was absurd to pretend that they could extend his life indefinitely. No—he would devote whatever time remained to him to ensuring that Clara could begin her excavation and find at last the treasure he had dreamed of for so many years.

He instructed the driver to take him to the Ministry of Culture. He needed to speak with Ahmed.

Ahmed was on the phone when Tannenberg came into his office; Alfred waited impatiently for him to finish his conversation.

"Good news—Professor Picot," said Ahmed when he hung up. "He won't promise anything, but he says he'll come and have a look. If he likes what he sees, he'll come back with a team and we can begin the excavation. I'm going to call Clara; we have to start organizing."

"When is this Picot coming?"

"Tomorrow. He's flying in from Paris. He wants to be taken directly to Safran. He also wants to see the two tablets. . . . You'll have to show them to him."

"No, I'm not going to meet this Picot. I never see anyone I don't need to."

"I've never known what the rule is for seeing some people and not seeing others."

"The rule needn't concern you. I want you to see to it all; and I want this archaeologist to help. Offer him whatever you have to."

"Alfred, Picot has plenty of money; there's nothing we can offer him. If he thinks the ruins at Safran merit his help, he'll come. If he doesn't, there's nothing we can do to convince him."

"What about Iraqi archaeologists?"

"You know we've never had top-notch archaeologists. Only a few of us are any good at all, and those who could, left the country a long time ago. Two of the best are teaching at American universities, and now they're more American than the Statue of Liberty—they'll never come back. Don't forget that for months those of us employed by the government have been working for half pay. This isn't America, where there are foundations, banks, businesses that finance expeditions. This is Iraq, Alfred, Iraq. You're not going to find any archaeologists available except me and one or two more—and those one or two will help us only grudgingly."

"We'll pay, then, we'll pay well. I'll speak with the minister. You'll need a plane to go to Safran or, better yet, a helicopter."

"We can go to Basra and then to—"

"Let's not waste time, Ahmed. I'll speak with the minister. What time does Picot arrive?" "I'm not sure—sometime in the afternoon." "Take him to the Hotel Palestina."

"Can't we invite him to stay with us? The hotel has seen better days."

"Iraq has seen better days. Let's be civilized European-style. In Europe no one would invite a stranger to stay with them, and we don't know Picot. Besides, I don't want anybody wandering around in the Yellow House. We'd wind up running into each other, and so as far as Picot is concerned, I don't exist."

No one contradicted Alfred Tannenberg. Ahmed would do as he said, as he always did.

"Did the Colonel have anything to say about the men who were following Clara?"

"No, he knows less than we do."

"Was it necessary to kill them?"

Alfred frowned at the question. In fact, Ahmed was surprised at himself for asking.

"Yes, it was. Whoever sent them now knows whom they're dealing with."

"They were after you, weren't they?" "Yes."

"And the Bible of Clay?" "That has yet to be seen."

"Alfred, I've never asked you—let's face it, nobody dares to talk about it—but was your son murdered?"

"Helmut had an accident in which he and Amira were killed."

"Was he murdered, Alfred?" Ahmed looked hard at the older man, and Alfred stared back, unblinking. He hadn't even winced when Ahmed touched the still-open wound left by the death of Helmut and his wife.

"Helmut and Amira are dead. There's nothing more you need to know."

The two held each other's eyes for a few more seconds, but it was Ahmed who finally looked away. Alfred's steely, icy gaze was too much to bear. The old man seemed to him more grotesque and frightening by the day.

"Are you wavering, Ahmed?"

"No."

"Good. I have been as honest with you as I can. You know the nature of my business. Someday you will take charge of it, no doubt before you expect, probably before I want you to. But don't judge me—don't do it, Ahmed. I do not permit anyone to do that, even you—

and if you should begin to judge me, not even Clara will be able to protect you."

"I know that, Alfred. I know what kind of man you are."

There was no contempt nor judgment of any kind in Ahmed's tone of voice. Merely the recognition that he knew he was working for the devil himself.

10

at four in the afternoon, the hour of siesta, not a

soul was stirring in Santa Cruz, the neighborhood of narrow streets and secluded plazas that more than any other barrio contained the essence of old Seville.

The shutters on the windows of the two-story house occupied by the Gomez family were tightly closed; the September sun had heated the city to an unbearable 104 degrees, and despite the air-conditioning that cooled the interiors, no one in their right mind would have opened their home to the blazing light. It was cooler when the house was in shadowy darkness.

The impatient messenger rang the doorbell for a third time. The irate housekeeper who finally opened the door had clearly been roused from her afternoon lethargy.

"I have an envelope for Don Enrique Gomez Thomson. I was told to deliver it in person."

"Don Enrique is resting. I'll give it to him."

"I'm sorry, I can't do that. I have to be certain that Don Enrique receives it."

"I told you I'd give it to him!"

"And I told you that either I give it to him personally or I take it back where it came from. It's my job, dona; I'm just following orders."

Quick footsteps sounded inside in the wake of their raised voices, and a woman appeared behind the housekeeper in the doorway. "What's wrong, Pepa?"

"Nothing, sefiora—it's this messenger. He insists that he has to deliver this envelope to Don Enrique personally, and I'm telling him I'll take it."

"Let me have it," the woman told the messenger.

"No, sefiora. I'm sorry, I can't give it to you. I either deliver it to Seiior Gomez or I take it back."

Rocio Alvarez Gomez measured the messenger from top to bottom, seriously considering slamming the door in the young man's face. But she knew she had to be very careful when it came to anything involving her husband. Grudgingly, she sent Pepa upstairs to call Don Enrique.

Enrique Gomez came down at once, and he, too, took the messenger's measure in one look, concluding he was just that, nothing more— a harmless courier.

"Rocio, Pepa, no se preocupen, no es nada
—I'll deal with this gentleman."

He made sure to emphasize the word
gentleman,
so as to put the sweaty, impertinent young man with a toothpick between his teeth in his place.

"Oye,jefe,
I didn't mean to interrupt your siesta. I just do what they tell me to do, and they told me to put this envelope in your hands and nobody else's."

"Who is it from?"

"No idea,
jefe.
The company gave it to me and told me to bring it here. If you want any more than that, you'll have to call the company."

Enrique didn't bother to answer. He signed the receipt, took the envelope, and closed the door. When he turned around, he found Rocio at the foot of the stairs, looking at him with concern.

"What is it, Enrique?"

"What's what?"

"It's bad news, isn't it? I knew it as soon as I saw him—there's bad news in that envelope."

"Good lord, woman! The messenger was a pack mule, nothing more; he was told to deliver this envelope directly to me, and that's what he did. Go on upstairs and lie down—with this heat, that's all anyone can do. I'll be right up." He jerked his head toward the stairs, and Rocio turned and left him without another word.

Enrique went into his study, sat down at his desk, and with some misgiving opened the large, bulky envelope. He grimaced at the photos he found: pictures of two dead men at the side of a dirt road, both shot in the head, execution style. There was a brief typewritten report identifying them as operatives of an Italian firm, Security Investigations, and the place as a district of Baghdad. Finally, Enrique withdrew a note from the envelope and was not surprised to see the crabbed old-man handwriting of Alfred Tannenberg.

There were just three words:
Not this time.

The hotel coffee shop overlooked the beach at Copacabana. The two men looked up from their breakfast as the bellman murmured an apology and proffered a bulky manila envelope to the older of them.

"Excuse me, sir, this was just brought in for you, and the front desk told me you were here."

"Thank you, Tony."

"You're welcome, sir."

Frank dos Santos put the envelope in his briefcase and continued his conversation with his business partner. At noon Alicia would be arriving, and they'd spend the afternoon and evening together. It had been too long since he'd been in Rio, he thought. Living on the edge of the jungle caused a man to lose all sense of time.

A little before twelve he went up to his suite. He looked at himself in the mirror in the entry hallway: He might be an old man of eighty-five, but he still looked all right. It made no difference either way. Alicia would act like he was Robert Redford—that was what he was paying her for.

George Wagner was about to board his private plane when he saw one of his assistants running across the landing strip. "Mister Wagner! Wait!"

"What's wrong?" George snapped, obviously annoyed.

"Here, sir, a messenger just brought this envelope. It arrived from Amman, and apparently it's urgent. He insisted that you should have it immediately."

Wagner took the envelope wordlessly and continued on up the plane's boarding steps.

He sat down in one of the plush club chairs and tore open the envelope, while his personal flight attendant poured him a whiskey.

He examined the photos with a look of disgust and crumpled Alfred's three-word note in his fist.

His face filled with rage, he got up and strode back to the exit, gesturing toward the attendant.

"Tell the captain we're not leaving yet. I have to go back to the office."

"Yes, sir."

As he crossed the asphalt toward the private-aircraft terminal, he took out his cell phone and made a call.

Goddamned Dorothy Miller! Robert Brown's back hurt from sitting on a blanket in the garden of the Millers' mansion. And to top it off, he still hadn't seen Wagner, who hadn't shown up at the picnic.

Now the senator's boring wife was yammering on about his making a "generous donation" to aid the future orphans in Iraq.

"You know, Mr. Brown, that the war will have grave consequences. Unfortunately, children suffer most from these conflicts, so I and a group of other Washington wives have organized a committee to aid the orphans."

"And you can count on my personal contribution, Mrs. Miller. When you have a chance, tell me where to send the money, whatever amount you think appropriate."

"Oh, how generous! But I couldn't presume to tell you how much to contribute, Mr. Brown. I'll leave that to you."

"Ten thousand dollars, perhaps?"

"That would be wonderful! Ten thousand dollars will help us so much!"

Mercifully, Ralph Barry stepped in and interrupted. He was carrying a bulky manila envelope, which he handed to Robert.

"It's just arrived from Amman. The messenger said it was urgent."

Brown struggled up from the grass, made his excuses to the senator's wife, and went to find a quiet corner in the house. Barry came with him, smiling and relaxed. The former university professor reveled as he always did in rubbing elbows with the cream of Washington society.

They made themselves comfortable in a small den and Brown opened the envelope. His expression morphed from boredom to shock as he examined the contents.

"That bastard!" he exclaimed. "That son of a bitch!"

Brown angrily rammed everything back into the envelope.

"Find Paul Dukais for me."

"What's wrong?"

"We've got problems. Problems with Alfred."

The helicopter flew over Tell Muqayyar, the site of ancient Ur, and Safran came into sight. The cloud of yellow dust and sand that billowed around the copter as it landed did justice to the village name, the Arabic word for
saffron.

Modern Safran consisted of little more than three dozen ancient-looking adobe houses that seemed frozen in time, save for the television antennae or satellite dishes sprouting from rooftops. The dig site was less than a kilometer away, surrounded by a wire fence laced with
do not enter
red tape and dotted with signs that read
no trespassing
and
state property
in both Arabic and English.

The people of Safran cared little about how their ancestors had lived; it was hard enough for them to live in the present. They found it strange that a group of soldiers had set up camp alongside the nearby crater where the bomb had struck. The remains of an ancient village lay there, they were told, perhaps even a palace. There might be some treasure down there, many of them thought, but the presence of the soldiers persuaded them to keep their curiosity in check.

The Colonel had been able to send only four soldiers to the out-of-the-way village between Ur and Basra, but it was enough to keep the nearby villagers out. Now those villagers were looking with equal amounts of curiosity and apprehension at the helicopter that had landed in their midst.

Yves Picot was watching Clara Tannenberg out of the corner of his eye. Her steel-blue eyes, framed by olive skin and long, dark chestnut hair, made her extraordinarily exotic to him. But hers was not a beauty that one appreciated at first glance; one had to take her in little by little to see the harmony of her features and her questioning, intelligent gaze.

He had thought her to be a capricious, high-strung young woman at first, but he might have judged too soon. Life had treated her well, no doubt about that; all one had to do was look at how she dressed in her increasingly impoverished homeland. But the conversation they'd had the previous night over dinner together in the hotel led him to suspect that Clara was more than just spoiled and willful. She was beginning to seem a capable archaeologist, though it remained to be seen whether that judgment would prove true.

Her husband, Ahmed Husseini, on the other hand, was unquestionably a solid archaeologist. He was not a man who spoke much, but what he did say was reasonable, judicious, and indicative of a deep knowledge of Mesopotamia, its history, and its current predicament.

The military helicopter had landed near the tent in which the Colonel's four soldiers sheltered. Picot, Clara, and Ahmed jumped down to the ground, covering their faces as best they could. Within seconds their mouths and noses were filled with fine yellow sand.

The place seemed virtually deserted, save for the few straggling villagers curious to see who had come.

The village leader recognized Ahmed and came over to greet him, nodding to Clara and Picot. He and two of the soldiers accompanied the three visitors as they toured the site.

Picot and Ahmed slid down the side of the bomb crater. Even from the top, one could see the remains of a structure. Around the hole, a bare-bones excavation had been started, estabhshing a perimeter of some two hundred meters.

Picot listened attentively to Ahmed's explanations, interrupting him now and then with questions that the Iraqi answered fully and knowledgeably.

The explosion had revealed a square room lined with shelves, on which the pieces of shattered tablets were heaped. Ahmed explained that the few tablets found intact had already been sent back to Baghdad.

Clara couldn't bear waiting up on the surface while the two men poked about below. Impatient, she asked the soldiers to help her slide down.

The three of them spent hours in the hole, looking, scraping, measuring, rescuing shards of tablets so tiny their cuneiform script was barely recognizable. When they came up again, they were covered by a fine layer of yellow sand and dust.

Ahmed and Picot were talking animatedly. The two men seemed to be getting along despite themselves, having clearly bonded as peers.

Ahmed gestured back to Safran. "We could set up a camp beside the village and hire some men from here to help with the basic work. But we need experts, experienced people who won't destroy the structure as they dig it out. And as you've seen for yourself, we might find more structures, even ancient Safran itself. I could get army tents, though they're not very comfortable, and maybe a few more soldiers to guard the site."

"I don't like soldiers," Picot said flatly.

"In this part of the world, they're necessary," Ahmed replied.

"Ahmed, spy satellites are trained on Iraq day and night. They're going to see a military encampment, which means that when the bombing starts, this place will be wiped out. I think we ought to do things another way. No military tents, no soldiers. At least no more than these four, which will be enough to keep any of the villagers from getting too clever for their own good. If I come to excavate, it will be with civilian teams and civilian equipment."

"Then you're coming?" Clara asked anxiously.

"I'm not sure yet. I want to see those two tablets you told me about in Rome, plus the others that you say were found here with the signature mark of this Shamas. Until I examine them, I won't be able to form an opinion. In principle, this looks interesting. I think, as your husband does, that this is an ancient temple-palace and that we may find many artifacts, not only tablets. But I can't be certain of that. I have to be able to confirm that what I see warrants bringing twenty or thirty people here, with the equipment and supplies for an excavation of this size and the financial cost that would entail, under circumstances that are far from ideal. One of these days, Uncle Sam's F-18s are going to start flying over and dropping more bombs, and people that / bring here could all be killed. The Americans are going to practically wipe this country off the map, and there's no reason to think we'd be spared, if we're still here when it starts. So coming here now is certainly running a significant, and perhaps unnecessary, risk.
After
the war is another question.
..
."