The Bible of Clay (23 page)

Fabian and Marta knew it was time to ease up. They had been hard on their host. This was, after all, the Middle East, and in the Middle East no one asked direct questions without running the risk of offending.

"So you will be staying on with us in Safran?" Fabian asked.

"I will be at your disposal during the entire excavation."

At the door of the hotel, Sahadi reminded them that he'd be picking them up the next morning at five. The vans with the equipment had already left for Safran.

"We put it to him, eh?" Fabian remarked as they said good night at the door of the elevator.

"We pushed hard. Not that I care. But I'd love to know how and when this Tannenberg excavated in Haran—I've been on digs in that area, you know. Before we left, I looked up all the archaeological expeditions that have been located in or near Haran, and no Tannenberg took part in any of them."

"Who knows whether this mysterious grandpa has ever been on a dig outside the backyard of his own house. He could have bought those tablets off some grave robber."

"That's exactly what I was thinking. This could be a total wild-goose chase. But I'm like your friend Yves—I find him intriguing."

The trip to Baghdad the next morning was exhausting, and once they arrived, the city showed obvious signs of the siege it was under. Everywhere one saw poverty, as though overnight the prosperous Iraqi middle class had disappeared.

Marta had some motion sickness in the helicopter and, despite the kindhearted ministrations of Fabian, couldn't avoid throwing up. By the time they reached Safran she was pale and wrung out, but she was determined to make an effort as Clara Tannenberg greeted them.

Clara figured Marta must be in her mid-forties, fall of that self-assurance some Western women have: women who've made it on their own and don't take well to being told what to do. Or what not to do, for that matter. Nor did Clara fail to note that Marta was an attractive woman—tall, with beautiful long dark hair and well-manicured hands. Clara always looked at a woman's hands. Her grandmother had told her that you could know everything about a woman by her hands, and that observation had never failed her. A woman's hands reflected her soul and her social status. Marta's were thin and bony, recently polished, the nails painted with a light transparent coat that gave them no color, only shine.

After the greetings all around, Clara told the newcomers that the vans had arrived safely, although there had not yet been time to unload them.

"You can sleep in any of the villagers' houses or, if you prefer, in the tents we've set up. We've started building some simple mud houses, no different from the ones that have been around here for millennia. Some of them are ready, but the mattresses and some other fixtures haven't come in from Baghdad yet—they'll be here in a couple of days. They'll provide housing for almost everyone. We won't have any luxuries, but I hope you'll be comfortable."

"Could we have a look around the site?" Fabian asked.

"Of course. I'll have your bags taken to the village leader's home and we'll walk over to the 'palace,' as I call it. It's not far, and it's not too hot today."

"If you don't mind," Marta said, "I'd rather drive. I got airsick in the helicopter and I'm still not feeling too well."

"Is there anything I can do? Would you rather not go?" Clara asked solicitously.

"No, I'd just like some water and a chance to wash my face a bit. . . and not to walk, if that's all right."

Clara spoke to one of her assistants and in a second their luggage was carried away.

Marta took a few minutes to drink some water and recover her strength. Then they boarded a jeep to drive to the site where they would be working for the next few months.

Fabian jumped out of the car before the soldier driving it had come to a complete stop. He began to walk quickly around the site, stopping to examine the area that had been exposed by the bomb.

"I see that you've been clearing the site," he said.

"Yes. We think we're basically standing on the roof of a building and that what you see through that hole is a room where the tablets were kept—that would explain the amount of shards we've found. So, if that's the case, this is a temple-palace," Clara replied.

"I don't believe there's any evidence that there was ever a temple so close to Ur," Fabian said.

"No, there's not, but I remind you, Professor, that's precisely the value of this discovery. If we excavated through the length and breadth of Iraq, we'd likely find several dozen temple-palaces, because they were the administrative centers of wide areas," Clara explained.

Marta, meanwhile, had wandered off from the other two, looking for a place where she could perhaps get a better overview of the site.

"Is she your wife?" Clara asked.

"Marta? No, no. She's a professor of archaeology at the university where I teach, the Complutense, in Madrid. And she has years of experience in fieldwork. In fact, a few years ago she was here, near Haran, where your grandfather found those mysterious tablets."

Clara nodded silently. Her grandfather had flatly forbidden her to reveal any information about him. She was not to say a word more than necessary, even if people insisted on knowing details of when and why he had been in Haran, so she decided to lead the conversation in another direction.

"It's very brave of you to come to Iraq under the present circumstances."

"We hope everything goes well. It's not going to be easy working under these time constraints."

"Yes, but we Iraqis feel that Bush is just testing Saddam's nerve."

"Don't be too sure of that. He's declared war on you, and when all the pieces are in place, he will attack. I don't think he'll put it off more than six or seven months."

"Why is Spain supporting Bush against Iraq?"

"Don't confuse Spain with the administration in power right now. Most Spaniards are against the war." "So why don't you revolt?" Fabian laughed out loud.

"It's funny you should ask me why we don't revolt against our government when you Iraqis live under the heel of Saddam. Listen, I don't agree with my government's support of the United States against Iraq, or lots of other things either, but we do have a democratic government. We can throw them out at the ballot boxes."

"Iraqis love Saddam," Clara said.

"No they don't, and the day he falls, he'll fall hard—and only a few of the men in his inner circle will defend him. People suffer dictators, they don't love them—not even the people who've prospered under their regimes. The only thing that will remain of Saddam is the memory of his outrages against his own people.

"I'm against the war because we don't think innocent people should die just to get rid of a single man, especially since he's the last obstacle the Americans need to hurdle in order to get hold of Iraqi oil. The U.S. wants to control the oil reserves because China is breathing down its neck. But I insist: Don't be misled—those of us who are against the war hate Saddam as much as the war's supporters do."

"You didn't ask whether I was a supporter of Saddam," Clara reproached him.

"I don't care one way or the other. What are you going to do? Denounce me to those soldiers so they'll detain me? I imagine that if you live in Iraq and want for nothing, it's because you at least say you support the Saddam regime. We wouldn't be able to excavate here under these circumstances if your grandfather wasn't a powerful man in Iraq, at least that much is clear. But don't be misled there either—you mustn't think we came here ready to bow down before Saddam or sing the praises of his regime."

"No, you came here to excavate."

"If we can avoid political confrontations, we'll excavate. We think we have the chance to find out whether what you speculated about at the conference in Rome exists. We'll work day and night, against the clock, and if we don't achieve our mutual objective, at least we'll have tried. As archaeologists, we couldn't let this opportunity slip past us."

"Are you friends with Yves Picot?"

"Yes, of course, we've been friends for years. He's a bit heterodox, you might say, but he's one of the best, and of course only someone like him would be able to convince us to come and risk our necks in this place," Fabian said, letting his eyes roam over the site, looking for Marta.

"How many archaeologists will be taking part in the mission?"

"Fewer than we need, unfortunately. The team isn't big enough for the job ahead of us. There'll be two experts in magnetometry, a professor of archaeozoology, an expert in Asia Minor and Turkish studies, seven archaeologists who focus on Mesopotamia, and a number of students in their last years of study. About twenty of us in all."

Clara couldn't conceal a look of disappointment. She had hoped Picot would be able to find more specialists for the mission.

"Consider yourself lucky—getting twenty people to come here for a dig within this time frame is a small miracle, and every one of us has done it for Yves," Fabian said, irritated. "Your country is about to be turned into rubble, and it's no place for an archaeological adventure. Even so, Yves convinced us. We've left our jobs, our families in some cases—and don't think it's easy to tell your dean that you're leaving in September, just when the semester is about to start. All of us have made personal sacrifices to be here and have done so knowing how small the chances are that we'll find anything that's really worth the trouble, that can justify the investment of our time and professional reputations."

"You make it sound like you're doing me a favor!" Clara said in exasperation. "If you're here, it's because you think
you
can find something."

Marta had returned to them and had heard the last part of the conversation.

"What's happening?" she asked.

"An exchange of opinions," Fabian replied.

Clara didn't say anything. She lowered her eyes and took a deep breath to calm herself. She couldn't let her temper run away with her, especially before the mission even got started. She missed Ahmed; he had more tact, he knew how to deal with people, how to say what he was thinking without offending others while still standing firm in his opinions.

"Well," said Marta, "I've had a look around. The site looks interesting. How many workers will we have?"

"Nearly a hundred. There are about fifty men here in Safran; the rest will come in from neighboring villages."

"We need more. There's no way to clear all this sand unless we have enough help to do it. Are those the houses that you're building for the team?" she asked, pointing toward a group of half-finished buildings.

"Yes. They're about three hundred yards away. We'll be living practically beside the site, so we won't need cars to get around in," Clara answered.

"We've brought good tents. In my opinion, the workers should fin

ish what they've started, but the priority should be to get to work here right away."

Marta's tone left little room for discussion.

"Right away? Before the rest of the expedition arrives?" Fabian asked in surprise.

"Yes, absolutely. There's no time to lose. Honestly, I don't think we can do what has to be done in so little time—we need to start tomorrow. We'll go back to the village and meet with the men to explain some of the details of the work they'll be doing. We'll try to get the site as clear as possible, so that when Yves and the others get here we can go right to work on the dig itself. Does that sound all right to you two?"

"You're the boss," Fabian replied.

"That sounds fine to me." Clara nodded.

"Good. Let me tell you how I think we should go about this. . . ."

23

hans hausser strode purposefully into the huge

lobby of a glass-and-steel colossus in the heart of London. A directory on the wall led him to Global Group. He checked to make sure it was, as he remembered, on the seventh floor. Resolutely, but not without trepidation, he made his way to the bank of elevators.

A world-renowned professor of quantum physics was about to hire a killer to assassinate a man and his entire family. He felt no pity in his heart, but he wasn't sure he knew how to handle the man he was about to meet.

The offices of Global Group looked like those of any multinational corporation: light-gray walls, white acoustic ceiling tiles, modern furnishings, abstract paintings by painters with names impossible to remember, pleasant, discreetly elegant secretaries.

Tom Martin did not make him wait. He shook his hand at the door of his office, a large space with three walls of beautiful bookshelves in light-toned wood, a long wall of windows through which one had a magnificent view of old London and the Thames, leather armchairs, and not a single personal effect—no trophies, no photographs, just a huge steel-and-glass desk supporting a laptop and a digital phone.

When the two men were seated in facing armchairs, cups of coffee