The Bible of Clay (63 page)

Ante watched Lion Doyle out of the corner of his eye. It hadn't surprised him to find Lion working here too. However, unlike Ante, Lion was beloved by everyone on the team, who saw him as a personable, cheery, devil-may-care photographer. But Ante assured himself again that Lion wasn't what he seemed, just as Ayed Sahadi had been more than a mere foreman at an archaeological dig.

From snatches of overheard conversations, Ante learned that Sahadi had managed to get Clara out of Iraq safe and sound with the Bible of Clay and that Ahmed had been with them. They'd gone first to Cairo, where Clara had apparently decided to live until the situation in Iraq became clearer. It was also, apparently, where she decided to break off the marriage, because Ahmed was nowhere to be seen in Madrid, although Ante had heard that he'd make an appearance at the opening.

As he shelved the books, he told himself that he couldn't afford to fail again. This time, he had to do it.

The man at Planet Security who'd hired him had decided to take out an insurance policy: Ante was being provided with a team of operatives waiting for his signal to move in on the Bible of Clay. All Ante had to do was say the word.

During the last two weeks, he'd barely left the museum. He'd familiarized himself with it completely and, more importantly, the guards who worked the museum had become accustomed to his comings and goings. He'd made a special effort to chat up the guards who monitored the alarm system.

He'd told the men in the commando team to scout the building too, without calling attention to themselves. Almost all of them had come in as tourists, walking through the galleries and poking into hallways and offices as though they'd gotten lost. They wouldn't have much time to snatch the tablets, Ante knew, and getting out of the building was going to be tough. Ante planned to make the grab before the museum opened the gallery where the Bible was going to be displayed; getting them afterward would be impossible. Plus, Picot had commissioned exact replicas of the tablets to be made, which might mean they would leave the reproductions in the museum after the exhibit opened and put the originals back in the safety-deposit box. Ante couldn't run that risk.

It concerned him that he hadn't managed to find out when they were planning to bring the tablets to the museum. Marta told him that even the very existence of the Bible of Clay was a closely guarded secret. Not until opening day would they announce their priceless find to the world press.

Clara hadn't allowed the experts in the Vatican to examine the tablets. Gian Maria had insisted the path to authenticity would be through the Holy See, but Clara had told him that the Vatican wouldn't have any choice but to bow to the clear evidence—when she deigned to make that evidence available.

It was two days until the opening, and the museum administrators had prepared a gallery with every security measure known to man in order to ensure the tablets' safety.

Clara, Picot, Fabian, and Marta had personally designed the exhibit and its display within the gallery—from the lighting to the wall panels to the display cases themselves. And the tablets wouldn't be brought in until an hour before the museum's doors opened for the show.

"Nervous?" Picot asked Clara.

"Yes, a little. It's been a long road.
...
I miss my grandfather, you know? He didn't deserve to miss this moment. He lived his whole life for this."

"You still don't have any leads on his murder?" Clara shook her head as she tried to hold back tears. "Well, then! Let's talk about something else," Picot said, putting his hand on her shoulder and leaning over her protectively. "Am I interrupting something?"

Yves jumped and pulled back as he turned and saw Miranda standing there; he seemed flustered to see her. Miranda had talked her way into the museum before the opening.

Clara went over to Miranda and gave her a kiss on the cheek, telling her she was glad to see her. Then she left the gallery, leaving Miranda and Picot alone.

"You don't seem so glad to see me," the reporter remarked to the still-flustered-looking professor.

"I've tried and tried to get in touch with you—don't tell me your agency didn't tell you," he said by way of protest.

"I know, but I had to stay in Iraq longer than I'd expected—you know what a mess it is over there."

"But how do you know about this?" Picot asked her, gesturing to the gallery.

"Good heavens, Yves, I'm a reporter; I read the newspapers. In London they say there's going to be a revelation. . . ." "Yes, the Bible of Clay."

"I know—Clara and I have a serious difference of opinion about those tablets."

"What do you mean?"

"The way I see it, they're stolen—they belong to Iraq and they shouldn't have been removed without permission."

"And just who could have given that permission? Remember, a war had just started."

"Her own husband—his name is Ahmed Husseini if I'm not mistaken. Even if getting permission from Saddam Hussein himself failed, Ahmed was the head of the Bureau of Archaeological Excavations. Who better to legitimize all this?"

"Miranda, what's done is done. Anyway, we're not going to keep the tablets. When the situation in Iraq clears up, they'll be repatriated. Meanwhile, they'll go to the Louvre, which in addition to having the most important collection of Mesopotamian art and artifacts is incredibly secure."

Fabian interrupted them; he looked nervous.

"Yves, they called from the bank; the armored truck has just left— it's on its way."

"Let's go to the loading dock—come along, Miranda."

When the tablets were laid out in their display case, Clara turned the key in the lock and squeezed Gian Maria's arm emotionally. Then she turned to Picot, Fabian, and Marta, who were standing close by, and smiled.

The museum's chief of security explained once again the extraordinary measures the museum had taken to safeguard the treasures, and Clara seemed happy with what she heard.

"You look awfully nice," Fabian complimented her.

She gave him a peck on the cheek and thanked him. Her two-piece fire-red suit illuminated her tanned face and set off her steel-blue eyes to great effect.

Ten minutes later, the doors of the museum opened to officials of the Spanish government, the vice president and two ministers, and academics from all over the world who'd come to witness what promised to be a truly extraordinary exhibition.

European and American archaeologists alike praised the objects found in Iraq, which were displayed in cases throughout three galleries in the museum. Meanwhile, Marta and Fabian were guiding a group of Spanish authorities, pointing out details of the artifacts and explaining their historical and cultural significance.

Waiters carrying trays of drinks and hors d'oeuvres passed among the guests, who seemed to enjoy the food and drink almost as much as the treasures on display.

Picot and Clara had decided that they wouldn't open the "special" gallery until an hour after the exhibit had opened. At that time, they would solemnly invite the guests and world press into the sanctuary where the greatest treasure of the entire exhibit—the eight clay tablets of the Bible of Clay—was set out in a brilliantly lighted display case.

As they milled about, the guests speculated on what great surprise lay in store for them.

Ante Plaskic spotted his team from Planet Security spread out among the guests, some camouflaged as waiters, some as security guards, some even as invited guests. Nor did he fail to notice that Lion Doyle, despite the constant smile on his face, appeared slightly tense.

The way the theft had been planned, there was no choice but to steal the tablets before the doors to the gallery were opened. They'd be running a huge risk, but it was their only chance. Ante went over the long list of security measures the museum had instituted for the gallery, and then he made his way to the alarm control room. He had ten minutes to grab the tablets and get out.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention, please . . .," Yves Picot said loudly, standing in the middle of the crowded gallery. "I would ask that you complete your visit to these galleries soon, because in fifteen minutes I am going to ask you to accompany me into a very special gallery, where you will be presented with an archaeological treasure of incalculable value. This groundbreaking find will have worldwide repercussions, not only in academia but also in archaeology itself, in society, and in the Church. Fifteen minutes
..."

Picot then turned to a group near him, in which Marta and Fabian were talking to the vice president of Spain. Behind them was Clara, in conversation with a government minister and the chancellor of the University of Madrid. Miranda circled toward them through the crowd.

They all started moving slowly toward the closed gallery doors, chatting animatedly An elegantly dressed older woman in a Chanel suit, her face beautiful and her expression serene, crossed the gallery toward Clara. The woman smiled at Clara, who returned her pleasant greeting; Clara didn't know her, but thought how striking she was. Suddenly the woman stumbled and fell hard against Clara; someone must have accidentally run into her. As the woman regained her balance and walked away, apologizing, Clara winced in pain. She failed to see the slight smile on the elegant, serene face.

Clara went on chatting with the chancellor, telling him that they were about to see cuneiform tablets with a remarkable text inscribed on them, when she abruptly clutched her chest and fell to the floor, to the astonishment of everyone around them.

Yves and Fabian hurried over and knelt down beside her, trying to elicit some reaction—all Clara did was open and close her eyes and gasp, as though trying to wake up from an underwater nightmare.

Fabian called out for a doctor and ambulance, while Ante Plaskic gave a sign to the men of Planet Security's team, who went immediately into action.

One of the guests was a doctor, and he bent down to examine Clara. He discovered a small prick on her left breast, near her sternum—near her heart.

"Quick, call an ambulance!" he repeated. "She's bleeding!"

Two security guards, followed by a tuxedo-clad man, slipped from the room and hurried toward the gallery containing the Bible of Clay.

Ante, too, was rushing, but toward the security-system control room, where monitors displayed every inch of the museum interior. He walked in and put two bullets in the head of the security guard keeping watch on the monitors. Then he pulled the man's body into a corner and locked the door—he couldn't be disturbed now. He skillfully disconnected all the museum's alarms, even as he watched his team enter the gallery and neutralize the two security guards inside. In less than two minutes they'd slipped the tablets into a bag and made their getaway.

The Croatian smiled to himself. The mission was almost complete. Without him as a mole, there was no way anyone could have pulled this off. He was proud.

His eyes then turned to another monitor, where he saw Yves Picot kneeling beside Clara, holding her in his arms, then picking her up and, with Fabian and security guards opening a way through the crowd, carrying her out.

He didn't know why—maybe because she looked so indifferent to all the chaos in the room—but his attention was drawn to a stately, striking older woman who appeared on one of the other monitors. She was the only person who showed no concern for Clara, no worry about her collapse, not even curiosity—she just walked very elegantly toward the exit.

He asked himself what it was the woman had in her hand, because she seemed to be carrying something, but he couldn't make it out through the monitor.

Mercedes Barreda left the museum and took a deep, grateful breath of the warm spring air. She'd always loved the tranquillity and calm of this part of Madrid, a neighborhood called Salamanca. She started walking, a bit aimlessly, immensely happy. She didn't notice two elegantly dressed men toting a large bag hurry out of the museum and jump into a waiting car. The only thing she was thinking about was how to get rid of the awl that she'd just plunged into Clara's heart. She wouldn't leave any fingerprints, because she'd worn a pair of lovely kidskin gloves, so she could toss it into any drain, but not here, not in this neighborhood where the police would certainly look for it. No, she'd find another spot, far away.

She walked for over an hour, strolling through the tree-shaded streets, then hailed a taxi. "Hotel Ritz," she told the driver.

She thought about going back to Barcelona but decided not to— there was no reason for her to run: Nobody was looking for her, nobody would associate her with the death of Clara Tannenberg. Still, she changed clothes and left the hotel, walking toward the Atocha train station. She found a storm drain near the Prado Museum and threw the long, thin instrument away. Then, walking back toward the hotel, she congratulated herself on how easy it had been to end Clara's life. Why had it been so difficult for those hired guns when she'd done it in just one night?