The Bible of Clay (10 page)

"Ah, you're here, my dear! Come in, come in."

Tannenberg's icy eyes fixed on Nasir, and Nasir broke into a broad smile. "My dear girl, I haven't seen you in ages! You no longer do us the honor of visiting Cairo. My daughters always ask about you."

"Hello, Mustafa." Clara's tone was unfriendly, echoing the manner in which her grandfather had been addressing him.

"Clara, we're working. As soon as we've finished I'll call you."

"All right, Grandfather. I'm going out shopping."

"Take one of the guards."

"Yes, yes, of course. Fatima is going as well."

Clara left the house with Fatima and Yasir, one of Alfred's most trusted men, who acted as a chauffeur-bodyguard. They drove in the green SUV to the center of Baghdad.

The city was a pale shadow of itself. The blockade imposed by the United States had impoverished the Iraqis, who now were forced to live by their wits. The hospitals were still functioning, thanks to the help of a handful of XGOs, but the need for medicines and food was increasingly urgent.

Clara harbored a deep hatred toward Bush for what he was doing. She didn't like Saddam either, but she couldn't forgive the people who were strangling the very life out of her homeland.

She and Fatima, accompanied by Yasir, wandered through the bazaar until Clara found a gift for Fatima—it was her birthday. Neither of the women noticed the presence of the foreigners who seemed to be following them through the narrow, labyrinthine streets of the bazaar. But Yasir detected them pretending to be tourists browsing through the stalls, trailing them at every turn. He didn't say anything to the women, so as not to alarm them.

When they drove back to the Yellow House, he went straight to Alfred Tannenberg before Clara could reach him. Mustafa Nasir had gone.

"There were four men, two and two," the bodyguard explained to his employer. "They were following us; there is no doubt. The way they dressed, their faces—I am certain they were not Iraqi, or Egyptian, or Jordanian. But they didn't speak English. I believe it was Italian."

"What do you think they wanted?"

"To know where Miss Clara was going. I don't think they intended her harm, although
..."

"One never knows. Be certain she goes nowhere alone, nowhere, and that two men, armed, are always with her. If something happens to my granddaughter, neither you nor they will live to tell it."

There was no need for the warning. Yasir had no doubt that if something happened to Clara he would pay for it with his life; he would be neither the first nor the last man to die at the express orders of Alfred Tannenberg.

"Yes, sir."

"Add more security around the house. Inspect everyone who comes in and goes out. No unknown gardeners replacing sick cousins, no irresistible street vendors. I don't want to see a single unfamiliar face unless I personally authorize it. We're going to turn the tables on these mysterious men who are interested in my granddaughter. I want to know who they are, who sent them, and why."

"It will be hard to grab them all."

"I don't need them all—one will be quite enough."

"Yes, sir, but we will need Miss Clara to leave the house again."

"Yes, Yasir, that is true. My granddaughter will be the bait."

Yasir nodded solemnly.

Tannenberg called in his granddaughter. For an hour he listened to her complaints about what had happened in Rome. He had known that things would not go well. His friends had wanted him to wait until Saddam fell before uncovering the rest of the site the U.S. bomb had exposed. It would be a mission to uncover not just the Bible of Clay but other tablets, perhaps a statue or two, like so many other missions he had financed.

He would not wait this time. He couldn't. He knew that he was living the last days of his life. He had four, six months at the most. He had demanded that the doctor tell him the truth, and the truth was that he was approaching the end. He was eighty-five years old, and his liver was covered with small tumors. Less than two years ago, almost half of it had been removed.

Clara would have Ahmed and enough money to live comfortably the rest of her life, but he wanted to give her a real gift, the gift she'd been asking for since she was a child: the glory of discovering the Bible of Clay. That was why he'd sent her to Rome—so it would be she who publicly announced the existence of the two tablets he had found when he was younger than she was now.

They might laugh about the story of Abraham's tablets, but at least the members of the archaeological community had been notified of their existence, even if most considered them a fantasy. No one could take away his granddaughter's glory now, no one, not even his closest friends.

He had already written the letter that one of his men would take to Amman and deliver to a courier, who in turn would take it to Washington to the home of Robert Brown, so that he, in turn, could deliver it to George Wagner. But before he sent it, Alfred had to tend to these meddlers who were following Clara—he might have to add a postscript. And he'd speak to Ahmed in the evening, when he returned from his office. This morning when he'd brought in the letter from Brown, he'd seemed tense.

Alfred trusted Ahmed because he knew how ambitious the younger man was and how desperate he was to escape Iraq. But Ahmed could escape Iraq only with Alfred's money, the money that Clara would inherit and that Ahmed would enjoy only as long as he was with her.

9

MARINl
's
SECURITY INVESTIGATIONS TEAM HAD BEEN IN

position since dawn. They had found a good spot from which to watch the comings and goings of the Yellow House: a cafe on the corner on the other side of the street. The owner was friendly, and although he was constantly asking them why they had come to Baghdad, the place was perfect for surveillance unobserved by the men guarding the house.

At eight, the two men stationed in the cafe saw Ahmed Husseini leave in the green SUV He was driving, although beside him, in the passenger seat, was a burly man clearly on the alert; his head seemed to swivel in all directions. Clara didn't leave the house until ten. She was accompanied by the old woman swathed in black from head to foot. The same man accompanied them again today, and the threesome drove off in a Mercedes SUV.

There was a crackle of walkie-talkie chat and the other team, sitting in a rented car two streets away, was alerted. They pulled out behind the Mercedes as it passed, with the first two following in another car not far behind.

The Mercedes headed toward the outskirts of Baghdad and traveled for over a half hour before finally turning down a dirt road bordered by palm trees. The men from Security Investigations were uneasy but

pushed on, staying back at a prudent distance as the Mercedes sped up. They weren't willing to lose sight of the woman who was their only link to the old man they'd been sent to find and photograph.

The Mercedes raced down the unpaved road, raising a cloud of dry dirt and dust, and then a second later, from two side roads, a swarm of SUVs appeared, apparently intent on crashing into the first of the pursuing vehicles. Marini's men realized too late that it was a trap, as the SUVs surrounded the first car and forced it to stop. The second car stopped short several yards behind the first and backed up fast to a safer distance, keeping their comrades in sight. None of them carried weapons, and the two men in the trailing car had no way of confronting the armed men who raced to their teammates' car, pulled them out, and threw them to the ground. They watched helplessly as the two were beaten and kicked, then they wheeled their car around to return to the highway for help. They weren't running away, they told themselves, although deep inside they knew they were.

They were well out of sight by the time one of their teammates was forced to his knees and shot in the back of the head, while the other vomited. Five minutes later, both were lying dead in the ditch.

Carlo Cipriani covered his face with his hands. Mercedes was sitting pale and impassive beside him, while Hans Hausser's and Bruno Miiller's faces reflected their anguish at Luca Marini's news.

They had been called to the office of the president of Security Investigations. Marini had insisted that they come to him. The entire company was in mourning—the employees' silence was eloquent testament to that.

The plane with the two bodies was due back the next day.

Murdered. They had been murdered after being brutally beaten. Their teammates didn't know what they'd told their assailants or who those assailants were. All they knew was that ten SUVs, five from each direction, had forced them to stop. They saw them beaten; when they came back later with an army patrol they'd met on the highway, they found the lifeless bodies. They demanded an investigation but were instead detained as suspects. No one had seen anything, no one knew anything.

The police had interrogated the survivors efficiently, which translated into bruises and cuts on their faces, chests, and stomachs. After several hours they were turned loose and encouraged to leave Iraq as soon as possible.

The Italian embassy filed a formal protest, and the Italian ambassador asked for an urgent meeting with Iraq's foreign minister. He was told that the minister was on an official visit to Yemen but assured that of course the police would thoroughly investigate the strange event, which seemed to the authorities to be the work of a gang of thieves.

Nothing was found in the dead men's pockets—no documents, no money, not even a pack of cigarettes. Nothing. Their murderers had taken everything.

Luca Marini had relived his worst days as head of the anti-Mafia police unit in Sicily, when he had to call the wives of his men to tell them that organized crime had killed one after another of their husbands. At least in those cases there had been official funerals, with the minister of justice in attendance, medals placed on the caskets, and the widows receiving generous pensions from the government. This time, the funerals would be private, there would be no medals, and they'd have to work hard to keep the press from getting wind of the story.

"I'm sorry, Carlo," Marini said as he finished his devastating summary. "This has gone well beyond anything I could have expected or even imagined. I'm canceling our contract. You've gotten us into something very nasty, without the slightest indication that we might face murderers like these. They killed my men to send a message: Leave whoever it is you're looking for alone."

"We'd like to help the families of these men," said Mercedes. "Tell us how much might be appropriate. I know we can't bring them back to life, but at least we can help those they left behind."

Marini looked at Mercedes in surprise. So she wasn't as callous as she seemed. She had the practical sense that many women have, and she didn't waste time shedding tears.

"That depends on yourselves," he replied. "Francesco Amatore left a wife and a two-year-old daughter. Paolo Silvestre wasn't married, but his parents could certainly use some compensation, since Paolo was helping them put his brothers and sisters through school."

"Do you think a million euros would be enough—half a million for each family?" Mercedes asked.

"That's very generous," replied Luca Marini, "but there's another matter that we have to discuss. The police here want to know why four of my men were in Iraq, who paid to send them, and why. So far I've dodged the questions as best I can, but I've been called in to the inspector-general's office tomorrow. He wants answers from me, because the minister of justice wants answers from him. And although we're old friends and he won't hold my feet to the fire more than he has to, I have to give him those answers. Now, tell me what you want me to tell him and what you want me to hold back."

The four friends looked at one another in silence, aware of how delicate the situation was. It was just too complicated to explain to the police why a retired doctor, a physics professor, a concert pianist, and the owner of a large construction company would hire the services of a detective agency and send four men to Iraq.

"Tell us what the most plausible version would be," Bruno Miiller suggested.

"Well, the fact is, you've never even told me why you wanted information on this Clara, Ahmed, or Alfred."

"That's nobody's business," Mercedes said, her voice icy.

"There are two men dead, signora, so the police think it's become their business."

"Luca, would you let us talk in private for a moment?" Carlo Cipriani asked.

"Yes, of course, you can use the conference room. When you come up with something, let me know."

He showed them into a conference room next to his office and then closed the door softly behind them.

Carlo was the first to speak.

"We have two choices: Tell the truth or find a plausible explanation."

"There are no plausible explanations with two dead bodies," said Hans, "much less the bodies of two innocent men. If at least they'd been on the other side
..."

"If we tell the truth, the jig's up, as they say in the old movies," Bruno said morosely, his voice heavy with defeat and despair.

"I'm not willing to give up now, so let's think of a way to deal with this situation," said Mercedes. "This is not the worst thing that's ever happened to us, it's only another roadblock—tragic and unexpected, but a roadblock just the same."

"My God, you're hard-hearted!" Carlo's exclamation came from the bottom of his heart.

"Hard-hearted or not, here we are," she said, headstrong as ever. "We've seen worse. So instead of wringing our hands and bemoaning our fate, let's think."

"I can't," Hans Hausser said softly. "I can't think of a thing."

Mercedes looked at him with disgust. Then, sitting up straighter, she took charge.

"All right, Carlo, you and I are old friends; I'm passing through Rome and I've told you that in view of the inevitable war, I want my company to be among the ones that bring home a piece of the reconstruction pie. So despite my age, I'm considering the possibility of going to Baghdad myself to see the situation firsthand and determine what the country will need postwar. You've told me I'm a crazy old woman, that that's what investigative agencies are for—they have people who are trained, who can assess the situation in a war zone. You've introduced me to another friend of yours, Luca Marini. At first I was doubtful; I preferred to hire a Spanish agency, but I finally took your advice and hired Security Investigations. We accept the Iraqis' story— Marini's men were killed in a robbery. Nothing strange about that, given the situation in Iraq. Naturally, I'm devastated and I want to help the families with a sizable amount of money."

The three men looked at her with renewed respect. It was incredible—in seconds she had come up with a fully formed scenario. Even if the police didn't believe it, it was more than plausible.

"Do you agree, or does somebody have a better idea?"

They agreed to tell the story Mercedes had invented.

Marini thought the story over when they told him. It wasn't bad, as long as no one in his office leaked the other aspects of the investigation, but his was a tight-knit group that kept its business to itself.

"Of course," mused Marini, "we don't know what my men said before they died. More than likely, they told them they were working for Security Investigations and had been sent to follow Clara and Alfred Tannenberg."

"Probably so," Hans broke in, "but the Iraqi police don't know anything about the real killers, nor, so far as we know, does the ambassador. In fact, the Iraqis have all but closed the case. So I see no reason for it not to be closed here."

"Signore Marini," said Mercedes, very seriously, "we've been sent a message with the murder of these two men. A gruesome message. It's his way of showing us what he's capable of doing if we get any closer to him and his family."

"What exactly are you talking about, Mercedes? What are Alfred— this old man—and his family capable of doing?" Luca couldn't contain his curiosity. He was tired of these four old people's mysteries.

"Luca, it's better that you don't know the specifics. This is the best we can come up with. Help us if you think this story won't fly with the Italian police," Carlo said gravely.

The president of Security Investigations gazed at him for a long moment. Cipriani was his doctor, an old friend who had saved his life when other doctors thought it was useless to operate, that he was a goner. So he'd help him, despite the grating abrasiveness of this woman Mercedes Barreda and how troubled he was by the entire undertaking.

"All right, Carlo. I'll do what I can with Signora Barreda's story. I hope my friends on the police force are feeling flexible. My men's families are devastated, but they think they died because of the chaos in Iraq. Neither Paolo nor Francesco talked to them about the details of their work. Bush will have recruited two Italian families for his war against his Axis of Evil. So they, at least, won't cause any big stink, and if on top of that you're willing to pay them compensation
...
all right. I'll call you and let you know how it goes with my police pals."

"Luca, forgive me, but are you sure no one knows who hired you?"

"Yes, Carlo, I'm sure. You didn't want anybody to know about you except me, and when I give my word I keep it."

"Thank you, my friend," said Carlo, his voice breaking a bit.

And without any further conversation, the four of them left Luca Marini's office and went their separate ways for the rest of the dark day.

They each needed a few hours alone, a few hours to process all that had happened and all that was about to happen.

Alfred Tannenberg was listening impassively to the Colonel. They had met many years ago, and the Colonel had always provided Alfred excellent service. It was expensive—very expensive—but worth it. The Colonel was among Saddam's inner circle; they were both from Tikrit, and the Colonel was assigned to state security. Tannenberg was kept well informed of the goings-on in the presidential palace.

"Come, Alfred, tell me who sent those men," the Colonel was insisting.

"I swear to you I don't know. They were Italians, from a company, Security Investigations, hired to follow Clara. That's all we could get out of them. They didn't know any more than that. If they had, you can be sure they'd have told us."

"I cannot imagine that anyone would want to harm your granddaughter."

"I can't either, but if someone does, it would probably be to get at me."

"And you, my old friend, have many enemies." "Yes, and friends too. I'm counting on you."

"You know you can, but I need for you to tell me one more thing. If you don't, it will be hard for me to help you protect Clara. You have powerful friends. Have you offended any of them?"

Alfred remained impassive. "You have powerful friends too. No less than George Bush, I believe, who is going to send in his marines and push you into the sea."

The Colonel burst out laughing as he lit an Egyptian cigar; he enjoyed their aromatic flavor.

"I assure you," Alfred said, "that I have no idea who sent those two men. What I'm asking you to do is to redouble the security around the Yellow House, keep your antennae up for information, and help me find out who is behind all this."

"I will help you, my friend, I will help you. But I'm worried. I think the war is coming, even if the palace thinks Bush is only blustering. My gut tells me he's going to try to finish what his father started."