The Bible of Clay (14 page)

13

ENRIQUE
GOMEZ
THOMSON
WAS
WALKING
UNDER
THE

stately, shady trees of the Parque de Maria Luisa. The photographs
of
the murder—the execution—
of
those two poor souls had tied a knot in his stomach.

Frankie had insisted that they see each other. They'd met precious few times since they'd gone their separate
ways
almost sixty years ago.
At
first, George had opposed the meeting with all the energy he could muster, But ^rankle had finally convinced him that they'd be much less visible in Seville than anywhere else. Besides, they would meet only for as long as necessary—a few hours at the most.

The three friends had decided to converge in the dark, cool bar of the Hotel Alfonso XIII. Emma, Frankie's wife, had been determined to stay at Seville s premier hotel.

Rocio, on the other hand, was uneasy. For several days she'd been hounding Enrique with questions that he dodged or simply ignored. Fortunately, that afternoon she'd gone to her sister's house—her niece was having a fitting for her wedding dress and Rocio wanted to be there.

As soon as he heard Rocio leave the house, he left too. He walked through the narrow, winding streets and the half-hidden plazas of the Barrio de Santa Cruz and headed to the park, where he ambled aimlessly, killing time until his appointment with his friends of years long past. He needed some fresh air.

George was sitting at a table in the far corner of the bar. Enrique joined him. Both men's eyes were misty with emotion at meeting face-to-face after so many years. But they did not embrace; they knew they couldn't call attention to themselves.

"You
look good," George told him.

"You
too."

"We're old men, now—although you're not as old as I am." "A year younger, George, just a year." "So where
's
Frankie?"

"I imagine he'll be along any minute; they're staying here at the hotel"

"Yes, that's what he told me—Emma insisted."

"It's all right. They had to stay somewhere, after all. Tell me what you've been thinking."

"Alfred is dying, he knows that it's just a matter of months. So he's thrown everything aside, with no regard for the consequences."

"That's what I think too. But what does he want?"

"He wants his granddaughter to find the Bible of Clay and to have for herself everything that that will mean."

"What about this Picot he's trying to hire?"

"You
can't undertake an excavation of that magnitude without professionals, without real archaeologists. Alfred can hire half of Baghdad to carry the dirt, but he needs competent archaeologists to oversee the operation, and Iraq doesn't have
any."

Just then Frank dos Santos entered the bar, peering into the dimness for his friends. He made his way over to them without a gesture and simply sat down and signaled the waiter, who came over to take his order.

"I'm glad to see you two," he said as soon as they were alone. "I don't think we've changed so much—just got an extra few decades on us!" He laughed out loud.

"Well, we can console ourselves with the thought that we're as healthy as we were sixty years ago. Though now I'm afraid we're on our final lap," said George, and then got back to the business at hand. "What do you think Alfred is up to?"

"Oh, Alfred! He's doing what any desperate man would do," Frank replied casually. "Your friends in the Pentagon are about to incinerate Saddam. Who knows whether Iraq
will
even exist anymore within a few
months, so he's got no option: either find the Bible of Clay now or let it slip out of his hands forever."

"We could try to find it after the war," George mused.

"You know how wars start, but you never know how they'll end." Enrique's implication was clear, and his two friends could only nod in agreement.

"When will they start the bombing?" Enrique asked. "March, at the latest," replied George.

"So we have about six months at most," Frankie said. "Six months to find the Bible of Clay."

"If the Americans hadn't bombed between Tell Muqayyar and Basra two months ago, the structure would never have even been found—fate wanted it to be now," Enrique said without much conviction. "So, what do we do?"

"If he finds the tablets intact, it will go down in history as one of the great archaeological discoveries of all time. Not to mention the value of the tablets on the antiquities market. And that doesn't take into account everything the Vatican will do to get its hands on them, considering that they'd be proof of the patriarch Abraham's divine inspiration," George said, almost to himself. "Genesis told by Abraham: an extraordinary discovery"

"If Alfred does find them," Frank said pensively, "he'll keep them for himself or his granddaughter, you can be sure, so . . ."

"So he'll do anything he can to take advantage of the little time he has," George finished the thought. "But why put his granddaughter out in front on this?"

Enrique had the answer: "He had her stake her claim, so nobody will take the tablets away from her. Now every archaeologist in the world knows that a local group headed up by Ahmed Husseini and his unpredictable wife have found the remains of a temple in Iraq and that it may hold tablets dictated by Abraham himself. Whatever happens, nobody will be able to claim the discovery as his own. Which explains that little number in Rome."

"He's risking a lot," Frank observed.

"Yes, but he's dying, so he has few alternatives," Enrique insisted. "So, George, do your people know who hired the Italians?"

George shook his head. "We know they were men from a company called Security Investigations, hired to follow Clara. But my men haven't found anything in the Security Investigations files—not a single shred. The contract must have been made directly with one of the higher-ups, someone who didn't have to give any explanations, just orders. The owner of Security Investigations is a former cop who made his name going after the Mafia; he was decorated several times and has friends everywhere in the police force. So the slightest error and the only thing we'll have is the Italian police on our tail."

"But we need to know who hired those men and why. We have one whole flank exposed," insisted Frank.

"You're right. We have to take extra security measures and avoid making any mistakes. There's a leak somewhere, or else Alfred has earned himself an enemy among his own associates," George reasoned.

"A black hole somewhere that we just can't see." Enrique felt the knot in the pit of his stomach twist tighter.

"Yes." George nodded. "There is a black hole, and we have to plug it. There's something new here, something we can't control. But Alfred we can handle. Our people over there reported that Ahmed Husseini seems to be breaking from our old friend. A few days ago he was heard shouting at him. Clara's husband has always struck me as a brave and intelligent man. Might we enlist him?"

"Judging by the last report on the activities at the Yellow House, I fear his conscience is beginning to bother him," Frank said. "There's nothing more dangerous than somebody who decides to go straight at the last minute. They'll do anything to try to make up for their past transgressions."

"Then we won't count on him; we'll simply use him," George said decisively. "And now, my friends, this will, I think, be the last time we ever see one another. Let's make the most of it and agree on every step that we're going to take from here on out. There's a very great deal at stake—"

"What's at stake," Frank interrupted him, "is being able to die quietly in our own homes when the time comes."

Enrique Gomez felt another stab of pain in his gut.

The three men went on talking well into the evening, reviewing bulky manila folders George handed around.

It was after ten-thirty when they finally broke off. They had drunk several whiskeys and shared several small plates of tapas. Enrique had received two impatient calls from Rocio, who asked him where he was and whether he'd be home for dinner. Frank called Emma to tell her to go ahead and take a taxi, he'd meet her at the
tablao,
where they had reserved a table for the flamenco show.