The Bible of Clay (18 page)

She was eager to get back to Spain, to Barcelona, to her business, and to start visiting her construction projects again, climbing up the scaffolding—to the terrified looks of the workmen who thought she was crazy.

Constant activity allowed her to live, kept her mind focused. She'd spent her whole life running away, avoiding being alone, although she had no one but herself to blame. She'd never married, never had children; she had no brothers or sisters or nieces or nephews, no living relatives at all. Her grandmother, her father's mother, had died years ago. The old lady had been an anarchist, tough as nails, who'd known far too many of Franco's prisons. She had also been the only person who'd helped Mercedes keep her feet on the ground, helped her feel that she was "just people," just another hardworking woman. "Fascists are who they are," she would say, "so we shouldn't be surprised by anything they do." That was the way she calmed her granddaughter's nightmares—by trying to convince her that everything happened just as it did because it flowed from the behavior of men who bore the stigma of evil.

She'd lived long enough to help Mercedes face life by doing just that—facing it head on.

Mercedes usually had lunch in her own office, just as she dined alone at home, in front of the TV

Here she had to find someplace to sit down and rest and eat something. Then she'd walk back to the hotel and pack. She was departing the next day, on the first plane out. Carlo had said he'd stop by the hotel to have dinner with her at a nearby restaurant and say good-bye.

Carlo called her room from the lobby. When Mercedes came down, they embraced each other warmly, overcome with the torrent of emotions that had been building over the past weeks.

"Have you talked to Hans and Bruno?" she asked.

"Yes, they called when they got in. They're fine. Hans is so lucky to have Berta—she's a wonderful woman."

"Your children are wonderful too."

"Yes, they are, but I have three, and Hans has only one. He's lucky—Berta pampers him like a baby."

"Is Bruno all right? He worries me; he seems overwhelmed by the situation, scared even."

"Pm
scared, Mercedes. And I imagine you are too. Our reasons for doing what we're doing don't mean we're above the law."

"That's the tragedy of being human—nothing we do is without its price. It was God's curse when he expelled us from the Garden."

"I didn't know you had suddenly become so religious!" Carlo laughed. "When Bruno called, I heard Deborah protesting in the background. He told me that she's very worried, that she even asked him to never see us again. They had a fight, and Bruno said he'd rather leave her, that nothing and no one would ever break his ties to us." "Poor Deborah! I understand what she's going through." "She never liked you." "Almost nobody does."

"That's because you work at making it that way. You know that, don't you?"

"Is this my doctor or my friend talking?"

"Your friend, who also happens to be a doctor."

"You can heal bodies, but sometimes there's nothing that can be done for the soul."

"I know, but you should at least make an effort to see other people's points of view."

"I do. How do you think I've been able to live all these years? But since my grandmother died, all I have are you three—you're the only thing that keeps me alive. You and
..."

"Revenge. And hatred. They've brought us this far." Carlo changed course. "Your grandmother was an extraordinary woman."

"She wasn't content to simply be a survivor like me; she had to stand up to everything and everybody. When she got out of prison she refused to change, refused to bend to the Fascists' will; she continued to organize clandestine meetings, cross the French border to sneak anti-Franco propaganda back into Spain, meet with old exiles there. I'll tell you a story: In the fifties and sixties, in every movie theater in Spain they would run a newsreel before the film, about what Franco and his ministers were doing. We lived in Mataro, near Barcelona, and there was an outdoor movie theater in the summer where we kids would play, eat sunflower seeds, that sort of thing. The minute Franco's face appeared, my grandmother would hawk up a ball of mucus, spit it out on the ground, and mutter, 'They think they've beaten us, but they're wrong—as long as we can think, we are free.' And she'd point to her head and say, 'They aren't the bosses up here.' I would look at her in horror, because I thought we might be arrested at any moment. But nothing ever happened."

"I remember she always dressed in black," said Carlo, "with that bun up here on top of her head, and her face covered with wrinkles. She was dignified. Despite the spitting," he added, smiling.

"She knew exactly what we were talking about, what we'd decided to do—she knew about our oath. And she never reproached me for it. On the contrary, she said whatever we had to do, we should do it with our heads and not be led by hate."

"I'm not sure we've done that."

"But we're trying, Carlo, we're trying. I think we're almost at the end now. I think we're very close to Tannenberg."

"I still wonder why he's revealed himself after so many years. I just can't figure it out, Mercedes."

"Monsters have feelings too. That woman may be his daughter, his granddaughter, his niece, who knows. FromMarini's report, I think he sent her to Rome to recruit people to help them find those tablets she was talking about at the conference. They must be very important to him—so important that he's risked exposing himself."

"You really think monsters have feelings?"

"Look around, Carlo. Think of all the dictators surrounded by their loving families, grandkids on their knees, pets in their laps. Saddam, for instance—it didn't bother him to gas Kurdish villages, murder women, children, and old people, or dispose of anyone who opposed his regime. Yet people say he's spoiled his sons, given them everything. He pets those two monsters as though they were the eighth and ninth wonders of the world. Ceausescu, Stalin, Mussolini, Franco: All of them absolutely doted on their families."

"You're comparing apples and oranges, Mercedes." Carlo laughed. "You're putting them all in the same bag! You're an anarchist yourself!"

"My grandmother was an anarchist, and my grandfather too. My father was an anarchist. I come by it honestly!"

They sat in silence after that, avoiding going any deeper into wounds that were still bleeding.

"Has Hans called this Tom Martin yet?" Mercedes asked, to change the subject.

"No, but he'll let me know as soon as he's made an appointment. I assume he'll wait two or three days: he just got home, and Berta would be upset—terrified, I imagine—if he left again so soon."

"And what about your friend Luca?"

"You don't like him much, I know, but he's a good man and he's helped us—he's still helping us. He called me just before I came over here. No news; for now, the Italian authorities seem to have backed off. Which is good. But he thinks somebody's been snooping around in his files looking for information. There was nothing to find, because he never opened a case file—he did everything directly himself, kept no paperwork, gave orders to his men with a minimum of background, and never told them who the client was. He thinks somebody's also searched his office. He swept it for listening devices, but it came up clean. Even so, he called me from a pay phone. We're supposed to meet tomorrow. He'll come to the clinic."

"Is it Tannenberg?"

"That's the point—it could be him or it could be the police. For that matter, it could be somebody else."

"It could only be Tannenberg or the police—there's nobody else who would be interested in what happened." "I suppose you're right."

They went on talking into the night. It would be a long time before they saw each other again.

16

"paul, i've found a couple of men who fit the bill.

With a little more time, I can find a few more." Tom Martin's voice was steady and confident. He and Paul Dukais got along. They were in the same business: They provided security to some people, and they killed others. Their businesses were growing; globalization was a good thing. And of course, Iraq promised to be a windfall. They had each already signed several multimillion-dollar contracts and expected to be signing more.

"The only thing I don't have is time," Dukais said. "They've begun the countdown for the war."

"Don't complain—wars are big business. Besides, I've got a proposition for you, something we might do together. How many men do you have?" Martin asked.

"Right now over ten thousand under contract." "Christ! I don't have nearly that many—but I don't want amateurs or fuckups either; I want men with experience."

"They're not hard to find. I'm starting to hire Asians." "What difference does it make where they're from? What's important is that they're ready for combat. I've got quite a few former Yugoslavians: Serbs, Croatians, Bosnians—tough guys, maybe a little too eager to pull the trigger. These two I've found for you are real

pieces of work; you'll have to keep a tight rein on them. They're young, but they're nicking crazy. They've killed more people than they can remember."

"How old are they?"

"Twenty-four and twenty-seven. Bosnian and Croatian. They finished school before the war in the Balkans heated up. Two survivors who lost most of their families. The Croatian's a good shot. He likes money. He's studying computer science now at the university; the perfect nerd. The Bosnian is a teacher."

"But neither one of them has studied history or archaeology?"

"No, I can't seem to find mercenaries with a penchant for history. But these two are young and they speak English. You know the Europeans salve their conscience by giving scholarships to poor kids from the Balkans, so if you move fast you can point them to something in any university you want to—Berlin, Paris—and once they're in you can find somebody to introduce them into Picot's circle."

"Easier said than done."

"Come on, Paul, think about it—it's easy to get people new identities. There are still idealists out there who are ready to put their lives on the line for anybody with a sad story to tell. And these two have a tearjerker. Give me Picot's contact and I'll see they meet him. Picot's paying the students he's taking to Iraq, so these two can say they need money for their studies."

"But why should Picot hire a computer guy and a teacher? He needs archaeologists and historians."

"Well, my friend, this is what I've got. Take it or leave it."

"I'll send one of my men to have a look at them and explain what we want. He'll be there tomorrow. Send me the bill."

"I will. When are you coming to London?"

"Within the week. I have a meeting with some clients we can share. I'll send you an e-mail."

Tom Martin hung up the phone. His Global Group was unquestionably Europe's best security firm; Paul Dukais' Planet Security was the best in the U.S. Together, the two companies controlled more than sixty-five percent of the business around the world. And some missions had to be taken on as joint enterprises; that was what he wanted to talk to Paul about.

He'd ask him to dinner and they'd have a few drinks once they closed the deal he was sure they'd reach, as they had so many times in the past.

17

dinner passed in near silence. alfred tannenberg

and Ahmed avoided speaking to each other, so any effort to play at normality fell to Clara. Finally she'd had enough. "What's going on between you two? I want all of us to talk. I can't bear this tension."

Ahmed broke the silence that followed her outburst. "Your grandfather and I have had a difference of opinion." "Ah! And that means you've decided not to speak to each other, eh? Well, we have an archaeological mission to organize and run. I need help from both of you, and we won't be able to do this if it's like a funeral home around here. What's this difference of opinion that's so important? "

Alfred would never back down before his granddaughter, much less Ahmed.

"Clara, I won't have this conversation. You just see to organizing the expedition. The Bible of Clay belongs to you; all the rest is irrelevant. And by the way, I'm going to Cairo for a few days. Before I go, I'll leave you money. Take it with you to the excavation. It's yours to manage as you need. And I want Fatima to go with you."

"Fatima? But how am I supposed to take Fatima on an archaeological mission? What's she supposed to do there?"

"Take care of you."

No one dared contradict Alfred Tannenberg, not even Clara.

"All right, Grandfather. But, please. Can't you and Ahmed put whatever it is behind you, for my sake?"

"Don't meddle where you don't belong, Clara. Just let it be."

When Tannenberg left the room, Clara glared at Ahmed.

"Listen, I don't know what's going on between you and my grandfather, but I do know that for weeks you've been nasty, angry with the world, especially with me. Why?"

Ahmed sighed resignedly. "I'm tired, Clara, sick to death of the way we're living."

"And how exactly are we living?"

"Locked up here, in your grandfather's 'Yellow House,' at his beck and call, his every wish our command. I feel like a prisoner. Don't you?"

"I'm part of the Yellow House; I can't escape from myself." "I just wish we could have stayed in San Francisco. We were happy there."

"I'm happy here, Ahmed. I'm Iraqi."

"No, you're not Iraqi—you were just born here."

"Now you're telling me what I am? Yes—I was born here, and I went to school here and I've been happy here, and I want to go on being happy here. Everything I want is here."

"Well, I'm not sure where to find what I want, but I know it's not here, in this house or in this country. Iraq has no future."

"Then what do you suggest, Ahmed?"

"I want to go away, Clara. Away."

"Then go—I won't do anything to stop you. I love you too much to want you to stay around if you're unhappy. Is there anything I can do?"

Ahmed was surprised, even hurt, by Clara's reaction. His wife loved him, but she didn't need him.

"Clara, I'll stay for the excavation. You're going to need my help finding the Bible of Clay, especially if your grandfather goes to Cairo. But when Picot and his people leave, I'm going with them. I won't be able to go back to the United States right now, but I'll ask for refuge in France or the UK. And then someday, when Iraqis aren't such pariahs, I'll go home to San Francisco."

"Ahmed, I appreciate your wanting to help me, but I don't see us living for the next few months as though nothing had happened, knowing that you'll be leaving."

"Are you saying you want to separate now?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, I'm very sorry, Ahmed. But I don't think either one of us should give up who we are, or pretend. We'd wind up hating each other."

"If you don't want me to stay and help you find the Bible of Clay, I'll try to find a way to leave Iraq." "My grandfather will help you."

"I don't think so. At any rate, think about it. I really don't mind waiting a few months. I know I can be useful to you, and I'd like to help."

"Let me think about it 'til tomorrow. Where are you going to sleep?"

"Here in the Yellow House, on the couch in my office." "All right. We'll have to work out the details of a divorce at some point, but we can do that tomorrow, or another day." "Thank you, Clara." "I do love you, Ahmed." "I love you too, Clara."

"No, Ahmed, you don't love me. You stopped loving me a long time ago. Good night."

The couple sat silently at breakfast with Alfred. The grim meal was interrupted by an urgent call for Ahmed, who went into the library to take it.

It was Picot, and the archaeologist got straight to business. "I've compiled a provisional list of people who'll be taking part in the expedition," he told Ahmed. "I've just e-mailed it to you so you can start the paperwork on the visas as soon as possible. I've also decided to send two people ahead to set up the equipment. I'd like a certain amount of infrastructure ready so we can begin working as soon as possible."

"Absolutely; you can count on me. What are you sending?"

"Tents, nonperishable foodstuffs, archaeological equipment. . ."

"That's great. Look, Picot, I can take care of the first phase . . . but I won't be taking part in the dig."

"What? We're investing a lot of resources in this project; you can't imagine what it's taken me to convince these people to even go to your country, and now you're telling me you won't be there?"

"My presence is irrelevant—you'll have everything you need. Clara is a very competent archaeologist, I assure you. She doesn't need my help in leading the excavation, and you don't either."

"I don't like last-minute changes."

"I hate them, but that's life, my friend. Anyway, I'll get to work on those visas. You want to speak to Clara?" "No, not right now. Later."

"All right. We'll be in touch." He hung up, then found Clara watching him from the doorway. She'd heard at least the last part of the conversation.

"Picot doesn't trust me."

"Picot doesn't know you. If you're Iraqi, you're supposed to wear a veil, be incapable of taking a step without your husband. That's the image the West has of the Middle East. He'll change his mind."

"He's worried that you won't be there."

"Yes. But that shouldn't worry you. You don't need me for anything. You know the plan, and you know Safran better than anyone. I think you should make Karim your assistant. He's a competent historian, and he'd love to work on an archaeological expedition. And he's the Colonel's nephew."

"How will you explain your absence?"

"We have to talk about that, Clara; we have to decide when and how we tell people, what we do afterward. We'll do what's best for you, for me, for everyone."

Clara nodded. She sincerely hoped that they could manage the break-up without reproaches and without making scenes. But at the same time, she wondered when they would release all the pent-up emotions they had, and what would trigger that release.

"What did Picot want you to do?"

"He's sending some material and equipment on ahead, and he doesn't want any problems with customs. Let's go to work. There's no time to lose. I have to call the Colonel. Do you have the projected schedule we worked up?"

"My grandfather has it—he wanted to review it."

"Well, go get it, and when you're ready, we'll go to the ministry and get started. We have to get some people to Safran. One of us should probably go on ahead."

Alfred Tannenberg was still in the dining room, and he didn't conceal his anger when Clara returned.

"Since when have you been so rude as to leave me sitting here by myself at the table? What exactly is going on?"

"It was Picot."

"And the world has to stop when Picot calls?"

"I'm sorry, Grandfather, but you know it's important. There are a thousand things to do. We're so close to achieving your dream—"

"It's not a dream, Clara. The Bible of Clay is a reality; it's out there—you just have to find it."

"I will."

"Good, and when you do, you take the tablets and bring them back here as soon as you can."

"Nothing will happen to them, I promise you."

"Give me your word that you won't let anyone—anyone!—take them away from you."

"I give you my word."

"All right. Now go to work."

"I need the plans, the schedule that Ahmed and I drew up."

"It's on the desk in my office. And as for Ahmed, the sooner he goes, the better."

Clara looked at him in astonishment. How could her grandfather possibly know what was happening between Ahmed and her?

"Grandfather
..."

"Let him go, Clara; neither one of us needs him. He'll be sorry, though—without us, he's nothing."

"How do you know that Ahmed is leaving?"

"How stupid would I be if I didn't know what was happening in my own house?"

"I love him—I won't have you harm him. If you do, I'll never forgive you."

"Clara, don't tell me what I can or cannot do." "But I am telling you, Grandfather. If you do anything to Ahmed, I'll leave."

Clara's tone of voice left no room for doubt.

Clara's face was tense as she climbed into her husband's SUV. "What's happened?" Ahmed asked. "He knows we're getting a divorce."

"And how did he threaten me?" Ahmed asked, a note of pure hatred in his voice.

Clara felt her heart wrenched apart by the two men she loved most in the world.

"Ahmed, don't talk that way about him. He's always been good to you."

"I know him, Clara, which is why I'm afraid of him."

"Why would you say that? He's bent over backward to help you; there's nothing you've wanted that he hasn't given you."

Ahmed had never revealed the dark side of Tannenberg's businesses to Clara—businesses that he himself had taken part in, and profited from. He wasn't going to start now.

"Your grandfather has been generous, there's no doubt about that, but I've worked beside him faithfully, never questioning what he did. What did you tell him about us?"

"Nothing, but I didn't deny that we're getting a divorce. He wants you to leave as soon as possible."

"I agree with him there. I'm going to move out of the Yellow House. Go to my sister's."

Suddenly, Clara felt a sharp pain in her chest. It was one thing to talk in the abstract about a separation, quite another to see it come to pass. She was on the verge of telling him that she didn't want him to leave, that she wanted to call it all off. But she gritted her teeth, held on to her dignity, and remained silent.

By the time they entered the ministry, they had moved on to discussing which one of them would go to Safran.

"I'll go," Clara said. "Later on you won't be there, and I'd prefer to know from the start how everything is organized, choose the laborers
..."

She didn't add that throwing herself into the preparations for the dig would also keep at bay the pain and overwhelming sadness she was beginning to feel.

"You may be right," her husband said. "I'll stay here and help from Baghdad. And I can also start getting organized to leave."

"How will you leave?"

"I don't know."

"They'll accuse you of treason. Saddam might even send somebody to try to kill you."

"That's a chance I'll have to take."

They spent the rest of the morning on the telephone, doing paperwork and making arrangements for visas and permits. At noon, Ahmed went to lunch with the Colonel, and Clara returned to the Yellow House.

Tannenberg finished reading the last page as his interlocutor looked on expectantly. Then he carefully straightened the papers and put them in a folder that he slid into the top drawer of his desk. He turned his steely eyes on Yasir.

"I'm going to Cairo. I want you to organize a meeting with Robert Brown. Use a telephone that can't be monitored."

"Impossible. The American satellites record everything in Iraq."

"Enough, Yasir—I want to talk to Robert. If it's not possible, then do the impossible. Either find a way for us to talk or I'll place calls to them directly, to their offices. We must discuss the plan they sent me. They've made some absurd decisions, and if we carry out the operation as they've designed it, it will be a disaster. I will be in command, as always. I won't have them sending someone else to take over the lead. The photographs I've sent them should make that perfectly clear."

"No one wants to remove you from anything," the Egyptian responded. "They know you are not well, and they are sending in reinforcements."

"Don't start underestimating me now, Yasir—you don't want to make the same mistake they have."

"You should consider, too, sir, that they may be angry about Clara going to Rome and revealing your involvement with the Bible of Clay."

"That was none of their business. Tell them that I intend to speak directly to them, whether they like it or not. What I want is to know exactly what's going to happen and when. We have to organize this very, very carefully. I want one of Paul Dukais' men to report to me for instructions. Paul's people will do as I tell them, when I tell them, where I tell them. Otherwise I promise you that no one will do anything, unless they want a private war as well as a public one."

"What's wrong with you, Alfred? I think you're going mad."

The old man got up, walked over to his longtime lieutenant, and slapped him.

"Get out, and do as you're told."