The Bible of Clay (20 page)

"I don't think there's anyone anywhere better for the job."

"Fabian, in a job like ours it's important to choose your team and work as comfortably as possible. Things are not going to be easy over there, and Marta is fine with me."

"You can tell her that in person. She's coming over now."

"Wonderful. We've got a thousand things to finish."

19

franz zieris, the commander of mauthausen, was

reserved in his greeting of the two young men sent from Berlin, especially Alfred Tannenberg. Tannenberg had been sent from headquarters; he was a protege of Fritz Hermann, whose daughter, Greta, he had just married. No one had to tell Zieris that Tannenberg's career was going to be meteoric. Both Alfred and Heinrich represented a category of the SS reserved for university graduates. Zieris had been a carpenter before the war.

Tannenberg, however, over time turned out to be a more competent officer than Commander Zieris had expected. While effectively achieving the Reichfiihrer's work objectives for the prisoners by driving them until they were human ruins, he also exhibited an unprecedented creativity in his methods of ultimately disposing of the non-Aryan pigs.

Life in that village in the heart of the Danube valley—dotted with farms among the abundant fir and spruce trees—was as pleasant as the two friends could have hoped for. The serene landscape, however, stood in macabre contrast to the machine of death that was the Mauthausen work camp and the others that had been built to accommodate the growing volume of prisoners being brought in week after week. There were now over two dozen work camps scattered throughout the area.

The organization of Mauthausen was similar to that of other camps. There was a political bureau, a department of custody, the "health service," the administrative offices for record-keeping, and the headquarters of the military detachment.

Zieris accompanied Alfred and Heinrich during their first tour of the camp, then turned them over to one of his subordinates, Commander Schmidt, for a fuller explanation of their operations.

Schmidt was succinct as he took them through the procedures. "All prisoners wear a triangle that indicates the crime for which they are interned. Green for common criminals; black for antisocial elements such as gypsies, beggars, thieves, and so on; pink for homosexuals; red for political criminals; yellow for the Jewish pigs; and brown for the conscientious objectors."

"Have there been attempts to escape?" Heinrich asked.

"Would you like to see one?" Commander Schmidt asked in reply.

"I don't understand. . . ."

"Come, both of you, I will show you an escape. Down here, at the quarry; come."

Heinrich and Alfred looked at each other in puzzlement, but they followed the commander. After descending the one hundred eighty-six steps—known as the "stairway of death"—that led down into the quarry, Schmidt called over one of the prisoners charged with overseeing the others. He wore a green triangle; the commander told the two new officers that he was imprisoned for murder. Tall, muscular, and lacking one eye, the prisoner-guard inspired true fear in the other prisoners, who had experienced his brutality on many occasions.

"Choose one of these wretches," Commander Schmidt told him.

The murderer did not hesitate a second; he strode off toward a little white-haired man whose hands were tattered and bloody. He was so thin that it was difficult to believe he had the strength to move. He was wearing a red triangle.

"A damned Communist," the guard said as he pushed him toward the commander and the two new SS officers.

Commander Schmidt spoke not a word; he snatched off the prisoner's cap and sailed it off toward the barbed-wire fence that enclosed the quarry.

"Go get it," he ordered the prisoner.

The old man began to tremble, unsure whether to obey the order, although he knew he had no choice.

"Go and fetch your cap!" the commander shouted.

The little man began to walk, slowly, toward the fence, until once again the commander's imperious voice rang out, ordering him to run.

At that, the wretched creature began to shuffle wearily, his steps a bit quicker. When he came near the barbed-wire fence, where his cap had landed, he did not even have time to stoop down and pick it up. A burst of submachine-gun fire from one of the watchtowers cut him down.

"Sometimes the cap falls right on the barbed wire, and when the prisoner tries to pick it up, the high voltage kills him. One less mouth to feed."

"Impressive," said Heinrich.

"Too easy," said Alfred, clucking slightly.

"Too easy?" asked Commander Schmidt, puzzled. "Well. . . we also have other methods."

"Show us," asked Heinrich.

It appeared to be a large room lined with showers, but the smell that impregnated the walls indicated that it was not water that emerged from the pipes.

"We use Zyklon B, which is a most effective organic compound—a poison that acts very quickly," Commander Schmidt informed them.

"And you bathe the prisoners in that?" Heinrich asked with a loud laugh.

"Correct.
We
bring them here, and by the time they realize what's happening, they're dead. Here we eliminate the newly arrived. When the high command sends more prisoners than we can handle, we eliminate them immediately—they are sent into the showers, and they never come out again.

"The other prisoners have no idea what happens here; if they did, they might be tempted to riot when we bring them in. After they've stayed in the camp awhile and are no longer fit to work, we send them to Hartheim. Of course, we also have other showers—very efficient ones."

"Other showers?" Heinrich didn't immediately understand.

"Yes, we are experimenting with a new system for eliminating the undesirables. When they are done working the quarry, we send them to that pool at the end of the field. They take off their clothes and for half an hour are made to stand in the freezing water while the showers are turned on. Most of them simply fall dead; the doctor says it is due to circulatory problems."

The tour continued that afternoon. Schmidt accompanied them to Hartheim Castle. The place was lovely, and the service in the castle was most pleasant and efficient.

The commander led them down into the old dungeons and subter

ranean passageways, through heavy iron doors set at intervals throughout the castle's underground. Within the dungeons was another gas chamber, for prisoners who had worked in Mauthausen for several months.

"When they become very ill, we tell them that we are transferring them here, to this castle, which we explain to them is a sanatorium. They climb very obligingly up into the trucks. When they arrive, we order them to strip, we photograph them, and we bring them down here into this cellar. After they have been gassed, they are taken to the crematorium. Before that, though, we have an excellent group of dentists, both here and down below, in Mauthausen, who remove their gold teeth.

"Hartheim is also the destination of other creatures who debase our society.
We
have done away with more than fifteen thousand mentally ill persons from all over Austria."

"Impressive," Alfred declared.

"We simply carry out the Fuhrer's orders."

20

robert brown drove through the gates and up the

winding entrance toward a neoclassical mansion hidden among a forest of oaks and beeches. A fine rain was falling. When he got out of the car, a butler was waiting for him with an open umbrella.

He was not the first to arrive. The murmur of conversation, punctuated from time to time by laughter and the tinkle of glasses, reached him as he walked up the steps to the house.

George Wagner was at the door, greeting the guests.

Tall, thin, with blue eyes as cold as ice and white hair that must once have been the color of gold straw, he was an imposing figure. No one could doubt that the man held a great deal of power in his hands, despite his years.
How old is he?
Brown wondered, not for the first time, though he calculated he must be well into his eighties.

Inside, past and present cabinet members, almost the entire upper-ranking staff of the White House, senators, congressmen and congress-women, judges, and prosecutors were rubbing elbows with bankers and presidents of multinationals, oilmen, and stockbrokers. The crowd ebbed and flowed through the house's beautifully decorated rooms, exquisite spaces housing scores of paintings by great masters.

Brown's favorite was a Pink Period Picasso, a tragic-looking harlequin that hung above the mantel in the drawing room, which also held a Manet and a Gauguin. In a sitting room nearby hung a Caravaggio and three paintings from the quattrocento.

Indeed, the mansion was a small museum. There were paintings by the greatest artists of Impressionism as well as canvases by El Greco, Raphael, and Giotto. In cases and on stands and tables stood small marble figures, tablets from the Babylonian Empire, two striking Egyptian bas-reliefs from the New Kingdom, an Assyrian winged lion . . . Wherever one's eyes turned, there was a work of art, a figure from antiquity that showcased the sophistication of the house's owner.

Paul Dukais, carrying a glass of champagne, joined Robert.

"So, I see the gang's all here!"

"Hello, Paul."

"Quite a party! I don't know if I've ever seen so many powerful people in one place. All that's missing is the president." "I hadn't noticed." "Can we talk, do you think?"

"Of course; in fact, this is the best place to talk. Nobody'll notice us—everybody is talking, doing business. As long as you've got a glass in your hand
..."

They flagged down a waiter, and Robert asked for a whiskey and soda; then they went off into a corner, just two old friends catching up.

"Alfred is going to be a problem," Dukais said.

"So what's new?"

"I did what you asked me to. One of my best men, an ex-Green Beret colonel, Mike Fernandez, is going to Cairo with Yasir to meet with Alfred. I trust Mike; he's got a good head on his shoulders."

Robert grimaced. "I'm not sure Alfred will be so willing to work with a Hispanic, being who he is."

"He'll have to get along. And I'm sure he'll like Mike."

"This Mike—he's Dominican, Puerto Rican, Mexican . . . ?"

"He's a third-generation Chicano. He was born here, and his parents were too. It was his grandparents who crossed the Rio Grande. You've got nothing to fear."

"I just don't like Hispanics, Paul."

"Robert—let's not waste time with this shit. Tell me how far Mike can go with Alfred."

"What do you mean?"

"If Alfred decides not to cooperate or if he's not being straight with us, what do we do?"

"For the time being, I just want them to get to know each other and get the operation started. We'll see how things go—your man will let us know—and I especially want to know what Yasir says."

"What about the granddaughter?"

"If she finds the Bible of Clay, you and your men will take it away from her, but be sure the tablets aren't damaged. They're not worth anything if they're smashed to hell. The mission is to get them and bring them back here in one piece."

"And what if she doesn't cooperate?"

"Paul, if Clara doesn't cooperate, then it'll go badly for her. Your men are to follow orders—she can give up the tablets the easy way or the hard way."

"Closing the deal?" Both men jumped when they realized George Wagner was standing beside them. On his face was a smile that looked more like a sneer.

"Just tidying up the last few details of the operation. Paul wants to know how far we're willing to go in dealing with Alfred and his granddaughter," Robert managed.

"It's not easy to find a balance," George said, looking off into space.

"Yeah," Paul said. "Which is why I want clear instructions on the rules of engagement. I don't want this to come back and bite me on the ass, or to get sucked into a 'misunderstanding,' if you know what I mean. I'm glad you're here to lay out exactly what the limits are."

The old man looked him up and down, his eyes glittering with contempt.

"There are no limits in war, my friend. Winning is all that matters."

Frank dos Santos and George Wagner shook hands without much show of emotion. The party was at its peak, with a string quartet as background for the guests' conversation.

"The only one missing is Enrique," said George.

"And Alfred. Let's not be so hard on him."

"He betrayed us."

"He doesn't see it that way."

"How does he see it?" George asked with an air of suspicion. "Have you talked to him?"

"He called me in Rio three days ago."

"He called you! Why not put an ad in the newspaper!"

"I'm sure he used a secure line. I was in the hotel, and I must say I was surprised."

"What did he have to say?"

"He wants us to know that he has no intention of betraying us or starting a war between us. He repeated his offer: He'll lead the operation we've set in motion, he'll ensure its success, and he'll give up his share in exchange for the Bible of Clay. It's a generous offer."

"You call that generous? Do you have any idea what those tablets are worth if he finds them? Do you realize their leverage,
power,
for the person who owns them? Come on, Frankie, don't let yourself be taken in. You and Enrique tend to let him off too easily, time and again. He's betrayed us; it's that simple."

"Not exactly. He tried to convince us to turn over our part of the Bible of Clay if he found it, in exchange for all the profits of the other deal."

"And we told him no, so he decided to go off on his own, and pulled that stunt in Rome."

"Yes, he made a mistake. But now he's furious because he thinks we hired the Italians to follow his granddaughter."

"But it wasn't us!"

"That's what I told him, George. But until we find out who it was and what they wanted, I won't rest."

"So what do you want us to do? Kidnap the president of the Italian security company and force him to tell us who hired him?" George looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. "Does it not occur to you that Clara is married to one of Saddam's government officials? Honestly, Frankie, somebody may think that Ahmed Husseini is a spy. Saddam doesn't let anybody out of Iraq, but Husseini comes and goes as he pleases. There must be a lot of people interested in knowing why. Who knows if it was the Italian secret service itself, or NATO—I mean, who knows? It could be anybody."

"But they didn't follow Husseini, they followed Clara."

"Frankie, it doesn't matter. Alfred can't keep those tablets; they don't belong to him! None of us can make decisions or take actions on the basis of our own convenience or interest, ever. All four of us agreed on that long ago."

Frank was momentarily lost in memory. "You're right, of course," he finally said. "How far are you willing to go?"

"There's no forgiveness for betrayal."

"So you're going to have him killed?"

"I won't allow him to steal something that belongs to all of us."

Clara gave a last look around her room. Ahmed was waiting to drive her to the air base, from which a helicopter would take her to Tell Muqayyar. From there, she would be driven to Safran in an SUV

She'd rejected Ahmed's offer to go with her, and she had also refused to let Fatima accompany her, at least for now. She had enough company with the four armed gentlemen her grandfather was sending to escort her.

Ahmed was no longer living in the Yellow House. For several days now, he'd been living at his sister's.

Clara knew that her husband had had a long conversation with her grandfather before the old man left for Cairo. Neither of them would tell her what they had discussed, but Ahmed did mention that he might put off leaving Iraq until war actually broke out, although he wasn't promising.

"Call me as soon as you get there. I want to know you're all right," Ahmed said.

"I'll be fine, don't worry. It'll only be a few days."

"Yes, but British bombs seem to have a special attraction for that area."

"Nothing will happen, Ahmed."

She got in the helicopter and put on the earphones to muffle the noise of the rotors. By noon they'd be in Safran, and she was looking forward to enjoying the solitude of the excavation site again.

Ahmed watched the helicopter lift off and grow smaller and smaller in the sky, and he, too, experienced a sense of liberation. For a few days, at least, the guilt he felt around Clara would lift. He had made a conscious effort to keep his emotions under control and not to express the slightest reproach. She had made it easy for him, very easy, and had given him no opening to change his mind.

But now he had to make a difficult decision: He could either allow himself to be blackmailed by Alfred and take part in the last operation, or he could try to escape from Iraq.

He could feel the Colonel breathing down his neck—on Alfred's orders, no doubt—so leaving Iraq would be complicated, to say the least. If he stayed, Alfred had assured him that he'd pay him generously and, in addition, help him leave the country.

Only Clara's grandfather could guarantee his escape, but could Ahmed trust him? Wasn't it possible that the old man would have him killed at the last moment? There was no way to know—with Alfred, you couldn't be sure of anything.

He had talked about it with his sister, the only one of his relatives who lived in Baghdad. She, too, dreamed of leaving. She'd come back just over a year ago when her husband, an Italian diplomat, was posted to Baghdad, and she was hopeful that when the drums of war began to beat they'd be evacuated.

For the time being, they'd taken Ahmed into their home, a large apartment in a residential area where many Western diplomats lived. Ahmed was sleeping in his younger nephew's room; the youngster had moved in with his older brother.

His sister urged him to ask for political asylum, but he knew what a difficult situation it would put his brother-in-law in if he showed up at the Italian embassy asking to leave. It might even trigger a diplomatic incident. Besides, Saddam was capable of preventing them from leaving, regardless of how much diplomatic cover Ahmed had or how strongly the Italians protested.

No, that wasn't the solution. He had to leave by his own means, without compromising anyone else, much less his family.

By the time the helicopter set down at the military base near Tell Muqayyar, Clara's temples were throbbing and her head felt like it was about to explode.

Like much of Iraq's war materiel, the helicopter that had flown her here was junk. The Colonel had told her it was the only one he could spare.

Once she'd boarded the SUV, escorted by two soldiers, she began to feel better. Her grandfather's four men followed in another vehicle.

The ride to Safran was hot and filled with dust, which swirled up in clouds whenever they met another vehicle, invading her nose and mouth and making even her saliva gritty.

The leader of the village greeted her at the door of his house and invited her in for tea. They exchanged the usual formalities and then, when the appropriate period of courtesies had passed, Clara reviewed how she saw the project unfolding and what she would need.

The man listened attentively, with a smile, and then assured her that everything had already been prepared for her visit; Ahmed had telephoned with detailed instructions. They had started erecting a number of houses made of clay, a material not lacking in the area. Once the impurities were sifted out, water was added to form a paste and dry straw, sand, gravel, or ash was worked in for strength. The construction technique was simple: Walls were raised in courses, almost like bricklaying, and when one course was dry, the next one was added on. A thatch of straw and palm leaves formed the roof.

A half-dozen had already been completed, and at the rate they were going, another six would be erected before the week was out.

Inside, the houses were very simple and not terribly large. Ahmed had ensured, however, that they would be provided with rudimentary showers and toilets.

Proud of the work he had done in such a short time, the village leader also assured Clara that he himself had chosen the men they needed for the expedition. Clara thanked him and then, treading carefully so as not to offend, said she would like to meet with all the men in the village, since the workers needed to have certain qualifications. A long and complex negotiation followed, which the leader gave in to only when Clara decided to drop the Colonel's name. The next day, he said, she could meet with them all. There were also women available, he told her, to do the laundry and clean the foreigners' tents while they were out excavating.

It was almost nightfall by the time they finished their discussions. Clara had accepted the headman's invitation to stay in his house, with his wife and daughters, until the rest of the expedition arrived. But first, she said, she wanted to walk around the ruins for a while, to think about the work ahead of her. The old man nodded. He knew that Clara would do as she pleased, and besides, she was no responsibility of his—she had brought her own escort from Baghdad.