The Bible of Clay (25 page)

Money had never interested her. She'd made a lot of it, it was true, but she'd never had any real use for it, any cause to put it to. She'd made a will: When she died, everything she had would go to several NGOs and an animal-welfare organization, and the shares in her company would be divided equally among the employees who had worked for her for so many years. She hadn't told anyone about this, because she wanted to be able to change her mind, but for the moment those were the terms of her estate.

It struck her, though, that all the money she'd made during her long life was going to do some good, at last, because she'd invested it in murdering Alfred Tannenberg.

Her housekeeper had left a dinner of salad and chicken breast for her in the kitchen. She put it on a tray and went and sat with it in front of the television, as she had done almost every night since her grandmother had died, so many years ago.

Her house was her refuge; she had never invited anyone into it except the only three friends she had in the world: Hans, Carlo, and Bruno.

Bruno was just finishing dinner when the cell phone in his jacket pocket startled him. His wife, Deborah, went on the alert. She knew that for some time, since he'd returned from Rome, her husband had been buying and destroying cell phones and calling cards without explaining why. Not that he needed to. She knew that the past was still present in Bruno's life. Neither children nor grandchildren had managed to erase it. For Bruno Miiller, nothing was as important as what he had gone through sixty years ago.

Deborah bit her tongue—she was determined not to speak a word of reproach, especially that night, when Sara and David were having dinner with them. It was rare that the couple's two children came to visit at the same time, since David, a concert violinist, was constantly traveling, playing with the world's premier symphony orchestras.

Bruno excused himself and walked into the privacy of his bedroom, well out of earshot of his family.

"Everything's going well," said Carlo.

"Oh, thank God. That takes such a load off my mind." Bruno sighed. "I was worried."

"You always are. Hans is on his way home again, and within two or three weeks he'll have something for us."

"So they took the job?"

"Yes—he made them an offer that was just too hard to refuse." "Are we going to meet again, the four of us?"

"Maybe when we have something concrete. For the moment I don't see the need."

"Hmm. Have you talked to . . . her?"

"We just got off the phone. She's all right but impatient. As impatient as the rest of us, I suppose."

"We've waited so long, Carlo.
..."

"Yes, but we're very close to the end now."

"Or so we hope."

When Bruno hung up, he took the SIM card out of the cell phone and cut it into tiny pieces, then went to the bathroom and flushed them down the toilet, just as he'd been doing each time he spoke to one of his friends since his return from Rome.

Luca Marini was waiting for the receptionist to tell Carlo Cipriani he was here. He'd spent the whole morning in his friend's clinic, suffering through lab tests as part of his annual checkup. Carlo's son Antonino wouldn't be giving him the results for another couple of days—and even then, they'd be evaluated by Carlo himself. But now he and Carlo would be going out for lunch.

Carlo strode into his son's examining room and embraced his old friend.

"I'm told you're in great shape—right, Antonino?" "Apparently he'll outlive us all." The son smiled. "I can't find a thing to worry about!"

"What about my shortness of breath?" Marini asked in concern.

"Has it never occurred to you that it might just be old age?" Carlo joked. "That's what Antonino tells me when I complain."

When they reached the restaurant and were seated, Carlo asked his friend straight out about what had been worrying him. "Have you had any more news from your old colleagues in the police department?"

"I had dinner with several of them a couple of days ago, at a friend's retirement party. I asked them in passing and they told me they hadn't completely given up on the case, but it was on the back burner. After the first few days, there was less pressure to solve it, so my friend in charge of the investigation decided to let it slide a bit. If he starts to get pressure again, he'll say he's on it."

"That's all?"

"That's a lot, Carlo—it's the most I can ask. He's doing me a favor. If he starts getting pressured, he'll tell me."

"Do you think they may want to talk to Mercedes again?"

"Perhaps. But wanting to know what's happening in Iraq is not a crime. That's what could save you."

"You have friends, Luca—that's what's saving us."

"Of course I have friends—you're one of them. But I have to tell you—I think she's a nightmare."

"She's not, really—she's a wonderful person, with qualities you can't even imagine. The bravest person I've ever known."

"You really like her."

"Tremendously."

"So why have you two never married?" "She's a very dear friend, that's all."

"Whom you happen to admire above all other women. When you two are together, it's obvious there's something between you."

"Don't try to see what's not there. Honest, Luca. To me, Mercedes is more than family; she's incredibly important to me, but so are Bruno and Hans."

"Your dearest friends—how long have you four known one another?"

"For so long that if I add it all up I'll realize how old I am!"

Carlo delicately changed the subject. He never said more than he had to about his friends, much less about the shared past that united them—united them in a friendship that transcended good and evil.

24

you didn't have to be sherlock holmes to see that

the tall, ruddy-faced dirty-blond was the alpha male of the group standing around laughing as they waited beside the luggage carousel for their bags to come out.

They'd arrived on an earlier flight, and Gian Maria was surprised to hear them talking about archaeology. Apparently, they were heading to an excavation in Iraq, and the priest thought yet again that there was no such thing as coincidence—if he'd stumbled onto a group of archaeologists on their way to Iraq, providence had put them in his way.

He heard them mention that they were going to Baghdad but they'd be staying in Amman overnight before crossing the border the next day.

Gian Maria swallowed hard and touched the tall man's elbow. "Excuse me—may I speak to you?"

Yves Picot turned to look at the man, whose face was red as a beet. "Yes? What is it?"

"I couldn't help overhearing that you were going to Baghdad. . . ." "Yes, that's right."

"I know this will sound strange, but. . . but is there a chance I might accompany you?"

"Go with us? Why? Who are you?"

The young priest flushed even redder. He didn't want to lie—he couldn't; it wasn't in him—but he also couldn't tell the whole truth.

It had been hard to convince the higher-ups in his order to allow him to make the journey. He had explained his sudden quest as a spiritual obligation to do something for those who needed help most; he couldn't sit idly by, he said, and watch the Iraq tragedy from a distance—he had to go and do something. At last his superiors gave way to his undeniable passion and relented, though without much enthusiasm. A friend who had a relative within the Rome headquarters of an NGO called Aid to Children had helped Gian Maria with visas and other paperwork that would allow him to work in the Baghdad branch. NGOs normally preferred monetary aid rather than enthusiastic volunteers, who sometimes got in the way more than they actually helped, but his friend's uncle had finally overcome the NGO's reluctance, and now he had made it to Amman, on the way to Baghdad.

"My name is Gian Maria, and I'm going to Iraq to see what I can do."

"What do you mean, see what you can do?"

"Well, I want to help. Some friends of mine are working with an NGO that helps children in the poorest areas of Baghdad and provides medicines to hospitals. The country needs everything, because of the blockade. People are dying because there are no antibiotics—"

"I know what's happening in Iraq. But you just decided to come and see what you can do? Just like that?"

"I told my friends I was coming, but they can't come to Amman to get me, and I. . . Really, I've never done anything like this before, but if I could go along with you to Baghdad
...
I could help you however you might need me."

Yves Picot laughed out loud, touched by the young man's diffidence and painful shyness.

"What hotel are you staying at?" he asked. "I don't have one."

"And how had you planned on getting to Baghdad?" "I didn't know. I figured someone here could tell me how to go about it."

"Tomorrow at five a.m. we're leaving the Marriott. If you're there, we'll take you with us. Ask for me—my name is Yves Picot."

With that, Picot turned and strode away, leaving the surprised young priest no chance to thank him.

Gian Maria sighed with relief. He picked up the little black suitcase that contained his few belongings and left the terminal to find a taxi.

He'd ask the taxi driver to take him to the Marriott—with luck, they'd have a room for him and he'd be near the archaeologists.

The taxi left him at the entrance of the hotel. Gian Maria strode optimistically into the lobby, where the air-conditioning made the heat of the city almost bearable. Picot's group was at the front desk registering, and he lingered in the background until they had finished.

Shortly thereafter he settled himself in a comfortable room, which he had no intention of leaving until the next morning. It had been expensive, given his meager hinds, but he wanted to run no risks— especially the risk of getting lost in an unknown city. And it would do him good to rest—he had been in constant motion for days.

He called his superior in Rome to tell him that he'd arrived and would be crossing the border into Iraq the next day.

Then, lying in bed reading, he fell asleep. It was just before three when he woke with a start. In two hours Yves Picot and his team would be leaving. Gian Maria spent the remaining time in his room, debating whether to ask Picot if he knew Clara Tannenberg. They shared a profession, and he very well might, or might at least know where to find her. But Gian Maria decided against it. For the time being it was safer to continue to bear the burden of his silence.

Yves Picot was in a bad mood. He'd gotten to bed late, his head hurt, and he was sleepy. The last thing he wanted to do was talk. When the young man from the airport turned up in the lobby, he was on the verge of telling him to find some other way to get to Baghdad, but again, the man's imploring demeanor persuaded him to act with a generosity he was far from feeling.

"Get in that Land Rover and keep quiet," he snapped, and turned back to supervise the porter.

Gian Maria wasted no time in clambering into the SUV Picot had pointed out. A minute later, three young women joined him inside. They couldn't have been over twenty-two or twenty-three.

"You're the guy from the airport!" exclaimed a short, thin blonde with green eyes. "We saw you when we were waiting for our luggage— you kept staring at us."

The other two laughed as Gian Maria blushed deep red.

"I'mMagda," the green-eyed blonde said, "and those two troublemakers are Lola and Marisa."

They threw him quick air-kisses and chattered away nonstop as the SUV and others in the caravan pulled out.

"What is it you do?" Magda suddenly asked him as they drove along.

"Me?" Gian Maria asked disconcertedly.

"Yeah, you. We know what we do!"

"You're archaeologists, right?" he asked shyly.

"Not yet," answered Marisa, a gangly girl with dark-brown hair.

"We're in our last year of studies," Lola clarified. "We'll be graduating this year. But we've come on this dig because it's a great chance to actually do some fieldwork, and they're giving us course credit too. And doing a dig under Yves Picot—plus with Fabian Tudela and Marta Gomez—is awesome."

"You're Italian, right?" Lola asked.

"Yes."

"But you speak Spanish," she probed.

"A little; not much," said Gian Maria uncomfortably.

"So—what is it you do?" Magda pressed.

"I got my degree in ancient Middle Eastern languages," he answered, praying they wouldn't go on with their interrogation.

"Oh, my God—we called those 'the deadly dead languages'! You must be kidding! What on earth for? God, I hated those classes!" Magda exclaimed.

"Like Hebrew, Aramaic . . . ?" Lola asked.

"Yes, and Akkadian, Hittite . . . ," Gian Maria said.

"But how old are you?"

Marisa's question left him disconcerted again. "Thirty-five," he answered.

"You're kidding! We thought you were our age!" Marisa whistled.

"Twenty-five, tops," Lola explained.

"And you don't, like, need to work?" Magda asked.

"Me?"

"Yes, you." Magda's patience was wearing a little thin. "If you need a job, I could tell Yves; we're shorthanded." "What could I do with you?"

"We're going to Safran to excavate; that's near Tell Muqayyar, ancient Ur," Magda explained. "And given the situation, there haven't been a lot of people interested in coming."

"It's a very controversial mission," Lola said. "Most people we know see it as a wild-goose chase, and what makes it worse is this war right around the corner."

"Not that they're so wrong either," Marisa chimed in. "In a few months Bush will be bombing Iraq into the Stone Age, and meanwhile we'll have been digging around in the desert as though it were the most normal thing on earth."

"I'm going to help out with an NGO," Gian Maria said. "They're working in the poorest neighborhoods, distributing food and medicine."

"Oh. But, still, if you want to come and give us a hand, you'd be welcome, I'm sure. I'm going to tell Picot. Plus, the pay is great, so if you need a little money . . .," Magda suggested again.

The young women moved on to other topics, addressing Gian Maria directly only once in a while. He replied as briefly as possible— part reticence, mostly shyness. They crossed the border without any problems and arrived in Baghdad before ten. Yves Picot had an appointment with Ahmed Husseini at the ministry. The expedition members were to be put up at the Hotel Palestina that night, from which Gian Maria would contact the NGO.

When they got out of their Land Rovers at the door of the Hotel Palestina, Picot's humor had not appreciably improved. He needed a cup of strong coffee, so he left an assistant to sort things out with the front desk.

"Professor! Professor!" yelled Magda, running after him. "You know what? Gian Maria has a degree in dead languages—he might be able to help out."

"Who the hell is Gian Maria?" Picot asked testily. He had long since had his fill of this young woman's crazy ideas, even if she'd helped enormously in persuading students to join the expedition.

"That guy you put in the car with us."

"Oh! My, you're very efficient, Magda—you never stop recruiting, do you?" Picot grinned in spite of himself.

"Well, I mean, I understand why you didn't want to bring over that Bosnian teacher, but a specialist in Middle Eastern languages . . . He knows Akkadian," she said seductively.

"All right—ask him where he'll be staying in Baghdad, and if we need him we'll call him," Picot conceded.

"Need him! Of course we need him! Do you know how many tablets we'll have to decipher?" Magda insisted.

"Magda, this is not my first expedition. Just ask him how we can get in touch with him and—Forget it. Send him to me in the coffee shop or restaurant or bar or whatever they have here. I'll talk to him myself."

"Great!"

Magda ran back toward the lobby, hoping that Gian Maria hadn't already disappeared into the city. She didn't know why, but she liked this odd man—maybe because he looked so shy and hangdog.

"Gian Maria!" she called out when she spotted him.

"Yes?" he said, blushing when he realized that everybody had turned to look at them.

"Professor Picot wants to talk to you. He's waiting for you in the bar, or the coffee shop. You'll find him. Don't even think about it—just go! Come on—come with us!"

Gian Maria tried to beg off. "But, Magda, I promised my friends at the NGO. I came here to help; people are going through a really bad time here."

"I'm sure people are just as bad off in Safran. You can help the people there in your time off."

Magda's apparently bottomless depth of energy and her irresistible enthusiasm overwhelmed the priest. She was full of good intentions— but she was like an earthquake that leveled everything around her.

He found Picot in the coffee shop.

"Thank you so much for bringing me to Baghdad," Gian Maria said at once.

"You're welcome. Magda says you're a specialist in ancient Middle Eastern languages." "Yes." ^

"Where did you study?" "In Rome." "And why?" "Why?" "Yes, why."

"Well, because . . . because I liked it." "Are you interested in archaeology?" "Of course."

"Do you want to join us? We don't have many experts. Is your Akkadian any good?" "Yes, it's very good." "So come with us."

"I can't. I'm here to help out with one of the NGOs." "You decide. If you change your mind, we'll be in Safran. It's a godforsaken village between Tell Muqayyar and Basra." "Magda told me."

"It's not easy to get around in Iraq—I'll give you the number of someone to call if you decide to come. He's the head of the Bureau of Archaeological Excavations, Ahmed Husseini, and he'll help you get to us."

Gian Maria said nothing, but his eyes gave away the impact the name Ahmed Husseini had made on him. When he'd finally managed to get into the archaeological conference in Rome looking for information on the Tannenberg attending, he'd been told that the only

Tannenberg listed was a woman, Clara Tannenberg, who was taking part in the conference with her husband, Ahmed Husseini.

"What is it? Do you know Ahmed?" Picot asked, curious.

"No, no," Gian Maria said, flushing yet again. "Listen, Professor Picot. I'm tired, and my mind's a mess. Your offer
...
I just don't know. I've come to help the Iraqis, and . . ."

"As I say, you decide. I'm offering you a job. We pay well. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to see how things are going."

Picot left Gian Maria sitting there in the coffee shop, his mind racing, going in circles.

Finally, he made his way back to the lobby. He'd just managed to stumble on the needle in a haystack. Picot knew Clara Tannenberg's husband and had told Gian Maria where he worked. If the husband was in Baghdad, it wouldn't be hard to find the wife.

He needed to put his thoughts in order before he went further with any of this.

He couldn't press for an introduction to Ahmed Husseini. He decided to wait a couple of days before trying to contact him. And he had to think carefully about what to say to him and how to say it. His objective was to reach Clara Tannenberg—the question was how to convince her husband to take him to her.

Out in the street, he hailed a taxi and showed the driver an address written on a scrap of paper. The taxi driver smiled and asked him in English where he was from.