The Bible of Clay (27 page)

"Good. Anyway, if you need help with anything at all, just let me know."

"Thank you."

Faisal looked down at the papers he had been reading, and Gian Maria took his leave, not wanting to farther disturb the family routine.

He decided to go out and familiarize himself with the neighborhood. He needed to think, which he couldn't do shut up in his room.

"I'm going to take a walk—can I bring anything back?" he asked Nur.

"No, thank you. Will you be eating with us tonight?"

"If it's not a bother
..."

"No, not at all. We eat around eight."

"I'll be here."

He wandered through the neighborhood. He met with several curious stares, but no hostility. The women dressed Western-style, while the teenagers wore jeans and T-shirts emblazoned with names of rock groups.

He stopped at a stand where an old man was selling fruits and vegetables and chose a selection to take back to Nur and Faisal's house. Gian Maria asked where the church was, and the man directed him two blocks down and to the right.

When he entered the sanctuary, he felt a wave of inner peace embrace him. A group of women were praying, and their murmurs filled the silence with an agreeable hum. He sought out a dark corner and knelt down. With his eyes closed, he tried to find the words within himself to speak to God, and he asked him to guide his steps as he always had. In everything that was happening, Gian Maria clearly saw the hand of God at play again: the group of archaeologists at the airport in Amman; his ability to overcome his shyness and speak to Professor Picot; Picot's escort to Baghdad; and especially his mention of Ahmed Husseini, who was in Baghdad as well, which would undoubtedly lead Gian Maria to Clara Tannenberg.

No, none of that could be mere coincidence. It was God who had guided him, protected him, and aided him in carrying out his mission. God was always there—one simply had to be willing to listen, be sensitive to his presence, even in the midst of tragedy. If only he could convince Faisal of that. . . He would pray for the doctor, a good man whom pain and grief had separated from the Lord.

It was after seven when Gian Maria left the church, so he hurried back to the apartment. He didn't want to be late and create a bad impression.

"Hello!" he said to Nur as he walked in. She was trying to get Hadi to eat some thick sickly-green-colored puree, but the boy was kicking and squirming and closing his mouth every time his mother brought the spoon to it.

"Impossible. He simply does not like to eat," Nur complained. "What is it you're giving him?" Gian Maria asked.

"Peas with an egg mixed in."

"Ugh, no wonder! I hated peas when I was little too."

"Well, there isn't much to eat here—little variety, I mean. We're fortunate, because we at least have money to buy food. Although to tell you the truth, we needed your rent money. I haven't been paid my full salary for months, and Faisal is the same." She eyed the grocery bag. "What do you have there?"

"Some peppers, squash, tomatoes, onions, oranges. There wasn't a lot to buy."

"But there was no reason for you to buy anything!"

"If I'm going to live here, I want to contribute as much as I can."

"Thank you. Food is always welcome."

"I went to the church too."

"You're Catholic?"

"Yes, and a believer. I have seen the hand of God guiding me throughout my life. Even to Iraq."

"You're a fortunate man, then. We haven't been in touch with God for a long time now."

"You lost your faith too?"

"It is hard to keep it. But to answer your question honestly, I think I have a little left. But I don't see the horrors my husband deals with every day in the hospital. When he tells me that another child has died from an infection that could have been cured with antibiotics, his pessimism rubs off on me. I also start asking where God is."

After dinner, Faisal and Gian Maria cleared the table while Nur loaded the dishes into the dishwasher. Then Faisal put the girls to bed and Nur finished putting Hadi down, though the baby continued to whimper from his crib.

Gian Maria bid the couple good night and retired to his room. He needed to be alone; he still had to think about how to approach Ahmed Husseini. Yves Picot could open that door, he supposed, but he wasn't sure that that was the right way to go.

Either way, he was exhausted. The day had been intense—it hadn't been even twenty-four hours since he'd arrived in Baghdad, although it seemed like months. He was asleep before he even had time to pray.

25

robert brown and paul dukais were alone in brown's

office, but Dukais had a suspicion the other man could be heard down the block. "What do you mean, you could only get one man in?" Brown shouted.

"I told you. Picot wouldn't take the Bosnian, just the Croatian."

"One man to deal with Alfred! You must be nuts!"

"I don't have the slightest intention of sending one man up against Alfred, although that might be the smartest thing to do. One man doesn't attract attention; several is like putting an ad in the newspaper."

"Does the Croatian even know what he's supposed to do?" Brown asked, lowering his voice.

"Oh, yeah. He's been given very precise instructions. For now, he's to follow Clara and report back in detail, find out everything he can about her routine, et cetera, and when it's all clear to take the tablets, put together a plan and call me for the green light."

"And how's he supposed to get out? In a taxi?"

"He'll get out—and maybe even in a taxi. But if you'll listen to me—I think I can get two more men in, as businessmen trying to profit under the blockade. These two are very sharp, and very good."

"Oh, really? And what are two businessmen supposed to be doing in some dog's-ass village out in the middle of nowhere in Iraq?"

"Robert, don't take me for a fool. I've been in this business a long time, and I assure you I can give my men legitimate covers. So I'll spare you the details."

"Don't spare me—I'm going to be asked and I need to know what to say."

"All right, I'll fill you in. But remember that in my view, the Croatian is all we need to do the job—the others will step in only if necessary"

"It'll be necessary, Paul."

When Brown was alone again, he called George Wagner.

Enrique Gomez Thomson hung up after speaking to George in Washington. The operation was under way. They had a man in place, tailing Clara Tannenberg, ready to do whatever was necessary.

He'd told George again not to harm Alfred, although he knew that if the Croation so much as scratched Alfred's granddaughter, it would hurt Alfred more than any other measure they might take. He knew that the man they'd put in close to Clara would have to make decisions on his own as the situation changed and that he wouldn't run any unnecessary risks just to avoid a death or two. His instructions were clear: Get the Bible of Clay and get out of Iraq immediately, using the contact they'd given him. And that's what the Croatian would do—his prior history had made clear the lengths he would go to succeed.

Enrique's thoughts were interrupted by the telephone, which he snatched up.

"Enrique. It's Frankie."

"How are you? I just talked to George."

"Did he tell you we've got a man inside the expedition? A Croatian." "Yes, I know."

"Listen, Alfred just called me. He's nervous. Those photographs were just the beginning. He's making threats." "To do what?"

"He didn't go into detail, but he said if he was going to die he'd take people with him. He knows us, Enrique, and he knows that we're going to try to take the Bible of Clay away from him, no matter what promises we've made."

"If he finds it."

"He's sure we've infiltrated the expedition, and God save the Croatian if Alfred finds him out. He also said that if we don't let Clara keep the tablets, he'll make all the details of our business public. In the event of his death within the next few months, he's left instructions regarding his autopsy: If it's determined the cause of death was a homicide, he's made arrangements to issue a posthumous press release exposing our antiquities dealings."

"He's fucking crazy!"

"No, he's just defending himself."

"So what's he offering?"

"The same thing he's always offered: We let Clara keep the Bible of Clay, and he'll complete his end of the operation we've already started." "But he doesn't trust us to keep that commitment." "No."

"Frankie, he wants to keep something that doesn't belong to him. George is right."

"Then I think we're on the verge of committing group suicide." "What?"

"I've got a bad feeling we're not going to be able to avoid disaster this time, Enrique."

"Look, we've been doing this for decades without being exposed. You have to stay rational."

"I am; that's what's so terrifying."

"I'll speak to him again."

"Isn't it a little risky to call him from Spain?"

"I suppose, but if there's no other way, I'll do it. I have to go on a trip, for business—I'll see what I can do from there." "Call me."

Enrique hung up the telephone and clenched his fists. He swung around at a sound behind him. His son, Jose, had walked into the room and was observing him in silence, his face clouded with concern.

"What's happening, Papa?"

"Nothing that concerns you."

"Is that any way to talk to me?"

"Jose, I've told you not to ask me about my affairs—you know that."

"Yes. Since I was young I've known not to ask you questions or stick my nose in your business. Not that I even really know what that business might be. But I know that it's created a wall between you and your family."

"Exactly. That's the way it is because that's the way I want it. And now, please, leave me alone. I have some phone calls to make." "You said you were leaving. Where are you going?" "I'll be away a couple of days."

"Yes, but where? Doing what?"

Enrique banged his fist on the desk. He was an old man, but Jose stepped back at his fury.

"Get your nose out of my business, I told you! And don't treat me like an old man! I'm not dead yet, not by a long shot. Now get the hell out of here!"

Jose looked at the floor and left the room. It was difficult to recognize his father in the abusive old man he had just encountered.

Enrique sat back down. He opened a desk drawer, took out a bottle of pills, shook out two, and tossed them down—he felt like his head was about to explode. The doctor had warned him more than once that he mustn't let his emotions run away with him—years earlier he had suffered a heart attack, and though there hadn't been another one since, this stress clearly put him at risk.

He cursed Alfred, then cursed himself for interceding with George. Why couldn't Alfred just do what he was supposed to do, like everyone else did? Like everyone else had always done? Why did he have to go his own way this time?

He pressed a button under his desk and a few seconds later heard a soft knock at his door.

"Come in."

A maid dressed in black wearing a white apron and cap stood on the threshold, awaiting Enrique's orders.

"Bring me a glass of water and tell dona Rocio I'd like to see her, please."

"Yes, sir."

Rocio entered her husband's office with the glass of water and was startled by his haggard appearance. She'd seen her husband like this on other occasions, an icy stranger who seemed capable of anything, and it frightened her.

"Enrique—what's the matter? Are you all right?"

"Come in, we have to talk."

Rocio nodded, put the glass down on the desk, and sat in a chair facing her husband. She knew she shouldn't speak before he did. She smoothed her skirt and pulled it down over her knees, as though she might protect herself from the storm she knew could burst forth at any moment.

"In this drawer here," Enrique began, pointing to the top drawer in his desk, "there is a key to a safety-deposit box in the bank. I've never kept compromising papers there, but there are some that pertain to my businesses. The day I die, I want you to go to the bank and destroy them all. Jose must never see them. And I don't want you to talk to him about the past."

"I would never do that, Enrique."

He looked at his wife fixedly, trying to peer into the hidden depths of her heart.

"I'm not so sure, Rocio, I'm not so sure. You haven't so far, but I was here to keep you from doing it. After I'm gone
..."

"I have never given you any reason to distrust me."

"No, you're right. But now swear to me that you'll do what I'm asking you. It's for Jose's sake. Let him go on as he is. Remember that if those papers get out. . . my friends will find out, and sooner or later they'll take action."

"What would they do to us?" Rocio asked fearfully.

"You can't even imagine. We have rules, and we're sworn to keep them."

"Why don't you destroy the papers yourself? Why don't you get rid of what you don't want us to see?"

"Because while I'm still alive, they're relevant. When I die, just do as I say."

"Then I hope I die before you!" Rocio was terrified and read the threat implicit in his request. She listened quietly as he went on to instruct her to also destroy any papers she found in the safe hidden behind a painting in his office.

Later, when he was once again alone, Enrique called Washington.

"You're right, George," he said without preamble. "We can't afford to be weak with Alfred. He's capable of destroying everything."

"Of destroying
us.
It's he who's broken the rules. I love him too, but it's him or us."

"I say it's us."

The helicopters were lined up on the runway of a military base under heavy watch by the Republican Guard. Ahmed Husseini was emphasizing to the base commander the prestige that the successful completion of the archaeological mission in Safran would bring to Iraq. The commander was listening with a bored look on his face. He had precise instructions from the Colonel to transport these foreigners and all their equipment to Safran, and that's what he was going to do; he didn't need any lessons on ancient Mesopotamia to carry out his mission.

Yves Picot and a few graduate students were helping the soldiers load the cases and crates into the helicopters, as were the other members of the expedition, including the women, and that, not surprisingly in this Muslim country, was causing the soldiers to laugh and whisper among themselves.

Picot had been adamant that everyone wear pants and boots and loose-fitting shirts—no shorts or tight T-shirts that might offend the culture. But even so, the soldiers were clearly enjoying the spectacle of these Westerners, who seemed unconcerned about anything except arriving safe and sound in Safran.

When everything was loaded and the members of the team were divided up into the two remaining helicopters, Picot sought out Ahmed.

"I'm sorry you won't be coming with us," he said as he shook Ahmed's hand in farewell.

"I'll be visiting Safran from time to time, as I told you. I won't be able to stay long, but I'll try to get there every two weeks to see how things are going. Meantime, I'll be in Baghdad, where I'll be able to handle anything that might come up."

"I hope we don't have to trouble you."

"No worries if you do. I wish you all the best. Oh, and Yves—trust Clara. She's a very capable archaeologist and has a sixth sense for finding important things." ^ "I will."

"Good luck."

They shook hands again and Yves climbed into the helicopter. A few minutes later, the convoy disappeared over the horizon. Ahmed sighed. Once again, he'd lost the reins of his own life; once again they were in the hands of Alfred Tannenberg. The old man had left him no choice—either help complete the antiquities operation under way or he would be killed. Simple as that. Worse yet, Alfred had told him that it would be Saddam's secret police who would deal with him. And Ahmed knew Alfred would have no scruples about seeing him "disappear" into one of Saddam's secret prisons, from which no one ever came out alive.

Alfred had told him contemptuously that if the operation was successful and Clara found the tablets, he'd let him go wherever he wanted. He wouldn't help him escape, but he also wouldn't stop him. One thing Ahmed was sure of was that Tannenberg was having him followed day and night. He hadn't seen Alfred's men, or the Colonel's, as the case might be, but he knew they were watching him.

He returned to his office in the ministry. He had a great deal of work to do. What Alfred had asked him to find wasn't easy, although if anyone could access the information, Ahmed could.

Clara felt a surge of emotion when she heard the sound of the helicopters approaching Safran. Picot would be surprised to arrive and find her team already at work excavating.

Fabian and Marta came up behind her to watch the helicopters land. They, too, were proud of what they had already accomplished.

When Picot jumped down out of the aircraft, Fabian was waiting, and the two men embraced.

"Boy, I've missed you," Picot said, shaking his head wearily.

"Same here," said Fabian, laughing.

Marta and Clara moved forward to assist one particularly sick student, who'd just emerged from the helicopter as pale as a sheet. Clara motioned to one of the villagers to bring a big bottle of water and a plastic glass and encouraged her to drink.

"Here, you'll feel better."

"I don't think I can keep anything down," Magda said, separating herself from Lola and Marisa while politely resisting the thought of putting something in her stomach.

"Come on, it'll go away
—
I got motion sickness too," Marta consoled her.

"I'm never getting in one of those contraptions again as long as I live," she swore. "I'll go back to Baghdad on a camel first."

"Me too," Marta laughed, "but meantime, drink the water. Clara's right—it'll make you feel better."

Fabian had already begun to show Yves around the camp—the mud houses where the labs would be and where the tablets and other objects would be classified, documented, and studied; the place where the computers would be installed; the one-room meeting house where they would all gather to discuss their findings; and the showers, latrines, and weatherproofed tents most of the members of the dig would be living in over the next few months, unless they opted to stay in rooms that some of the villagers were willing to rent.