The Bible of Clay (37 page)

"Hans, hang on! I'm right here, my love!"

The sound of a shot from the watchtower drove her to the ground; the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes were the boots of an SS officer.

"This woman has a heart condition; we must operate on her immediately," said the black-uniformed young man standing above her. He had blond hair and the face of an angel.

One of the kapos picked Marlene up off the ground and herded her to the infirmary along with several other women. The doctors from Berlin and their Mauthausen colleagues were scrubbing up for the improvised surgeries.

"Are we going to waste anesthesia on these pigs?" asked one of the assistants.

"Give them enough so they won't move around too much; I don't like to hear patients screaming as I operate," replied one of the doctors.

Marlene Hausser was lifted onto one of the operating tables, and her arms and legs were strapped down. She felt a pinch in her arm and soon after became sleepy; she couldn't help closing her eyes, although she still heard everything around her. She was unable even to scream when the scalpel cut into her chest, opening her from her neck to below her sternum. The pain was unbearable, and she cried impotently, hoping only that she might die.

Drowsily, she managed to say a prayer for her son, Hans. If God really existed, he might allow him to live.

She felt someone squeeze her heart, and then she was gone.

Marlene Hausser's body was dismembered by the monsters so eager to explore the mysteries of humanity.

One after another, the remaining few survivors of the stairs of death were operated on—hearts, brains, livers, kidneys, vital organs were dissected while the doctors taking part spoke learnedly about their subjects' conditions.

The doctors also entertained themselves with some of the bodies of the women who had died on the stairs. They cut the head off the deaf Italian girl, to study at greater length her inner ears.

Meanwhile, the kapos, at the direction of Captain Tannenberg, had ordered the girls and boys to take their clothes off and get into the shower. A foul tank full of mud and filth spraying frigid water over the tormented heads of those who had just been orphaned was the final piece of entertainment Tannenberg had prepared for his visitors from Berlin.

Some children died of hypothermia, while others simply collapsed, their poor hearts stopping. No more than a dozen survived, although some died hours later.

33

clara listened for the sound of the helicopter that

was bringing in her grandfather and Ahmed.

She was surprised to hear that her husband was accompanying Alfred to Safran. She was also anxious to see for herself how her grandfather was. Although Ahmed had told her not to worry, the newly erected hospital tent and medical equipment that had been flown in several days earlier were not good signs.

She'd spent the day helping Fatima ready the house where she and her grandfather would stay. She knew how demanding he was, and with his deteriorating health, it was vital that he have every modern comfort during his stay.

From the window she saw Fabian walking quickly toward the house. She stepped outside to great him.

"I think we've got something," he said excitedly. "We've found the outlines of several houses less than three hundred yards from the temple, where we started digging last week. They don't look very large, maybe forty or fifty feet on each side, surrounding a main rectangular room. In one of them we found a figure, a seated woman, probably a fertility goddess. And shards of black pottery," Fabian said, out of breath. "But there's more—Marta's team found a collection of bullae and calculi in the temple. There are several cones, perforated, large and

small spheres—some perforated—and a couple of seals, along with the figure of a bull and what appears to be a Hon, though it's not in perfect condition. But who cares? Do you realize what this means? . . . Yves is going crazy, and Marta . . . !"

"I'm on my way," Clara cried, hardly able to contain herself.

The figure of Fatima was silhouetted in the doorway.

"You're not going anywhere," she ordered. "We haven't finished here, and your grandfather will arrive any minute."

The sound of a helicopter's approach cut off Clara's reply. No matter how badly she wanted to rush to the site, she needed to wait until her grandfather was comfortable.

It was still early afternoon, but even if it was dark when they finished, she was going.

Ayed Sahadi, accompanied by two armed men, strode into the house without knocking, as though it were his own office.

"Madam, the helicopter is landing. Are you coming?" It was more an order than a question.

"I know, Ayed; I heard it. Wait one second—I'll go with you."

She left the house, shadowed by Fatima. They all climbed into a jeep and drove to the landing pad.

Clara was shocked by her grandfather's appearance. He had grown so thin that his clothes seemed to swallow him. He was barely skin and bones. His steel-blue eyes seemed faded, and he moved a bit clumsily, although he made an effort to walk stiffly upright.

He weakly embraced Clara, and for the first time in her life she was confronted with the fact that her grandfather was a mortal, not a god, as she had always unconsciously imagined him to be.

Fatima accompanied Alfred to his room, where she had arranged his personal effects. The doctor asked everyone except Samira, the neatly uniformed nurse, to leave, so that he might examine the old man and evaluate how badly the trip from Cairo to Baghdad to Safran had affected him. Fatima grumbled when she saw that the nurse was staying.

When the doctor came out, he found Clara at the door, waiting for him impatiently.

"May I go in now?"

"It would be best to let him rest for a while."

Fatima asked whether she should take him something to eat, but the doctor only shrugged.

"In my opinion, he should sleep. He's exhausted. But if you wish, ask him if he's hungry, after Samira comes out. She's giving him an injection."

"I don't believe I've met you, Doctor," said Clara a bit doubtfully to the tall, thin young man.

"You don't remember me, but we met in Cairo, in the American Hospital, when your grandfather was first operated on. I am Doctor Aziz's assistant; my name is Salam Najeb."

"Oh, of course, I'm sorry. . . . Please—tell me how he is, really."

"He's very ill. He's strong, and his will to live is extraordinary, but the tumor is growing and he doesn't want to risk another operation, and at his age
..."

"If he were operated on, would it help?" Clara asked, though she feared the response.

The doctor stood silently, as though searching for the right words to say to her.

"I don't know. I don't know what we might find if we went in. But as he is now . . ."

"How much time does he have left?" Clara's voice was barely a whisper. She was struggling to maintain her composure, not to break down and cry, but more importantly, she didn't want her grandfather to overhear the conversation.

"Allah alone knows that, Madam Tannenberg, but in the opinion of Doctor Aziz—and I agree—no more than three or four months, maybe even fewer."

The nurse came out and smiled shyly at Clara as she awaited orders from the doctor.

"Did you give him the injection?" Salam Najeb asked.

"Yes. He's resting easy now. He said he wanted to speak with Madam Tannenberg."

Clara stepped between the doctor and nurse into her grandfather's room. Fatima followed her.

Alfred Tannenberg was lying in the narrow bed; he looked shrunken, almost like a doll, under the sheet.

"Grandfather," Clara said softly.

"Ah, Clara!" he breathed, smiling wanly. "Sit down—here, beside me. Fatima, leave us, I want to speak to my granddaughter alone. You can bring me something to eat, though."

Fatima left the room, her face glowing with the pleasure of serving the old man. If Alfred Tannenberg was hungry, she knew exactly what would make him happy.

"I'm dying, my darling girl," he said to Clara when they were alone, taking his granddaughter's hands.

Despair washed over Clara's face, and she struggled to keep from breaking down.

"I won't have any crying, do you hear? I've never been able to stand people who cried. You're strong, like me—so save your tears; we have to talk."

"You aren't going to die," Clara managed to stammer.

"Oh, yes, my dear, I am. I can't prevent it. But I
can
prevent another death—yours. You're in danger here, and I'm going to do whatever it takes to stop anyone from harming you."

"Me? Who'd want to hurt me?" Clara asked, bewildered.

"I haven't been able to find out who was behind those Italians who followed you around Baghdad. But I no longer trust George and Frankie, or Enrique."

"But, Grandfather, they're your friends! You always said they were like your brothers, more than brothers—that if something happened to you one day, they would take care of me."

"Yes, and that was true—once. I don't know how long I have to live; Dr. Aziz gives me no more than a few months, so let's not waste time putting off conversations that we need to have. The Bible of Clay will be your ticket to a life far from here. It will be your letter of introduction to another world.
We
have to find it, because there's not enough money on earth to buy respectability."

"Respectability? What does that mean?"

"You know what it means—you've always known, even if we've never talked about it. My business dealings have earned me a certain reputation, and that's not what I want for you. My businesses will die with me, although you'll have enough money to live very comfortably for the rest of your life.

"I want you to dedicate yourself entirely to archaeology, make a name for yourself—that's what both of us have always wanted, and that's where you'll find your own path.

"I am respected in this region of the world; I buy and sell anything—I find weapons for terrorists, I satisfy the most extravagant wishes of presidents and princes, I see to it that some of their enemies no longer trouble them. And in return, they do me favors—perhaps overlooking, for example, what some might call the plundering of their countries' artistic and archaeological heritage. I won't bore you with the details; they are what they are, and I'm proud of what I've been able to accomplish. Does that disappoint you?"

"No, Grandfather, you could never disappoint me. I realized a long time ago that some of your business dealings were . . . delicate. But I don't judge you; I would never do that. I'm sure you've always done what you thought you should do."

Clara's unconditional loyalty was the only thing that moved the old man. He knew that in his final moments, she would be the only person he could count on. His granddaughter's eyes were without guile, as they had always been, and he knew that she was being honest with him, that she was not hiding anything.

"In my world, respect has a great deal to do with fear—now I'm dying, and it's no secret. This sort of information has its own way of leaking out. So the vultures are certain to be circling overhead—I feel them; I know they're there. And they will descend upon you when I'm gone. I had thought that Ahmed would take over the business and that he would protect you, but your divorce has forced me to change my plans."

"Ahmed knows about your business dealings?"

"Ahmed is instrumental in my business dealings, regardless of how paralyzed he's become by a sudden onset of scruples over the last few months. But he will protect you until you're safely out of Iraq. I've paid him well. And I sent him back to Baghdad for the moment. He can do us more good there."

Clara felt sick. Her grandfather had just destroyed any possibility of a reconciliation with her husband. She wasn't upset with him; he was simply preparing her for what was to come—and part of that preparation was to inform her that Ahmed was being paid to protect her. Not as her husband, but as one of Alfred's guards.

"Who could want me dead?"

"George, Frankie, and Enrique want the Bible of Clay. I'm sure they've infiltrated men into the excavation here, ready to smuggle it out if we find it. It's priceless—or rather, its price is so beyond all measure that they've refused to accept the deal I've offered them."

"Which is what?"

"It has to do with an operation that's under way right now—my last one, since I'll not live to see another."

Clara swallowed hard. "And you think they're capable of sending someone to kill me?"

"They want the Bible, Clara. They'll try not to harm you if they can get their hands on it easily. But if we don't give it to them, they'll do whatever they have to. I'd do the same thing if I were in their place. So I'm trying to stay ahead of them. Until the Bible appears, you're in no danger, but the moment it's found, your problems will start."

"And you're sure that these men are here, in Safran?"

"Absolutely. Ayed Sahadi hasn't uncovered them yet, but he has his eye on several people working around you. They may have infiltrated as workers, suppliers, even people brought in with Picot's team. Killing someone is just a matter of money, and my old friends have more than they need—as I do, my dear, to spend on protecting you."

The conversation was tearing Clara apart inside, but she refused to show it. Nor would she ever allow her grandfather to think that she was ashamed of him. In fact, deep down she truly felt she had nothing to reproach him for. She had always known that hers was a privileged existence within the powder keg of the Middle East, where only a very select few lived as she and her family did. She belonged to the elite of the elite, which was why she always had an escort of armed men ready to lay down their lives to protect her. Her grandfather paid them a king's ransom to do so. Even as a child she had known that he was a powerful and implacable man, and she had enjoyed the reverential way she was treated in school and later at the university. No, she'd never been unaware of her grandfather's power, and if she'd asked no questions it was because she didn't want answers that might cause her pain. She had protected herself by a comfortable, if willful, ignorance.

"What did you offer your friends?"

"I asked them to let you have the Bible of Clay in exchange for one hundred percent of the profits of the operation that we now have under way. I'm offering them a great deal of money, but they refuse to accept it."

"The Bible of Clay is an obsession for them too."

"They are my friends, Clara, and I love them as I love myself, but not more than I love you. We have to find the Bible of Clay before the Americans arrive. The second it's in our hands, you have to leave Iraq. Our alliance with Professor Picot was a stroke of luck—he is a controversial figure, but no one can deny his stature as an archaeologist. So he will be your entree into a new world—but that is only possible if you have the Bible."

"And what happens if we don't find it?"

"We
will
find it. But either way you will have to leave Iraq—go to Cairo. There you will be able to live quietly, or relatively quietly, although I've always dreamed that you would go to Europe and live . . . well, wherever you want: Paris, London, Berlin."

"You always opposed my going to Europe."

"Yes, and you should only go there with the Bible of Clay. Otherwise your life in the West would become difficult—and I couldn't bear it if anyone harmed you."

"Who could do that?"

"The past, Clara, the past, which sometimes has a way of washing like a tsunami over the present."

"My past is not important."

"No, it's not. But it's not your past I'm talking about. Now, tell me how the work is going."

"It occurred to Gian Maria that Shamas might have kept the Bible of Clay in his house rather than in the temple, so we widened the perimeter of the excavation. Today they discovered the outlines of houses near the temple; we may be able to discern where Shamas himself lived! And in the temple, in addition to the tablets, they've found bullae and calculi and two or three statuettes. So with a little luck, we could find it, Grandfather."