The Bible of Clay (43 page)

37

robert brown was happy with the results of his

meeting with George Wagner. All that was left was for Paul Dukais to pull off his part of the plan and for them to keep Alfred Tannenberg satisfied until the operation was too far along for him to sabotage it.

Brown wasn't deluding himself—he knew that without Tannenberg none of this would have been possible and that the sick old man was still capable of retribution if things didn't go his way.

He took out his cell phone and called Paul. They agreed to meet in Brown's office an hour later. Operation Adam was about to begin, a name Brown had chosen as a nod to the idea of God having made the first man out of clay from ancient Mesopotamia.

Meanwhile, George Wagner was talking to Enrique Gomez, who was at his home in Seville.

"So it'll be on the twentieth?" Enrique asked.

"Yes, March twentieth—I received confirmation hours ago."

"Does Dukais have everything ready to go?"

"Robert says he does. What about you?"

"No problems here. When the package arrives, I'll pick it up, just like always."

"This time it's coming in on a military flight."

"That doesn't necessarily make things any easier, but the contact you gave me on the base already has his advance on the payment, so he's good to go. And he knows what'll happen to him if he decides to make trouble."

"Have you made contact with the buyers?"

"The usual ones, but first I want to see the goods. How are you going to divide it up?"

"Robert Brown has a good man, Ralph Barry, a former Harvard professor who's a specialist in the area. He'll be in Kuwait when the material comes in. Ahmed Husseini has made a provisional list."

"Good idea. You know, George, we ought to start thinking about retiring. We're too old to keep this up."

"Too old? Not me. I'm not going to die in some nursing home, staring out the window with my legs wrapped in a blue blanket. Don't worry, Enrique, everything will be fine; you're going to be living the good life in Seville for a long time to come."

The ringing of Frank dos Santos' cell phone interrupted his conversation with his daughter. Alma frowned; she couldn't believe her father would bring his cell phone the one time they'd been together in weeks.

"Hey, George! . . . Where am I? You wouldn't believe it—I'm horseback riding. Alma decided to take me out. But I'm getting old; my rear end hurts!"

Frank went silent while his friend on the other end talked. George was telling him the same thing he'd told Enrique: The war was going to start on March 20.

"Everything's ready here," Frank finally said. "My clients are looking forward to seeing the merchandise. Will Ahmed be able to fill the list I sent you? If he does, we'll make a killing. . . . Okay, I'll call you; my men are set."

He put away his phone and breathed deeply; he knew his daughter was watching him.

"What's this deal, Papa?"

"Same as always, sweetie."

"Just once you might tell me something."

"Be happy I make a lot of money for you to spend."

"But, Daddy, I'm your only daughter."

"Which is why you've always been my favorite," Frank said, laughing. "Come on, let's get back to the house."

Robert Brown and Ralph Barry were waiting for Paul Dukais. As usual, the president of Planet Security was running late.

When he finally came into the office, grinning broadly, Brown exploded.

"What's so fucking funny?"

"My wife just called to tell me that she's got a migraine, so we're not going to the opera tonight. Is that lucky or what?"

Ralph couldn't help smiling, but he didn't kid himself about Paul Dukais. He knew that under his mask of vulgarity there was an intelligent man with a heart like an iceberg and a careful, deliberate mind, more cultured than he let on, and capable of anything.

"The boys in the Pentagon have set a date for the invasion—March twentieth," Robert Brown said curtly, still irritated at Dukais.

"Good. The sooner our troops go in, the sooner we start making money. And the longer they're there, the more we'll make."

"Ralph is leaving for Kuwait. Talk to your Colonel Fernandez to organize the reception committee."

"He's already in the area. I'll call him, don't worry. But first we need to notify Yasir—he was going to Safran today. Alfred sent for him and Ahmed. The old man is keeping a tight rein on things."

"Okay, get in touch with him. Alfred has to know the date as well."

"I'll use our usual courier," Dukais suggested. "Yasir's nephew in Paris—he's one of Alfred's men. He owes everything he's got to Alfred."

"What about Yasir?" asked Ralph.

"The nephew is close to Yasir, but his loyalty is to Tannenberg," Dukais said with a worldly shrug. "If he has to choose, he'll go with Alfred."

"Just a few weeks . . . ," muttered Ralph.

"Yeah, but everything is ready, not to worry. I trust Mike Fernandez, and if he says that the operation is ready to roll, then it's ready to roll," Dukais declared.

"You should trust Alfred. He's the one who knows how to make things happen, especially over there. He always has been. So don't pin any medals on yourself yet. The only problem with Alfred is that damned granddaughter of his."

38

ahmed husseini and yasir were already sitting in the

helicopter with their flight helmets on when a soldier ran toward them, gesticulating madly. Red-faced from the sprint, he handed a sealed envelope up to Yasir. "Your office sent it. Said it was urgent."

Yasir ripped the envelope open and pulled out a short typewritten note.

Sir, you have received an urgent message from your nephew. He says that on March 20, he and some friends will come to see you, although he does not want you to tell any member
of
your family. He wants to surprise them. You shoidd tell your friends, though. He insists that you shoidd be told immediately that he is coming.

Tucking the note and envelope into one of his jacket pockets, Yasir motioned to the pilot to take off. Dukais was confirming the date that the war would start. He had to tell Ahmed and, of course, Alfred.

Night was falling when the helicopter's landing skids touched down a few hundred yards from Safran. A chilly breeze made the lights in the houses seem to flicker like fireflies.

Ayed Sahadi was waiting in a jeep to take them to the camp. "You look down in the mouth, Ayed. What's wrong?" Ahmed asked.

"Living in this village is hell. I've been here too long. Anyway, your wife is waiting for you with Alfred. Picot and his team leaders too. They're jumpy—we've had reporters here telling them the war is inevitable and that given the weather and the state of readiness, Bush will attack any day now."

"I'm afraid they're right," Ahmed replied. "There are demonstrations all over Europe—in the U.S. too. But Bush has already set the machinery in motion; he's not going to call everything off now."

"So they're actually going to attack," Ayed said in disbelief.

"That's what it looks like," Ahmed said laconically. "But for now, my friend, you'll be staying put. The Colonel told me we should keep you here awhile longer."

Ayed drove them into camp. Yasir was to stay in the village leader's house, while Ahmed would be sharing quarters with his wife and her grandfather.

The meeting between Clara and Ahmed was strained. Suddenly they didn't know how to act toward each other.

"You'll have to sleep in my room; we've set up a cot," Clara told him. "I'm sorry, but it would be hard to explain if you didn't sleep here. I prefer to avoid any gossip about us yet."

"That's fine. I'm just sorry to intrude."

"It's okay. We have to make do. How long are you planning to stay?"

"I don't know. Once I talk to your grandfather, I should really go— I have responsibilities that can't wait."

"Of course; that's what he pays you for."

Clara was immediately sorry she'd said that, but there was no taking it back now. And, anyway, she wanted Ahmed to know that he would never again be able to lie to her.

"What are you talking about?"

"About the fact that you work for my grandfather; you're a partner in some of his business dealings and he pays you for that. Among other things. Isn't that right?"

"Yes," he answered, staring her straight in the eye. And then, "Look, so far we've avoided antagonism. We're not enemies, Clara. And I don't want us to be."

"We aren't, because I've chosen not to confront you about this. Let's just leave things the way they are. My grandfather wants to see you and Yasir as soon as possible."

"Give me a minute to clean up. I'll be right there."

Clara went into her grandfather's room. The doctor had just given him an injection, and earlier the nurse had finished administering a blood transfusion, which seemed to have brought the color back to his sunken cheeks.

"I feel much better," Alfred told his granddaughter.

"It's only a temporary improvement," the doctor insisted.

"I'm not expecting a hundred more years. But you'll keep me like this until I tell you not to."

The old man's tone of voice left no room for argument.

"I'll do everything in my power, sir."

"My granddaughter will, of course, see that you are rewarded, generously," he said, looking at Clara.

She went over to her grandfather and kissed his forehead. He smelled like soap. "So, Doctor, do you think my grandfather can come out and sit in the living room and talk for a while?" Clara asked.

"Yes, but not for too long; it could—"

Three light, staccato taps at the door interrupted the doctor. "Sir, Mr. Yasir and Mr. Ahmed are waiting for you in the living room," Fatima announced.

"Take my arm, Grandfather. Can you?"

"I can do it myself—I don't need your arm. Those jackals think I'm dying. Even if I am, I'm not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing it—not yet."

Clara opened the door and they moved toward the living room. Yasir and Ahmed stood up as they entered.

"Sir . . ." Ahmed, surprised, managed to say. "Alfred
..."
was all that Yasir said.

Alfred Tannenberg sneered at them, then laughed openly. He knew they'd expected to see him at death's door.

"Did you think you were coming to my funeral? The air in Safran does me good, and being with Clara gives me the strength to live—not that I lack the desire."

Neither of the two men replied, waiting for Tannenberg to sit down. But he decided to walk around the room instead, watching them out of the corner of his eye.

"Grandfather, would you like Fatima to bring something in?"

"No, no, nothing—maybe some water. But I'm sure our guests are hungry; Fatima can bring them something to eat. We have a lot to talk about."

The three men were then left alone.

Yasir gave Tannenberg the note from his nephew. Tannenberg read it and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

"So the war will start on March twentieth. . . . Fine, the sooner the better; my men are ready. Have you done as I've instructed you?" he asked Ahmed.

"Yes, sir. But it was complicated. There were hundreds and hundreds of uncatalogued artifacts in the museums. I had to spend more money than we originally allocated to hire people inside to catalogue the most important pieces in each museum. I gave the lists to Yasir, as you requested."

"I know. Enrique and Frank have already contacted their clients, and there are buyers ready to assume ownership of all the treasures we can bring out. George has also notified his clients, through Robert Brown, so everything's set. What's happening with Dukais' Green Beret?"

Yasir cleared his throat before answering. He knew that question was aimed at him.

"Mike Fernandez is ready too, sir. His men are stationed at the location you chose. There won't be any problems transporting the merchandise, especially in military helicopters. All we have to do now is wait."

"This is the largest art-sale operation we've ever mounted," Tannenberg said. "The truth is, we are doing mankind a favor by saving Iraq's most priceless treasures. If we didn't remove them, they'd be destroyed. Once the war breaks out, mobs will loot everything, and those people can't tell the difference between a Sumerian cylinder seal and a hubcap."

Neither Yasir nor Ahmed replied to Tannenberg's assertion. They were thieves, it was true, but it seemed unnecessary to dwell on that or to characterize what they were doing as something else.

"How many pieces do you calculate we'll be able to extract?" Tannenberg asked Ahmed.

"If everything goes well, more than ten thousand. I've made an exhaustive list of what should be taken from each museum. I have provided the men with detailed floor plans and the locations of the most important pieces. I hope they don't smash up too much."

"How sentimental you are, Ahmed!" Tannenberg laughed.

Ahmed clenched his teeth in anger and humiliation. Alfred Tannenberg's laughter was like a slap in the face.

"As soon as the bombing starts, the teams will enter the museums. They are to gather up the designated pieces in the shortest time possible and get the hell out. Period. Crossing over to Kuwait won't be a problem, as long as the Green Beret does his job," Tannenberg said.

"And what will you do? How long will you stay here?"

Alfred had been expecting Yasir's question.

"That's not your concern, but don't worry, my friend, the war won't touch me. By the time the bombs start falling I'll be in a safe place, I assure you. I'm not ready to die yet."

"What about Clara?" Ahmed asked.

"Clara will leave as well. I still have to decide whether to send her to Cairo or along with Picot's team."

"There's not much time," Ahmed insisted.

"If I think you need to know, I'll tell you when Clara is leaving. But we still have a few more days to find the Bible of Clay."

"But if the Americans attack on the twentieth . . .," protested Ahmed.

"What do you know? Obey your orders and be happy that you're being paid—and that you'll be getting out with your life."

Tannenberg poured himself a glass of water and drank it slowly. Neither Ahmed nor Yasir had so much as tasted the food that Fatima had brought in.

"All right, let's finish reviewing the operation and the financial details. We're going to make a lot of money, but we've also had to invest a great deal—my men always know that their advance is in the bank waiting for their families in case something happens to them."

Clara dined with Picot and the rest of the team. But Ahmed's presence had put her on edge. It was not going to be easy to share a room with him, even for one night. He seemed like a perfect stranger to her.

"When are we going to see your husband?" Fabian asked. "Tomorrow, I imagine. Tonight he's meeting with my grandfather; they'll be late."

"Is he going to stay in Iraq, or will he try to leave before the war starts?" Marta wanted to know.

"None of us knows when the war will start. The reporters can't even be sure. They say it's inevitable, but no one knows what will happen, or when," Clara replied.

"That's not an answer," Marta pushed her.

"It's the only answer I can give. At any rate, I want to stay here until. . . well, until I can't stay anymore. Then I'll see. If war does break out, I'll reevaluate my position." "Come with us."

Picot's invitation took her by surprise, but it occurred to her that his slightly mocking tone left no doubt that her fate mattered little to him.

"Are you offering me political asylum?" she asked in an attempt to be ironic.

"Me? Well, if there's nothing to be done, we can try. Fabian, do you think we can smuggle her out? "

"It's not a joking matter," Marta scolded them. "Clara could very easily find herself in a bind; we have to help her."

They all fell silent until Lion Doyle broke in.

"Clara, I need to ask you a favor. You know that Yves wants me to prepare an exhaustive report on all the items you've discovered here. Do you think your grandfather would allow me to photograph him? It wouldn't take long, and I think it's only fair that a person who's invested so much time and money . . . you know, ought to be recognized for his contribution."

"My grandfather is a businessman; he's financing part of the expedition. I don't think he needs or wants the publicity, but I'll ask him."

"Thanks. Even if he's a modest man, I'd like a photograph of the two of you together, at the least."

"I said I'll ask him—that'll have to do for now."

"I'd like to stay."

Gian Maria's soft voice brought them all back to the issue at hand. Clara looked at him affectionately. She'd come to feel a real warmth toward the young priest, who followed her around like a puppy. Gian Maria actually seemed to suffer when he lost sight of her, when she wandered away. His devotion was moving, though she didn't really understand it.

"Until we talk to Ahmed, it's best not to make any decisions," Yves said.

"Of course, but if Clara stays to work, I'm staying too," Gian Maria declared.

"What are you saying!" Picot almost shouted. "You can't stay here! If the war starts, do you think you can just keep working? There won't be a single man to help you; they'll all be called up. And in any case, you can't excavate if you're being shelled. Or have you not been paying attention?"

Picot had come to like Gian Maria too, and he felt responsible for what might happen to him.

"If Clara stays, I'm staying," the priest stubbornly repeated.

Gian Maria sat in the door of the house he shared with Ante Plaskic and Lion Doyle. He didn't feel like sleeping, and he needed to be alone.

He lit a cigarette and let his gaze wander toward the star-filled sky. He had to put his spirit in order. He'd been here for months now, asking himself who he was, who he'd been, who he had become.

Every day, before the camp awoke to start its labors, he offered a mass—a mass attended by only him and God, because no one else had shown any interest in taking part in it, though he hadn't the heart to ask anyone to. He knew, then, that his faith in God was still firm and unshaken. That, and his devotion to his vows, was the only thing that hadn't changed. He still felt his calling to the priesthood, but sometimes it seemed to him that going back to the calm and order of the monastery where he'd lived since he'd been ordained—a life monastic in every sense of the word—would be an unbearable sacrifice. He was beginning to get used to this new way of life.

It had been a surprise to him when his superior sent him to St. Peter's to be a confessor. At first, he had been overwhelmed by the responsibility, doubting his ability, even his worthiness, to receive confessions. But Padre Pio had convinced him that he was needed in Rome. "The Vatican," he had told him, "needs young men, young priests to keep in touch with the changing realities of the world, and there's no better place for that than St. Peter's itself."