The Bible of Clay (46 page)

"I said nothing is wrong!" Clara snapped, drawing herself up. "Go back to your work! And I don't want to hear any talk about this! Any of you who lets your imagination run away can expect to pay the consequences. You two—stay here," she barked at the first two men, as the others withdrew.

"I don't want a word of what you've seen here to get out."

"No, madam, no," one of the guards answered.

"If it does, you'll be whipped. If you keep your mouths closed, I'll show you my gratitude, you can be sure."

"You know we've been with Mr. Tannenberg for years, madam—he trusts us," one of the guards protested.

"I also know that trust has its price, so don't make the mistake of trying to sell information to anybody about what goes on in this house. Now go outside and guard the door. And don't let anybody—anybody—in."

"Yes, madam."

Clara went back to her grandfather's door as quietly as possible. "How is he?" she asked Dr. Najeb.

"His condition is critical.
We
have to wait to see the EKG, but right now it's his heart that worries me."

"Is he conscious?"

"No. Now let me work. I'll keep you informed. I promise you I'll stay right here beside him."

Ahmed was standing just outside the door when Clara left Alfred's room, irate that Fatima hadn't let him in.

"What's happened? The men are upset; they say you screamed and that something has happened to Alfred."

"I tripped and cried out, that's all. My grandfather is fine—a little tired, but fine."

"I need to talk to him; I've been in Basra today." "You'll have to talk to me."

Ahmed studied her. "I'm leaving tomorrow, and I want to go over final details with him. As far as I know, your grandfather is in charge; no one's told me that there's been any change. And no one will accept orders from you, including me."

Clara weighed her husband's words and decided not to press the issue. If she did, Ahmed would realize that her grandfather's condition had worsened. So she decided to behave like the Clara she'd always been—though she didn't know how much of that woman was left.

"You'll have to wait until tomorrow. In the meantime, find somewhere else to sleep. I'm sick and tired of pretending."

Ahmed sighed. "Fine. Just tell me where I should go."

"There's a cot in the hospital tent—that should do for now."

"What time can I see Alfred tomorrow morning? "

"I'll let you know."

"Picot wants to talk to me about wrapping things up—will you be there?"

"Yes. He called a meeting to determine when we should close down and what evacuation plans you have in place."

"You know the date, and you know there's not much time left. But we can't tell them."

"That's the problem."

Clara turned away without another word and went back to her grandfather's room.

40

yves picot was formulating a plan, inspired by marta

and Fabian.

The expedition's evacuation was inevitable now, but they needed to return with as many objects as possible—the bas-reliefs,
statuettes, tablets, seals, bullae, and calculi they
'd
found, The harvest
had been amazing.

Marta had suggested they mount a big exhibition at a prominent university—her own if possible, the Complutense in Madrid, and then others, with the financial support of some foundation. Fabian agreed: Once the war came, there'd be nothing left of the temple they had discovered. They'd enhance the exhibit with a book of drawings, floor plans, photographs taken by Lion Doyle, and articles contributed by the major members of the team.

But in order to do all that, Picot had to convince Ahmed Husseini to let them take the treasures out of Iraq, which would not be easy. The objects were part of the country's artistic heritage, after all. And under the current circumstances, none of Hussein's government officials would dare permit even a single shard to land safely in one of the countries that was declaring war on them.

Picot thought perhaps Alfred Tannenberg, with his powerful connections, could couch the removal in terms of a rescue operation. Picot

was willing to sign whatever papers were necessary, stating that the objects belonged to Iraq and always would, and that they would be returned to the country when it was deemed safe to do so.

Of course, for Alfred Tannenberg, as for his granddaughter, the objective of the expedition had not been achieved—they hadn't found the Bible of Clay—so Tannenberg could very well deny their request in order to pressure them to stay on in Safran and continue the dig. But only a madman would think of remaining in a country that was going to be plunged into war at any moment.

After dinner, when most of the team members had gone their separate ways, Picot asked Lion Doyle and Gian Maria to join him, Marta, and Fabian during their meeting with Ahmed and Clara.

The seasoned archaeologist liked Lion Doyle: He was always in a good mood, ready to give a hand with whatever needed doing. And best of all, he was intelligent.

Clara seemed nervous and distracted; Ahmed, too, seemed tense. Picot had long since picked up on their marital discord and assumed that they were trying to keep up appearances for the sake of the team.

"Ahmed, we need to know what's going on. The reporters said they had it on good authority that the war is virtually upon us."

Ahmed didn't reply immediately. He lit his Egyptian cigarette, exhaled the smoke, and smiled.

"That's what we'd like to know—if you're actually going to attack us, and when."

"That's not funny, Ahmed. Tell me when you think we need to go, and whether you've got a plan to evacuate us," Yves insisted, a bit uncomfortably.

"What we know is that some countries are doing everything they can to avoid a conflict. What I can't tell you, my friends, is whether they'll succeed. As for you and your team
...
I can't make your decisions for you. You may not believe it, but we have no more information than you do, which comes from news reports from the West. I can't be sure that there will be war, nor can I be sure there won't. With regard to when
...
it all depends on when they think they're ready."

Yves and Fabian exchanged a look of disgust. This slippery, cynical bureaucrat was far from the efficient, intelligent archaeologist they'd been accustomed to dealing with, who had persuaded them to come in the first place. It seemed clear that he was being more than evasive—his statement seemed misleading, even untruthful.

"Get off it, Ahmed; what kind of talk is that?" Picot said. "Tell me when you think we should leave."

"If you want to go now, I'll be happy to make all the necessary arrangements for your immediate departure from Iraq."

"What happens if war breaks out tomorrow, tonight? How would you get us out of here?" Fabian insisted.

"I would try to send in helicopters, but I'm not certain they would be made available to me if we were actually under attack."

"So you're recommending that we go now," Marta stated more than asked.

"I think the situation is critical, but I don't have a crystal ball. If you're asking for my advice, I'll give it to you: Go before it gets too hard to leave," Ahmed replied.

"What do you think, Clara?"

That Marta valued her opinion surprised even Clara, not to mention the rest of the participants.

"I don't want you to go; I think we still have a very good chance of finding the Bible of Clay. But we need more time."

"Time is the only thing we don't have," Picot said to her.

"Then you decide—it doesn't make much difference what I think."

"Yves, could I say something?" Lion Doyle asked.

"Yes, of course; I asked you to come because I wanted to know what you think. I want Gian Maria's thoughts too." Picot turned to the priest.

"I think we ought to go. You don't have to be Donald Rumsfeld to know that the United States is going to attack. The information from my colleagues in the press leaves no doubt about that. France, Germany, and Russia have lost the battle in the United Nations, and Bush has been readying his troops and equipment for months. The generals in the Pentagon know that this is the best time of year to wage war in this region; the climate is the determining factor. It's a question of days, maybe weeks—not months.

"Clara may be right: If you kept working you might find the Bible of Clay. But you don't have the time. So I say you should start breaking down the camp and get out of here as soon as possible. If they start bombing, Saddam will leave us to our fate; we can't rely on him to send helicopters to pick us up. It would be crazy even to get into a helicopter in the middle of a war. And trying to cross the border in a convoy would be suicide. As far as I'm concerned, I'm getting ready to go—I don't think there's much more I can do here."

Lion lit a cigarette. It was Gian Maria who finally broke the silence.

"Lion is right. I
...
I think you should leave."

" 'You' should leave? What about you? Are you staying?" Marta asked incredulously.

"I'm staying if Clara stays. I want to help her."

Ahmed looked at Gian Maria in bewilderment. He couldn't fathom why this priest was so determined to help his wife.

"All right, Lion. I think you have it right. Tomorrow we'll start packing up and preparing to move out to Baghdad, and from there home," Picot said. "When do you think you can get us out of here?" He turned to Ahmed.

"As soon as you tell me you're ready."

Picot nodded. "I figure about a week, two at the most, to finish documenting what we have, shoring things up as much as possible, and packing everything properly."

Fabian cleared his throat as he looked over at Marta, seeking her support. He didn't want them to just pack up their equipment and leave Iraq, and Picot seemed even to have forgotten about mounting an exhibit in Europe.

"Yves, I think you should ask Ahmed about the possibility of exhibiting the tablets and bas-reliefs and other objects
...
all the things we've found."

"Yes, Fabian. I was coming to that. You see, Ahmed, Fabian and Marta thought that we should unveil Safran to the scientific community. What we've found here is of incalculable value, as you know. We'd thought about a traveling exhibit, to be presented in several countries. We'll seek funding from universities and private foundations. You, and of course Clara, could help us get things under way."

Ahmed weighed Picot's suggestion. Basically, Yves was asking him to allow everything they'd found in the excavation to be taken out of the country. He felt a wave of anxiety: Many of the objects Picot's team had found had already been sold in advance to private collectors, who would be eager to display their new possessions. Clara, of course, didn't know this, nor did Alfred Tannenberg, but Paul Dukais, the president of Planet Security, had been adamant in his last conversation with Yasir. Some collectors already knew about the existence of the objects through the reports published in
Scientific Archaeology.
They'd contacted intermediaries, who in turn had called Robert Brown, president of the Mundo Antiguo Foundation, which had always been the cover for the illegal antiquities business of George Wagner, Frank dos Santos, and Enrique Gomez Thomson, Alfred's business partners.

"What you're asking is impossible," Ahmed replied curtly.

"I know it's difficult, especially given the current situation, but you're an archaeologist, you know how important the discovery of this temple is. If we leave behind what we've found here . . . Well, all our work, all these months of sacrifice will have been meaningless. If you convince your superiors how significant these findings would be to the archaeological community, your country will most certainly be the first to benefit. And everything, of course, will be returned to Iraq. But first let the world see what we've found, let us organize shows in Paris, Madrid, London, New York, Berlin. We wouldn't be taking these things for ourselves, for our own glory. Your government can appoint you commissioner of the exhibit on Iraq's behalf. We can do it. We've worked hard, Ahmed."

Picot stopped talking, trying to read Ahmed's body language, but it was Clara who spoke.

"Professor Picot, aren't you forgetting me?"

"Not at all, Clara. If we've gotten this far, it's because of you. Nothing we've done here would have been possible without you. We don't want to usurp your contributions—quite the contrary. We're here because you so stubbornly insisted on our coming. That's why I'm asking you to suspend the dig and come with
us.
We need you to help prepare the exhibit, give lectures, participate in seminars, accompany the objects wherever they travel. But we can't do any of that unless your husband persuades his government to let us take what we've found out oflraq."

"My husband may not be able to do that, but my grandfather can."

Clara's statement didn't surprise them, and Picot was fully prepared to talk to Alfred Tannenberg if Ahmed turned out to be overly reticent. The months he'd spent in Iraq had taught him that there was nothing Tannenberg couldn't do if he wanted to.

"It would be wonderful if Ahmed and your grandfather could convince the government," Picot said.

Ahmed was making his own calculations. This might be his only opportunity to escape from Iraq. Picot was offering him an unexpected cover. It would be best to try to gain time by assuring them that he would do everything in his power to help them—enthusiastically.

"So, will you come with us?" Marta asked Clara.

"No, at least not now, Marta. But I think it's a wonderful idea that the world know what we've uncovered here in Safran. I'll stay on; I know I can find the Bible of Clay."

The camp was silent as Clara, accompanied by Gian Maria, walked back toward her house. Ahmed had discreetly slipped into the hospital tent for the night.

"I like the night—I love the stillness; it's the best time for thinking. Will you go out to the site with me?" she asked the priest.

"If you'd like, I'll go out there with you. Shouldn't we take a jeep?"

"No, let's walk. It's a long way, I know, but it will do us good."

Clara's bodyguards stayed several yards behind them, impassive, as always, at her whims.

When they neared the excavation site, Clara found a place to sit. She patted the sand next to her for Gian Maria.

"Gian Maria, why do you want to stay here? No one can protect you if the Americans start bombing."

"I know, but I'm not afraid. I'm no daredevil, but right now I'm not afraid," he repeated.

"But why don't you leave? You're a priest, and here . . . well, here you haven't been able to do anything very . . . priestly, you know. We're all lost souls, and you've really been very respectful to us—you haven't tried to win us over to the Church at all."

"Clara, I'd like to help you find the Bible of Clay. I'm intrigued by the idea of it. It would be something to know whether Abraham himself revealed the story of Genesis—and if so, whether it is the same Genesis that we know."

"So you're staying out of curiosity."

"I'm staying to help you, Clara. I. . . well, I just wouldn't feel right leaving you alone."

Clara laughed. That Gian Maria believed he could protect her, when she was under the protection of armed men night and day, was amusing. But the priest seemed to really believe that he possessed some special power that could keep anything bad from happening to her.

"What do the other priests in your order say when you talk to them?"

"My superior encourages me to help those who need me; he knows how hard life is in Iraq now."

"But really, you're not saving anybody's soul—you're here with us, working on archaeological matters."

She hadn't really thought much about it up to that point, but it struck her then—as others had pointed out—how odd the priest's tenure with them in Safran had been, working like just any other member of the team.

"They know that, but even so, they think I can be useful here."

"Perhaps, after all, the Church
would
like a chance at the Bible of Clay?" Clara asked with an edge in her voice.

"Please, Clara! The Church has nothing to do with my staying in Safran. It was my choice, and it hurts me that you doubt my motives. I have permission from my superior to be here; he knows what I'm doing and he has no objection. Many priests work; I'm not the only one.

There's nothing strange about it. Of course, at some point I have to go back to Rome, but I've been here months, not years, no matter how long it's seemed to you."

"You know, Gian Maria, sometimes I mink that you're the only friend I have here, the only person who'd help me if I needed it."