The Bible of Clay (6 page)

"When do we invade?" Robert Brown asked straight out.

"As soon as the boys from the Pentagon tell us they're ready. We'll soften up the country with aerial raids first. I figure five or six months at the outside. This is September, so figure March, sometime in early spring. I'll let you know."

"We need to start getting the Committee for the Reconstruction of Iraq up and running," Edward Fox said.

"Yeah, we've thought about that. I'll call you in three or four days. It's a big pie, but you've got to be in line early to get the best pieces of it. Tell me which parts you want and we'll start working on it."

Almost all of them ordered bacalao al pil-pil, a specialty of the Basque: cod cooked with olive oil, garlic, and a chili pepper for spici-ness in a pan rotated over the fire constantly to bring out the delicious juices of the fish. As they ate, the men laid the foundation of their future business dealings in Iraq. There was so much that was going to be destroyed, and so much that would have to be rebuilt. . . .

Lunch was profitable for everyone. They agreed to meet again, over the weekend, at the Millers' picnic. They could continue their talks then—if their wives would let them.

The office of the Mundo Antiguo Foundation was located in a steel-and-glass building not far from the White House. The views were wonderful, but Robert had never really been able to bring himself to like Washington. He preferred New York, where a branch of the foundation conducted its business in a large brownstone in the Village that dated from the eighteenth century. It had been the foundation's first headquarters, and despite the fact that it no longer was of the slightest practical use—though Ralph Barry, too, preferred to work there—none of the directors had ever had the heart to dispose of it. When he was in New York, Robert held his most important meetings there, or sometimes in the private office he maintained on the lower floor of his own home, a splendid duplex overlooking Central Park.

"Smith, I need to talk to Paul Dukais. Right away, please," Robert said as he returned to the office after lunch.

Dukais' hoarse voice came on the line less than a minute later.

"Paul, my friend, I was calling to see if we could have dinner together."

"Sure, Robert, of course. I'd be delighted. When?" "How about tonight?"

"Tonight? I can't," Dukais said, his voice apologetic. "My wife is dragging me to the opera. It'll have to be tomorrow night."

"There's not much time left, Paul. Fuck the opera—we're about to start a war."

"If I'm going to war, I've got to be sure the domestic front is at peace, my friend, and Doris is always complaining that I never go with her to these social events—which she claims give us what little respectability we have." Dukais laughed. "I promised, Robert—promised Doris and my daughter both. So even if we declare the Third World War, I'm going to the opera tonight. We can have dinner tomorrow."

"No, let's make it breakfast. We need to get moving. Come to my house; it's best to meet there, anyway. Is seven all right?"

"Jesus, Robert, take it easy. I'll be there at eight."

Brown closed himself up in his office. At seven-thirty Smith knocked softly at the door.

"Do you need me, Mr. Brown?"

"No, Smith, thanks. Go home. I'll see you in a day or two."

He worked for a while longer. He'd drawn up a detailed plan for the next few months. The war was about to start, and he wanted to have everything in place.

On his way out of the Palazzo dei Congressi in Rome, Ralph Barry passed a thin, dark-haired man arguing with one of the security guards to let him in. As he waited for the taxi he had called, Barry was struck by the young man's insistence. He wasn't an archaeologist, a journalist, or a historian—he flatly refused to reveal his identity—but he was determined to enter. Just then, Barry's taxi pulled up, and his mind turned to his upcoming meeting.

The sun was gilding the obelisk in the Piazza del Popolo. Barry and Ahmed Husseini had a date for lunch at La Bolognesa. As always, the restaurant was full of tourists, the two of them included.

"Tell me exactly where the remains of the structure are located," Ralph said to Ahmed. "Brown insists that you give me the coordinates. I also want to know what resources you have at your disposal and what you need. We can't publicly intervene; you have no idea the uproar it would cause if an American foundation were to invest a penny right now in an excavation in Iraq. But, of course, we may be able to help in a more . . . discreet fashion. Another thing—your wife, Clara. Can you control her? She's . . . excuse me for saying so, but she's just too out there."

Ahmed was visibly uncomfortable with the reference to his wife. In that respect, he was very much an Iraqi. One did not speak about women, much less about a man's wife.

"Clara is proud of her grandfather."

"That's admirable, but she does a disservice to her grandfather by shining a spotlight on him. Alfred Tannenberg based his success on discretion; you know how careful he's always been about his business. That's why we don't understand your wife's very public announcement, at this premature point, of the Bible of Clay. In a few months, once the United States has had its way with Iraq, we could have organized a fullblown excavation. But now . . . Perhaps you might ask Alfred to speak with Clara, to explain certain things to her."

"It was Alfred's decision to reveal the existence of the Bible of Clay."

Ralph Barry sat back, puzzled.

"I know that this is the first time he's broken with George Wagner and Robert Brown," Ahmed went on. "But you know Alfred—it's hard to change his mind once he has it set on something. Besides, he's very sick. I'm not going to bore you with the list of his medical problems; he's eighty-five years old and the doctors have found a tumor on his liver. We don't know how long he has to live. Fortunately, his mind works perfectly. He's still got a terrible temper and refuses to turn over the reins of the business. As for Clara, she's his granddaughter: She can do no wrong in his eyes. He wants this for her."

Ahmed paused and gazed levelly at Barry. "And, Ralph—forget about the notion that the American presence in Iraq is going to be a walk in the park. It's going to be terrible."

"Don't be pessimistic," Barry replied. "You'll see how things will change. Saddam is a problem for everyone. And nothing will happen to you and your family Robert Brown will make sure that you can return to the United States safely Please, talk to Alfred."

"It won't do any good. Why doesn't Wagner, or Brown, talk to him? Alfred is much more likely to listen to his old partners."

"You know that telephone calls into Iraq are being monitored. Robert can't call him there—it could be recorded. As for George Wagner . . . He's God, and I am not a member of his heavenly parliament. I'm just a foundation employee. I
am
expecting a letter Robert wants you to take to Alfred. Someone will bring it from Washington; he'll give it to me, and I'll give it to you. Just as it's always been— communication by personal couriers. We'll pick up Alfred's answer in Amman this time, instead of Cairo."

Ahmed nodded thoughtfully. "Don't worry about Clara; she won't be a problem in Iraq. I'll let you know what resources we'll need for the excavation, but I wonder whether we'll be able to excavate with a blockade in place. The last thing on Saddam's mind is finding cuneiform tablets. We may not be able to find enough people to work, and the ones we do find, we may have to pay every day."

"Just tell me how much you need; I'll see that you take it with you when you go back."

"Money's just one of our problems. We need more archaeologists, equipment, and materials. And the experts are in Europe, in the United States."

"Listen to me—money is
the
problem. Alfred shouldn't finance this mission, at least directly—it will draw too much attention. There are thousands of eyes in Iraq. It would be more practical to find financing abroad—some European university, for example. And as for field experts, Yves Picot is interested in talking to you. He's from Alsace, a very, shall we say, interesting man. He taught at Oxford and—"

"I know who Picot is. He's not my favorite archaeologist, a bit heterodox for my taste. And people say he was asked to leave Oxford because he had a relationship with one of his students. He's a man who doesn't always like to follow the rules."

"You can't be telling me that you're worried about the rules. Picot has a group of former students who love him. And he's rich. His father owns a bank in the Channel Islands; actually, it originally belonged to Picot's mother's family, and everybody in the family works there except him. Because he's independently wealthy, he can come across as an unbearable pain in the neck, even somewhat of a despot. But I've got to admit that he's accomplished. He may not be everybody's Prince Charming, but he's the only archaeologist who's taken any interest in

those two tablets that Alfred found—not to mention the only person crazy enough to go off to Iraq right now to an archaeological dig. You decide whether you want to talk to him."

"I'll speak with him, but I don't like him for this project."

"Ahmed, you have no other option. I'm sorry to put it so bluntly."

"You know something?" Ahmed said. "I wonder why Alfred finally chose to make the existence of those tablets public too. And why Brown, if he's so furious about it, has decided to help us."

"Yeah, well, I don't know either, Ahmed, but I've never known either of those two to be wrong."

5

the four friends were having dinner at carlo

Cipriani's house, waiting for the delivery of Security Investigations' latest report. They had received an initial dossier that morning. But the messenger was already an hour late, and Mercedes was growing increasingly uneasy.

"Please, Mercedes, eat something," Carlo pressed. "The food is fantastic—don't let it go to waste."

"I'm not hungry," Mercedes responded flatly. "Well, make an effort," Carlo insisted.

"I'm sick of waiting. Call him, Carlo—something may have happened."

"Always so impatient," Hans Hausser declared, his voice flat.

"Nonsense. I've controlled my impatience for decades, and I've done it very well, thank you. The people who work with me will tell you I never show my emotions," Mercedes answered.

"They don't know you!" Bruno Miiller laughed.

"Besides, Mercedes, the paperwork takes time, for God's sake," said Carlo.

Finally they heard the distant sound of the doorbell and then footsteps coming toward the dining room.

The housekeeper opened the dining-room door and led a man in.

The president of Security Investigations had brought the report himself.

"Carlo, I apologize for the delay. I imagine you were all impatient."

"Yes, as a matter of fact we were," Mercedes answered. "A pleasure to meet you, nevertheless."

Mercedes Barreda held out her hand to Luca Marini, a well-preserved man in his sixties, elegantly dressed, with a tattoo on his wrist covered discreetly by a gold and stainless-steel watch.

The suit is a little tight,
Mercedes thought.
Trying to conceal his weight problem. But those Michelins around his waist give it away.

"Sit down, Luca. Have you had dinner?" Carlo asked solicitously.

"No, not yet. I came straight from the office. And, yes, I'd love something. A glass of wine most of all."

"Wonderful. Let me introduce you to my friends, Professor Hans Hausser and Maestro Bruno Miiller. You've met Mercedes."

"Signore Miiller, I'm sure people tell you this all the time, but I'm a great admirer of yours," Luca said.

"Thank you," Bruno murmured uncomfortably.

The housekeeper set another place at the table and brought around a large platter of cannelloni. Luca served himself generously, ignoring Mercedes' impatient glare.

She decided she didn't like Luca Marini. She didn't, in fact, like anybody who was slow, and the president of Security Investigations could not have been slower. He seemed to her the most inconsiderate man on earth—smacking his chops on cannelloni while they sat waiting.

Carlo Cipriani, on the other hand, patiently passed the time by chatting about the news of the day—the situation in the Near East, a fight in parliament between Berlusconi and the Left, the weather. Mercedes knew he took pride in his exquisite manners.

When Luca finished his dessert, Carlo suggested they retire to his office, where they might enjoy an
amaro
and discuss the findings.

After they were all seated, drinks in hand, Carlo began. "We're listening."

"Well, the girl didn't go to the conference today." "What girl?" Mercedes asked, irritated by Marini's macho, paternalistic tone.

"Clara Tannenberg," answered Marini, by now irritated himself.

"Ah, Signora Tannenberg!" Mercedes exclaimed sarcastically.

"Yes. Signora Tannenberg preferred to go shopping today, apparently. Between the Via Condotti and the Via della Croce, she spent over four thousand euros. She seems to be a compulsive shopper, with no lack of funds. She had lunch alone at the Caffe II Greco—a sandwich, dessert, and a cappuccino. Then she went to the Vatican and was in the museum until closing time. As I was on my way here, I was informed that she'd just gone into the Excelsior. Since I haven't been called again, she's still inside."

"What about her husband?" Professor Hausser inquired.

"Her husband left the hotel late and wandered around Rome until two, at which point he stopped by La Bolognesa for lunch with Ralph Barry, the director of the Mundo Antiguo Foundation and a very influential man in the world of archaeology. Barry is a former professor at Harvard and highly respected in academic circles. Although this conference is under the auspices of UNESCO, the Mundo Antiguo Foundation is its main financial sponsor."

"I wonder why Barry and Husseini had lunch together," Bruno Miiller mused aloud.

"Two of my men were able to get a table nearby, and they picked up parts of the conversation. Signore Barry seemed very perturbed by Clara Tannenberg's behavior, but Ahmed defended his wife quite vigorously. They talked about someone named Yves Picot, one of the archaeologists attending the conference, who apparently might be interested in the two tablets that were mentioned in this morning's report. In the dossier, you'll find a report on this Picot and information on some of his adventures. He's quite the ladies' man, and something of a troublemaker. Husseini doesn't seem ready to trust him.

"Husseini mentioned that in addition to financing, he needs archaeologists, people ready to work. And this is the most interesting part: Ralph Barry told Husseini that tomorrow or the day after, he'd be handing over a letter from Robert Brown, the president of the Mundo Antiguo Foundation, to be delivered to a man, someone named Alfred, who is apparently the girl's grandfather, and—"

"It's him!" cried Mercedes gleefully. "We've got him!"

"Calm down, Mercedes, and let Signore Marini finish. We'll talk later."

Carlo Cipriani's tone of voice brooked no reply, and Mercedes, abashed, sat back quietly in her chair. He was right. They could talk when Marini was gone.

"It's all in the report, but my men think that this Alfred and Signore Brown have been communicating with each other for years, through letters sent by intermediaries, and that Alfred's answer will be picked up in Amman.

"Husseini is to have breakfast tomorrow with Picot; afterward, if there have been no changes to their plans, he and his wife will be flying to Amman. They have a reservation on Royal Jordanian Airlines at three. You need to decide whether I should send my men on that plane or leave it at this and close the case now."

"No, follow them, wherever they go," Cipriani ordered, lighting a pipeful of tobacco. "Send a good team—it doesn't matter how many men you have to send, I want to know everything about this Alfred: whether he's Clara Tannenberg's grandfather, as we surmise he is, where he lives, who he lives with, what he does for a living. We need photos—it's important that you get photos and, if possible, video surveillance of him. We want to know everything, Luca."

"It's going to cost you a fortune."

"Don't worry about our fortune," Mercedes interjected. "And try not to lose sight of them."

"Do whatever you have to, Luca, but stay with them." The grave tone of Carlo Cipriani's voice made its intended impression on the president of Security Investigations.

"I may have to hire people on the ground there," Marini told them.

"Whatever you have to do. And now, my friend, if you don't mind, we'd like to read your report in detail. . . ."

"Yes, of course. If you need any further help tonight, don't hesitate to call. I'll be at home."

Carlo walked with Marini to the door, while Mercedes, champing at the bit, tore open the envelope and began to read.

"The suit and expensive wristwatch don't hide what he is," she murmured.

"Mercedes, stop—no need to air your prejudices here," Hans Hausser scolded her.

"Prejudices? He's a nouveau riche in a tailored suit, that's all. A tight-tailored suit, as a matter of fact."

"He's also resourceful," said Carlo as he returned to them. "And he was a good cop. He spent years in Sicily battling the Mafia; a lot of his men were killed, and some of his friends. Finally, his wife gave him an ultimatum—either he left the police or she left him. So he took early retirement and opened this business, which has made him rich."

"You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear," Mercedes insisted.

"Mercedes! That's a terrible thing to say!" Hans' tone was reproachful.

"Enough about Luca," Carlo broke in. "He's good at his job, and that's what's important. Let's see what's in the report."

Luca Marini had made four copies, one for each of them. They sat in silence, poring over the details that had been gathered about Clara Tannenberg and her husband, Ahmed Husseini.

Mercedes was the first to break the silence. Her voice was grave and tinged with emotion.

"It's him. We've found him."

"Yes." Carlo nodded. "I think so too. But I wonder why he's decided to surface after all these years."

"It hasn't been voluntary," Bruno Miiller said.

"I think it has been," Carlo replied. "Why would his granddaughter take part in this conference and ask for international aid for her excavation? It's put the spotlight on her, and her name is Tannenberg."

"But that need not have been his intention," Hausser countered.

"Why not?" asked Mercedes. "How can we know what his intention was in exposing his granddaughter?"

"According to this report, Ahmed Husseini says that Alfred Tannenberg adores his granddaughter," Miiller answered. "So there must have been some powerful reason for letting her come into the open. He's been invisible for over sixty years, I presume in hiding, underground somewhere."

"Yes, there has to be some reason behind these events now," said Carlo, "but what's most intriguing to me is his relationship with this Robert Brown, to all appearances an extremely well-respected American who moves in the highest circles, a personal friend of almost all the big players in the Bush administration, the president of an internationally renowned foundation. I don't know, but something doesn't fit."

"Of course, we don't know if Tannenberg is even in the same line of work anymore. It's been decades," Miiller said.

"He's an antiques dealer, according to the report," Hausser pointed

out.

"That could mean anything. . . . But how has he managed to stay hidden all these years if he has such friends?" Mercedes wondered aloud.

"We'll have to look deeper into this Robert Brown. Luca can do that for us. But now we have to decide what we're going to do, don't you think?"

They all agreed with Carlo. The time had come to decide what further steps to take. They agreed that Mercedes, Hans, and Bruno would stay in Rome for two or three more days, until some news came from Amman. They would also ask Marini—through his company or another one that he might recommend—to prepare a dossier on Robert Brown.

"Now, let's assume that this Alfred Tannenberg is the man we're looking for. How do we kill him and when?" Mercedes asked.

"I asked Luca about agencies that do specialized work of that kind, and he gave me some names. I've told you that," Carlo replied.

"Well, let's talk to one of them and hire a man," Mercedes insisted. "We have to be prepared when Tannenberg's identity is confirmed. The sooner this is done, the better. The day that monster is dead, I will finally be able to sleep."

"We'll get him, Mercedes; there's not the slightest doubt about that," Bruno Miiller declared. "But we have to do it the right way. I don't think you can just knock on the door of these 'agencies,' as Carlo put it, and say you're looking for an assassin. I think, Carlo, that we should take advantage of your friendship with Marini and ask him to explain to us how one goes about hiring a hit man."

They went on talking until dawn. No one wanted to leave a single detail unplanned, unconsidered. They felt in their bones that they were near the end now—at last they would fulfill the oath they'd sworn together so many years ago. None of them thought this vengeance they were planning had come too late; all that mattered was that it had come.

They each took their assignments, and they agreed to set up a bank account from which to pay Luca Marini and the man who would, finally, kill Alfred Tannenberg.

The Via Condotti was practically empty. Carlo Cipriani and Luca Marini were having a cappuccino at II Greco. It was warm for September, and the tourists hadn't yet taken over the Piazza di Spagna and the Spanish Steps. Nor, at this hour of the morning, had the elegant shops along the street opened their doors. Rome was still yawning and stretching after a late night.

"Carlo, you saved my life many years ago. That tumor . . . I've always been grateful for your help. I'm not going to judge you for anything you do, but tell me the truth—what's behind all this?"

"My friend, there are things one can't talk about. I just want the name and address of one of those agencies that hire men willing to do anything."

"When you say 'anything,' what are you talking about?"

"What we want is someone who can defend himself, because he may be going into the lion's den. Going to the Near East these days is not like going to Disneyland. Depending on what your investigation uncovers, the destination may be Iraq. How much do you think a life is worth in Iraq today?"

"You're lying. I still have my cop's instincts, you know."

"Luca, I want you to put me in contact with one of those agencies, that's all. And I want to be able to count on you not to say anything about this to anyone—consider it privileged information. You told me yourself that if there was a war, you couldn't have your men there; it was you who suggested that we hire specialists."

"There are a couple of companies made up of former members of the SAS. The Brits are very professional; I prefer them to the Yankees. In my opinion, the best of them all is Global Group. Here," he said, handing Carlo a business card, "this is their address and telephone number. Their headquarters is in London. You can ask for Tom Martin, tell him I referred you. We've known each other a long time. He's a good guy—tough as nails, not easy to pull one over on, but good at what he does. I'll tell him you're going to call." Luca took a sip of hot coffee. "He'll charge you a fortune."