The Bible of Clay (61 page)

Miranda accepted his answer. She knew he wasn't lying, just not telling the whole truth. Besides, she could practically see the spiritual conflict tearing him in half.

"Is it true the war is starting tomorrow?" she asked him.

"That's what the Colonel and Ahmed said."

"Today is the nineteenth.
..."

"And tomorrow is the twentieth, and on the twentieth the war is going to start."

"And where's Ante Plaskic?"

"In his room. The Colonel was tougher on him than he was on me. We could hardly stand up by the time his men were finished with us." "Then how'd you get here?" "Some relative of Clara's maid brought us." "And now what are you going to do?"

"Me? I have no idea. I feel like
...
I feel like I'm about to fail completely in my purpose. I can't leave Iraq without knowing that Clara is all right."

"There's no way she's going to contact you. You heard her—you have to look to yourself."

Rapid lmocking at the door startled them both, and as they froze in apprehension they recognized Ayed's voice outside.

They were back. Clara was pale, Fatima was shaking, and Ayed looked furious.

"There's no way out of here! The hotel is surrounded. The Colonel's probably posted soldiers next to the truck. The only reason they haven't caught us is because the driver didn't know anything. They'll have to stay here."

"Oh, no—I've had enough. I assure you, whatever happens, they aren't going to stay here. Find somewhere else, some other room," Miranda told him.

"Then go out there and tell the soldiers to come detain them," Ayed challenged her. "They either stay here or in jail."

"They can't stay in my room!" the reporter hissed. "Not with the police here!"

"They can stay in mine," Gian Maria said quietly.

"You have a room? Where?" Ayed asked.

"The fourth floor. It's terrible—dirty, just one bed, and the shower doesn't work very well—but we can make do." "What about Ante Plaskic?" Clara asked. "He's on the second floor."

"He may want to talk to you—he might come up to your room," said Ayed.

"Maybe, but if he does I'll put Clara and Fatima in the bathroom."

"All right," said Ayed. "They'll go to Gian Maria's room. We have to hope the Colonel won't have the whole hotel searched." He turned to Gian Maria. "Let's go."

The four of them left. Miranda poured herself another drink, knocked it back in one gulp, and lay down on the bed. She was beat— she needed some sleep, though she knew it wouldn't come easy. She couldn't stop thinking about her recent guests' claim that the war was going to start in twenty-four hours or less. Just how did Clara, Ayed, the Colonel, and Ahmed—all these Iraqis—know
that}

It was the telephone's ringing that woke her. Some of the other reporters were waiting for her at breakfast downstairs; they were all planning to go out to get shots of the streets of Baghdad, stories on the run-up to the war. Fifteen minutes later, her hair wet from the shower, she was downstairs in the lobby.

The rest of the day she was nervous, unsure of what to do—should she tell the other reporters what she knew or keep quiet?

She called her chief in London, and he confirmed there were constant rumors that the war would be under way within mere hours, but when she asked him about the twentieth specifically, he laughed.

"If I only knew—now that would be a scoop! Day before yesterday Bush gave Saddam an ultimatum; that was the seventeenth. All the embassies are being evacuated and all foreigners are being urged to leave the country, so it could start any minute, I suppose. Call me—I figure you'll know before anyone else!"

Miranda made no effort to check on Clara or Gian Maria. She knew they were in the hotel, on the floor below hers. She was worried about what might happen to them, but at the same time she told herself that she didn't want any part in their scheme.

That night she sat up late talking to the other reporters, half-waiting for the bombs to start dropping. When the sky suddenly began to light up with tracer shells after a series of deafening blasts, for the first time she was truly frightened. It was March 20, and the war was under way.

Hours later, reporters were hearing from their main offices in capitals around the world that the coalition forces had entered Iraq. The die was cast.

51

mike fernandez looked
at
his watch. the american

and British land war in Iraq had begun, and so had the operation that Tannenberg had so meticulously planned over the last year.

The former Green Beret told himself that it was going to go off without a hitch—not even the old man's death could stop the machine already in progress. There was a shitload of money at stake, and the men knew they'd be paid only if they made off with the whole list and successfully delivered the material to the drop-off point. In a matter of hours, they'd all be out of Iraq for good.

In Baghdad, at that same moment, a group of men in military uniforms was awaiting the signal to leave the warehouse where they'd holed up a few hours earlier.

All of them had worked under Alfred Tannenberg for years. His murder shook them, but Ahmed had assured them that the operation would remain unchanged. He was now the head of the Tannenberg family, he had told them, and he expected the same level of efficiency and loyalty they had always shown to Tannenberg himself.

The money the men would earn from the operation would assure them a comfortable future, to put it mildly, so they had all agreed to go ahead with everything as planned. What they did afterward was up to

them. The only pledge they had made was to cross the border into Kuwait and turn over the haul to the former American army officer, a good commander who knew how to inspire trust.

The team leader's cell phone rang; the time had come. He listened as the order came.

"Let's move," he told them.

They all stood up and rechecked their weapons one last time. Then they pulled ski masks over their faces and suddenly, in their black camouflage suits, became invisible in the darkness as they climbed up into the military transport truck waiting outside for them.

Bombs and antiaircraft shells lit up the nighttime skyline of Baghdad. Sirens terrified the civilians of the city, who were huddled together in their homes.

The team passed other military vehicles but attracted no attention. At last they reached the back door of the National Museum. Within seconds, they were inside.

Most of the guards had left hours ago, but some of them had insisted on staying that night. The noise of the bombs and the flickering of the lights as electricity came and went didn't seem to faze them— they'd disconnected the alarm system and the museum was as open to marauders as a jar of candy on a table.

The men in ski masks—carrying nylon, plastic, and felt bags—went from floor to floor, carefully selecting the artifacts from Ahmed's list. No one spoke. Following explicit instructions from the Colonel, the man in charge made sure that none of the artifacts was damaged—and especially that none of his men gave in to temptation and pocketed some small item.

In less than fifteen minutes the team had bagged dozens upon dozens of artifacts: finely carved marble panels, ancient weapons, tools, terra-cotta urns and vases, tablets, statuettes, and bas-reliefs in basalt, sandstone, diorite, and alabaster, objects fashioned of gold and silver and wood, cylinder seals . . . There was so much loot they could hardly carry it.

Then, as quickly as they'd entered, they left. No one within a thousand miles of Iraq would suppose that the country's entire artistic and historical patrimony was being stolen.

Ahmed was waiting impatiently in his darkened office. When his cell phone rang, he felt his heart race.

"Team One: We've got it—we're moving out," the leader of the commando team reported.

"Did everything go as planned?"

"Like clockwork."

Two minutes later another call came in—the second team had just left the museum in Mosul. As in Baghdad, there'd been no problem getting in and out within scant minutes. Other calls—from Kairah, Tikrit, and Basra—came in. Throughout the country, Alfred Tannenberg's commando teams had successfully completed their missions, and their bags now contained the soul of Iraq, its history—indeed, a good part of the history of humanity.

Ahmed lit a cigar. Beside him, the Colonel's nephew was talking on his cell phone, informing his uncle of the operation's success. Ahmed, however, would postpone celebration until each team reached its destination—Kuwait, Syria, Jordan . . .

The two men were alone in the ministry building; the Colonel had ordered them not to leave. They had lowered the blinds and closed the windows to minimize, as much as possible, their exposure to the bombs falling all over the city.

How were they to get out of Iraq? The Colonel had assured Ahmed that Ayed Sahadi would get him out when the time came, but there had been no word from Ayed. By now he might well be fighting with his unit, or he might have even gone with the Colonel to Basra, at which point he would try to make his way on to Kuwait. With Tannenberg dead, Ahmed didn't trust the Colonel—he didn't trust anybody, in fact, because he knew that he had no authority over any of Tannenberg's associates in this operation. If they felt they had to sacrifice him, they would do so without a second thought.

Paul Dukais lit up a cigar in his office in New York. He'd just gotten a call from Mike Fernandez confirming the success of the operation.

"We've done the impossible—now it's up to you guys to do what's merely difficult," the former Green Beret had joked.

"I hope we can make you proud," Dukais replied, his mood elated. "You guys did good."

"Yes, sir, we did."

"Any casualties?"

"Some of the teams had to defend themselves, but nothing serious." "Good—as soon as you're out and back home, your mission is over."

The president of Planet Security was delighted with the night's work. Based on the two percent commission he was taking from the sale of every artifact, this cargo was going to make him a fortune.

Robert Brown and Ralph Barry were putting together the annual report on the Mundo Antiguo Foundation when Dukais called them with the good news. The two men celebrated with a scotch—if George Wagner didn't smile at this, Ralph Barry thought, then he'd never smile at anything.

"So, Paul, now what?" Robert Brown asked.

"Now the merchandise gets crated up very carefully, and within a few days it'll land. Some of it will go directly to Spain, some to Brazil, and some here.

"Ayed Sahadi's got a detailed list explaining which lots are going where. If there are no problems—and there's no reason there would be—we'll have pulled this thing off."

"What do you know about Ahmed?" Robert Brown asked.

"He'll be taken out of Iraq as soon as our boys go in—a matter of days."

"Are you sure they'll be able to get him out? He was one of Saddam's select few."

"Ahmed was one of the select few that
Tannenberg
drew into Saddam's inner circle—let's not forget that," Dukais answered cynically.

"Of course, of course. And we have to appreciate his expertise—it was a tremendous help." Brown nodded. "And what about Clara?"

"Don't worry, we'll find her. Nobody carrying such an archaeological treasure can disappear forever. The Colonel is looking for her, and I've got another, very special man on the search too. He's been close to her over the last few months. If anybody can find her, he can."

"And he's in Baghdad?"

"My man? Oh, yeah—he stayed with Clara. Don't worry, he'll find her."

"What worries me is the Bible of Clay."

"If we find Clara, we find the Bible—and we'll make her an offer for it that she can't refuse," Paul Dukais laughed.

Clara was becoming stir crazy in the tiny hotel room—she hadn't been out in two days. She was afraid that at any moment the door would open and the Colonel would walk in and shoot her point-blank. She hadn't seen Miranda after their argument, although Gian Maria intimated that the reporter had been worried about her. At least she hadn't told anybody Clara was right there in the hotel.

Gian Maria, in turn, was dodging Ante Plaskic's questions regarding Clara's whereabouts. The Croatian didn't trust him, and the priest had finally realized that Ante's insistent questions were decidedly suspicious. Fortunately, the confusion surrounding the war had given Gian Maria a little break—everyone had enough to do just staying alive.

"Ayed hasn't been back," Clara complained.

"Don't worry—we'll get out of here somehow," the priest consoled her.

"How? Don't you realize that we're in the middle of a war? If the Americans win, they'll detain me, and if Saddam wins . . ." Her voice trailed off worriedly.

"You must put your faith in God, Clara. Thanks to him we've survived so far."

Clara didn't want to hurt the priest's feelings by telling him that she didn't trust God in the slightest, she trusted only her own abilities, so she just nodded and said nothing.

She worried about Fatima. The older woman was hardly eating, and she was growing thinner by the day. She didn't complain, but her silence showed how much she was suffering. Clara begged that she confide in her, but Fatima wouldn't talk. She just passed her hand lightly over Clara's face as the tears rolled down her cheeks.

Clara glued herself to a portable radio Gian Maria had borrowed from Miranda in order to pick up the BBC, but it was Gian Maria who provided her with the best information, which the war correspondents in Baghdad were getting directly from their home offices.

After several intense days of waiting, Gian Maria announced that the Americans had reached the outskirts of Baghdad; the next day he reported that they'd taken over the airport, south of the city.

"Where is Ayed Sahadi? Why hasn't he come for us?" Clara kept asking.

Gian Maria had no answer for that. He'd called Ayed's telephone numbers—all of them—several times, and at first a man with a snippy voice had told him Ayed was unavailable, but in recent days the telephone rang and rang and no one answered.

"Do you think he's betrayed me?"

"If he had, we'd have been arrested by now," Gian Maria argued. "Then why hasn't he come or at least sent me a message?" "Because he hasn't been able to—the Colonel may have him under surveillance."

One afternoon when Gian Maria came in, Miranda was with him. "Your Croatian friend is asking a lot of questions about you," she told Clara.

"I know, but Ayed warned me about him—said he couldn't be trusted."

"He thinks you're here, but I suppose that was one secret you couldn't keep forever," Miranda told her.

"And who told him that?" Clara shot her an accusatory glance.

"The hotel is full of Iraqis," Miranda said. "My colleagues hire them as interpreters; others have befriended them. And, of course, the hotel employees are harboring their entire families here because they know the Americans won't bomb this hotel. That's why nobody in housekeeping cares that you're here—they figure you're just taking shelter, like everybody else. Gian Maria didn't have to be so generous with his tips—they'd have looked the other way anyway.

"So sooner or later your friend Ante Plaskic was going to find out. Honestly, not ten minutes ago he stopped me in the lobby to ask about you again. When I told him I didn't know anything, he told me he knew you were here, in Gian Maria's room. I lied—I told him Gian Maria had taken in some other people, refugees, but I doubt he believed me. I wouldn't have. I just wanted to tell you, so you'd know."

"What can we do?" Gian Maria asked Miranda.

"I don't know. I don't understand why you don't trust him—but anyway, he's determined to find you, so he'll be up here any minute to find out whether I was lying."

"Then I've got to get out," Clara said determinedly.

"But you can't! They'll catch you!" Gian Maria cried in alarm.

"I'm tired of this!" Clara shouted.

"Calm down!" Miranda barked. "Getting hysterical isn't going to help."

"Let her hide in your room," Gian Maria implored Miranda. "It'll be for just a few hours."

"No—I'm sorry, I told you I want no part of what you're doing."

"Look," Clara said, "you know as well as I that there's word from the reporters that the National Museum has been looted. If I give these tablets up, they'll end up in the hands of the highest bidder."

Miranda didn't say anything as she weighed Clara's argument.

"All right, then, go to my room, but just until this Croatian is convinced you're not staying here. Here's the key—I'm leaving; they're waiting for me downstairs. I'm not sure if you've heard yet, but there are American units raiding some of the suburbs. They'll be entering the city any minute."

"Be careful," Gian Maria told her. "And thank you."

Miranda looked at him and left without a good-bye.

When she came back several hours later, she found Clara and Fatima sitting on the bed in her room.

"They've started razing statues of your friend Saddam," were the first words out of her mouth.

"Who?" Clara asked.

"The Iraqis."

"The Americans must have paid them," Clara mused aloud, as Fatima began to weep softly again.

"It's being filmed by television crews from all over the world," Miranda said. "The Americans have taken control of almost the whole city, without nearly the resistance anyone anticipated. A day that'll go down in history," Miranda told them, her voice caustic.

"I don't know what to do
...
," Clara said softly.

"What can you do?"

"Where is Saddam?" Fatima asked all of a sudden, surprising the two women.

"Nobody knows—in hiding somewhere, in all probability," Miranda told her. "Officially, the war has been won by the coalition troops, but there are guerrillas all over the city still shooting, and some army units haven't surrendered yet."

"Then who is leading the country?" asked Fatima.