The Bible of Clay

by Julia Navarro

  Their faces filled with mock horror, the boys ran back to the camp, near the site of the main excavation. They played to perfection the part of distraught young men who'd come upon the tragic scene of the triple murder, relating in vague detail how they had discovered the bodies of the two professors and poor, helpless Ali.

  Professor Wessler had told Alfred and Georg he was going over to take a look at the area near the old well. After a time, Professor Cohen had remarked to Alfred that he was worried by his colleague's delay and was going to take Ali to look for him. When none of them returned, Alfred had walked to the old well himself, and Georg, who wanted to give him the telegram from home, had followed him. When they got there, they found the professors dead, and Ali too. There was no sign of anyone else, no hint of what had happened. Trying to help their teachers, to rouse them, they became smeared with blood themselves—all this came out in a rush as the boys fought back tears and terror.

  With other archaeologists and students, the boys went back to the well to help retrieve the bodies as they struggled to regain their

  composure. Once there, many of the party were overcome at the sight of the two dead professors and the boy and did nothing to hide their emotions.

  It was no secret to any of the professors and other students that Alfred and Georg didn't like Jews, but while they were not overly grieved by the deaths, they were clearly frightened, and they remained disturbed and distressed through the hours that followed.

  Professor Keitel, at the urging of the students, became the temporary expedition leader. It was he who went to the local authorities to report the crime and send a messenger to the German consul reporting the news of the unfortunate event. He asked for the consul's aid in contacting the dead men's families as well.

  Shortly thereafter, Professor Keitel announced that the expedition would be terminated at once, since Germany was at war and the Fatherland needed its citizens.

  By the time they arrived in Berlin, Professor Keitel had deciphered the tablets' secret and confirmed what the professors had said: A scribe named Shamas wrote that the patriarch Abraham was going to tell him the story of the creation of the world. Before the expedition had left Haran, the four friends and Professor Keitel had tried to find the other mysterious tablets Shamas wrote of, but they had been unsuccessful. Undaunted, the friends swore that they would return for them. Still, they did not return to Germany empty-handed. Secreted throughout their luggage were the two telltale tablets and any number of other priceless objects that had been unearthed from the sands of Haran.

  7

  robert brown lived alone. or not alone, exactly,

  since his butler, Ramon Gonzalez, also lived in the large two-story house outside Washington. It was a grand house: five bedrooms, six bathrooms, a living room, a parlor, a large sitting-music room, a dining room that seated twenty, a library, and Brown's private office, in addition to the service wing, where Ramon had a private apartment.

  Brown was an employer who demanded absolute discretion, but he rewarded loyalty. Ramon had been working for him for over twenty years and was absolutely faithful. He could afford to be, for he enjoyed the relative ease of working for an unmarried man who did not require a great deal of caring for and who paid very, very well.

  Ramon had laid breakfast out in the rear room of the house, where pale sunshine was beginning to filter through the large bay window. It was two minutes before eight; Brown would be coming down at any moment. The doorbell rang, and Ramon went to greet Mr. Brown's guest. "Good morning, Mr. Dukais."

  "Hello, Ramon. Cool this morning. I need a cup of good strong coffee, please, and I'm starving. This traffic makes a man hungry."

  Ramon's only reply was an understanding smile and a gesture for Paul Dukais to follow him to the breakfast room, where Robert Brown

  was now waiting. Ramon served breakfast and promptly left the room, closing the door behind him so that the two men could speak freely.

  Brown was not a man to beat around the bush, much less with someone like Dukais. After all, Brown held a large block of stock in Dukais' company, Planet Security. They'd met when Dukais was just another corrupt customs officer on the New York docks.

  "I need you to send some men to Iraq."

  "I already have several thousand ready and waiting. I've been hiring men for months. The minute the war starts, security needs are going to skyrocket. My contact in the State Department called me yesterday; they want my people to cover several locations around the world once our troops are in Baghdad."

  "I know how the business works, Paul. Just listen. I'll want you to send several teams, some via Jordan, others via Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, and Turkey. We'll hold some of them along the borders, pending further orders."

  "What orders?"

  "We'll get to that."

  "Okay, but I figure the Iraqis are already sealing their borders, and if they're not doing it, the Turks will, or the Kuwaitis or whoever. You want men on the borders and inside Iraq too. Can't you just wait like everybody else?"

  "I'm not telling you to send them in tomorrow. I'm asking you to ready several teams until I give the order. Try to find men who can blend in."

  "It's dangerous to send men in too early. Our friends in the Defense Department tell me the fireworks will go off in a few months—sometime this spring. Let's not make any mistakes that might put the job in danger."

  "I told you—they don't have to get there too early. I'll let you know the exact date they need to be inside. Then they'll get out as fast as they went in. They won't be there for more than three or four days after the bombing starts."

  "What are we bringing out? "

  "The history of humanity."

  Paul Dukais put down the coffee he had been slowly sipping and stared at Robert.

  "Your men will be under the command of others, who'll be waiting for them. And that's enough information for now."

  Robert Brown's eyes scared Paul Dukais. The two men had been partners for many years, and it had taken a long time for Dukais to get behind his elegant demeanor. He had learned that Brown was not a man to trifle with. This man of perfect manners was capable of anything. He decided to forgo more questions. What did he care what they were going to do in Iraq?

  "Now, I want you to take a letter to Rome and deliver it to Ralph Barry," Brown continued. "You'll bring me the answer back in two weeks, from Amman."

  "Okay."

  "Paul, there can't be any screwups here. This is the most important operation we've undertaken. We have the chance of a lifetime here— you better not fuck it up."

  "Have I fucked any up so far?"

  "No, you haven't. Which is why you're rich."

  And alive, thought Dukais.

  "When you've got the plan ready and the men lined up, I want you to lay it all out for me, every detail." "Not to worry, I will."

  "Paul, you may run across some members of the board. I don't have to tell you that this conversation never happened. Nobody can know about my connection with this job. Clear?"

  "Clear. I told you—not to worry."

  The meeting of the board of directors adjourned. It was noon, time for lunch, but George Wagner used the hour for a quiet nap in the privacy of his office. The noise of the street didn't rise as far as the twentieth floor of the tower in New York from which he ran his empire.

  The years had not passed without taking their toll, and he was tired. He rose early because he didn't sleep well at night, and he filled the predawn hours reading and listening to Wagner. He rested best at midday, when he loosened his tie, hung up his jacket, and lay back on the couch. His secretary had strict orders to hold his calls and not to disturb him, no matter what.

  He had just fallen asleep when the almost imperceptible buzzing ring of the cell phone he always carried startled him awake.

  "Yes."

  "George, it's Frankie. Were you asleep?" "Almost. What's wrong?"

  "I spoke to Enrique. We should go to Seville and spend a few days with him or m
eet someplace on the coast, in Marbella. It's full of old folks like us, and September is still nice and warm in Spain."

  "Go to Spain? I don't think that's necessary. We've put out lots of bait—let's not get tangled in our own nets."

  "And Alfred?"

  "He's turned into an old fool—he's lost control."

  "Don't be so sure. Alfred always knows what he's doing."

  "Not anymore. And don't forget what happened before. He was determined to stick his nose in where it didn't belong, pull strings that didn't want to be pulled, and now he's doing the same thing all over again."

  "George, it was his son—you'd have done the same thing."

  "I never had any children, so I wouldn't know."

  "But I did—children and grandchildren—and you can't just sit back and take anything that comes. You've got to help them."

  "But you should just sit back, you should accept things for what they are. He can't bring Helmut back to life. The kid thought he was smart. Alfred knew the rules, he knew what might happen. He made a mess then, and now he's making another with that pigheaded granddaughter of his."

  "I don't think he'll let himself, or her, become a danger to us. He knows what's at stake, and his granddaughter is an intelligent woman."

  "Who's got the old man wrapped around her little finger—he's been making mistakes on her account for some time now. We told him to tell her the truth. He didn't want to listen; he'd rather carry on the charade in front of her. No, Frankie, we can't just sit idly by. We haven't come this far to let a sentimental old man fuck it all up."

  "We're old men too."

  "And I want to go on that way. I've just finished a board meeting; we have to prepare ourselves for war. We're going to make a lot of money, Frankie."

  "Neither one of us cares about money anymore, George."

  "But we still like our power. Now, if you don't mind, I need to sleep."

  "All right. Listen, I'll be in New York next week."

  "Then, old friend, we'll work out a way to see each other here."

  "Maybe we could tell Enrique to come to New York."

  "Well, I'd rather see him in New York than Seville. I don't want to go there; I don't feel good about it. Let me put some thought into it— we can't risk endangering the operation."

  "You've always been a little paranoid, George."

  "What I am is prudent, which is how we've come this far. There are many more who haven't, because they made mistakes. I want to see Enrique too, but not at the risk of derailing our plans. I'll be in touch."

  Frank kicked back a whiskey as he hung up. George, careful, mistrustful George, had always turned out to be right.

  He rang a little silver bell on his desk, and a second later a white-uniformed man came in.

  "Did you need me, sir?"

  "Jose, have the gentlemen I was expecting arrived?" "Not yet, sir. The control tower will let us know as soon as the plane begins its approach."

  "Very well. Keep me informed." "Yes, sir."

  "Where's my wife?"

  "She is resting, sir. She had a headache." "And my daughter?"

  "Miss Alma left early this morning, with her husband." "That's right. . . . Bring me another whiskey, please, and something to eat."

  "Yes, sir."

  The servant left silently. Frank liked Jose. He was quiet, efficient, and spoke very little. He took better care of Frank than his flighty wife ever had.

  Emma was too rich. That had been her main defect, although for him, it was an advantage. Her lack of beauty had also weighed on him, though, he had to admit. She was short and had a tendency to gain weight. And there was no glow to her dull dark skin—too dark; olive was a euphemism. She was nothing like Alicia.

  Alicia was black. Totally black, and scandalously beautiful. They had been together for fifteen years. He'd met her in the bar of a hotel in Rio while he was waiting for one of his business partners. She had just turned twenty, still almost a girl, with long legs and a neck that never ended. She'd gone straight to the point, offering herself in the most matter-of-fact way. And they'd been inseparable—emotionally—since then.

  He had looked good for a seventy-year-old, but he was still just an old man, which was why he paid her magnificently, maintained her in a lavish loft in Ipanema, showered her with jewelry. When he died, Alicia would be able to spend the fortune he was leaving her. She was his, she belonged to him, and she knew what would happen to her if she was unfaithful to him, ever.

  He'd call Alicia—she could meet him at the Rio airport.

  The fact was, he didn't like to leave his immense estate on the edge of the jungle for too long or too often. He felt safe here, with his men patrolling the five-mile perimeter of his property day and night and the sophisticated system of sensors, security cameras, and alarms that made break-ins impossible. But thinking about Alicia had given him a jolt of energy, and at his age, he had to seize the day. He'd divert to Rio on the way to New York.

  8

  gian maria rushed into the foyer of the hotel

  Excelsior, where Clara Tannenberg and Ahmed Husseini were impatiently waiting for their town car. Neither of them paid attention to the agitated young man as their black Lincoln pulled up, and they were well away when he hurried out of the hotel and shouted in the direction of the vanishing car. Gian Maria hurried back inside to the front desk. "They've gone. Could you tell me, were they going to the airport? Were they leaving Rome?"

  The desk clerk looked at the man mistrustfully. Despite the fact that Gian Maria looked perfectly respectable—thin, pleasant demeanor, very short brown hair, well-modulated voice, though dressed a bit casually—there was an intensity about him.

  "I can't give out that information, sir, I'm sorry." "It's very important that I speak to them."

  "Please understand, sir: We don't know where our guests go when they leave the hotel."

  "But if they called for a car they must have said where they were going. Please, it's very important."

  "I don't know what to say, sir. Let me check with—"

  "If you could please just tell me if they were going to the airport..."

  Something in the man's voice and look led the veteran desk clerk to break the profession's rules.

  "All right, yes, they were going to the airport. This morning they changed their departure date for Amman. Their plane is leaving in about an hour. They came down late, the lady was delayed. ..."

  Gian Maria ran outside again, quickly flagged down a taxi, and jumped in.

  "The airport, quick!"

  The taxi driver, an old Roman, looked in the rearview mirror and proceeded to drive very deliberately to Fiumicino, despite the desperation he must have seen reflected in the face of his fare. But as a priest, Gian Maria couldn't bring himself to chastise the man.

  Once at the airport, he scanned a monitor to find the flight departing for Amman. Then he moved as quickly as he could through the crowds toward the gate.

  Too late. All the passengers had gone through customs already, and the carabiniere refused to allow him to pass.

  "They're friends of mine! I couldn't say good-bye—I'll just be a minute. For God's sake, let me see them!"

  The guard was unmoved and ordered him to step back.

  Gian Maria wandered through the airport, not knowing what to do or whom to confide in. He knew one thing only: He had to speak to that woman, wherever she was, whatever it cost—even if he had to follow her to the ends of the earth.

  As they exited the plane onto the boarding steps, they felt the slap of heat in their face and inhaled air thick with the smell of spices. They were home again, home in the East.

  Ahmed, carrying a Louis Vuitton bag, preceded Clara down the steps. Behind her, four men, scattered throughout the queue of passengers, moved forward to keep her in sight, trying to go unnoticed.

  Ahmed and Clara had no problem passing through customs. Their diplomatic passports opened every door, and Amman, however much it had sworn loyalty to Washingto
n, had its own foreign policy, which did not include confrontations with Saddam Hussein, even if his policies were not always to Jordan's liking. The East was the East, after all, and the otherwise very Westernized Jordanian royal family were experts in the subtleties of diplomacy.

  A car was waiting for the couple just outside the terminal, and it drove them to the Marriott. It was late, so they had dinner in their room. There was still tension between them.

  "I'm going to call my grandfather." "That's not a good idea." "Why not? We're in Amman."

  "And the Americans have eyes and ears everywhere. We'll be crossing the border tomorrow. Can't you wait?" "Really, I can't. I feel like talking to him."

  "God, I'm tired of you doing whatever you feel like. You should be more prudent, Clara."

  "I've spent my whole life hearing that I ought to be more discreet, that I ought to be more prudent, and nobody ever told me why."

  "Ask your grandfather," Ahmed shot back nastily.

  Clara did not respond to that. The truth was, she wasn't sure whether she wanted Ahmed, or anyone, to confirm her intuitions, which had only grown through the years. There were so many loose ends. . . . She'd been born in Baghdad, like her mother, and spent her childhood and adolescence between that city and Cairo. She loved the two cities equally. It had been hard for her to convince her grandfather to let her finish her studies in the U.S. She finally managed, even though she knew it made him terribly uneasy.

  She'd loved California. San Francisco was where she'd grown into a woman, but she'd always known she wouldn't stay and live there. She missed the Middle East—its smells, its tastes, its sense of time—and she missed speaking Arabic. She thought in Arabic, felt in Arabic. That was why she'd fallen in love with Ahmed. American boys seemed dull, flat to her, even though they'd taught her all the things that were forbidden to her, as a woman, in the East.