The Bible of Clay

by Julia Navarro

  "I'm protecting Clara by securing her future. It's clear to me now that you aren't the man to protect her. The Bible of Clay is Clara's inheritance, her birthright. When she finds it, she'll never have to worry about anything for the rest of her life. She'll receive international recognition—she'll be established forever as the archaeologist she's always wanted to be."

  "Clara doesn't need anybody to protect her. Your granddaughter is stronger than you've ever been willing to recognize. She doesn't need anybody or anything—just the freedom to get out of this mess."

  "You're delusional." Alfred's voice was quiet now, cooled from heated to glacial.

  "I'm more sane than I've ever been," Ahmed replied in the same even tone. "Iraq will be gone soon, which is why you're preparing to return to Cairo. You aren't going to be here when the bombs fall, when the Americans hunt down Saddam's closest friends and allies."

  "I'm dying," the old man said matter-of-factly. "A tumor is destroying my liver. I have nothing to gain—or lose. I shall die in Cairo— within six months, I should think, maybe less. But not until the Bible of Clay is found. Even if this whole country is torn apart, I'll pay as many men as it takes to work around the clock in Safran."

  "What if it doesn't exist—the Bible of Clay?"

  "It's there. I know it."

  "The tablets could be shattered in a million pieces. Then what will you do?"

  Tannenberg said nothing at first, but he made no effort to hide his contempt for Ahmed.

  "I'll tell you what I'm going to do now—I'm going to take charge of Clara's affairs. I can no longer trust you."

  At this, the old man turned on his heel and left the room. Ahmed ran his hand over his forehead. He was sweating and exhausted.

  He poured himself another whiskey and knocked it back. Then he poured another, but this one he decided to drink slowly, as he gathered his thoughts.

  13

  ENRIQUE GOMEZ THOMSON WAS WALKING UNDER THE

  stately, shady trees of the Parque de Maria Luisa. The photographs of the murder—the execution— of those two poor souls had tied a knot in his stomach.

  Frankie had insisted that they see each other. They'd met precious few times since they'd gone their separate ways almost sixty years ago. At first, George had opposed the meeting with all the energy he could muster, But ^rankle had finally convinced him that they'd be much less visible in Seville than anywhere else. Besides, they would meet only for as long as necessary—a few hours at the most.

  The three friends had decided to converge in the dark, cool bar of the Hotel Alfonso XIII. Emma, Frankie's wife, had been determined to stay at Seville s premier hotel.

  Rocio, on the other hand, was uneasy. For several days she'd been hounding Enrique with questions that he dodged or simply ignored. Fortunately, that afternoon she'd gone to her sister's house—her niece was having a fitting for her wedding dress and Rocio wanted to be there.

  As soon as he heard Rocio leave the house, he left too. He walked through the narrow, winding streets and the half-hidden plazas of the Barrio de Santa Cruz and headed to the park, where he ambled aimlessly, killing time until his appointment with his friends of years long past. He needed some fresh air.

  George was sitting at a table in the far corner of the bar. Enrique joined him. Both men's eyes were misty with emotion at meeting face-to-face after so many years. But they did not embrace; they knew they couldn't call attention to themselves.

  "You look good," George told him.

  "You too."

  "We're old men, now—although you're not as old as I am." "A year younger, George, just a year." "So where 's Frankie?"

  "I imagine he'll be along any minute; they're staying here at the hotel"

  "Yes, that's what he told me—Emma insisted."

  "It's all right. They had to stay somewhere, after all. Tell me what you've been thinking."

  "Alfred is dying, he knows that it's just a matter of months. So he's thrown everything aside, with no regard for the consequences."

  "That's what I think too. But what does he want?"

  "He wants his granddaughter to find the Bible of Clay and to have for herself everything that that will mean."

  "What about this Picot he's trying to hire?"

  "You can't undertake an excavation of that magnitude without professionals, without real archaeologists. Alfred can hire half of Baghdad to carry the dirt, but he needs competent archaeologists to oversee the operation, and Iraq doesn't have any."

  Just then Frank dos Santos entered the bar, peering into the dimness for his friends. He made his way over to them without a gesture and simply sat down and signaled the waiter, who came over to take his order.

  "I'm glad to see you two," he said as soon as they were alone. "I don't think we've changed so much—just got an extra few decades on us!" He laughed out loud.

  "Well, we can console ourselves with the thought that we're as healthy as we were sixty years ago. Though now I'm afraid we're on our final lap," said George, and then got back to the business at hand. "What do you think Alfred is up to?"

  "Oh, Alfred! He's doing what any desperate man would do," Frank replied casually. "Your friends in the Pentagon are about to incinerate Saddam. Who knows whether Iraq will even exist anymore within a few months, so he's got no option: either find the Bible of Clay now or let it slip out of his hands forever."

  "We could try to find it after the war," George mused.

  "You know how wars start, but you never know how they'll end." Enrique's implication was clear, and his two friends could only nod in agreement.

  "When will they start the bombing?" Enrique asked. "March, at the latest," replied George.

  "So we have about six months at most," Frankie said. "Six months to find the Bible of Clay."

  "If the Americans hadn't bombed between Tell Muqayyar and Basra two months ago, the structure would never have even been found—fate wanted it to be now," Enrique said without much conviction. "So, what do we do?"

  "If he finds the tablets intact, it will go down in history as one of the great archaeological discoveries of all time. Not to mention the value of the tablets on the antiquities market. And that doesn't take into account everything the Vatican will do to get its hands on them, considering that they'd be proof of the patriarch Abraham's divine inspiration," George said, almost to himself. "Genesis told by Abraham: an extraordinary discovery"

  "If Alfred does find them," Frank said pensively, "he'll keep them for himself or his granddaughter, you can be sure, so . . ."

  "So he'll do anything he can to take advantage of the little time he has," George finished the thought. "But why put his granddaughter out in front on this?"

  Enrique had the answer: "He had her stake her claim, so nobody will take the tablets away from her. Now every archaeologist in the world knows that a local group headed up by Ahmed Husseini and his unpredictable wife have found the remains of a temple in Iraq and that it may hold tablets dictated by Abraham himself. Whatever happens, nobody will be able to claim the discovery as his own. Which explains that little number in Rome."

  "He's risking a lot," Frank observed.

  "Yes, but he's dying, so he has few alternatives," Enrique insisted. "So, George, do your people know who hired the Italians?"

  George shook his head. "We know they were men from a company called Security Investigations, hired to follow Clara. But my men haven't found anything in the Security Investigations files—not a single shred. The contract must have been made directly with one of the higher-ups, someone who didn't have to give any explanations, just orders. The owner of Security Investigations is a former cop who made his name going after the Mafia; he was decorated several times and has friends everywhere in the police force. So the slightest error and the only thing we'll have is the Italian police on our tail."

  "But we need to know who hired those men and why. We have one whole flank exposed," insisted Frank.

  "You're right. We have to take extra security measur
es and avoid making any mistakes. There's a leak somewhere, or else Alfred has earned himself an enemy among his own associates," George reasoned.

  "A black hole somewhere that we just can't see." Enrique felt the knot in the pit of his stomach twist tighter.

  "Yes." George nodded. "There is a black hole, and we have to plug it. There's something new here, something we can't control. But Alfred we can handle. Our people over there reported that Ahmed Husseini seems to be breaking from our old friend. A few days ago he was heard shouting at him. Clara's husband has always struck me as a brave and intelligent man. Might we enlist him?"

  "Judging by the last report on the activities at the Yellow House, I fear his conscience is beginning to bother him," Frank said. "There's nothing more dangerous than somebody who decides to go straight at the last minute. They'll do anything to try to make up for their past transgressions."

  "Then we won't count on him; we'll simply use him," George said decisively. "And now, my friends, this will, I think, be the last time we ever see one another. Let's make the most of it and agree on every step that we're going to take from here on out. There's a very great deal at stake—"

  "What's at stake," Frank interrupted him, "is being able to die quietly in our own homes when the time comes."

  Enrique Gomez felt another stab of pain in his gut.

  The three men went on talking well into the evening, reviewing bulky manila folders George handed around.

  It was after ten-thirty when they finally broke off. They had drunk several whiskeys and shared several small plates of tapas. Enrique had received two impatient calls from Rocio, who asked him where he was and whether he'd be home for dinner. Frank called Emma to tell her to go ahead and take a taxi, he'd meet her at the tablao, where they had reserved a table for the flamenco show.

  Ym glad I don V have to answer to anyone, thought George. It had not been easy to preserve his solitude, especially in the face of never-ending arguments from well-meaning friends who had constantly urged him to find a wife. But he had stood firm and won the game at last. He lived

  with a staff of servants who cared for him in silence, never interfering with or trying to change his routines. That was all he needed.

  He was the first to depart. He walked to the Mercedes-Benz he had rented in Marbella. Given his advanced age, the rental company had been hesitant to let him drive it off the lot, but there was nothing that money couldn't arrange. Besides, he couldn't resist: German technology was still the best.

  Frank headed upstairs to his room, while Enrique Gomez stepped out into the warmth of the night, having decided to walk home to his house in Barrio de Santa Cruz. He couldn't breathe. Not even the meeting with his old friends had helped ease his anxiety. On the contrary, he had smashed right up against his past, as though he'd walked into a plate-glass window. His friends were the mirror of reality, a reality he had successfully hidden from his entire family—except Rocio. That was why he knew he'd never be able to deceive his wife. She knew him; she knew who he had been.

  14

  "alfred, no! i will not allow you to enlist in the

  army. Continue with your studies; you can be just as useful as a civilian." "Father, Germany needs me," the young man insisted. "But not as a soldier on the front lines. You will do your part once you complete your education."

  "Georg is going to sign up this week; Franz and Heinrich too." Herr Tannenberg held his head in his hands. "Come, son! You don't think their parents are going to allow that, do you?" His stern gaze fixed on his son. "We've all agreed: The four of you must complete your doctoral studies."

  "Germany needs men who are ready to die for the Fatherland." "Any idiot can die, but Germany cannot afford to lose the best of the nation's youth. Who do you think will run the country once we've won the war?"

  Herr Tannenberg knew that his headstrong son remained unconvinced. He would obey, of course, but never surrender.

  "Very well, Father, I will do as you wish, but I hope you will reconsider your decision."

  "I will think about it, Alfred. Now go talk to your mother. She is making arrangements for a party, a refined evening of music here at

  home, and she wants you to attend. The Hermanns will be coming with their daughter, Greta. We want you to become acquainted. She will make you the perfect wife. You are both pure, strong, intelligent Aryans and will be able to give Germany fine, strong children."

  "I thought you wanted me to concentrate on my studies."

  "You're also old enough to find a wife. We'd like that wife to be Greta."

  "I have no interest in marrying."

  "I understand that at your age you may not wish to marry yet, but in time you'll change your mind. You must begin to think about the future."

  "Did you choose my mother or did your father choose her for you?"

  "That question is impertinent."

  "I just want to know whether it is a tradition in our family for the fathers to decide who their sons will marry." Alfred calmed down and lowered his voice. "But don't worry; I like Greta as well as any other girl. She's pretty enough at least, even though she's perfectly stupid."

  "How can you say that? One day she will be the mother of your children."

  "I didn't say I wanted to marry an intelligent woman. I do prefer Greta, really. She does possess one excellent quality: She almost never talks."

  Herr Tannenberg had had enough. He would hear no more slander against the daughter of his friend Fritz Hermann.

  Hermann was a high-ranking officer in the SS, a man who had spent many days with Himmler himself at Wewelsburg Castle, near the historic city of Paderborn, in Westphalia. There, twelve elite officers of the SS, who comprised the chapter of Himmler's "Germanic Order of the Round Table," gathered once a year to perform their secret rituals, the details of which were unknown to Herr Tannenberg. Each member of the group had a chair with a silver plaque on which was engraved his name. Herr Tannenberg was well aware that Fritz had his own chair.

  Thanks to his friendship with Fritz Hermann, Herr Tannenberg's small textile factory was doing extremely well, unblemished by the economic crisis that was now crippling Germany. Fritz had recommended to his superiors that they order military uniforms for some units from his friend Tannenberg's factory, and Tannenberg was now also manufacturing ties and shirts for the SS.

  But Tannenberg wanted to seal his relationship with Fritz Hermann. How better than a marriage between his son Alfred and Fritz's oldest daughter?

  Alfred was right, of course. And although tolerable, Greta was not the most attractive of young women: blond, with blue eyes, though they bulged a bit, and lily-white skin. But she tended toward the zaftig, as one could see in her pillowy white hands. Her mother, Frau Hermann, subjected her to strict weight-control measures, and her father required her to perform physical exercise daily, in the vain hope that she might become slim and graceful.

  There were no longer any Jewish professors at the university. By now most had fled the country, leaving behind all their belongings. Those who had stayed believed that, in time, reason would prevail—after all, they'd done nothing and were loyal Germans like everyone else. They were now housed in concentration camps. Thus, it mattered to no one that neither good Professor Cohen nor good Professor Wessler had ever returned from Haran. Although they were two of the world's leading experts in the Sumerian language, even before their unfortunate deaths they had not been allowed in the classroom. They found work in the expedition to Haran only because the chancellor of the university, who was suspected by many of having Jewish blood himself, had aided their departure from Germany two years earlier. And so they had remained in Haran, staying on even when the other members of the team had returned when the time allotted for excavation was over. Unfortunately, Syria was even less kind to them than Germany would have been.

  Alfred had invited his three friends to the evening of music arranged by his mother, hoping they would make the obligation a bit less tiresome. He enjoyed music, but not thes
e concerts at home, when his mother sat at the piano and her friends took up other instruments and "surprised" their guests with pieces they had been rehearsing for weeks on end. He did admit to himself, though, that Greta was a virtuoso on the cello.

  He admired his mother. Tall, thin, with chestnut hair and hazel eyes, Helena Tannenberg was a woman of natural grace and elegance who inspired murmurs of admiration wherever she went. There was no woman in the world more beautiful than she.

  Seeing her beside Greta reminded him of the story of the ugly duckling and the swan.

  "So your father wants you married off to Greta. Lucky man!" joked Georg, pinching Alfred.

  "We'll see who your father chooses for you."

  "He knows it's no use. I shall never marry, never," Georg declared defiantly.

  "You'll have to; we all have to—the Fiihrer wants us producing children of pure Aryan blood," Heinrich said, laughing.

  u Ja, well, you can have as many children as you want, and one more for me," insisted Georg.

  "Come, Georg, surely one of these lovely young things catches your eye! They're not all bad," chided Franz.

  "Have you not yet detected my absolute lack of interest in the female sex?"

  The others diverted the conversation toward other, less delicate subjects. No one wanted to hear Georg again explain the inferiority of women to men.

  Alfred's father joined the young friends; with him was Fritz Hermann.

  Colonel Hermann asked after the boys' studies and encouraged them to start thinking seriously about their contribution to Germany's war effort.

  "Study, but don't forget that the Reich needs young men like you on the front lines."