The Bible of Clay

by Julia Navarro

  Gian Maria could not help making the sign of the cross over himself at Faisal's blasphemy or looking at Faisal with pity, but his pity was no match for the doctor's grief and rage.

  "You blame God for what happens to men."

  "I blame God for what happens to children—innocent, defenseless creatures. We adults bear the responsibility for the way we are, what we have done, what we do, but a newborn child? A three-year-old? What have these babies done to make them die in pain? And do not speak to me of original sin, because I do not allow people to speak stupidity to me. What sort of God burdens millions of innocents with guilt for a sin they did not commit?"

  "Are you an atheist, then?" Gian Maria asked, fearing the response.

  "If God exists, he is not in Iraq," Faisal replied.

  They drove on in silence until they reached Faisal's apartment block. His flat was on the top floor of the three-story building.

  The sounds of a children's scuffle greeted them as the doctor opened the door.

  "What's going on here?" Faisal asked two little girls, identical as two drops of water, who were rolling and tumbling over each other in the spacious living room and screaming unintelligibly.

  "She took my doll!" one of them said, pointing at the other.

  "I did not," said the other. "It's mine—you just can't tell them apart."

  "That's it—no more dolls alike for you two," said Faisal firmly as he pulled them up to kiss each one tenderly on the cheek. The girls hugged their father, paying no attention to the stranger.

  "These are our twins," said Faisal. "Rania and Leila. They're five, and they're little demons, I assure you."

  A brown-skinned woman in a business suit, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, came into the living room with a little boy in her arms.

  "Nur, this is Gian Maria. Gian Maria, Nur, my wife. And this is Hadi, the baby of the family. He's a year and a half old."

  Nur put the baby down on the floor and, smiling brightly, shook hands with Gian Maria.

  "Welcome to our home. Faisal called to say that you would be staying with us, if you like the room."

  "I'm sure I'll like it," was Gian Maria's spontaneous reply.

  "Is he going to live here?" asked one of the twins.

  "Yes, Rania, if he wishes to, yes," replied her mother, smiling at the expression on Gian Maria's face—clearly, he was asking himself how in the world he was supposed to tell the two girls apart.

  Faisal and Nur showed Gian Maria the room. It was not very large, but it looked comfortable, and it had a window that opened onto the street. There was a bed with a headboard of light-colored wood, a night table, a round table with two chairs in a corner, and a large armoire for his clothes.

  "This is fine, just fine," said Gian Maria, "but you haven't told me how much it will be."

  "Would three hundred dollars a month be all right?" "Yes, sure."

  "With meals, of course," Nur said, apparently to excuse the high price.

  "Really, that'll be fine, thank you both very much."

  "Do you like children? Do you have children?" Nur asked.

  "No, I don't have any children, but I love children. I have two nephews and a niece."

  "Well, you're still young; you'll have them in time," Nur consoled him. She showed him through the spacious apartment and then left him to settle into his room.

  Gian Maria insisted on paying the full rent in advance, although Nur had suggested he try it out first.

  He hung his few shirts and pants in the armoire, where he found a stack of towels and sheets, and then went to find Faisal.

  The doctor had gone to work in a little office off the living room, separated by a bookcase he had put up for privacy.

  Faisal stood up and seemed pleased that Gian Maria would be staying. "I'll give you keys so that you can come and go as you wish, but I ask that you understand this is a house with children, so . . ."

  "I understand—I'll try to be as little bother as possible. I know what it's like to live with a family."

  "Do you know how to get to the NGO office from here?" Faisal asked.

  "I'll have to learn the way, but I'll manage." "By the way, do you speak Arabic at all?" "A little—I think I'll be able to get by."

  "Good. Anyway, if you need help with anything at all, just let me know."

  "Thank you."

  Faisal looked down at the papers he had been reading, and Gian Maria took his leave, not wanting to farther disturb the family routine.

  He decided to go out and familiarize himself with the neighborhood. He needed to think, which he couldn't do shut up in his room.

  "I'm going to take a walk—can I bring anything back?" he asked Nur.

  "No, thank you. Will you be eating with us tonight?"

  "If it's not a bother ..."

  "No, not at all. We eat around eight."

  "I'll be here."

  He wandered through the neighborhood. He met with several curious stares, but no hostility. The women dressed Western-style, while the teenagers wore jeans and T-shirts emblazoned with names of rock groups.

  He stopped at a stand where an old man was selling fruits and vegetables and chose a selection to take back to Nur and Faisal's house. Gian Maria asked where the church was, and the man directed him two blocks down and to the right.

  When he entered the sanctuary, he felt a wave of inner peace embrace him. A group of women were praying, and their murmurs filled the silence with an agreeable hum. He sought out a dark corner and knelt down. With his eyes closed, he tried to find the words within himself to speak to God, and he asked him to guide his steps as he always had. In everything that was happening, Gian Maria clearly saw the hand of God at play again: the group of archaeologists at the airport in Amman; his ability to overcome his shyness and speak to Professor Picot; Picot's escort to Baghdad; and especially his mention of Ahmed Husseini, who was in Baghdad as well, which would undoubtedly lead Gian Maria to Clara Tannenberg.

  No, none of that could be mere coincidence. It was God who had guided him, protected him, and aided him in carrying out his mission. God was always there—one simply had to be willing to listen, be sensitive to his presence, even in the midst of tragedy. If only he could convince Faisal of that. . . He would pray for the doctor, a good man whom pain and grief had separated from the Lord.

  It was after seven when Gian Maria left the church, so he hurried back to the apartment. He didn't want to be late and create a bad impression.

  "Hello!" he said to Nur as he walked in. She was trying to get Hadi to eat some thick sickly-green-colored puree, but the boy was kicking and squirming and closing his mouth every time his mother brought the spoon to it.

  "Impossible. He simply does not like to eat," Nur complained. "What is it you're giving him?" Gian Maria asked.

  "Peas with an egg mixed in."

  "Ugh, no wonder! I hated peas when I was little too."

  "Well, there isn't much to eat here—little variety, I mean. We're fortunate, because we at least have money to buy food. Although to tell you the truth, we needed your rent money. I haven't been paid my full salary for months, and Faisal is the same." She eyed the grocery bag. "What do you have there?"

  "Some peppers, squash, tomatoes, onions, oranges. There wasn't a lot to buy."

  "But there was no reason for you to buy anything!"

  "If I'm going to live here, I want to contribute as much as I can."

  "Thank you. Food is always welcome."

  "I went to the church too."

  "You're Catholic?"

  "Yes, and a believer. I have seen the hand of God guiding me throughout my life. Even to Iraq."

  "You're a fortunate man, then. We haven't been in touch with God for a long time now."

  "You lost your faith too?"

  "It is hard to keep it. But to answer your question honestly, I think I have a little left. But I don't see the horrors my husband deals with every day in the hospital. When he tells me that another child has died from an inf
ection that could have been cured with antibiotics, his pessimism rubs off on me. I also start asking where God is."

  After dinner, Faisal and Gian Maria cleared the table while Nur loaded the dishes into the dishwasher. Then Faisal put the girls to bed and Nur finished putting Hadi down, though the baby continued to whimper from his crib.

  Gian Maria bid the couple good night and retired to his room. He needed to be alone; he still had to think about how to approach Ahmed Husseini. Yves Picot could open that door, he supposed, but he wasn't sure that that was the right way to go.

  Either way, he was exhausted. The day had been intense—it hadn't been even twenty-four hours since he'd arrived in Baghdad, although it seemed like months. He was asleep before he even had time to pray.

  25

  robert brown and paul dukais were alone in brown's

  office, but Dukais had a suspicion the other man could be heard down the block. "What do you mean, you could only get one man in?" Brown shouted.

  "I told you. Picot wouldn't take the Bosnian, just the Croatian."

  "One man to deal with Alfred! You must be nuts!"

  "I don't have the slightest intention of sending one man up against Alfred, although that might be the smartest thing to do. One man doesn't attract attention; several is like putting an ad in the newspaper."

  "Does the Croatian even know what he's supposed to do?" Brown asked, lowering his voice.

  "Oh, yeah. He's been given very precise instructions. For now, he's to follow Clara and report back in detail, find out everything he can about her routine, et cetera, and when it's all clear to take the tablets, put together a plan and call me for the green light."

  "And how's he supposed to get out? In a taxi?"

  "He'll get out—and maybe even in a taxi. But if you'll listen to me—I think I can get two more men in, as businessmen trying to profit under the blockade. These two are very sharp, and very good."

  "Oh, really? And what are two businessmen supposed to be doing in some dog's-ass village out in the middle of nowhere in Iraq?"

  "Robert, don't take me for a fool. I've been in this business a long time, and I assure you I can give my men legitimate covers. So I'll spare you the details."

  "Don't spare me—I'm going to be asked and I need to know what to say."

  "All right, I'll fill you in. But remember that in my view, the Croatian is all we need to do the job—the others will step in only if necessary"

  "It'll be necessary, Paul."

  When Brown was alone again, he called George Wagner.

  Enrique Gomez Thomson hung up after speaking to George in Washington. The operation was under way. They had a man in place, tailing Clara Tannenberg, ready to do whatever was necessary.

  He'd told George again not to harm Alfred, although he knew that if the Croation so much as scratched Alfred's granddaughter, it would hurt Alfred more than any other measure they might take. He knew that the man they'd put in close to Clara would have to make decisions on his own as the situation changed and that he wouldn't run any unnecessary risks just to avoid a death or two. His instructions were clear: Get the Bible of Clay and get out of Iraq immediately, using the contact they'd given him. And that's what the Croatian would do—his prior history had made clear the lengths he would go to succeed.

  Enrique's thoughts were interrupted by the telephone, which he snatched up.

  "Enrique. It's Frankie."

  "How are you? I just talked to George."

  "Did he tell you we've got a man inside the expedition? A Croatian." "Yes, I know."

  "Listen, Alfred just called me. He's nervous. Those photographs were just the beginning. He's making threats." "To do what?"

  "He didn't go into detail, but he said if he was going to die he'd take people with him. He knows us, Enrique, and he knows that we're going to try to take the Bible of Clay away from him, no matter what promises we've made."

  "If he finds it."

  "He's sure we've infiltrated the expedition, and God save the Croatian if Alfred finds him out. He also said that if we don't let Clara keep the tablets, he'll make all the details of our business public. In the event of his death within the next few months, he's left instructions regarding his autopsy: If it's determined the cause of death was a homicide, he's made arrangements to issue a posthumous press release exposing our antiquities dealings."

  "He's fucking crazy!"

  "No, he's just defending himself."

  "So what's he offering?"

  "The same thing he's always offered: We let Clara keep the Bible of Clay, and he'll complete his end of the operation we've already started." "But he doesn't trust us to keep that commitment." "No."

  "Frankie, he wants to keep something that doesn't belong to him. George is right."

  "Then I think we're on the verge of committing group suicide." "What?"

  "I've got a bad feeling we're not going to be able to avoid disaster this time, Enrique."

  "Look, we've been doing this for decades without being exposed. You have to stay rational."

  "I am; that's what's so terrifying."

  "I'll speak to him again."

  "Isn't it a little risky to call him from Spain?"

  "I suppose, but if there's no other way, I'll do it. I have to go on a trip, for business—I'll see what I can do from there." "Call me."

  Enrique hung up the telephone and clenched his fists. He swung around at a sound behind him. His son, Jose, had walked into the room and was observing him in silence, his face clouded with concern.

  "What's happening, Papa?"

  "Nothing that concerns you."

  "Is that any way to talk to me?"

  "Jose, I've told you not to ask me about my affairs—you know that."

  "Yes. Since I was young I've known not to ask you questions or stick my nose in your business. Not that I even really know what that business might be. But I know that it's created a wall between you and your family."

  "Exactly. That's the way it is because that's the way I want it. And now, please, leave me alone. I have some phone calls to make." "You said you were leaving. Where are you going?" "I'll be away a couple of days."

  "Yes, but where? Doing what?"

  Enrique banged his fist on the desk. He was an old man, but Jose stepped back at his fury.

  "Get your nose out of my business, I told you! And don't treat me like an old man! I'm not dead yet, not by a long shot. Now get the hell out of here!"

  Jose looked at the floor and left the room. It was difficult to recognize his father in the abusive old man he had just encountered.

  Enrique sat back down. He opened a desk drawer, took out a bottle of pills, shook out two, and tossed them down—he felt like his head was about to explode. The doctor had warned him more than once that he mustn't let his emotions run away with him—years earlier he had suffered a heart attack, and though there hadn't been another one since, this stress clearly put him at risk.

  He cursed Alfred, then cursed himself for interceding with George. Why couldn't Alfred just do what he was supposed to do, like everyone else did? Like everyone else had always done? Why did he have to go his own way this time?

  He pressed a button under his desk and a few seconds later heard a soft knock at his door.

  "Come in."

  A maid dressed in black wearing a white apron and cap stood on the threshold, awaiting Enrique's orders.

  "Bring me a glass of water and tell dona Rocio I'd like to see her, please."

  "Yes, sir."

  Rocio entered her husband's office with the glass of water and was startled by his haggard appearance. She'd seen her husband like this on other occasions, an icy stranger who seemed capable of anything, and it frightened her.

  "Enrique—what's the matter? Are you all right?"

  "Come in, we have to talk."

  Rocio nodded, put the glass down on the desk, and sat in a chair facing her husband. She knew she shouldn't speak before he did. She smoothed her skirt and pulled it down
over her knees, as though she might protect herself from the storm she knew could burst forth at any moment.

  "In this drawer here," Enrique began, pointing to the top drawer in his desk, "there is a key to a safety-deposit box in the bank. I've never kept compromising papers there, but there are some that pertain to my businesses. The day I die, I want you to go to the bank and destroy them all. Jose must never see them. And I don't want you to talk to him about the past."

  "I would never do that, Enrique."

  He looked at his wife fixedly, trying to peer into the hidden depths of her heart.

  "I'm not so sure, Rocio, I'm not so sure. You haven't so far, but I was here to keep you from doing it. After I'm gone ..."

  "I have never given you any reason to distrust me."

  "No, you're right. But now swear to me that you'll do what I'm asking you. It's for Jose's sake. Let him go on as he is. Remember that if those papers get out. . . my friends will find out, and sooner or later they'll take action."

  "What would they do to us?" Rocio asked fearfully.

  "You can't even imagine. We have rules, and we're sworn to keep them."

  "Why don't you destroy the papers yourself? Why don't you get rid of what you don't want us to see?"

  "Because while I'm still alive, they're relevant. When I die, just do as I say."

  "Then I hope I die before you!" Rocio was terrified and read the threat implicit in his request. She listened quietly as he went on to instruct her to also destroy any papers she found in the safe hidden behind a painting in his office.