The Bible of Clay

by Julia Navarro

  "Come look at this!"

  "What is it?" Picot asked.

  "Bas-reliefs, or what's left of them, but they're gorgeous!" But the two men remained intent on their work at the doorway. "What's wrong with you two? Don't you want to see this?" Marta was puzzled.

  "There's something here, Marta. Beside the fresco of this bull, the wall sounds hollow—I think there's another room," said Fabian.

  "Have it your way, but we ought to let them know up top that we're all right."

  "Could you do it?" Picot asked, completely absorbed.

  Marta tugged three times at one of the ropes dangling from above to tell the team up at the surface they were all right. Then she went back to her examination of the floor.

  An hour later, the three of them reappeared on the surface, smiling in delight.

  "What's down there?" Clara asked.

  "More rooms in the temple," Picot told her. "So far we've seen the two upper floors, but there are more—exactly how many I can't tell, but there are more for sure. The problem is that we need to shore up from below, because they could collapse and fall in. It won't be easy, and in the time we have left..." Picot shook his head dubiously.

  "We can get more men," Clara suggested.

  "Even so ... it will be dicey. Normally, it would take months, even years, to do this right," Fabian said.

  "And, Clara, I still need to talk to Ahmed and your grandfather," Picot added. "I wasn't able to see them last night, and this morning they were both still asleep when I went over to the house."

  "You can see them tonight. For now, tell me what we need to do here."

  "We'll do what we can to investigate what's here and to shore it up. But there's no guarantee that we'll find anything at all, and time is against us."

  That afternoon, Fatima sent a man to bring Clara back to the house.

  When she entered, the eerie silence drew her immediately to her grandfather's room. She took a place quietly just inside the door, watching Dr. Najeb place an oxygen mask over her grandfather's face while Samira changed the intravenous drip bottle. Fatima waited at Alfred's bedside, her eyes brimming with tears.

  The doctor whispered to Samira to stay with Tannenberg while he motioned Clara to follow him into the living room.

  "I don't think I can go on with this charade of 'medical care,' " the doctor told her without preamble.

  "What happened?"

  "This morning Mr. Tannenberg lost consciousness—he had a mild coronary. Fortunately, we were able to react quickly. I tried to transfer him to the hospital tent, but he wouldn't hear of it. He insists on hiding his condition, so he's forcing me to treat him in his room. As you saw, I had some equipment brought in, but if we don't take him to a real hospital, he won't last much longer."

  "He's dying," Clara said in a tone of voice so calm that it frightened the doctor.

  "Yes, he's dying. You've known that for some time—but if he stays here, he's going to die that much sooner."

  "We will respect my grandfather's wishes."

  There was nothing more Salam Najeb could say, no way to fight the extraordinary irrationality of these two people. They were both so strange to him, following a code of behavior that was beyond his experience or understanding.

  "You will be responsible for what happens," the doctor said.

  "Of course I will. Now tell me whether my grandfather is able to talk to me."

  "He's fully conscious now, but in my opinion he should rest." "I need to talk to him."

  The doctor's expression reflected utter defeat; he shrugged his shoulders, knowing it was useless to argue. All he could do was accompany Clara back to her grandfather's room.

  "Samira, Madam Tannenberg wants to talk to her grandfather. Wait at the door, please."

  At the same time, Clara motioned to Fatima to leave too. When they were alone, she went over to the bed and took her grandfather's hand. She made an effort to smile.

  "Don't try to talk, Grandfather; I want you to rest. I think we've found something—another level to the temple, several more floors. Picot went down with Fabian and Marta, and when they resurfaced they were smiling from ear to ear."

  Tannenberg made a motion as though he was about to start talking, but Clara stopped him.

  "Please, just listen. You don't need to say a thing. I need you to trust me the way I trust you. I spoke to Ahmed last night and he told me everything."

  The old man's eyes filled with rage as he struggled to sit up in bed, tearing the oxygen mask off his face.

  "What did he tell you?" he asked furiously, though his voice was barely audible.

  "Let me call Samira so she can put this back on you. I... I want us to talk, you and I, but you need the oxygen. ..."

  "Stop!" he commanded her. "We'll talk now—then you can call in that idiotic nurse or whoever else you want to. But now tell me what that husband of yours told you."

  "He told me about the operation that. . . that's under way, and about George, Frank, and Enrique. About the fortune involved."

  Alfred Tannenberg closed his eyes as he gripped Clara's hand to keep her still. When he'd brought his breathing back under control, he opened them again and glared at Clara.

  "I told you. Keep your nose out of my business."

  "Do you mean you can trust someone else more than me? Please, Grandfather, think about the situation we're in. The war is almost on us. You're . . . you aren't well, and ... I think you need me. I've heard you say more than once that sometimes, to ensure the success of a business deal, you have to buy loyalties. And if they know you're sick, some of your men are capable of selling you out to the highest bidder."

  The old man closed his eyes again. He was surprised by Clara's coolness, the ease with which she'd accepted the fact that they were about to undertake an operation that would leave Iraq stripped of its artistic legacy forever. This young woman, who loved her country, who'd grown up dreaming about discovering its lost cities, who treasured anything from the past, suddenly appeared before him as a woman ready to take over the reins of a business that consisted purely and simply of robbery, theft, looting.

  "What do you want, Clara?"

  "I want to keep Ahmed and Yasir from taking advantage of our situation. I want you to tell me what I should say to them, what you want me to do."

  "We are going to strip Iraq of its past."

  "I know that."

  "And you don't care?"

  Clara hesitated a few moments before answering. She cared, yes, but her loyalty to her grandfather came first—not to mention that she didn't believe that Alfred's men would actually be able to get away with everything. It wasn't easy to empty one museum, let alone ten.

  "I won't lie to you. I didn't want to believe Ahmed—I wanted to think he was lying. But I can't change things, or change you either. The sooner this is over, the better. What matters most to me is that you're sick, and they may try to take advantage of you—that I will not allow."

  "You can start. . . taking some responsibility. But no mistakes—not from you, or anyone. There are no changes in the operation. I've told Ahmed what I expect of him, Yasir what I expect of him . . ."

  The old man's voice trailed off. His eyelids fluttered and his eyes grew dim; Clara could feel his ice-cold hand, almost lifeless. She screamed, and it sounded like a howl.

  Dr. Najeb and Samira ran into the room and pushed Clara aside. Fatima followed them and put her arms around Clara.

  Two men with drawn pistols burst into the room right on their heels.

  "Out—all of you!" the doctor ordered. "You too," he told Clara, somewhat more gently.

  Clara gathered herself and motioned to the two men who'd rushed in. Others guards gathered around as they stepped out into the living room.

  "Everything's fine—just a little accident. I tripped and almost fell; I think I twisted my ankle. I'm sorry that I alarmed you." The men clearly didn't believe a word of it.

  "I said nothing is wrong!" Clara snapped, drawing herself up. "Go
back to your work! And I don't want to hear any talk about this! Any of you who lets your imagination run away can expect to pay the consequences. You two—stay here," she barked at the first two men, as the others withdrew.

  "I don't want a word of what you've seen here to get out."

  "No, madam, no," one of the guards answered.

  "If it does, you'll be whipped. If you keep your mouths closed, I'll show you my gratitude, you can be sure."

  "You know we've been with Mr. Tannenberg for years, madam—he trusts us," one of the guards protested.

  "I also know that trust has its price, so don't make the mistake of trying to sell information to anybody about what goes on in this house. Now go outside and guard the door. And don't let anybody—anybody—in."

  "Yes, madam."

  Clara went back to her grandfather's door as quietly as possible. "How is he?" she asked Dr. Najeb.

  "His condition is critical. We have to wait to see the EKG, but right now it's his heart that worries me."

  "Is he conscious?"

  "No. Now let me work. I'll keep you informed. I promise you I'll stay right here beside him."

  Ahmed was standing just outside the door when Clara left Alfred's room, irate that Fatima hadn't let him in.

  "What's happened? The men are upset; they say you screamed and that something has happened to Alfred."

  "I tripped and cried out, that's all. My grandfather is fine—a little tired, but fine."

  "I need to talk to him; I've been in Basra today." "You'll have to talk to me."

  Ahmed studied her. "I'm leaving tomorrow, and I want to go over final details with him. As far as I know, your grandfather is in charge; no one's told me that there's been any change. And no one will accept orders from you, including me."

  Clara weighed her husband's words and decided not to press the issue. If she did, Ahmed would realize that her grandfather's condition had worsened. So she decided to behave like the Clara she'd always been—though she didn't know how much of that woman was left.

  "You'll have to wait until tomorrow. In the meantime, find somewhere else to sleep. I'm sick and tired of pretending."

  Ahmed sighed. "Fine. Just tell me where I should go."

  "There's a cot in the hospital tent—that should do for now."

  "What time can I see Alfred tomorrow morning? "

  "I'll let you know."

  "Picot wants to talk to me about wrapping things up—will you be there?"

  "Yes. He called a meeting to determine when we should close down and what evacuation plans you have in place."

  "You know the date, and you know there's not much time left. But we can't tell them."

  "That's the problem."

  Clara turned away without another word and went back to her grandfather's room.

  40

  yves picot was formulating a plan, inspired by marta

  and Fabian.

  The expedition's evacuation was inevitable now, but they needed to return with as many objects as possible—the bas-reliefs, statuettes, tablets, seals, bullae, and calculi they'd found, The harvest had been amazing.

  Marta had suggested they mount a big exhibition at a prominent university—her own if possible, the Complutense in Madrid, and then others, with the financial support of some foundation. Fabian agreed: Once the war came, there'd be nothing left of the temple they had discovered. They'd enhance the exhibit with a book of drawings, floor plans, photographs taken by Lion Doyle, and articles contributed by the major members of the team.

  But in order to do all that, Picot had to convince Ahmed Husseini to let them take the treasures out of Iraq, which would not be easy. The objects were part of the country's artistic heritage, after all. And under the current circumstances, none of Hussein's government officials would dare permit even a single shard to land safely in one of the countries that was declaring war on them.

  Picot thought perhaps Alfred Tannenberg, with his powerful connections, could couch the removal in terms of a rescue operation. Picot

  was willing to sign whatever papers were necessary, stating that the objects belonged to Iraq and always would, and that they would be returned to the country when it was deemed safe to do so.

  Of course, for Alfred Tannenberg, as for his granddaughter, the objective of the expedition had not been achieved—they hadn't found the Bible of Clay—so Tannenberg could very well deny their request in order to pressure them to stay on in Safran and continue the dig. But only a madman would think of remaining in a country that was going to be plunged into war at any moment.

  After dinner, when most of the team members had gone their separate ways, Picot asked Lion Doyle and Gian Maria to join him, Marta, and Fabian during their meeting with Ahmed and Clara.

  The seasoned archaeologist liked Lion Doyle: He was always in a good mood, ready to give a hand with whatever needed doing. And best of all, he was intelligent.

  Clara seemed nervous and distracted; Ahmed, too, seemed tense. Picot had long since picked up on their marital discord and assumed that they were trying to keep up appearances for the sake of the team.

  "Ahmed, we need to know what's going on. The reporters said they had it on good authority that the war is virtually upon us."

  Ahmed didn't reply immediately. He lit his Egyptian cigarette, exhaled the smoke, and smiled.

  "That's what we'd like to know—if you're actually going to attack us, and when."

  "That's not funny, Ahmed. Tell me when you think we need to go, and whether you've got a plan to evacuate us," Yves insisted, a bit uncomfortably.

  "What we know is that some countries are doing everything they can to avoid a conflict. What I can't tell you, my friends, is whether they'll succeed. As for you and your team ... I can't make your decisions for you. You may not believe it, but we have no more information than you do, which comes from news reports from the West. I can't be sure that there will be war, nor can I be sure there won't. With regard to when ... it all depends on when they think they're ready."

  Yves and Fabian exchanged a look of disgust. This slippery, cynical bureaucrat was far from the efficient, intelligent archaeologist they'd been accustomed to dealing with, who had persuaded them to come in the first place. It seemed clear that he was being more than evasive—his statement seemed misleading, even untruthful.

  "Get off it, Ahmed; what kind of talk is that?" Picot said. "Tell me when you think we should leave."

  "If you want to go now, I'll be happy to make all the necessary arrangements for your immediate departure from Iraq."

  "What happens if war breaks out tomorrow, tonight? How would you get us out of here?" Fabian insisted.

  "I would try to send in helicopters, but I'm not certain they would be made available to me if we were actually under attack."

  "So you're recommending that we go now," Marta stated more than asked.

  "I think the situation is critical, but I don't have a crystal ball. If you're asking for my advice, I'll give it to you: Go before it gets too hard to leave," Ahmed replied.

  "What do you think, Clara?"

  That Marta valued her opinion surprised even Clara, not to mention the rest of the participants.

  "I don't want you to go; I think we still have a very good chance of finding the Bible of Clay. But we need more time."

  "Time is the only thing we don't have," Picot said to her.

  "Then you decide—it doesn't make much difference what I think."

  "Yves, could I say something?" Lion Doyle asked.

  "Yes, of course; I asked you to come because I wanted to know what you think. I want Gian Maria's thoughts too." Picot turned to the priest.

  "I think we ought to go. You don't have to be Donald Rumsfeld to know that the United States is going to attack. The information from my colleagues in the press leaves no doubt about that. France, Germany, and Russia have lost the battle in the United Nations, and Bush has been readying his troops and equipment for months. The generals in the Pentagon know tha
t this is the best time of year to wage war in this region; the climate is the determining factor. It's a question of days, maybe weeks—not months.

  "Clara may be right: If you kept working you might find the Bible of Clay. But you don't have the time. So I say you should start breaking down the camp and get out of here as soon as possible. If they start bombing, Saddam will leave us to our fate; we can't rely on him to send helicopters to pick us up. It would be crazy even to get into a helicopter in the middle of a war. And trying to cross the border in a convoy would be suicide. As far as I'm concerned, I'm getting ready to go—I don't think there's much more I can do here."

  Lion lit a cigarette. It was Gian Maria who finally broke the silence.

  "Lion is right. I... I think you should leave."

  " 'You' should leave? What about you? Are you staying?" Marta asked incredulously.

  "I'm staying if Clara stays. I want to help her."

  Ahmed looked at Gian Maria in bewilderment. He couldn't fathom why this priest was so determined to help his wife.

  "All right, Lion. I think you have it right. Tomorrow we'll start packing up and preparing to move out to Baghdad, and from there home," Picot said. "When do you think you can get us out of here?" He turned to Ahmed.

  "As soon as you tell me you're ready."

  Picot nodded. "I figure about a week, two at the most, to finish documenting what we have, shoring things up as much as possible, and packing everything properly."

  Fabian cleared his throat as he looked over at Marta, seeking her support. He didn't want them to just pack up their equipment and leave Iraq, and Picot seemed even to have forgotten about mounting an exhibit in Europe.

  "Yves, I think you should ask Ahmed about the possibility of exhibiting the tablets and bas-reliefs and other objects ... all the things we've found."